I adorn myself with my old human personality, you might say, but I am still a great saint, and I am totally geared for an apparition. And where do I go? Where do you think?
Vatican City is dead quiet, the smallest kingdom on Earth.
I am in the Pope’s bedroom. It’s like a monk’s cell: just a narrow bed, one straight-back chair. So simple.
John Paul II, eighty-two years of age, is suffering, the pain in his bones too much for true sleep, the Parkinson’s tremor too strong, the arthritis too widespread, the ravages of old age so mercilessly upon him.
Slowly he opens his eyes. In English he salutes me.
“Saint Lestat,” he says. “Why have you come to me? Why not Padre Pio?”
Not a great response.
But! He means no slight. It’s a perfectly understandable question. The Pope loves Padre Pio. He has canonized hundreds of saints. Probably he loved them all. But how he loved Padre Pio. As for me, I don’t know if he loved me when he canonized me, because I haven’t yet written the part of the story in which I get canonized. And as I write this, Padre Pio was canonized last week.
(I watched the whole thing on TV. Vampires love TV.)
Back to the moment.
The frigid stillness of the papal quarters, so austere, despite the palatial dimensions. Candles glow in the Pope’s private chapel. The Pope groans in pain.
I lay my healing hands upon him, and I banish his suffering. A quiet penetrates his limbs. He looks at me with one eye, the other squinched closed as is often his manner, and between us there is suddenly an understanding, or rather I come to perceive something about him which the entire world ought to know:
His deep selflessness, his profound spirituality, come not only from his complete love of Christ but from his life lived under Communism. People forget. Communism, for all its hideous abuses and cruelties, is in essence a vaunting spiritual code. And before that great puritanical government shrouded John Paul’s young years, the violent paradoxes and horrifying absurdities of the Second World War surrounded him, tutoring him in self-sacrifice and courage. The man has never, ever, in his life lived in anything but a Spiritual World. Deprivation and self-denial are intertwined in his history like the double helix.
It is no wonder that he cannot yield his deep-rooted suspicions of the tumultuous voices of the prosperous capitalist countries. He simply cannot grasp the pure charity that can arise from abundance, the sublime immensity of vision possible from the vantage point of secure excess, the selflessness and sweeping sacrificial ambition that can be born when all needs are luxuriantly met.
Can I broach this subject with him in this quiet moment? Or should I only assure him that he must not worry about the “greed” of the Western World?
Softly I talk to him. I begin to elucidate these points. (Yeah, I know, he’s the Pope, and I’m a vampire writing this story; but in this story I’m a great Saint. I cannot be intimidated within the risks of my own work!)
I remind him that the sublime principles of Greek philosophy arose in affluence, and slowly, acceptingly, he nods. He is quite the educated philosopher. A lot of people don’t know that about him, either. But I must impress upon him something infinitely more profound.
I see it so beautifully. I see everything.
Our biggest mistake worldwide is our insistence on perceiving every new development as a culmination or a climax. The great “at last” or “inth degree.” A constitutional fatalism continuously adjusts itself to the ever-changing present. A pervasive alarmism greets every advance. For two thousand years we have been getting “out of hand.”
This derives of course from our susceptibility to viewing the “now” as the End Time, an Apocalyptic obsession that has endured since Christ ascended into Heaven. We must stop this! We must perceive that we are at the dawn of a sublime age! Enemies will no longer be conquered. They will be devoured, and transformed.
But here’s the point I
really
want to make: Modernism and Materialism—elements that the Church has feared for so long—are in their philosophical and practical infancy! Their sacramental nature is only just being revealed!
Never mind the infantile blunders! The electronic revolution has transmuted the industrial world beyond all predictive thinking of the twentieth century. We’re still having birth pangs. Get into it! Work with it. Play it out.
Daily life for millions in the developed countries is not only comfortable but a compilation of wonders that borders on the miraculous. And so new spiritual desires arise which are infinitely more courageous than the missionary goals of the past.
We must bear witness that political atheism has failed totally. Think about it. In the trash, the whole system. Except for the island of Cuba, maybe. But what does Castro prove? And even the most secular power brokers in America exude high virtue as a matter of course. That’s why we have corporate scandals! That’s why people get so upset! No morals, no scandals. In fact, we may have to re-examine all the areas of society which we have so blithely labeled as “secular.” Who is really without profound and unshakable altruistic beliefs?
Judeo-Christianity
is
the religion of the secular West, no matter how many millions claim to disregard it. Its profound tenets have been internalized by the most remote and intellectual agnostics. Its expectations inform Wall Street as well as the common courtesies exchanged on a crowded beach in California or a meeting between the heads of Russia and the United States.
