An hour passed. Perhaps more. Armand sat by the fire. No marks any longer on his face from the long-forgotten battle. He seemed, in his stillness, to be as fragile as an emptied shell.
Gabrielle sat across from him, and she too stared at the flames in silence, her face weary and seemingly compassionate. It was painful for me not to know her thoughts.
I was thinking of Marius. And Marius and Marius … the vampire who had painted pictures in and of the real world. Triptychs, portraits, frescoes on the walls of his palazzo.
And the real world had never suspected him nor hunted him nor cast him out. It was this band of hooded fiends who came to burn the paintings, the ones who shared the Dark Gift with him—had he himself ever called it the Dark Gift?—they were the ones who said he couldn’t live and create among mortals. Not mortals.
I saw the little stage at Renaud’s and I heard myself sing and the singing become a roar. Nicolas said, “It is splendid.” I said, “It is petty.” And it was like striking Nicolas. In my imagination he said what he had not said that night: “Let me have what I can believe in. You would never do that.”
The triptychs of Marius were in churches and convent chapels, maybe on the walls of the great houses in Venice and Padua. The vampires would not have gone into holy places to pull them down. So they were there somewhere, with a signature perhaps worked into the detail, these creations of the vampire who surrounded himself with mortal apprentices, kept a mortal lover from whom he took the little drink, went out alone to kill.
I thought of the night in the inn when I had seen the meaninglessness of life, and the soft fathomless despair of Armand’s story seemed an ocean in which I might drown. This was worse than the blasted shore in Nicki’s mind. This was for three centuries, this darkness, this nothingness.
The radiant auburn-haired child by the fire could open his mouth again and out would come blackness like ink to cover the world.
That is, if there had not been this protagonist, this Venetian master, who had committed the heretical act of making meaning on the panels he painted—it had to be meaning—and our own kind, the elect of Satan, had made him into a living torch.
Had Gabrielle seen these paintings in the story as I had seen them? Did they burn in her mind’s eye as they did in mine?
Marius was traveling some route into my soul that would let him roam there forever, along with the hooded fiends who turned the paintings into chaos again.
In a dull sort of misery, I thought of the travelers’ tales—that Marius was alive, seen in Egypt or Greece.
I wanted to ask Armand, wasn’t it possible? Marius must have been so very strong … But it seemed disrespectful of him to ask.
“Old legend,” he whispered. His voice was as precise as the inner voice. Unhurriedly, he continued without ever looking away from the flames. “Legend from the olden times before they destroyed us both.”
“Perhaps not,” I said. Echo of the visions, paintings on the walls. “Maybe Marius is alive.”
“We are miracles or horrors,” he said quietly, “depending upon how you wish to see us. And when “you first know about us, whether it’s through the dark blood or promises or visitations, you think anything is possible. But that isn’t so. The world closes tight around this miracle soon enough; and you don’t hope for other miracles. That is, you become accustomed to the new limits and the limits define everything once again. So they say Marius continues. They all continue somewhere, that’s what you want to believe.
“Not a single one remains in the coven in Rome from those nights when I was taught the ritual; and maybe the coven itself is no longer even there. Years and years have passed since there was any communication from the coven. But they all exist somewhere, don’t they? After all, we can’t die.” He sighed. “Doesn’t matter,” he said.
Something greater and more terrible mattered, that this despair might crush Armand beneath it. That in spite of the thirst in him now, the blood lost when we had fought together, and the silent furnace of his body healing the bruises and the broken flesh, he could not will himself into the world above to hunt. Rather suffer the thirst and the heat of the silent furnace. Rather stay here and be with us.
But he already knew the answer, that he could not be with us.
Gabrielle and I didn’t have to speak to let him know. We did not even have to resolve the question in our minds. He knew, the way God might know the future because God is the possessor of all the facts.
Unbearable anguish. And Gabrielle’s expression all the more weary, sad.
“You know that with all my soul I do want to take you with us,” I said. I was surprised at my own emotion. “But it would be disaster for us all.”
No change in him. He knew. No challenge from Gabrielle.
“I cannot stop thinking of Marius,” I confessed.
I know. And you do not think of Those Who Must Be Kept, which is most strange.
“That is merely another mystery,” I said. “And there are a thousand mysteries. I think of Marius! And I’m too much the slave of my own obsessions and fascination. It’s a dreadful thing to linger so on Marius, to extract that one radiant figure from the tale.”
Doesn’t matter. If it pleases you, take it. I do not lose what I give.
“When a being reveals his pain in such a torrent, you are bound to respect the whole of the tragedy. You have to try to comprehend. And such helplessness, such despair is almost incomprehensible to me. That’s why I think of Marius. Marius I understand. You I don’t understand.”
