He headed toward Asia, where he would continue his campaign with the support of foreign armies.
“Yes,” I said, without letting my gaze break away from my father’s. “I remember Andrzej.”
The Recent Past
Chapter 49
Eternal Darkness
June 12, 2006
New York
The nights have been empty since I came back to the big city. Extreme City, I call it. Coming here is always a stimulating experience; but this time, there is no joy. The streets are the same, and so is the energy of the people. It wasn’t hard to adjust. It never is anymore. I have moved back to the old apartment. The kid has done a great job taking care of it.
Several months have passed since I’ve written any entries. I couldn’t. It didn’t feel right. I guess my senses have been numbed since that night eight months ago.
Eight months already?
A long time ago, I was told by the Greek that the night would come when time would lose its meaning. I’m happy to say that night hasn’t come just yet. I have felt all those hours of all those months submerged in my own personal darkness. Life nowadays is a collage of visits to the park, hanging out in clubs, or taking to the streets for the occasional homeless, the taste of the rich, or the always-exquisite young blood.
Despite everything, I wish I could go back to those nights of March, as though by revisiting the events and finally writing about them, somehow, I could remember those whom I have lost the way they were.
Perhaps in doing so, I could remember why it happened, and why it has been so hard for me to find closure. It was precisely this closure that has been missing inside me; and now it has led me to my pen, this night, and this notebook. I need space, a chance to balance things.
I have always been a simple man in a very complicated existence.
Maybe if I repeat that to myself long enough . . .
Instead, I have behaved, as always, without putting too much thought on my actions. I move, react, kill, feed, and I get to live over and over. As though by continuing to live on autopilot I could somehow pretend that nothing ever happened. But something did—to others, to me, to my existence as I knew it.
There’s no question, I love being me. Anyone can tell you that, but what no one can see is that until this night, I haven’t been myself, not since that week down in Vampire City—Miami.
*******
I don’t remember how I got inside that hotel room.
Don’t ask how I got there; I don’t know. Still, there I was. I closed my eyes and I’m there again looking down at the busy avenue through the glass window, wondering if I would ever get a second chance.
Would it matter? It probably won’t. Never ask for or show mercy, right?
Frederick Celtrick was his name. At least that’s the name in the driver’s license I found in one of his pockets. Six feet four and just turned twenty-eight. I turn my head to stare at his body on the floor, trying to summon an image of him upright. It was funny how he didn’t seem that tall when he found me inside this hotel room, when in a swift, effortless movement I brought him down to his knees. I can still hear his sobbing in my ears. It is ironic how size means nothing in the face of true will. Just like me, the man will never make it to twenty-nine.
I sit on the bed and look for more items inside the wallet, trying to find as many pieces from his life as possible, to have an idea of who he was. You’ll be surprised what a wallet can tell you about its owner. I like seeing their pictures and personal items. It makes me feel that I am a part of their story somehow. I even avoid picking their thoughts while attacking them, although sometimes it’s unavoidable. For example, Celtrick here—a typical American kid: loved girls, working out, his friends, football and basketball, more girls, and vintage wine?
Interesting, I think that I would’ve liked him.
There, inside his wallet, I find a VIP card for the club downstairs, his college ID, and a picture of another young woman, no doubt his girlfriend. A beautiful creature, I must add. It makes me wonder how big of a fool she would feel if she found out about all the other girls in the life of Frederick, the dead stud.
Then I see the card that brings me back again to that recent past, when I was enjoying my time in South Beach like I always do during the winter. The ID card in my hand indicated that Frederick was a hotel front desk assistant manager. It turns out that he was studying for his master’s in hospitality management, just like another man I was introduced to years before by my gifted young painter, Lucy—my lil’ Monet.
I haven’t stopped thinking about her since I got back here in the city. I have tried to erase her from my thoughts. Obviously, I haven’t been successful at it, and I doubt I ever will be. She was truly special, and her fate was unnecessary. However, I won’t go on like this. First, I need to go back to the beginning, or to the middle of everything. Whichever the case may be, the facts are as follows: It was the summer of ’93, the place was Miami, and I was the Gypsy that I have always been.
The Not-So-Recent Past
July 1993
Miami
The sun had just set, and I was hungry and thirsty again, and happy to be out on the streets of Miami. Long gone were the insane ’80s, replaced by the early ’90s. It was a different time, but the heat was still the same. The airwaves were filled with salsa music from the Caribbean and South America, grunge rock, and Guns N’ Roses. It was my first time in town since the ’70s; and after a decade and a half of absence, I was impressed by all the changes that had taken place, mostly in the diversity of its habitants. I couldn’t get enough of their sultry spice, their music, and their flavor all mixed up with the North American culture.
The Spaniard in me was delighted in the proximity of all this. It almost made me swear that I would find a good place of my own so I could always come and visit, but I needed a good-enough reason to do so.
The Caribbean blood I savored in those nights was not different from any other type; but the scent, the fragile smell of salt and spice in my victims’ skin and in their tears was enough to turn me into an addict.
Miami was growing from being a swamp filled with the oldest population from all over the States into a cultural and entertainment destination. May all the gods that men have created bless all that cocaine money! All that investment capital was turning what was considered at one time a worthless piece of land into an oasis. Just like what the Mafia money had done for Vegas back in the ’50s.
There we were, the city and I. She was the sun capital of the world and me the lord of the night. Yin and yang, a perfect balance.
