The Tale of the Body Thief

FIVE



IT WAS striking midnight when I reached Talbot Manor. It was as if I had never seen the place before. I had time now to roam the maze in the snow, and to study the pattern of clipped shrubbery, and imagine what the garden would be come spring. Beautiful old place.



Then there were the close dark little rooms themselves, built to hold out the cold English winters, and the little lead-mullioned windows, many of which were full of light now, and most inviting in the snowy dark.



David had finished his supper, obviously, and the servants- an old man and woman-were at work still in the kitchen belowstairs while the lord changed his clothes in his bedroom on the second floor.



I watched him as he put on, over his pajamas, a long black dressing gown with black velvet lapels and sash that made him look very much like a cleric, though it was far too ornately patterned to be a cassock, especially with the white silk scarf tucked in at the neck.



Then he made his way down the stairs.



I entered by my favorite door at the end of the passage and came up beside him in the library as he bent to rake the fire.



Ah, you did come back, he said, trying to conceal his delight, Good Lord, but you come and go so quietly!



Yes, it's very annoying, isn't it? I looked at the Bible on the table, the copy of Faust, and the little short story by Lovecraft, still stapled, but smoothed out. There was David's decanter of Scotch also and a pretty thick-bottomed crystal glass.



I stared at the short story, the memory of the anxious young man coming back to me. So odd the way he moved. A vague tremor passed through me at the thought of his having spotted me in three distinctly different places. I'd probably never lay eyes on him again. On the other hand . . . But there was time to deal with this pest of a mortal. David was on my mind now, and the delicious awareness that we had the night to talk to each other.



Wherever did you get those handsome clothes? David asked. His eyes passed over me slowly, lingeringly, and he seemed not to notice my attention to his books.



Oh, a little shop somewhere. I never steal the garments of my victims, if that's what you mean. And besides, I'm too addicted to lowlife and they don't dress well enough for that sort of thing.



I settled in the chair opposite his, which was my chair now, I supposed. Deep, pliant leather, creaking springs, but very comfortable, with a high winged back and broad substantial arms. His own chair did not match it but was just as good, and a little more creased and worn.



He stood before the flames, still studying me. Then he sat down too. He took the glass stopper from the crystal decanter, filled his glass, and lifted it in a little salute.



He took a deep swallow and winced slightly as the liquid obviously warmed his throat.



Suddenly, vividly, I remembered that particular sensation. I remembered being in the loft of the barn on my land in France, and drinking cognac just like that, and even making that grimace, and my mortal friend and lover, Nicki, snatching the bottle greedily from my hand.



I see you are yourself again, David said with sudden warmth, lowering his voice slightly as he peered at me. He sat back, with the glass resting on the right arm of his chair. He looked very dignified, though far more at ease than I had ever seen him. His hair was thick and wavy, and had become a beautiful shade of dark gray.



Do I seem myself? I asked.



You have that mischievous look in your eye, he answered under his breath, still scanning me intently. There's a little smile on your lips. Won't leave for more than a second when you speak. And the skin-it makes a remarkable difference. I pray you're not in pain. You aren't, are you?



I made a small dismissive gesture. I could hear his heartbeat. It was ever so slightly weaker than it had been in Amsterdam. Now and then it was irregular as well.



How long will your skin stay dark like this? he asked.



Years, perhaps, seems one of the ancient ones told me so. Didn't I write about it in The Queen of the Damned? I thought of Marius and how angry he was with me in genera!. How disapproving he would be of what I'd done.



It was Maharet, your ancient red-haired one, David said. In your book, she claimed to have done the very thing merely to darken her skin.



What courage, I whispered. And you don't believe in her existence, do you Though I am sitting right here with you now.



Oh, I do believe in her. Of course I do. I believe everything you've written. But I know you! Tell me-what actually happened in the desert Did you really believe you would die?



You would ask that question, David, and right off the bat. I sighed. Well, I can't claim that I did really believe it. I was probably playing my usual games. I swear to God I don't tell lies to others. But I lie to myself. I don't think I can die now, at least not in any way that I myself could contrive.



He let out a long sigh.



So why aren't you afraid of dying, David I don't mean to torment you with the old offer. I honestly can't quite figure it out. You're really, truly not afraid to die, and that I simply do not understand. Because you can die, of course.



Was he having doubts He didn't answer immediately. Yet he seemed powerfully stimulated, I could see that. I could all but hear his brain working, though of course I couldn't hear his thoughts.



Why the Faust play, David Am I Mephistopheles? I asked. Are you Faust?



He shook his head. I may be Faust, he said finally, taking another drink of the Scotch, but you're not the devil, that's perfectly clear. He gave a sigh.



I have wrecked things for you, though, haven't I I knew it in Amsterdam. You don't stay in the Motherhouse unless you have to. I'm not driving you mad, but I've had a very bad effect, have I not?



Again, he didn't answer right away. He was looking at me with his large prominent black eyes, and obviously considering the question from all angles. The deep lines of his face-the creases in his forehead, the lines at the corners of his eyes and around the edges of his mouth-reinforced his genial and open expression. There was not a sour note to this being, but there was unhappiness beneath the surface, and it was tangled with deep considerations, going back through a long life.



Would have happened anyway, Lestat, he said finally. There are reasons why I'm no longer so good at being the Superior General. Would have happened anyway, I'm relatively certain of that.



Explain it to me. I thought you were in the very womb of the order, that it was your life.



He shook his head. I was always an unlikely candidate for the Talamasca. I've mentioned how I spent my youth in India. I could have lived my life that way. I'm no scholar in the conventional sense, never was. Nevertheless I am like Faust in the play. I'm old, and I haven't cracked the secrets of the universe. Not at all. I thought I had when I was young. The first time I saw ... a vision. The first time I knew a witch, the first time I heard the voice of a spirit, the first time I called up a spirit and made it do my bidding. I thought I had! But that was nothing. Those are earthbound things. . . earthbound mysteries. Or mysteries I'll never solve, at any rate.



