By sunrise, I"d developed a rash between my eyebrows, a little late-flowering acne, but was otherwise fine, and I understood I truly was immortal. At that moment I yielded all discrimination; I bit anyone kind or slow enough to let me get close: men, women, even some older boys and girls. The littlest children I left alone, very proud at the time of this one scruple. I"d read stories about Hungarian vampirs who drank the blood of orphan girls and mentioned this to Magreb early on, hoping to impress her with my decency. Not children! she wept. She wept for a day and a half.
Our first date was in Cementerio de Colon, if I can call a chance meeting between headstones a date. I had been stalking her, following her swishing hips as she took a shortcut through the cemetery gra.s.s. She wore her hair in a low, snaky braid that was coming unraveled. When I was near enough to touch her trailing ribbon she whipped around. "Are you following me?" she asked, annoyed, not scared. She regarded my face with the contempt of a woman confronting the town drunk. "Oh," she said, "your teeth."
And then she grinned. Magreb was the first and only other vampire I"d ever met. We bared our fangs over a tombstone and recognized one another. There is a loneliness that must be particular to monsters, I think, the feeling that each is the only child of a species. And now that loneliness was over.
Our first date lasted all night. Magreb"s talk seemed to lunge forward, like a train without a conductor; I suspect even she didn"t know what she was saying. I certainly wasn"t paying attention, staring dopily at her fangs, and then I heard her ask: "So, when did you figure out that the blood does nothing?"
At the time of this conversation, I was edging on 130. 1 had never gone a day since early childhood without drinking several pints of blood. The blood does nothing? My forehead burned and burned.
"Didn"t you think it suspicious that you had a heartbeat?" she asked me. "That you had a reflection in water?"
When I didn"t answer, Magreb went on. "Every time I saw my own face in a mirror, I knew I wasn"t any of those ridiculous things, a bloodsucker, a sanguina. You know?"
"Sure," I said, nodding. For me, mirrors had the opposite effect: I saw a mouth ringed in black blood! I saw the pale son of the villagers" fears.
Those early days with Magreb nearly undid me. At first my euphoria was sharp and blinding, all my thoughts spooling into a single blue thread of relief-The blood does nothing! I don"t have to drink the blood!-but when that subsided, I found I had nothing left. If we didn"t have to drink the blood, then what on earth were these fangs for?
Sometimes I think she preferred me then: I was like her own child, raw and amazed. We smashed my coffin with an ax and spent the night at a hotel. I lay there wide-eyed in the big bed, my heart thudding like a fish tail against the floor of a boat.
"You"re really sure?" I whispered to her. "I don"t have to sleep in a coffin? I don"t have to sleep through the day?" She had already drifted off.
A few months later, she suggested a picnic.
"But the sun."
Magreb shook her head. "You poor thing, believing all that garbage."
By this time we"d found a dirt cellar in which to live in Western Australia, where the sun burned through the clouds like dining lace. That sun ate lakes, rising out of dead volcanoes at dawn, triple the size of a harvest moon and skull-white, a gra.s.s-scorcher. Go ahead, try to walk into that sun when you"ve been told your bones are tinder.
I stared at the warped planks of the trapdoor above us, the copper ladder that led rung by rung to the bright world beyond. Time fell away from me and I was a child again, afraid, afraid. Magreb rested her hand on the small of my back. "Yon can do it," she said, nudging me gently. I took a deep breath and hunched my shoulders, my scalp grazing the cellar door, my hair soaked through with sweat. I focused my thoughts to still the tremors, lest my fangs slice the inside of my mouth, and turned my face away from Magreb.
"Go on."
I pushed up and felt the wood give way. Light exploded through the cellar. My pupils shrank to dots.
Outside, the whole world was on fire. Mute explosions rocked the scrubby forest, motes of light burning like silent rockets. The sun fell through the eucalyptus and Australian pines in bright red bars. I pulled myself out onto my belly, balled up in the soil, and screamed for mercy until I"d exhausted myself. Then I opened one watery eye and took a long look around. The sun wasn"t fatal! It was just uncomfortable, making my eyes itch and water and inducing a sneezing attack. (Magreb still has not let me forget this scene, and it happened two hundred years ago.) After that, and for the whole of our next thirty years together, I watched the auroral colors and waited to feel anything but terror. Fingers of light spread across the gray sea toward me, and I couldn"t see these colors as beautiful. The sky I lived under was a hideous, lethal mix of orange and pink, a physical deformity. By the 1950s we were living in a Cincinnati suburb; and as a day"s first light hit the kitchen windows, I"d press my face against the linoleum and gibber my terror into the cracks.
