public during daylight hours, and I walked the many narrow lanes of the city, feeling the shimmer of olden times. Amsterdam is an exciting place, swarming with young people from all over the new homogenized Europe, a city that never sleeps.
I probably would never have come here had it not been for David. This city had never caught my fancy. And now I found it most agreeable, a vampire's city for its vast late-night crowds, but it was David of course that I wanted to see. I realized I could not leave without at least exchanging a few words.
Finally, a week after my arrival, I found David in the empty Rijksmuseum, just after sunset, sitting on the bench before the great Rembrandt portrait of the Members of the Drapers' Guild.
Did David know, somehow, that I'd been there Impossible, yet there he was.
And it was obvious from his conversation with the guard- who was just taking his leave of David-that his venerable order of mossback snoops contributed mightily to the arts of the various cities in which they were domiciled. So it was an easy thing for the members to gain access to museums to see their treasures when the public was barred.
And to think, I have to break into these places like a cheap crook!
It was completely silent in the high-ceilinged marble halls when I came upon him. He sat on the long wooden bench, his copy of Faust, now very dog-eared and full of bookmarks, held loosely and indifferently in his right hand.
He was staring steadily at the painting, which was that of several proper Dutchmen, gathered at a table, dealing with the affairs of commerce, no doubt, yet staring serenely at the viewer from beneath the broad brims of their big black hats. This is scarcely the total effect of this picture. The faces are exquisitely beautiful, full of wisdom and gentleness and a near angelic patience. Indeed, these men more resemble angels than ordinary men.
They seemed possessed of a great secret, and if all men were to learn that secret, there would be no more wars or vice or malice on earth. How did such persons ever become members of the Drapers' Guild of Amsterdam in the 1600s But then I move ahead of my tale . . . David gave a start when I appeared, moving slowly and silently out of the shadows towards him. I took a place beside him on the bench.
I was dressed like a tramp, for I had acquired no real lodgings in Amsterdam, and my hair was tangled from the wind.
I sat very still for a long moment, opening my mind with an act of will that felt rather like a human sigh, letting him know how concerned I was for his well-being, and how I'd tried for his sake to leave him in peace.
His heart was beating rapidly. His face, when I turned to him, was filled with immediate and generous warmth.
He reached over with his right hand and grasped my right arm. I'm glad to see you as always, so very glad.
Ah, but I've done you harm. I know I have. I didn't want to say how I'd followed him, how I'd overheard the conversation between him and his comrade, or dwell upon what I saw with my own eyes.
I vowed I would not torment him with my old question. And yet I saw death when I looked at him, even more perhaps for his brightness and cheerfulness, and the vigor in his eyes.
He gave me a long lingering thoughtful look, and then he withdrew his hand, and his eyes moved back to the painting.
Are there any vampires in this world who have such faces? he asked. He gestured to the men staring down at us from the canvas. I am speaking of the knowledge and understanding which lies behind these faces. I'm speaking of something more indicative of immortality than a preternatural body anatomically dependent upon the drinking of human blood.
Vampires with such faces? I responded. David, that is unfair. There are no men with such faces. There never were. Look at any of Rembrandt's paintings. Absurd to believe that such people ever existed, let alone that Amsterdam was full of them in Rembrandt's time, that every man or woman who ever darkened his door was an angel. No, it's Rembrandt you see in these faces, and Rembrandt is immortal, of course.
He smiled. It's not true what you're saying. And what a desperate loneliness emanates from you. Don't