She couldn't keep herself from smiling. She had done a good job, and now she basked in the rewards of her hard work.
Bending forward over a table to recommend some of the specialties to a couple, Alana lifted her eyes and met Victor's gaze from across the dimly-lit room. He smiled, spontaneously, approvingly. She smiled back, letting him know with her smile and with a nod of her head that everything was all right. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be at the nightclub. But yes, he had told her he would pass by a couple of times to check on things. He wore the classic Dracula costume. Black wig complete with widow's peak, white-powdered face, black lips, black dinner jacket and flowing black cape. Oddly, he seemed more attractive with the Dracula costume. Just as men stared at Alana, women stared at him. Amazing. Weren't people bored, fed up with these ancient, frightful creatures? Even after all these years, Dracula still captured imaginations. At least in Puerto Rico, anyway.
Alana walked over to the entrance to greet more customers, and she saw Valeria and Miguel “the Pirate” waiting in line. Even though they were late, Alana's eyes lit up.
"My God, Alana, you look super!” Valeria said. It was the first time she had seen Alana wearing the costume. Alana would not let her see it. She had wished tonight to be a total surprise.
"Where have you been? You promised you'd be here at eight,” Alana said.
"Don't get angry at Valeria. It was my fault,” Miguel said. “We had to ... stop somewhere first.” Valeria and Miguel gave each other a knowing, lustful look. Not an obvious look, but one that made Alana guess what they had been up to. “You really do look fabulous, Alana,” he added.
"Yes, fabulous,” Valeria said.
"Thank you,” Alana tried to swallow her disappointment. She refused to understand their desperation. Maybe she was being selfish, but she couldn't help it. It hurt her that Valeria had gone off somewhere to make love with him when she had promised she was going to come early to the opening in the first place. Couldn't she have waited until after the opening? “Follow me, I'll get you a table."
Valeria and Miguel followed her across the crowded room.
"This place is fantastic,” Valeria said, looking around her as she walked. “Look at those skeletons. They look so authentic. Are they real?"
"I doubt it,” Miguel said.
"You can examine them better from here,” Alana said, showing them to a corner table placed beside two skeletons.
"I bet you have been saving this table just for us,” Valeria said, sitting down and looking appreciatively at the skeletons.
"Hardly,” Alana said. “All the tables have been filled since eight o'clock. I guess it's your lucky night.” She had, in fact, been saving this table for them. Miguel examined the candle-lit skull on the table. “But this looks real,” he said, bewildered, squinting at the skull and touching it with his fingers.
"Nothing false dwells in this cave,” Alana said in a mocking, deeply mysterious tone.
"No, no, I'm serious,” Miguel said. “Are they real?"
"Of course they are. Don't you see?” Valeria said.
"I'll let you decide that for yourselves,” Alana said. She handed them the menus. Their covers showed the words La Cueva del Vampiro in leaking red ink, like words unevenly written with fresh blood. Inside, the names of the food and the prices were written gothic style.
They studied the menu for a while.
Valeria laughed, delighted. “Deadly Mushrooms in Slimy Maggot Sauce? Phantasm Ice Cream? Immortal Salad? I can tell this all came from your head, Alana."
"Who else but me—Alana, the Vampire Countess?"
Valeria reached out and held Alana's hand, giving it a little squeeze. “You see, I told you it would be a great success. I'm so happy for you. Are you happy now?"
"Don't I look happy?"
"Yes, you look happy. But with you I never know for sure."
"Tonight I feel very happy."
"Then live the moment to the fullest,” Valeria said, giving her hand another squeeze, this time harder, almost painfully. Then she reached to touch the choker around Alana's neck. Her index finger stroke the cobra's head, the fangs. “Mmm ... I love this. Where did you get it?"
Alana seemed startled. Her hands went up to her neck. “This? Unusual, isn't it? I don't know. It came in the box with the rest of the costume."
"Victor chose the costumes?” Valeria said.
"The old man who gave me the job supplied them. I already told you that."
