by Alan Jansen
Saying thus, the professor laid down a map in front of me upon which he had circled the three areas he suggested I look into more closely. After a few more instructions from him, I rolled up the map carefully, thanked the professor kindly, and made for the door. The old man cut me off at the door, looked at me keenly, and then embraced me tightly, saying at the same time in my ear, ‘Don’t forget your promise to an old man, Mademoiselle. I will be waiting.’
It took me nearly three days to get within striking distance of the three areas in the proximity to the border between France and Luxembourg that the professor had outlined on his map. I don’t want to mention the details of that trip or the many conversations I had with several people along the way in my efforts to trace my relative. Suffice it to say that I finally made a breakthrough in the village of Notrefour, a little hamlet near the border, with a magnificent view of the hills in the background separating the two countries. I had just finished my lunch at the village inn close to the somewhat dilapidated village square when the proprietor, a well-set elderly man with an enormous moustache who had been giving me ogling looks ever since I stepped foot in the inn, took his cue to talk to me, seeing that I had finished my meal and was relaxing a bit. I saw him approaching me and turned around from my seat to face him, giving the man more than a fleeting glimpse of the black underwear beneath my dress.
‘Travelling far, Mademoiselle?’ asked the proprietor, even more eager to speak with me after my somewhat wanton flashing. ‘The official road ends here, you know, at this village. The road ahead that you will come to is a private road that leads to an old chateau that was built several decades ago by a wealthy nobleman who also owned the land around it. I believe members of his family still live there on and off in periods. Beyond the chateau and the estate, there are footpaths to the hills and the Luxembourg border. There is a small military garrison outpost at the foot of the hills. If your destination is Luxembourg, I can guide you to the outpost if you like.’ Finishing his little monologue, he added hopefully, looking keenly at my knees and short skirt all the while, ‘Perhaps you can stay a few days at my inn before you travel on, Mademoiselle? Rest awhile before you proceed further?’
I ignored his information about the border garrison and his plea for me to stay a few days. I knew quite well where I was geographically and didn’t need prompting. However, his information about the private road and the old chateau perked me up enormously. I remained composed, though, and asked in an innocent manner, almost nonchalantly as though just making conversation, ‘Who owns that old chateau now, Monsieur? Does the owner come often to the village?’
‘Nah! Nobody comes from that old house anymore. We are a small village, but we have all the necessities – butchers, bakers, clothing shops, barbers, and whatnot. We even have a post office, a bank, and a library, but no one from the old chateau ever comes – not any longer, that is. … My father used to say that before the private road was built, an elderly man used to drive down in a horse-driven wagon and fetch the chateau post, even buying many groceries and the like from our general stores, but since the road was built he was never seen again. Our village mailman drives directly to the chateau now, and once a week a big van from Reims delivers all the groceries they need at the chateau. I know that its groceries are delivered because the van driver often stops at my inn for a drink and a meal. I saw the owner of the chateau once or twice when I was a young man – a handsome well-built man with long flowing blond hair – whenever he came himself to the village for something or other, but I haven’t seen him for nigh on thirty years now. They say he died in some big aeroplane disaster. His son or grandson owns the place now, or so I am told. I have never seen him though, but occasionally a big Rolls from the chateau drives past the village, probably heading to Reims or the big airport at Châlons-en-Champagne – even Paris. Who knows?’
After a further chat and some exchange of pleasantries, I bade the innkeeper farewell. I could see by his facial expression that he was quite disappointed that I did not accept his invitation to stay on, but he was civil enough to me as I paid my bill and left.
