Nocturnes

by T. R. Stingley

  Erica returned and smiled warmly as she resumed her place between them. Julian asked her if she had ever tasted Cognac and she shook her head. He offered his glass. She hesitated for only a moment, then took it from him, inhaled the aroma at the rim, and drank deeply. The two men looked on as she coughed and gasped in surprise.

  “Wow. It doesn’t give you much warning…the smell, I mean. It has such a mellow warmth on the nose that you would never suspect the potency. It seems like it’s just going to slide right down your throat,” her eyes lingered on Julian’s as she spoke, “but it builds up this hot friction and catches fire halfway down. By then it’s too late to do anything except sputter like a rookie.”

  Isaac could see that she was blushing. And the warmth in his own cheeks affirmed that he was, as well.

  “Have another swallow,” Julian suggested. “There is a trick to drinking Cognac that makes for a quite pleasurable experience. But we won’t go into that right now.”

  “Thank God,” Isaac thought. “There have been too many reminders already this night.”

  She drank some more and slid the tumbler back into Julian’s open hands. Now a silence fell upon their group…a solemn sense of expectation. Erica seemed to be preoccupied with her own private thoughts. After several minutes Julian spoke again, his voice a kind of caress.

  “Erica. Why are you here tonight?”

  Isaac was taken aback by the abruptness of the question. He looked quickly at the woman and noticed a difference in her facial expressions. They were composed and entirely free of the tensions that had masked them earlier. Of course! She drank from Julian’s glass. There was some sort of bond between them now. Like the one that he shared with the vampire.

  She looked down at her folded hands and replied softly.

  “I was lonely. I came here for some escape.”

  “Escape from what?” Julian probed.

  “From death, I suppose. I have lymphoma. They tell me I’ll be dead in six months.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes and began to fall heavily, like the words from her lips.

  “I’m twenty-two years old. Can you guess how unreal it is to hear myself say that I am dying? I lost both my parents two years ago in a car accident. I haven’t even recovered from that yet, but here I am. My friends still call me to join them here or there. I still read the papers and watch the news. The world is going along just fine…life continues all around me…but I am no longer a participant. I am waiting for the end. That’s all. I don’t even know what life is all about, really…”

  Isaac could hardly bear to look at her. His heart, which had lost much of its pity for the plight of strangers when compared to his own, was suddenly overwhelmed with sorrow. Her words, “I am waiting for the end…” she couldn’t imagine how they pierced him with sharp daggers of relevance. He glanced at Julian and could see that his manners, too, had changed. There was a surprising softness in the eyes that were resting upon the young woman. This man was a killer. He had taken the lives of untold hundreds of miserable human beings. But here he was, obviously moved by the tears of a woman he had just met. How could the night possibly contain any more drama?

  Isaac pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Erica. Julian took her other hand and raised it to his lips, pressing them against the smooth palm. Then he looked into her eyes and spoke with such warmth that even Isaac felt enveloped by peace.

  “My dear. There is no permanence to suffering. There is a balance. I promise you that this is true. The terrible beauty of life is nothing more than an enduring lesson in love. Whatever else you may feel that you have missed, I can see that you have learned this single, most important thing. So rejoice, and let go of your fear. In a moment I am going to kiss your lips. When I do you will forget the anxiety that our conversation has caused you. But you will retain the sense of hope that you now feel. And tonight, when you lay down for sleep, you will dream of your parents, and you will find faith that they are waiting for you.”

  He leaned forward and lightly brushed his lips against hers. They lingered there for a moment, and Isaac was so moved by the poignancy of it all that he had to look away. He rose and walked to the bar as clouds of warm rain gathered in his throat. As he stood waiting for a fresh drink, Julian walked up beside him.

  “It’s time for us to leave, Isaac. Our little ‘experiment’ is concluded.”

  “But what about Erica?” he asked, struggling to find her among the crowd.

  “She will be all right. As all right as any of us can ever be.”

  He turned and retreated quickly from the scene, leaving Isaac to follow like a reluctant employee.

  Out on the street, Julian paused as if to consider. Isaac felt a tremor of dread race along his spine. Was this to be the moment his fate was decided? Julian turned to face him.

