Alana remained silent. But she couldn't help thinking that she also was, in fact, his daughter. His child of darkness. That by making her immortal he had transformed her into his immortal daughter, an immortal daughter who shared a striking resemblance with his mortal daughter.
"I wonder what Freud would say about this,” Alana said.
"Keep Freud out of this. He was a sexually-repressed madman,” he said.
Alana snorted disdainfully.
His eyes narrowed. “Lahanet olsun ... Take that damnable expression off your face or I'm going to..."
"Or you're going to what?"
"Give you a bite you will never forget. No, but really. Don't spend your precious intellect on something as trivial as this. Didn't you feel my absolute devotion, my indisputable love when I made you?"
She shrugged. “I don't know."
"Of course you do. You're doing this out of an eternal desire to argue with the people around you."
"Do you believe in reincarnation? Maybe you believe I'm your reincarnated daughter."
He sighed. “It wouldn't matter one way or the other to me. Don't you see? I think I regret it. I shouldn't have told you about her."
"Why not? No, really. Maybe I'm your reincarnated daughter. You said I wrapped my arms around you on my own accord that first time. Don't you think that's odd?"
"There's no way of knowing that. But I told you, it doesn't matter one way or the other to me. You are you, Alana. I don't care for any ghosts of the past to come back. I only want you,” he said seriously. Then he smiled and extended his arm towards her. “Come here."
"Go to hell."
"Come here, I said."
She got up and grudgingly sank into the sofa beside him, refusing to take his hand. She didn't know whether to believe him or not, and she was jealous. “If I hadn't looked like your daughter, you would never have given me a second look,” she said.
He pulled her to him. “No...” he slowly said, as if recalling that night. “Part of it was the resemblance, I can't deny that. As well as the way you were enraptured by that oil painting.” He gestured to the painting of the fallen angel now beautifully displayed on one wall. “But it was your smell, your powerful child-woman smell, what drew me to you. You see, for the first time in your life you were ... in that time of the month."
Alana stared at him, speechless.
Seeing the expression on her face, he suddenly laughed.
"My God! You're ... You're ... I don't have adjectives for you!” she said, a wave of heat rising to her cheeks.
"But you're pleased now, aren't you?” he said, satisfied. “So you see, it wouldn't have mattered if you looked like her or not. I would have sensed you a mile away. You were a little nymph, and you were, most tragically, in the wrong place at the wrong time."
To her chagrin, Alana felt her canines beginning to grow.
He slowly bit his lower lip. “Yes, I made an excellent choice,” he said, as though relishing her inability to control her passion. “It couldn't have been better."
Seeing him biting his lip reminded her of Valeria.
He lowered his head to kiss her neck, but she pushed him away. “Not so fast. I want to ask you something,” she said, wanting him to suffer.
He sighed. “You really are the cruelest creature. What is it? Why are your eyes so sad?"
"What you said about Fledglings and how the time comes when they feel they must leave their Makers ... will this ever happen to us?” But she knew the answer to this. He had made Fledglings of his own before, hadn't he? And yet he had been alone for the last hundred years or so.
"Don't torment yourself thinking about these things,” he said, gently. “We'll always love and help each other, we'll always be psychically connected, no matter what. We can't change that. Nothing can change that. It's in our nature. But sooner or later a child feels he must leave his parent, and a parent must accept this, but this doesn't mean their love will ever diminish. Do you understand?"
Silently, she nodded.
"Live the present, live every second to the fullest. Don't think about the future, ever, or you'll go crazy. Don't you see? The future is meaningless for us,” he said, almost imploringly, as if he couldn't stand the anxiety in her eyes.
She remained thoughtful. Live the present, live every second to the fullest ... His words reminded her of ... yes, Valeria.
She had many more questions, but they would have to wait. Already she could feel the lethargy, the heaviness in her eyelids and in her limbs ... the approach of dawn.
