The Man I Knew

Kelantha

The air was heavily fragrant when I returned to the house, sober in its slumber. The doors I passed silently along the passage, for I dared not return the way I�d gone, enclosed sleeping individuals beyond my grasp, images of their solace lingering in the hollow echoes of my mind. I could envision the expression of contentment on their faces. The night brought to them rest, while it stirred in me unrepressed desires, listlessness, the yearning to wander until the skies lightened and burst forth into glorious day. Then they would arise and go about their lives, unassuming, never knowing that the same light that brought to them health and good cheer would have fallen upon me like a cloud of death. The door yielded to my touch and allowed me within the quiet chamber, the candles burned nearly to the stumps.

I threw my cloak over the back of the nearest chair and paced to the open verandah. I had not wanted to return, lingering in the low places and the streets along the church lane, the magnificent spire towering over me in unrivaled glory. But morning�s scent was borne upon the wind, flickering with daunting images against the horizon, and I knew that to linger would be dangerous. It was a snare to me, a trap from which there was no escape, for the morning always came. Rippling over those that awaited it, casting aside their nightmares, the dark dreams that the thought of my kind created, looming like a dreadful siren of the sea, a glorious awakening to call me to my death. I was still weak, and my energy faded whenever the morning came. It diminished the color in my cheeks, the warmth of new blood coursing through my veins.

My husband was not so bound as I, and only when light was ebbing across the courtyard did his lithe form glide through the shadows, ascending the wall and displaying his full presence in the arches of our room. There was agitation in his movements, in the curves of the nimble fingers, the unholy gleam in his eye. He was displeased. His cloak was thrown aside, and he began to pace, like a creature possessed, back and forth against the expensive carpeting, his intimidating stance not altering even when I approached him. I did not draw too near, for it was unwise to interrupt his darker moments. I stood there and saw that he had not eaten, for the pallor remained in his cheeks. There was no shortage of subjects on which to prey, for Madrid was a city that never slept. Yet he had returned unsatisfied.

�It has never befallen me,� he said at last, his voice calculating and calm, �that I cannot approach a man, to feel him tremble beneath my grasp, to hear the prayer that escapes from his throat as I sink my teeth into it. Neither man nor beast has ever flouted me, and yet he has done so. A solitary figure moving against the lamplight, his pace steady, attentions unassuming, wholly consumed with the depths of his thoughts. It is madness, a manipulation of all that I have known. Whenever I stretched out my hand to touch him, it fell short, never came more than a few inches from its target. I shadowed him through the streets, and yet he was wholly unaware of my presence. It was as though I were neither man nor vampire, but a ghost lost upon the torrid breeze.�

It was then that he cast himself into a chair with a vile curse, and rested his head upon his hand. He had not looked at me throughout, and I sensed the shudder of repressed fury that flowed through him, the essence of a determination dashed upon the rocks in a storm. His frustrations had prompted him to such preoccupation that he had neglected his immortal needs for the sake of contemplation. I would have given him what little blood I might offer in that moment, had he not pushed me roughly aside. There were no mirrors in the room, for my mother had thought me capable of vanity as a girl and removed them. Had there been, I am sure that he would have smashed it in rage. Instead he went to the verandah and drew the draperies closed, isolating us from the strengthening light.

�Of what nature was this man?� I asked, half believing that it had not been a man, but a ghost. That it was not Dracula who wandered aimlessly the streets, but another being wholly consumed with ambitions. I knew that my husband�s senses were apt, his mind swift. He would not have been drawn after a phantom, for blood had pulsed through the obscure individual�s veins. He gave an aggravated wave of his hand and then, compulsively, noting my fascination, described him, the lithe movements he made, and the attractiveness of his appearance, how his presence was distinguished. And as I began to draw together threads of complete reasoning, a face was built before me. It was formed not of stone, but of memory and observation, a kind face with remarkable eyes, and words of compelling truth.

My own features must have displayed this dawning understanding, for the count halted in his intensity and beheld me anew. �This face is known to you,� he observed, and I confessed that it was so. It was not a man that he had approached, but a figure of spiritual worth, the former priest that had fulfilled my need for appreciation and attention in the long years of my childhood. His name was de Vivero, and I had thought never to see him again. The compulsion that had prevented my husband from harming him was not built of garlic or a band of white flowers surrounding his neck, but from the faith that flowed in his blood, the very presence of a higher power that indwelled within his soul. It was this that made him impenetrable, unapproachable, and utterly remarkable. It did not quell Dracula�s frustrations, but gave him understanding.

I had no more than begun to speak kindly of him when a light step eased along the passage, admitting the figure of my mother after an ostentatious knock. She appraised me with disapproval for my disheveled appearance, and informed me that I had a visitor. That she did not muse on the individual�s lack of good graces in calling so early in the morning convinced me it was a figure of importance. But nothing prepared me for the start I received when I swept into the parlor and found the very man who had so frustrated my husband awaiting me. Archbishop de Vivero had not changed. He maintained the same warmth and affection that had put me so at ease as a child, the tenderness in his eyes illuminating as he came forward to take my hand. He must not have felt it, but the joining was agony, for my fingers felt as though they had been thrust into the fire.

�You must forgive my impertinence in coming so early, Miss Cabrera,� he said, �but I was so eager to see you again. How you have changed from that meek little girl who looked over my maps of Rome with such fascination!� He beheld me with mild scrutiny, noting the alteration in my features, the firmness of my countenance, the slowly evaporating flush of my skin, and much to my astonishment, I found that I had missed him dreadfully. This man, in his long black robes, wearing a cross around his neck, should have been repugnant to me, and yet I was inexplicably drawn to him. For an instant more, I was the lost and yearning child in his presence. Then I heard a footstep on the stair, and sensed the approaching presence of my husband.

�Many years have passed,� I replied. �I am Countess Dracula now, Your Grace.� Though my hand may have trembled, my countenance remained stoic as my husband entered, pausing momentarily to apprise the individual he had not been able to approach in the nightly hours. �And, if you will allow me,� I added, �to introduce you to my husband.�

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