by Anne Rice
Rose felt a terrible pain. She was in love with Uncle Lestan. Beside Uncle Lestan, all thoughts of her teacher, Gardner Paleston, simply faded into nothingness. But Rose didn't say a word. On the verge of tears, she only smiled, and explained that yes, she knew this, that he'd told her this long ago when she'd been a little girl, that she could be and do anything she wanted. "The trouble is I want to do everything!" she said. "I want to live and study here, and live and study in Paris, and in Rome and in New York; I want to do everything."
Uncle Lestan smiled and told her how proud of her he was. "You've grown into a beautiful woman, Rose," he said. "I knew you'd be pretty. You were pretty when I first saw you. But you're beautiful now. You're strong and healthy and, well, you're beautiful. There's no point mincing words about it." And then he turned suddenly into a tyrant, telling her that her driver had to go with her wherever she went, that he even wanted her driver sitting in the back of her college classrooms when there was room, or right outside of them. Rose argued. She wanted freedom. But he wouldn't hear of it. He had become an overzealous and intensely European guardian, it seemed to Rose, but how could Rose really argue? When she thought of all Uncle Lestan had done for her, she fell silent. All right. Her driver would go everywhere with her. He could carry her books. That would be nice, though these days with iPads and Kindles, she didn't have to carry many books.
Six months after that visit, Rose received a letter from Uncle Lestan saying that she would not be hearing from him so often anymore but that he loved her, and he needed this time to be alone. Be assured of his love, and be patient. He would eventually come round. And in the meantime she was entirely safe and must ask his attorneys for whatever her heart desired.
That had always been the way, really. And how could she ask for more?
A year passed without her hearing from Uncle Lestan.
But she had been so busy with other things. And then another year, but it was all right. It would have been wicked and ungrateful to complain, especially when his attorney in Paris called regularly every month.
Two weeks into her junior year, Rose was hopelessly in love again with Gardner Paleston. She was in three of his classes and certain that she could become a great poet someday if she listened to every single word he said. She'd gone to the campus clinic and gotten the information and pills she needed to prevent any accidental pregnancy, and she was just waiting for the time to be perfect for them to be together. Gardner Paleston called her every evening and talked to her for an hour. She had more potential than any other student he'd ever had, he said.
"I want to teach you all I know, Rose," he said. "I've never felt that way about anyone before. I want to give you all that I can, do you understand what I'm saying, Rose? Whatever I know, what I've learned, whatever I have to pass on, I want to give it to you." It sounded as if he was crying on the other end of the line. Rose was overcome.
She wanted desperately to talk with Uncle Lestan about Gardner but that was not to be. She wrote long letters and sent them to the attorney in Paris, and received the most touching little gifts in response. Surely they came from the attorney, she thought, but then each arrived with a gift card signed by Uncle Lestan, and these cards were more precious to her than the pearl necklaces or amethyst brooches they accompanied. Surely Uncle Lestan would one day see Gardner's exceptional talent, his passion, his genius, for what it was.
As she sat dreaming in class, Gardner Paleston became the most sensitive and brilliant being Rose had ever imagined. He was not as beautiful as Uncle Lestan, no, and he looked older actually, perhaps because he didn't have Uncle Lestan's health, she couldn't know. But she came to love everything about Gardner including his hawklike nose, his high forehead, and the long fingers with which he gestured dramatically as he strode back and forth before the classroom.
How disappointed he was, he declared, how crushed, he said bitterly, that "not a single student in this room understands a tenth of what I'm saying here!" He bowed his head, eyes closed, fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose, and trembled. Rose could have cried.
She sat on the grass under a tree reading over and over William Carlos Williams's poem: "The Red Wheelbarrow." What did it mean? Rose wasn't sure she knew! How could she confess this to Gardner? She burst into tears.
Before Christmas, Gardner told Rose the time had come for them to be together. It was the weekend. He'd carefully prepared everything.
