Of Love and Evil

by Anne Rice

  “So you had your father to yourself those years,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. The tears were frozen now, no longer slipping down his face. “Yes, and you should have seen how quickly he embraced my beloved brother. Why, you would think he had left me in the jungles of Brazil.”

  “That plant there, that tree,” I said. “It’s from the jungles of Brazil.”

  He stared fixedly at me, and then turned and appeared to stare at the plant as though he’d never seen it before. “Perhaps it is,” he said. “I don’t remember. We brought back many a sapling and many a cutting with us. Flowers, you see, he loves them in profusion. He loves the fruit trees that you see blooming here. He calls this his orangery. It’s his garden, really. I only come here now and then to write my poems as you can see.”

  The tears were entirely gone.

  “How would you know such a plant on seeing it?” he asked.

  “Hmmm, I’ve seen it in other places,” I ventured. “I’ve even seen it in Brazil.”

  His face had changed and now he seemed calculatedly to soften as he looked at me.

  “I understand your worry for your brother,” I said, “but perhaps he will recover. There’s a great deal of strength in him yet.”

  “Yes, and then perhaps my father’s plans for him may begin in earnest. Except there is a demon standing between him and those very plans.”

  “I don’t follow you. Surely you don’t think your brother …”

  “Oh, no,” he said coolly, his tears having dried. “Nothing of the sort.” Then he looked dazed again and preoccupied, and he raised one eyebrow and smiled as if he were lost in his innermost thoughts.

  “The demon stands in my father’s way,” he said, “in a manner you can’t have known. Let me tell you a little story of my father.”

  “By all means do.”

  “Kindly he is, and all those years kept me at his side like his trained monkey, from ship to ship, his beloved little pet.”

  “Those were happy times?”

  “Oh, very.”

  “But boys become men,” I interjected.

  “Yes, precisely, and men have desires, and men can feel a love so keen it’s as if a dagger has pierced the heart.”

  “You have felt such a love?”

  “Oh, yes, and for a perfect woman, a woman with no cause to look down on me, born as she was, the secret daughter of a rich priest. I needn’t tell you his name for you to grasp the threads here. Only that when I set eyes on her, there was no world but the world in which she existed, there was no place where I would ever want to roam unless she were at my side.” He looked at me again fixedly, and then that dazed expression overtook him. “Was it such a fantastic dream?”

  “You love her, and you want her,” I coaxed.

  “Yes, and wealth I have from my father’s ever-increasing generosity and affection, abundantly in private, and in the presence of others.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Yet when I proposed to him her very name, what do you think the course of action suddenly became? Oh, I wonder that I hadn’t seen it. I wonder that I hadn’t understood. Daughter of a priest, yes, but such a priest, such a high-placed cardinal with so many rich daughters. How could I have been a fool not to see he saw her as a crowning jewel for his elder son.”

  He stopped. He looked at me intently.

  “I don’t know who you are,” he said musing. “Why do I tell you of the ugliest defeat of my life?”

  “Because I grasp it,” I said. “He told you the woman was for Niccolò, not for you.”

  His face became hard and almost vicious. Every line in it that a moment ago had seemed pregnant with sorrow and concern now hardened into a mask of coldness that was frightening, and would have been to anyone who saw him as he was.

  He raised his eyebrows and gazed past me coldly.

  “Yes, for Niccolò, my beloved Leticia was intended. Why hadn’t I known that the talks had already begun? Why had I not come to him sooner, before mortgaging my very soul? Oh, he was kind to me.” He smiled an iron smile. “He took me in his arms. He cradled my face in his hands. His baby son still. His little one. ‘My little Lodovico. There are many beautiful women in the world.’ That’s what he said.”

  “This cut you to the quick,” I said softly.

  “Cut me? Cut me? It tore my heart as if it were food for a vulture. That’s what it did to me. And what house do you think of all his many villas and houses in Rome did he plan to give to the happy bride and groom when the marriage would be accomplished?” He laughed icily and then irresistibly as if it were too funny. “The very house which he has let to Vitale to prepare for them, to air out, to furnish, and which is now the home of a noisy and evil Jewish dybbuk!”

