time she—Citizen Dieudonné—had really lived in her native land; the gory
business soured her not only on her own nationality but humanity in general. Too
many eras earned names like "the Tenor." Vampires were supposed to be
obscenely bloodthirsty, and she wasn't blind to the excesses of her kind, but the
warm drank just as deeply from open wounds and usually made more of a mess
of it.
From the sandy patio beside her chrome-finished Airstream trailer, she looked
beyond the gaggle of folks about the pit, joking over franks impaled on skewers.
The Dude was mixing a pitcher of White Russians with his bowling buddies,
resuming a months-long argument over the precise wording of the opening
narration/song of
Branded. An eight-track in an open-top car played "Hotel
California," The Eagles's upbeat but ominous song about a vampire and her
victims. Some were dancing on the sand, shoes in a pile that would be hard to sort
out later. White rolls of surf crashed on the breakers, waves edged delicately up to
the beach.
Out there was the Pacific Ocean and the curve of the Earth, and beyond the
blue horizon, as another shivery song went, was a rising sun. Dawn didn't worry
her; at her age, as long as she dressed carefully—sunglasses, a floppy hat, long
sleeves—she wouldn't even catch a severe tan, let alone frazzle up into dust and
essential salts like some nosferatu of the Dracula bloodline. She had grown out of
the dark. To her owl eyes, it was no place to hide, which meant she had to be
careful where she looked on party nights like this. She liked living by the sea: its
depths were still impenetrable to her, still a mystery.
"Hey, Gidget," came a rough voice, "need a nip?"
It was one of the surfers, a shaggy bear of a man she had never heard called
anything but Moondoggie. He wore frayed shorts, flip-flops, and an old blue shirt,
and probably had done since the 1950s. He was a legendary veteran of tubes and
pipes and waves long gone. He seemed young to her, though his friends called
him an old man.
His offer was generous. She had fed off him before when the need was strong.
With his blood came a salt rush, the sense of being enclosed by a curl of wave as
his board torpedoed across the surface of the water.
Just now, she didn't need it. She still had the taste of the Dude. Smiling, she
waved him away. As an elder, she didn't have the red thirst so badly. Since
Charles, she had fed much less. That wasn't how it was with many vampires,
especially those of the Dracula line. Some nosferatu got thirstier and thirstier with
passing ages, and were finally consumed by then-own raging red needs. Those
were the ones who got to be called monsters. Beside them, she was a minnow.
Moondoggie tugged at his open collar, scratching below his salt-and-pepper
beard. The LAPD had wanted to hang a murder rap on him two years ago, when a
runaway turned up dead in his beach hut. She had investigated the situation,
clearing his name. He would always be grateful to his "Gidget," which she learned
was a contraction of "Girl Midget." Never tall, she had turned —frozen—at
sixteen. Recently, after centuries of being treated almost as a child, she was most
often taken for a woman in her twenties. That was: by people who didn't know she
wasn't warm, wasn't entirely living. She'd have examined her face for the
beginnings of lines, but looking glasses were no use to her.
Shots were fired in the distance. She looked at the rise of the cliffs and saw the
big houses, decks lit by fairy-light UFO constellations, seeming to float above the
beach, heavy with heavy hitters. Firing up into the sky was a Malibu New Year
tradition among the rich. Reputedly started by the film director John Milius, a
famous surf and gun nut, it was a stupid, dangerous thing to do. Gravity and
momentum meant bullets came down somewhere, and not always into the water.
In the light of New Year's Day, she found spent shells in the sand, or pocked
holes in driftwood. One year someone's head would be under a slug. Milius had
made her cry with Big Wednesday, though. Movies with coming-of-age, end-ofan-era romanticism crawled inside her heart and melted her. She would have to tell
Milius it got worse and worse with centuries.
So, the 1980s?
through decades called "the eighties" before. For the past hundred years, "the
eighties" had meant the Anni Draculae, the 1880s, when the Transylvanian Count
came to London and changed the world. Among other things, the founding of his
brief empire had drawn her out of the shadow of eternal evening into something
approaching the light. That brought her together with Charles, the warm man with
whom she had spent seventy-five years, until his death in 1959, the warm man who
had shown her that she, a vampire, could still love, that she had turned without
dying inside.
She wasn't unique, but she was rare. Most vampires lost more than they gained
when they turned; they died and came back as different people, caricatures of their
former selves, compelled by an inner drive to be extreme. Creatures like that were
one of the reasons why she was here, at the far western edge of a continent where
"her kind" were still comparatively rare.
