Tratala con carino, que es mi persona
Cuentala tus amores, bien de mi vida
Coronala de flores, que es cosa mia....
"That's so pretty," Marian whispered when the song ended. I found myself quivering with an emotion I had almost forgotten to feel. I feared I might burst into tears, a VERY unseemly thing to do these days, when people are supposed to be carefree and nonchalant, and any kind of profound emotion is regarded as baffling in the extreme. I shut off the VR projector, making Tonito disappear, then removed the microchip and contemplated throwing it away.
"He was your lover when you were a mortal?" I heard Marian ask through the bloody haze of tears that clouded my eyes, which I covered so she could not see. "Of course he was, that's pretty obvious."
"Actually," I admitted, swallowing the knot in my throat, "I never met him. He never knew I existed, as far as I know. And yet, in some way it was because of him that I became what I am now."
Funny how I wished to avoid That Word too.
I began to recount my vampire history to her, going back 200 years ago when I was making my fateful road trip to New Orleans. I was writing a novel set in Louisiana, and I had decided I should familiarize myself with the terrain. The trip was uneventful, the scenery picturesque in places but pretty much all of a piece, and after a while I found myself thinking about the conversation I'd had with my friend Evelyn a few days before. We were at the mall shopping and discussing our problems with men, why it was neither of us seemed to have any luck with them. It started with the usual men-are-such-pigs bashing session, although I really don't enjoy that sort of thing too often.
"But I don't want to be one of those tiresome women who blame men for all their problems," I said as we paused beside a large fake palm tree, next to which a couple of old geezers sat on a bench. "I admit to a few character flaws of my own. I expect too much, I always want the impossible. If a man's too easy to get, I lose interest in him, kind of like the way I lose interest in a knickknack if the price is too low. The kind of men I REALLY go for don't exist unless they're married or something."
"Ha!" Evelyn laughed. She was tall and skinny with a hardness about her skin and eyes that made her look meaner than she really was. Definitely not the perky type. "Kinda like your story, huh? That Zorro thing? Girl, you are one real head case."
Grrrrrr! I KNEW I should never have showed her that story!
"Well," I countered, "I'M not the one who watched Color of Night 600 times just to look at Bruce Willis's whatchamadoodle."
That cracked her up. I laughed too. People looked at us, but I couldn't imagine what they were thinking.
"I didn't watch it no 60 times, and I sure don't watch it to look at his…thingamawatchy?" She glanced around to see if anybody was listening. She did have kind of a loud voice.
"Yeah, and I watch Desperado for its intellectual content," I said, and we laughed again.
"Well hell, reckon I'd write stories about me and ol' Bruce if I could write worth a crap," she admitted. "Although I couldn't print 'em where people could see 'em without havin' a heart attack. And at least you got that creative outlet. It's a hell of a lot more than what I got."
"You've got a son, at least," I said, then knew I'd hit a wrong note.
"Yeah, one that's headed for jail just like his dad," she snapped. I was silent. Evelyn did seem drawn to low-lifes. I prided myself on having better taste, even though it wasn't doing me much good. I was still sleeping only with my cat.
Then again, I could still bend my left arm. Which Evelyn had trouble doing, having had it broken at the elbow . . . by her second husband. And I was in my forties but could easily pass for thirty, maybe twenty-six if I could have kept away from the doughnuts. It drove Evelyn crazy, the same way her ability to wolf down pizza and chocolate eclairs without gaining an ounce drove me.
"I don't know why you should have trouble getting a man," she told me as we paused by the jewelry counter. "You're pretty, you're funny, you're smart, you're talented, you like kids, and you got a big heart. Seems like you'd make some man a great wife. But just look at me, I'm none of them things, and men are all over me like flies around a molasses jug. You gotta wonder what goes on with them."
I could have told her it was because she gave them what they were after, but it wouldn't have been very nice, although it was true. I thought about what she said as I drove through the bayou country and realized it was getting late. I hoped I'd be able to find a Motel 6 that had a vacancy. Then again it couldn't be that much further to New Orleans. Just about 40 miles.
