annr.pandora-第1章

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　TO
　STAN；　CHRISTOPHER　AND　MICHELE　RICE
　TO
　SUZANNE　SCOTT　QUIROZ　AND
　VICTORIA　WILSON
　TO　THE　MEMORY　OF　JOHN　PRESTON
　TO
　THE　IRISH　OF　NEW　ORLEANS
　WHO；　IN　THE　1850S；
　BUILT　ON　CONSTANCE　STREET
　THE　GREAT　CHURCH　OF　ST。　ALPHONSUS；　
　WHILE　PASSING　ON　TO　US
　THROUGH　FAITH；　ARCHITECTURE　AND　ART　
　A　SPLENDID　MONUMENT
　TO
　〃THE　GLORY　THAT　WAS　GREECE
　AND
　THE　GRANDEUR　THAT　WAS　ROME〃
　
　
　Of　Mrs。　Moore　and　the　echo　in　the　Marabar　Caves：
　。。。but　the　echo　began　in　some　indescribable　way　to　undermine　her　hold　on　life。　ing　at　a　moment　when　she　chanced　to　be　fatigued；　it　had　managed　to　murmur　〃Pathos；　piety；　courage　…　they　exist；　but　are　identical；　and　so　is　filth。　Everything　exists；　nothing　has　value。〃
　E。　M。　FORSTER
　A　Passage　to　India
　
　Thou　believest　that　there　is　one　God；　thou　doest　well：　the　devils　also　believe；　and　tremble。
　The　General　Epistle　of　James
　2：19
　
　How　ridiculous　and　what　a　stranger　he　is　who　is　surprised　at　anything　which　happens　in　life。
　MARCUS　AURELIUS
　Meditations
　
　Another　part　of　our　same　belief　is　that　many　creatures　will　be　damned；　for　example　the　angels　who　fell　from　heaven　through　pride；　and　are　now　fiends；　and　those　men　on　earth　who　die　apart　from　the　Faith　of　Holy　Church；　namely；　the　heathen；　and　those；　too；　who　are　christened　but　live　unchristian　lives；　and　so　die　out　of　love　…　all　these　shall　be　condemned　to　hell　everlastingly；　as　Holy　Church　teaches　me　to　believe。　This　being　so　I　thought　it　quite　impossible　that　everything　should　turn　out　well；　as　our　Lord　was　now　showing　me。　But　I　had　no　answer　to　this　revelation　save　this：　〃What　is　impossible　to　you　is　not　impossible　to　me。　I　shall　honour　my　word　in　every　respect；　and　I　will　make　everything　turn　out　for　the　best。〃　Thus　was　I　taught　by　God's　grace。。。。
　JULIAN　OF　NORWICH
　Revelations　of　Divine　Love
　
　
　I
　
　Not　twenty　minutes　has　passed　since　you　left　me　here　in　the　cafe；　since　I　said　No　to　your　request；　that　I　would　never　write　out　for　you　the　story　of　my　mortal　life；　how　I　became　a　vampire　…　how　I　came　upon　Marius　only　years　after　he　had　lost　his　human　life。
　Now　here　I　am　with　your　notebook　open；　using　one　of　the　sharp　pointed　eternal　ink　pens　you　left　me；　delighted　at　the　sensuous　press　of　the　black　ink　into　the　expensive　and　flawless　white　paper。
　Naturally；　David；　you　would　leave　me　something　elegant；　an　inviting　page。　This　notebook　bound　in　dark　varnished　leather；　is　it　not；　tooled　with　a　design　of　rich　roses；　thornless；　yet　leafy；　a　design　that　means　only　Design　in　the　final　analysis　but　bespeaks　an　authority。　What　is　written　beneath　this　heavy　and　handsome　book　cover　will　count；　sayeth　this　cover。
　The　thick　pages　are　ruled　in　light　blue　…　you　are　practical；　so　thoughtful；　and　you　probably　know　I　almost　never　put　pen　to　paper　to　write　anything　at　all。
　Even　the　sound　of　the　pen　has　its　allure；　the　sharp
　scratch　rather　like　the　finest　quills　in　ancient　Rome　when　I　would　put　them　to　parchment　to　write　my　letters　to　my　Father；　when　I　would　write　in　a　diary　my　own　laments。。。　ah；　that　sound。　The　only　thing　missing　here　is　the　smell　of　ink；　but　we　have　the　fine　plastic　pen　which　will　not　run　out　for　volumes；　making　as　fine　and　deep　a　black　mark　as　I　choose　to　make。
　I　am　thinking　about　your　request　in　writing。　You　see　you　will　get　something　from　me。　I　find　myself　yielding　to　it；　almost　as　one　of　our　human　victims　yields　to　us；　discovering　perhaps　as　the　rain　continues　to　fall　outside；　as　the　cafe　continues　with　its　noisy　chatter；　to　think　that　this　might　not　be　the　agony　I　presumed　…　reaching　back　over　the　two　thousand　years　…　but　almost　a　pleasure；　like　the　act　of　drinking　blood　itself。