Why?
Silence.
Didn’t he deserve the truth?
“I’ve been a rebel always,” I said. “You’ve been the slave of everything that ever claimed you.”
“I was the leader of my coven!”
“No. You were the slave of Marius and then of the Children of Darkness. You fell under the spell of one and then the other. What you suffer now is the absence of a spell. I think I shudder that you caused me so to understand it for a little while, to know it as if I were a different being than I am.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, eyes still on the fire. “You think too much in terms of decision and action. This tale is no explanation. And I am not a being who requires a respectful acknowledgment in your thoughts or in words. And we all know the answer you have given is too immense to be voiced and we all three of us know that it is final. What I don’t know is why. So I am a creature very different from you, and so you cannot understand me. Why can’t I go with you? I will do whatever you wish if you take me with you. I will be under your spell.”
I thought of Marius with his brush and the pots of egg tempera.
“How could you have ever believed anything that they told you after they burned those paintings?” I asked. “How could you have given yourself over to them?”
Agitation, rising anger.
Caution in Gabrielle’s face, but not fear.
“And you, when you stood on the stage and you saw the audience screaming to get out of the theater—how my followers described this to me, the vampire terrifying the crowd and the crowd streaming into the boulevard du Temple—what did you believe? That you did not belong among mortals, that’s what you believed. You knew you did not. And there was no band of fiends in hooded robes to tell you. You knew. So Marius did not belong among mortals. So I did not.”
“Ah, but it’s different.”
“No, it is not. That’s why you scorn the Theater of the Vampires which is now at this very moment working out its little dramas to bring in the gold from the boulevard crowds. You do not wish to deceive as Marius deceived. It divides you ever more from mankind. You want to pretend to be mortal, but to deceive makes you angry and it makes you kill.”
“In that moment on the stage,” I said, “I revealed myself. I did the very opposite of deceiving. I wanted somehow in making manifest the monstrosity of myself to be joined with my fellow humans again. Better they should run from me than not see me. Better they should know I was something monstrous than for me to glide through the world unrecognized by those upon whom I preyed.”
“But it was not better.”
“No. What Marius did was better. He did not deceive.”
“Of course he did. He fooled everyone!”
“No. He found a way to imitate mortal life. To be one with mortals. He slew only the evildoer, and he painted as mortals paint. Angels and blue skies, clouds, those are the things you made me see when you were telling. He created good things. And I see wisdom in him and a lack of vanity. He did not need to reveal himself. He had lived a thousand years and he believed more in the vistas of heaven that he painted than in himself.”
Confusion.
Doesn’t matter now, devils who paint angels.
“Those are only metaphors,” I said. “And it does matter! If you are to rebuild, if you are to find the Devil’s Road again, it does matter! There are ways for us to exist. If I could only imitate life, just find a way …”
“You say things that mean nothing to me. We are the abandoned of God.”
Gabrielle glanced at him suddenly. “Do you believe in God?” she asked.
“Yes, always in God,” he answered. “It is Satan—our master—who is the fiction and that is the fiction which has betrayed me.”
“Oh, then you are truly damned,” I said. “And you know full well that your retreat into the fraternity of the Children of Darkness was a retreat from a sin that was not a sin.”
Anger.
“Your heart breaks for something you’ll never have,” he countered, his voice rising suddenly. “You brought Gabrielle and Nicolas over the barrier to you, but you could not go back.”
“Why is it you don’t hearken to your own story?” I asked. “Is it that you have never forgiven Marius for not warning you about them, letting you fall into their hands? You will never take anything, not example or inspiration, from Marius again? I am not Marius, but I tell you since I set my feet on the Devil’s Road, I have heard of only one elder who could teach me anything, and that is Marius, your Venetian master. He is talking to me now. He is saying something to me of a way to be immortal.”
“Mockery.”
“No. It wasn’t mockery! And you are the one whose heart breaks for what he will never have: another body of belief, another spell.”
No answer.
“We cannot be Marius for you,” I said, “or the dark lord, Santino. We are not artists with a great vision that will carry you forward. And we are not evil coven masters with the conviction to condemn a legion to perdition. And this domination—this glorious mandate—is what you must have.”
I had risen to my feet without meaning to. I had come close to the fireplace and I was looking down at him.
And I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Gabrielle’s subtle nod of approval, and the way that she closed her eyes for a moment as if she were allowing herself a sigh of relief.
He was perfectly still.
“You have to suffer through this emptiness,” I said, “and find what impels you to continue. If you come with us we will fail you and you will destroy us.”
“How suffer through it?” He looked up at me and his eyebrows came together in the most poignant frown. “How do I begin? You move like the right hand of God! But for me the world, the real world in which Marius lived, is beyond reach. I never lived in it. I push against the glass. But how do I get in?”