I think I have gotten the final piece of the search puzzle in place. That old chateau just had to be where Uncle lives. The long blond hair was a lively clue – a giveaway of sorts. … I did not buy the story of a son or grandson. No, there were no sons or grandsons, just Uncle, living on in eternity …
How would this immortal man receive me? The professor mentioned something along the lines that Uncle might not be pleased to see me – that he had a dark nature. Uncle had ‘made’ me by accident – just to save my life from Drakenwund’s otherwise fatal piercing of my neck. Perhaps Uncle was a hybrid vampire, able to walk in the sunlight (albeit always with dark glasses to shield his eyes) and consume some types of human food and drink. If he was partly vampire, then perhaps the old professor was right in another matter. Vampires are notorious loners, which means he wouldn’t be overjoyed to see me. All along in this book, I have painted Uncle as a benevolent soul, but was he really? In retrospect, the only reason Uncle visited us at the farm was because of his great love for Mom and his intention to carry out his plans to ‘turn’ her. Besides, Uncle had downright anarchist qualities as well, evidenced by the time he put Hans Gruthuenborg’s daughter into a hypnotic trance to erase the latter’s memory of Uncle’s having had full-blooded intercourse with her that night he visited Hans to get the Darlingtons’ Constable validated. The girl had just turned eighteen, and Uncle probably took her virginity. Would Uncle see me and admit me into his chateau with open arms, or would he kick me out in wrath – wrath because my mere presence would mean that his carefully concealed identity had been found out or even compromised? Wrath even because he had succeeded in ‘turning’ me accidently, while he had failed so miserably with my late mother.
It rained a bit as I drove a quarter mile or so down the private road leading to my destination. I saw the contours of a large chateau looming on ahead. It was still a good bit away, set against the hills. From this distance, I could see it was grey-white and had three turret-like towers on two sides of the building. The chateau became bigger as I motored down the road amidst the imposing green scenery around me. Carefully spaced oak trees lined the two sides of the road I drove through, their branches and leaves almost intervening in the middle of the road, high above my vehicle. It was well into the evening. The rain ceased as grey clouds in the sky parted, allowing the setting sun to catch the glass panes of the windows of the chateau, setting them alight – bathing them really – in a dazzling golden aureole. It was though a million lights had lit up inside the building. I stopped the car to facilitate a better look.
Getting out, I opened the rear door to fetch a pair of binoculars which I had placed in the back seat together with a basket of food and fruit and some other odds and ends. I gazed at the chateau for a full ten minutes through the glasses, until the sun faded behind the horizon and the golden reflection on the windows had all but disappeared. Returning to the car, I tossed the binoculars back into the rear seat. As I was closing the rear door, I suddenly felt a swish of air pass by me, and I felt soft fur brushing against my person as though a dog or some other furry animal had forced its way past me and had jumped into the car. I looked around nonplussed. There was no dog, cat, or other animal in sight, either in the car or outside. Perhaps my excitement had made my mind play tricks, I thought. I shrugged my shoulders in resignation and closed the car door, thereafter starting the ignition. As the car pulled away, I suddenly felt some unknown force lifting my long hair and licking me thoroughly on my neck and ears. It was remarkable, for it was exactly how my beloved Inky used to lick me whenever I drove Pop’s old station wagon to the village when doing shopping errands for Mom on our old farm. I always kept Inky in the back seat because the lovable hunk of a dog always insisted on interfering with my driving if I had him in the front seat beside me. It was chilling at first, but my feeling of fright turned in a few seconds to
one of absolute joy. I looked in my rear-view mirror and, as expected, saw nothing in the back seat except my odds and ends strewn about, but the whole car took on the smell of wet dog, exactly how Inky smelt whenever he had been outdoors in the snow or rain and had come back into the farmhouse. I knew instinctively then that my long-dead dog was with me on what could well be the last adventure we would share together …
As I drove on with my invisible companion behind in the back seat, I heard the cry of a turkey, gobbling away in full throttle high above the still clear sky. Driving on, I turned onto a diverting gravel road leading to the chateau, which was clearly visible now. I distinctly saw the figure of a tall blond woman standing behind a mounted easel a few feet away from the chateau, seemingly lost in concentration while painting the landscape behind. The figure turned at the sound of my car’s engine, waved an alabaster hand briefly in joyous recognition, and then faded away before my very eyes.