Rose had a big fight with her favorite driver, Murray. Murray was young and dedicated, and fun really, but just as obnoxious as all the other paid guardians. "You stay two blocks behind us," said Rose. "Don't let him see that you're following! I'll be spending the evening with him, you understand, and you can wait outside, quietly, unobtrusively. Now, Murray, don't ruin this for me."
Murray had his doubts. He was a small muscular man, of Russian Jewish descent, who'd been a San Francisco policeman for ten years before getting this job, which paid him three times what he'd made before. He was also a very honest, straightforward, and decent guy, like all the drivers, and he let it be known he didn't approve of "this professor." But he followed Rose's orders.
Gardner picked up Rose about six o'clock that evening and drove her to the mysterious old Georgian mansion in old Palo Alto, following a curved drive through the manicured garden up to a porte cochere that couldn't be seen from the street.
Rose was wearing a simple lilac cashmere dress for this blessed evening, with black stockings and black leather shoes, her hair free down her back, with a small diamond clasp over one ear. The soft leafy grounds of Gardner's house were beautiful to her in the gathering darkness.
It had been a splendid place once, that was obvious, with old creaking hardwood floors, richly paneled walls, and a broad central stairway. But now it was littered with Gardner's books and papers, the huge dining room table a glorified desk with his two computers and various notebooks strewn about.
Up the stairs they crept, over old worn red carpet, and down the long dark hall to the master bedroom. A fire blazed in a stone fireplace, and candles burned everywhere. Candles on the mantel, candles on the old high-mirrored dressing table, candles on the night tables. The bed itself was a delicate antique four-poster, with an old "rice design," Gardner explained, which his mother had inherited from her mother.
"Just a full bed, a small bed," he said. "They didn't make queen and king beds in those days, but this is all we need."
Rose nodded. On a long coffee table before an old red-velvet couch sat trays of French cheese, crackers, black caviar, and other choice tidbits. There was wine there, uncorked, waiting for them.
This was Rose's dream, that this, her first experience, would be one of the highest love, and that everything would be perfect.
"I take Holy Communion," whispered Gardner as he kissed her, "my innocent one, my sweet and gentle one, my flower."
They had taken it slowly, kissing, tumbling under the white sheets, and then it had been rough, almost divinely rough, and then it was over.
How could anything have been so perfect? Surely Aunt Marge would understand--that is, if Rose ever told her. But perhaps it was best to tell no one ever. Rose had kept secrets all her life, kept them close, sensing that to divulge a secret could be a terrible thing. And perhaps she would keep this night secret all her life.
They lay together on the pillow, Gardner talking about all that Rose had to learn, all that he wanted to share with her, how much hope he had for her. Rose was just a child, a blank slate, he said, and he wanted to give Rose all he could.
It made Rose think of Uncle Lestan. She couldn't help it. But what would Uncle Lestan have thought had he known where she was now?
"Can I tell you things?" Rose said. "Can I tell you things about my life, about the mysteries of my life that I've never told anyone?"
"Of course you can," Gardner whispered. "Forgive me that I haven't asked you more. Sometimes I think you're so beautiful that I can't really talk to you." This actually wasn't true. He talked
all the time to her. But she sensed what he meant. He hadn't said much about wanting to hear her talk.
She felt close to him as she'd never felt close to anyone. Lying beside him felt so perfect. She could not tell whether she was sad or supremely happy.
And so she told him what she'd never told her friends ever. She told him about Uncle Lestan.
She started talking in a low voice, describing the earthquake and that sudden ride up into the stars, and into the Heavens. And she went on to describe him, and the mystery that he was, and how her life had been guided by him. She said a little about the horrid Christian home, skipping quickly to the night she was rescued--again, the dramatic ascent, the wind, the clouds, and those stars again above her in the naked sky. She spoke of Louis and Uncle Lestan and her life since ... and how she sometimes thought about her mother of long ago, and that island, and what an accident it was that Uncle Lestan had saved her, loved her, protected her.