Sadash rose to his feet. “It's almost sunrise."
"Sadash.... There's something I must talk to you about. There's something I must ask you,” she suddenly said, looking up at him.
"What is it?"
"It's about what the gypsy woman said."
Silence.
She rose from the sofa, gazing intently into his eyes. “Is it true? Was my mother killed? I know it doesn't make sense, but..."
"We don't have time now, my beautiful one. The sun..."
"I know. Just tell me yes or no."
"It isn't that simple. We'll talk tonight about this. I promise you,” he said, taking her hand and leading her down to the cellar.
"It isn't that simple? Then it means...?"
"It means it isn't that simple."
"Just tell me..."
"Your eyes are almost closing. Hurry. Tonight...."
"Promise me..."
"I promise you, my beloved. Come now, jump in, cuddle up in my arms, sleep..."
CHAPTER 10
Alana stood by the large square gilded mirror in the studio, combing her hair. The trappings of wealth, she mused as she looked around the elaborately decorated room. If Uncle Angelo had only managed her money properly, this was everything she would have had growing up. She sighed. Why be angry? That was all so long ago.
The TV channel was on the news. She could see the big screen reflected in the mirror. She was restless. As soon as she woke she had become restless with hunger. She threw an impatient look upwards. What was keeping him so long? Did he have to look as if he were a model on his way to a photo shoot out every time he went out?
She combed her hair more vigorously now, actually hurting her scalp. On the news they were giving a story about Ice World, San Juan's only skating rink.
Alana turned around suddenly, clutching the heavy silver brush in her hands.
The anchor explained in a cheerful voice how the rink had been closed for repairs during the last few months and how finally, it was now fully renovated and once again open to the public.
Ice World...
On the screen they presented the gigantic skating rink, people gliding this way and that, handsome couples hand in hand, smiling children in woolen hats and gloves. Alana dropped the brush to floor and slowly went to sit on the sofa. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands on her temples, and closed her eyes.
All the memories of that terrible day came to her in a rush and with vivid, preternatural clarity...
Twelve-year old Alana had awakened late that terrible day because it was a Saturday and her ice-skating lessons at Ice World weren't until 11:30 a.m. The sun was shining, blinding, and the air felt muggy and unbearably hot. That's why she loved ice skating, because it made her forget the tropical heat and she could pretend—at least for two hours—that she was living in Norway or Sweden or some other cold snow country, though Norway was her favorite.
Uncle Angelo was having coffee and talking on the phone. When not in his studio, where he worked on his fashion designs, he was always talking with someone on the phone. When he saw her, he gave her a wink. She stuck out her tongue at him, playfully. After a quick breakfast of milk and cereal she got ready and went over to wake her mother, who was still sleeping.
She approached her mother's bedroom with the same vague dread, though by now she was quite used to it. Her mother's bedroom was always dark, the windows fully closed, the curtains fully drawn, the air
conditioning always on.
"It's eleven o’ clock,” Alana announced, stepping inside.
Silence.
"Mami..."
"Sweetheart.... What is it?” In the darkness the voice was thick, groggy, muddled with sleep and confusion.
"It's eleven o'clock. I have to be at the rink in half an hour, remember?"
After a pause, “Tell your uncle to take you, okay? I don't feel well, I need to sleep some more."
Disappointment. “You never take me anymore. I want to go with you. I want to show you the new moves I've learned."
"No! Don't turn on the lights, my eyes are killing me. My head is killing me."
And Alana wanted to tell her, You are killing me. You are killing yourself.
"Can you bring me my migraine pills, sweetheart, so I don't have to get up? They're over there, on the dressing table."
Alana fetched the little pill box. After opening it, she gave her mother two pills. There was another little pill box on the night table beside her bed, along with a glass of water. Jesus, didn't she ever get mixed up, with all these pill boxes? They all looked alike. Her mother had bought them in Brugge, Belgium, a few years before. They were round and trimmed with gold, and in the center, against a glossy burgundy background, there was a little picture of a lady sitting down and working at her lace. The little picture in itself was an intricate embroidery made in fine white lace.