  He had changed so completely that I wouldn’t have known him for the man who had been weeping in the corridor. But he fell into that daze again, hard as the lineaments of his face remained. He stared past me into the mingled trees and flowers of the courtyard. He even lifted his eyes as if he were marveling at the errant rays of the sun.

  “Surely, your father understood the wound inflicted on you.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “And there is another woman of immense wealth and distinction, waiting behind the inevitable curtain to make her appearance on the stage. She will be a fine wife for me, though I haven’t exchanged four words with her. And my beloved Leticia will become my devoted sister when my brother rises from his bed.”

  “No wonder you weep,” I said.

  “Why do you say that?” he demanded.

  “Because your soul is rent,” I said. I shrugged. “How can you not watch your brother’s illness without these thoughts.…”

  “I would never wish his death!” he declared. He brought his fist down on the writing table. I thought it might crack and give way, but it did not. “No one has gone to greater lengths to save him than I. I’ve brought the doctors one by one to see him. I’ve sent for the caviar which is the only thing that he will eat.”

  Suddenly the old tears returned and with them a deep and genuine and exhausting pain. “I love my brother,” he whispered. “I love him in all this world more than any being I have ever loved, even this woman. But I tell you there came a day when my father took me through that empty house, while Vitale and Niccolò were still in Padua, drinking themselves drunk, no doubt, and when my father took me through the place room by room to show me how very beautiful it would be and, yes, even into the bedchamber and how it would be so beautiful for them, and how and how and how!” He stopped.

  “He hadn’t known then.”

  “No. It was his secret, the name of the woman so carefully chosen. And I was the first one to bring up her name in these, these poems I wrote for her which I was fool enough, fool enough, I tell you, to reveal to him!”

  “Cruel things, terribly cruel.”

  “Yes,” he said, “and cruel things will make cruel men.” He sank back in the chair, and stared before him as though he didn’t know the meaning of his own story, or what it could conceivably mean to me.

  “Forgive me that I’ve caused you this pain,” I said.

  “No, you require no forgiveness,” he said. “The pain was in me and the pain would come out. I fear his death. I am terrified of it. I am terrified of the world without him. I am terrified of my father without him. I am terrified of Leticia without him, because she will never, never be given to me.”

  I wasn’t sure what to make of these statements except that he meant them.

  “I must get back to Vitale,” I said. “He brought me here to play for your brother.”

  “Yes, of course. But tell me first. This tree—.” He turned in his chair and looked up into the rangy green branches. He looked at the purple blossoms. “Do you know what they called it in the jungles of Brazil?”

  I thought for a moment and then I said, “No. I only remember seeing it there, and I remember its blossoms and how very fragrant and beautiful they are. I should think a dye could be
made from such purple blossoms.”

  Something changed in his face. He appeared calculating, slightly cold. I could have sworn that his mouth hardened.

  I went on talking as if I hadn’t noticed this, but I was beginning to dislike this man intensely.

  “These blooms make me think of amethysts and there are such beautiful amethysts in Brazil.”

  He was silent, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

  I couldn’t bear the feeling of contempt and distrust that was growing in me. Surely I wasn’t sent here to judge or to hate, but merely to prevent the man above from being poisoned.

  I rose. “I should get back to Vitale,” I said.

  “You’ve been kind to me,” he said, but when he smiled, only his lips moved, and it was frankly hideous. “Too bad you’re a Jew.”

  A chill passed over me, but I held his gaze. Again, I felt that vulnerability I had known when I’d realized I was wearing the round yellow badge on my clothes. We merely looked at each other.

  “Is it?” I asked. I made a small bow as if to say, I’m at your service.

  He smiled again, so coldly that it was almost a grimace.

  I felt the blood throbbing in my ears. I struggled to remain calm.

