Paris, my darling Paris, the city I had received the dark Trick in, the city that I had fallen madly in love with, the city where Nicolas De-Lenfent and I had our wickedly delicious, and never-ending conversation had changed, become modern. Automobiles made of steel and glass replaced the grand carriages of yesteryear, their huge wooden wheels making a sort of symphony on the cobbled streets. There was a sort of romance in that sound; there is no romance in automobiles, no splendor, no true elegance. Darkness has fallen and brought with it the blessed rain. I love the sound of rain, the rhythmic pattering, the gentle whisper that sounds like a lover’s contended sigh, there’s a comfort I find in that sound that I find in nothing else. I need comfort now, for I stand among the charred remains of an ancient building that holds so many memories for me, the Théâtre des Vampires. The rubble sits like a scar on the face of such a beautiful city, yet I cannot bear the thought of it being removed, and in fact have paid a handsome fee to make sure this scar remains ever visible. Some wounds hurt even more when they fully heal. My mother, Gabriele used to say that to me when I was in my mortal youth and I have come to learn the deep and profound wisdom of her words. I close my eyes and listen to the rain, steady, insistent, and I smile the sad smile of centuries lost. It’s funny how much like applause the rain sounds like. I can see Nicki, his dirty blonde hair mussed and unkempt, eyes wild with excitement and brimming with his lust of life and the gilded stage. His beloved Stradivarius violin under his chin, the polished spruce body gleaming like a precious gem in the spotlight as his fingers caressed the strings like an attentive lover. The bow a hypnotic blur as he made love to his music between acts, the crowd half listening, half-restless for the next skit to begin. But I always listened to my darling Nicki play. How his music aroused me. Everything about Nicki, from his music to his too expressive eyes and wild hair, to his rumbled clothing and his infectious laugh aroused me. In a word, Nicolas was love and I was forever lost in him. His name brings with it the precious pain, the wonderful familiar ache that only the amber illusion of memories can inflict. His once beautiful music has now fallen silent to the raging madness that owns him, and so much is my pity for the tragic silence. However, as I pick and plod my way through the wreckage, touching the flame-kissed boards that used to be the stage, I can hear him playing. The notes soaring into the cigarette smoke on mighty invisible wings, the minor falls and the major lifts echoing proudly against the walls and down the littered corridors to the tiny dressing rooms. My heart would race like the pounding of warhorses across the battlefield. God in heaven how he could play when the spotlight found him. Later, after the crowds had gone, the lights dimmed and the performers had gone for their nightly ritual of wine and debauchery, I would kiss his eyes, stroke his hair, and tell him how beautiful he was. Together we would create our own music, soft and wonderful, intimate and passionate, and now, lost forever to the wicked humor of passing time. The immortal Nicolas detests me, as I detest the immortal Nicolas. I remember him too well in his mortal prime, his lovely youth when time was his friend and not his enemy as it is now. I remember him before eternity took his sanity and destroyed the one I loved by turning him into just a beautiful shell of what he used to be. There is no fire of life blazing in his eyes anymore, no infectious laughter, no wickedly complicated conversations, no intimate nights wrapped in each other’s arms. The Dark Trick was crueler to him than it was to me, and perhaps he is justified in his passionate hatred, who am I to pass judgment? The rain is much heavier now, as is my immense sorrow, my immortal pain, my preternatural suffering. The exposed wood is dark with water, warped like an ancient and gnarled tree limb from time, mocks me with precious memories. I felt the crimson tears, hot with rage running down my alabaster cheeks, and I felt no need to wipe them away. Let me bleed, let the pain claim its prize, please, God, let the ghosts of my so long ago have their day. I will do nothing to defeat them. Not tonight, not tonight. I’m drenched to the bone. I don’t care. Let the cleansing rain wash these sins from off my hands. Let it replenish my dusty soul, if indeed I have one left to replenish. I sit among the rubble of the stage and lay my head upon the sodden planks and I listen. The wood remembers, the wood knows what I need to sate my yearning, and it delivers. I hear Nicolas. I feel his music echoing eternally in the memory of the ruined stage. I feel the notes press against my soaked skin like an electric current, and I weep. I weep for what was and what can never be again. I weep for the love I still carry in my heart, for the delicious ache that follows me like a shadow wherever I go, and I weep that I am not strong enough to not hate my darling immortal Nicolas de Lenfent.*
Posted on: Tue, 01 Apr 2014 16:09:34 +0000
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