Dear Mr. Vicoff,
I have asked an officer on your ship to deliver this to you. I wished to be in Port de Marseilles myself in order to clear up our business, but circumstances force me to leave. Per our last correspondence, I understand that you will be spending an indefinite amount of time in America. It is imperative that these matters are handled as quickly as may be possible. There is the possibility that I will be traveling soon and will see about visiting you. In any case I will contact you once you are settled.
Pleasant Journeys.
Even though the signature at the bottom did not survive Franz’s bosom, Nicolai knew who had penned the letter, but he couldn’t recall the gentleman’s name. Contilari? Cultrani? Ca-Ca-something. The man was his uncle’s executor. It was he who had informed Nicolai of the inheritance. Details were pending, he knew, but the man had said it was significant. How significant?, Nicolai had asked. Significant. New car significant? Let us say, he said, you needn’t go to work tomorrow if you caren’t. Nicolai didn’t and booked his voyage to New York. This note, however, made Nicolai second guess himself. Could I have really placed all of my trust in a phone conversation? It was too late now to change his mind; he would leave his trust where it was for now. After all, the note said nothing of complications, just circumstances, and not specifically (necessarily) relating to Nicolai. I will not let it bother me. He folded the note, but in its wetness, it tore as he did so, and he threw the thing (litterer. Shut up) out the window.
The lounge was beginning to undulate with pre-dinner conversation and he felt soppy in his soggy clothes. I simply mustn’t worry about this now (the thought proof enough that he was). The existence alone of the note proves the credibility of the inheritance. Obviously, there are some papers to be signed, accounts to be transferred, checks to endorse and so forth. It is only natural that the man Cantablio should wish to dispose of these matters swiftly and in person. And if he doubted the lawyer, he did not doubt Rooka. Who else should Uncle Rooka dower with his wealth? Nicolai had remained closest to him in the gentle man’s old age. He and he alone had made trips to Rooka’s estate in Eastern Europe. Rooka himself was fond of complaining, “I vish only that they vould visit. I get very lonely here, my boy. Very lonely. Everything...life, is so...Blah.”
Nicolai and Rooka were the last vestiges of Vicoff blood in Europe. Everyone else, having moved to America, dismissed their existence more and more with each dish of apple pie. Mentioning this once to his mother, before her passing, she remarked, “Yes, but Rooka is so very odd.” Odd why? Odd because he lived alone in a towering castle? Odd because even in his old age he kept the unusual hours of his youth? Odd because this man had the money to realize his dearest fantasies? If that is odd, Nicolai thought, then I too wish to be odd (and shall be, and shall be). In addition, Nicolai could not remember a time when Rooka was without a young female accomplice. Rooka preferred pale women with dark hair and seemed to possess an endless supply of themand youthful vigor for that matter. Which, come to think of it (and he did), makes Rooka’s passing that much more unusual. For even though conservative estimates put Rooka’s age at just over a hundred, he had the energy of two men of twenty. How unusual then for this man to suddenly suffer a coronary and there, alone in the silent cellar of his dearest tower, pass on to the seventh sphere.
Nicolai arrived in his stateroom. Franz was lying on his bunk, head hung over the edge orally aiming at a sloshing bucket on the floor, asleep. Nicolai looked into the mirror. “Rooka, you are with me.” In his own eyes he saw the notorious gleam that was so ever-present in Rooka’s stare. In his gums were set the same teeth, a perfect set, set apart only by the slightly sharpened bicuspids. A difference though in Nicolai’s hair: he was a tad more gray than Rooka. For such an old man, Rooka hadn’t even a hint of the stuff. But that could explain the lack in Nicolai’s life of the same feminine surplus his uncle enjoyed. Perhaps I shall diehe corrected himself: I mean dyeit. Nicolai stripped, careful to note if Franz was watching, and put on his bathrobe. “I am notorious!” he said and got into the shower. “The blood is strong,” he heard Rooka saying. Yes, but Uncle, the heart is so fragile. A soft pulp of tissue set behind a cage of unmalleable milk. The mother’s last stand for her child, and a responsibility so commonly shrugged and passed on to bulkier mammals. Take that same liquid guardian though and churn it or age it and a Stevensonian quality emerges, transforming it into the heart’s deadliest foe. And Rooka, perhaps you were too fond of those goodies.
