by Susan Conley
I looked up and met Federico’s eyes.
“You are right, Carla, something is different in Bécquer’s relationship with Ryan. Still, I don’t believe Bécquer has forced him. Please, let me talk with Bécquer. Let me ask him what Ryan is to him. I promise I’ll report to you what he tells me.”
“No.”
I stood to go, but Federico grabbed my arm. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Carla. But you must understand, I won’t let you hurt Bécquer either.”
“As if I could.”
“Don’t pretend with me.”
“Pretend?”
Federico stared at me for a long time and I knew he was reading my feelings and resented him for it, but could do nothing to stop him. Finally, he shook his head. “Either you’re good at hiding it or you really don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“About the glass.”
“Know what about the glass?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“I see. You don’t trust me, but I must trust you. I don’t think so.”
Federico sighed. “You’re right. If you are to trust me, I must trust you too. But before I do, promise you won’t ever repeat what I’m about to say.”
“We call ourselves immortals, but that is a misnomer,” Federico told me when I promised. “We can die.”
“How?”
“You really don’t expect me to answer that, do you? Let’s say we heal fast. Any wound we receive disappears almost instantly once the object that caused it is removed. But a cut from glass doesn’t close as fast, and the loss of blood leaves us vulnerable.”
“You heal fast. How fast are we talking?”
“Let me show you.”
From somewhere about his person, he produced a pocketknife. Holding the blade in his right hand, he ran it over his left palm. Briefly, the line he traced filled with blood then closed again, or so it seemed to me for, as I looked, my vision blurred. As my knees gave way, I fell into darkness.
Chapter Six: The Kiss
When I came back to my senses, I was lying on the four-poster bed I had seen through the French doors that opened into Bécquer’s room. I tried to sit, but the walls started spinning, so I gave in and laid back once more against the pillows. Through the cotton cloud that filled my mind, I heard angry voices coming from the anteroom. Bécquer’s voice and Federico’s. Then Bécquer’s again, louder this time.
“Why did you bring her here?”
So much for my hope that he never learned I had been in his room. I didn’t have to strain my ears to hear Federico’s answer for he was also shouting.
“Because you forgot to tell her this was a costume party, and your dear Beatriz didn’t waste time to point it out to her. I came to find her a mask.”
“What does it matter whether she is wearing a stupid costume or not?”
“It matters to her.”
“I see. What would I do without you, Federico? I guess being straight has its disadvantages. I miss those subtleties in women you see so well.”
“So you’re straight? Still?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course I’m straight.”
“Then why did you frame the picture of her son?”
“Ryan.” Bécquer’s voice was softer now, almost inaudible. “His name is Ryan.”
“You love him,” Federico shouted. “You love this boy. Don’t deny it. I know you too well. Your voice changed when you said his name.”
“Yes, I love him. But it is not what you think.”
“Stop lying to me, Bécquer. I’m tired of it. You know I’d give my life for you a thousand times. The only thing I ask is that you tell me the truth. And you haven’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I asked you this morning if you had a new lover, and you said you didn’t. But it was a lie.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I don’t believe you. I think you were ashamed of confessing that you had taken a boy and forced him against his nature. Or maybe not ashamed, maybe he has resisted you. Has he? Is that why you signed Carla, to have an excuse to be close to her son?”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“I think not. I feared that Beatriz was going to get you in trouble with the Elders. Now I hope she will. The only thing I regret is that I won’t be here when it happens because I’m leaving. Now.”
“Calm down, Federico. You’re overreacting as usual.”
“Goodbye, Bécquer.”
“Federico!”
I had left the bed upon hearing Federico’s accusations and Bécquer’s weak denials and, as the door slammed close behind Federico, I slid the French doors open and entered the anteroom.
“Is that true?” I asked to Bécquer’s back.
Bécquer turned.
Despite the fury that burned inside me, my breath caught in my chest, for he was a vision of beauty in his three-piece black suit, the jacket open to reveal a white shirt, a red vest, a white rosebud caught in its lapel. His black hair, slightly longer than fashionable, came almost to his shoulders, framing his handsome face that, even now flustered in anger, had the beauty of a Michelangelo statue come to life.
In a swift movement, Bécquer was by my side. “How much have you heard?” he asked, a trace of irritation in his voice.
“Answer me. Is that why you chose me? To be close to my son?”
His eyes glowed red. “No. I chose you because you have the gift. The gift of turning words into stories. The gift and nothing else in a world that is blind to beauty and deaf to song. And thus, you, like me when I was alive, like all of us with an artist’s soul, struggle to survive, but not quite make it, for we have no mind for business. That is why I chose you. I thought you needed me. I thought I could be of help to you.”
“I may need you, but my son is not the price.”
“I agree. He’s not. I never meant him to be.”