Techno-saints will soon rise—if they have not already—to melt the poverty of millions with torrents of well-distributed goods and services. Communications will annihilate hatred and divisiveness as Internet cafés continue to spring up like flowers throughout the slums of Asia and the Orient. Cable television will bring countless new programs to the vast Arab world. Even North Korea will be penetrated.
Minorities in Europe and America will be thoroughly and fruitfully assimilated through computer literacy. As already described, medical science will find cheap harmless substitutes for cocaine and heroin, thereby eliminating the evil drug trade altogether. All violence will soon give way to a refinement of debate and exchange of knowledge. Effective acts of terrorism will continue to be obscene precisely because of their rarity, until they stop altogether.
As for sexuality, the revolution in this regard is so vast that we of this time cannot begin to comprehend its full ramifications. Short skirts, bobs, car dates, women in the work place, gays in love—we are dizzy with mere beginnings. Our scientific understanding and control of procreation gives us a power undreamt of in former centuries and the immediate impact is but a shadow of things to come. We must respect the immense mysteries of the sperm and the egg, the mysteries of the chemistry of gender and gender choice and attraction. All God’s children will thrive from our growing knowledge, but to repeat this is only the beginning. We must have the courage to embrace the beauty of science in the name of the Lord.
The Pope listens. He smiles.
I continue.
The image of God Incarnate, become Man out of fascination with His own Creation, will triumph in the Third Millennium as the supreme emblem of Divine Sacrifice and Unfathomable Love.
It takes thousands of years to understand the Crucified Christ, I say. Why, for example, did He come down to live thirty-three years? Why not twenty? Why not twenty-five? You could ponder this stuff forever. Why did Christ have to start as a baby? Who wants to be a baby? Was being a baby part of our salvation? And why choose that particular time in history? And such a place!
Dirt, grit, sand, rocks everywhere—I’ve never seen so many rocks as in the Holy Land—bare feet, sandals, camels; imagine those times. No wonder they used to stone people! Did it have anything to do with the sheer simplicity of the clothes and hair, Christ coming in that era? I think it did. Page through a book on world costume—you know, a really good encyclopedia taking you from ancient Sumer to Ralph Lauren, and you can’t find any simpler clothes and hair than in Galilee First Century.
I am serious, I tell the Holy Father. Christ considered this, He had to. How could He not? Surely He knew that images of Him would proliferate exponentially.
Furthermore, I think Christ chose Crucifixion because henceforth in every depiction He would be seen extending His arms in a loving embrace. Once you see the Crucifix in that manner, everything changes. You see Him reaching out to all the World. He knew the image had to be durable. He knew it had to be abstractable. He knew it had to be reproducible. It is no accident that we can take the image of this ghastly death and wear it around our necks on a chain. God thinks of all these things, doesn’t He?
The Pope is still smiling. “If you weren’t a saint, I’d laugh at you,” he says. “Exactly when are you expecting these Techno-saints, by the way?”
I’m happy. He looks like the old Wojtyla—the Pope who still went skiing until he was seventy-three. My visit has been worth it.
And after all, we can’t all be Padre Pio or Mother Teresa. I’m Saint Lestat.
“I’ll say hello for you to Padre Pio,” I whisper.
But the Pope is dozing. He has chuckled and drifted off. So much for my mystical import. I’ve put him to sleep. But what did I expect, especially of the Pope? He works so hard. He suffers. He thinks. He has already traveled to Asia and Eastern Europe this year, and he will soon be going to Toronto and Guatemala and Mexico. I don’t know how he can do these things.
I place my hand on his forehead.
Then I leave.
I go down the stairs to the Sistine Chapel. It is empty and dark, of course. It is chilly too. But never fear, my saintly eyes are as good as my vampire eyes, and I can see the swarming magnificence.
Alone—cut off from all the world and all things—I stand there. I want to lie on the floor face down in the manner of a priest at his ordination. I want to be a priest. I want to consecrate the host! I want this so badly that I ache for it. I DON’T WANT TO DO EVIL.
But the fact is, my fantasy of Saint Lestat is dissolving. I know it for what it is and I can’t sustain it.
I know that I am no saint and never was or will be. No banner of me ever unfurled in St. Peter’s Square in the sunlight. No crowd of hundreds of thousands ever cheered for my canonization. No string of cardinals ever attended the ceremony because it never took place. And I have no odorless, tasteless, harmless formula that exactly mimics crack, cocaine and heroin combined, so I can’t save the world.
