The Delicate Dependency: A Novel of the Vampire Life Page 3

  I recall Camille rushing weightlessly across the floor and into my arms. She laughed, spun around. She was becoming much stronger and more at ease in public. “John?” she asked in a mock-innocent tone of voice that was all too familiar with me.

  I stared down into her dark eyes. “What do you want, Camille?”

  “Will you dance with me?”

  “Camille, it isn’t proper for a lady to ask a gentleman.”

  “Then you ask me.”

  I smiled.

  “Will you ask me now?”

  She was so exquisitely beautiful

  She raised her eyebrows hopefully, knowingly. “Will you ask me in a little while?”

  I smiled again and she read the message in my eyes.

  “Very well.” She lifted her dance card to consult her list of partners. “I’ve been asked by that jabbering old fool, Loni Langtry, to dance, and I’ll dance with him first. But after I’ve danced with him, and perhaps the second cousin of the Duke of Marlborough, I expect you to seek me out and be a proper gentleman.”

  “Yes, Camille,” I conceded.

  And instead of laughing coquettishly, she dropped the silly girlish façade and tilted her face back in an expression that was frightening in its emptiness. The dark eyes leveled upon me, vacant and yet infinite. The mouth fell open to reveal a slight glimpse of small white teeth, a red tongue. The tongue moved ever so slightly in a gesture that was so suggestive, I blushed.

  “Camille!”

  She continued the silent gaze for a few seconds, like a snake captivating a sparrow, and then she came out of it, throwing her head back in her familiar flirtatious manner, as she laughed and resumed her former self.

  She hurried off, her dress rustling upon the marble like a piece of paper in the wind.

  In moments she had grabbed an old walrus of a gentleman—Lord Langtry, I presume—and went virtually flying around the dance floor with him amid the slow and surprised crowd. Apparently refreshed by the spectacle, the orchestra picked up tempo and a livelier waltz surged up through the room.

  I have to admit, I was slightly embarrassed by Camille’s behavior and I didn’t notice someone had ambled up beside me.

  “A gentle bird,” a raspy voice murmured and I gave a start. I turned to see old Hardwicke standing to my right. His black coat, waistcoat, and trousers fit his deformed little body with perfect neatness. His white cravat was carefully tied, and his lavender-colored kid gloves might have adorned the hands of a clergyman. Since I had seen him socially at the Lyceum he had been just a little more cordial toward me in his lectures.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “It’s all right,”,! returned. “What was it you said?”

  “A gentle bird,” he repeated. “Pardon my saying so, but your wife is very beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” I said, somewhat surprised at his friendliness.

  With lurching movements Dr. Hardwicke lit a Laurens Egyptian cigarette and awkwardly circled around to my other side. He seemed very deep in thought.

  “Where did you meet your wife?” he asked presently. “I was introduced to her by one of my aunts at the Richmond Horse Show.” The lie rolled glibly off my tongue.

  “I see,” said Hardwicke, impressed. “And after you graduate, you intend to set up practice on Bond Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, good. You’ll make a fine living for her following in your father’s footsteps.”

  “Did you know my father?”

  “I knew of him, a fine physician, a very successful physician.”

  “Thank you,” I said, nodding.

  Hardwicke gave a big puff of blue smoke and clicked his feet together. “Do you know what made your father such a successful physician?”

  “What are you getting at?” I asked.

  “Not that he wasn’t a fine doctor; as I’ve said. But do you know what made him so successful as a society doctor?”

  Images from the past swept through my mind. “Yes, I know,” I said dryly. Hardwicke did not seem to hear.

  “He carefully cultivated his clientele. He cultivated them and he pampered them.”

  “Yes, indeed, he did.”

  “And you must do that.”

  “What?”

  “What I mean, my boy, is that sometimes you are going to have to be a hypocrite. You are going to have to lie and put up a façade because those people out there are going to be your future patients.” He wafted a gnarled hand at the crowd. “Those people out there will be your bread and butter, my boy, and no matter what you feel inside, you are going to have to please them to insure their patronage.”