　I　reach　now　for　a　victim　who　is　not　easy　for　me　to　overe：　my　own　past。　Perhaps　this　victim　will　flee　from　me　with　a　speed　that　equals　my　own。　Whatever；　I　seek　now　a　victim　that　I　have　never　faced。　And　there　is　the　thrill　of　the　hunt　in　it；　what　the　modern　world　calls　investigation。
　Why　else　would　I　see　those　times　so　vividly　now？　You　had　no　magic　potion　to　give　me　to　loosen　my　thoughts。　There　is　but　one　potion　for　us　and　it　is　blood。
　You　said　at　one　point　as　we　walked　towards　the　cafe；　〃You　will　remember　everything。〃
　You；　who　are　so　young　amongst　us　yet　were　so　old　as　a　mortal；　and　such　a　scholar　as　a　mortal。　Perhaps　it
　is　natural　that　you　so　boldly　attempt　to　collect　our　stories。
　But　why　seek　to　explain　here　such　curiosity　as　yours；　such　bravery　in　face　of　blood…drenched　truth？
　How　could　you　have　kindled　in　me　this　longing　to　go　back；　two　thousand　years；　almost　exactly　…　to　tell　of　my　mortal　days　on　Earth　in　Rome；　and　how　I　joined　Marius；　and　what　little　chance　he　had　against　Fate。
　How　could　origins　so　deeply　buried　and　so　long　denied　suddenly　beckon　to　me。　A　door　snaps　open。　A　light　shines。　e　in。
　I　sit　back　now　in　the　cafe。
　I　write；　but　I　pause　and　look　around　me　at　the　people　of　this　Paris　cafe。　I　see　the　drab　unisex　fabrics　of　this　age；　the　fresh　American　girl　in　her　olive　green　military　clothes；　all　of　her　possessions　slung　over　her　shoulder　in　a　backpack；　I　see　the　old　Frenchman　who　has　e　here　for　decades　merely　to　look　at　the　bare　legs　and　arms　of　the　young；　to　feed　on　the　gestures　as　if　he　were　a　vampire；　to　wait　for　some　exotic　jewel　of　a　moment　when　a　woman　sits　back　laughing；　cigarette　in　hand；　and　the　doth　of　her　synthetic　blouse　bees　tight　over　her　breasts　and　there　the　nipples　are　visible。
　Ah；　old　man。　He　is　gray…haired　and　wears　an　expensive　coat。　He　is　no　menace　to　anyone。　He　lives　entirely　in　vision。　Tonight　he　will　go　back　to　a　modest　but　elegant　apartment　which　he　has　maintained　since　the　last　Great　World　War；　and　he　will　watch　films　of　the　young　beauty　Brigitte　Bardot。　He　lives　in　his　eyes。　He　has　not　touched　a　woman　in　ten　years。
　I　don't　drift；　David。　I　drop　anchor　here。　For　I　will　not　have　my　story　pour　forth　as　from　a　drunken　oracle。
　I　see　these　mortals　in　a　more　attentive　light。　They　are　so　fresh；　so　exotic　and　yet　so　luscious　to　me；　these　mortals；　they　look　like　tropical　birds　must　have　looked　when　I　was　a　child；　so　full　of　fluttering；　rebellious　life；　I　wanted　to　clutch　them　to　have　it；　to　make　their　wings　flap　in　my　hands；　to　capture　flight　and　own　it　and　partake　of　it。　Ah；　that　terrible　moment　in　childhood　when　one　accidentally　crushes　the　life　from　a　bright…red　bird。
　Yet　they　are　sinister　in　their　darker　vestments；　some　of　these　mortals：　the　inevitable　cocaine　dealer　…　and　they　are　everywhere；　our　finest　prey　…　who　waits　for　his　contact　in　the　far　corner；　his　long　leather　coat　styled　by　a　noted　Italian　designer；　his　hair　shaved　dose　on　the　side　and　left　bushy　on　the　top　to　make　him　look　distinctive；　which　it　does；　though　there　is　no　need　when　one　considers　his　huge　black　eyes；　and　the　hardness　of　what　nature　intended　to　be　a　generous　mouth。　He　makes　those　quick　impatient　gestures　with　his　cigarette　lighter　on　the　small　marble　table；　the　mark　of　the　addicted；　he　twists；　he　turns；　he　cannot　be　fortable。　He　doesn't　know　that　he　will　never　be　fortable　in　life　again。　He　wants　to　leave　to　snort　the　cocaine　for　which　he　burns　and　yet　he　must　wait　for　the　contact。　His　shoes　are　too　shiny；　and　his　long　thin　hands　will　never　grow　old。
　I　think　he　will　die　tonight；　this　man。　I　feel　a　slow　gathering　desire　to　kill　him　myself。　He　has　fed　so　much　poison　to　so　many。　Tracking　him；　wrapping　him　in　my　arms；　I　would　not　even　have　to　wreathe　him　with　visions。　I　would　let　him　know　that　death　has　e　in　the　form　of　a　woman　too　white　to　be　human；　too　smoothed　by　the　centuries　to　be　anything　but　a　statue　e　to　life。　But　those　for　whom　he　waits　plot　to　kill　him。　And　why　should　I　intervene？
