The Delicate Dependency: A Novel of the Vampire Life

by Talbot, Michael

  In the throng of objects I began to discern that des Esseintes had, indeed, come from simple origins. Some of his accumulations were not unlike the treasures of any country adolescent gifted with a desire for knowledge. Hidden within the displays of butterflies and rocks was the suggestion of a young boy who searched the meadows. Concealed within the motif of birds, the peacock feathers, and the porcelain herons was the intimation of a mind that had spent hours watching the marshes and the sky.

  What memories objects contain, I thought. I recalled how but a brief glimpse of the pianoforte conjured up Camille. I wondered how magnified this experience must be for des Esseintes. For a moment I imagined him wandering through these rooms, tall and gaunt and draped in a flowing silk robe. How easy it must be for him to become lost here, to stop and fondle his panoramic memories. How disorienting and isolating immortality must be, and how strong he must be to weather it.

  Reluctantly I moved on, still possessed with the hope of finding a further clue that there might be a child in the house. I went up another flight of steps, to the third floor, and came to the door of des Esseintes’s study. Just as my hand was about to reach the brass knob the falcon ruffled. So I was not allowed in there. I cautiously withdrew my hand. I hated the bird. I hated it with a growing passion. When I reached the next door I watched it closely to make sure this was allowed. It regarded me for all the world as if it thought I was a fool. My hand touched the knob. The door opened.

  I had to hold the candelabrum high in here, for it was quite dark. On the opposite wall was a single grated window from which one could see the opposing wing of the house, somber and traversed with balconies and ivy. When I finally looked around I was a little surprised to see it was another study, just as eclectic and cluttered as the first. It was different in that it was musty and cool. It obviously was not used very often. I was struck by the fact there was a marked absence of any contemporary objects. Everything was antique.

  I went to the next room, and the next. And each one was a study, a little older, a little more forgotten than the one previous, but each as packed with books and papers. In some it was even evident what branch of knowledge the vampire had been pursuing when he had used it. One contained a profusion of charts of the heavens, yellowed and molded, a dusty telescope, an antique planetarium. Another was filled with cages, many empty cages, and the mounted skeletons of a myriad of small mammals. Still, even in these older studies one subject remained beloved above all others. Not a single alcove was without its racks of abandoned growing trays, mounted leaves, and charts of plant filaments and seeds. That was the thread. Many branches were explored, but that was the first and continuing love. I marveled at the scholar who did not die at the end of his field of research, but moved on to the next, and the next. What creature, indeed, would a Galileo mutate into? A Linnaeus?

  Oddly, I felt a sudden overwhelming kinship with this being, even an envy. In a meditation, I moved toward the courtyard window, and saw the orchid conservatory far below, nestled like a jewel amid the surrounding wings of the house. To my surprise I could see the tiny form of des Esseintes working among the flowers. He was once again dressed as the monk and Ilga stood a few paces away. It was difficult to tell but des Esseintes seemed to be performing some sort of experiment. In his hand he held a clutch of papers and every few moments or so he would walk: over to Ilga and apparently read something. When he finished, Ilga would murmur some dictum, which des Esseintes would furiously scribble down and then return to his work. It was easy to see why he had referred to the pathetic creature as la machine.

  I was drawn to him because of the world he had been allowed to carve out for himself. When I worked it was always against time. When I pored over my papers it was with the hope that I might make that one cherished medical discovery before I died, but he, he had miraculously been picked out of the river of seekers and placed in an infinite world. I was jealous of his freedom. I felt kinship for his devouring mind, but I was still frightened by him. For all of his human characteristics, he was not human. There was no telling how nearly a dozen centuries had changed him; what really lay hidden behind his tranquil and mechanical smile.

  At length I moved on, and in the last study I entered, a very old study, I noticed a distinct path had been traced through the dust on the carpet The air was also not as stale, but fresher; as if the room had been opened quite recently. I followed the path across the room and to a wall of books. Madly I began to scan the volumes. What book did he come here repeatedly to get? What page did he turn to and why?