Quite suddenly Gardner sat up. Reaching for a white terrycloth robe, he stood, wrapped it around him, and walked away towards the fireplace. He stood there with his head bowed for a long moment. He put his hands on the mantel and he let out a loud groan.
Cautiously, Rose sat back against the pillows, pulling the sheet up to cover her breasts. She could hear him continuing to groan. Suddenly he cried out, and as she watched, he rocked back and forth on his bare feet with his head thrown back. Then came his low, angry voice:
"This is so disappointing, oh, so disappointing! I had such hopes for you, such dreams!" he said. She saw him trembling. "And you give me this, this stupid, ridiculous cheap high school vampire babble!" He turned around and faced her, his eyes wet and glittering. "Do you know how you've disappointed me? Do you know how you've let me down?" His voice grew louder and louder. "I had dreams for you, Rose, dreams of what you might be. Rose, you have such potential." He was roaring at her. His face had grown red. "And you feed me this foolish, pedestrian schoolgirl trash!"
He turned to the left, then to the right, and then went towards the bookcase on the wall, his hands moving like big white spiders over the books. "And for God's sakes, get the damned names right!" he said. He drew a large hardcover book down from the shelf. "It's Lestat, damn it," he said, coming towards the bed, "and not Lestan! And Louie is Louis de Pointe du Lac. If you're going to tell me ridiculous childish stories, get it straight, damn it."
He hurled the book at her. Before she could duck, the spine caught her in the forehead. A fierce stabbing pain spread through her skin and gripped her head.
She was stunned. She was maddened by the pain. The book fell down on the comforter. The Vampire Lestat was the title. It was old, and the paper jacket was torn.
Gardner had gone back to the mantelpiece, and once again he moaned. Then he began again. "This is so disappointing, so disappointing, and on this night of all nights, Rose, this night. You can't begin to know how you've failed me. You can't begin to know how disappointed I am. I deserve better than this, Rose. I deserve so much more!"
She sat there shaking. She was in a rage. The pain went on and on in her head and she felt a silent fury that he had hurled this book at her, hurled it right at her face, and hurt her in this way.
She slipped out of the bed, her legs wobbling. And in spite of her trembling hands, she pulled on her clothes as quickly as she could.
On and on he spoke, down into the crackling fire, crying now. "And this was to be a beautiful night, such a special night. You cannot imagine how you have disappointed me! Vampires carrying you up into the stars! Good Lord in Heaven! Rose, you don't know how you've hurt me, how you've betrayed me!"
She grabbed her shoulder bag and tiptoed out of the room, rushing down the stairs, and out of the house. She had her iPhone out before she hit the long dark driveway, calling for Murray.
The headlights soon appeared in the deserted street as the big limousine coasted up to her. She had never been so glad to see Murray in all her life.
"What's the matter, Rose!" Murray demanded.
"Just drive," she said. In the big black leather backseat of the car, she put her head down on her knees and cried. Her head was still aching from the blow, and when she rubbed her forehead she felt the soreness there.
She felt stupid suddenly for ever trusting this man, for ever thinking that she could confide in him, for ever allowing herself to be intimate with him. She felt like a fool. She felt ashamed and she never, never wanted anyone ever to know about it. For the moment, she couldn't understand the things he'd said. But one thing was clear. She'd trusted him with the most precious secrets of her life, and he'd accused her of borrowing stories from a novel. He'd hurled that heavy book at her, not giving a damn whether he hurt her with it. When she thought of herself naked beside him in that bed, she shuddered.
The following Monday, Rose dropped Professor Gardner Paleston's classes, giving family problems as a reason for having to cut her schedule. She never intended to see him again. Meanwhile, he was calling her constantly. He came by her house twice, but Aunt Marge agreeably explained that Rose wasn't home.
"If he comes again," Rose told Murray, "ask him please to stop bothering me."
It was a week later, on a Friday night, in a bookstore downtown, that Rose saw a paperback book with the title: The Vampire Lestat.
As she stood in the aisle examining the book, she saw that it was number 2 in some sort of series of novels. Quickly, she found several others. These books were called the Vampire Chronicles.