　What　do　I　look　like　to　these　people？　A　woman　with　long　wavy　dean　brown　hair　that　covers　me　much　like　a　nun's　mantle；　a　face　so　white　it　appears　cosmetically　created；　and　eyes；　abnormally　brilliant；　even　from　behind　golden　glasses。
　Ah；　we　have　a　lot　to　be　grateful　for　in　the　many　styles　of　eyeglasses　in　this　age　…　for　if　I　were　to　take　these　off；　I　should　have　to　keep　my　head　bowed；　not　to　startle　people　with　the　mere　play　of　yellow　and　brown　and　gold　in　my　eyes；　that　have　grown　ever　more　jewel…like　over　the　centuries；　so　that　I　seem　a　blind　woman　set　with　topaz　for　her　pupils；　or　rather　carefully　formed　orbs　of　topaz；　sapphire；　even　aquamarine。
　Look；　I　have　filled　so　many　pages；　and　all　I　am　saying　is　Yes；　I　will　tell　you　how　it　began　for　me。
　Yes；　I　will　tell　you　the　story　of　my　mortal　life　in　ancient　Rome；　how　I　came　to　love　Marius　and　how　we　came　to　be　together　and　then　to　part。
　What　a　transformation　in　me；　this　resolution。
　How　powerful　I　feel　as　I　hold　this　pen；　and　how　eager　to　put　us　in　sharp　and　dear　perspective　before　I　begin　fulfilling　your　request。
　This　is　Paris；　in　a　time　of　peace。　There　is　rain。　High　regal　gray　buildings　with　their　double　windows　and　iron　balconies　line　this　boulevard。　Loud；　tiny；　dangerous　automobiles　race　in　the　streets。　Cafes；　such　as　this；　are　overflowing　with　international　tourists。　Ancient　churches　are　crowded　here　by　tenements；　palaces　turned　to　museums；　in　whose　rooms　I　linger　for　hours　gazing　at　objects　from　Egypt　or　Sumer　which　are　even　older　than　me。　Roman　architecture　is　everywhere；　absolute　replicas　of　Temples　of　my　time　now　serve　as　banks。　The　words　of　my　native　Latin　suffuse　the　English　language。　Ovid；　my　beloved　Ovid；　the　poet　who　predicted　his　poetry　would　outlast　the　Roman　Empire；　has　been　proved　true。
　Walk　into　any　bookstore　and　you　find　him　in　neat；　small　paperbacks；　designed　to　appeal　to　students。
　Roman　influence　seeds　itself；　sprouting　mighty　oaks　right　through　the　modern　forest　of　puters；　digital　disks；　microviruses　and　space　satellites。
　It　is　easy　here　…　as　always　…　to　find　an　embraceable　evil；　a　despair　worth　tender　fulfillment。
　And　with　me　there　must　always　be　some　love　of　the　victim；　some　mercy；　some　self…delusion　that　the　death　I　bring　does　not　mar　the　great　shroud　of　inevitability；　woven　of　trees　and　earth　and　stars；　and　human　events；　which　hovers　forever　around　us　ready　to　close　on　all　that　is　created；　all　that　we　know。
　Last　night；　when　you　found　me；　how　did　it　seem　to　you？　I　was　alone　on　the　bridge　over　the　Seine；　walking　in　the　last　dangerous　darkness　before　dawn。
　You　saw　me　before　I　knew　you　were　there。　My　hood　was　down　and　I　let　my　eyes　in　the　dim　light　of　the　bridge　have　their　little　moment　of　glory。　My　victim　stood　at　the　railing；　no　more　than　a　child；　but　bruised　and　robbed　by　a　hundred　men。　She　wanted　to　die　in　the　water。　I　don't　know　if　the　Seine　is　deep　enough　for　one　to　drown　there。　So　near　the　Ile　St。Louis。　So　near　Notre　Dame。　Perhaps　it　is；　if　one　can　resist　a　last　struggle　for　life。
　But　I　felt　this　victim's　soul　like　ashes；　as　though　her　spirit　had　been　cremated　and　only　the　body　remained；　a　worn；　disease…ridden　shell。　I　put　my　arm　around　her；　and　when　I　saw　the　fear　in　her　small　black　eyes；　when　I　saw　the　question　ing；　I　wreathed　her　with　images。　The　soot　that　covered　my　skin　was　not　enough　to　keep　me　from　looking　like　the　Virgin　Mary；　and　she　sank　into　hymns　and　devotion；　she　even　saw　my　veils　in　the　colors　she　had　known　in　churches　of　childhood；　as　she　yielded　to　me；　and　I　…　knowing　that　I　needn't　drink；　but　thirsting　for　her；　thirsting　for　the