Blood and Gold - Anne Rice [133]
I stayed in her rooms only for a short time that night.
But I returned within the week with a portrait of her. I had painted it on a small panel and had it framed with gold and jewels.
I saw her shock when she received it. She had not expected something so exact. But then I feared she might see something wrong.
When she looked at me, I felt her gratitude and her affection and something greater collecting inside her, an emotion she denied in dealing with others.
“Who are you . . . really?” she asked me in a soft, lilting whisper.
“Who are you . . . really?” I repeated, and I smiled.
She looked at me gravely. Then she smiled too but she didn’t answer, and all her secrets folded inside her—the sordid things, things to do with blood and gold.
For a moment, I thought my powerful self-control would be lost. I would embrace her, whether or not she would have it, and take her rapidly by force from the very middle of her warm and safe rooms to the cold and fatal domain of my soul.
I saw her, positively saw her as if the Christian Satan were giving me visions once more—I saw her transformed by the Dark Blood. I saw her as if she were mine, and all her youth burnt out in sacrifice to immortality, and the only warmth or riches known to her those which came from me.
I left her rooms. I couldn’t remain there. For nights, no, months I did not return. In that time a letter came to me from her. I was quite astonished to receive it and I read it over and over and then put it in a pocket inside my tunic next to my heart.
My dear Marius,
Why leave me with only a brilliant painting when I would have your companionship as well? We are always seeking for amusement here, and there is much kind talk of you. Do come back to me. Your painting occupies a position of honor on the wall of my salon so that I might share the pleasure of it with all who come.
How had this happened, this craving to make a mortal my companion? After so many centuries, what had I done to bring it on?
I had thought that, with Botticelli, it had to do with his remarkable talent, and that I, with eyes so sharp and heart so hungry, had wanted to mingle the Blood with his inexplicable gift.
But this child, Bianca, was no such seeming miracle, no matter how precious I found her to be. Oh, yes, she was to my taste as if I’d made her—the daughter of Pandora—it was as if Botticelli had created her, even to the somewhat dreamy expression of her face. And she did have a seemingly impossible mingling of fire and poise.
But I had in my long miserable years seen many beautiful humans, rich and poor, younger and older, and I had not felt this sharp, near uncontrollable desire to bring her to me, to take her to the shrine with me, to spill out to her whatever wisdom I possessed.
What was I to do with this pain? How should I be rid of it? How long would it torment me right here in the city of Venice where I had chosen to seek comfort from mortals and give back to the world in secret payment my blessed and well-educated boys?
On rising, I found myself shaking loose light dreams of Bianca, dreams in which she and I were sitting in my bedroom and talking together as I told her of all the long lonely paths I’d trod, talking together as she told me of how she had drawn from common and filthy pain her immeasurable strength.
Even as I attended the feast with my students I couldn’t shake off these dreams. They broke in on me as if I were falling asleep over the wine and meats. The boys vied for my attention. They thought they had failed the Master.
When I went to my rooms to paint, I was equally confused. I painted a large picture of Bianca as the Virgin Mary with a chubby Infant Jesus. I laid down the brushes. I wasn’t content. I couldn’t be content.
I went out of Venice into the countryside. I searched for the Evil Doer. I drank blood until I was glutted. And then I returned to my rooms, and I lay down on my bed and I dreamt of Bianca again.
At last before dawn I wrote my admonitions