He could imagine it. Rooka would have been in his secret cellar chamber; his library he called it, although a perfectly regular library lived on the second floor. It would definitely have been sometime during the day and Rooka would have been taking a nap. Suddenly there would have been silence, replacing the reverberating snores of his slumber. Rooka would awake as slow realization and pain worked its way through his favorite arm. Then a scream, shattering the air, would rattle every steel door in the castle. At that point, Nicolai fancied, whatever female house guests were roaming about would have rushed to his aid, only to find the chamber door locked. Rooka’s screams would have been of joy, for he often spoke at great length of the peace in passing. The girls would have known this and slumping silently to their knees would have sobbed at their own (our own) but not his loss. Rooka’s screams would then have died off and through the door would be heard his last whispered cry, “Nic-Nicolai, my only friend. I vill miss you.” Yes, that, thought Nicolai, is how he must have gone.
Nicolai scrubbed and catching himself in the tiny, tiny shower glass said, “My nose. Yes, my nose is different than his. More elongated, with a curve up at the end where his went down. From mother, but otherwise Rooka, you live on.”
Rooka voluntarily left his homeland on October 12, 1916. “There are strange rumors circulating among the peasants,” he warned. Why Rooka commiserated with peasants nobody knew, but they did know that idle peasant chatter was no excuse to abandon house and hearth, so they ignored his advice. Rooka had family property in Eastern Europe and so without ado he removed therewith. The wiser, more sturdy of Nicolai’s line were able to escape one year later and settled, poor and heartbroken, in England. There they prospered (as all hardworking Russians will) by teaching Russian to the English and English to the Russians. When days were dim they would live off of mushrooms rummaged from the forest, and even on the brightest, never once thought of Rooka. Until one day it happed that no living member of the English wing of the Vicoff clan had personal memory of Rooka and that is when they received a letter portending his visit. Nicolai was fifteen, almost, and the letter was addressed to him. Nicolai read itvery confused, but excited at the enclosed promise of presentsand brought it to his parents. “Mummy,” he asked, “who is Uncle Rooka?” She took the parcel and read it. She appeared not to know and handed it to Nicolai’s father.
“Rooka!”
“Who is he, Father?” Nicolai was instructed to leave the room, but instead loitered behind the door. The first thing his father did was retrieve the family album.
“Rooka,” he said, “I know he must be in here. Never met the chap myself. Surprised even he’s still alive. Yet, have heardlong time agobut have heard tale of a very old member of the family, mother’s uncle I think, who left home with the rest of them in seventeen, only he went someplace else. Where was it? Don’t know, but someplace in The Block. Don’t know how he knows about us, specially about Nicky. How strange, but there’s not a single photo of the man in here [thinking about it now, Nicolai realized that he still did not have a photograph of the man, never had, or had he and lost it?]. Weird.” He closed and replaced the book. “All I do know is that they used to speak of him as, well, as a rather peculiar chap. Can’t remember much about him. Seems like his name drifted out of the family’s vocab years ago. Gad though, from what I can recall the man must be well over a hundred!”
Nicolai’s mother protested, but there was nothing to be done. From the date of the letter, Rooka had ob
viously begun his journey already and might arrive at any minute. After that, many nights were spent sitting silently in the parlor. Mother would knit as Father and Nicolai watched the television. Ever present in their minds was the constant tick-tick-tock of the grandfather clock counting down the seconds to Rooka’s knock-knock. Another factor weighing on their minds was the question of space; not in an Einsteinian sense, but in a where-are-we-going-to-put-up-this-fellow sense. At the time Nicolai’s Aunt Rifka was staying with them and occupied the guest room next to Nicolai’s. She too, nervously anticipated Rooka’s appearance, for it affected her status more personally than anyone else’s, although she tried not to let on. An evening dance class, however, prevented her from counting down the seconds with the rest of them. Now Rifka was a true Aunt. She was Nicolai’s mother’s sister and had been extended an invitation to live with them by same. Rifka’s family had already gone to America, but she was finishing a program at the dance institute. Nicolai’s mother soon regretted her decision, for Rifka, being much younger and prettier, quickly attracted her husband’s eye and Beta knew the dangerous combination of a pretty girl, a weak willed husband, and a private room. Therefore in Rooka she saw the perfect opportunity to eliminate the competition. “I believe we should let him have Rifka’s bed.” Nicolai’s father then asked where she should sleep. “We’ll put up a bunk in Nicky’s room.” Nicolai liked that idea.