"It looks old,” Miguel said. “I mean, it looks genuinely old."
Alana nodded. “Hmm."
"Maybe it is. All these skulls and candelabra and torchlights are supposed to be genuine. That's what Victor told you, didn't he?” Valeria said.
"Yes. I asked him about it, and that's what he said. Everything was supplied to him, though. He doesn't have any idea where they came from."
"Such mystery,” Miguel said, amused. “I think it's all for publicity."
Alana realized Victor was signaling her from across the room. “Listen, I have to go now. The werewolf will take your order. You'll come with me to the club later, right?"
"Don't worry,” Miguel said. “This time we won't let you down."
"We wouldn't miss it for the world,” Valeria said.
"Great. I'll see you later then. And Miguel, everything here is real."
When Alana joined Victor, he told her, “Congratulations, Alana. You've managed wonderfully. Just as I thought you would."
"Thank you. You know I could never have done it without your help."
"Let's just say I'm your typically nice vampire.” He smiled, glancing at his watch. “It's ten-thirty. I'm taking off to the club, okay? Can you handle it from here?"
"Sure, go ahead."
"Are you tired?"
"A little. I guess I'm more excited than tired. But my feet hurt. These shoes are too high. Usually I don't wear shoes like this.” She made a face, as though her feet were killing her.
"My hair is itching like hell under this damn wig. Anyway, I have to go. See you later. You won't believe the nightclub. It's filled with yummy humans reeking of blood.” After giving her a theatrical Dracula grin, he walked off.
Alana chuckled. Then she sighed, looking around the room. The waiters joked with the customers, carried food trays from one place to another. They had done a good job. No problems with the orders, no spilled drinks, no dropped trays. They worked hard to make the first day a success. Even though the air conditioning was on, they seemed to be perspiring under their heavy make-up.
Alana, too, was perspiring. She still had a long night ahead of her. But she had told Valeria the truth. She was happy. She made another tour around the tables, speaking here and there with the customers. All of them seemed to love the food and the costumes, but more than anything they seemed intrigued about the décor.
Are these skulls real? They are, of course they are.
Are these skeletons real? They are real, too, every single one of them..
Who is the owner of the restaurant? What's his name? To tell you the truth, I don't know. I only know one thing. He only comes out after sunset.
Soft laughter.
* * * *
At midnight, Alana turned on the CLOSED sign. Although there were only two tables empty, the rest of the people were at the end of their dinners, having dessert or drinking coffee.
The restaurant was a hit. Several reporters from the city's most important newspapers were here, and they had been extremely pleased.
Favorable articles would appear in the Sunday editions.
Alana went over to Valeria's table.
"You have been standing and walking around all night long, Alana. Aren't you tired?” Valeria said, genuinely concerned. “You'll rest now at the club, okay? We haven't been able to speak all night."
"So what? You live together, don't you? Tomorrow you can speak all you want,” Miguel said, taking Valeria's hand between his and kissing her palm.
V
aleria smiled, bit her lower lip. Biting her lower lip was a habit of hers. It made her look cute and childish and sexy. And Valeria knew it. She knew her weapons just like any officer in the army knew his. It made Alana want to smack her—of love and irritation, truly want to smack her.
Valeria was tipsy. Her brown eyes shimmered wildly above the candle-lit skull. Her cheeks were glowing. Alana loved it. Valeria always turned ridiculous, but happy and amusing. A bit annoying, but the perfect harmless drunk. Not a bit like Alana herself, who got nostalgic and gloomy; at times aggressive and even cruel.
"How many Black Russians have you had tonight?” Alana asked.
"Let me see...” Valeria said playfully, counting her fingers. “Thirty! No, no, don't be silly. I only had four."
"Actually, I'm dying for a rum and coke,” Alana said, trying to flex her toes inside her shoes. Her feet were truly killing her.
"God, I feel like a stuffed pig,” Miguel said, rubbing his stomach. “It's already midnight. What do you think, Alana? Can we go to the club now?"
