That bump though, that twist, affected him and he felt right on the verge of understanding it: one timid electron away, that electron, holding the secret of something really important, stood on the very tip of a neuron ready to jump across a synapse to bring that knowledge to another who would know what to do with it; it stood hesitating, it’s friends and co-workers urging it on, ready to jump, and as it was about tothe whole brain waiting on its actiona violent ringing in the air shocked Mr. Eardrum who tripped and jiggled the aural nerve with a twong, which vibration knocked this electron off balance, causing it to fall (as it feared) deep into the brain, fated instead of greatness, to a mundane task such as a sneeze.
For some reason, Nicolai sneezed just as the phone rang. Must have a cold coming on, he thought. Damn, was on the verge of something there, never mind, bloody phone. He let it ring and continued looking at his shadow, pretty little shadow, like a crooked black flower. The phone rang again, but Nicolai was, he just realized, far too drunk to do anything about it (or to care). It rang again and two more times before the machine picked up and his pre-recorded greeting played. It was something he’d done in one of his sillier moments and he swore to himself that he would change it, but never did. The message began lightly with a tune, barely audible, quickly however, it could be identified as The Flight of The Bumble Bee, Bzzzzzzz, Bzzzzzzz, Bzzzzzzz, and so on, then Nicolai’s voice came on: “I’m sorry...I’m sorry...,” he sounded troubled, “but I’m a bitouchindis-indisposed at the moment.” all accompanied by the sound of him bumping into furniture, the effect being (he had hoped, though no one quite got it) of him being chased by crazed hornets and brutally stung while the caller left his message (his because he got very few calls from women), usually there was a confused pause before anyone began speaking.
“This is a message for Nicolai Vicoff,” this caller began, “My name is Giusseppi Contrari, I have some regretful news. There is no dire need, but if he could call me as soon as possible” Nicolai picked up the phone and heard of his uncle’s death and of his will (How significant? Significant); in addition, Contrari read him a poem that Rooka had written especially for Nicolai:
The bird, it flies to the far off skies
away from me,
If I follow, as I try, for I can fly,
I lose it in the dark.
Ho there, though, it flashed passed that star;
No, there, now it darkened that other star.
But I have only a tether of sight
and I miss my mark.
This bird, I, relieved from an inhuman bondage,
can now fly free (teedle-dee).
He felt ill, he’d just been to see Rooka and he was fine, good, in excellent health, still his kooky old self, remiss as usual, but certainly not on his death bed. Been there? That doesn’t seem right, when was that? Well of course, you just got back. I did? You did, look at your bag there, still got the baggage claim on it. The bag sat in the center of the room, still unpacked, Nicolai was sitting on the bed and when he reached over to grab it, he fell (passed out) drunk on the carpet and woke up some months later on a kitchen floor in New York.
The general was gone, Lucille still slept, and a small insect was crawling up Nicolai’s nose. He blew it away (held one nostril, blew with the other) and stood up.
Nicolai’s memory of these events remained wholeand separated, then from now, by the segment of time necessarily in between themand recessed in an inaccessible part of the brain (to his command at any rate). He noticed that Lucille had now wedged herself in the corner formed by the mattress and wall, leaving plenty of room for him to lie down, which he did. He fell fast asleep and gave leave in that action to his dreambox to make what it would of the general’s last harsh command. Immediately then, as Nicolai shaded his eyes, preventing all but the dimmest rays of light from polluting his camera obscura skull, a projector went click, an assistant’s footsteps creaked as he carried a load of film reels up the stairs from their secure vault, there was a schleeeppt as the automatic threading mechanism sucked up a portion of leader (uh oh, misfeed, small adjustment, reform the loop, ah there we are), and then the soft purr of a well-tuned machine and the flickering images (perhaps just a bit too fast) of an ancient technology, for on even the best models the color sometimes faded, film often broke or looped endlessly, splices caught in the gate, and inadvertent edits destroying any sense of narrative flow were common.