"You're too good for any man, that's your problem," Ev said as we finished our shopping and went out into the sunlight. "Naw, I don't mean you're holier than thou or any of that shit. I just mean you're too good. Period."
"I'm not that good." I think I was blushing as we reached her somewhat beat-up Chevrolet Caprice. "If I am, why do I attract so many scumbags? My big boobies?"
"Cuz you ARE so good, that's why. The idea of conquering virgin territory makes 'em all hot and bothered. It's a major turn-on, baby."
"You think I'm a VIRGIN?" I laughed as she started up the engine.
"Maybe not below the waist," Evelyn looked dead serious, "but from the waist up, Rosie, you a virgin if ever I saw one."
"I'm not sure what you mean." I was flabbergasted.
"OK, let me give you an example. There's this lady used to go to my church when I was a kid. I use the word 'lady' real loosely, you understand. I reckon she was a virgin from the waist down. She said she was. I don't doubt it, maybe she welded her drawers on for all I know. But from the waist up, baby, watch out! She'd have you in hell quick as look at you. There wasn't a pure though in her head. You don't want to meet that bitch in a dark alley. You the exact opposite of her, you see what I'm sayin'?"
"I guess." Surely I wasn't as pure hearted as she made me out to be. But the obvious fact that I came across that way gave me pause. "Well then. Maybe I should change my image. I mean hey, just look at Monica Lewinsky, getting three million bucks just for being a slutty bimbo. And what am I getting for being such a goody two shoes? Nothing! Don't you think I could be a vampy type if I dropped about 60 pounds? I could buy a see-thru Versace cocktail dress and take up smoking and throw sultry glances over my martini glass, and change my name to something cool and classy like Esmé or Sasha, and-"
"Girl, you so crazy. You about as vampy as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich!" Ev shouted. I winced. I'd been long aware of my squeaky-clean image, but that didn't mean I was thrilled with it….
NEW ORLEANS 28, the sign read. It was still light, but there was a haze over the countryside, making it look mysterious and well, spooky. I found a BeauSoleil CD from my overflowing holder, put it in the player, and tapped my foot to the swingy, sunlit Cajun music. It helped a little.
But what was this? It should have been getting dark by now. My watch said 8:15. And it was still daylight. It was only April, it should have been dark almost an hour ago.
Straight ahead, a solid bank of fog obscured the road, looking like a giant tumbleweed.
I slowed the car to pass through the fog. I turned on the headlights full bright but could see diddly squat. Funny, there wasn't another vehicle in sight. Since this was a four-lane highway, you'd think there'd have been plenty of big trucks rumbling by, but there wasn't a single one. Only mine.
I was getting the heeby-jeebies, as my great-grandma used to say. I almost expected music from "The Twilight Zone" to start spewing from the CD player.
Maybe I should pull over and wait for the fog to lift, I thought. I could barely see the lines on the road. Then again I could follow those lines and they'd lead out of the fog. Something seemed to draw me through it, telling me to keep on going, it even seemed to be calling my name. So I followed the lines and said a prayer. I did pray when I got into a tight spot, in those days.
And suddenly the fog lifted, just like that! And there I was, in New Orleans.
Only, it wasn't New Orleans.
I knew how New Orleans was supposed to look even though I'd never been there before, from watching the videos and looking at the pictures in the guidebooks. This looked like New Orleans, but it wasn't. For one thing, there was no traffic. I could see people walking through the streets, but there was something strange about them, they did not cast shadows even though there was enough light for them to do so.
I shuddered all over. Why didn't I turn back? Good question. I just kept going, through those streets that looked like the streets of New Orleans but weren't. I couldn't just keep driving, I was low on gas and there wasn't a filling station in sight. And I sure didn't want to run out of gas in some slummy part of the city.
