vampire chronicles | Page 2

want to give simple answers," said the
vampire. "I think I want to tell the real story. . . '
"Yes," the boy said quickly. He was folding his handkerchief over and over and wiping
his lips now with it again.
"There was a tragedy . . ." the vampire starte d. "It was my younger brother . . . . He died."
And then he stopped, so that the boy cleared his throat and wiped at his face again before
stuffing the handkerchief almost impatiently into his pocket.
"It's not painful, is it?" he asked timidly.
"Does it seem so?" asked the vampire. "No." He shook his head. "It's simply that I've
only told this story to one other person. A nd that was so long ago. No, it's not pa'
"We were living. in Louisiana then. We'd r eceived a land grant and settled two indigo
plantations on the Mississippi very near New Orleans . . . ."
"Ah, that's the accent . . ." the boy said softly.
For a moment the vampire stared blankly. "I have an accent?" He began to laugh.
And the boy, flustered, answered quickly. "I no ticed it in the bar when I asked you what
you did for a living. It's just a slight sharpne ss to the consonants, that's all. I never
guessed it was French."
"It's all right," the vampire assured him. "ran not as shocked as I pretend to be. It's only
that I forget it from time to time. But let me go on. . . . '
"Please . . " said the boy.
"I was talking about the plan tations. They had a great deal to do with it, really, my
becoming a vampire. But I'll come to th at. Our life there was both luxurious and
primitive. And we ourselves found it extremely attractive. You see, we lived far better

there than we could have ever lived in France. Perhaps the sheer wilderness of Louisiana
only made it seem so, but seeming so, it was. I remember the imported furniture that
cluttered the house." The vampire smiled. "And the harpsichord; that was lovely. My
sister used to play it. On summer evenings, sh e would sit at the keys with her back to the
open French windows. And I can still remember that thin, rapid music and the vision of
the swamp rising beyond her, the moss-hung cypresses floating against the sky. And
there were the sounds of the swamp, a chorus of creatures, the cry of the birds. I think we
loved it. It made the rosewood furniture all the more precious, the music more delicate
and desirable. Even when the wisteria tore the shutters oft the attic windows and worked
its tendrils right into the whitewashed brick in less than a year . . . . Yes, we loved it. All
except my brother. I don't think I ever h eard him complain of anything, but I knew how
he felt. My father was dead then, and I was head of the family and I had to defend him
constantly from my mother a nd sister. They wanted to take him visiting, and to New
Orleans for parties, but he hated these things . I think he stopped going altogether before
he was twelve: Prayer was what mattered to him, prayer and his leather-bound lives of
the saints.
"Finally I built him an oratory removed from the house, and he began to spend most of
every day there and often the early evening. It was ironic, really. He was so different
from us, so different from everyone, and I was so regular! There was nothing
extraordinary about me whatsoever." The vampire smiled.
"Sometimes in the evening I would go out to him and find him in the garden near the
oratory, sitting absolutely composed on a stone bench there, and I'd tell him my troubles,
the difficulties I had with the slaves, how I di strusted the overseer or the weather or my
brokers . . . all the problems that made up th e length and breadth of my existence. And he
would listen, making only a few comments, always sympathetic, so that when I left him I
had the distinct impression he bad solved ev erything for me. I didn't think I could deny
him anything, and I vowed that no matter how it would break my heart to lose him, he
could enter the priesthood when the time came. Of course, I was wrong." The vampire
stopped.
For a moment the boy only gazed at him and