Most of the customers were asking for their bills.
"Why don't you go ahead? I'll meet you there in a little while. Just tell the guy at the door your names. I already told him about you. You won't have to wait."
Out on the street stood a long line of people waiting to get inside the nightclub. Most of them were nicely dressed, young professionals between the ages of twenty and thirty from good families, reeking of money.
* * * *
On her way to the nightclub, admiring the decor, Alana pictured in her mind how the place must look to the new customers.
LA CUEVA DEL VAMPIRO. The red gothic letters flickered on and off in the dark dead-end street. Once inside one found a dark entrance hall with passionately disturbing music—Bach's “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor"—coming out of hidden speakers. Next were two ancient, heavy wooden doors with their respective signs, one leading to the restaurant and the other to the nightclub. To enter the nightclub one had to follow a dark narrow corridor until a final heavy wooden door led into the dancing hall.
The nightclub was more or less a replica of the restaurant. Imitation-stone walls, spider webs, skulls, skeletons, candelabra, monster waiters. The bar, designed in the shape of an extremely long sarcophagus, truly added to the effect . In the center of the room was the dance floor, surrounded by stone-slab tables decorated with candle-lit skulls and monster heads with lit-up eyes.
The same dim red shafts of light came down from stalactites, baleful, portentous.
The waiters came from another world, from an underworld. They brought exotic drinks. And the music—right now U2's melody in which the lead singer promised to hold you, kiss you, thrill you and kill you—came out at full volume, deafening to the senses. Lots of cigarette smoke, sudden empty laughs, giggles.
Disguised kisses, strokes.
A faint smell of incense, dark and foreign, caressing to the nostrils.
And in the center, dancing bodies, turning, swirling, undulating, tight young bodies with the dusky scent of sweaty flesh.
All of it a surrealist painting out of Salvador Dali's imagination.
* * * *
"No, no, I don't want to dance now. You go ahead,” Alana said. It seemed to her hours had passed since she had joined Valeria and Miguel.
"Come on,” Valeria insisted. “We can dance all together. The three of us."
"Valeria, mi amor,” Miguel said. “She says she doesn't want to dance. Don't you see she's tired?"
"I'm thirsty. I'll order another rum and Coke,” Alana said.
"But we love to dance with each other. Don't we, Alana? You promise me the next dance then, okay?” Valeria said.
Alana rolled her eyes skyward. Valeria loved to whine when drunk.
Alana herself was getting tipsy. She had had two rum and Cokes on an empty stomach. But she wasn't hungry. Tonight she had been too nervous to eat anything.
"Not now. Later maybe,” Alana said, distracted, drumming her fingers to the music. She turned to Miguel, who, in spite of having had two or three beers, seemed sober. “My God, Miguel, dance with her. Take her, do anything. Just make sure she doesn't collapse in the middle of the dance floor."
Miguel nodded, understanding. He got up from the table and took Valeria by the hand. He really seemed something of the pirate, with his beard and moustache and his mischievous brown eyes.
Valeria pouted. “Very funny,” she said to Alana as Miguel led her off by the hand.
Alana shook her head, smiling. She watched them disappear into the bustling dance floor. She looked down at her drink. A little liquid remained at the bottom of the glass where the ice had melted. She took one last sip.
Tracing the round edge of her glass with her fingertip, she stared across the room, thoughtful. They had fallen into one another's webs. Physically, mainly physically. But talking to them, Alana had noticed some sort of emotional or spiritual attachment in their relationship as well. That much she could tell.
And she didn't like it. She didn't like it at all.
On the other hand, maybe she was only being old fashioned. Valeria often accused her of being a moralistic fool. So the Pirate was married. So what? What was the big deal? These things happened all the time, especially in a depraved Latin city like this. But Alana couldn't help feeling the way she did. It was wrong. It had to be.
Integrity. Morality. Loyalty. These virtues had totally disappeared. They didn't have a meaning anymore.
Suddenly an intense feeling of loss overwhelmed her.
