The tale of the body thief - By Anne Rice Page 0,124

abhorrence for my virginity—of the sheer perfection of my chastity. It seemed, no matter what one believed, to be a cowardly thing.”

“I understand,” I said. “Surely to do good in the missions has nothing to do, finally, with chastity.”

“No, they are connected,” she said. “But only because hard work is possible when one is single-minded, and married to no one but Christ.”

I confessed I knew what she meant. “But if the self-denial becomes an obstacle to work,” I said, “then it’s better to know the love of a man, isn’t it?”

“That is what I thought,” she said. “Yes. Know this experience, and then return to God’s work.”

“Exactly.”

In a slow dreamy voice, she said: “I’ve been looking for the man. For the moment.”

“That’s the answer, then, as to why you brought me here.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “God knows, I was so frightened of everyone else. I’m not frightened of you.” She looked at me as if her own words had left her surprised.

“Come, lie down and sleep. There’s time for me to heal and for you to be certain it’s what you really want. I wouldn’t dream of forcing you, of doing anything cruel to you.”

“But why, if you’re the devil, can you speak with such kindness?”

“I told you, that’s the mystery. Or it’s the answer, one or the other. Come, come lie beside me.”

I closed my eyes. I felt her climbing beneath the covers, the warm pressure of her body beside me, her arm slipping across my chest.

“You know,” I said, “this is almost good, this aspect of being human.”

I was half asleep when I heard her whisper:

“I think there’s a reason you took your leave of absence,” she said. “You may not know it.”

“Surely you don’t believe me,” I murmured, the words running together sluggishly. How delicious it was to slip my arm around her again, to tuck her head against my neck. I was kissing her hair, loving the soft springiness of it against my lips.

“There is a secret reason you came down to earth,” she said, “that you came into the body of a man. Same reason that Christ did it.”

“And that is?”

“Redemption,” she said.

“Ah, yes, to be saved. Now wouldn’t that be lovely?”

I wanted to say more, how perfectly impossible it was to even consider such a thing, but I was sliding away, into a dream. And I knew that Claudia would not be there.

Maybe it wasn’t a dream after all, only a memory. I was with David in the Rijksmuseum and we were looking at the great painting by Rembrandt.

To be saved. What a thought, what a lovely, extravagant, and impossible thought … How nice to have found the one mortal woman in all the world who would seriously think of such a thing.

And Claudia wasn’t laughing anymore. Because Claudia was dead.

FIFTEEN

EARLY morning, just before the sun comes. The time when in the past I was often in meditation, tired, and half in love with the changing sky.

I bathed slowly and carefully, the small bathroom full of dim light and steam around me. My head was clear, and I felt happiness, as if the sheer respite from sickness was a form of joy. I shaved my face slowly, until it was perfectly smooth, and then, delving into the little cabinet behind the mirror, I found what I wanted—the little rubber sheaths that would keep her safe from me, from my planting a child within her, from this body giving her some other dark seed that might harm her in ways I could not foresee.

Curious little objects, these—gloves for the organ. I would love to have thrown them away, but I was determined that I would not make the mistakes I had made before.

Silently, I shut the little mirror door. And only then did I see a telegram message taped above it—a rectangle of yellowed paper with the words in pale indistinct print:

GRETCHEN, COME BACK, WE NEED YOU. NO QUESTIONS ASKED. WE ARE WAITING FOR YOU.

The date of the communication was very recent—only a few days before. And the origin was Caracas, Venezuela.

I approached the bed, careful not to make a sound, and I laid the small safety devices on the table in readiness, and I lay with her again, and began to kiss her tender sleeping mouth.

Slowly, I kissed her cheeks, and the flesh beneath her eyes. I wanted to feel her eyelashes through my lips. I wanted to feel the flesh of her throat. Not for killing, but for kissing; not for possession, but for