The tale of the body thief - By Anne Rice Page 0,192
cross with you. But I needn’t tell you these things. Forget about the woman. It would have been wrong, so very wrong.”
“And what about you, David? It wouldn’t be wrong with you.” I looked up, and to my surprise, I saw his eyes were moist now, and truly reddened, and again came that stiffening of his mouth. “What is it, David?” I asked.
“No, it wouldn’t be wrong,” he said. “I do not think now that it would be wrong at all.”
“You’re saying … ?”
“Bring me into it, Lestat,” he whispered, and then he pulled back, the proper English gentleman, shocked and disapproving of his own emotions, and he looked out over the milling crowd and towards the distant sea.
“You mean this, David? You’re certain?” In truth I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to speak another word. And yet why? Why had he come to this decision? What had I done to him with this mad escapade? I wouldn’t be the Vampire Lestat now if it weren’t for him. But what a price he must have paid.
I thought of him on the beach in Grenada, and how he had refused the simple act of making love. He was in pain now as he had been then. And it seemed no mystery at all suddenly that he had come to this. I had brought him to it with our little adventure together to defeat the Body Thief.
“Come,” I said to him. “It is time to go now, away from all this and to where we can be alone.” I was trembling. How many times had I dreamed of this moment.
And yet it had come so quickly, and there were so many questions I should ask.
A sudden terrible shyness fell over me. I couldn’t look at him. I thought of the intimacy we would soon experience, and I couldn’t meet his gaze. My God, I was acting the way he had in New Orleans when I’d been in that strapping mortal body and pelting him with my rampant desire.
My heart was hammering with expectation. David, David in my arms. The blood of David passing into me. And mine into David, and then we would stand on the edge of the sea together as dark immortal brothers. I could scarce speak or even think.
I got up without looking at him, and I walked across the porch and down the steps. I knew he was following me. I was like Orpheus. One backward glance and he’d be torn away from me. Perhaps the glaring lights of a passing car would flash on my hair and eyes in such a way that he would suddenly be paralyzed with fear.
I led the way back down the pavement, past the sluggish parade of mortals in their beach finery, past the little sidewalk tables of the cafés. I went directly into the Park Central and through the lobby again with all its sparkling high-toned glamour and up the stairs to my rooms.
I heard him close the door behind me.
I stood at the windows, looking out again at that shining evening sky. My heart, be quiet! Do not hurry it. It is too important that each step be made with care.
Look at the clouds scudding so quickly away from paradise. Stars mere specks of glitter struggling in the pale flood of evening light.
There were things I must tell him, things I must explain. He would be the same for all time as he was at this moment; was there any small physical thing he wished to change? Shave the beard closer; trim the hair.
“None of that matters,” he said, in that soft cultured English voice. “What’s wrong?” So kind, as if I were the one who needed reassurance. “Isn’t it what you wanted?”
“Oh, yes, truly yes. But you have to be sure you want it,” I said, and only now I turned around.
He stood there in the shadows, so composed in his trim white linen suit, pale silk tie properly knotted at the neck. The light from the street shone brightly on his eyes, and flashed for one instant on the tiny gold stud in the tie.
“I can’t explain it,” I whispered. “It’s happened so quickly, so suddenly, when I was sure it wouldn’t. I’m afraid for you. Afraid you’re making a terrible mistake.”
“I want it,” he said, but how strained his voice was, how dark, how without that bright lyric note. “I want it more than you can know. Do it now, please. Don’t prolong my agony.