"How's the day?” her mother asked, propping herself up on the pillows. She downed the pills with the glass of water. She looked pale and tired. Her thin brown hair, streaked with reddish highlights, fell tousled on her shoulders, and her dark eyes were slightly puffy and the skin under them a tone darker than the rest of her face.
"Like an oven."
"Maybe I'll go to the pool later,” her mother said, obviously trying to make up for not bringing her to the rink today. She knew how much Alana loved it when they swam together in the pool, and they had not swam together in weeks.
Alana smiled, somewhat placated. “Okay,” she said.
"After I rest some more. You go with Uncle Angelo now, and have fun. Maybe we can even have a barbecue tonight. You can ask Valeria to come over, if you want."
"Really?"
"Yes, I promise."
"Okay, but you promised, don't change your mind later on."
Alana leaned over to kiss her, and the smell caught her. A faintly repulsive smell usually hovered about her mother in the mornings. She knew this smell—the rank hangover smell—but even though she was familiar with it, it always managed to repulse her.
But no matter. Holding her breath, Alana kissed her, embraced her, and murmured good-bye.
Uncle Angelo got her to the rink in time. As usual, he was thoughtful, deeply worried about her mother, but he always tried to put on a cheerful facade for Alana. He also didn't know what to do, Alana was aware of it. How can you help a person who doesn't want to be helped? And Uncle Angelo always seemed under so much pressure, rushing from one place to another like a madman, getting ready for a show or for the next season's collection. Already a recognizable name in Puerto Rico and Miami, he was trying to make the proper connections to sell his latest fashions in other parts of the States and in Europe. So even though he had moved in with them after the death of Alana's father, his goings and comings into the house were very unpredictable. At times he was off of the island for days, other times he stayed at home all day for weeks, either making “connections” over the phone or sketching his creations by the pool. The point was, even though he wanted to help Laura, Laura didn't want to be helped, and he was just too busy to hover over the problem for a continuous amount of time.
Also, Laura didn't look as if there was something really wrong with her. She drank a lot, yes, and took sleeping pills, yes. But she wasn't the sleazy drunk type. She never made a scene, she was never in a mad mood. She just drank quietly by herself, and was depressed. And when she fixed her hair and put on make-up and a nice dress, well, she looked beautiful and perfectly normal. If she would have been the sleazy, temperamental drunk type it would have been easier to handle her, easier to make a decision and put her in a hospital. But like this, it wasn't so easy.
Laura had been a real estate agent, but had stopped working after Alana's birth. But even after her husband's death, she had not been forced to go back to work. She was more than well off. She and Uncle Angelo had inherited from their parents a nice bank account as well as two properties which were now rented and provided them with what would be considered an adequate monthly income. From her husband she had inherited not only the house and another generous bank account but also a Car-Wash business which, by luck, had turned out to be a little gold mine. So lack of money was not among her problems. Economically speaking, she had everything figured out. She was not a crazy spender. Half of the money she had in the bank she had put into certificates for Alana's education, for Alana's future. These certificates were sacred, untouchable. From the other half she received monthly interest checks. These checks, combined with the money she got from the rents and the Car-Wash, were more than enough to keep her living comfortably. There was never lack of money for good clothes, for good restaurants, for good vacations
Laura didn't have any close friends. Indeed, she knew many people, and went out with them to restaurants, to the movies, to the hotels and casinos at night. But true friends, no, not as far as Alana could tell. And Laura was reserved, even secretive about her outings. Not that she did anything immoral or illegal, as far as Alana could tell. She didn't like talking about her outings for the simple reason that she didn't like talking about her outings. And she didn't like having people over. The place to socialize was outside. Home was her secret cave, her special retreat. She read a lot, and when she read, she drank. She loved books. Books, along with wine, were her escape. Nonfiction books on topics ranging from health—yes, ironically, health—to science to history to philosophy to UFO's. Indeed, the house was filled with her books. It was her passion for books that infused Alana with the same passion.