The alcohol was having its usual depressing effect on her.
She knew if she kept drinking, she would get worst, and yet she wanted another drink, desired to get perfectly drunk. What was wrong with her? Was she insane? She had had a successful night. Only minutes ago she had been pleased, cheerful, exhilarated. How horrible to have such drastic mood swings, to feel so despondent without knowing why.
She signaled the zombie waiter and ordered another rum and Coke.
For a moment she stared at the dancing couples, at the flashing red lights above them. Her eyes scanned the room, moving slowly from one table to the other.
Then she saw the face.
An alluring face, solemn and brooding, with slanted dark brows and penetrating deep-set eyes and a generous sensual mouth. It was framed in a mass of wavy dark hair, and the skin had a strange luster, it seemed to glow in the semidarkness of the room. Such an unusual face, severe and melancholic at the same time. And it was staring straight back at her!
Alana held the stranger's gaze for a second, stiffening, realizing not only that he stared at her, but that he had been staring at her for some time. She averted her eyes, a natural reaction. For a second she looked down at the candle-lit skull on the table, at the tiny flickering flame. Then, almost involuntarily, she looked back at him.
He was still staring at her.
Alana's heart skipped. She stared back, breathless. It was not the fact that a man was staring at her, for many men stared at her in public places. No, it was not that. It was the type of face and the way that he looked at her that stunned her—as if he knew all about her sadness, her loneliness, her deepest fears. And suddenly she had a haunted feeling, as if all the morbid immensity of her emotions, past and present, stood reflected in that face. She held his gaze, looking straight into his deep-set eyes, until she felt dizzy. Oddly, it felt as if they had been watching each other for hours, when in fact only seconds had passed.
"Enjoy your drink,” the zombie waiter said.
Alana looked up, startled.
The waiter bent forward to serve her the drink, blocking the bewitching face.
"Thanks,” she said, reaching for it. The cold glass felt soothing against her sweaty palms.
After the waiter walked off, Alana looked again towards the stranger. But he was no longer there. She looked around the room, keenly disappointed, but he had vanished.
"Great, now I'm hallucinating,” she muttered to he
rself, softly shaking her head. Her hands went through her hair, shoving it away from her face. Then she brought the cold glass to her dry lips and drank.
After a while Valeria and Miguel rejoined her at the table. Miguel lit a cigarette while Valeria signaled the waiter for another Black Russian.
"My throat is parched!” Valeria said. She turned to Miguel and kissed him full on the mouth, glancing sideways at Alana. Then she pushed Miguel away and laughed.
Alana didn't look away, but her thoughts were elsewhere. The stranger had reminded her of a trip she once took with her mother to the Middle East, of a painting of angels. She couldn't put the finger on why the face and the trip were connected, but...
"Hellooooo!” Valeria said, waving her hand in front of Alana's face. “Where are you? You look miles away."
Alana blinked, snapping back to the present. “Why don't you try and read my mind?” she taunted.
Valeria grinned, ignoring the mocking note in her friend's voice. “Okay. Look deep into my eyes. Concentrate."
Alana went along with Valeria, containing a smile. Her heavily black-rimmed eyes locked themselves into Valeria's. Her pale face turned grave, pensive.
Miguel looked from one to the other, amused.
"We used to read each other's minds when we were little. Didn't she tell you?” Alana said.
"Quiet,” Valeria said, her big brown eyes round and luminous. There was a silence. “I don't know, Alana. You're not opening up to me. I see a heavy wall between us."
"You're joking, right?” Miguel said. He took a long drag from his cigarette and let out a thick cloud of smoke.
The waiter came with the Black Russian and Valeria reached for it and took a long draught. She licked her lips, smiling at Alana. But she was clearly disappointed. “Well, it didn't always work, remember? What were you thinking about?"
"About a face,” Alana said. “Can I have a cigarette, Miguel?"
"You smoke? I thought you didn't smoke,” Miguel said, passing her a cigarette and lighting it for her.
Embraced by the Shadows Page 3