"So-o," Magreb would say, "I can tell you"re not a morning person." Then she"d sit on the porch swing and rock with me, patting my hand.
"What"s wrong, Clyde?"
I shook my head. This was a new sadness, difficult to express. My bloodl.u.s.t was undiminished but now the blood wouldn"t fix it.
"It never fixed it," Magreb reminded me, and I wished she would please stop talking.
That cl.u.s.ter of years was a very confusing period. Mostly I felt grateful, aboveground feelings. I was in love. For a vampire, my life was very normal. Instead of stalking prost.i.tutes, I went on long bicycle rides with Magreb. We visited botanical gardens and rowed in boats. In a short time, my face had gone from lithium white to the color of milky coffee. Yet sometimes, especially at high noon, I"d study Magreb"s face with a hot, illogical hatred, each pore opening up to swallow me. You"ve ruined my life, I"d think. To correct for her power over my mind I tried to fantasize about mortal women, their wild eyes and bare swan necks; I couldn"t do it, not anymore-an eternity of vague female smiles eclipsed by Magreb"s tiny razor fangs. Two gray tabs against her lower lip.
But like I said, I was mostly happy. I was making a kind of progress.
One night, children wearing necklaces of garlic bulbs arrived giggling at our door. It was Halloween; they were vampire hunters. The smell of garlic blasted through the mail slot, along with their voices: "Trick or treat!" In the old days, I would have cowered from these children. I would have run downstairs to barricade myself in my coffin. But that night, I pulled on an undershirt and opened the door. I stood in a square of green light in my boxer shorts hefting a bag of Tootsie Roll Pops, a small victory over the old fear.
"Mister, you okay?"
I blinked down at a little blond child and then saw that my two hands were shaking violently, soundlessly, like old friends wishing not to burden me with their troubles. I dropped the candies into the children"s bags, thinking: You small mortals don"t realize the power of your stories.
We were downing strawberry velvet c.o.c.ktails on the Seine when something inside me changed. Thirty years. Eleven thousand dawns. That"s how long it took for me to believe the sun wouldn"t kill me.
"Want to go see a museum or something? We"re in Paris, after all."
"Okay."
We walked over a busy pedestrian bridge in a flood of light, and my heart was in my throat. Without any discussion, I understood that Magreb was my wife.
Because I love her, my hunger pangs have gradually mellowed into a comfortable despair. Sometimes I think of us as two holes cleaved together, two twin hungers. Our bellies growl at one another like companionable dogs. I love the sound, a.s.suring me we"re equals in our thirst. We b.u.mp our fangs together and feel like we"re coming up against the same hard truth.
Human marriages amuse me: the brevity of the commitment and all the ceremony that surrounds it, the calla lilies, the veiled mothers-in-law like lilac spiders, the tears and earnest toasts. Till death do us part! Easy. These mortal couples need only keep each other in sight for fifty, sixty years.
Often I wonder to what extent a mortal"s love grows from the bedrock of his or her foreknowledge of death, love coiling like a green stem out of that blankness in a way I"ll never quite understand. And lately I"ve been having a terrible thought: Our love affair will end before the world does.
One day, without any preamble, Magreb flew up to the caves. She called over her furry, muscled shoulder that she just wanted to sleep for a while.
"What? Wait! What"s wrong?"
I"d caught her midshift, halfway between a wife and a bat.
"Don"t be so sensitive, Clyde! I"m just tired of this century, so very tired, maybe it"s the heat? I think I just need a little rest. . . . "
I a.s.sumed this was an experiment, like my cape, an old habit to which she was returning; and from the clumsy, ambivalent way she crashed around on the wind I understood I was supposed to follow her. Well, too bad. Magreb likes to say she freed me, disabused me of the old stories; but I gave up more than I intended: I can"t shudder myself out of this old man"s body. I can"t fly anymore.