  They were very old books, handbound and crumbling with illegible gilt titles. I held the candelabrum steady in one hand as I moved my finger across the bindings, leaving a distinct line in the dust. At last, on the bottom shelf I came to a row of volumes on which I left no line. They were not dusty. The gilt on these was also newer and more legible. Hands trembling with excitement, I withdrew the final volume and gazed at its cover. On it was written the words, Histoire de ma vie, or A History of My Life: The Memoires of Childeric, Pepin, Brother C.L.R, Frederiche von Ulrich, Baron de Bourbon, Comte de Saint-Vallier, Jean-Francois Auguste des Esseintes.

  No, it couldn’t be. I stood back to admire the collection. These ninety volumes, the memoires of the gentleman monk? Were these names all people he had posed as? I remembered his referring to the names Childeric and Pepin as being “dead.” I shook my head in disbelief. Ninety volumes? It seemed inconceivable, and yet the memoires of Casanova filled ten. Why not ninety volumes for the memoires of a vampire, an entire case of books to record the experiences of a Methuselah genius?

  Excitedly I flung the cover open with my thumb. Instantly, a flurry of wings knocked the book from my hand. I screamed. The candelabrum fell to the floor. In a frenzy I jumped back, trying to avoid further entanglement with the bird, but it was too late. To my horror one of its talons had snagged in my vest, and its wings thrashed violently in my face. Somehow I managed to grasp the garment at the shoulders and struggled to pull it away from my flesh. Anything to keep the deadly talons from scratching me. Finally, with the full of my strength I was able to rip the vest out at the seams, and I flung it, bird and all, to the floor.

  The candle flames sputtered and emptied wax in a dark puddle on the carpet. I set the candelabrum aright and quickly unbuttoned my shirt to search for scratches. To my great relief I remained unscathed. I was badly shaken, and my hands were trembling uncontrollably. I took several deep breaths trying to steady myself as I gazed at the bird. It flopped jerkily about on the floor until it had freed itself from the vest, and then it, too, seemed to compose itself. It ruffled the feathers about its nape. It lifted one of its talons and carefully examined it. And then the golden eyes returned my gaze... blinking... watching.

  I longingly eyed the last volume of des Esseintes’s memoires as I picked up the candelabrum and began pacing backward to the door.

  The bird took to wing. Again I cried out, shielding my eyes with my free arm as! broke and ran into the hall. I felt a rush of air beside my head as the falcon swept past. It glided down the hall a ways before it swooped up and lit on the cornice of the paneling near the ceiling. After it turned around it glared down at me and screeched threateningly.

  What manner of beast was this? What uncanny training had ingrained in it which books I was allowed to touch and which I was not? I was no longer merely bothered by the bird. I was on the verge of a blind panic. For my own mental well-being I had to get away from it I turned and walked briskly down the hall.

  Behind me I heard a familiar gush of air as talons once again lightly touched the carpet.

  I struggled to settle my thoughts.

  As I walked on I noticed the hallway was in an increasing state of decay What had once been a splendid corridor was damp with the redolence of mildew. Further on, the walls were peeling, and in the fringe of dust lining the baseboard scurried beetles and centipedes. I was just about to turn back when suddenly I noticed the twisted stairs leading to the tur
ret where Lady Dunaway and I had first encountered the falcon.

  The bird ambled by me and took a perch upon the bottom step.

  So we’re in your territory, I thought. When you’re not being guard this is where they keep you.

  In the mist of my memory I recalled seeing the ticking of a mattress in the room. For the first time I reflected on this. Why would there be a bed in the room of the falcon? I glanced up the narrow passage at the closed door.