He paused, as if he wanted to say something more, something in particular. But then he merely lifted the glass and drank almost absently, and this time without the grimace, for that obviously had been for the first drink of the night. He stared at the glass, and refilled it from the decanter.



I hated it that I couldn't read his thoughts, that I caught not the slightest flickering emanations behind his words.



You know why I became a member of the Talamasca? he asked. It had nothing to do with scholarship at all. Never dreamed I'd be confined to the Motherhouse, wading through papers, and typing files into the computer, and sending faxes off all over the world. Nothing like that at all. It started with another hunting expedition, a new frontier, so to speak, a trip to far-off Brazil. That's where I discovered the occult, you might say, in the little crooked streets of old Rio, and it seemed every bit as exciting and dangerous as my old tiger hunts had ever been. That's what drew me-the danger. And how I came to be so far from it, I don't know.



I didn't reply, but something came clear to me, that there was obviously a danger in his knowing me. He must have liked the danger. I had thought he was possessed of a scholar's naivete about it, but now this didn't seem to be the case.



Yes, he said at once, his eyes growing wide as he smiled. Exactly. Although I can't honestly believe you'd ever harm me.



Don't deceive yourself, I said suddenly. And you do, you know. You commit the old sin. You believe in what you see. I am not what you see.



How so?



Ah, come now. I look like an angel, but I'm not. The old rules of nature encompass many creatures like me. We're beautiful like the diamond-backed snake, or the striped tiger, yet we're merciless killers. You do let your eyes deceive you. But I don't want to quarrel with you. Tell me this story. What happened in Rio I'm eager to know.



A little sadness came over me as I spoke these words. I wanted to say, if I cannot have you as my vampire companion, then let me know you as a mortal. It thrilled me, softly and palpably, that we sat there together, as we did.



All right, he said, you've made your point and I acknowledge it. Drawing close to you years ago in the auditorium where you were singing, seeing you the very first tune you came to me-it did have the dark lure of danger. And that you tempt me with your offer-that, too, is dangerous, for I am only human, as we both know.



I sat back, a little happier, lifting my leg and digging my heel into the leather seat of the old chair. I like people to be a little afraid of me, I said with a shrug. But what happened in Rio?



I came full in the face of the religion of the spirits; he said. Candomble. You know the word?



Again I gave a little shrug. Heard it once or twice, I said. I'll go there sometime, maybe soon. I thought in a flash of the big cities of South America, of her rain forests, and of the Amazon. Yes, I had quite an appetite for such an adventure,



and the despair that had carried me down into the Gobi seemed very far away. I was glad I was still alive, and quietly I refused to be ashamed.



Oh, if I could see Rio again, he said softly, more to himself than to me. Of course, she isn't what she was in those days. She's a world of skyscrapers now and big luxury hotels. But I would love to see that curving shoreline again, to see Sugar Loaf Mountain, and the statue of Christ atop Corcovado. I don't believe there is a more dazzling piece of geography on earth. Why did I let so many years go by without returning to Rio?



Why can't you go anytime that you wish? I asked. I felt a strong protectiveness for him suddenly. Surely that bunch of monks in London can't keep you from going. Besides, you're the boss.



He laughed in the most gentlemanly manner. No, they wouldn't stop me, he said. It's whether or not I have the stamina, both mental and physical. But that's quite beside the point here, I wanted to tell you what happened. Or perhaps it is the point, I don't know.



You have the means to go to Brazil if you want to?



Oh, yes, that has never been an issue. My father was a clever man when it came to money. As a consequence I've never had to give it much thought.



I'd put the money in your hands if you didn't have it.



He gave me one of his warmest, most tolerant smiles. I'm old, he said, I'm lonely, and something of a fool, as any man must be if he has any wisdom at all. But I'm not poor, thank heaven.



So what happened to you in Brazil How did it begin?



He started to speak, then fell silent.



You really mean to remain here To listen to what I have to say?



Yes, I said immediately. Please. I realized I wanted nothing more in all the world. I had not a single plan or ambition in my heart, not a thought for anything else but being here with him. The simplicity of it stunned me somewhat.



Still he seemed reluctant to confide in me. Then a subtle change came over him, a sort of relaxation, a yielding perhaps.



Finally he began.



It was after the Second World War, he said. The India of my boyhood was gone, simply gone. And besides, I was hungry for new places. I got up a hunting expedition with my friends for the Amazon jungles. I was obsessed with the prospect of the Amazon jungles. We were after the great South American jaguar- He gestured to the spotted skin of a cat I had not noticed before, mounted upon a stand in a corner of the room. How I wanted to track that cat.



Seems that you did.



Not immediately, he said with a short ironic laugh. We decided to preface our expedition with a nice luxurious holiday in Rio, a couple of weeks to roam Copacabana Beach, and all the old colonial sites-the monasteries, churches, and so forth. And understand, the center of the city was different in that time, a warren of little narrow streets, and wonderful old architecture! I was so eager for it, for the sheer alien quality of it! That's what sends us Englishmen into the tropics. We have to get away from all this propriety, this tradition-and immerse ourselves in some seemingly savage culture which we can never tame or really understand.



His whole manner was changing as he spoke; he was becoming even more vigorous and energetic, eyes brightening and words flowing more quickly in that crisp British accent, which I so loved.



Well, the city itself surpassed all expectations, of course. Yet it was nothing as entrancing as the people. The people in Brazil are like no people I've ever seen. For one thing, they're exceptionally beautiful, and though everyone agrees on this point, no one knows why. No, I'm quite serious, he said, when he saw me smile, Perhaps it's the blending of Portuguese and African, and then toss in the Indian blood. I honestly can't say. The fact is, they are extraordinarily attractive and they have extremely sensuous voices. Why, you could fall in love with their voices, you could end up kissing their voices; and the music, the bossa nova, that's their language all right.