  “I understand,” I said, smiling. I was amused because Hardwicke was so smug and pompous about everything I imagined he must have given that little speech to a hundred former interns.

  “Do you?” he said with a curious edge to his voice. I looked at him and for the first time I realized there might be more than boastful chitchat on the little gremlin’s mind. He was clearly watching my reaction. I turned to the crowd. Yes, these would be my future patients, a very fat woman in white and covered with jewels; a man with a monocle and goiter. I turned back to Hardwicke.

  “Yes. Yes, I do understand,” I repeated, but Hardwicke only frowned and grew quiet Finally, to break the silence, I surveyed the room until I spotted Camille spinning about the dance floor. After exhausting the old walrus she danced with another gentleman, and then another. And each one, snatched out of his zombielike state by a whirlwind, seemed to enjoy being part of the spectacle.

  The music-box dancers, however did not. One by one they backed off the floor and gazed on with frigid disapproval.

  “I think I should dance with Camille,” I said and tried to pull away from Dr. Hardwicke.

  “Nonsense, my boy. She’s enjoying herself. And besides, I want to talk to you about something.”

  I glanced back at him.

  “I’ve been thinking. I have a lot of work to do with both my research and my teaching. And, well... I need an assistant. I was wondering if you might be interested. It would be very good experience; look very good on your record with the board of review—”

  “I—” I began abruptly, wanting to jump at the chance. But then prudence demanded I maintain my composure. I was about to accept when suddenly I noticed Lady de Grey walking haughtily around one corner of the dance floor Lady de Grey was a large woman, in her midthirties, and pretty in a sort of puffy way. She had blond hair meticulously styled with the aid of a pair of hot tongs and alcohol lamp into numerous rolls and side curls. She also boasted an aesthetic fringe of curls stuck firmly to her forehead with spirit gum. Her face was round and white, completely without makeup, and her lips were thin and downward cast. Around her neck was a heavy malachite necklace and she wore a shimmering green satin gown.

  “I would be most happy to be your assistant,” I replied, and continued to watch Lady de Grey. She elegantly held up the train of her gown as she stalked by Camille and muttered something to her.

  Camille, a dark fury, spun about and apparently returned the insult, whereupon an audible gasp rose from the crowd. Even the old walrus of a gentleman looked on with indignant horror.

  “—and you promise you will come talk to me about it,” Dr. Hardwicke ended as I pulled away.

  By the time I reached Camille’s side a large crowd had gathered around her. Before her stood Lady de Grey, and the circle of onlookers tried desperately to maintain their dignified air as they breathlessly ogled the two opponents.

  “Mr. Gladstone,” Lady de Grey said, turning to me, “I demand your wife apologize.”

  “Well,” Camille defended, “the kind and respected Lady de Grey made a comment about my manner of dancing and told me I was frightening other guests off the floor.” Her small white breast rose and fell rapidly. “I’m not keeping anyone else from dancing.”

  A scornful murmur rippled through the crowd and the female onlookers noticeably increase
d the flutter of their fans.

  “I—” I began. I looked at Lady de Grey, the carefully groomed blond hair, the thin, cruel lips. The green satin of her gown shimmered against her doughy skin. If she had been a man I would have struck her. I looked at the encircling crowd. They exuded an air of condescending disinterest, but the fire in their eyes showed that beneath their dignified exteriors they were as fascinated and jeering as a mob in a Roman coliseum. I was about to defend Camille when I noticed Dr. Hardwicke standing a short distance away and watching attentively. A feeling crept through me, the same cool emptiness one experiences at the news of an unexpected death. He was right. He was quite right. One day these gout-infested skeletons would be my patients, my bread and butter our bread and butter. What sort of life could I provide for Camille if I openly insulted them? It couldn’t be, I thought to myself. Fate could not have designed a more hellish decision. I was wrenched. Something tightened in my throat. “My dearest,” I said stiffly, “it is Lady de Grey’s party. She has every right to make such a request.”

  Camille turned to me, stupefied.