  I don’t know why I looked at the door for so long. In particular, I looked at the keyhole of the rusted latch. As I stood there holding the candelabrum high, I got the sensation someone was staring back. I shivered a little. Could there be someone in the room calmly watching me through the keyhole? For a moment the thought crossed my mind that Camille might be in the room. I dismissed it. Even des Esseintes could not be insidious enough to keep a child in such a hellish place. For a change, I looked at the falcon and felt a quiver off relief in knowing the bird was not about to let me investigate.

  As I turned to leave, once again I imagined I felt eyes... eyes binning into my neck, my back. Indeed, the presence was so powerful I quickened my pace. At the opposite end of the crumbling hallway I discovered a door that was slightly ajar and nudged it open. When I thrust the candelabrum into the darkness I gasped to see that it was another lavish room, a magnificent baroque salon, only different from all the others, for it was completely enshrouded in dust and cobwebs. It was haunting, more haunting than anything I had yet encountered in the house of des Esseintes, for in no other part of the house had I sensed such a presence of another era, a different age. Every rococo swirl, every gilt seashell corner and delicate Louis XIV chair was draped in the spidery gauze of time. The lines of the room had all but vanished beneath the gossamer and womblike pall.

  As I scuffed through the carpet, gray with an inch of dust, I noticed a multitude of vermin had long since overtaken this forgotten room. Wood bugs crept in every cranny, and mice padded along the moldings. The falcon displayed an obvious but fleeting interest in the rodents. It was too well trained to take the full of its attentions from me.

  In a beautiful decanter, long since marked by the sedimentary evaporation of its wine, a solitary beetle tried unsuccessfully to scale the glass. Above a pink marble fireplace at the opposite end of the chamber a portrait caught my eye. I crossed over to it and held the candles high to obtain a better look. Through the patina of dust and mildew it was difficult to make out at first. It was a woman, a rather thin and dispirited woman dressed in farthingales and puffed sleeves. At last, behind the powdered wig and beauty spot I discerned it was the same woman whose image I’d seen in the gallery of the statues.

  As I turned to move on I noticed the falcon had cocked its head and was closely watching the door. I looked in the same direction expecting to see a mouse. There was no mouse.

  In the hallway a floorboard creaked.

  I squinted at the darkness. The door was cracked about a foot and a half. Beyond, the corridor was black as pitch. It was impossible to make out anything in the murk, but once again I was overwhelmed by the feeling I was being watched. Intuitively, I was convinced someone or something was standing in the darkness... waiting for me to come to them. I looked madly about the room.

  To my relief there was a door next to a painted cabinet. I turned the porcelain knob in its collar and slipped through.

  At first what lay beyond seemed to be a cavern of vast and empty space, and it took me a moment to realize it was an enormous ballroom. I had entered onto a third-floor balcony. In front of me an elaborate tier of marble stairs circled in two directions to the floor below. Like the previous room, the ballroom was from a different age, frescoed and veiled by spiders. I wondered how many generations had passed since grand ladies had walked these floors, perhaps ladies of the court. In the tenuous light of the candelabrum I could see the floor was covered with a multitude of dusty and webbed crates.

  Suddenly something sliced by me, and as I turned I saw it was the falcon. It held its wings perfectly still as it glided weightlessly over the balcony and dipped into the gloom. It drifted away from me with an awe-inspiring grace, wings still eerily motionless, until it alighted on a vast chandelier suspended in the distance. A thousand glass pendants tinkled as the chandelier began to swing and sent a fairy fall of dust slowly to the floor below.

  And then the falcon turned to watch.

  I prickled. There was a movement in the room behind me. Whatever it was had come in from the hallway. I turned around. Once again there was only darkness, but the presence was undeniable. It was hidden, but it was looking at me, looking right into my very eyes. Only there was a difference this time. It no longer stood silent. There was a rushing. Something brushed against a chair. It was coming for me.

  I stumbled backward, somehow dropping the candelabrum, as I frantically descended the stairs. When I reached the floor I dashed between a gap in the crates and penetrated deep within the labyrinth before I paused. Then I listened. Over the pounding of my heart and my muffled breath there was nothing, save for a slow squeaking sound, like a door being moved back and forth on a rusted hinge. I looked upward and saw it was the gentle swaying of the chandelier high over the crates.