Alana never saw her with another man. But then, Alana never kept track of who her mother went out with or where she went out to. But it was reassuring, in a way, the fact that her mother had not married again, the fact that she didn't go out with men. Alana knew it was selfish of her to think like this, but she couldn't help it.
Uncle Angelo didn't wait for her two-hour lesson at Ice World that fateful day. Instead he dropped her off and told her he would come back later to pick her up. He was back at one fifteen, before the lessons were over, and he watched her with pride as she turned and twirled on the rink. She made a little show for him, thrilled that he was watching. She knew she wasn't Olympic material, but she was pretty good.
After her lessons he took her to a nice restaurant for lunch, and by the time they got back home it was already after three.
Their house was over forty years old, but it had been repainted several years ago, and it looked very nice with its fresh coat of salmon-pink paint, very neat and well-kept. A large terrace-garage stood in front overlooking the street. The bedrooms, along with the garden and the pool, were in back. It was situated in a quiet, rather private residential street edged with high palm trees.
Uncle Angelo parked on the street, right in front of the house.
The first thing Alana noticed when she got out of the car was Valeria.
Valeria was roller skating up and down the street, clad in a red T-shirt and shorts, her long blond hair gathered up into a ponytail. Valeria lived nearby—ten minutes away, walking—and many times they visited each other without notice, especially on weekends.
When Valeria saw Alana she hastened down the street towards her, skating very fast to show off. “Alana!” Valeria said, waving with both hands.
It was lethal hot, but the sky was gorgeous, clear blue and filled with clusters of marshmallow-white clouds.
Alana smiled, instantly happy. Great, Valeria was here. No need having to call her up to invite he
r over. They would be in charge of the barbecue, then they would swim and talk in the pool. Maybe Valeria could even spend the night, and they would whisper stories to each other till the early hours of the morning. After all, tomorrow was Sunday, no school.
"What's up?” Alana said, her ice skates slung over her shoulder.
They embraced and kissed.
"Hello, Uncle Angelo,” Valeria said, somewhat shyly, rushing over to give him a kiss. Her face was all flushed from exertion and glistened with perspiration.
Uncle Angelo stood with his hands on his hips, watching them with an affectionate smile on his face. He made some small talk, asking Valeria about her parents, about her grades at school. Then Alana cut in and told her about the barbecue, about staying over for the night. Naturally, Valeria instantly accepted, though she said they had to call her mother and ask permission. But this was almost never a problem. Valeria's parents didn't even know about Laura's drinking problem, another proof of how “normal” Laura seemed to the outside world.
"Let's go inside, girls,” Uncle Angelo said, walking over to the front door.
Alana and Valeria followed him inside, talking incessantly about what they would do today, about what they would grill on the barbecue—steaks, sausages, corn, the works. They would make piña coladas in the blender, no alcohol.
The three of them went directly to the kitchen, where Uncle Angelo poured cold orange juice into three tall glasses. They drank eagerly.
"If you're planning on barbecuing today, that barbecue grill has to be scrubbed clean,” Uncle Angelo said, putting down his empty glass. “It's disgustingly dirty."
"That's no problem, right, Valeria? We'll do it,” Alana said.
"Sure, no problem! But I prefer to watch you while you do it,” Valeria said, grinning.
Alana threw her a malevolent look, though playfully.
"Just leave everything to us, Uncle Angelo,” Valeria said. “When the food's ready, we'll let you know."
Alana thought about going into her mother's bedroom to say hello. Instead she decided to first take a look at the grill. Damn, she hated scrubbing up grills, but with Valeria at her side it would be fun. They could rinse it with the water hose and splash each other.
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