Other vampires had nests in the Greater Los Angeles area: Don Drago Robles,
a landowner before the incorporation of the state into the Union, had quietly
waited for the city to close around his hacienda, and was rising as a political figure
with a growing constituency, a Californian answer to Baron Meinster's European
Transylvania Movement; and a few long-lived movie or music people, the sort
with reflections in silver and voices that registered on recording equipment, had
Spanish-style castles along Sunset Boulevard, like eternal child rock god Timmy
Valentine or silent-movie star David Henry Reid. More, small sharks mostly, swam
through Angelino sprawl, battening on marginal people to leech them dry of
dreams as much as blood, or—in that ghastly new thing—selling squirts of their
own blood ("drac") to sad addicts ("dhampires") who wanted to be a vampire for
the night but didn't have the heart to turn all the way.
She should be grateful to the rogues; much of her business came from people
who got mixed up with bad-egg vampires. Her reputation for extricating victims
from predators was like gold with distressed parents or cast-aside partners.
Sometimes she worked as a deprogrammer, helping kids out of all manner of
cults. They grew beliefs stranger than Catholicism, or even vampirism, out here
among the orange groves: the Moonies, the Esoteric Order of Dagon, Scientology,
Psycho-Plasmics. Another snatch of song: "The Voice said Daddy there's a
million pigeons, waiting to be hooked on new religions."
As always, she stuck it out until the party died. All the hours of the night rolled
away, and the rim of the horizon turned from navy blue to lovely turquoise.
January cold gathered, driving those warmer folks who were still sensible from
their barbecues and beach towels to their beds.
Marty Burns, sometime sitcom star and current inha
bitant of a major career
slump, was passed out facedown on the chilling sands in front of her trailer space.
She found a blanket to throw over him. He murmured in liquor-and-pills lassitude,
and she tucked the blanket comfortably around his neck. Marty was hilarious in
person, even when completely off his face, but Salt & Pepper, the star-making
show he was squandering residuals from, was puzzlingly free of actual humour.
The dead people on the laugh track audibly split sides at jokes deader than they
were. The year was begun with a moderate good deed, though purging the kid's
system and dragging him to AA might have been a more lasting solution to
whatever was inside him chewing away.
She would sleep later, in the morning, locked in her sleek trailer, a big metal
coffin equipped with everything she needed. Of all her homes over the years, this
was the one she cherished the most. The trailer was chromed everywhere it could
be, and customised with steel shutters that bolted over the windows and the neverused sun roof. Economy of space had forced her to limit her possessions—so
few after so long—to those that really meant the most to her. ugly jewellry from
her mediaeval girlhood, some of Charles's books and letters, a Dansette
gramophone with an eclectic collection of sides, her beloved answering machine, a
tacky Mexican crucifix with light-up eyes that she kept on show just to prove she
wasn't one of
those vampires, two decent formal dresses and four pairs of
Victorian shoes (custom-cobbled for her tiny feet) which had outlasted everything
made this century and would do for decades more. On the road, she could kink
herself double and rest in the trunk of her automobile, a pillar -box red 1958
Plymouth Fury, but the trailer was more comfortable.
She wandered towards the sea line, across the disturbed sands of the beach.
There had been dancing earlier, grown-ups who had been in Frankie and Annette
movies trying to fit their old moves to current music. Le freak, c'est chic.
She trod on a hot pebble that turned out to be a bullet, and saluted Big John up
on his A-list Hollywood deck. Milius had written Dracula for Francis Ford
Coppola, from the Bram Stoker novel she was left out of. Not wanting to have the
Count brought back to mind, she'd avoided the movie, though her vampire
journalist friend Kate Reed, also not mentioned in Stoker's fiction, had worked on
it as technical advisor. She hadn't heard from Kate in too long; Geneviève believed
she was behind the Iron Curtain, on the trail of the Transylvania Movement, that
odd faction of the Baron Meinster's which wanted Dracula's estates as a homeland
for vampires. God, if that ever happened, she would get round to reapplying for
American citizenship; they were accepting nosferatu now, which they hadn't been
in 1922 when she last looked into it. Meinster was one of those Dracula wanna-bes
who couldn't quite carry off the opera cloak and ruffle shirt, with his prissy little
fangs and his naked need to be the new King of the Cats.
Wavelets lapped at her bare toes. Her nails sparkled under water.
Nineteen-seventies music hadn't been much, not after the 1960s. Glam rock.
The Bee-Gees. The Carpenters. She had liked Robert Altaian's films and Close
Encounters, but didn't see what all the fuss was about Star Wars. Watergate. An
oil crisis. The bicentennial summer. The Iran hostage crisis. No Woodstock. No
swinging London. No one like Kennedy. Nothing like the Moon landing.
