with the night on its way to the other side of the world.
4
THE STORY OF DANIEL, THE DEVIL’S MINION, OR THE BOY FROM INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE
Who are these shades we wait for and believe
will come some evening in limousines
from Heaven?
The rose
though it knows
is throatless
and cannot say
.
My mortal half laughs
.
The code and the message are not the same
.
And what is an angel
but a ghost in drag?
STAN RICE
from
“Of Heaven”
Body of Work
(1983)
H E WAS a tall, slender young man, with ashen hair and violet eyes. He wore a dirty gray sweat shirt and jeans, and in the icy wind whipping along Michigan Avenue at five o’clock, he was cold.
Daniel Molloy was his name. He was thirty-two, though he looked younger, a perennial student, not a man, that kind of youthful face. He murmured aloud to himself as he walked. “Armand, I need you. Armand,that concert is tomorrow night. And something terrible is going to happen, something terrible. . . . ”
He was hungry. Thirty-six hours had passed since he’d eaten. There was nothing in the refrigerator of his small dirty hotel room, and besides, he had been locked out of it this morning because he had not paid the rent. Hard to remember everything at once.
Then he remembered the dream that he kept having, the dream that came every time he closed his eyes, and he didn’t want to eat at all.
He saw the twins in the dream. He saw the roasted body of the woman before them, her hair singed away, her skin crisped. Her heart lay glistening like a swollen fruit on the plate beside her. The brain on the other plate looked exactly like a cooked brain.
Armand knew about it, he had to know. It was no ordinary dream, this. Something to do with Lestat, definitely. And Armand would come soon.
God, he was weak, delirious. Needed something, a drink at least. In his pocket there was no money, only an old crumpled royalty check for the book
Interview with the Vampire
, which he had “written” under a pseudonym over twelve years ago.
Another world, that, when he had been a young reporter, roaming the bars of the world with his tape recorder, trying to get the flotsam and jetsam of the night to tell him some truth. Well, one night in San Francisco he had found a magnificent subject for his investigations. And the light of ordinary life had suddenly gone out.
Now he was a ruined thing, walking too fast under the lowering night sky of Chicago in October. Last Sunday he had been in Paris, and the Friday before that in Edinburgh. Before Edinburgh, he had been in Stockholm and before that he couldn’t recall. The royalty check had caught up with him in Vienna, but he did not know how long ago that was.
In all these places he frightened those he passed. The Vampire Lestat had a good phrase for it in his autobiography: “One of those tiresome mortals who has seen spirits . . . ”
That’s me!
Where was that book,
The Vampire Lestat?
Ah, somebody had stolen it off the park bench this afternoon while Daniel slept. Well, let them have it. Daniel had stolen it himself, and he’d read it three times already.
But if only he had it now, he could sell it, maybe get enough for a glass of brandy to make him warm. And what was his net worth at this moment, this cold and hungry vagabond that shuffled along Michigan Avenue, hating the wind that chilled him through his worn and dirty clothes? Ten million? A hundred million? He didn’t know. Armand would know.
You want money, Daniel? I’ll get it for you. It’s simpler than you think
.
A thousand miles south Armand waited on their private island, the island that belonged in fact to Daniel alone. And if only he had a quarternow, just a quarter, he could drop it into a pay phone and tell Armand that he wanted to come home. Out of the sky, they’d come to get him. They always did. Either the big plane with the velvet bedroom on it or the smaller one with the low ceiling and the leather chairs. Would anybody on this street lend
4
THE STORY OF DANIEL, THE DEVIL’S MINION, OR THE BOY FROM INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE
Who are these shades we wait for and believe
will come some evening in limousines
from Heaven?
The rose
though it knows
is throatless
and cannot say
.
My mortal half laughs
.
The code and the message are not the same
.
And what is an angel
but a ghost in drag?
STAN RICE
from
“Of Heaven”
Body of Work
(1983)
H E WAS a tall, slender young man, with ashen hair and violet eyes. He wore a dirty gray sweat shirt and jeans, and in the icy wind whipping along Michigan Avenue at five o’clock, he was cold.
Daniel Molloy was his name. He was thirty-two, though he looked younger, a perennial student, not a man, that kind of youthful face. He murmured aloud to himself as he walked. “Armand, I need you. Armand,that concert is tomorrow night. And something terrible is going to happen, something terrible. . . . ”
He was hungry. Thirty-six hours had passed since he’d eaten. There was nothing in the refrigerator of his small dirty hotel room, and besides, he had been locked out of it this morning because he had not paid the rent. Hard to remember everything at once.
Then he remembered the dream that he kept having, the dream that came every time he closed his eyes, and he didn’t want to eat at all.
He saw the twins in the dream. He saw the roasted body of the woman before them, her hair singed away, her skin crisped. Her heart lay glistening like a swollen fruit on the plate beside her. The brain on the other plate looked exactly like a cooked brain.
Armand knew about it, he had to know. It was no ordinary dream, this. Something to do with Lestat, definitely. And Armand would come soon.
God, he was weak, delirious. Needed something, a drink at least. In his pocket there was no money, only an old crumpled royalty check for the book
Interview with the Vampire
, which he had “written” under a pseudonym over twelve years ago.
Another world, that, when he had been a young reporter, roaming the bars of the world with his tape recorder, trying to get the flotsam and jetsam of the night to tell him some truth. Well, one night in San Francisco he had found a magnificent subject for his investigations. And the light of ordinary life had suddenly gone out.
Now he was a ruined thing, walking too fast under the lowering night sky of Chicago in October. Last Sunday he had been in Paris, and the Friday before that in Edinburgh. Before Edinburgh, he had been in Stockholm and before that he couldn’t recall. The royalty check had caught up with him in Vienna, but he did not know how long ago that was.
In all these places he frightened those he passed. The Vampire Lestat had a good phrase for it in his autobiography: “One of those tiresome mortals who has seen spirits . . . ”
That’s me!
Where was that book,
The Vampire Lestat?
Ah, somebody had stolen it off the park bench this afternoon while Daniel slept. Well, let them have it. Daniel had stolen it himself, and he’d read it three times already.
But if only he had it now, he could sell it, maybe get enough for a glass of brandy to make him warm. And what was his net worth at this moment, this cold and hungry vagabond that shuffled along Michigan Avenue, hating the wind that chilled him through his worn and dirty clothes? Ten million? A hundred million? He didn’t know. Armand would know.
You want money, Daniel? I’ll get it for you. It’s simpler than you think
.
A thousand miles south Armand waited on their private island, the island that belonged in fact to Daniel alone. And if only he had a quarternow, just a quarter, he could drop it into a pay phone and tell Armand that he wanted to come home. Out of the sky, they’d come to get him. They always did. Either the big plane with the velvet bedroom on it or the smaller one with the low ceiling and the leather chairs. Would anybody on this street lend
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