The image was blurry at first but then became clearer: Nicolai was following a woman down a staircase. She was a large woman, big, tall that is, buxom he could tell, though he only saw her from behind. She must have been at least six feet tall, though shapely with wide hips and powerful thighs, above her hips he could not see, for her hair was long and full. It was probably brown, but the tight (man was it tight) red dress (it looked to be made of vinyl or rubber) gave it an auburn hue. This dress was as short as she was tall, ending just below the curve of her ample buttocks. Coming up from the floor were two black boots (also of vinyl) that began with, at the least, a thin four inch spike heel and then entombed her calves and most of her thighs, leaving between their top and the dress’s bottom a four or five inch splash of white flesh. The flesh there and on her exposed arms was so bright that it seemed to shine, leaving a mist of light wherever she had been, and in the dark it was this trail of photonic emission that made it possible for Nicolai to follow her through the winding, falling, dark tunnels and stairwells of the castle. Castle? Why yes, of course, he suddenly realized, I’ve come to pay Rooka a visit, why though? She turned a corner, he followed. I don’t know, figure it out later. Her footsteps stopped. Wait, no they didn’t, there’d never been any. Come to think of it, he couldn’t hear a thing. Projectionist! Projectionist! There’s no sound. I’ve got it turned all the bloody way up, man, if you can’t hear it you’re daft! Oh yes, he remembered, never mind, his ears were still stopped up from the flight in. He continued his pursuit, she was now some distance ahead and he hurried to catch up. It all came back to him now, Rooka had phoned him and asked him to come on urgent business, immediately. He’d find a ticket (pre-paid) waiting for him at the airport and should come; and Nicolai had too, because it must have been important indeed to break the silence which had existed between them for almost five years after Nicolai’s most distressing visit. How could he have forgotten? In prime Rookorian fashion however no one was there to meet him when he arrived, and after shelling out his own money for a taxi-cab, he found the castle empty as well. Could I have the wrong castle? he thought. Silly question. Then he’d seen this woman (that she was and ten fold) and here he was now, following her down another staircase. He was getting too close to her and should have slacked off, but he didn’t and she didn’t seem to notice until suddenly he found himself only two or three steps behind. Then, on the verge of an urge to pounce upon her, a foul smell drifted past him in the darkness and she stopped. She turned around slowly and he was caught in her eyes, she looked so sweet and coy. “I’m sorry,” she said, “borscht.” and extended her arm to him, her left arm, and on the third finger of the hand of it she wore a shiny gold ring.
Suddenly then, as if her long fingers, outstretched, pushed a switch or poked a button, the projector went snrap, shades lifted, light poured into the dark, and Nicolai was awake. He felt a pain on the left side of his face, his cheek, from the fall before; no, that was his shoulder he’d hurt then, he touched it, ouch, but his face? He looked over and Lucille was preparing to punch him again. He grabbed her wrist preventing her fist from delivering the blow; she was asleep. He pushed her away from him violently and she rolled and landed with a thud in the corner of the bed. The force of her arrival there in conjunction with the motion created by Nicolai’s shove, caused the bed to slide at that moment away from the wall, and consequently Lucille’s limp body to slide into the newly formed rift; half suspended she was, an arm on the bed, her legs on the floor, a knee perhaps caught on a shelf or a spring, and still (still!) she slept. Unbeliev
able.
Nicolai was unhurt, but a ring she was wearing had given him a smartno, the other girl had the ring on and it gave him a start, not a smart. When he closed his eyes, he saw her again. He took her outstretched hand and let her lead him where she would.
She led him the rest of the way down, which was not very far, and into a room. The room had all the makings of a finished suburban basement: paneled walls, no window, fluorescent lighting, waterbed (king size), and some boxes stacked in a corner.