“Oh yes, mum. I’ve got plenty of room, much more than I need really. Small boy like myself taking up such a large bedroom. Pure selfishness really. I’ve been helping myself to the pot far too much. We all must make sacrifices and I’ll do it, if begrudgingly, if needs be.” Nicolai grinned and then quickly switched to a forced forlorn expression.
“Nonsense,” his father ended that dream, “Rooka will sleep in the parlor. He won’t be staying long in any case. You may take my word on that.” And that put an end to Beta’s scheming. What she did not know was that up to that point, her husband had not had even a passing carnality with her sister. What she also did not know was that Rooka’s impending arrival (and her plans to relocate Rifka) forced Nicolai’s father to move into action quickly lest he lose his chance.
One night Nicolai was watching Rifka undress. He had recently discovered a special eyelet in the wall adjoining their roomsdiscovered, that is, with a little help from a pen knife, and many idle hours at hand. This particular night, Rifka had returned from dance wearing a tight leotard. Perspiration glistened on her forehead and as she removed her tights, Nicolai discovered it glistened more brightly on her breasts, a succulent pair, far too large for her thin frame (but Nicolai wasn’t complaining). Like bright melting snow on a mountain peak, he had thought, never one for original simile. When her leotard had been pulled to her waist there suddenly came a knock to her door. “One minute,” she called out and pulled the leotard all the way off. As she grabbed for a robe the visitor opened the door. It was Nicolai’s father. “Alexander!”
“I didn’t realize,” he said and stepped out. Nicolai saw her pull on the robe and fasten it loosely (he noted this) with a cord.
“Alexander.” Nicolai’s father re-entered. “What do you want?” He closed the door and Rifka sat on the bed.
“I wanted to get your feelings on all this Rooka business. It’s you that it affects most, you know.”
“Why’s that?” She played her bluff.
“We had considered, that is, Beta suggested that we make this room available to him.”
“Really.” Alexander sat down next to her on the bed. “And where is Beta now?”
“In the parlor. She is, I think, just feeling the pressure of having many house guests. I, of course, tremendously enjoy your company.” With that his hand gently brushed aside her robe.
“Alexander, please.” Nicolai’s father stood up.
“I’m sorry Rifka. I hope you will not mention my slip in etiquette?” Nicolai then watched, amazed as she rose to his father and loosened her robe even more.
“Alexander, I have not thanked you for your kindness in letting me stay with your family.” If it were possible, the stern beating of his heart would have drowned out the ding-dong of the doorbell, but it did not, and from downstairs the call rang out.
“Alexander, come greet our guest.” Nicolai rushed down the stairs first, not forgetting, but never repeating all he had observed. Rifka came down next, followed sadly by Alexander, as to who’s location questions were asked. To support his answer he rushed again up the stairs and flushed the toilet. And that is how Rooka was welcomed to their house.
Offers were made of both Rifka’s room and the parlor, both of which were refused. “Have you a cellar? I prefer the cellar. The damp air is better for my asthma.” That then is where Rooka stayed. He was not as old, nor as much trouble as they had expected. For what he announced would be a short visit he brought only one wardrobe consisting of several formal outfits which he wore no matter what the occasion. After settling into the cellar and obtaining the only key (“because I suffer a touch of agoraphobia”) they invited him to the parlor for a drink and there heard his story. “I have long lived in isolation avay from the busy, busy vays ov the vorld. There I have grown lonely and have seen only the company ov the few vomen who seek out my partnership. Vhen our families parted so many...so many years ago, I moved deep into the heart ovthey vere fools for not listening to me. They could have left vith all ov their vealth, butno matter. I did not keep in touch vith them, fearing...vell, a touch and then vhen they passed on I had not the desire to attach myself to the children I did not know. But then I received vord via an old friend thatRifka, that yourfamily had gone to America. Then I knew I must find those who remained. Do not think I had no knowledge ov marriages, deaths, and names. Tracking the movements ov all expatriated Russians remains my passion to this very day. I had also heard ov this child, Nicolai, beautiful boy. The last, the very last ov the Vicoff blood! I vould not have the Vicoffs die off vithout knowledge ov Rooka. You vill spend much time vith me learning ov our history and Alexander, you too vill learn something ov me if the interest moves you. Beta, Rifka, ve too share a common blood...though much further back. My motives for visiting supple England do not end there. I am tired ov living avay from the vorld. Vhile my distaste for people flourishes, my brain craves distraction. I vill not trouble you long, a few veeks at the most, until I am able to find an adequate domicile. My hours may disturb you, slightly. For I am up at nights and sleep on all but the shortest days. A habit never lost from university. I am alvays qviet as a mouse and vill not avaken you, besides the business I vish to carry out may reqvire a schedule adjustment vhich I am not loath to make. But now I see that it is almost morning and I have kept you far too late. If I may I vill retire.” After that nobody saw him for three days.