“Then why do you have his picture?”
“Because … ” For the first time ever, Bécquer struggled for words. “Would you please take a seat, Carla, I — ”
“No. Tell me.”
He hesitated for a moment longer. “All right.” He took a deep breath. “I have his picture because Ryan is my descendant.”
“Your what?”
“My descendant. His great grandfather, your grandfather, Carla, was my grandson.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Bécquer shrugged. “It’s the truth. I was human once, you know, and I had children.”
You’re my ancestor was all I could think. This man to whom I was, undeniably attracted, was my ancestor. I started shaking.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit?”
I shook my head. But when he grabbed my arm and guided me to the sofa, I didn’t resist.
Bécquer didn’t sit, but walked to the curtains that covered the wall and, after drawing them aside, stood by the window, his eyes lost in the distance as if reading a story in the darkness outside. Finally he turned and, pulling out a chair that stood by the desk, dragged it over and sat heavily, facing me.
“All right. Here is the truth. You’re a descendant of my wife’s third child. But you are not biologically my descendant for the baby was not mine. My wife and I had parted ways more than a year before his birth. She had left me for she loved somebody else.
“When her son was born, I recognized him as mine, out of shame perhaps, or as I wish to believe, out of concern for the baby who would have been shunned otherwise. So, in a way, I didn’t lie to you before because legally he was my son and later when he came to live with me, I loved him as such.”
The warmth in his voice when he talked betrayed the strength of his feelings. I sighed deeply, relieved to learn h
e was not my ancestor for his love for this boy — who in that time long ago when he was human had caused him so much shame — had only increased my attraction to him.
“Thank you for telling me.”
He shrugged. “Do you believe me now?”
“So you knew about me and my children all these years. Why did you approach Ryan now?”
“No, I didn’t know about you until recently. When I became immortal, I had to give up seeing my children. I followed them from afar over the years — my children and their children and their children’s children — making sure they were all right.
“Then, for personal reasons, I left Spain in 1936, at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War. When I came back, years later, I couldn’t find my descendants anymore. That monstrous war had swallowed them, and erased all trace that I had ever been alive.”
“My grandfather died in Madrid the first year of the war,” I explained to him. “My grandmother moved north after it ended, with their son, my father. That’s why you couldn’t find him.”
“I know. I ran a search on you.” He smiled his disarming smile as I glowered at him. “Don’t get upset. I read your book first then got curious about you, a Spaniard whose last name was Esteban. Could it be we were related?”
“But your last name is — ”
“Dominguez, actually, not Bécquer. But Emilio took his mother’s name, Esteban, when he was of age after he learned the truth about his birth, I guess.
“You are his descendant. I had no doubt,” Bécquer continued. “And when I learned you had a son, I had to meet him.”
“I have a daughter too.”
A fleeting smile played on his lips. “I don’t do so well with girls.”
I was about to give him some feminist speech about his blatant misogyny when I remembered Madison’s moody behavior of late and let it pass. I wasn’t doing well with girls these days either.
“How did you meet Ryan?” I asked him instead.
“I arranged to give a talk at his college and approached him afterward. When I discovered he played guitar, I told him to call me for I knew Matt’s band was looking for a new member. He called a week later and I invited him to come over to meet Matt.”
“You gave him your card?”
Bécquer stared at me. “Probably. Why?”
“I found it in his pocket today.”
“He’s not using.”
“How did you know — ?” I stopped as I realized that, like Federico, Bécquer was reading my mind, or whatever it was immortals did. I glared at him.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Then don’t.”
He shrugged. “You don’t have to worry about Ryan. He’s clean. You must be proud of him. It’s hard to give up an addiction. Believe me, I know.”
He got up. “Now that everything has been clarified between us, let’s go. Whether I want it or not, I have a party to host. Which reminds me … ”
He was gone and back so fast that, but for the mask he held now in his hands, I wouldn’t have noticed he had moved at all.
I stood and examined the mask, a delicate piece of art made of ivory silk with colorful feathers.
“Don’t you like it?” Bécquer asked, as I hesitated to pick it up.
“It’s beautiful.”
Again he smiled, the smile of a child pleased with himself. “Federico bought it for me last year when he was in Venice.”
He talked about Federico affectionately as if he had already forgotten his friend had just stomped out of the room, threatening to leave at once. When I mentioned this to him, he shook his head. “He won’t leave. He’s with Matt.” And for the way he said it, as a fact, I understood he was feeling his mind. Did he know, I wondered, of Matt’s attraction to Federico? But, of course, he must.
“Shouldn’t you apologize to him?”
“Apologize to him?” Bécquer repeated, his eyes glowing red. “How can you suggest such a thing? He was the one who insulted me. He accused me of perverting Ryan — ”
“Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”
“And spoil his fun? Federico enjoys thinking the worst of me.”