There were lots of parked cars, but none on the road. I parallel-parked my Oldsmobile and then sat for I don't know how long, that song from Evita going through my head:
So what happens now? Where am I going to?
Finally, deciding the people looked harmless even if they didn't cast shadow, I rolled down my window and asked an elderly woman passing, "Excuse me, ma'am, could you tell me where I might find a gas station?"
She stared at me as though I'd asked for directions to Saks Fifth Avenue. I repeated the question twice. She just shrugged and went on. I was really rattled, I felt like grabbing her by the throat and shaking the information I needed out of her, and was slightly horrified at myself.
I did get out, slamming the car door hard behind me. I didn't even think to lock it.
But I was casting a shadow. I saw it, long and thin as I wasn't, behind me, jagged and clear like a streak of black lightning. The buildings looked like I'd pictured them, with the lacy wrought-iron tracery, the pretty carving, flower boxes, all of it. I could hear Dixieland music with a ghosty sound floating from some of the restaurants. There was a café straight ahead of me that looked well lighted.
Then I looked up at the sky. It was night. At last.
I ran to the café. First I peered through the partially opened doorway, which had lovely art-nouveau stained glass windows above it and to the sides, and could see people inside, sitting at tables lit with drippy candles in wine bottles, some of them engaged in conversation, some silent, some playing cards or chess. Someone was playing ragtime piano. Their clothes were not modern, but it would have been hard to say just what period they came from. I want to say turn of the century, but wasn't certain. Maybe more like some amateur costume designer's idea of turn-of-the-century apparel, one who figured his unsophisticated audience wouldn't be likely to know whether the costumes were authentic or not.
Finally, hesitantly, I entered the coffee house. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt which read THE MORE I KNOW ABOUT MEN, THE BETTER I LOVE MY CAT, and I knew my hair was a mess even though I had it French braided. Still, this was obviously what Evelyn would have called an artsy-fartsy crowd, and I was an artist, wasn't I? I glanced around for the café proprietor, or a waiter, or Chewbacca, or Humphrey Bogart, or the Queen of Hearts, anyone who could tell me what the hell was going on with this city, or at least tell me where I might find a freakin' gas station so I could trot my happy butt out of there ASAP.
I looked down at my shirt to make sure it didn't read IGNORE THIS PERSON.
Straight ahead was a table with three occupants, and at least one of them appeared to be having a good time. The other two had their backs to me. They were dark haired, while Good-Time Charlie was blond and very clearly in his cups. He stood up on his chair and announced that he would dance the hornpipe. He shouted at the piano player to play some hornpipe music. Instead, the pianist, with a wise-guy smirk, obliged with the "Barcarole" from The Tales of Hoffmann.
"Excuse me," I said as I approached their table timidly, "but can any of you gents tell me if I'm in a Van Gogh painting or what?"
The two young men sitting with their backs to me turned to look and the blond young man abruptly stopped his jigging and stared right down at me with recognition in his pale blue eyes.
"RoZita!" he exclaimed, hopping down from the chair, which capsized and clattered to the floor, but he did not upright it. "My love, we've been expecting you! Come and join us, darling. How was your trip?"
Holy crap! How did he know my name?
The guy approached me, extending one hand. I backed off, bumping into a chair behind me. Blondie's two companions stood up but did not move in my direction.
"Don't be afraid, darling," he said, stopping just short of me. "We mean you no harm, even if we are…well, you know."
"How do you know who I am?" I stammered with a wild glance around me. I couldn't see where the door was.
"Sweetie, I know ALL about you," Blondie said with obvious delight. "You've written two books you're trying to get published and you're working on two more, one of which is set right here in Louisiana, right? Its premise is 'What if the South had won the Civil War, right?"
Well, I did post that information on the Internet, he could have seen it there, unlikely as that was. But it didn't explain how he knew who I was or why he was expecting me.
"Oh, where are my manners?" he said with a sheepish glance at his two friends. "The name's Lestat, darling. And these two sad sacks are Louis and Armand. I'm sure you've heard of us?"
