pillows. I loosened his necktie and opened his collar. With my lips I felt the strong pulse of life in his throat.
"Charles," he said, still laughing, "I didn't think you could be like this."
"Neither did I," I said, unfastening the remaining buttons of his shirt.
"I've corrupted you completely, then."
"So it seems."
I had to become accustomed to his hot and cold intervals. There were times when I resolved to take his mocking advice and seek other companions. But it was impossible.
At a banquet to honour the new President of Miskatonic University, a quirk of place-cards put me nearly but not quite opposite him. I found it damnably difficult to attend to the conversation with those nearest to me, even though I had by now developed some facility in the art of academic small talk.
For I was acutely aware of him, six feet away, chatting easily with the fellow next to him about some detail of university politics. After his initial nod of greeting, he had not so much as glanced my way. I knew better than to stare at his face, so I watched his hands instead. I thought of what those hands had done, of dead flesh, shining knives and hollow needles, of poisons and secret substances. I thought also of the things those hands had done to me, the places they had touched. With my mind full of these images, I looked up for an instant and met his eyes. At that moment I felt completely naked, and knew I was starting to blush. To cover my confusion, I took an ill-considered gulp of wine and nearly choked. At least the subsequent coughing fit accounted for my red face.
He did not look at me again, except for a single, flaming glance, in which I saw a gleam of amusement. How did he know what I was thinking about? Because he did, I'm sure he did. It was quite deliberate, that glance. But later, when we were alone, he said, "You must be more discreet, Charles."
In the entrance hall to his apartment was a large pier glass. After we had hung up our coats, he took my arm and turned me to face the mirror.
"What do you see?" he asked. "Tell me."
Formally attired as we were, our reflections made a pleasing tableau of black and white against the darkly glowing panelling of the hall. "I see two young professional men," I said. "They have obviously been out at some ceremonial occasion, to judge by their dress. The taller one is a specimen of the homely but sincere Yankee. The other… is by far the better looking."
He laughed. "Well, all right. I should have been more specific." He moved closer to me, put a hand on my shoulder and tilted his head. "What are these two fine fellows – to each other, I mean? What do you see now?"
"I see two friends." I had no idea what this was about. "Quite close friends, I would say."
"Close. Yes. And now?" He turned to face me and drew me toward him, so we stood sideways to the mirror, our bodies close against each other, our hands clasped by our sides.
Slowly, I said, "I see a pair of lovers, Herbert. Is that what you meant?"
He ignored my question. "Some would say they saw a pair of perverts, degenerates, criminals, even. The world does not want to share our happiness, should we be so careless as to reveal it."
Happiness? At close quarters, I began to perceive cracks in his façade, which until then had seemed flawless and impermeable.
His nightmares, for example.
"No! Let go! Don't do that!" Uttered in in the strangled way typical of those lost in dreams. Or sometimes, in a breathless voice that chilled me, "Finished. Finished now." Followed by a sound like a laugh. And "No. Die. Now." And moments later, "Killed him, killed him, killed him."
"What causes them, anyway?" In the muddled moments after one of these episodes he was susceptible to questions.
"If I knew, I could probably do something about them, but I'm used to them. I've had them most of my life. They're a little worse than usual now, but I'll survive."
I looked at him doubtfully. "How can you expect to survive, as you put it, with only two or three hours of continuous sleep a night? I think you should get some help with this."
He looked annoyed. "'Help.' I suppose you mean I should go and see one of those so-called psychoanalysts. You know I have no use for those fellows. As a matter of fact, you're the nearest thing to a remedy I've found so far. So don't fuss."
I suggested the usual domestic cures for night terrors, such as chamomile tea, warm milk, or a sprig of valerian under his pillow. "Do you think I haven't tried all that stuff?" he demanded. "Or at least the ones that aren't utter nonsense. Valerian, indeed! No, what I usually do is get up and find something to do in the lab. The night passes, eventually."
Many nights passed, including not a few when he made it clear he wanted to be alone, or at least not in my company.