Fila and I are alone. I press my dry lips together and shove dominoes around the table; they buckle like the cars of a tiny train.
"More lemonade, nonno?" she smiles. She leans from her waist and boldly touches my right fang, a thin string of hanging drool. "Looks like you"re thirsty."
"Please," I gesture at the bench. "Have a seat."
Fila is seventeen now and has known about me for some time. She"s toying with the idea of telling her boss, weighing the sentence within her like a bullet in a gun: There is a vampire in our grove.
"You don"t believe me, signore Alberti?" she"ll say, before taking him by the wrist and leading him to this bench, and I"ll choose that moment to rise up and bite him in his hog-thick neck. "Right through his stupid tie!" she says with a grin.
But this is just idle fantasy, she a.s.sures me. Fila is content to let me alone. "You remind me of my nonno," she says approvingly, "you look very Italian."
In fact, she wants to help me hide here. It gives her a warm feeling to do so, like helping her own fierce nonno do up the small b.u.t.tons of his trousers, now too intricate a maneuver for his palsied hands. She worries about me, too. And she should: lately I"ve gotten sloppy, incontinent about my secrets. I"ve stopped polishing my shoes; I let the tip of one fang hang over my pink lip. "You must be more careful," she reprimands. "There are tourists everywhere."
I study her neck as she says this, her head rolling with the natural expressiveness of a girl. She checks to see if I am watching her collarbone, and I let her see that I am. I feel like a threat again.
Last night I went on a rampage. On my seventh lemon I found with a sort of drowsy despair that I couldn"t stop. I crawled around on all fours looking for the last bianchettis in the dewy gra.s.s: soft with rot, mildewed, sun-shriveled, blackened. Lemon skin bulging with tiny cellophane-green worms. Dirt smells, rain smells, all swirled through with the tart sting of decay.
In the morning, Magreb steps around the wreckage and doesn"t say a word.
"I came up with a new name," I say, hoping to distract her. "Brandolino. What do you think?"
Magreb and I have spent the last several years trying to choose Italian names, and every day that I remain Clyde feels like a defeat. Our names are relics of the places we"ve been. "Clyde" is a souvenir from the California Gold Rush. I was callow and blood-crazed back then, and I saw my echo in the freckly youths panning along the Sacramento River. I used the name as a kind of bait. It sounded innocuous, like someone a boy might get a malt beer with or follow into the woods.
Magreb chose her name in the Atlas Mountains for its etymology, the root word ghuroob, which means "to set" or "to be hidden." "That"s what we"re looking for," she tells me. "The setting place. Some final answer." She won"t change her name until we find it.
She takes a lemon from her mouth, slides it down the length of her fangs, and places its shriveled core on the picnic table. When she finally speaks, her voice is so low the words are almost unintelligible.
"The lemons aren"t working, Clyde."
But the lemons have never worked. At best, they give us eight hours of peace. We aren"t talking about the lemons.
"How long?"
"Longer than I"ve let on. I"m sorry."
"Well, maybe it"s this crop. Those Alberti boys haven"t been fertilizing properly, maybe the primofiore will turn out better."
Magreb fixes me with one fish-bright eye. "Clyde, I think it"s time for us to go."
Wind blows the leaves apart. Lemons wink like a firmament of yellow stars, slowly ripening, and I can see the other, truer night behind them.
"Go where?" Our marriage, as I conceive it, is a commitment to starve together.
"We"ve been resting here for decades. I think it"s time . . . what is that thing?"
I have been preparing a present for Magreb, for our anniversary, a "cave" of scavenged materials-newspaper and bottle gla.s.s and wooden beams from the lemon tree supports-so that she can sleep down here with me. I"ve smashed dozens of bottles of fruity beer to make stalact.i.tes. Looking at it now, though, I see the cave is very small. It looks like an umbrella mauled by a dog.
"That thing?" I say. "That"s nothing. I think it"s part of the hot dog machine."
"Jesus. Did it catch on fire?"
"Yes. The girl threw it out yesterday."
"Clyde," Magreb shakes her head. "We never meant to stay here forever, did we? That was never the plan."