And she stood, stacked, in the center of the room. She pulled down the top half of her dress and it squeaked as she did so. She began doing a little dance which drove Nicolai crazy. Her hands she buried in her hair and wiggled her bottom to and fro in an undulating rhythm, in short she writhed and Nicolai loved writhing, a turn, nice move, pouted lips, thighs together, a lean to the side, feet apart, head back. Nicolai all but panted, keeping his distance, for he didn’t know what to do. She lifted the bottom half of her dress up and beckoned him over, bent over now, brushing her hair aside to call him from over her shoulder. He touched her bottom, it was as hard and cold as steel. He touched it again, not cold as steel, cold like steel, exactly like steel. He moved his hand under and through and sure enough a large padlock hung from a clasp in the front; he was quite disconcerted.
This was all far too weird for him. He decided to abandon this dangerous course and try to find Rooka, but the door was locked (is everything here locked?). He asked her to please unlock it, but she was not listening, instead she was crawling toward him on the floor, growling. As she approached he moved away from her along the wall and she bumped her head into the door. Apparently he was going to be punished for this, for she growled ferociously with a not unseductive grin on her face. She came at him again and he backed up again, this time tripping over the edge of the bed and landing with a splash upon it. She pounced and was on top of him. As she positioned herself over him the bed swayed, flowed (undulated) beneath them. He could not squirm away.
She began nibbling his neck. He stopped trying to get away. Hell, he thought, if I’ve got to be here anyway I might as well enjoy it. She bit him. “Bloody hell! Stop that.” She snarled and began unbuckling his belt. Enough, far too bizarre all this. It took her a few moments, she was quite excited, and he used that time to create a tremendous wave in the bed, amplified by his slightly rocking back and forth, until it overwhelmed and capsized them (her falling off of him) and he broke away from her. She cornered him quickly and managed to get his pants down around his ankles. She grabbed him and attacked his neck again, he could not resist: it felt too good. She had done, but held on still. “What have you done to me?” he pleaded.
She smiled (better, smirked), “I give you tremendous hickey.” He felt the mark, no blood, no twin pores draining his soul, just (as she’d said) a tremendous hickey. Christ, enough of this. He pushed her away and fled, but fell, his pants (of course) around his ankles. She looked down at him, stood over him, and pulled from her right boot a small key. Nicolai suddenly got very excited, a bit too suddenly though, and she put the key away and said, “We have more fun tomorrow.” She looked disappointed.
He felt as though he ought to apologize, but didn’t have the chance because suddenly a loud siren resounded through the castle. “The castle, the castle, someone is on the grounds. We are being attacked again.” The girl was afraid, “Just like last time. You must save yourself, save the Vicoff blood, they hate the Vicoffs. Quickly, I will help you.” He pulled his pants up with some difficulty. “Come, comesorryhurry! We must flee!” She led him out of the room and again to the foyer. Once there, she yelled something to him, which he couldn’t hear for the sirens, and then disappeared behind a door. When he tried to follow, the door was locked, all doors, in fact, on that floor were locked, including the main one leading outsidethat one especially, bolted hard with several steel shafts. The only path open to him was the stairs, which he climbed, and led to the room in which he’d invariably stayed during his visits. I will not come again after this, ever, no never! The room was prepared for him, which led him to believe that they had been expecting his arrival: the bed was made, there were fresh candles by his bedside, and the window was open. The sirens were not as loud up there, particularly after he closed the door, which made it possible for him to hear something else: a loud chanting. He looked out the window and sure enough outside, still some distance from the castle, but approaching swiftly, was a crowd of people chanting, sometimes laughing (in an angry fashion, a vicious fashion), andhe found this most unusualbrandishing torches. The chant was indecipherable to him, the only two words he could discern were “Rooka”, that was clear and oft repeated, and then something that sounded like “pussycat”; and though not sure of the meaning behind what they said, he was almost certain that they were not inviting the Vicoffs to go with them for a nice bonfire in the park.