You should have stayed there.



Oh, no! he said, taking another quick sip of the Scotch. Well, to continue. I developed a passion, shall we say, for this boy, Carlos, the very first week. I was absolutely swept away; all we did was drink and make love for days and nights on end in my suite in the Palace Hotel. Quite truly obscene.



Your friends waited?



No, laid down the law. Come with us now, or we leave you. But it was perfectly fine with them if Carlos came along. He



made a little gesture with his right hand. Ah, these were all sophisticated gentlemen, of course.



Of course.



But the decision to take Carlos proved to be a dreadful mistake. His mother was a Candomble priestess, though I hadn't the slightest idea of it, She didn't want her boy going off into the Amazon jungles. She wanted him going to school. She sent the spirits after me.



He paused, looking at me, perhaps trying to gauge my reaction.



That must have been wonderful fun, I said.



They pummeled me in the darkness. They picked up the bed off the floor and dumped me out! They turned the taps in the shower so that I was nearly scalded. They filled my teacups with urine. After a full seven days, I thought I was going out of my mind. I'd gone from annoyance and incredulity to sheer terror. Dishes flew off the table in front of me. Bells rang in my ears. Bottles went crashing from the shelves. Wherever I went, I saw dark-faced individuals watching roe.



You knew it was this woman?



Not at first. But Carlos finally broke down and confessed everything. His mother didn't intend to remove the curse until I left. Well, I left that very night.



I came back to London, exhausted and half mad. But it didn't do any good. They came with me. Same things started to happen right here in Taibot Manor. Doors slamming, furniture moving, the bells ringing all the time in the servants' pantry belowstairs. Everyone was going mad. And my mother-my mother had been more or less of a spiritualist, always running . to various mediums all over London. She brought in the Talamasca. I told them the whole story, and they started explaining Candomble and spiritism to me.



They exorcised the demons?



No. But after about a week's intense study in the library of the Motherhouse and extensive interviews with the few members who had been to Rio, I was able to get the demons under control myself. Everyone was quite surprised. Then when I decided to go back to Brazil, I astonished them. They warned me this priestess was plenty powerful enough to kill me.



That's exactly it I said to them. 'I want that sort of power myself. I'm going to become her pupil. She's going to teach me.' They begged me not to go. I told them I'd give them a written report on my return. You can understand how I felt. I'd seen the work of these invisible entities. I'd felt them touch me. I'd seen objects hurtling through the air. I thought the great world of the invisible was opening up to me. I had to go there. Why, nothing could have discouraged me from it. Nothing at all.



Yes, I see, I said. It was as exciting as hunting big game.



Precisely. He shook his head. Those were the days. I suppose I thought if the war hadn't killed me, nothing could kill me. He drifted off suddenly, into his memories, locking me out.



You confronted the woman?



He nodded.



Confronted her and impressed her, and then bribed her beyond her wildest dreams. I told her I wanted to become her apprentice. I swore on my knees to her that I wanted to learn, that I wouldn't leave until I'd penetrated the mystery, and learned all that I could. He gave a little laugh. I'm not sure this woman had ever encountered an anthropologist, even an amateur, and I suppose that is what I might have been called. Whatever, I stayed a year in Rio. And believe you me, that was the most remarkable year of my life. I only left Rio finally, because I knew if I didn't, I never would. David Talbot the Englishman would have been no more.



You learned how to summon the spirits?



He nodded. Again, he was remembering, seeing images I couldn't see. He was troubled, faintly sad. I wrote it all down, he said finally. It's in the files at the Motherhouse. Many, many have read the story over the years.



Never tempted to publish it?



Can't do it. It's part of being in the Talamasca. We never publish outside.



You're afraid you've wasted your life, aren't you?



No. I'm not, really . . . Though what I said earlier is true. I haven't cracked the secrets of the universe. I've never even passed the point I reached in Brazil. Oh, there were shocking revelations afterwards. I remember the first night I read the files on the vampires, how incredulous I was, and then those strange moments when I went down into the vaults and picked through the evidence. But in the end it was like Candomble. I only penetrated so far.



Believe me, I know. David, the world is meant to remain a mystery. If there is any explanation, we are not meant to hit upon it, of that much I'm sure.



I think you're right, he said sadly.



And I think you're more afraid of death than you will admit. You've taken a stubborn tack with me, a moral one, and I don't blame you. Maybe you're old enough and wise enough to really know you don't want to be one of us. But don't go talking about death as if it's going to give you answers. I suspect death is awful. You just stop and there's no more life, and no more chance to know anything at all.



No. I can't agree with you there, Lestat, he said. I simply can't. He was gazing at the tiger again, and then he said, Somebody formed the fearful symmetry, Lestat. Somebody had to. The tiger and the lamb ... it couldn't have happened all by itself.



I shook my head. More intelligence went into the creation of that old poem, David, than ever went into the creation of the world. You sound like an Episcopalian. But I know what you're saying. I've thought it from tune to time myself. Stupidly simple. There has to be something to all this. There has to be! So many missing pieces. The more you consider it, the more atheists begin to sound like religious fanatics. But I think it's a delusion. It is all process and nothing more.



Missing pieces, Lestat. Of course! Imagine for a moment that I made a robot, a perfect replica of myself. Imagine I gave him all the encyclopedias of information that I could-you know, programmed it into his computer brain. Well, it would only be a matter of time before he'd come to me, and say, David, where's the rest of it The explanation! How did it all start Why did you leave out the explanation for why there was ever a big bang in the first place, or what precisely happened when the minerals and other inert compounds suddenly evolved into organic cells What about the great gap in the fossil record'



I laughed delightedly.



And I'd have to break it to the poor chap, he said, that there was no explanation. That I didn't have the missing pieces.