I allowed myself a small grin. "Come to think of it, I have. But I must say, y'all don't look the way I, ah, generally picture you."
"In the movie you mean?" "Lestat" looked coyly at his companions. "People NEVER look the way they do in the movies, sweetheart, don't you KNOW that? When YOU get famous, they'll have you portrayed by Uma Thurman or someone else who looks nothing remotely like you either. Right, mates?"
"Actually," I said, "I like to think I look quite a lot like Uma Thurman, thank you very much."
That cracked him up. It didn't do much for "Louis" and "Armand," however.
"Pay no attention to them, darling," Lestat said. "They're both seriously humor impaired. It's a vampire thing. Fortunately it missed me, as you can see. Come, sweetie, sit down. We all simply LOVED your Zorro story. I got the BIGGEST kick out of it. Is that Antonio a dreamboat or isn't he?"
"Louis" and "Armand" lit up. Obviously they were all big Banderas fans…just like me. I took the seat "Lestat" pulled out for me.
"Gentlemen, this is LFKaRZ," he announced, pronouncing it "Loofcarz." My eyebrows shot up. "She's come all the way down from sunny Arkansas just to pay us a friendly visit, isn't that the feline's sleepwear?"
"LFKaRZ?" the one introduced as Louis said. The one called Armand said nothing, but he was looking at me with dark, fierce, and somehow desperate eyes.
"The Lunatic Formerly Known As RoZita," Lestat explained, then slapped his own thigh with a hearty peal. "Louis" patted my arm with a strangely cold hand.
"Don't mind him," he said in a voice that sounded nothing like Brad Pitt's-more mellifluous, with something genuinely Creole in it. "He's the lunatic. I hope he does not offend you. We are glad you are here."
"I'm not offended," I said. "It's not as if I've never seen anyone get trashed before."
I smiled through tight lips. He was rather charming--Louis, I mean. As for Armand . . . I wasn't sure what to make of him. He didn't look like Antonio Banderas either, but there was still something compelling about him. His silence, the way he was looking at me with his dark deep questioning eyes. As though he were trying to draw me into himself.
"But do not worry," Louis assured me, taking my trepidation to be fear of becoming food for them, "vampires feed only when hungry, and we have fed recently. There were some very shady characters lurking about the back alleys waiting for unwary tourists, and we made short work of them. It's because of us that it's as safe for you to walk these streets."
"I see." I tried to focus on him instead of Armand, who was looking slightly contemptuous of his companions. Louis's greenish eyes held a world of regret as he spoke of the shady characters. Lestat took immediate notice.
"Will you just listen to him, RoZita," he exclaimed. "My love, tell me: How CAN I get these two eternal party poopers to embrace their vampire natures?"
"You're asking ME?" I gave an astounded laugh. "I've never been a vampire, how would I know?"
"We tried the theater thingy, but it didn't work out," Lestat said. "Even if Louis here hadn't crisped it, it would have gone down the tubes eventually. The, er, plays were getting just a little too predictable. You should have SEEN the way the critics massacred them!"
"I can imagine . .. Well, how about poetry then?" I suggested with a glance around at the gloomy-looking denizens of the coffee house. "'Welcome to the Café de Anne Rice' or something like that? That might be more convivial."
That drew a chuckle from Louis.
"You made him laugh," exclaimed Lestat. "I haven't heard that sound out of him in . . . god, I don't think I've EVER heard it before! Sweetheart, I think you're on to something. . . . And hey, I'VE got a poem right now. Listen…" He stood up and began to recite:
There once was a vampire named Louis
Who to drinking from humans said 'Phooey!'
But feasting on rats
Started driving him bats
Now he thinks human necks are quite…chewy.
I shouted with laughter. There was something loony in the sound, perhaps because I seemed to be the only one laughing. I glanced at Louis to see how he was taking the humor made at his expense. He was smiling faintly. There was definite pain in his look, however, which spooked me more than a little.
