The Story of the Vampire, L (Completed | Featured )

Part 4 - L'Odalisque

 He was combative, and jealous, and always had been. But he loved the things that Laurent loved, and when Laurent needed a friend, it was always Nicky. In the 1870s, they were always going to the little theatres in Pigalle — precursors to the Grand Guignol and as sensational. They loved the splatter shows, the slasher plays. Nicky had kept himself well-dressed by making contact with an upmarket tailor in the 6th arrondisement, and he was forever taking me there to be kitted out as well.

But I didn't go with them to the theatre. I have never been very comfortable in large, warm rooms, surrounded, listening to the rabble. And it was like that, hot, claustrophobic, the night Nicky left.

It was impossibly hot that summer. We had all been fighting, jealous and mad with the heat. I had been sleeping on the couch in my study, because it was the only door I could lock in the dark, simmering apartment. I had been startled awake too many times by greedy mouths, coming up my bedcovers with grasping fingers. I often found myself waking curled up tightly on the leather sofa, arms protecting my head.

I cannot really say that I know what there is between Laurent and Nicky. I don't think there's a simple way to talk about it. The night before he left, I heard shouting from L's room, and in the evening, when I rose, Nicky had thrown an entire tin of compact of powder over Laurent's bed. Laurent was sitting still, with his legs drawn up under the covers, elbows resting on his knees. When I came in he looked away.

"You won't go will you?" he asked me.

The powder was in his hair and dusted across his face. He looked almost like himself again, like he was in the 1720s, when we were the most happy. Everything had been quiet then, balanced. He looked at me through his lashes. His vanity dresser, with its brushed gold scrollwork drawers, was broken.

"Did he hurt you?" I asked.

"I know what I've done to you," he said. "And I know that he has reason to be angry. But don't leave me. I know you think about it. I know you talk about it together, when I'm not around. But don't leave me, Dasius. Don't do that." He was sitting very still, and I realized he had been sitting like that since Nicky had gone. 

"No. No," I said, frozen in the doorway. "Never."

He had looked around himself then, lips slightly parted, seeing himself through my eyes. "Don't look at me," he had whispered. 

And I thought that Nicky was gone then, because it was his pattern to leave after shattering him, but he came back that evening, dark-eyed and staring. When I tried to stop him going into Laurent's room he went into my study and slammed the door.

Earlier, I had helped Laurent turn down his bed again, dusting away the powder with my fingers and trying to ignore his stumbling about and soft cries. I had suspected for months that Laurent was being drugged, but he never let me get close enough to search him for evidence. In the washroom, door open, he had shaken powder out of his blond curls, moaning in pain.

I have so often been left out of everyone's affairs. I am so often left to myself. I have done what I can with my time, refusing after so long to sit outside of shut doors or feel self pity. Why should I be undone by being ignored? Doesn't he always come back to me? And when I saw the pecks on his arms, from where Nicky had been biting him, I said nothing. "Stay. Stay," he said, and I needed nothing else.

I should have taken him by the arms that morning and asked him if he was being drugged then, because I would have known the truth so much sooner. I should have listened to their arguments. But time goes by so quickly. "Come out with me," Laurent said. "Come out with me." So I said alright.

He sat me down in his small washroom and made my face like a Rococo painting, with his white powder and rose tints. He twisted my hair up and pinned it back. Every time he got close to me I could smell his eau de toilette, spirit of myrcia, all oranges and the harshness of alcohol.