David, nobody has the missing pieces. Nobody ever will.



Don't be so sure.



That's your hope, then That's why you're reading the Bible You couldn't crack the occult secrets of the universe, and now you've gone back to God?



God is the occult secret of the universe, David said, thoughtfully, almost as if brooding upon it, face very relaxed and almost young. He was staring at the glass in his hand, maybe liking the way the light collected in the crystal. I didn't know. I had to wait for him to speak.



I think the answer might be in Genesis, he said finally, I really do.



David, you amaze me. Talk about missing pieces. Genesis is a bunch of fragments.



Yes, but telling fragments remain to us, Lestat. God created man in His own image and likeness. I suspect that that is the key. Nobody knows what it really means, you know. The Hebrews didn't think God was a man.



And how can it be the key?



God is a creative force, Lestat. And so are we. He told Adam, 'Increase and multiply.' That's what the first organic cells did, Lestat, increased and multiplied. Not merely changed shape but replicated themselves. God is a creative force. He made the whole universe out of Himself through cell division. That's why the devils are so full of envy-the bad angels, I mean. They are not creative creatures; they have no bodies, no cells, they're spirit. And I suspect it wasn't envy so much as a form of suspicion-that God was making a mistake in making another engine of creativity in Adam, so like Himself. I mean the angels probably felt the physical universe was bad enough, with all the replicating cells, but thinking, talking beings who could increase and multiply They were probably outraged by the whole experiment. That was their sin.



So you're saying God isn't pure spirit.



That's right. God has a body. Always did. The secret of cell-dividing life lies within God. And all living cells have a tiny part of God's spirit in them, Lestat, that's the missing piece as to what makes life happen in the first place, what separates it from nonlife. It's exactly like your vampiric genesis. You told us that the spirit of Amel-one evil entity-infused the bodies of all the vampires .. . Well, men share in the spirit of God in the same way.



Good Lord, David, you're going out of your mind. We're a mutation.



Ah, yes, but you exist in our universe, and your mutation mirrors the mutation that we are. Besides, others have struck upon the same theory. God is the fire, and we are all tiny flames; and when we die, those tiny flames go back into the fire of God. But the important thing is to realize that God Himself is Body and Soul! Absolutely.



Western civilization has been founded upon an inversion. But it is my honest belief that in our daily deeds we know and honor the truth. It is only when we talk religion that we say God is pure spirit and always was and always will be, and that the flesh is evil. The truth is in Genesis, it's there. I'll tell you what the big bang was, Lestat. It was when the cells of God began to divide.



This really is a lovely theory, David. Was God surprised?



No, but the angels were. I'm quite serious. I'll tell you the superstitious part-the religious belief that God is perfect. He's obviously not.



What a relief, I said. It explains so much.



You're laughing at me now. I don't blame you. But you're absolutely right. It explains everything. God has made many mistakes. Many, many mistakes. As surely God Himself knows! And I suspect the angels tried to warn Hun. The Devil became the Devil because he tried to warn God. God is love. But I'm not sure God is absolutely brilliant.



I was trying to suppress my laughter, but I couldn't do it entirely. David, if you keep this up, you'll be struck by lightning.



Nonsense. God does want us to figure it out.



No. That I can't accept,



You mean you accept the rest? he said with another little laugh. No, but I'm quite serious. Religion is primitive in its illogical conclusions. Imagine a perfect God allowing for the Devil to come into existence. No, that's simply never made sense.



The entire flaw in the Bible is the notion that God is perfect. It represents a failure of imagination on the part of the early scholars. It's responsible for every impossible theological question as to good and evil with which we've been wrestling through the centuries. God is good, however, wondrously good. Yes, God is love. But no creative force is perfect. That's clear.



And the Devil Is there any new intelligence about him?



He regarded me for a moment with just a touch of impatience. You are such a cynical being, he whispered.



No, I'm not, I said. I honestly want to know. I have a particular interest in the Devil, obviously. I speak of him much more often than I speak of God. I can't figure out really why mortals love him so much, I mean, why they love the idea of him. But they do.



Because they don't believe in him, David said. Because a perfectly evil Devil makes even less sense than a perfect God. Imagine, the Devil never learning anything during all this time, never changing his mind about being the Devil. It's an insult to our intellect, such an idea.



So what's your truth behind the lie?



He's not purely unredeemable. He's merely part of God's plan. He's a spirit allowed to tempt and try humans. He disapproves of humans, of the entire experiment. See, that was the nature of the Devil's Fall, as I see it. The Devil didn't think the idea would work. But the key, Lestat, is understanding that God is matter! God is physical, God is the Lord of Cell Division, and the Devil abhors the excess of letting all this cell division run wild.



Again, he went into one of his maddening pauses, eyes widening again with wonder, and then he said:



I have another theory about the Devil.



Tell me.



There's more than one of them. And nobody appointed much likes the job. This he said almost in a murmur. He was distracted, as if he wanted to say more, but didn't.



I laughed outright.



Now that I can understand, I said. Who would like the job of being the Devil And to think that one can't possibly win. And especially considering that the Devil was an angel at the start of it all, and supposed to be very smart.



Exactly. He pointed his finger at me. Your little story about Rembrandt. The Devil, if he had a brain, should have acknowledged the genius of Rembrandt.



And the goodness of Faust.



Ah, yes, you saw me reading Faust in Amsterdam, didn't you And you purchased your own copy as a consequence.



How did you know that?



The proprietor of the bookstore told me the next afternoon. A strange blond-haired young Frenchman came in moments



after I'd left, bought the very same book, and stood in the street reading it for half an hour without moving. Whitest skin the man had ever seen. Had to be you, of course.



I shook my head and smiled. I do these clumsy things. It's a wonder some scientist hasn't scooped me up in a net.



That's no joke, my friend. You were very careless in Miami several nights ago. Two victims drained entirely of blood.



