children suffering before my very eyes, and more neglected corpses lying about than ever before. I was never so glad of the fur-lined cape as I was then. I wrapped it around Nicolas and held him close to me when we went out together, and we walked in a tight embrace through the snow and the rain.
Cold or no cold, I can’t exaggerate the happiness of these days. Life was exactly what I thought it could be. And I knew I wouldn’t be long in Renaud’s theater. Everybody was saying so. I had visions of the big stages, of touring London and Italy and even America with a great troupe of actors. Yet there was no reason to hurry. My cup was full.
8
B UT in the month of October when Paris was already freezing, I commenced to see, quite regularly, a strange face in the audience that invariably distracted me. Sometimes it almost made me forget what I was doing, this face. And then it would be gone as if I’d imagined it. I must have seen it off and on for a fortnight before I finally mentioned it to Nicki.
I felt foolish and found it hard to put into words:
“There is someone out there watching me,” I said.
“Everyone’s watching you,” Nicki said. “That’s what you want.”
He was feeling a little sad that evening, and his answer was slightly sharp.
Earlier when he was making the fire, he had said he would never amount to much with the violin. In spite of his ear and his skill, there was too much he didn’t know. And I would be a great actor, he was sure. I had said this was nonsense, but it was a shadow falling over my soul. I remembered my mother telling me that it was too late for him.
He wasn’t envious, he said. He was just unhappy a little, that’s all.
I decided to drop the matter of the mysterious face. I tried to think of some way to encourage him. I reminded him that his playing produced profound emotions in people, that even the actors backstage stopped to listen when he played. He had an undeniable talent.
“But I want to be a great violinist,” he said. “And I’m afraid it will never be. As long as we were at home, I could pretend that it was going to be.”
“You can’t give up on it!” I said.
“Lestat, let me be frank with you,” he said. “Things are easy for you. What you set your sights on you get for yourself. I know what you’re thinking, about all the years you were miserable at home. But even then, what you really set your mind to, you accomplished. And we left for Paris the very day that you decided to do it.”
“You don’t regret coming to Paris, do you?” I asked.
“Of course not. I simply mean that you think things are possible which aren’t possible! At least not for the rest of us. Like killing the wolves . . . ”
A coldness passed over me when he said this. And for some reason I thought of that mysterious face again in the audience, the one watching. Something to do with the wolves. Something to do with the sentiments Nicki was expressing. Didn’t make sense. I tried to shrug it off.
“If you’d set out to play the violin, you’d probably be playing for the Court by now,” he said.
“Nicki, this kind of talk is poison,” I said under my breath. “You can’t do anything but try to get what you want. You knew the odds were against you when you started. There isn’t anything else . . . except . . . ”
“I know.” He smiled. “Except the meaninglessness. Death.”
“Yes,” I said. “All you can do is make your life have meaning, make it good—”
“Oh, not goodness again,” he said. “You and your malady of mortality, and your malady of goodness.” He had been looking at the fire and heturned to me with a deliberately scornful expression. “We’re a pack of actors and entertainers who can’t even be buried in consecrated ground. We’re outcasts.”
“God, if you could only believe in it,” I said, “that we do good when we make others forget their sorrow, make them forget for a little while
Cold or no cold, I can’t exaggerate the happiness of these days. Life was exactly what I thought it could be. And I knew I wouldn’t be long in Renaud’s theater. Everybody was saying so. I had visions of the big stages, of touring London and Italy and even America with a great troupe of actors. Yet there was no reason to hurry. My cup was full.
8
B UT in the month of October when Paris was already freezing, I commenced to see, quite regularly, a strange face in the audience that invariably distracted me. Sometimes it almost made me forget what I was doing, this face. And then it would be gone as if I’d imagined it. I must have seen it off and on for a fortnight before I finally mentioned it to Nicki.
I felt foolish and found it hard to put into words:
“There is someone out there watching me,” I said.
“Everyone’s watching you,” Nicki said. “That’s what you want.”
He was feeling a little sad that evening, and his answer was slightly sharp.
Earlier when he was making the fire, he had said he would never amount to much with the violin. In spite of his ear and his skill, there was too much he didn’t know. And I would be a great actor, he was sure. I had said this was nonsense, but it was a shadow falling over my soul. I remembered my mother telling me that it was too late for him.
He wasn’t envious, he said. He was just unhappy a little, that’s all.
I decided to drop the matter of the mysterious face. I tried to think of some way to encourage him. I reminded him that his playing produced profound emotions in people, that even the actors backstage stopped to listen when he played. He had an undeniable talent.
“But I want to be a great violinist,” he said. “And I’m afraid it will never be. As long as we were at home, I could pretend that it was going to be.”
“You can’t give up on it!” I said.
“Lestat, let me be frank with you,” he said. “Things are easy for you. What you set your sights on you get for yourself. I know what you’re thinking, about all the years you were miserable at home. But even then, what you really set your mind to, you accomplished. And we left for Paris the very day that you decided to do it.”
“You don’t regret coming to Paris, do you?” I asked.
“Of course not. I simply mean that you think things are possible which aren’t possible! At least not for the rest of us. Like killing the wolves . . . ”
A coldness passed over me when he said this. And for some reason I thought of that mysterious face again in the audience, the one watching. Something to do with the wolves. Something to do with the sentiments Nicki was expressing. Didn’t make sense. I tried to shrug it off.
“If you’d set out to play the violin, you’d probably be playing for the Court by now,” he said.
“Nicki, this kind of talk is poison,” I said under my breath. “You can’t do anything but try to get what you want. You knew the odds were against you when you started. There isn’t anything else . . . except . . . ”
“I know.” He smiled. “Except the meaninglessness. Death.”
“Yes,” I said. “All you can do is make your life have meaning, make it good—”
“Oh, not goodness again,” he said. “You and your malady of mortality, and your malady of goodness.” He had been looking at the fire and heturned to me with a deliberately scornful expression. “We’re a pack of actors and entertainers who can’t even be buried in consecrated ground. We’re outcasts.”
“God, if you could only believe in it,” I said, “that we do good when we make others forget their sorrow, make them forget for a little while
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