"Well," I finally managed to speak, "I'd say don't quit your day job, but I guess that's not applicable, is it?"
"Perhaps our RoZita is a poet," Armand said. I was so startled at the sound of his voice that I jerked around to stare at him. He was looking at me as though he knew exactly what was in my soul.
"I…don't think so," I stammered as all three pairs of eyes fixed themselves on me.
"Oh but you are," Lestat bubbled, leaning close. He didn't smell drunk at all. "You have untold riches in your soul. If you were one of us, there's no telling how many of them would spill into the light. You would become as a god."
"Lestat," Louis spoke up, "do not even suggest such a thing. RoZita, do not listen to him. You would regret it throughout all eternity."
Armand was actually smiling, and that smile scared me more than anything else that had happened to me today.
"I have to be going," I said, rising from the table. "I'm happy to have met y'all, but I've really gotta run…"
I jumped and bolted from the café.
For more than two blocks I didn't look back. I glanced about wildly for my car. But I couldn't see it.
Of course it was just like me to lose my car, I was always forgetting where I parked it in a big lot. But this was only a city street, not a parking lot. And I hadn't locked my car.
"No one stole it," said a very familiar voice behind me. I didn't even dare turn to look behind me. Not for a long moment.
"Going so soon?" the voice spoke again, and then I had to turn.
Next thing I knew I was lying flat on my back looking up into a pale face I had seen countless times before, but never in this proximity. A face both angelically beautiful and dangerously sensuous.
"Armand," I whispered.
"Yes, Armand." He knelt beside me, holding my head in both hands, which felt cool but did not unnerve me. I blinked. He looked and sounded exactly as he did in the movie but for the hair, which was only shoulder length and curly, and reddish brown in color. He was all in black, a silk shirt open at the chest, tight black pants, and black leather belt with a silver buckle made like, of all things, a dove.
"You didn't look…like this…in the café…" My breath was coming in gasps.
"I want to look the way you expect," he explained with a faint smile that curved his beautiful lips as sweetly as a petal on a pond. "Sometimes one needs the distillation of reality, the cooling of heat into smiling colors."
"Then I AM dreaming?" I tried to sit up, and he helped me. That was when I saw that I was in a room furnished in oriental décor, lying on a couch heaped with satin and velvet cushions in gemlike colors, embroidered in gold and silver and pearls, draped with heavy brocade curtains that seemed to change color every time I looked. A gorgeous Persian rug nearly covered the floor, but it was not so beautiful as the being who stood upon it looking down at me.
"No. You were dreaming before-when you crossed the fog into the city," he said. "This is the realm of reality. You find it chaotic? Waking is chaos. A stumbling through bitter clouds and frozen swamps, with the wind in your teeth and your eyes vainly seeking the highest point of the night."
I thought of a poem by Robert Frost that I had set to music back in my college days.
I have been one acquainted with the night
I have walked out in rain and back in rain
I have outwalked the furthest city light
I have looked down the saddest city lane…
"You did a fine job setting that poem to music, Rose," Armand told me. "Only one who truly is acquainted with the night could have married it with the haunted harmonies and anguished jaggedness of the melody. One would not take you for a creature of the night, but clearly your soul is full of dark patterns and harsh cries."
He recited:
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes unwilling to explain
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street
But not to call me back or say goodbye…
He hesitated, looking meaningfully at me, so I finished for him:
And far away at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right
I have been one acquainted with the night…
"Such a strange, haunting poem," I said softly. "I'm not sure I understand it completely. Yet I understood it enough to know what music it needed."
Armand's face leaned down so close to mine I could feel his eyelashes flutter against my forehead, and his lips pressed against mine with electric urgency, absorbing me, draining me of my will. My arms twined around his neck, trembling, I was his instrument, the song he composed and sang, all at once.
And you guessed it, in a moment his fangs pierced my neck.....Next>>>Armariel's Enchanted Realm | The Garden of Stories | Café RoZita