This created such instant confusion in me that at first I said nothing, then only that it was a wonder the news had reached him on this side of the sea. I felt the old despair touch me with its black wing.



Bizarre killings make international headlines, he answered. Besides, the Talamasca receives reports of all sorts of things. We have people who clip for us in cities everywhere, sending in items on all aspects of the paranormal for our files. 'Vampire Killer Strikes Twice in Miami.' Several sources sent it along.



But they don't really believe it was a vampire, you know they don't.



No, but you keep it up and they might come to believe it. That's what you wanted to happen before with your little rock music career. You wanted them to catch on. It's not inconceivable. And this sport of yours with the serial killers! You're leaving quite a trail of those.



This truly astonished me. My hunting of the killers had taken me back and forth across continents. I had never thought anyone would connect these widely scattered deaths, except Marius, of course.



How did you come to figure it out?



I told you. Such stories always come into our hands. Satanism, vampirism, voodoo, witchcraft, sightings of werewolves; it all comes across my desk. Most of it goes into the trash, obviously. But I know the grain of truth when I see it. And your killings are very easy to spot.



You've been going after these mass murderers for some time now. You leave their bodies in the open. You left this last one in a hotel, where he was found only an hour after his death. As for the old woman, you were equally careless! Her son found her the following day. No wounds for the coroner to find on either victim. You're a nameless celebrity hi Miami, quite overshadowing the notoriety of the poor dead man in the hotel.



I don't give a damn, I said angrily. But I did, of course. I deplored my own carelessness, yet I did nothing to correct it. Well, this must surely change. Tonight, had I done any better It seemed cowardly to plead excuses for such things.



David was watching me carefully. If there was one dominant characteristic to David, it was his alertness. It's not inconceivable, he said, that you could be caught.



I gave a scornful, dismissive laugh.



They could lock you up in a laboratory, study you in a cage of space-age glass.



That's impossible. But what an interesting thought.



I knew it! You want it to happen.



I shrugged. Might be fun for a little while. Look, it's a sheer impossibility. The night of my one appearance as a rock singer, all manner of bizarre things happened. The mortal world merely swept up afterwards and closed its files. As for the old woman in Miami, that was a terrible mishap. Should never have happened- I stopped. What about those who died in London this very night



But you enjoy taking life, he said. You said it was fun.



I felt such pain suddenly I wanted to leave. But I'd promised I wouldn't. I just sat there, staring into the fire, thinking about the Gobi Desert, and the bones of the big lizards and the way the light of the sun had filled up the entire world. I thought of Claudia. I smelled the wick of the lamp.



I'm sorry, I don't mean to be cruel to you, he said.



Well, why the hell not I can't think of a finer choice for cruelty. Besides, I'm not always so kind to you.



What do you really want What is your overriding passion?



I thought of Marius, and Louis, who had both asked me that same question many a time.



What could redeem what I've done? I asked. I meant to put an end to the killer. He was a man-eating tiger, my brother. I lay in wait for him. But the old woman-she was a child in the forest, nothing more. But what does it matter? I thought of those wretched creatures whom I'd taken earlier this evening. I'd left such carnage in the back alleys of London. I wish I could remember that it doesn't matter, I said. I meant to save her. But what good would one act of mercy be in the face of all I've done I'm damned if there is a God or a Devil. Now why don't you go on with your religious talk The odd thing is, I find talk of God and the Devil remarkably soothing. Tell me more about the Devil. He's changeable, surely. He's smart. He must feel. Why ever would he remain static?



Exactly. You know what it says in the Book of Job.



Remind me.



Well, Satan is there in heaven, with God. God says, where have you been And Satan says, roaming around the earth! It's a regular conversation. And they begin arguing about Job. Satan believes Job's goodness is founded entirely upon his good fortune. And God agrees to let Satan torment Job. This is the most nearly true picture of the situation which we possess. God doesn't know everything. The Devil is a good friend of his. And the whole thing is an experiment. And this Satan is a far cry from being the Devil as we know him now, worldwide.



You're really speaking of these ideas as if they were real beings. . .



I think they are real, he said, his voice trailing off slightly as he fell into his thoughts. Then he roused himself. I want to tell you something. Actually I should have confessed it before now. In a way, I'm as superstitious and religious as the next man. Because all this is based on a vision of sorts-you know, the sort of revelation that affects one's reason.



No, I don't know. I have dreams but without revelation, I said. Explain, please.



He sank back into reverie again, looking at the fire.



Don't shut me out, I said softly.



Hmmm. Right. I was thinking how to describe it. Well, you know I am a Candomble priest still. I mean I can summon invisible forces: the pest spirits, the astral tramps, whatever one wants to call them ... the poltergeist, the little haunts. That means I must have always had a latent ability to see spirits.



Yes. I suppose . . .



Well, I did see something once, something inexplicable, before I ever went to Brazil.



Yes?



Before Brazil, I'd pretty much discounted it. In fact, it was so disturbing, so perfectly unaccountable, that I'd put it out of my mind by the time I went to Rio. Yet now, I think of it all the time. I can't stop myself from thinking of it. And that's why I've turned to the Bible, as if I'll find some wisdom there.



Tell me.



Happened in Paris right before the war. I was there with my mother. I was in a cafe on the Left Bank, and I don't even remember now which cafe it was, only that it was a lovely spring day and a simply grand time to be in Paris, as all the songs say. I was drinking a beer, reading the English papers, and I realized I was overhearing a conversation. He drifted away again. I wish I knew what really happened, he murmured under his breath.



He sat forward, gathered up the poker in his right hand, an jabbed at the logs, sending a plume of fiery sparks up the dark bricks.



I wanted desperately to pull him back, but I waited. At last he went on.



I was in this cafe, as I said.



Yes.