Always on the move, I avoided the big hotels; I also avoided buying properties in exclusive places. However, I was tempted to go for a top-floor unit in one of the new condominiums over on Collins Avenue. I loved the view from the balcony; I could see the casual cruise liner in the horizon, sailing alone in the middle of the black ocean, flashing its dim lights as if they were a congregation of artificial stars. I love cruises. There was a time when I went on one every other year—until the high percentage of missing passengers started to draw too much attention and made me reconsider my habits. Now having a place in such a great location was more than convenient, because it meant I would just jump on a ship, do my hunting, and the ocean would take care of the rest. That was my version of a drive-through.
Soon I was facing the inescapable fact that I had to move on, and it was on such a night, in such moment when I found my reason to stay. I was selecting my kill of the evening, scanning people’s thoughts, searching through memories and mental images, looking for the one who would fire me up, the one who was dirty, weak and, guilty enough to motivate my inner animal, the true killer in me.
Killing with vice is the best.
Suddenly, my search was interrupted when I picked the thoughts of a young woman. I was on top of a nearby building on Ocean Drive when I felt her hunger, her despair, and her sadness.
My eyes scanned the beach for the source of such essence, and there she was: She had her back to me; she was talking to a couple, a fat woman and a short lanky man. I intensified my senses to pick up their conversation, and I heard the couple tell her that they would not pay the $15 fee for the pencil portrait she had just drawn of them. They were claiming that they thought it was for free, that they didn’t hear her telling them anything about a fee.
I looked at the fat woman talking to the young girl and smiled to myself. I knew she had heard the girl say something about a fee, only to change her mind halfway through the portrait; and now she was making excuses. I smiled to myself, knowing that I had just found my kill, and she was a juicy one.
I watched the couple return the portrait and then walk away. I was about to follow them, but I couldn’t stop looking at the girl. She was exhausted and mad. I saw her expression, and there was fire in her eyes. Anger, pure and silent—the type of anger I could relate to.
In moments, I was standing next to her as she was putting away her tools, stuffing them into a long black nylon bag. It was then when she noticed my presence.
“I’m done for the night,” she said without even turning to face me.
I could hear her Southern accent. Like most of Miami, she was not from there. I did not move; I stood there in silence, my face half turned toward the beach.
“That’s a shame,” I said, “because I truly love pencil portraits.”
This is true.
“I have been waiting for you to finish with that other couple, so I could come and ask you to do mine,” I added.
She turned and looked at me as I stared out at the distant ocean. I slowly turned to face her. Her dirty blonde hair fell over her forehead, giving her a boyish aura; she looked very fresh and young. Her brown eyes move quickly, sizing me up, like women do. I gave her my best smile, fangs and all. She noticed and smiled back at me. In one quick resolution, she unpacked her tools and prepared to do my portrait.
I stood there and chatted with this young creature, being casual as I watched her, studying her. I was delighted with her, admiring her tenacity as she pressed the pencil in a fluid motion against a clean sheet of paper, depicting my features, not faithfully but according to her own interpretation, like true artists do. We talked about the weather, about music and places I could visit while in town. Afterward, when she gave me the finished portrait and I saw how she had gracefully reproduced my menacing smile, I made up my mind: I would kill her.
I gave her a hundred-dollar bill. Her sad eyes met mine, telling me she didn’t have enough change to break it. I told her to keep it for the overtime, but she refused with such dignity that I couldn’t help but smile. No, I thought, I won’t kill her just yet. Instead, I realized that I wanted to know this girl. I needed time to figure out what was so appealing about her.
I stood nearby as she packed her tools; I was still admiring the pencil portrait. I felt her despair, read her thoughts. I learned that she was alone in the city, and she was struggling badly. I turned toward her.
“I’ll be opening a small galleria in a few months. I could definitely use the help of someone as talented as you,” I said casually.
She stood up and looked at me with interest.
“It will take me a couple of weeks to find the right place, and maybe a couple of months to get the permits, and then more time to find a good collection to showcase, but if you are interested in a steady job in the field, I may have one for you,” I offered.
I had no idea how to go about making good on that promise, but it was the best I could offer.
She was quiet for a moment.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
I gave her my card. She took it, read the information, and looked back at me.
I contemplated the pencil portrait again just to show it back at her. “I’m afraid this one will go to my private collection, though,” I said in a casual manner.
She smiled, looking straight into my Gypsy eyes; and I found myself smiling back at her.
My lil’ Monet, I miss you.
I learned to love her in a very special way. I truly loved her—not her looks or her talent, not the possibility of taking her, but her force, her energy and desire to be great. In all our time together, I always knew how far and how remarkable she could become. I wanted to be a part of that, to be a witness to the birth of a great artist—and that’s what she ultimately was.
Lucy was an only child, born and raised in the South. She was very family oriented and refreshingly honest in her ways. It is not very often that someone like me finds hope in the people he meets, but I did with her. I used to struggle at times when weak and thirsty next to her; but at no risk of being hypocritical, I can honestly say I would have rather fed on rats before I would even consider harming her in any way.
I also knew that her ambition, with the guidance of someone like me, would find the structure and the solid base it needed to go as far as possible. She was smart enough to see that and too naive to have second thoughts.
I will admit that our little arrangement was comfortable. My kind is incapable of producing an offspring and just like with my stepson, Jason, Lucy became the subject of my attention, like a gifted daughter or a little sister.