The Vampires

by John Rechy

  An odd defense. How to interpret it? Malissa wondered. Oh, was it possible? Had Richard indeed driven Lianne into insanity to allow her to . . . Escape? From what? Her obsession with death? From that? Or . . . from whom?

  Mark stood on the stage looking at all of them. A smile was all but hidden in the dark, brooding face.

  23

  “More!” Malissa’s rings flashed.

  “That tattoo on your your ankle—what. . . ?” Lianne looked abruptly at Blue.

  “Death,” Blue said. “It’s the pentagram of death.”

  “Of Satan!” Malissa corrected with a rubied arc of her hand.

  “No,” Blue insisted. “Without the ram’s head— . . .”

  “Death?” Lianne asked sadly. “Then we haven’t killed it.” She advanced swiftly toward Mark, and her hands rose as if to crush him. Quickly Mark’s hands rose over hers.

  “My . . . beloved . . . son.” She retreated.

  The priest addressed Richard: “Isn’t this emotional carnage enough?”

  “No!” Bravo said firmly. “Let the play continue!” She felt powerful.

  Malissa glanced at Karen. Now! To strike at Bravo! But she must know that Richard was ready, too. Her hand rose toward him, lightly, weightlessly. He nodded. “Do you really think you can replace Richard for Karen?” she began her assault on Bravo.

  “Yes!” Bravo answered. And then she felt the words ripped away from her: “Because I love her!” The word burned: Love? Desire? What did it matter which it was, or whether one was indeed the other—or whether one existed and the other did not? She had to win—over Malissa, Richard. And no matter how.

  “Love!” Malissa laughed.

  “Something you’re frightened of!” Albert shouted unexpectedly at her.

  “It may amuse me later to let you play the queen,” Malissa ripped.

  Hands knotted in fury, “I’ll— . . . !” Albert started; but before it could blaze, the flickering courage was stifled by an impotent whimper.

  Richard said: “Ascend the throne, Karen—you’ll be the queen now.”

  The challenge! Malissa knew. She and Richard allies for now against Bravo.

  “Yes, sit on the throne, Karen,” Bravo said.

  Like a somnambulist, her body cold, Karen ascended the throne.

  Her voice incredibly soft and warm, gentle—incongruous: “Karen,” Bravo pronounced the name. “Karen.” At last she touched the woman’s hair. Tenderly. “Karen.”

  “A prince?” mocked Malissa. “You’ll choose this imitation man as your prince, Karen?” Why didn’t Richard advance? Would he abandon her now? Was this his ambush? Without him, the scene might turn into her defeat, Bravo’s victory.

  Bravo’s voice was a furry, intimate caress. “Karen, you don’t need Richard. Remember, Karen?—that’s why you came back; to prove it. He’s made you believe you need him, just as he’s made the others believe it.”

  Was she right? Had they been victims of a strong emotional trance? Joja wondered. Had he convinced them that they could not exist without him in order to chain them to him? Was that what created the emptiness? The pit, Joja thought. Richard. Mark. Had she allowed one victimization only to expose herself to another? . . . If Karen resisted! By turning from Richard—to Bravo—indicating she no longer needed him! Then would it all be over? Richard’s power rendered illusory? And would she too be free of him—and the pit? And Mark. That was the test.

  Turn from Richard! Tarah’s mind cried urgently to Karen. Choose Bravo—anyone! Reject Richard! A symbolic victory for them all, it would prepare the others to resist.

  Bravo stroked Karen’s hair. “Karen, his power over you is imaginary. Prove it! You don’t need him, Karen!’’

  “The frail queen is on her throne courted by a very strange prince indeed!” Malissa rasped. Then she moved toward Richard, but not too closely: near, but still apart. Again her hand floated out toward him, in a reminder of the earlier signal. This time he did not answer it with a nod. Allies might turn on each other! she knew. “Look at Richard, Karen,” Malissa goaded like an evil director. “Your true prince, not a substitute!”

  Substitutes, Tarah thought bitterly. The countless bodies. Victims. The sexual war. A graveyard of sex.

  Bravo’s hands framed Karen’s beautiful, livid face. Now they tightened about it, as if to squeeze Richard physically out of her mind. “Karen, I’ll make you happy.” She leaned over the throne, her face barely inches from Karen’s lips. The intimate contact. Now?

