Opium and Absinthe: A Novel

by Lydia Kang

  Ian drew the book to his chest. “So do I.”

  “Why?”

  “To help me figure out why that lady got killed by a vampire. I may sell newspapers, but I’ve a keen interest in murders. Do you have a better reason?”

  Tillie’s throat tightened. There was no way to escape the answer. She stared straight at him and tried to speak without crying.

  “That lady was my sister.”

  The clerk and Ian both went quiet.

  “Oh. Golly. I . . .” Ian’s eyes fell to the book. “I figured you knew her somehow, but I didn’t think . . .” He looked up again. “What was her name?”

  “Lucy.” Tillie’s hand spasmed and clenched as she said her name aloud. “Her name was Lucy.”

  He suddenly looked as if he’d bitten his tongue. “Lucy? There’s a Lucy in this book who’s a victim of vampire killing. Did you know that?”

  “No! I didn’t.” She clasped her hands together. “But I would know if I owned the book. Please, Mr. Metzger. I’m tired and I’m in pain and I’m in mourning. I’ve been to three stores already, and my maid—”

  “Is apparently voracious and going to eat us both.”

  “I never said that!” Tillie nearly screeched, exasperated.

  “All right, all right. Don’t break another bone,” Ian said, holding out the book in surrender. “Look. I am sorry for your loss. I really am. How about we share it? You get it for one week, and I’ll come pick it up after.”

  “Share it?”

  The clerk whined. “My mother-in-law is going to turn me into a ham sandwich if you two don’t finish up here. Twenty cents.”

  “Fine. Here is my share.” Tillie finagled her sacque open with one hand and pulled out a dime. Ian dug into his left pocket, then his right. He fished in the front pocket of his jacket and then his back pocket. He looked like a ringless groom at a wedding. As he patted the outside of his jacket, his eyes lit up. He pulled out a slotted spoon carved with a fernlike design.

  “Take this as payment.”

  “I can’t use a spoon!” The clerk looked like he was about to pass out.

  “What is that?” Tillie asked.

  “Don’t you know?”

  Tillie wanted to slap him. “Why would I ask, if I knew what it was?”

  He held it out toward her. “You cover my half and take this as payment for now, since I used my last pennies on a bowl of oyster soup.”

  “Ugh, I don’t like oysters. I don’t eat any animals that don’t have eyes. Or an obvious nervous system.”

  “Oy, I’m more goyish than you are, then,” he said, smirking. “So I have eyes, and last I checked, I had a brain too. Would you carve me up?”

  Tillie went red in the face. “You would taste terrible.” What a nonsensical conversation.

  “Anyway. I should have saved my money. Words feed the soul, or so they say. I’ll pick the book up in seven days and pay you half then. I promise. On my bobe’s good name.”

  “All right,” Tillie said, handing another coin to the clerk. He shuffled them out the door, locked it with a huff, and sprinted westward into the setting sunlight.

  Ada, in the hansom, looked like her hair might spontaneously light afire at the sight of her mistress walking with a young man. Tillie ignored her and turned to Ian.

  “You know where I live. One week, then.”

  “Until then.” He handed her the spoon. “That’ll give you one week to figure out why I’m carrying this around.” He tipped his cap and went walking off down the street, whistling a Tin Pan Alley tune.

  On the ride home, Ada asked too many questions. Tillie begged to be left alone. She was flustered, and her pain had returned. That newsie had done a marvelous job of frustrating her to the point of forgetting her sorrow. But when it returned, it returned with a vengeance.

  She took a few drops of medicine straight from the dropper, and by the time they were back in front of their brownstone, she was asleep. But her fist stayed curled fast around the slotted spoon.

  CHAPTER 5

  There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh, unconscious celebration!

  —Dr. Seward

  Tillie took to her bed for the entire weekend and into the next week, consumed by Dracula.

  She told everyone that it was her collarbone, that it ached something terrible, and that her despair over her sister’s loss had driven her to bed. Too much pain and anguish for Tillie to tolerate being around anyone.