I perforce became a lover of darkness when I became his lover. Often, the only way I could share his company was in the night streets of Arkham. Insomnia and nightmares drove him out, and I went with him. By starlight, by moonlight, in wind, rain, even snow, we walked, methodically tracing the grid of streets. No convivial strolls, these, but silent marches without a destination, the only sound that of our footsteps, on cobbles, on concrete, on gravel. He spoke in terse expectorations of words, nothing like his usual eloquent phrasings. Anything I said was uniformly ignored.
I asked no questions. I knew you would not tell me the truth. Or perhaps I was afraid you would. You knew, of course, that I shared your guilt for the murder of Robert Leavitt. I think you believed this ensured my loyalty. That is why you were not overly concerned about my hearing the words you spoke in the clutch of nightmare. And of course you were right. It took only a little imagination on my part to hypothesize that Leavitt was not your only victim. But this did not drive me away from you; quite the opposite.
Behind your gated portals, behind the sculptured perfection of your face was – what? I knew so much about you, but I did not know you.
You revealed yourself to me in stages, never seeking to persuade or to convince, merely saying, in effect, "This is what I am." Even when you showed yourself to be a criminal, a murderer, the bond held firm.
For by this time I realized I had a unique role – to protect you from the world. And the world from you.
Until the fall of 1922, until Eleonora Desanges and a strange wanderer on the Aylesbury Pike, I was as happy as I have ever been. But something in me knew, even in the middle of happiness, that I was on a small, bright island in a dark ocean.
I found evidence in his hidden laboratory that he had resumed some sort of secret and unorthodox experiments, and I heard someone groaning in agony in the locked annexe to the main room. And I did nothing. True, I heard the sounds only once. They were not repeated on subsequent visits. I used this to justify my inaction. What might have been different, I ask myself, if I had confronted him with this evidence?
But it was already too late.
I used to play the piano for him sometimes. I wasn't very good at it, but I persisted, for his sake, and for that of the piano, which had been his mother's.
Fumbling my way through a Chopin nocturne, I realized he was standing behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder, and after a moment slid it inside my loosened collar.
"I can feel you playing," he murmured. "Feeling and hearing the music at the same time – not an experience one would have in the concert hall."
It was all I could do not to stop playing then and there, but I made myself hold the final chord for the required number of beats. As I lifted my hands off the keys and stood up, he stepped away.
"I'm hungry," he said. "What with one thing and another, I haven't eaten since lunch. Come on, let's go in the kitchen and I'll cook us a frittata."
A frittata was the last thing on my mind, but I followed him to the kitchen and watched as he chopped vegetables with blinding speed. "Toast is just the thing to sop up the juices. If you want to be helpful," he said, glancing at me, "perhaps you could slice some bread."
I took the knife he indicated and proceeded to saw at the loaf, wishing my lack of expertise was less evident. By this time, the
aroma of coffee had permeated the room. He seemed more cheerful, perhaps in response to the cozy domestic scene.
"This is very pleasant, isn't it?" he said, as if he had read my mind. "Think of the two of us, living here together. You would have your own room, of course, and some place to keep all those tomes of yours. And you could abuse my piano whenever it suited you." He gave me a swift look whose piercing quality belied the lightness of his tone, and added, "Would you have liked that, Charles?"
My knife slipped on 'have liked,' and cut me. I felt the blade slice painlessly into the palm of my left hand. "Yes, I would… have liked it. But I think maybe you – " By this time, blood was welling from the wound. I looked at it, not sure what to do. He followed my gaze, came over and took my hand.
"What have you done to yourself?" he said, mingled exasperation and amusement in his eyes. Then he picked up the knife and sliced open his own left palm. Seizing my hand, he pressed our palms tightly together. Shocked and startled, I nevertheless instinctively interlaced my fingers with his. He gazed into my eyes as our mingled blood dripped onto the floor.
"Now we're brothers," he said, "as well as… whatever else we are. Come along and I'll bandage us up."
In the bathroom, he wrapped a length of gauze around his hand and washed my wound with soap and water, applied something stinging from a bottle and bandaged it neatly. "There you
From the Annexe: An Untold Tale Page 3