  Malissa’s violet-shielded eyes: Shattering the chandeliered light, they blazed like purple burning mirrors. She saw Karen leaning toward Bravo. Why didn’t Richard move! “Bravo’s kiss—what could it be compared to Richard’s?” she floundered angrily. Had Richard plotted to abandon her? Would he allow Bravo to win this crucial war?

  Still, Richard did not move.

  Now clearly Karen swayed toward Bravo.

  Malissa moved desperately: “Karen! Remember the two women, locked in the darkness! Your mother and another woman, Karen! Remember!”

  Bravo turned savagely toward Malissa.

  Karen recoiled from Bravo.

  “Don’t you understand that, too?” Bravo yelled at Karen. “He wanted to sully everything, to render it dirty for you so he could seize control over you! And he did, Karen, brutally! But he has no power over you now unless you allow it!”

  Karen touched her neck.

  Bravo understood: “The symbolic wound—his brand on you. On the others. Don’t you see, Karen? It’s part of his ability to suggest—nothing more. Not unless you believe it!”

  Valerie touched her own neck. Had she merely clawed at it during the blue moments? Paul. Suddenly he looked so much like Mark.

  Now! Bravo kissed Karen’s lips.

  Was Karen responding? No! Yes! Had Bravo won! Malissa, Joja, Tarah stared tensely.

  “Father— . . . ?” Mark began to form a question.

  Richard moved toward the throne.

  Suddenly Karen tore her lips from Bravo’s. She faced Richard. Looping, clutching, tearing, Malissa’s insane fingers proclaimed victory.

  Tarah closed her eyes.

  Joja touched her body, as if, finally, to localize the whirling pit.

  Richard brought his mouth to Karen’s.

  Mark’s lips parted.

  Karen’s mouth opened hungrily.

  Refusing to acknowledge defeat, determined even now to force victory, Bravo clutched Karen’s shoulders roughly. Devouringly she kissed the back of Karen’s neck. Karen strained toward Richard. Now more desperately, Bravo’s hands explored the woman’s body, her shoulders, back, thighs—her lips on her shoulders. But Karen’s hands pulled Richard even more tightly to her.

  Malissa turned away in repugnance from the sexual scene.

  Abruptly Richard withdrew. Anger smeared his face. His words came like the sting of Bravo’s whip: “You can have her, Bravo! I’ve prepared her for you!”

  Closing her eyes to block the reality of the violent rejection, Karen fell back on the throne.

  Bravo looked down at her. And so Richard had won. Malissa’s laughter seemed to attack her physically. Holding the butt of her whip like a giant phallus, Bravo thrust it brutally toward Karen as if to plunge it between her legs.

  Karen screamed.

  At the very moment before the whip would have rent Karen’s body, Bravo stopped the savage movement. She withdrew her hand, the whip. She faced Richard. Her voice was hoarse and terrible. “I don’t want her any more. I despise you, Richard!”

  Karen rose from the throne. Her face was a mask of hatred.

  Aimed at Richard? At Bravo? Whichever it was, Karen was through as a witness against Richard, Tarah knew with resignation.

  In the hollow stake, the knife waited.

  Richard faced the empty throne, his back to his guests.

  Defying the very violence he was evoking? Jeremy wondered. Was that why the stake was there?

  Savannah saw the monstrou
s opponents, poised in the raging war. Who finally would claim her? She stared at the shadowy, apathetic servants.

  Tor, Savannah, Karen, the others on the precipice of slaughter. And him, Freddy evaluated. Mere entertainment: Practice for the major struggle for ultimate control. Certainly one of them could be goaded into striking. Rev?—the ready executioner? Himself?—la Duquesa had been gentle, Freddy would be fierce now. The priest!—with the power of exorcism! But would he join them? The others would be moving against him soon. Oh, Bravo, yes! Bravo in defeat would be their most powerful ally! . . . Freddy’s eyes glided toward her.

  Bravo: She stood, coiled, ready to strike.

  At Richard? Malissa? Mark. The father as a child, Freddy thought. Duke as a boy.

  “The play, father,’’ Mark reminded Richard. The boy’s eyes on her clearly chose Joja for the next role.

