vampire chronicles

Interview With The Vampire
by Anne Rice
"I see . . .' said the vampire thoughtfully, and slowly he walked across the room towards
the window. For a long time he stood there agai nst the dim light from Divisadero Street
and the passing beams of traffic. The boy c ould see the furnishings of the room more
clearly now, the round oak table, the chai rs. A wash basin hung on one wall with a
mirror. He set his brief case on the table and waited.
"But how much tape do you have with you?" asked the vampire, turning now so the boy
could see his profile. "Enough for the story of a life?"
"Sure, if it's a good life. Sometim es I interview as many as three or four people a night if
I'm lucky. But it has to be a good story. That's only fair, isn't it?"
"Admirably fair," the vampir e answered. "I would like to tell you the story of my life,
then. I would like to do that very much."
"Great," said the boy. And quickly he remove d the small tape recorder from his brief
case, making a check of the cassette and the ba tteries. "I'm really anxious to hear why
you believe this, why you . . ."
"No," said the vampire abruptly. "We can't begin that way. Is your equipment ready?"
"Yes," said the boy.
"Then sit down. I'm going to turn on the overhead light."
"But I thought vampires didn't like light," sa id the boy. "If you think the dark adds to the
atmosphere."
" But then he stopped. The vampire was watchi ng him with his back to the window. The
boy could make out nothing of his face now, a nd something about the still figure there
distracted him. He started to say something again but he said nothing. And then he sighed
with relief when the vampire moved towards th e table and reached for the overhead cord.
At once the room was flooded with a harsh yellow light. And the boy, staring up at the
vampire, could not repress a gasp. His fingers danced backwards on the table to grasp the
edge. "Dear God!" he whispered, and then he gazed, speechless, at the vampire.
The vampire was utterly white and smooth, as if he were sculpted from bleached bone,
and his face was as seemingly inanimate as a statue, except for two brilliant green eyes
that looked down at the boy intently like flames in a skull. But then the vampire smiled
almost wistfully, and the smooth white substa nce of his face moved with the infinitely
flexible but minimal lines of a carto on. "Do you see?" he asked softly.
The boy shuddered, lifting his hand as if to shie ld himself from a powerful light. His eyes
moved slowly over the finely tailored black co at he'd only glimpsed in the bar, the long
folds of the cape, the black silk tie knotted at the throat, and the gleam of the white collar
that was as white as the vampire's flesh. He stared at the vampire's full black hair, the
waves that were combed back over the tips of the ears, the curls that barely touched the
edge of the white collar.
"Now, do you still want the interview?" the vampire asked.

The boy's mouth was open before the sound came out. He was nodding. Then he said,
"Yes."
The vampire sat down slowly opposite him and, leaning forward, said gently,
confidentially, "Don't be afrai d. Just start the tape."
And then he reached out over the length of the table. The boy recoiled, sweat running
down the sides of his face. The vampire clamped a hand on the boy's shoulder and said,
"Believe me, I won't hurt you. I want this opportu nity. It's more important to me than you
can realize now. I want you to begin." A nd he withdrew his hand and sat collected,
waiting.
It took a moment for the boy to wipe his fore head and his lips with a handkerchief, to
stammer that the microphone was in the mach ine, to press the button, to say that the
machine was on.
"You weren't always a vampire, were you?" he began.
"No," answered the vampire. "I was a tw enty-five year-old man when I became a
vampire, and the year was seventeen ninety-one."
The boy was startled by the precis eness of the date and he repeated it before he asked,
"How did it come about?"
"There's a simple answer to that. I don't belie ve I