The house was empty. The trunks had been sent on. The ship would leave Alexandria in two nights. Only a small valise remained with me. On shipboard the son of the Marquis must now and then change his clothes. And, of course, the violin.
Gabrielle stood by the archway to the garden, slender, long-legged, beautifully angular in her white cotton garments, the hat on as always, her hair loose.
Was that for me, the long loose hair?
My grief was rising, a tide that included all the losses, the dead and the undead.
But it went away and the sense of sinking returned, the sense of the dream in which we navigate with or without will.
It struck me that her hair might have been described as a shower of gold, that all the old poetry makes sense when you look at one whom you have loved. Lovely the angles of her face, her implacable little mouth.
“Tell me what you need of me, Mother,” I said quietly. Civilized this room. Desk. Lamp. Chair. All my brilliantly colored birds given away, probably for sale in the bazaar. Gray African parrots that live to be as old as men. Nicki had lived to be thirty.
“Do you require money from me?”
Great beautiful flush to her face, eyes a flash of moving light—blue and violet. For a moment she looked human. We might as well have been standing in her room at home. Books, the damp walls, the fire. Was she human then?
The brim of the hat covered her face completely for an instant as she bowed her head. Inexplicably she asked:
“But where will you go?”
“To a little house in the rue Dumaine in the old French city of New Orleans,” I answered coldly, precisely. “And after he has died and is at rest, I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“You can’t mean this,” she said.
“I am booked on the next ship out of Alexandria,” I said. “I will go to Naples, then on to Barcelona. I will leave from Lisbon for the New World.”
Her face seemed to narrow, her features to sharpen. Her lips moved just a little but she didn’t say anything. And then I saw the tears rising in her eyes, and I felt her emotion as if it were reaching out to touch me. I looked away, busied myself with something on the desk, then simply held my hands very still so they wouldn’t tremble. I thought, I am glad Nicki took his hands with him into the fire, because if he had not, I would have to go back to Paris and get them before I could go on.
“But you can’t be going to him!” she whispered.
Him? Oh. My father.
“What does it matter? I am going!” I said.
She moved her head just a little in a negative gesture. She came near to the desk. Her step was lighter than Armand’s.
“Has any of our kind ever made such a crossing?” she asked under her breath.
“Not that I know of. In Rome they said no.”
“Perhaps it can’t be done, this crossing.”
“It can be done. You know it can.” We had sailed the seas before in our cork-lined coffins. Pity the leviathan who troubles me.
She came even nearer and looked down at me. And the pain in her face couldn’t be concealed anymore. Ravishing she was. Why had I ever dressed her in ball gowns or plumed hats or pearls?
“You know where to reach me,” I said, but the bitterness of my tone had no conviction to it. “The addresses of my banks in London and Rome. Those banks have lived as long as vampires already. They will always be there. You know all this, you’ve always known …”
“Stop,” she said under her breath. “Don’t say these things to me.”
What a lie all this was, what a travesty. It was just the kind of exchange she had always detested, the kind of talk she could never make herself. In my wildest imaginings, I had never expected it to be like this—that I should say cold things, that she should cry. I thought I would bawl when she said she was going. I thought I would throw myself at her very feet.
We looked at each other for a long moment, her eyes tinged with red, her mouth almost quivering.
And then I lost my control.
I rose and I went to her, and I gathered her small, delicate limbs in my arms. I determined not to let her go, no matter how she struggled. But she didn’t struggle, and we both cried almost silently as if we couldn’t make ourselves stop. But she didn’t yield to me. She didn’t melt in my embrace.
And then she drew back. She stroked my hair with both her hands, and leant forward and kissed me on the lips, and then moved away lightly and soundlessly.
“All right, then, my darling,” she said.
I shook my head. Words and words and words unspoken. She had no use for them, and never had.
In her slow, languid way, hips moving gracefully, she went to the door to the garden and looked up at the night sky before she looked back at me.
“You must promise me something,” she said finally.
Bold young Frenchman who moved with the grace of an Arab through places in a hundred cities where only an alleycat could safely pass.
“Of course,” I answered. But I was so broken in spirit now I didn’t want to talk anymore. The colors dimmed. The night was neither hot nor cold. I wished she would just go, yet I was terrified of the moment when that would happen, when I couldn’t get her back.
“Promise me you will never seek to end it,” she said, “without first being with me, without our coming together again.”
For a moment I was too surprised to answer. Then I said:
“I will never seek to end it.” I was almost scornful. “So you have my promise. It’s simple enough to give. But what about you giving a promise to me? That you’ll let me know where you go from here, where I can reach you—that you won’t vanish as if you were something I imagined—”
I stopped. There had been a note of urgency in my voice, of rising hysteria. I couldn’t imagine her writing a letter or posting it or doing any of the things that mortals habitually did. It was as if no common nature united us, or ever had.