  “The throne is empty, Joja,” Richard said.

  “You may be the queen now,” Mark said softly to her.

  The contract, its terms. Its fulfillment. Or its ultimate rejection—by her! So what if Karen had failed, her own need might prove to be illusory!

  Mark’s eyes, darkening into the black of Malissa’s ring. The hair which touched the collar of his open shirt. His young, young, sensual body. Joja stared at it. And, beside him, Richard, the beautiful, ineffable presence.

  “Whom will you choose?” Malissa asked the actress.

  Joja moved toward the throne. Her mind repeated insistently, as if to make its choice: The fulfillment of the contract or its final rejection. The pit filled—even if only momentarily—or conquered. Which would it be?

  “No, Joja!” Tarah called. Suddenly she felt that everything that was occurring was in preparation for one revelatory moment in her own life, and only the resistance of the others would thwart the diabolical pattern.

  But Joja already sat on the throne. Again on a stage. Still in search of her life, the one identity; her own role. Like a priest offering the host to a communicant, with grave ritualistic solemnity the mamaloi handed the actress a blind mask.

  Joja looked at it. Her identity. She fastened it about her head. Her red hair framed the stark eyeless mask. It covered only the upper part of her face, rendering it dead, only her mouth alive.

  “The empty queen,” Malissa announced. “Who can fill her?”

  Now at Richard’s touch of the panel of buttons on the wall, a curtain—a veil—exhaling, enveloped the throne. This phase of the play would be scrimmed from the others, the players within it would be shadows.

  In a vacuum of self-awareness, Valerie and Paul stood apart. Yet Valerie knew: They would be flung into the midst of the play.

  Behind the mask, even the blackness dissolved. Joja heard only silence asserting itself loudly. Now someone was approaching the throne. The scar on her neck burned. Her mind imploded with images which she crushed, resurrected, replaced: Richard! Vanquish him! The pit! Richard’s face on the screen of her closed vision! His face fading! Into another! No, not fading—superimposed on: Mark’s. Mark and Richard! Vanquish him! Vanquish them! The pit!

  If Joja surrendered, it would be she alone; Tarah prepared herself.

  Aware of a presence within the scrimmed throne, Joja reached out to touch the figure before her. Her hands outlined broad, straight shoulders. Richard! Her fingers traced the open shirt—no, it was not Richard—and through it felt the smooth young skin. Mark. Yes, it was he, finally. Magnetized by the feel of the flesh, her fingers lingered on his chest. Then she felt his hands sliding softly over her breasts. And she knew: She would fulfill the terms of the contract with him—this was his payment for her extorted loyalty. And she knew that in surrendering to the son, she surrendered to the father. She had lost: But it did not matter—because she “saw” Mark and she felt the sensation of awakening, of resurrection. Mark would charge her with life, like Richard: even if only for precious moments. And she knew: She could not—did not want to—be free of them. “Mark!” she whispered.

  Boldly her hands slid down the body before her: surrendering willingly before the others beyond the scrim. This scene—like the rest of her life—played on a stage. It did not matter. Just this!

  Suddenly her hands withdrew in shock. The small legs! The bulging, hard crotch! She tore the mask from her face.

  Topaze stood before her on a stool. Topaze! Not Mark!

  Discovered, the midget shook with lurid laughter.

  Joja let out a terrible cry which spiraled from the pit. Her hands parted the scrim. She saw Mark staring coldly at her from beyond the stage.

  His tongue flitted over his lips, as if something of fulfillment had occurred.

  24

  “A great stage director!” Malissa lauded Richard. But this time her look included Mark.

  “There’s no director—just players,” Richard said. His face reflected no victory.

  “Bastard!” Joja shouted at him.

  “I’m the one who didn’t want you any more,” Mark’s words tumbled. “My father didn’t have anything to do with any of it.”

  Any of it! Had she been wrong? The day-long extortion—not on Richard’s behalf then? Joja was staring at Mark with rage. And it was then that she realized that she was off the stage. Forever? Her roles all ended? And now what? One assertive act of her own will?

  The stake. The knife buried within it.

  Savannah and Tor gazed ahead, as if at a mirror which had disappeared.