On the third day, Rifka came home late after everyone had gone to sleep. Regardless of her attempts to be silent, a slight drunkenness on her part caused her to make enough noise that Nicolai (who was sensitized to her comings and goings in any case) awakened. He manned his post and immediately noticed what she did not: That Rooka was in the room with her. He lay in her bed, thumbing through one of her magazines. She must surely be drunk, Nicolai thought at the time, because she climbed right into bed with him as if nothing were amiss. Rooka began to softly run his fingers over her pristine nakedness. Her eyes were closed and she did not object, but rather Nicolai saw her writhe with pleasure. Rooka then plunged his hand between her thighs, and clamping it, she intertwined her legs. She seemed (to Nicolai anyway, who had never seen such a ribald display of sexuality) to suddenly reach something of an apex of pleasure, breathing heavier, clenching her handsyet somehow careful of volumeand then she was still. The most frightening aspect of the entire spectacle for Nicolai came after she had fallen asleep and Rooka lifted his head from the pillow and smiled and (Nicolai thought) stared straight into his eyes (eye).
The next morning Nicolai awoke, the adventures of the night fresh in his brain.
He dressed sloppily, as it was Sunday and the Vicoffs not particularly religious, and went down to breakfast. Everyone, except Rooka, was present. Good-mornings were said and Nicolai sat to a glass of juice and a scone. His mother was teasing Rifka about a hickey she’d gotten on her date, while his father looked sternly down at his paper. Nicolai tried not to stare at Rifka. He looked instead out the window. It was a dark morning and rain was imminent. This breakfast tableaux was then transformed as all turned their heads toward the sound of creaking stairs in the cellar. Slowly, the door opened and Rooka walked into the kitchen. “Good morning all. A very good day. I have some affairs in the city today and should care to finish them early. No, no scones for me thank you. If you have some tomato juice only. Thank you.” He did not sit at the table with the others, but leaned against the counter. They each smiled and wished him a good morning and Nicolai was surprised that neither Rooka nor Rifka showed any signs of embarrassment. Beta pointed out Rifka’s red marks and Rooka commented upon them jokingly, but Rifka showed only the requisite shyness and then left for a tennis outing. Nicolai’s mother announced that she had some cleaning to do and set about it. Nicolai’s father retreated to the parlor to finish off his Times. Rooka and the boy Nicolai were alone.
“Cloudy day out, Sir.” Nicolai spoke.
“Please...Uncle Rooka. Ve are family. Ve may be colloqvial. And to answer your qvestion, yes, it is qvite dark, but I find the rain refreshing. Surely a strong boy like yourself must enjoy sloshing in a puddle now and then?” Rooka sat uncomfortably (for Nicolai’s taste at any rate) close to him at the table. “You vill remember ov course that I gave some promise ov gifts in my letter. I should not have kept such an inqvisitive child vaiting, but things are very busy for me. Now that I have a moment...these are for you.” Rooka handed a small velvet sack to Nicolai, who took it with questioning eyes. He pulled the drawstring to loosen it and three bright stones tumbled onto the table. “Rubies, Nicolai, from my homeland. They are said to contain the powvers ov enchantment, but in any case they are beautiful, are they not?”
I Thought My Uncle Was A Vampire, But He Was Just A Creep Page 2