I’m not even standing in the Sistine Chapel. I am far away from it, in a place of warmth, though just as lonely.
I am a vampire. For over two hundred years I’ve loved it. I am filled with the blood of others to my very eyeballs. I am polluted with it. I am as cursed as the Hemorrhissa before she touched the hem of Christ’s garment in Capharnaum! I live by blood. I am ritually impure.
And there’s only one kind of miracle I can work. We call it the Dark Trick and I’m about to do it.
And do you think all this guilt is about to stop me?
Nada,
never,
mais non,
forget about it, get out of here, not in a pig’s eye, pa-lease, gimme a break, no way.
I told you I’d come back, didn’t I?
I’m irrepressible, unforgivable, unstoppable, shameless, thoughtless, hopeless, heartless, running rampant, the wild child, undaunted, unrepentant, unsaved.
And baby, there is a story to tell.
I hear Hell’s Bells calling me. It’s time to boogie!
SO SLAM CUT TO
:
2
BLACKWOOD FARM
:
EXTERIOR
;
EVENING
.
A
LITTLE COUNTRY CEMETERY
on the edge of a cypress swamp, with a dozen or more old cement graves, most names long ago effaced, and one of these raised rectangular tombs black with soot from a recent fire, and the whole surrounded by a small iron fence and four immense oak trees, the kind weighted down by their dipping branches, and the sky the perfect color of lilacs, and the heat of the summer sweet and caressing and—
—you bet I’ve got on my black velvet frock coat (close-up: tapered at the waist, brass buttons) and my motorcycle boots, and a brand-new linen shirt loaded with lace at cuffs and throat (pity the poor slob who snickers at me on account of that!), and I haven’t cut my shoulder-length blond mane tonight, which I sometimes do for variety, and I’ve chucked my violet glasses because who cares that my eyes attract attention, and my skin’s still dramatically tanned from my years-ago suicide attempt in the raw sun of the Gobi Desert, and I’m thinking—
—Dark Trick, yes, work the miracle, they need you, up there in the Big House, you Brat Prince, you Sheik among vampires, stop brooding and mourning down here, go to it, there’s a delicate situation up there in the Big House—and it is
TIME TO TELL YOU WHAT HAPPENED AND SO I DO
:
I
PACED
, having just risen from my secret hiding place, and I mourned bitterly for another Blood Drinker who had perished in this very cemetery, on the aforementioned blackened grave, in an immense fire, and of her own will, leaving us only last night, without the slightest warning.
This was Merrick Mayfair, only three years among the Undead or less, and I’d invited her here to Blackwood Farm to help me exorcise an evil spirit that had been haunting Quinn Blackwood since childhood. Quinn was very new to the Blood, and had come to me for help with this ghost, which, far from leaving him at his transformation from mortal to vampire, had only grown stronger and meaner, and had actually caused the death of the mortal dearest to Quinn—his great Aunt Queen, age of eighty-five, by causing the beautiful lady to fall. I had needed Merrick Mayfair to exorcise this evil spirit forever.
Goblin was the name of this ghost, and as Merrick Mayfair had been both scholar and sorceress before she sought out the Dark Blood, I figured she would have the strength required to get rid of him.
Well, she came, and she solved the riddle of Goblin, and, building a high altar of coal and wood which she set ablaze, she not only burnt the corpse of the evil one but went into the flames with it. The spirit was gone, and so was Merrick Mayfair.
Of course I tried to snatch her back from the fire, but her soul had taken flight, and no amount of my blood poured on her burnt remains could conceivably revive her.
It did seem to me as I walked back and forth, kicking at the graveyard dust, that immortals who think they want the Dark Blood perish infinitely more easily than those of us who never asked for it. Perhaps the anger of the rape carries us through for centuries.
But as I said: something was going on in the Big House.
I was thinking Dark Trick as I paced, yes, Dark Trick, the making of another vampire.
But why was I even considering such a thing? I, who secretly wants to be a saint? Surely the blood of Merrick Mayfair was not crying out from the Earth for another newborn, you can scrap that idea. And this was one of those nights when every breath I took felt like a minor metaphysical disaster.
I looked up at the Manor House as they call it, the mansion up on the rise, with its two-story white columns and many lighted windows, the place which had been the locus of my pain and fortune for the last few nights, and I tried to figure how to play this one—for the benefit of all involved.
First consideration: Blackwood Manor was buzzing with unsuspecting mortals, most dear to me on short acquaintance, and by unsus-pecting I mean they’ve never guessed that their beloved Quinn Black-wood, master of the house, or his mysterious new friend, Lestat, were vampires, and that was the way Quinn willed it with all his heart and soul—that no untoward evil thing would happen, because this was his home, and vampire though he was, he wasn’t ready to break the ties.