  “Return to your hotel. Dress for dinner tomorrow night and meet me at Arnoud’s at eight o’clock. Good night, Isaac.”

  Again, he walked away. Perhaps it was his secret knowledge of Julian’s true identity, but there was a noticeable difference as he made his way through the shuffling tourists. Julian carried his separateness on pressed, somber shoulders, like a burden of great weight. It was a familiar carriage. He recognized that gait as his own. He and the killer seemed to share certain characteristics. That knowledge dug at the very fabric of Isaac’s previously-ordered universe.

  He turned in the direction of his hotel. He tarried for a moment, considering the dying woman, Erica. Part of him wanted to return to the carelessness of The Zoo and bring her from there. But that was no longer his role. The rescuing of hearts, the drying of tears…these were personal failures. And they were forever behind him. Besides, he had his orders.

  As he neared his hotel, he encountered another submerged emotion. One that he was sure Julian would disapprove of. It was a simmering hatred, one that Isaac had tended and stoked and looked after for some fifty years. The man was a murderer. He preyed on innocent human life. Isaac had known many such monsters in the past.

  “This must be remembered,” he told himself as he climbed the stairs to his room. “I will not be seduced by his apparent concern for the dying. People have suffered at his hands. And I will not forget…”

  The night had been an epiphany. But there was too much to digest in one evening. He went straight to bed and didn’t awaken until well past noon the next day.

  Chapter Eleven

  By eight-thirty that evening, the two men had been seated and were sipping at the excellent wine Julian ordered before they even considered the menu. It was a Burgundy, from the Volnay region. Like Isaac, Julian often ordered the meal around the wine, in contrast to the habits of most diners.

  “This has long been considered the most feminine of all the Burgundies,” Julian explained, unnecessarily, but Isaac found himself hanging on every word. “If you prefer the elegant to the powerful, if your idea of a perfect evening includes jazz, moonlight spilling across the overstuffed couches on the front porch, and a loyal dog curled at your feet…if all you desire is the company of a good and loving woman, this wine is the official libation of lovers everywhere.”

  Julian seemed to be in high spirits, as if he were starved of company. The thought struck Isaac with a thunderbolt of humor, and he began to chuckle, despite his desire not to do so. Starved of company. Of course. How could he not be when he killed and consumed everyone that he met? Ha-ha-ha. “Oh my,” he thought. “In a minute he’s going to ask me what’s so funny and I’ll have to tell him and then I’ll really be in trouble….ooohhhh, ha-hahaha…come on, Isaac. Get a grip, man!”

  Julian only smiled at Isaac’s amusement. “A wonderful wine, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Now Isaac was close to full-on belly laughter. “Oh yes, I can’t recall a more convivial wine. Goes right to the head. That’s what I love about the Burgundies. One minute you’re staring down the barrel of
life’s futility, and half a bottle later you’re dancing on the table in your underwear. Here’s a great ad campaign,” he picked up the bottle and pretended to read from the label. “Village de Volnay…it WILL tickle your fancy….ooohhhheeeeheeeehhaaahaa…”

  Julian was grinning broadly now. “Perhaps we should order. You must be starved.”

  That was it. Wet, mirthy tears sprang to Isaac’s eyes. A long-restrained humor and laughter poured out of him. “Ooohhh…hehehe. Good idea. OK. I’ll have the ecrevisse aux oeufs, and my discriminating friend here will have the rack-of-human-flesh. Rare, of course…woooheeheehee…oh, boy, I’m a dead man…”

  “Calm down, Isaac. Anxiety is mostly an intellectual thing, but it can manifest itself in a variety of ways. Your sudden slant of humor is a reaction to your forced reevaluation of reality. It’s perfectly understandable. Now, shall we order?”

  Isaac regained his composure. But there could be little doubt that his own mood was linked to the vampire’s. Their conversation remained pleasant and humorous. Small talk dominated the five courses of the meal, but Isaac was brimming with questions. He would have to be cautious. His own history made him keenly aware of the sensitivity requisite when making personal inquiries. Particularly where such longevity was involved. He opened with the easy stuff.