If she were to fill a diary page for every decade, the 1970s would have to be
padded heavily. She'd been to some parties and helped some people, settled into
the slow, pastel, dusty ice-cream world of Southern California, a little to one side
of the swift stream of human history. She wasn't even much bothered by
memories, the curse of the long-lived.
Not bad, not good, not anything.
She wasn't over Charles, never would be really. He was a constant, silent
presence in her heart, an ache and a support and a joy. He was a memory she
would never let slip. And Dracula, finally destroyed soon after Charles's death, still
cast a long cloak-shadow over her life. Like Bram Stoker, she wondered what her
life, what the world, would have been like if Vlad Tepes had never turned or been
defeated before his rise to power.
Might-have-beens and the dead. Bad company.
John Lennon was truly dead, too. Less than a month ago, in New York, he had
taken a silver bullet through the heart, a cruel full stop for the 1970s, for what was
left of the 1960s. Annie Wilkes, Lennon's killer, said she was the musician's
biggest fan, but that he had to die for breaking up the Beatles. Geneviève didn't
know how long Lennon had been a vampire, but she sadly recognised in the dirge
"Imagine" that copy-of-a-copy voidishness characteristic of creatives who turned
to prolong their artistic lives but found the essential thing that made them who they
were—that powered their talent—gone, and that the best they could hope for was
a kind of rarefied self-plagiarism. Mad Annie might have done John a favour,
making him immortal again. Currently the most famous vampire slayer in the
world, she was a heroine to the bedrock strata of warm America that would never
accept nosferatu as even kissing cousins to humanity.
What, she wondered as the sun touched the sky, would this new decade bring?
Count Dracula
A SCREENPLAY BY HERMAN J. MANKIEWICZ AND ORSON WELLES BASED
ON THE NOVEL BY BRAM STOKER
Nov. 30,1939
Fade In
1. Ext. Transylvania—Faint Dawn—1883
Window, very small in the distance, illuminated All around this an almost totally
black screen. Now, as the camera moves slowly towards this window, which is
almost a postage stamp in the frame, other forms appear, spiked battlements, vast
granite walls, and now, looming up against the still-nighted sky, enormous iron grill
work.
Camera travels up what is now shown to be a gateway of gigantic proportions
and holds on the top of it—a huge initial "D" showing darker and darker against
the dawn sky. Through this and beyond we see the gothic-tale mountaintop of
Dracula's estate, the great castle a silhouette at its summit, the little window a
distant accent in the darkness.
Dissolve
(A series of setups, each closer to the great window, all telling something of:)
2. The Literally Incredible Domain of Vlad, Count Dracula
Its right flank resting for forty miles along the Borgo Pass, the estate truly
extends in all directions farmer than the eye can see. An ocean of sharp treetops,
with occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm. Here and there are silver
threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through the forests. Designed by
nature to be almost completely vertical and jagged—it was, as will develop,
primordial forested mountain when Dracula acquired and changed its face—it is
now broken and shorn, with its fair share of carved peaks and winding paths, all
man-made.
Castle Dracula itself—an enormous pile, compounded of several demolished
and rebuilt structures, of varying architecture, with broken battlements and many
towe
rs—dominates the scene, from the very peak of the mountain. It sits on the
edge of a very terrible precipice.
Dissolve
3. The Village
In the shadows, literally the shadows, of the mountain. As we move by, we see
that the peasant doors and windows are shuttered and locked, with crucifixes and
obscene clusters of garlic as further protection and sealing. Eyes peep out, timid,
at us. The camera moves like a band of men, purposeful, cautious, intrepid,
curious.
Dissolve
4. Forest of Stakes
Past which we move. The sward is wild with mountain weeds, the stakes tilted
at a variety of Dutch angles, the execution field unused and not seriously tended
for a long time.
Dissolve
5. What Was Once a Good-Sized Prison Stockade
All that now remains, with one exception, are the individual plots, surrounded
by thorn fences, on which the hostages were kept, free and yet safe from each
other and the landscape at large. (Bones in several of the plots indicate that here
there were once human cattle, kept for blood.)
Dissolve
6. A Wolf Pit
In the f.g., a great shaggy dire wolf, bound by a silver chain, is outlined against
the fawn murk. He raises himself slowly, with more thought than an animal should
display, and looks out across the estates of Count Dracula, to the distant light
glowing in the castle on the mountain. The wolf howls, a child of the night, making
sweet music.
Dissolve
7. A Trench Below the Walls
A slow-scuttling armadillo. A crawling giant beetle. Reflected in the muddy
water—the lighted window.
Dissolve
8. The Moat
Angled spears sag. An old notebook floats on the surface of the water—its
pages covered in shorthand scribble. As it moves across the frame, it discloses
again the reflection of the window in the castle, closer than before.