  The falcon flapped its wings to keep its balance.

  In the moonlight from the upper windows I could also see the way the falcon tilted its head From its vantage I saw it look down at the crates, at a location hidden from my eyes. And then I saw it look at me. It repeated the process. Obviously, it saw both the hunter and the hunted. It was a macabre feeling, to be watched by an animal spectator. From the angle of its scrutiny I determined where my pursuer was. It was nearing the foot of the steps. I cursed the bird. If my unseen foe possessed any intelligence at all it could easily use the same method to locate me. There was no place to hide.

  The bird’s gaze followed something to the edge of the crates.

  It was no use. I was trapped if I remained. I slithered on through the maze. With horror I watched as the feathered demon surveyed the progression of the game. I moved. It moved. It was slowly closing. I raced to reach the opposite edge of the crates. When I finally broke into a long and narrow clearing against the far wall I noticed from the falcon’s gaze that my pursuer had also reached the clearing, only a short distance away. I could still see nothing, but there were many planks and immense picture frames covered with draperies against the wall. Whatever it was... it could be hiding anywhere.

  My impulse was to keep running, but something tugged within me. Why had it stopped? Why did it wait now that it was so close? Again fear demanded I move on, but my rational mind objected. What was the use in running? It seemed to know this house much better than I. It could overtake me anytime it wanted to. Was it the hunt it was enjoying? Did it simply want to continue the chase?

  My anger overcame me.

  “Come out!” I cried. “Come out and get it over with.”

  For a few moments... nothing.

  I waited.

  And then calmly, almost magically, a figure stepped out from behind a folding screen about ten feet away. In the bluish light I saw it was a handsome and swarthy boy, possibly Arabic. He was tall and lithe with high leather boots, tight breeches, and a whorl of dark hair behind the lacings of his tunic. He had a large nose, but not overly large, a prominent jaw, and a full black mustache, incongruous against so youthful a face. His lips were expressionless; his eyes, black and expansive. He was magnetic, even lustful, a dark satyr of a boy, but there was also a discordance in his presence.

  In the half-light I imagined those youthful eyes held the knowing glint of great age.

  “How old are you?” I asked impulsively.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. His voice was gentle, disturbingly gentle.

  “When were you born?”

  “I’m not sure. About five hundred years after the Hejira.”

  “Who are you? Why were you chasing me?”

  “My name is Hatim,
garrulous old man. I was chasing you for fun.”

  “Do you often terrify people for fun?”

  “Why?”

  He took a step forward and I stepped back. White teeth gleamed into a smile.

  “Because they enjoy it.”

  “Well, I certainly did not enjoy it.”

  He placed his hands casually behind his back as he shrugged, and something about his movement jarred me. For lack of a better word it seemed familiar. He began to pace forward.

  I continued to step back. I was not about to let him close the distance between us.

  He stopped.

  “What are you doing in des Esseintes’s house?” I asked. “I live here.”

  This startled me. “I did not know anyone else lived here.”

  “The house has many secrets.”

  “Why have I never seen you before?”

  “You are unobservant. I’ve seen you. I’ve watched both you and that woman as you’ve slept.”

  “Are there any children here?”

  “Just the servants’.”

  “Are they allowed to use the playroom?”

  “No.”

  “Who uses the playroom?”

  “Dee Esseintes.”

  I was taken aback. Nothing in the young man’s expression indicated he was lying. He loosened his shoulders, rolling them about in their sockets as a fighter might before he steps into the ring, and again I experienced a sort of déjà vu. Why did his movements seem so familiar? I wondered if he beheld the gamut of my emotions as easily as the elder vampire. “Hatim,” I asked, “can you see the quiver?”

  “No.” He seemed vaguely irritated by this.