  This was only partially true.

  She saw ghosts of Lucy everywhere when she was awake. The quotidian activities of the house were warped versions of what they’d been before Lucy had died. She now broke her fast every morning alone, when before, Lucy used to ask Tillie over their breakfast tea, “Give me a word from your dictionary, Tillie. A new one I’ve never heard of. Astonish me!” When Grandmama would catch them laughing as she walked by (she didn’t eat breakfast, as she thought it unwholesome for a woman of her age), she’d snap, “Mathilda!” There was always only one Pembroke lady at fault, and it never seemed to be Lucy. Perhaps now that Lucy had taken the unforgivable step of dying without Grandmama’s permission, Tillie was becoming more tolerable in her eyes.

  Grandmama hadn’t taken away her opium, for example. Not yet.

  Tillie asked for copies of the newspaper, but nothing more had been written about Lucy’s death. Were the police investigating? She didn’t know. Her family and the servants refused to say anything, worried it would hamper her healing and her delicate constitution. And so, between her wretched grief and her foggy hours under the spell of the opium drops, Tillie pulled the copy of Dracula from beneath her pillow and read, determined to learn anything that might tell her how Lucy had died.

  It was such an awful book. No lady of standing would be caught reading such a story. It was replete with visions that were wholly unchristian. But it had opened a world Tillie didn’t know, and that was always heavenly. She wished the mysterious Carpathian Mountains were yet undiscovered and that she could be the first to witness their grandeur. She thought of this monster, this Dracula, and despite her disgust, recognized how elegant and romantic he was. He was in love, and he was lonely.

  Tillie read on and off throughout the week. She scribbled down her questions in a tiny notebook she kept under her pillow, attached to a small pencil. Who was this author, this Mr. Stoker? Where did he live? Did any of these stories come from truth, or were they only dark children’s fairy tales? At night, she would place a blanket under the crack of her door so no one suspected she was reading by lambent electric light. She banished Ada from waking her up for medicine when she did slumber. In the morning, groggy and underslept, she would force herself to sit up when Ada brought her a supply of sweetened tea and fresh oatcakes speckled with raisins. Then she would quickly shoo Ada from the room after her ablutions were completed.

  By the time she had finished reading and rereading the book, her body felt wrung out and weary.

  This was only fiction; how could it make her feel this way?

  Tillie reread one passage in particular, as if trying to undo a puzzle within herself. It had been written by Jonathan Harker’s character after he had become trapped inside Dracula’s castle, left to the vices of the count’s vampire wives.

  In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner . . . All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear . . .

  “He is young and strong; there are kisses for us all.”

  The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the whit
e sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat.

  Here, Tillie would shut the book and fling it away to the end of her bed, before reaching out and feverishly finding the passage to read it again.

  The bite. The bite did not happen in this passage, but it would soon.

  At the end of the week, Tillie pulled herself out of the bed and looked about. Her room was in disorder. Empty bottles of opium were scattered on a tray at the foot of her bed, alongside crumbs left over from two cakes she had eaten. Her damask bed linens were bunched on the floor, the matching drapery pulled shut.

  In the dim electric light, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her wrinkled nightgown was damp beneath her arms, and her left arm was still bandaged close to her chest. Tillie’s dark hair tumbled down over her shoulders in frazzled waves. Purplish shadows haunted the hollows beneath her eyes.

  “I look like I belong in the book,” she said aloud. Both Lucys—hers and the one in the novel—had succumbed to vampires, but perhaps Tillie herself was more like Mina, Harker’s wife. Dracula had fed Mina his own blood to effect her transformation into a vampire. Tillie opened her mouth wide and inspected her teeth. Her sharp canines seemed pitifully small and un-animal-like. How could a person bite someone with these? How could a vampire grow such teeth?

  The newspaper said no blood had been found at the scene. Which meant even Lucy’s lilac dress must have been spotless. How?

  Tillie reached awkwardly across the bed, grabbed her small notebook, and scribbled on a new page.