  Lady de Grey raised an approving eyebrow.

  I thought, perhaps, Camille might understand, but she continued to search my face. I had never seen her look so hurt.

  “Well?” Lady de Grey prompted.

  At last fire rose up in Camille as she gazed at the hideous creature. “I’m sorry,” she said unconvincingly. “I beg your pardon.”

  Lady de Grey nodded vaguely as the orchestra diplomatically began another waltz. As the older woman turned to walk away I detected something in Camille’s eyes. Before I could do a thing she strode up behind the other woman and with the full of her strength gave her a mighty push and sent her tumbling into the fountain among the lilies and the terra-cotta putti. There was a mammoth splash followed by an astonished uproar from the crowd as they saw what had happened. As if following some secret stage direction the female onlookers were overcome with that most favorite of Victorian feminine afflictions, the vapors, and one by one began to faint into carefully chosen arms and couches.

  For a moment I was entranced by the horror of the scene that was transpiring and when I turned once again toward Camille I saw that she had retrieved her wrap and was rushing toward the door. I followed after her and noticed Dr. Hardwicke standing near the door. His eyes were filled with sympathy. He nodded briefly as I left.

  That evening Camille cried. I found her sitting curled up in the window seat of her boudoir, framed by the red velvet curtains, and wrapped only in a black embroidered shawl.

  “Camille,” I began, but then quieted as I sat beside her. After many long moments I whispered, “Is there any way I can ever make you understand I did it only for you?”

  She shook her head and turned toward the window. Outside, the huge elm tree brushed against the pane and through the branches Orion’s belt twinkled. A faint beam of moonlight shone through the clouds and caused an oblique shadow to fall over Camille’s face and down her slender neck. It neatly divided her cleavage into an area of shadow and pearly white and for a brief moment I fancied she was somewhere between two worlds—half lady of society and half fairy nymph. I imagined her among Moslem princes, dancing and laughing, and then suddenly bound up by the corsets of my world.

  A chill ran through me.

  She turned and her expression was once again terrifying and vacuous. I stared into her eyes for many long minutes.

  “John,” she finally said, “I can’t bear it, I must be myself.” And with that she turned away. I left her quietly.

  I had been asleep for several hours when I felt something move across me. At first the presence was so measured and snakelike I sat up with a start, but then I saw her face in the moonlight. Dark hair fell about my shoulders. The black shawl trailed softly over my arms and enveloped me. Her hands kneaded my flesh and I smelled her familiar scent. And then, for just a brief moment in the moonlight, I saw the red tongue moving serpentine, framed by the small white teeth.

  Camille and I never spoke about that incident. From that day forward without a word said between us, we scrupulously avoided the subject and the necessity to maintain a fiction regarding her past. We shunned social events and took in few guests. It was Camille who suffered most from this. I could tell she felt uneasy, bound hand and foot by the seemliness of me and my world.

  Dr. Cletus Hardwicke became most friendly toward me. After lectures he would call me up to the podium to commend me on my answers or the thoroughness of my reading. When he saw me in the corridors he smiled and always took the time to say hello. He did not mention the assistantship and I assumed he was either deliberating or had forgotten it. He was very kindly and I even grew to suspect his interest was more than just professional, but paternal in an odd sort of way.

  One sunny afternoon and several weeks after Lady de Grey’s party I passed by one of the lecture halls and recognized his familiar hunched form at the base of the steep and empty amphitheater. The amphitheater was a treacherous canyon of rickety seats, metal pipe railings, and porcelain-tiled walls. Sunlight flooded in the tall, narrow windows and brightly lit the chalkboard, the numerous immense and yellowed anatomical charts, and the seven grinning, partial, and complete human skeletons surrounding the main table.

  Dr. Hardwicke sat on a high stool behind the table. He was surrounded by a number of alembics, beakers, distillers, and flickering Bunsen burners. A faint miasma of uric acid filled the chamber and on the table were several large metal enameled trays containing human brains and livers, kidneys, and stomachs. In very large trays were two human cadavers, one, the large gray corpse of a man, and the othei; only a spinal column and pelvis, disarticulated at the neck and hip, with most of the flesh and internal organs removed and half submerged in formaldehyde.

