existence, Rodrigo Borgia. Now the Vampire’s dry hands had fallen upon the page. She sat in her black lace dress that was 180 years of age, far younger than she herself, and looked at the old man, streaked by the shine of distant windows.
“You say you are tired, Vassu. I know how it is. To be so tired, and unable to rest. It is a terrible thing.”
“But, Princess,” said the old man quietly, “it is more than this. I am dying.”
The Vampire stirred a little. The pale leaves of her hands rustled on the page. She stared with an almost childlike wonder.
“Dying? Can this be? You are sure?”
The old man, very clean and neat in his dark clothing, nodded humbly.
“Yes, Princess.”
“Oh, Vassu,” she said, “are you glad?”
He seemed a little embarrassed. Finally he said:
“Forgive me, Princess, but I am very glad. Yes, very glad.”
“I understand.”
“Only,” he said, “I am troubled for your sake.”
“No, no,” said the Vampire, with the fragile perfect courtesy of her class and kind. “No, it must not concern you. You have been a good servant. Far better than I might ever have hoped for. I am thankful, Vassu, for all your care of me. I shall miss you. But you have earned,” she hesitated, then said, “You have more than earned your peace.”
“But you,” he said.
“I shall do very well. My requirements are small, now. The days when I was a huntress are gone, and the nights. Do you remember, Vassu?”
“I remember, Princess.”
“When I was so hungry, and so relentless. And so lovely. My white face in a thousand ballroom mirrors. My silk slippers stained with dew. And my lovers waking in the cold morning, where I had left them. But now, I do not sleep, I am seldom hungry. I never lust. I never love. These are the comforts of old age. There is only one comfort that is denied to me. And who knows. One day, I too . . .
She smiled at him. Her teeth were beautiful, but almost even now, the exquisite points of the canines quite worn away. “Leave me when you must,” she said. “I shall mourn you. I shall envy you. But I ask nothing more, my good and noble friend.”
The old man bowed his head.
“I have,” he said, “a few days, a handful of nights. There is something I wish to try to do in this time. I will try to find one who may take my place.”
The Vampire stared at him again, now astonished. “But Vassu, my irreplaceable help—it is no longer possible.”
“Yes. If I am swift.”
“The world is not as it was,” she said, with a grave and dreadful wisdom.
He lifted his head. More gravely, he answered:
“The world is as it has always been, Princess. Only our perceptions of it have grown more acute. Our knowledge less bearable.”
She nodded.
“Yes, this must be so. How could the world have changed so terribly? It must be we who have changed.”
He trimmed the lamp before he left her.
Outside, the rain dripped steadily from the trees.
The city, in the rain, was not unlike a forest. But the old man, who had been in many forests and many cities, had no special feeling for it. His feelings, his senses, were primed to other things.
Nevertheless, he was conscious of his bizarre and anachronistic effect, like that of a figure in some surrealist painting, walking the streets in clothes of a bygone era, aware he did not blend with his surroundings, nor render them homage of any kind. Yet even when, as sometimes happened, a gang of children or youths jeered and called after him the foul names he was familiar with in twenty languages, he neither cringed nor cared. He had no concern for such things. He had been so many places, seen so many sights; cities which burned or fell in ruin, the young who grew old, as he had, and who died, as now, at last, he too would die. This thought of death soothed him, comforted him, and brought with it a great sadness, a strange jealousy. He did not want to leave her. Of course he did not. The idea of her vulnerability in this harsh
“You say you are tired, Vassu. I know how it is. To be so tired, and unable to rest. It is a terrible thing.”
“But, Princess,” said the old man quietly, “it is more than this. I am dying.”
The Vampire stirred a little. The pale leaves of her hands rustled on the page. She stared with an almost childlike wonder.
“Dying? Can this be? You are sure?”
The old man, very clean and neat in his dark clothing, nodded humbly.
“Yes, Princess.”
“Oh, Vassu,” she said, “are you glad?”
He seemed a little embarrassed. Finally he said:
“Forgive me, Princess, but I am very glad. Yes, very glad.”
“I understand.”
“Only,” he said, “I am troubled for your sake.”
“No, no,” said the Vampire, with the fragile perfect courtesy of her class and kind. “No, it must not concern you. You have been a good servant. Far better than I might ever have hoped for. I am thankful, Vassu, for all your care of me. I shall miss you. But you have earned,” she hesitated, then said, “You have more than earned your peace.”
“But you,” he said.
“I shall do very well. My requirements are small, now. The days when I was a huntress are gone, and the nights. Do you remember, Vassu?”
“I remember, Princess.”
“When I was so hungry, and so relentless. And so lovely. My white face in a thousand ballroom mirrors. My silk slippers stained with dew. And my lovers waking in the cold morning, where I had left them. But now, I do not sleep, I am seldom hungry. I never lust. I never love. These are the comforts of old age. There is only one comfort that is denied to me. And who knows. One day, I too . . .
She smiled at him. Her teeth were beautiful, but almost even now, the exquisite points of the canines quite worn away. “Leave me when you must,” she said. “I shall mourn you. I shall envy you. But I ask nothing more, my good and noble friend.”
The old man bowed his head.
“I have,” he said, “a few days, a handful of nights. There is something I wish to try to do in this time. I will try to find one who may take my place.”
The Vampire stared at him again, now astonished. “But Vassu, my irreplaceable help—it is no longer possible.”
“Yes. If I am swift.”
“The world is not as it was,” she said, with a grave and dreadful wisdom.
He lifted his head. More gravely, he answered:
“The world is as it has always been, Princess. Only our perceptions of it have grown more acute. Our knowledge less bearable.”
She nodded.
“Yes, this must be so. How could the world have changed so terribly? It must be we who have changed.”
He trimmed the lamp before he left her.
Outside, the rain dripped steadily from the trees.
The city, in the rain, was not unlike a forest. But the old man, who had been in many forests and many cities, had no special feeling for it. His feelings, his senses, were primed to other things.
Nevertheless, he was conscious of his bizarre and anachronistic effect, like that of a figure in some surrealist painting, walking the streets in clothes of a bygone era, aware he did not blend with his surroundings, nor render them homage of any kind. Yet even when, as sometimes happened, a gang of children or youths jeered and called after him the foul names he was familiar with in twenty languages, he neither cringed nor cared. He had no concern for such things. He had been so many places, seen so many sights; cities which burned or fell in ruin, the young who grew old, as he had, and who died, as now, at last, he too would die. This thought of death soothed him, comforted him, and brought with it a great sadness, a strange jealousy. He did not want to leave her. Of course he did not. The idea of her vulnerability in this harsh
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