  No blood at scene. How to drink blood without making a mess?

  She put the notebook down and went back to her mirror. With her free hand, she yanked at the side of her mouth to gain a better view of her right canine.

  “Definitely not sharp enough,” she said, saliva pooling under her tongue. Though with her fingers in her mouth, it sounded like “Deffineey nohh sharrfff enoufff.”

  The door swung open suddenly, and her mother entered the room. Tillie’s eyes opened wide, and she quickly pulled her fingers away, a rope of saliva linking her fingertip to her lip.

  “Mathilda! What are you . . . doing?” her mother asked.

  “Oh. I was . . .” She pointed at her mouth. “My tooth aches.”

  “Well goodness, if it does, send Ada for some ice to calm it. How are you feeling? You look a fright.”

  “I’m well. Just going back to sleep,” Tillie said, backing closer to the bed so she could slip Dracula under her pillow. Mama was particularly sour about ladies reading belles lettres.

  “If you’re well, then you’re well enough to receive guests. You’ve been in this room too long.”

  “It’s midnight,” Tillie protested.

  “Mathilda, it is ten o’clock in the morning. On a Tuesday.” Shrilly, she called, “Ada, come here this instant.” Ada popped into the room as if she had been stored behind the door all along. “Open the shades. Air this room out, and wash the linens. Draw a bath for Mathilda, and have her ready and fed.”

  Like a pig, Tillie wished to say, but she kept her lips tight.

  Her mother picked up an empty bottle of laudanum and sniffed it. She grimaced. “James Cutter and Dorothy Harriman are due to call in one hour.”

  “I don’t want to see them,” Tillie said. “I’m not well.”

  “James is practically a son-in-law, and Dorothy is your dearest friend. You haven’t seen them since your accident.”

  “I saw them at the funeral,” she said petulantly. “Mama,” she said, remembering one of the questions she’d written down, “whatever happened to Lucy’s purse?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She waved a hand. “If there is anything to know, Mathilda, I will tell you.”

  Her mother eyed the empty brown bottles again. “It’s time you stop taking this medicine. Grandmama doesn’t like it.” She put the bottle down and wiped her hands against each other, as if the glass had been covered in ptomaine. “Your temperament is calmer under its influence, no doubt, but a good temperament requires only practice and good breeding. Ada, dispose of these. Mathilda will be fine without them now.”

  Tillie watched Ada gather up the bottles. There was still half a bottle in her reticule, but she stayed silent about that. She tried to think: When was her last dose? She gently stretched her left shoulder and found the stiffness and pain returned as quickly as a struck match. It must have been six or seven hours ago.

  “Well,” Tillie said after clearing her throat. She put her hands together demurely and nodded. “I ought to get ready.”

  Her mother’s face lightened, and a rarely seen dimple appeared on her left cheek. Obedience always affected her like a draught might soothe a sore throat.

  “Very well.” She went to the door. “And put some color on your cheeks. You look ghastly. We don’t want James to think you’re more ill than you are.”

  She shut the door, and Tillie eased herself back onto her bed.

  “Why on earth does she care what James thinks about my complexion?” she said to Ada, who was picking up discarded clothing from the floor.

  Ada said, “Oh, Miss Tillie.” It was her substitute for saying, How can you be so ignorant for such a learned girl? Tillie dropped her shoulders too abruptly. The edges of her broken clavicle, slowly knitting themselves together, seemed to catch against each other like silk on sandpaper.

  She yelped in pain.

  Ada pretended not to hear her. She left the room to run the bath.

  After an hour of pain, scrubbing, careful dressing, and Ada tackling her tangled hair, Tillie was presentable. But the black parramatta silk seemed to devour any light nearby. She asked Ada to bring her reticule to her room so she could take a dose of opium, but Ada said she would fetch it while Tillie was having her visit with Mr. Cutter and Miss Harriman.

  “But I want it now,” Tillie said, irritated.

  Her mother’s figure appeared down the hallway.

  “Mathilda. You’re expected in the drawing room. We shall go together.”

