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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