  “Have you ever loved a woman that you couldn’t have?” he asked.

  I thought for a moment, unsure what to say or why to say it. I thought of Liona. I saw no point in thinking of her now, here, with this strange young man.

  “I pray your brother recovers,” I said suddenly, blundering, uncertain. “I pray that perhaps he’ll begin to recover today. Such a thing is possible, after all. Even sick as he is, he may suddenly begin to recover.”

  He made a small ugly derisive sound. The smile was gone. He was looking at me now with bold hatred. And I feared I was looking at him in the same way.

  He knew. He knew that I was on to him, and what he had done.

  “Such a recovery could happen,” I persisted. I struggled. “After all, all things are possible with God.”

  Again, he studied me, and this time his face was a picture of menace.

  “I don’t hope for that,” he said, in a low iron voice. He sat upright as though gaining in strength as he spoke, “I think he will die. And if I were you, I would be gone from here before you Jews are blamed for his death. Oh, do not protest. Of course I don’t suspect you of anything, but if you’re wise, you’ll leave Vitale to his own devices. You’ll slip out of here now and go on your way.”

  I’d encountered many ugly and violent moments in my life. But never had I felt such menace emanating from another human being as I felt coming from him now.

  What did Malchiah expect of me here? What was I to do for this man? In vain, I tried to remember Malchiah’s advice to me about the difficulties I would encounter here, about the very nature of this assignment, but I couldn’t recover either the words or the intent.

  The fact was, I wanted to kill this man. Horrified by my own feelings, I sought to hide them. But I wanted to kill him. I wanted to grab up a handful of those lethal black seeds and force them into his mouth before he could stop me. I must have burned with the shame of it, that far from being someone’s answer to a prayer, I was thinking like a very dybbuk myself. I took a deep slow breath, and made my voice as calm as I could.

  “It’s not too late for your brother,” I said. “He might begin to mend from this very day.”

  There was a flash of something unnamable in his eyes, and then the rigid stillness again, the deep hostility unmasked.

  “You’re a fool if you remain here another moment,” he whispered.

  I looked down for a moment, and uttered a small wordless prayer, and when I spoke I made it as soft and gentle as I could:

  “I pray your brother recovers,” I said.

  And then I went out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I DREW VITALE WITH ME OUT OF THE SICKROOM AND into the passage.

  “Your friend is being poisoned and the poison is deadly. You feed that caviar to a mongrel dog and you’ll see him die before your eyes.”

  “But who would do this?”

  “I fear to tell you: the man’s own brother. But you cannot confront him. It won’t be believed. This is what you must do. Instantly insist that the patient be given milk and plenty of it. Say that only white food will restore his spirits. Nothing but white food in which nothing dark has been intermixed.”

  “You think this will work?”

  “I know it will work. The poison comes from a tree in the orangery below. It’s black. It stains everything it touches black. It’s the black seed of a purple flower.”

  “Oooh, I know this poison!” he said. “It comes from Brazil. They call it the Purple Death. I’ve only read of it in my manuals, and in Hebrew. I don’t think it’s known to the Latin doctors. I’ve never seen it.”

  “Well, I’ve seen it and I tell you that there is a great quantity of it growing on the tree downstairs. It’s so poisonous I can’t collect it without these gloves and I need a leather pouch in which to put it.”

  Quickly he removed a pouch from one of the pockets of his tunic, took the gold out, put this in his purse and gave me the pouch. “Here, can you safely collect it now? Will the guilty person know it when you do it?”

  “Not if you keep him very busy. Call Signore Antonio. Call Lodovico. Insist they both hear you out. Say that you suspect the caviar has not helped the patient. Say that he must take milk. Say that the milk will line the stomach and absorb what evil elements are tormenting Niccolò. Say that a woman’s milk is the best of all. But cow’s milk will do, and goat’s milk, and cheese, pure white cheese of the finest quality. The more of this you get into the patient the better. And meantime I shall take care of the poison.”

