The Vampire Armand - Anne Rice [96]
It seemed an audience of little angels to watch and listen as Marius spoke, so many, many tiny faces peering indifferently forth from the silver, quite immune to the falling rivulets of pure, melted wax.
“I cannot live without this beauty,” I said suddenly, though I had meant to wait. “I cannot endure without it. Oh, God, you have shown me Hell and it lies behind me, surely in the land where I was born.”
He heard my little prayer, my little confession, my desperate plea.
“If Christ is the Lord,” he said, returning to his point, returning us both to the lesson, “if Christ is the Lord, then what a beautiful miracle it is, this Christian mystery—.” His eyes filmed with tears. “That the Lord Himself should come to Earth and clothe Himself in flesh the better to know us and to comprehend us. Oh, what God, ever made in the image of Man by His fancy, was ever better than one who would become Flesh? Yes, I would say to you, yes, your Christ, their Christ, the Christ even of the Monks of Kiev, He is the Lord! Only mark forever the lies they tell in His Name, and the deeds they do. For Savonarola called on His Name when he praised a foreign enemy bearing down on Florence, and those who burnt Savonarola as a false prophet, they too, as they lit the faggots beneath his dangling body, they too called on Christ the Lord.”
I was overcome with tears.
He sat in silence, respecting me perhaps, or only collecting his thoughts. Then he dipped his pen again and wrote for a long time, much faster than men do, but deftly and gracefully, and never marking out a word.
At last, he set down the pen. He looked at me and he smiled.
“I set out to show you things, and it’s never as I plan. I wanted you tonight to see the dangers in this power of flight, that we can too easily transport ourselves to other places, and that this feeling of slipping in and out so easily is a deception of which we must beware. But look, how differently it has all gone.”
I didn’t answer him.
“I wanted you,” he said, “to be a little afraid.”
“Master,” I said, wiping my nose with the back of my hand, “count on me to be properly frightened when the time comes. I’ll have this power, I know it. I can feel it now. And for now, I think it’s splendid, and because of it, this power, one dark thought falls over my heart.”
“What is that?” he asked in the kindest way. “You know, I think your angelic face is no more fit for sad things than those faces painted by Fra Angelico. What’s this shadow I see? What is this dark thought?”
“Take me back there, Master,” I said. I trembled, yet I said it. “Let us use your power to cover miles and miles of Europe. Let us go north. Take me back to see that cruel land that has become a Purgatorio in my imagination. Take me back to Kiev.”
He was slow in giving his answer.
The morning was coming. He gathered up his cloak and robe, rose from the chair and took me with him up the stairs to the roof.
We could see the distant already paling waters of the Adriatic, twinkling under the moon and stars, beyond the familiar forest of the masts of the ships. Tiny lights flickered on the distant islands. The wind was mild and full of salt and sea freshness, and a particular deliciousness that comes only when one has lost all fear of the sea.
“Yours is a brave request, Amadeo. If you really wish it, tomorrow night we’ll begin the journey.”
“Have you ever traveled so far before?”
“In miles, in space, yes, many times,” he said. “But in another’s quest for understanding? No, never so very far.”
He embraced me and took me to the palazzo where our tomb lay hidden. I was cold all over by the time we reached the soiled stone stairway, where so many of the poor slept. We picked our way among them, until we reached the entrance to the cellar.
“Light the torch for me, Sir,” I said. “I am shivering. I want to see the gold around us, if I may.”
“There, you have it,” he said. We stood in our crypt with the two ornate sarcophagi before us. I lay my hand on the lid of the one which was mine, and quite suddenly