The crowd was almost upon the castle and he could now distinguish individuals. Most of them had the look of peasants, one man for example towed a sheep along (for the bonfire? Doubtful), but there were some who had the look of gentry and of those there was a small group of perhaps ten who kept together and a little away from the rest. In all, Nicolai estimated, conservatively, that there were seventy five of them, a head count, however, might reveal as many as a hundred. Their leader, they had a leader, was an old man who walked in front. He carried no torch because in one hand he held a cane and in the other a large photograph. He was one of the peasant types, ragged clothes gave that right away, and he wore a long white beard; his back was arched. The photograph was of a younger man, but no other features were visible from that distance; Nicolai noticed that many of the people carried photographs.
They arrived before the entrance. Rooka, what sort of trouble have you got me into now? The old man in front came forward and using his cane banged loudly on the door. He then, obviously expecting no reply, turned again and joined the ranks. A discussion was had and a command yelled back through the crowd and then for a time only silent muttering: the lion licking its chops before a kill (lick, lick, lick). After sufficient chop licking, the crowd parted slightly down the middle, zipped open, making way for a group of four men carrying a log, two to a side; the crowd zipped closed again after they’d passed.
They stopped in front of the door ready and waiting a command. The old man looked aroundeverything appeared readyand then spit, but the liquid didn’t quite make it out of his mouth and instead formed a sloppy drool; the men began bashing in the door with the battering ram.
Nicolai felt he had to stop them, so he yelled (most naturally), “Stop.” It came out rather unconvincingly but worked; they all looked up at him.
“Walter, is that you up there?” It was a woman who spoke (thank God, English); the only woman in the crowd, the rest were all men. “Walter, come down from there. We are going to kill Vicoff! You want to get burned like a sausage?”
Then somebody noticed, “It’s the young Vicoff!” Nicolai felt it was not said in the way you might say “It’s the Queen” but rather like you might say “It’s the Frankenstein monster” (similar circumstance too, and unfortunately usually followed with a “get him!”).
“Come down here, Vicoff,” the woman again, “if you don’t make a fight we will have pity and kill you only half as slow,” there was some dissent in the crowd, “OK, we can’t do half, but three quarter as slow, but we’ll give you some chocolate cake.” Nicolai backed away from the window and heard them bashing in the door again.
What was going on? Nicolai relaxed as an answer came to him, Rooka was playing a joke, a prank, a little trickski. He was probably in the crowd himself (under a long white beard no doubt). The sound of the front door crashing to the ground put this fantasy out of his head. They’re going to kill me, burn me, flay me. He put his ear to the door to listen for a hundred and fifty (two hundred if a foot count were ordered) footsteps rushing up the stairs, a mad dash, competitors shoving others out of the way to claim
the prize for themselves, but there was silence. Outside too, all chanting and murmuring had stopped. The siren bleeped twice more and then died; a mouse creeped out from a hiding place in the corner, one precious piece of cheese in its mouth, it looked at Nicolai with pity and then (from a running start) dived out the window. They are probably setting the castle on fire. He waited, but still heard nothing. You’d expect something, creaking floors, chuckles of glee, splashing gasoline, the soft crackle of burning Vicoff, but there was nothing.
He peeked out the window again; he couldn’t see much because he kept low, but the crowd seemed to be debating something, quietly though, as if only to waste some time, to extend the ecstasy of the riot (what’s say we have a bit of riot today, sweetums. Jolly good, Roger, shall I toast some munchies?). This was his chance either to escape or find a better hiding place, he had to make his move. He felt the inside of the door for heat, usually a worthwhile precaution, but in this case unnecessary: there was none. He stepped into the hallway outside the room at the top of the stairs and looked down them, the smashed door lay there crumpled and broken on the floor, its three steel bolts clawed now partially around it; otherwise, the foyer was empty.
I Thought My Uncle Was A Vampire, But He Was Just A Creep Page 17
