Idle Time

The Old Vampire sits with his back to the open window, hunched in his chair, the television within easy reach. He extends his arm, the rotten cloth dangling, flipping the plastic knob. The flashing, electric blue light reveals an outrageous head of wild black hair and wide, deeply set, coal-black eyes. He leans in close to the screen, his head tilted, scrutinizing the pixilated talk show host and movie actress. He traces the actresses’ pretty face with a jagged nail through the hard glass of the screen, pricking his tongue with a canine, thinking that someone might begin receiving nightly visits, if he can but muster the energy. One more bloodless, delirious actress would hardly raise any alarms. With a quick, dismissive flourish, he again turns the knob.

On the small table at his elbow is set an empty aluminum tray, covered with the crumbs from the cookies that ancient Nonna is forever bringing, unaware that he mechanically tosses them out of the window after she closes the door. There must be a mountain of cookies out there by now, beneath the window, past the parapets, piled high on the hard ground far below. It nearly makes him curious enough to go and look for himself.

Over the tinny, distant voices from the television there is a muffled rapping at the door. He supposes it is Nonna, perhaps accompanied by his luckless next meal. He flips the channel and his eyes dart after a lion that chases a gazelle across the television screen.

“Un visitatore, maestro.” Nonna calls through the door.

There is a short pause and then the door opens, cautiously, and an elegantly dressed figure enters. The Old Vampire recognizes his step, the limping Englishman, his handsome face smooth and pale, framed with heavy auburn curls.

Nonna takes the opportunity to hobble into the room and collect the empty aluminum tray with a satisfied smile, scuttling backward and squinting at them before shutting the door quietly behind her.

The Englishman stands and surveys the close stone walls of the room distastefully, the filthy flagstones and yellow cobwebs. His attention shifts to the Old Vampire and he seems suddenly self-satisfied, his lips turned up into a cocky grin.

“You have no earthly idea how long it took me to find you.” he says.

He waits politely for a response from the Old Vampire. His grin slips from his face when he realizes that he is being ignored. On the television, a balding pseudo-psychiatrist talks to a young, sex deprived, embarressed looking couple.

“Aubrey is dead. My master and your friend is dead," he says carefully, searching the spoiled, wasted face for a flicker of emotion, of anything.

"But you've become like him," the Englishman mutters to himself. "All you do is sit here, you lotus-eater, and waste away in your dotage. You're quite as mad as old Aubrey was, the poor old fool,”

The Englishman kicks a stray humerus distastefully out from underfoot where it clatters against a pile of its fellows in the corner as a squealing rat scurries from beneath.

The Old Vampire is no longer absorbed in the television. He is thinking of an ancient memory. It flickers in his mind like a candle nub, the face of Aubrey, his cursed brother, always young and quick, the two of them in Rome, playing pranks on the Great Ones, and then laughing deliriously from a steepled rooftop while London burns, the smoke curling into the sky, blotting the stars; those were the days. The cravings back then were irresistable, the blood possessing an oozing, living flavor to an unholy palette. People were worth the bother of a hunt. These days the humans are fat and bitter, and taste of fast food and body soap.

“Jeanne is dead. They are all dead.” The Englishman pauses. Then says, as if he hasn’t been particularly clear, “Every one of them, their souls have roamed, o’er hills of silver, passed the ancient downs, through the gilded mirr’or… ”

The Old Vampire waves his hand impatiently, like a woman shooing someone. “Enough prose, if you please, young poet.” he growls.

The Englishman coughs uncomfortably, and waits for something more. Then, his voice rising, exasperated: “Why sit here in front of this machine? The night awaits! Come feast with me. Do something! Get a hobby! Start painting again. You were rather good at one time, if I recall.”

The Old Vampire’s eyes flash, breaking away from the television. The first sign of emotion stretches the unused skin of his face like corpse flesh. As quick as lightning he flies from his chair and snatches the Englishman by the throat, thrusting him up into the air, his suspended, booted toes searching fruitlessly for the stone floor. The Old Vampire’s black eyes dance, vacuous and vengeful in his face, and his hot breath is putrid with decay.

“Sono il pittore di padrone!!” the Old Vampire roars, falling into his native Italian.

“Yes, yes, yes. A master. Of the Baroque period, I remember.” the Englishman says weakly, his skeletal white hands gripping the Old Vampire’s powerful arm.

“Of any period!” the vampire howls, his blood surging, tightening his grip.

“Of… of course,” the Englishman gasps, “Your treatment of the Madonna, quite revolutionary… quite moving. The crowds still wait for hours to marvel at your paintings in the Musei Vaticani. And your work for the Knights of Malta…” he trails off, struggling to remember what the Old Vampire had done for the Knights of Malta.

The maestro, in the meantime, is somewhat appeased, and slowly lowers the Englishman to the ground. He stands for a minute in puzzlement, as if he’s forgotten what he was doing, then shuffles back to his seat and leans again toward the flickering light of the television screen.

Nonna calls through the door to inquire if everything is alright.

“Yes gran…” the Old Vampire mutters. Then louder, “Si mia Nonna, everything is fine!”

The Englishman massages his bruised throat, eyeing the Old Vampire cautiously, but there is no longer any hint of that momentary, terrifying rage. The Old Vampire is once again held in thrall to the television.

“But what is so bloody fascinating about that damnable box?”

“Have you never watched it?” the Old Vampire asks in a dusty whisper. “Not just seen it, but really watched it?”

“I don’t suppose that I have.” the Englishman reflects. “At least not in the mesmerized fashion that you seem to. There is too much else to do with eternity.” He says this as his eyes trace the peeling plaster of the ceiling, the flitting gnats.

The Old Vampire snorts. He switches the channel to three pretty young witches chanting some simple rhyming nonsense, followed by colorful special effects.

The Old Vampire has seen this episode.

“Why not make more?” he asks the Englishman suddenly. "Create more of our kind and leave me be."

The Englishman shakes his head prettily. “Children,” he says with disdain. “They are no proper company. And besides,” he lowers his voice. “The ancient magic doesn’t work any longer. It hasn’t worked for decades.”

He absently picks a bit of cobweb from the fine cloth of his jacket and continues in a small voice, "I'm not sure what to do now. In fact, you could say that for the first time in over a century I am at a complete and utter loss."

Something has caught the Old Vampire’s attention on the television. He jerks forward and releases a sudden, low moan, falling to a knee and grasping at the screen. The mouldering material on his back rips down a shoulder.

“That pose, that scene! It was perfect! Era l'azione reciproca perfetta tragica di corpi umani!“

The Old Vampire pauses and sighs like a lover.

“Sometimes I wish I could just... freeze the picture.” He presses his hands wistfully against the glass.

“You can do that now, you know.” The Englishman offers, examining his pale fingernails absently.

The Italian looks stunned, and then laughs at the marvelous joke. He searches again for the lost picture, then losing interest, he flips the channel. The television shows them a forlorn landscape, ruined buildings, and an actor in antique dress, stumbling from door to door.

“Wait!" shouts the exiled Englishman. "Wait a moment. What is that? Is that...? It can’t be. I believe that's "The Last Man.", adapted from dame Shelly's work and acted out for television! She was a friend of mine, you know.” he confides quietly.

The Englishman sits crossed legged on the grimy floor and scoots ungraciously toward the television. He leans forward absently, thoroughly engrossed in the play of images, quietly shedding whatever aim he'd had for being in that chamber.

On the other side of the door, Nonna the Crone presses her long ear to the heavy, ancient wood, caressing it with her fingertips and chuckling deeply to herself, listening to the buzz from the television. She will have to start baking more cookies.