  Mrs. Pembroke was a mountain of inky matte silk. Black lace smothered her up to her neck, and her hands were covered in black net gloves. Jet drops, carved in angles, subtly shone beneath her earlobes. A large pendant with Lucy’s braided golden hair around its edge was the only bit of brightness on her person. Even in death, Lucy was a light.

  “One moment.” Tillie went back into her room. She reached under her pillow for her notebook and pencil, catching sight, as she did so, of the strange slotted spoon casually acting as a bookmark in Dracula. Tillie thought of asking her mother if she knew anything about fancy slotted spoons, but her mother might inquire as to where she’d acquired the spoon—a question she wasn’t willing to answer. The tiny notebook and pencil were tucked into a fold of her sling, in case she had other thoughts to write down.

  Her mother met her at the top of the stairs, and together they descended. Two of her could fit inside her mother, as Tillie hadn’t eaten much in the last week. How was it possible, she thought, that vampires could get the energy they needed from blood alone? Humans needed meat and vegetables and desserts. She wondered if any other animals in the world could subsist on blood alone.

  Halfway down the stairs, she stopped and pulled her notebook out.

  “What are you doing, Mathilda?” her mother hissed.

  Tillie leaned the notebook on the banister to scrawl on a fresh page. How do animals live on blood food alone? Then she snapped it shut, dropping her pencil in the process. She finally managed to tuck the pencil in the binding, and put the notebook back in her sling.

  “Stop that. Please, don’t do such a thing during your visit. It would be terribly rude.”

  “I won’t,” Tillie promised, without truly promising. “Mama. Have the police said anything about how the vampire—”

  “Vampire! Don’t be ridiculous, Tillie. Your sister’s death was a senseless act. There is nothing else to be done but mo
ve forward.”

  Tillie stopped her descent. “But someone is to blame. Lucy is dead. Forgetting it all would be senseless!”

  Her mother grasped her wrist, hard, and pulled her closer. She whispered so no one would hear, but her voice sounded like a tempest, a rising hurricane.

  “Forgetting is an act of survival. We are women, Mathilda. We endure to survive. Don’t tell your own mother what she is allowed to remember or forget.” She let go of Tillie’s wrist, but even the release felt like an act of violence. Her mother descended a few steps and turned around, face as sweet as Christmas morning. “Our guests are waiting, dearest.”

  Tillie followed her. What exactly had her mother so forcefully forgotten that she should feel the need to bury Lucy too? She thought of Lucy Westenra in Dracula, after Van Helsing had placed a golden crucifix over her undead mouth, before he and her suitors had staked her heart, beheaded her, and stuffed her mouth with fresh garlic, all in the name of keeping her quiet and dead. Tillie could almost smell the garlic as she followed her mother into the salon.

  In the vast room, large palms sprouted from china vases in the corner. An enormous painting of Tillie’s grandfather hung above the mantel of the Italian marble fireplace, staring down at everyone with eyebrows that looked like a continuous line of cotton bolls and a beard to match. There was no corresponding portrait of Tillie’s father, though she treasured an old-fashioned porcelain miniature in her vanity drawer.

  The red Utrecht velvet chairs and chaise were brushed just so, and the red carpet was threaded with gold that matched the gilt edging on the furniture and coffered ceiling. James Cutter stood from his chair and nodded. His hair was perfectly styled with brilliantine oil, and his eyes, to her surprise, crinkled in welcome. This was the smile he gave to Lucy when she appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

  Sitting on the chaise was Dorothy Harriman, looking so modern in her ivory shirtwaist festooned with a Parisian lace frill along the bust and slim skirt narrowly gored in fine pink cambric. Dorothy was pretty, in a “she’s very pretty” sort of way, which was to say that she was tolerable. The Harrimans had few women in their family line, so they employed a lady’s companion to keep her happy and entertained. Tillie had heard that the ladies in James’s family had companions too. For Dorothy, Hazel Dreyer was compliant, always available—and currently sitting off to the side.