And I realized I was overhearing this strange conversation . . . and it wasn't in English and it wasn't in French . . . and gradually I came to know that it wasn't in any language really, and yet it was fully understandable to me. I put down my paper, and began to concentrate. On and on it went. It was a sort of argument. And suddenly I didn't know whether or not the voices were audible in any conventional sense. I wasn't sure anyone else could actually hear this! I looked up and slowly turned around.



And there they were . . . two beings, seated at the table talking to each other, and just for a moment, it seemed normal-two men in conversation. I looked back at my paper, and this swimming feeling came over me. I had to anchor myself to something, to fix on the paper for a moment and then the tabletop, and make the swimming cease. The noise of the cafe came back like a full orchestra. And I knew I'd just turned and looked at two individuals who weren't human beings.



I turned around again, forcing myself to focus tightly, to be aware of things, keenly aware. And there they were still, and it was painfully clear they were illusory. They simply weren't of the same fabric as everything else. Do you know what I'm saying I can break it down into parts. They weren't being illuminated by the same light, for instance, they existed in some realm where the light was from another source.



Like the light in Rembrandt.



Yes, rather like that. Their clothes and their faces were smoother than those of human beings. Why, the whole vision was of a different texture, and that texture was uniform in all its details.



Did they see you?



No. I mean to say, they didn't look at me, or acknowledge me. They looked at each other, they went on talking, and I picked up the thread again instantly. It was God talking to the Devil and telling the Devil that he must go on doing the job. And the Devil didn't want to do it. He explained that his term had already been too long. The same thing was happening to him that had happened to all the others. God said that He understood, but the Devil ought to know how important he was, he couldn't simply shirk his duties, it wasn't that simple, God needed him, and needed him to be strong. And all this was very amicable.



What did they look like?



That's the worst part of it. I don't know. At the time I saw two vague shapes, large, definitely male, or assuming male form, shall we say, and pleasant-looking-nothing monstrous, nothing out of the ordinary really. I wasn't aware of any absence of particulars-you know, hair color, facial features, that sort of thing. The two figures seemed quite complete. But when I tried to reconstruct the event afterwards, I couldn't recall any details! I don't think the illusion was that nearly complete. I think I was satisfied by it, but the sense of completeness sprang from something else.



From what?



The content, the meaning, of course.



They never saw you, never knew you were there.



My dear boy, they had to know I was there. They must have known. They must have been doing it for my benefit! How else could I have been allowed to see it?



I don't know, David. Maybe they didn't mean for you to see. Maybe it's that some people can see, and some people can't. Maybe it was a little rip in the other fabric, the fabric of everything else in the cafe.



That could be true. But I fear it wasn't. I fear I was meant to see it and it was meant to have some effect on me. And that's the horror, Lestat. It didn't have a very great effect.



You didn't change your life on account of it.



Oh, no, not at all. Why, two days later I doubted I'd even seen it. And with each telling to another person, with each little verbal confrontation-'David, you've gone crackers'-it became ever more uncertain and vague. No, I never did anything about it.



But what was there to do What can anybody do on account of any revelation but live a good life David, surely you told your brethren in the Talamasca about the vision.



Yes, yes, I told them. But that was much later, after Brazil,, when I filed my long memoirs, as a good member should do. I told them the whole story, such as it was, of course.



And what did they say?



Lestat, the Talamasca never says much of anything, that's what one has to face. 'We watch and we are always there.' To tell the truth, it wasn't a very popular vision to go talking about with the other members. Speak of spirits in Brazil and you have an audience. But the Christian God and His Devil No, I fear the Talamasca is subject somewhat to prejudices and even fads, like any other institution. The story raised a few eyebrows. 1 don't recall much else. But then when you're talking to gentlemen who have seen werewolves, and been seduced by vampires, and fought witches, and talked to ghosts, well, what do you expect?



But God and the Devil, I said, laughing. David, that's the big time. Maybe the other members envied you more than you realized.



No, they didn't take it seriously, he said, acknowledging my humor with a little laugh of his own. I'm surprised that you've taken it seriously, to be quite frank.



He rose suddenly, excitedly, and walked across the room to the window, and pushed back the drape with his hand. He stood trying to see out into the snow-filled night.



David, what could these apparitions have meant for you to do?



I don't know, he said, in a bitter discouraged voice. That's my point. I'm seventy-four, and I don't know. I'll die without knowing. And if there is no illumination, then so be it. That in itself is an answer, whether I am conscious enough to know it or not.



Come back and sit down, if you will. I like to see your face when you talk.



He obeyed, almost automatically, seating himself and reaching for the empty glass, eyes shifting to the fire again.



What do you think, Lestat, really Inside of you Is there a God or a Devil I mean truly, what do you believe?



I thought for a long time before I answered. Then:



I do think God exists. I don't like to say so. But I do. And probably some form of Devil exists as well. I admit-it's a matter of the missing pieces, as we've said. And you might well have seen the Supreme Being and His Adversary in that Paris cafe. But it's part of their maddening game that we can never figure it out for certain. You want a likely explanation for their behavior Why they let you have a little glimpse They wanted to get you embroiled in some sort of religious response! They play with us that way. They throw out visions and miracles and bits and pieces of divine revelation. And we go off full of zeal and found a church. It's all part of their game, part of their ongoing and endless talk. And you know I think your view of them-an imperfect God and a learning Devil-is just about as good as anyone else's interpretation. I think you've hit on it.



He was staring at me intently, but he didn't reply.



No, I continued. We aren't meant to know the answers. We aren't meant to know if our souls travel from body to body through reincarnation. We aren't meant to know if God made the world. If He's Allah or Yahweh or Shiva or Christ. He plants the doubts as He plants the revelations. We're all His fools.



Still he didn't answer.



Quit the Talamasca, David, I said. Go to Brazil before you're too old. Go back to India. See the places you want to see.



