The Vampire Armand - Anne Rice [35]
He lay there, graceful and quiet, letting me play with him as my women teachers had played with me. When he finally gave me the blood kisses, all memories of human contact were obliterated, and I lay helpless as always in his arms. It seemed our world then was not merely one of the flesh, but of a mutual spell to which all natural laws gave way.
Towards morning on the second night, I sought him out where he was painting by himself in the studio, the scattered apprentices fallen asleep like the unfaithful Apostles in Gethsemane.
He wouldn’t stop for my questions. I stood behind him and locked my arms around him and, climbing on tiptoe, I whispered my questions in his ear.
“Tell me, Master, you must, how did you gain this magic blood inside you?” I bit his earlobes and ran my hands through his hair. He wouldn’t stop painting. “Were you born into this state, am I so wrong about this as to suppose that you were transformed …”
“Stop it, Amadeo,” he whispered, and continued to paint. He worked furiously on the face of Aristotle, the bearded, balding elder of his great painting, The Academy.
“Is there ever a loneliness in you, Master, that pushes you to tell someone, anyone, to have a friend of your own mettle, to confide your heart to one who can comprehend?”
He turned, startled for once by my questions.
“And you, spoiled little angel,” he said, lowering his voice to maintain its gentleness, “you think you can be that friend? You’re an innocent! You’ll be an innocent all of your days. You have the heart of an innocent. You refuse to accept truth that doesn’t correspond with some deep raging faith in you which makes you ever the little monk, the acolyte—.”
I stepped backwards, as angry as I’d ever been with him. “No, I won’t be such!” I declared. “I’m a man already in the guise of a boy, and you know it. Who else dreams of what you are, and the alchemy of your powers? I wish I could drain a cupful of your blood from you and study it as the doctors might and determine what is its makeup and how it differs from the fluid that runs through my veins! I am your pupil, yes, your student, yes, but to be that, I must be a man. When would you tolerate innocence? When we bed together, you call that innocence? I am a man.”
He burst into the most amazed laughter. It was a treat to see him so surprised.
“Tell me your secret, Sir,” I said. I put my arms around his neck and laid my head on his shoulder. “Was there a Mother as white and strong as you were who brought you forth, the God-Bearer, from her celestial womb?”
He took my arms and moved me back away from him, so that he could kiss me, and his mouth was insistent and frightening to me for a moment. Then it moved over my throat, sucking at my flesh and causing me to become weak and, with all my heart, willing to be anything he wished.
“Of the moon and the stars, yes, I’m made, of that sovereign whiteness which is the substance of clouds and innocence alike,” he said. “But no Mother gave birth to me, you know that’s so; I was a man once, a man moving on in his years. Look—.” He lifted my face with both hands and made me study his face. “You see here remnants of the lines of age which once marked me, here at the corners of my eyes.”
“Merely nothing, Sir,” I whispered, thinking to console him if this imperfection troubled him. He shone in his brilliance, his polished smoothness. The simplest expressions flashed in his face in luminescent heat.
Imagine a figure of ice, as perfectly made as Pygmalion’s Galatea, thrown into the fire, and sizzling, and melting, and yet the features all wondrously intact still … well, such was my Master when human emotions infected him, as they did now.
He crushed my arms deliciously and kissed