“I can’t tell you that,” I said.
“You have to study this age,” Gabrielle interrupted. Her voice was calm but commanding.
He looked towards her as she spoke.
“You have to understand the age,” she continued, “through its literature and its music and its art. You have come up out of the earth, as you yourself put it. Now live in the world.”
No answer from him. Flash of Nicki’s ravaged flat with all its books on the floor. Western civilization in heaps.
“And what better place is there than the center of things, the boulevard and the theater?” Gabrielle asked.
He frowned, his head turning dismissively, but she pressed on.
“Your gift is for leading the coven, and your coven is still there.” He made a soft despairing sound.
“Nicolas is a fledgling,” she said. “He can teach them much about the world outside, but he cannot really lead them. The woman, Eleni, is amazingly clever, but she will make way for you.”
“What is it to me, their games?” he whispered.
“It is a way to exist,” she said. “And that is all that matters to you now.”
“The Theater of the Vampires! I should rather the fire.”
“Think of it,” she said. “There’s a perfection in it you can’t deny. We are illusions of what is mortal, and the stage is an illusion of what is real.”
“It’s an abomination,” he said. “What did Lestat call it? Petty?”
“That was to Nicolas because Nicolas would build fantastical philosophies upon it,” she said. “You must live now without fantastical philosophies, the way you did when you were Marius’s apprentice. Live to learn the age. And Lestat does not believe in the value of evil. But you do believe in it. I know that you do.”
“I am evil,” he said half smiling. He almost laughed. “It’s not a matter of belief, is it? But do you think I could go from the spiritual path I followed for three centuries to voluptuousness and debauchery such as that? We were the saints of evil,” he protested. “I will not be common evil. I will not.”
“Make it uncommon,” she said. She was getting too impatient. “If you are evil, how can voluptuousness and debauchery be your enemies? Don’t the world, the flesh, and the devil conspire equally against man?”
He shook his head, as if to say he did not care.
“You are more concerned with what is spiritual than with evil,” I interjected, watching him closely. “Is that not so?”
“Yes,” he said at once.
“But don’t you see, the color of wine in a crystal glass can be spiritual,” I continued. “The look in a face, the music of a violin. A Paris theater can be infused with the spiritual for all its solidity. There’s nothing in it that hasn’t been shaped by the power of those who possessed spiritual visions of what it could be.”
Something quickened in him, but he pushed it away.
“Seduce the public with voluptuousness,” Gabrielle said. “For God’s sake, and the devil’s, use the power of the theater as you will.”
“Weren’t the paintings of your master spiritual?” I asked. I could feel a warming in myself now at the thought of it. “Can anyone look on the great works of that time and not call them spiritual?”
“I have asked myself that question,” Armand answered, “many times. Was it spiritual or was it voluptuous? Was the angel painted on the triptych caught in the material, or was the material transformed?”
“No matter what they did to you after, you never doubted the beauty and the value of his work,” I said. “I know you didn’t. And it was the material transformed. It ceased to be paint and it became magic, just as in the kill the blood ceases to be blood and becomes life.”
His eyes misted, but no visions came from him. Whatever road he traveled back in his thoughts, he traveled alone.
“The carnal and the spiritual,” Gabrielle said, “come together in the theater as they do in the paintings. Sensual fiends we are by our very nature. Take this as your key.”
He closed his eyes for a moment as if he would shut us out.
“Go to them and listen to the music that Nicki makes,” she said. “Make art with them in the Theater of the Vampires. You have to pass away from what failed you into what can sustain you. Otherwise—there is no hope.”
I wished she had not said it so abruptly, brought it so to the point.
But he nodded and his lips pressed together in a bitter smile.
“The only thing really important for you,” she said slowly, “is that you go to an extreme.”
He stared at her blankly. He could not possibly understand what she meant by this. And I thought it too brutal a truth to say. But he didn’t resist it. His face became thoughtful and smooth and childlike again.
For a long time he looked at the fire. Then he spoke:
“But why must you go at all?” he asked. “No one is at war with you now. No one is trying to drive you out. Why can’t you build it with me, this little enterprise?”
Did that mean he would do it, go to the others and become part of the theater in the boulevard?
He didn’t contradict me. He was asking again why couldn’t I create the imitation of life, if that was what I wanted to call it, right in the boulevard?
But he was also giving up. He knew I couldn’t endure the sight of the theater, or the sight of Nicolas. I couldn’t even really urge him towards it. Gabrielle had done that. And he knew that it was too late to press us anymore.
Finally Gabrielle said:
“We can’t live among our own kind, Armand.”
And I thought, yes, that is the truest answer of all, and I don’t know why I couldn’t speak it aloud.