Halfway home, she was so upset thinking about Gardner again that she was tempted to throw the books away, but she had to admit she was curious. What were these books about? Why did he think she was repeating stories from them?
Since that awful night, Rose had been in a kind of a daze. She'd lost all appetite for school, for friends, for everything. She'd been moving around the campus as if in a half sleep, scared to death of running into Gardner anywhere or everywhere, and her mind kept circling back over what had happened. Maybe it would do her good to read these books and see just how unfair to her Gardner had been.
Rose read the entire weekend. On Monday, she cut class and continued reading, complaining to Marge of an upset stomach. Sometime around Wednesday, she heard voices outside the little house and looked down to see Murray arguing with Gardner Paleston at the curb. Murray was clearly angry, but then so was Gardner. Finally the professor turned and walked off, shaking his head, his hand flung out before him, clawing at the air, and he appeared to be murmuring to himself.
By Friday of that week, Rose felt remarkably calm about the situation. Whatever she was thinking no longer had much to do with Gardner. She was thinking of the books she'd been reading and she was thinking of Uncle Lestan.
She knew now why Gardner had made his distasteful and hostile accusations. Yes, she could see it quite clearly. Gardner was a self-centered and inconsiderate man. But she knew now why he had said what he had said.
Uncle Lestan's physical description perfectly matched that of "the Vampire Lestat," and his friend and lover, "Louis de Pointe du Lac" was certainly a dead ringer for the Louis who'd rescued Rose from Amazing Grace Home for Girls. Dead ringer. Now that was a good pun.
But what did it mean that this was the case?
Not for one moment did Rose believe in vampires. Not for one second. She no more believed in vampires than she believed in werewolves, or Bigfoot, or the Yeti, or aliens from outer space, or little winged fairies living in gardens, or elves capturing people in dark woodlands and transporting them to Magonia. She didn't believe in ghosts, or astral travel, or near-death experiences, or psychics or witches or sorcerers either. Well, maybe she believed in ghosts. And well, maybe she believed in "near-death experiences," yes. She had known a number of people who had those.
But vampires?
No. She did not believe in them. Whatever the case, she was intrigued by this series of fictional stories about them. And there was not a single description in any of them of the Vampire Lestat, or
a single line of dialogue spoken by him, that did not check completely with her vision of Uncle Lestan. But that was sheer coincidence, surely. As for Louis, well, the character with the similar name was indeed exactly like him, yes, but that was sheer coincidence, too, wasn't it? Well, it had to be! There was no other explanation.
Unless they belonged to some organization, her uncle and this man, in which they engaged in role-playing games of some sophisticated sort modeled after the characters in these novels. But that was ridiculous. Playing roles was one thing. How in the world could anyone make himself look the way Uncle Lestan did?
She felt a strange embarrassment at the very thought of asking Uncle Lestan whether or not he'd read these books. It would be insulting and demeaning to do this, she thought, rather like Gardner insulting her when he threw the book at her face, and went on with his accusations.
But the entire problem began to obsess Rose. Meanwhile she read every last word of every book she could find with these characters.
And the stories in truth amazed her, not only by their complexity and depth, but by the peculiar dark turns they took, and the chronology they laid out for the main character's moral development. She realized that she was now thinking of Uncle Lestan as that main character. He'd been wounded, shocked, the victim of a series of disasters and adventures. He'd become a wanderer in these books. And his skin was tanned because he kept letting himself suffer the effects of sunlight in a painful attempt to mask his preternatural identity.
No, this is impossible.
She barely noticed when Marge told her that Gardner had gotten hold of their home number and she had had to change it. Rose keyed the new number into her cell and forgot about it. She didn't use the landline much, but of course it was the principal way to reach Marge. So she had to have that number.
"Do you want to tell me what's the matter?" Marge asked. "I know something happened."
Rose shook her head. "Just reading, thinking," she said. "I'm better now. I'm going back Monday. I have a lot of catching up to do."