  “Dr. Hardwicke,” I called from the upper door.

  “Mr. Gladstone. Comedown. Come down.” He wafted his hand excitedly as I made my way down the precipitous steps. Have you come to talk to me about what I think you’ve come to talk about?”

  I smiled. “The assistantship?”

  “Oh, yes,” he returned excitedly and I felt flattered he should be so happy about it. “I’m so busy, you know, there are many things you could help me with, my boy. Are you free evenings?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Good. There’s a lot of work to be done in the evenings. Of course, I must warn you, if you decide to accept my proposition and work for me, there will be many nights you’ll have to work alone. Will that be all right?”

  “Quite all right.”

  “Good. And you accept my offer?”

  “Of course I do.” I gazed warmly at the strange little man, marveling at his willingness to offer me such a precious opportunity. “But I must ask you, Dr. Hardwicke: Why have you chosen me for this position?”

  The little man regarded me with a strange smirk. “Because I like you, my boy. Because I like you.” He gave a throaty chuckle and slipped on a pair of rubber gloves. “How’s Camille?” he asked abruptly.

  “Camille?”

  “Oh, excuse me. Mrs. Gladstone, I mean. For some reason I don’t think of you and her according to your last names.”

  “She’s quite fine,” I said curtly.

  Hardwicke grunted. “Quite fine, yes, indeed.” And then he glanced at me and once again he was curiously amused.

  I smiled, not quite understanding the joke and he drew in his breath.

  “You ask me why I chose you?” he said and suddenly reached over and lifted the partial cadaver out of the tray. The smell of formaldehyde filled the area. “Because you’re clever; my boy. See here. See this remnant of a human being. Trunk. What little soft tissue remains shows some putrefactive changes. Spine’s been severed in the upper lumbar region. No rib cage. The entire pelvis is here and its organs, with the exception of the genitalia. Question: Is it a male or a female skeleton?”

  “From the bone configuration it’s obvious it isn’t female,” I said. “And beside
s, the amount of adherent prostatic tissue clearly reveals it’s a male skeleton.”

  “Yes...” he said slowly. “The amount of adherent prostatic tissue. You see, you are clever.” He glanced at the hulk of flesh and bone and back at me. “Can you tell me anything else?”

  I leaned forward and scrutinized the mass. The formaldehyde caused my eyes to sting a little, but I tried not to flinch. I examined the rivulets of grayed flesh, the dull blue vascular bundles. It was a decaying hunk of meat, the ignominious remains of extensive dissections. It was the work of one of two possible perpetrators—medical students or wolves. Other than that I was at a loss as to what he was looking for.

  “I’m afraid I do not see anything else, sir,” I said reluctantly.

  “Don’t be afraid, Gladstone,” he returned. “That’s exactly what I was looking for. Outside of a limited number of possible chemical differences, there’s nothing to distinguish this remnant from any other remnant. We’re all the same here.” His gloved hands squeezed the flesh like a sponge and little rivers of formaldehyde trickled between his fingers. “One cannot distinguish between the internal organs of a baronet or a beggar.” He allowed the portion of spine and pelvis to slide back into their murky bath.

  After that little exposition he ran through a list of duties and scheduled the evenings I would be working. My responsibilities consisted of various mundane tests and the tagging of anatomical specimens. When he had finished I said, “May I inquire, Dr. Hardwicke, does any of this have to do with your research?”

  “No,” he replied.

  “May I ask what your research entails?”

  He turned to me and his expression became utterly serious. “No!” he snapped. “I never divulge what I am working on.” He continued to glare at me for a moment as if my question had been so improper he was considering some further reprimand. I was about to beg for pardon when, just as swiftly, his frown melted. “I’m sorry, my boy. It was a harmless question. Please excuse me for being so flammable.” He smiled amiably and offered me his hand.