Among these mortals were Jasmine, the versatile black housekeeper, a stunner when it comes to looks (more on that as we go along, I hope, because I can’t resist), and Quinn’s one-time lover; and their little son Jerome, begat by Quinn before he’d been made a vampire, of course, four years old and running up and down the circular steps just for fun, his feet in white tennis shoes a little too big for his body; and Big Ramona, Jasmine’s grandmother, a regal black lady with white hair in a bun, shaking her head, talking to nobody, in the kitchen cooking up supper for God knows who; and her grandson Clem, a sinewy black man seemingly poured into his feline skin, attired in a black suit and tie, standing just inside the big front door looking up the steps, the chauffeur of the lady of the house just lately lost, Aunt Queen, for whom they were all still painfully mourning, highly suspicious of what was going on in Quinn’s bedroom, and with reason.
Back the hall upstairs was Quinn’s old tutor Nash Penfield, in his bedroom, seated with thirteen-year-old Tommy Blackwood, who was actually Quinn’s uncle by natural blood but more purely an adopted son, and the two were talking in front of the cold summer fireplace, and Tommy, an impressive young man by anyone’s standards, was crying softly over the death of the great lady, to whom I just referred, with whom Tommy had traveled all over Europe for three years, “the making of him,” as Dickens might have said.
Hovering about the back of the property were the Shed Men, Allen and Joel, sitting in an open lighted portion of the shed, reading the
Weekly World News
and howling with laughter at it, while the television was blaring Football. There was a giant limousine in front of the house and one in the back.
As for the Big House, let me go into detail. I loved it. I found it perfectly proportioned, which wasn’t always the case with American Greek Revival houses, but this one, preening on its terrace of land, was more than agreeable and inviting, with its long pecan-tree drive, and its regal windows all around.
Interior? What Americans call giant rooms. Dustless, manicured. Full of mantel clocks, mirrors, portraits and Persian rugs, and the inevitable mélange of nineteenth-century mahogany furniture that people mix with new reproductions of classic Hepplewhite and Louis XIV styles to achieve the look they call Traditional or antique. Eh? And all pervaded by the inevitable drone of massive air-conditioning, which not only cooled the air magically but provided the Privacy of Sound, which has so transformed the South in this day and age.
I know, I know. I should have described the scene before I described the people. So what? I wasn’t thinking logically. I was pondering fiercely. I couldn’t quite leave behind the fate of Merrick Mayfair.
Of course Quinn had claimed that he saw the Light of Heaven receiving both his unwanted ghost and Merrick, and for him the scene in this cemetery had been a theophany—something very different from what it was for me. All I saw was Merrick immolating herself. I had sobbed, screamed, cursed.
Okay, enough about Merrick. But keep her in mind, because she will definitely be referred to later. Who knows? Maybe I’ll just bring her up anytime I feel like it. Who’s in charge of this book anyway? No, don’t take that seriously. I promised you a story, you’ll get one.
The point is, or was, that on account of what was going on in the Big House right now, I didn’t have time for all this moping. Merrick was lost to us. The vibrant and unforgettable Aunt Queen was lost. It was grief behind me and grief before me. But a huge surprise had just occurred, and my precious Quinn needed me without delay.
Of course nobody was
making
me take an interest in things here at Blackwood Farm.
I could have just cut out.
Quinn, the fledgling, had called on Lestat the Magnificent (yeah, I like that title) to help him get rid of Goblin, and technically, since Merrick had taken the ghost with her, I was finished here and could go riding off into the summer dusk with all the staff hereabouts saying, “Who was that dashing dude, anyway?” but I couldn’t leave Quinn.
Quinn was in a real snare with these mortals. And I was greatly in love with Quinn. Quinn, aged twenty-two when Baptized in the Blood, was a seer of visions and a dreamer of dreams, unconsciously charming and unfailingly kind, a suffering hunter of the night who thrived only on the blood of the damned, and the company of the loving and the uplifting.
(The loving and the uplifting??? Like me, for instance??? So the kid makes mistakes. Besides, I was so in love with him that I put on a damned good show for him. And can I be damned for loving people who bring out the love in me? Is that so awful for a full-time monster? You will shortly come to understand that I am always talking about my moral evolution! But for now: the plot.)
I can “fall in love” with anybody—man, woman, child, vampire, the Pope. It doesn’t matter. I’m the ultimate Christian. I see God’s gifts in everyone. But almost anybody would love Quinn. Loving people like Quinn is easy.