  Tarah: And so she was alone. Joja and Karen were through. She would have to restructure her attack. Alone.

  Jeremy: He studied the fierce eyes of those around him. Who will strike against “them”? he thought feverishly, not resisting his thoughts of violence.

  Apart, Bravo counted possible allies—she was not through. But she might have to attack indirectly. Through Freddy? Rev? Albert!—to release the pressure of years: an explosion that might consume Malissa. Tor. Joja? Tarah—she seemed to be plotting a lonely vengeance. Blue, waging his own fight—the outcome might render him a strong ally; he had witnessed murder. The priest, now a single faction. Paul, Valerie—the shape of their allegiance was still to emerge.

  Malissa swept into the middle of the stage. “The play! Certainly it’s just begun,” she insisted insatiably. “Valerie!”

  “Will you be the queen now?”

  Although it was Mark who had asked the question, it seemed to Valerie suddenly that the words had come from her brother. Recurrently words uttered by one seemed formed by another. La malaspina. . . . Sweet, wafting, violet-touched fumes lifting her gently onto turbulent waves seemed to pull her to the velvet throne. Though she did not move, Valerie “saw” herself on the throne embraced again by the blue haze.

  Abruptly Richard stood before the girl, blocking the throne to her.

  Behind the purple shields, Malissa’s eyes were daggers. This time there was no doubt that Richard had deliberately thwarted an examination of the girl. Already he was turning toward the priest, as if offering him in substitution. Yes, through Valerie she would move against Richard, Malissa knew, vaguely, now. But she would allow a postponement, accept this substitute: “The beautiful young priest! Whose prince will he be?”

  Looking at the velvet throne, Jeremy saw instead the parody of an altar. Black.

  “Not Savannah’s,” Malissa ground on; “she would have violated your symbolic sanctuary, your own purity—is that correct, Father?” Glancing about the room, she intercepted a distinct reaction from Tarah. “Perhaps Tarah,” she offered the priest.

  Quickly Tarah faced Jeremy.

  This time the priest did not turn away.

  To seize their attention, Blue moved toward the gold-framed mirror on the stage. Before it, he gazed at his own image. He raised his hands to touch his reflection. Against it, he resembled the gold silhouettes captured in the panels along the walls. Recoiling, he reacted in shock to the cold, impassive surface.

  “The flawed prince!” Malissa announced. “The gold mirror rejects him. Like
the youngman Cam!” she twisted.

  Blue turned with fury toward her.

  “Even the mirror rejects him!” Malissa trampled on. “Inescapably it’s— . . .”

  “Glass,” finished Savannah.

  Blue opened his mouth, facing them: “I want to confess!” he blurted, as if Malissa’s cruel words had forced him into the mysterious sudden action; an arcane proof against rejection.

  “The confessions are over—you’ve told us all there is to know,” the priest said quickly.

  “Has he?” Richard asked.

  The dark smile touched Blue’s face once, just lightly, and disappeared. “No,” he said.

  Lianne walked toward the tall blond youngman. “Confessions, spreading the blackness into harsh light,” she said.

  “And light into blackness!” Malissa inverted.

  “That part of the game is over,” Jeremy insisted.

  “The game has no rules,” Malissa reminded him.

  “In the house where I live, the sun stabs the windows. Its blood—yellow—spatters on the floor,” Lianne remembered. “What is the color of your blood!” she shouted at Paul.

  Within the burgeoning disorientation that was seizing her, Valerie wondered whether she had shouted the words.

  Paul turned to Richard as if for a reaction, but Richard was staring at Valerie.

  Then as soundlessly as a shadow Blue moved away from them. Out of the room. Into the domed hall. Through the white arches. Outside. Into the island.

  “He wants you to hear his real confession,” Richard said to the priest.

  Suddenly the priest realized he was walking away too. Away from them! he told himself.

  “Will you run away again?” Malissa tossed at him.

  “Escape!” Mark coaxed mockingly.

  “Escape, Escape!” Topaze echoed deliriously.

  The priest had not realized he had moved so swiftly until, over him, he saw the accusing glass dome filtering the falling night. He looked down at the swirling black and white floor. Its vortex contained their confessions.

  “Run away to save yourself!” Malissa yelled at him from the other room.