"I didn"t know we had a plan," I snap. "What if we"ve outlived our food supply? What if there"s nothing left for us to find?"
"You don"t really believe that."
"Why can"t you just be grateful? Why can"t you be happy and admit defeat? Look at what we"ve found here!" I grab a lemon and wave it in her face.
"Goodnight, Clyde."
I watch my wife fly up into the watery dawn, and again I feel the awful tension. In the flats of my feet, in my k.n.o.bbed spine. Love has infected me with a muscular superst.i.tion that one body can do the work of another.
I consider taking the funicular, the ultimate degradation-worse than the dominoes, worse than an eternity of sucking cut lemons. All day I watch the cars ascend, and I"m reminded of those American fools who accompany their wives to the beach but refuse to wear bathing suits. I"ve seen them by the harbor, sulking in their trousers, panting through menthol cigarettes and pacing the dock while the women sea-bathe. They pretend they don"t mind when sweat darkens the armpits of their suits. When their wives swim out and leave them. When their wives are just a splash in the distance.
Tickets for the funicular are twenty lire I sit at the bench and count as the cars go by.
That evening, I take Magreb on a date. I haven"t left the lemon grove in upward of two years, and blood roars in my ears as I stand and clutch at her like an old man. We"re going to the Thursday night show, an antique theater in a castle in the center of town. I want her to see that I"m happy to travel with her, so long as our destination is within walking distance.
A teenage usher in a vintage red jacket with puffed sleeves escorts us to our seats, his biceps manacled in clouds, threads loosening from the badge on his chest. I am jealous of the name there: Guglielmo.
The movie"s t.i.tle is already scrolling across the black screen: Something Clandestine Is Happening in the Corn!
Magreb snorts. "That"s a pretty lousy name for a horror movie. It sounds like a student film."
"Here"s your ticket," I say. "I didn"t make the t.i.tle up. If you wanted to see something else you should have said so."
It"s a vampire movie set in the Dust Bowl. Magreb expects a comedy, but the Dracula actor fills me with the sadness of an old photo alb.u.m. An Okie has unwittingly fallen in love with the monster, whom she"s mistaken for a rich European creditor eager to pay off the mortgage on her family"s farm.
"That Okie," says Magreb, "is an idiot."
I turn my head miserably and there"s Fila, sitting two rows in front of us with a greasy young man. Benny Alberti. Her white neck is bent to the left, Benny"s lips affixed to it as she impa.s.sively sips a soda.
"Poor thing," Magreb whispers, indicating the pigtailed actress. "She thinks he"s going to save her."
Dracula shows his fangs, and the Okie flees through a cornfield. Corn stalks smack her face. "Help!" she screams to a sky full of crows. "He"s not actually from Europe!"
There is no music, only the girl"s breath and the fwap-fwap-fwap of the off-screen fan blades. Dracula"s mouth hangs wide as a sewer grate. His cape is curiously still.
The movie picture is frozen. The fwaping is emanating from the projection booth; it rises to a grinding r-r-r, followed by lyrical Italian cussing and silence and finally a tidal sigh. Magreb shifts in her seat.
"Let"s wait," I say, seized with an empathy for these two still figures on the movie screen, mutely waiting for repair. "They"ll fix it."
People begin to file out of the theater, first in twos and threes and then in droves.
"I"m tired, Clyde."
"Don"t you want to know what happens?" My voice is more frantic than I intend it to be.
"I already know what happens."
"Don"t you leave now, Magreb. I"m telling you, they"re going to fix it. If you leave now, that"s it for us, I"ll never . . . "
Her voice is beautiful, like gravel underfoot: "I"m going to the caves."
I"m alone in the theater. When I turn to exit, the picture is still frozen, the Okie"s blue dress floating over windless corn, Dracula"s mouth a hole in his white greasepaint.
Outside I see Fila standing in a clot of her friends, lit by the marquee. These kids wear too much makeup, and clothes that move like colored oils. They all looked rained on. I scowl at them and they scowl back; and then Fila crosses to me.
"Hey, you," she grins, breathless, so very close to my face. "Are you stalking somebody?"
My throat tightens.
"Guys!" Her eyes gleam. "Guys, come over and meet the vampire."
But the kids are gone.