“I hope you’re right in your estimation of yourself,” she said.
“I don’t believe in anything, Mother,” I said. “You told Armand long ago that you believe you’ll find answers in the great jungles and forests; that the stars will finally reveal a vast truth. But I don’t believe in anything. And that makes me stronger than you think.”
“Then why am I so afraid for you?” she asked. Her voice was little more than a gasp. I think I had to see her lips move in order to hear her.
“You sense my loneliness,” I answered, “my bitterness at being shut out of life. My bitterness that I’m evil, that I don’t deserve to be loved and yet I need love hungrily. My horror that I can never reveal myself to mortals. But these things don’t stop me, Mother. I’m too strong for them to stop me. As you said yourself once, I am very good at being what I am. These things merely now and then make me suffer, that’s all.”
“I love you, my son,” she said.
I wanted to say something about her promising, about the agents in Rome, that she would write. I wanted to say …
“Keep your promise,” she said.
And quite suddenly I knew this was our last moment. I knew it and I could do nothing to change it.
“Gabrielle!” I whispered.
But she was already gone.
The room, the garden outside, the night itself, were silent and still.
Some time before dawn I opened my eyes. I was lying on the floor of the house, and I had been weeping and then I had slept.
I knew I should start for Alexandria, that I should go as far as I could and then down into the sand when the sun rose. It would feel so good to sleep in the sandy earth. I also knew that the garden gate stood open. That all the doors were unlocked.
But I couldn’t move. In a cold silent way I imagined myself looking throughout Cairo for her. Calling her, telling her to come back. It almost seemed for a moment that I had done it, that, thoroughly humiliated, I had run after her, and I had tried to tell her again about destiny: that I had been meant to lose her just as Nicki had been meant to lose his hands. Somehow we had to subvert the destiny. We had to triumph after all.
Senseless that. And I hadn’t run after her. I’d hunted and I had come back. She was miles from Cairo by now. And she was as lost from me as a tiny grain of sand in the air.
Finally after a long time I turned my head. Crimson sky over the garden, crimson light sliding down the far roof. The sun coming—and the warmth coming and the awakening of a thousand tiny voices all through the tangled alleyways of Cairo, and a sound that seemed to come out of the sand and the trees and the patch of grass themselves.
And very slowly, as I heard these things, as I saw the dazzle of the light moving on the roof, I realized that a mortal was near.
He was standing in the open gate of the garden, peering at my still form within the empty house. A young fair-haired European in Arab robes, he was. Rather handsome. And by the early light he saw me, his fellow European lying on the tile floor in the abandoned house.
I lay staring at him as he came into the deserted garden, the illumination of the sky heating my eyes, the tender skin around them starting to burn. Like a ghost in a white sheet he was in his clean headdress and robe.
I knew that I had to run. I had to get far away immediately and hide myself from the coming sun. No chance now to go into the crypt beneath the floor. This mortal was in my lair. There was not time enough even to kill him and get rid of him, poor unlucky mortal.
Yet I didn’t move. And he came nearer, the whole sky flickering behind him, so that his figure narrowed and became dark.
“Monsieur!” The solicitous whisper, like the woman years and years ago in Notre Dame who had tried to help me before I made a victim of her and her innocent child. “Monsieur, what is it? May I be of help?”
Sunburnt face beneath the folds of the white headdress, golden eyebrows glinting, eyes gray like my own.
I knew I was climbing to my feet, but I didn’t will myself to do it. I knew my lips were curling back from my teeth. And then I heard a snarl rise out of me and saw the shock on his face.
“Look!” I hissed, the fangs coming down over my lower lip. “Do you see!”
And rushing towards him, I grabbed his wrist and forced his open hand flat against my face.
“Did you think I was human?” I cried. And then I picked him up, holding him off his feet before me as he kicked and struggled uselessly. “Did you think I was your brother?” I shouted. And his mouth opened with a dry rasping noise, and then he screamed.
I hurled him up into the air and out over the garden, his body spinning round with arms and legs out before it vanished over the shimmering roof.
The sky was blinding fire.
I ran out of the garden gate and into the alleyway. I ran under tiny archways and through strange streets. I battered down gates and doorways, and hurled mortals out of my path. I bore through the very walls in front of me, the dust of the plaster rising to choke me, and shot out again into the packed mud alley and the stinking air. And the light came after me like something chasing me on foot.
And when I found a burnt-out house with its lattices in ruins, I broke into it and went down into the garden soil, digging deeper and deeper and deeper until I could not move my arms or my hands any longer.
I was hanging in coolness and in darkness.
I was safe.