  “But how shall I say I came by this knowledge?”

  “Say you have prayed, and you have pondered, and you have considered what has happened since the caviar was first given.”

  “That I have, there’s no lie in that.”

  “Insist that the milk be tried. The loving father will see no harm in milk. No one will see harm in it. Meanwhile, I’ll return to the orangery and I’ll harvest as much of the poison as I can. But there’s no telling how much the poisoner has already harvested himself for his purposes. I suspect not much. It’s too lethal. He’s been taking only the smallest doses as he needs them.”

  Vitale’s face darkened. He shook his head. “You’re telling me Lodovico has done this thing.”

  “I believe that he has. But what’s important now is that you get the milk to your patient.”

  I hurried down to the small courtyard. The gates were locked. I tried to force them very gently, but it was impossible. Nothing would have done for it but smashing the lock altogether and that I could ill afford to do.

  One of the innumerable servants came up to me, a withered being whose garments appeared more like wrappings than clothes. He asked softly if he might be of help.

  “Where is Signore Lodovico?” I asked, to indicate only that I’d been looking for him.

  “With his father and with the priests.”

  “The priests?”

  “Let me give you a warning,” whispered this thin toothless being. “Get out of this house now while you can.”

  I gave him a searching look, but all he did was shake his head and walk off muttering to himself, leaving me at the locked courtyard gates. Deep inside the courtyard, I could see the bright purple flowers I had sought to harvest. I knew now there was no time for such a plan. And possibly it had not been the best plan.

  As I reached Niccolò’s bedchamber again, I saw approaching me Signore Antonio with two elderly priests in long black soutanes with gleaming crucifixes on their chests, and Lodovico, holding his father’s arm. He was weeping again, but when he saw me, he shot me a glance as sharp as a blade.

  There was no pretense of cordiality. Indeed, there was a look very like triumph on his face. And the others eyed me with obvious suspicion, though Signore
Antonio himself seemed deeply troubled.

  From within, I could hear Vitale ordering someone to take the caviar out. This person was arguing with him, and so was Niccolò, but I couldn’t make out all that was being said.

  “Young man,” said Signore Antonio to me, “come in here with me now.”

  Two other men came behind him, and I saw that they were armed guards. They had visible daggers in their belts, and one wore a sword.

  I went into the room first. It was Pico who’d been arguing with Vitale, and the caviar remained where it had been.

  Niccolò lay there with his eyes half shut, and his lips dry and cracked. He sighed uneasily.

  I prayed that it was not too late.

  The guards slipped against the wall behind the chair where I’d been playing the lute earlier. We gathered around the bed.

  Signore Antonio eyed me for a long moment and then he stared at Vitale. As for Lodovico, he had given way to tears again, very convincingly, as before.

  “Wake up, my son,” said Signore Antonio. “Wake up, and hear the truth from your brother’s lips. I fear it can no longer be avoided, and only in the telling of it can the disaster be averted.”

  “What is this, Father?” asked the patient. He seemed weaker than ever, though the caviar sat still where we had left it.

  “Speak,” said Signore Antonio to Lodovico.

  The young man faltered, wiped at his tears with a silk handkerchief and then said, “I have no choice but to reveal that Vitale, our trusted friend, our confidant, our companion, has in fact bewitched my brother!”

  Niccolò sat up with more strength than I’d ever witnessed.

  “How dare you say such a thing? You know my friend is incapable of this. Bewitched me how and to what purpose?”

  Lodovico gave way to a fresh shower of tears and appealed to his father with open arms.

  “Unbeknownst to me, my son,” said Antonio, “this man has craved to keep the house in which he lives, the house in which I let him live while you were ill, the house which I had chosen to bestow on you and your bride. He has summoned the evil spirit there to do his bidding, and it is by means of this evil spirit that he has made you gravely ill, and hopes that you will die so that the house may be his. He has prayed for this to his God. He has prayed for this, and Lodovico has heard his prayers.”