“That’s not true. He worships you.”
“I wish he didn’t. I am no god. Thus, no matter what I do, he’s bound to be disappointed.”
“I think you like him to worship you. Or you would have put an end to his infatuation long ago.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried?”
“Obviously not hard enough.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Stop playing games with him, Bécquer. If you really want Federico to forget you, you must treat him like your equal. Tell him the truth.”
“I will eventually.”
“Do it now. Mind to mind.”
“Even if I did, he won’t believe me because he would sense I’m hiding something from him. Which I am. But what I’m hiding is a surprise for him, not an ugly secret of mine. I’m hiding that I taught Matt and Ryan to play some of his poems set to song, and they’re going to perform them tonight.
“So you see why I have the right to be resentful of him? I plan a concert in his honor, and he pays me back by throwing wild accusations at me.”
“You care what he thinks,” I said, for the eagerness of his discourse suggested he was genuinely hurt.
“You seem surprised. I see. Federico has convinced you that I’m a monster. It’s useless. No matter what I do, Federico will never forgive me.”
“He has forgiven you long ago. It’s forgetting he has trouble with.”
Bécquer looked away.
“We must go,” he said, “the guests are waiting. And I want you to meet Richard Malick. He’s interested in your manuscript.”
He offered me his arm, but I hesitated. I don’t like parties. Parties are full of people. I like people in small doses. Not all at once. And, if facing a room full of strangers was enough to send me into a panic, talking with a publisher, even if that was the main reason I had come to the party, made my knees grow weak.
“Are you all right?” Bécquer asked.
I breathed in. “Yes.”
“You don’t seem all right to me. And you just fainted. Why?”
“I … Federico cut himself. I can’t stand the sight of blood.”
Bécquer frowned, and stared at me, his face expressionless, his eyes as dark as unfathomable wells. As I stared back, his lips parted, to reveal white flashing teeth. For a moment, his canines, longer than what seemed normal, rested on his lower lip.
I didn’t see him move, yet he must have, because his body was close to mine, his hands cupped my face, and his lips were on my lips, pressing them open. Over the familiar scent of lemon and cinnamon that was his, I felt the salty taste of blood and in my mind I heard his words: “Take it. You must take it.”
As he spoke, I felt a pressure in my mind and images formed unbidden: a woman dressed in white sitting by a fountain; a young actress declaiming her lines on stage; a baby in a laced gown; an abbey — its bells ringing — outlined against the background of a solitary mountain; an angry mob burning a horse-drawn carriage while the horses reared, neighing in panic; the face of a woman, beautiful and pale, smiling with blood stained lips.
“Better now?”
Bécquer’s voice intruded in my mind and the visions disappeared. I looked around. I was still sitting on the sofa, and Bécquer was staring down at me, his perfect features set into a mask.
“What have you done to me?”
“Nothing, really.”
I checked with my tongue and found no wound inside my mouth to justify the taste of blood my mind still remembered. So the blood had not been mine.
“You gave me your blood.”
H
e shrugged. “Only a couple of drops. Just enough to solve your problem.”
“I didn’t know I had a problem.”
“You just told me you faint at the sight of blood. And I couldn’t help but notice you were terrified of joining the party. Now, you won’t be.”
“Have you changed me?” I asked, my voice higher than I had intended.
“No. Of course not. You would need a lot more of my blood for that. I gave you enough to make you stronger.”
“How wonderful. I don’t know how to thank you.”
Bécquer gave me a crooked smile. “A kiss will do.”
“I was being sarcastic, Bécquer. Don’t you get it? This is exactly what I was trying to explain to you before. You manipulate Federico, and everybody else, for all I know. You assume what people want and give it to them. Then get upset when they are not overjoyed by your interference.”
“I meant it as a gift.”
“Maybe. But even if your intentions are good, it is not all right to force your will on others. I didn’t ask for this ‘gift.’”
“All my lovers beg me to give them my blood. I thought you’d want it too.”
“I’m not one of your lovers.”
Bécquer looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I see what you mean. I … I would take it back. But I can’t. The effect of my blood won’t last long, though, and I promise, I will ask next time.”
“You don’t have to ask next time for the answer is no. I don’t want your blood. I don’t want to be like you. In fact, I wish — ”
I wish I had never met you, I was about to say, but stopped because I didn’t want to offend him. Besides it wasn’t totally true. Although I’d rather not know there were immortal beings among us with powers to control humans’ minds, this ancient yet childish god who had just kissed me like a lover also fascinated me. And I hoped he had learned his lesson and was not sensing my feelings, because just then, I wanted nothing better than his lips against my lips and his arms around my body. A stupid wish I knew I must stop at once.