Yes, I think I should do that, he said softly. And they'll probably take care of it all for me. The elders have already met to discuss the entire question of David and his recent absences from the Motherhouse. They'll retire me with a nice pension, of course.



Do they know that you've seen me?



Oh, yes. That's part of the problem. The elders have forbidden contact. Very amusing really, since they are so desperate to lay eyes upon you themselves. They know when you come round the Motherhouse, of course.



I know they do, I said. What do you mean, they've forbidden contact?



Oh, just the standard admonition, he said, eyes still on the burning log. All very medieval, really, and based upon an old directive: 'You are not to encourage this being, not to engage in or prolong conversation; if he persists in his visits, you are to do your best to lure him to some populated place. It is well known that these creatures are loath to attack when surrounded by mortals. And never, never are you to attempt to learn secrets from this being, or to believe for one moment that any emotions evinced by him are genuine, for these creatures dissemble with remarkable ability, and have been known, for reasons that cannot be analyzed, to drive mortals mad. This has befallen sophisticated investigators as well as hapless innocents with whom the vampires come in contact. You are warned to report any and all meetings, sightings, etc., to the elders without delay.'



Do you really know this by heart?



I wrote the directive myself, he said, with a little smile. I've given it to many other members over the years.



They know I'm here now?



No, of course not. I stopped reporting our meetings to them a long time ago. He fell into his thoughts again, and then: Do you search for God? he asked.



Certainly not, I answered. I can't imagine a bigger waste of time, even if one has centuries to waste. I'm finished with all such quests. I look to the world around me now for truths, truths mired in the physical and in the aesthetic, truths I can fully embrace. I care about your vision because you saw it, and you told me, and I love you. But that's all.



He sat back, gazing off again into the shadows of the room.



Won't matter, David. In time, you'll die. And probably so shall I.



His smile was warm again as though he could not accept this except as a sort of joke.



There was a long silence, during which he poured a little more Scotch and drank it more slowly than he had before. He wasn't even close to being intoxicated. I saw that he planned it that way. When I was mortal I always drank to get drunk. But then I'd been very young, and very poor, castle or no castle, and most of the brew was bad.



You search for God, he said, with a little nod.



The hell I do. You're too full of your own authority. You know perfectly well that I am not the boy you see here.



Ah, I must be reminded of that, you're correct. But you could never abide evil. If you've told the truth half the time in your books, it's plain that you were sick of evil from the beginning. You'd give anything to discover what God wants of you and to do what He wants.



You're in your dotage already. Make your will.



Oooh, so cruel, he said with his bright smile.



I was going to say something else to him, when I was distracted. There was a little pulling somewhere in my consciousness. Sounds. A car passing very slowly on the narrow road through the distant village, in a blinding snow.



I scanned, caught nothing, merely the snow falling, and the car edging its way along. Poor sad mortal to be driving through the country at this hour. It was four of the clock.



It's very late, I said. I have to leave now. I don't want to spend another night here, though you've been most kind. It's nothing to do with anyone knowing. I simply prefer . . .



I understand. When will I see you again?



Perhaps sooner than you think, I said. David, tell me. The other night, when I left here, hell-bent on burning myself to a crisp in the Gobi, why did you say that I was your only friend?



You are.



We sat there in silence for a moment.



You are my only friend as well, David, I said.



Where are you going?



I don't know. Back to London, perhaps. I'll tell you when I go back across the Atlantic. Is that all right?



Yes, do tell me. Don't . . . don't ever believe that I don't want to see you, don't ever abandon me again.



If I thought I was good for you, if I thought your leaving the order and traveling again was good for you . . .



Oh, but it is. I don't belong anymore in the Talamasca. I'm not even sure I trust it any longer, or believe hi its aims.



I wanted to say more-to tell him how much I loved him, that I'd sought shelter under his roof and he'd protected me and that I would never forget this, and that I would do anything he wished of me, anything at all.



But it seemed pointless to say so. I don't know whether he would have believed it, or what the value would have been. I was still convinced that it was not good for him to see me. And there wasn't very much left to him in this life.



I know all this, he said quietly, gracing me with that smile again.



David, I said, the report you made of your adventures in Brazil. Is there a copy here Could I read this report?



He stood up and went to the glass-doored bookshelf nearest his desk- He looked through the many materials there for a long moment, then removed two large leather folders from the shelf.



This is my life in Brazil-what I wrote in the jungles after, on a little rattletrap portable typewriter at a camp table, before I came home to England. I did go after the jaguar, of course. Had to do it. But the hunt was nothing compared to my experiences in Rio, absolutely nothing. That was the turning point, you see. I believe the very writing of this was some desperate attempt to become an Englishman again, to distance myself from the Candomble people, from the life I'd been living with them. My report for the Talamasca was based upon the material here.



I took it from him gratefully.



And this, he said, holding the other folder, is a brief summary of my days in India and Africa.



I would like to read that too.



Old hunting stories mostly. I was young when I wrote this. It's all big guns and action! It was before the war.



I took this second folder as well. I stood up, in slow gentlemanly fashion.



I've talked the night away, he said suddenly. That was rude of me. Perhaps you had things to say.



No, not at all. It was exactly what I wanted. I offered my hand and he took it. Amazing the sensation of his touch against the burnt flesh.



Lestat, he said, the little short story here... the Lovecraft piece. Do you want it back, or shall I save it for you?



Ah, that, now that's a rather interesting tale-I mean how I came in possession of that.



I took the story from him and shoved it in my coat. Perhaps I'd read it again. My curiosity returned, and along with it a sort of fearful suspicion. Venice, Hong Kong, Miami. How had that strange mortal spotted me in all three places, and managed to see that I had spotted him!



Do you care to tell me about it? David asked gently,



When there's more time, I said, I shall tell you. Especially if I ever see that guy again, I thought. How ever did he do it



I went out in a civilized manner, actually making a little bit of deliberate noise as I closed the side door of the house.