  “And how long have you been in New Orleans, Julian?”

  “Too long, I’m afraid. I came here to visit many years ago and was simply enchanted by the city. I returned shortly thereafter to set up a residence. But soon I will have to look for a new home. I am becoming too familiar here. And more than any other form of carelessness, that can prove most dangerous.”

  He paused and took a long swallow of his wine. Isaac could see that he wanted, perhaps even needed, to talk.

  “I absolutely love the history and the multi-cultural experiences here. This city is among the last of its kind in America. She has such an authentic feminine mystery. The summers can be trying. But in the spring the rains come, and the empty streets lend a dark reflection to the city’s moods. After Mardi Gras, when the flow of tourists has ebbed and the narrow alleys and hidden courtyards of this sacred town have regained their almost-religious, Southern slumber, I will walk the streets into the latest possible hour. My clothes and my skin absorb the river fogs that shroud the Quarter in secret enigmas. Beneath that gray, misty shroud, the city is transformed. You can not guess, until you are almost indecently close to a thing, what that thing has become.”

  Isaac was feeling more comfortable about asking those personal questions. And Julian was ever more responsive.

  “You understand, of course, how incomprehensible this is? I am dining with a man who is— if I understood you correctly—more than six hundred years old? You are history itself. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind sharing some of that history with me?”

  Julian smiled. “I admit that it has been a very long time since I have shared any of my story with anyone. But you and I seem to share some of life’s tragedies, Isaac. Perhaps we will both learn something from such a venture. What would you like to know?”

  Isaac thought for a moment. The story of Scheherazade came to mind. If he could keep the vampire talking long enough, who knew what might happen? Maybe Julian himself would find reason enough to spare Isaac’s life.

  “Quite frankly, I would like to hear everything you’re comfortable sharing…right from the beginning. How did this happen to you? What have you seen? It’s all so fascinating to consider.”

  In this, Isaac was quite sincere. Over the inevitable Remy XO, Julian began his story. History.

  “The year was 1383. I was born outside Arles, France, to a poor farming family. Have you ever been to that part of the world? It is a lovely land in which to be young. I try to return there as often as I can, even though the ageless memories wear upon my heart. It is more hauntingly beautiful than even Van Gogh could do justice to. Our farm was not far from the Mediterranean coast. On those glorious days when the winds come fresh from the south, you can inhale the sexy, salty fragrance of the sea. It must have been days such as these…I’m sorry, I mean, those. It’s so interesting when I look back at the past that I am almost transported there, with all its vivid colors and scents. Anyway, it must have been such days that siren-called my younger brother, Robert, and me to later adventure.

  “Only a year separated us, and it was all that did. In the isolated and rural landscapes of our youth, we had by necessity become the best of friends. We fished and hunted as a team, and learned to cook together in our mother’s kitchen. Our family tables were not always heaped with bounty, but our parents instilled a strong appetite for love. And the love of family was a kind of sacrament of itself. When we offered our prayers before meals we would join hands and each, in turn, would speak aloud our sincere gratitude for our food…and for our kin.”

  Julian paused to refill their glasses, sat deeply back into the cushions of his chair, and continued.

  “The familial friendship, which my brother and I never took for granted, carried easily into our twenties. As young men, we made our first journey to the exotic, mythical kingdom we knew only by name and reputation: Paris. Oh, how clearly I can recall that adventure. Each stride of our horses’ hooves toward that ideal seemed to electrify us with a more heightened sense of anticipation. The vibrancy of our youth coursed through our veins. And then we were there. For both of us, it was the first exposure to the full palette of sensual pleasures. Paris was the sweet, juicy essence of the forbidden fruit. It is very much like New Orleans, that way. I have been told that they are sister-cities, and that seems most appropriate to me. For two young farmers from the simple fields, Paris seemed part of an alien galaxy. But those stories are for another time. We returned to Arles after a fortnight as men of the world. We swore ourselves to bachelorhood and looked forward to our next sojourn. Even after these infinite years have rushed beneath the bridge of time, it seems that only a single sun has set upon that happiness.”