“The Devil’s Road is what we want,” she said. “And we are enough for each other now. Maybe years and years into the future, when we’ve been a thousand places and seen a thousand things, we’ll come back. We’ll talk then together as we have tonight.”
This came as no real shock to him. But it was impossible now to know what he thought.
For a long time we didn’t speak. I don’t know how long we remained quiet together in the room.
I tried not to think of Marius anymore, or of Nicolas either. All sense of danger was gone now, but I was afraid of the parting, of the sadness of it, of the feeling that I had taken from this creature his astonishing story and given him precious little for it in return.
It was Gabrielle who finally broke the quiet. She rose and moved gracefully to the bench beside him.
“Armand,” she said. “We are going. If I have my way we’ll be miles from Paris before midnight tomorrow night.”
He looked at her with calm and acceptance. Impossible to know now what he chose to conceal.
“Even if you do not go to the theater,” she said, “accept the things that we can give you. My son has wealth enough to make an entrance into the world very easy for you.”
“You can take this tower for your lair,” I said. “Use it as long as you wish. Magnus found it safe enough.”
After a moment, he nodded with a grave politeness, but he didn’t say anything.
“Let Lestat give you the gold needed to make you a gentleman,” Gabrielle said. “And all we ask in return is that you leave the coven in peace if you do not choose to lead it.”
He was looking at the fire again, face tranquil, irresistibly beautiful. Then again he nodded in silence. And the nod itself meant no more than that he had heard, not that he would promise anything.
“If you will not go to them,” I said slowly, “then do not hurt them. Do not hurt Nicolas.”
And when I spoke these words, his face changed very subtly. It was almost a smile that crept over his features. And his eyes shifted slowly to me. And I saw the scorn in them.
I looked away but the look had affected me as much as a blow.
“I don’t want him to be harmed,” I said in a tense whisper.
“No. You want him destroyed,” he whispered back. “So that you need never fear or grieve for him anymore.” And the look of scorn sharpened hideously.
Gabrielle intervened.
“Armand,” she said, “he is not dangerous to them. The woman alone can control him. And he has things to teach all of you about this time if you will listen.”
They looked at each other for some time in silence. And again his face was soft and gentle and beautiful.
And in a strangely decorous manner he took Gabrielle’s hand and held it firmly. Then they stood up together, and he let her hand go, and he drew a little away from her and squared his shoulders. He looked at both of us.
“I’ll go to them,” he said in the softest voice. “And I will take the gold you offer me, and I will seek refuge in this tower. And I will learn from your passionate fledgling whatever he has to teach me. But I reach for these things only because they float on the surface of the darkness in which I am drowning. And I would not descend without some finer understanding. I would not leave eternity to you without … without some final battle.”
I studied him. But no thoughts came from him to clarify these words.
“Maybe as the years pass,” he said, “desire will come again to me. I will know appetite again, even passion. Maybe when we meet in another age, these things will not be abstract and fleeting. I’ll speak with a vigor that matches yours, instead of merely reflecting it. And we will ponder matters of immortality and wisdom. We will talk about vengeance or acceptance then. For now it’s enough for me to say that I want to see you again. I want our paths to cross in the future. And for that reason alone, I will do as you ask and not what you want: I will spare your ill-fated Nicolas.”
I gave an audible sigh of relief. Yet his tone was so changed, so strong, that it sounded a deep silent alarm in me. This was the coven master, surely, this quiet and forceful one, the one who would survive, no matter how the orphan in him wept.
But then he smiled slowly and gracefully, and there was something sad and endearing in his face. He became the da Vinci saint again, or more truly the little god from Caravaggio. And it seemed for a moment he couldn’t be anything evil or dangerous. He was too radiant, too full of all that was wise and good.
“Remember my warnings,” he said. “Not my curses.”
Gabrielle and I both nodded.
“And when you have need of me,” he said, “I will be here.”
Then Gabrielle did the totally surprising thing of embracing him and kissing him. And I did the same.
He was pliant and gentle and loving in our arms. And he let us know without words that he was going to the coven, and we could find him there tomorrow night.
The next moment he was gone, and Gabrielle and I were there alone together, as if he’d never been in the room. I could hear no sound anywhere in the tower. Nothing but the wind in the forest beyond.
And when I climbed the steps, I found the gate open and the fields stretching to the woods in unbroken quiet.
I loved him. I knew it, as incomprehensible to me as he was. But I was so glad it was finished. So glad that we could go on. Yet I held to the bars for a long time just looking at the distant woods, and the dim glow far beyond that the city made upon the lowering clouds.
And the grief I felt was not only for the loss of him, it was for Nicki, and for Paris, and for myself.