It was close to dawn when I reached London. And for the first time in many a night, I was actually glad of my immense powers, and the great feeling of security which they conveyed. I needed no coffins, no dark hiding places, merely a room completely isolated from the rays of the sun. A fashionable hotel with heavy curtains would provide both the peace and the comfort.



And I had a little time to settle in the warm light of a lamp and begin David's Brazilian adventure, which I looked forward to, with inordinate delight.



I had almost no money with me, thanks to my recklessness and madness, so I used my considerable powers of persuasion with the clerks of venerable old Claridge's so that they accepted the number of my credit account, though I had no card to verify it, and upon my signature-Sebastian Melmoth, one of my favorite aliases-I was shown to a lovely upper suite crowded with charming Queen Anne furniture and fitted with every convenience I could wish.



I put out the polite little printed notice that I wasn't to be disturbed, left word with the desk I must not be bothered until well after sunset, then latched all the doors from the inside.



There really wasn't time to read. The morning was coming behind the heavy gray sky and the snow drifting down still in large soft wet flakes. I closed all the draperies, save one, so that I might look at the sky, and I stood there, at the front of the hotel, waiting for the spectacle of the light to come, and still a little afraid of its fury, and the pain in my skin growing a little worse from that fear, more than anything else.



David was much on my mind; I hadn't ceased to think about our conversation for a second since I'd left him. I kept hearing his voice and trying to imagine his fragmentary vision of God and the Devil in the cafe. But my position on all this was simple and predictable. I thought David in possession of the most comforting delusions. And soon he'd be gone from me. Death would have him. And all I would have would be these manuscripts of his life. I couldn't force myself to believe he would know anything more at all when he was dead.



Nevertheless it was all very surprising, really, the turn the conversation had taken, and his energy, and the peculiar things he'd said.



I was comfortable in these thoughts, watching the leaden sky and the snow piling on the sidewalks far below, when I suddenly experienced a bout of dizziness-in fact, a complete moment of disorientation, as though I were falling asleep. It was very pleasurable, actually, the subtle vibratory sensation, accompanied by a weightlessness, as though I were indeed floating out of the physical and into my dreams. Then came that pressure again which I'd felt so fleetingly in Miami-of my limbs constricting, indeed of my whole form pressing inwards upon me, narrowing me and compressing me, and the sudden frightening image of myself being forced through the very top of my head!



Why was this happening I shuddered as I had done on that lonely dark Florida beach when it happened before. And at once the feeling was dissipated. I was myself again and vaguely annoyed.



Was something going wrong with my handsome, godlike anatomy Impossible. I didn't need the old ones to assure me of such a truth. And I had not made up my mind whether I should worry about this or forget it, or indeed, try to induce it again myself, when I was brought out of my preoccupation by a knock at the door.



Most irritating.



A message for you, sir. The gentleman requested I put it in your hands.



Had to be some mistake. Nevertheless I opened the door The young man gave me an envelope. Fat, bulky. For on second I could only stare at it. I had a one-pound note still in my pocket, from the little thief I'd chomped on earlier, and I gave this to the boy, and locked the door again.



This was exactly the same kind of envelope I'd been given in Miami by that lunatic mortal who'd come running towards me across the sand. And the sensation! I'd experienced that bizarre sensation right at the moment my eyes had fallen on that creature. Oh, but this was not possible ...



I tore open the envelope. My hands were suddenly shaking. It was another little printed short story, clipped out of a book exactly as the first one had been, and stapled at the upper-left-hand corner in precisely the same way!



I was dumbfounded! How in the hell had this being tracked me here No one knew I was here! David didn't even know I was here! Oh, there were the credit card numbers involved, but dear God, it would have taken hours for any mortal to locate me that way, even if such a thing were possible, which it really was not.



And what had the sensation to do with it-the curious vibratory feeling and the pressure which seemed to be inside my own limbs



But there was no time to consider any of this. It was almost morning!



The danger in the situation made itself immediately apparent to me. Why the hell hadn't I seen it before This being did most definitely have some means of knowing where I was-even where I chose to conceal myself during daylight! I had to get out of these rooms. How perfectly outrageous!



Trembling with annoyance, I forced myself to scan this story, which was only a few pages in length. Eyes of the Mummy was the title, author Robert Bloch. A clever little tale, but what could it possibly mean to me I thought of the Lovecraft, which had been much longer and seemed wholly different. What on earth could all this signify The seeming idiocy of it further maddened me.



But it was too late to think about it anymore. I gathered up David's manuscripts, and left the rooms, rushing out of a fire exit and going up to the roof. I scanned the night in all directions. I couldn't find the little bastard! Lucky for him. I would surely have destroyed him on sight. When it comes to protecting my daylight lair, I have little patience or restraint.



I moved upwards, covering the miles with the greatest speed I could attain. At last I descended in a snow-covered wood far, far north of London and there I dug my own grave in the frozen earth as I had done so many tunes before.



I was in a fury for having to do so. A positive fury. I'm going to kill this son of a bitch, I thought, whoever the hell he is. How dare he come stalking me, and shoving these stories in my face! Yes, I shall do that, kill him as soon as I catch him.



But then the drowsiness came, the numbness, and very soon nothing mattered ...



Once again I was dreaming, and she was there, lighting the oil lamp, and saying, Ah, the flame doesn't frighten you anymore . . .



You're mocking me, I said, miserably. I'd been weeping.



Ah, but, Lestat, you do have a way of recovering from these cosmic fits of despair awfully fast. There you were dancing under the street lamps in London. Really!



I wanted to protest, but I was crying, and I couldn't talk . . .



In one last jolt of consciousness, I saw that mortal in Venice-under the arches of San Marco-where I'd first noticed him-saw his brown eyes and smooth youthful mouth.



What do you want I demanded.



Ah, but it is what you want, he seemed to reply.