Now, back to the question at hand: Which brings me back to Quinn’s bedroom, where Quinn was at this delicate moment.
Before either of us had risen tonight—and I had taken the six-foot-four inches tall, blue-eyed black-haired boy to one of my secret hiding places with me—a mortal girl had arrived at the Manor House and affrighted everybody.
This was the matter that had Clem looking up the steps, and Big Ramona muttering, and Jasmine worried sick as she went about in her high-heel pumps, wringing her hands. And even little Jerome was excited about it, still dashing up and down the circular stairs. Even Tommy and Nash had broken off their mourning laments earlier to have a glance at this mortal girl and offer to help her in her distress.
It was easy enough for me to scan their minds and get a picture of it, this grand and bizarre event, and to scan Quinn’s mind, for that matter, as to the result.
And I was making something of an assault on the mind of the mortal girl herself as she sat on Quinn’s bed, in a huge random display of flowers, a truly marvelous heap of helter-skelter flowers, talking to Quinn.
It was a cacophony of minds filling me in on everything from the beginning. And the whole thing sent a little panic through my enormous brave soul. Work the Dark Trick? Make another one of us? Woe and Grief! Sorrow and Misery! Help, Murder, Police!
Do I
really
want to steal another soul out of the currents of human destiny? I who want to be a saint? And once personally hobnobbed with angels? I who claimed to have seen God Incarnate? Bring another into the—get ready!—Realm of the Undead?
Comment: One of the great things about loving Quinn was that I hadn’t made him. The boy had come to me free of charge. I’d felt a little like Socrates must have felt with all those gorgeous Greek boys coming to him for advice, that is, until somebody showed up with the Burning Hemlock.
Back to now: If I had any rival in this world for Quinn’s heart it was this mortal girl, and he was up there offering her in frantic whispers the promise of our Blood, the fractured gift of our immortality. Yes, this explicit offer was coming from the lips of Quinn. Good God, kid, show some backbone, I thought! You saw the Light of Heaven last night!
Mona Mayfair was this girl’s name. But she’d never known or even heard of Merrick Mayfair. So cut that connection right now. Merrick was a quadroon, born among the “colored” Mayfairs who lived downtown, and Mona was a member of the white Mayfairs of the Garden District and Mona had probably never heard a word spoken of Merrick or her colored kin. As for Merrick, she’d shown no interest ever in the famous white family. She’d had a path all her own.
But Mona was a bona fide witch, however—sure as Merrick had been—and what is a witch? Well, it is a mind reader, magnet for spirits and ghosts and a possessor of other occult talents. And I’d heard enough of the illustrious Mayfair clan in the last few days from Quinn to know that Mona’s cousins, witches all, if I’m not mistaken, were undoubtedly in hot pursuit of Mona now, no doubt desperate with worry for the child.
In fact, I’d had a glimpse of three of this remarkable tribe (and one of them a witch priest, no less, a witch priest! I don’t even want to think about it!), at the funeral Mass for Aunt Queen, and why they were taking so long to come after Mona was mystifying me, unless they were deliberately playing this one out slowly for reasons that will soon become clear.
We vampires don’t like witches. Can you guess why? Any self-respecting vampire, even if he or she is three thousand years old, can fool mortals, at least for a while. And young ones like Quinn pass, no question. Jasmine, Nash, Big Ramona—they all accepted Quinn for human. Eccentric? Clinically insane? Yes, they believed all that about him. But they thought he was human. And Quinn could live among them for quite a while. And as I’ve already explained, they thought I was human too, though I probably couldn’t count on that for too long.
Now, with witches it’s another story. Witches detect all kinds of small things about other creatures. It has to do with the lazy and constant exercise of their power. I’d sensed that at the funeral Mass, just breathing the same air as Dr. Rowan Mayfair and her husband, Michael Curry, and Fr. Kevin Mayfair. But fortunately, they were distracted by a multitude of other stimuli, so I hadn’t had to bolt.
So okay, where was I? Yeah, cool. Mona Mayfair was a witch, and one of supreme talent. And once the Dark Blood had come into Quinn about a year ago, he had forsworn ever seeing her again, dying though she was, for fear she might at once realize that evil had robbed him of life, and contaminate her he would not.
However, of her own free will and much to everyone’s amazement:
She’d come about an hour ago, driving the family stretch limousine, which she’d hijacked from the driver outside the Mayfair Medical Center where she’d been dying for over two years. (He’d been walking the block, poor unlucky guy, smoking a cigarette, when she’d sped off, and the last image in her mind of him was of his running after her.)