  Isaac was fascinated. And he knew that more fascination was in store.

  “It wasn’t until I had turned thirty that I began to reconsider my vows of hedonism. There comes a time when the quiet comfort of a country home seems like a come-true dream. I had all that I needed there in Arles, except for a loving wife, and perhaps a son and daughter to cook for on Sundays. I imagined my brother and I raising families together, always as confidantes and comrades, a fellowship to carry us far into our winter years. So I set about to find a kind woman who could comfort my spirit as well as my flesh. But it was an unsettled time. Far to the north, beyond the pleasures of Paris, the King Of England had become even more obsessed with French soil than the English had been for the previous decades of the Hundred Years War. Our own king, Charles, was hopelessly insane. So it fell upon the citizenry of France to protect our homeland from the arrogant expansions of the English. Robert, who loathed the English as much as anyone, took an officer’s commission in the army. Three months later, out of a need to look after him, I did the same.

  “It was 1415. That summer had been particularly hard on the people of France. Henry was a big fan of the old scorched-earth game. He left little but flames, ash and sorrow in his wake. Certainly no food, nor the ability to grow it. But the winter was coming and it was time for his armies to retire beyond the Channel. The October rains had swollen the rivers and made them impassable. The English dog was forced to take his troops much further inland than he would have liked. We had not defeated the English in battle for more than a generation. But the whims of nature made him, at last, vulnerable to our forces. And we intended to make him pay.

  “We caught his fleeing army in the open fields of Agincourt. We had them vastly outnumbered, but foolishly allowed them to reach the cover of the trees. There, they were able to set their defenses behind a wall of Europe’s finest archers…the surgeons of medieval warfare. We charged their position again and again, as though the sheer f
orce of our numbers could withstand the black, quivering rain of arrows. They cut us to pieces. Robert carried three shafts of English Ash in his body before he fell.”

  Now Julian paused for several, silent minutes and swallowed hard at the warm brandy. He looked off into the near distance, recalling the carnage of the scene.

  “We finally retreated, what was left us. And it’s odd. I watched that field being plowed over just a few months later. I have always wondered at the richness of that next summer’s crop. But on that evening, as the very heavens poured their grey misery onto that blood-soaked land, I learned the essential nature of madness. Under the cover of darkness, I set out to recover my brother’s body, with the intention of carrying him back home to our farm. By now the English had retreated as well, leaving only the woeful cries of the dying behind them. I stepped over torn bodies, often stumbling among the corpses, searching the contorted faces for that one, beloved and familiar. It is such a dreary memory…”

  Now Isaac could see that Julian was no longer enthusiastic about recounting his past. It was torturing him. After all these centuries he still suffered. Was there no end to the tenacity of grief?

  “All the light had fled from the world. There has never been such blackness. The sounds that reached my ears were relentlessly maddening. I could no more hope to find my brother in such a nightmarish place than I could have found reason for our bitter defeat. I was succumbing to shock. At first, I hardly noticed the chill of the ground fog that crept in over the carnage. But gradually I began to notice that the sounds were changing. There was something terribly different. The pain-wracked cries of the dying had turned to shrieking calls for help. Those men were screaming in fear. But in their cries was something else. I had heard fear in men’s throats before. But never this. This was new. This was horror. The blood drained from my withering heart, and I was filled with a sudden and shuddering foreboding. And rightly so, Isaac. Rightly so. I began to flee as best I could among the scattered limbs and gory remains of my comrades. Still the screams increased with the rolling mist. Then the most disturbing sounds of all came to my disbelieving ears. It could not be. This was the depths of madness. Dear God…what WAS that sound? It was the unforgettable symphony of a vast hunger being sated. Wet and voracious, and all around me. I stopped running and peered into the fog. As my eyes adjusted, I saw them. They were everywhere. The oldest and lowest form of night feeder, preying mercilessly on those who still clung to life. They were not like me, Isaac…not like me at all. Not like what I have become. They had embraced a gluttonous evil, severing their last arteries with humanity. They had become true monsters. And their only pleasure was the blood of the living.