would not be different.’
The rope was lifted by a policeman. Kate ducked under and took the hat. It kept the worst of the light off her face. Kate looked at the backs of her hands. They were red.
‘You must take care,’ Geneviève said, ‘or you’ll go off like a firework. In this lovely climate, spontaneous combustion is a hazard.’
4
MYSTERIES OF OTRANTO
T he Palazzo Otranto might have been grown rather than built. It was neat as a snail’s shell or a human heart, an architectural spiral. The main corridor began as a ledge inside the topmost tower, like the rifling of a gun barrel, and wound down through the building, the rooms off it larger the nearer they were to ground level, turning at last into a circular passageway around the cavernous basements. No staircases, just a constant helter-skelter slope and the occasional sharp step. Hell on the knees.
The palazzo was in Fregene, on the coast a few miles outside Rome, among pine forests and the usual ruins. There was a Temple of Pan on the grounds. The Dracula household celebrated eternal Saturnalia, a nebulous and never-ending party that attracted guests like flies.
Tom had been here since Spring and wasn’t sure if he should stay much longer. There was no particular reason to move on and he certainly didn’t want to return to the bailiwick of the New York Police Department. He’d left the States in the first place to avoid questions about a silly stunt some folk might call mail fraud though it hadn’t gone on long enough for him to make money out of it, worse luck. The exclusive company of the dead was deepening his customary ennui. Someone dangerous might pick up on the irritation he attempted to conceal behind fashionable disinterest. The dead were clowns, but also killers.
This was, however, the life of ease and refinement he always imagined would suit him best. Goodish paintings were about, mostly from old and fussy schools he didn’t cotton to. A VistaVision Schalcken hung in his tower room, an angry horse with nightmare eyes. Renaissance schlock adorned the ballrooms, Biblical scenes heavy with bloody thunderclouds and gross nudes.
The dead clung to the fashions of their lives. The exception was il principe, whose premature enthusiasm for Van Gogh — he was the only person to buy from the painter in his lifetime — had paid off in his several exiles. Canvases worthless when bought now stood security for loans that kept the household among the wealthiest in Europe. Those daubs, at which Tom would have liked to get a look, were shut up in Dracula’s private apartments, in the lower cellar depths.
In this topsy-turvy world, the most luxurious and sought-after quarters were the deepest underground, the nearest to Hell, the most like tombs or vaults. Penthouses that’d do for American millionaires were palmed off on half-living servants and enslaved blood donors.
In his months here, Tom had only set eyes on il principe once, with Penelope. He stuck to his apartments and rarely visited the party of which he was the host. He seemed like any other ancient dead man, with long white military moustaches and dark glasses like the wings of a black beetle. Nevertheless, Tom admired Dracula, for his Van Gogh craze if nothing else. That taste, once daringly radical, suggested an openness to the new uncharacteristic of the dead. Also, that — whatever his current circumstances — he could still be a dangerous man, a predator. Tom respected him. He’d leave il principe alone, and hope Dracula did the same for him.
In the mornings, before the household stirred, Tom took precious time to himself. He liked to sit in the Crystal Room, a conservatory on the first floor, looking out at the grounds through forty-foot walls of glass. Before noon, the room was a kaleidoscope of sunlight; he was rarely bugged by the dead.
He claimed a favourite chair to read the International Herald Tribune and drink continuous thimble-cups of bitter, strong espresso. The warm
The rope was lifted by a policeman. Kate ducked under and took the hat. It kept the worst of the light off her face. Kate looked at the backs of her hands. They were red.
‘You must take care,’ Geneviève said, ‘or you’ll go off like a firework. In this lovely climate, spontaneous combustion is a hazard.’
4
MYSTERIES OF OTRANTO
T he Palazzo Otranto might have been grown rather than built. It was neat as a snail’s shell or a human heart, an architectural spiral. The main corridor began as a ledge inside the topmost tower, like the rifling of a gun barrel, and wound down through the building, the rooms off it larger the nearer they were to ground level, turning at last into a circular passageway around the cavernous basements. No staircases, just a constant helter-skelter slope and the occasional sharp step. Hell on the knees.
The palazzo was in Fregene, on the coast a few miles outside Rome, among pine forests and the usual ruins. There was a Temple of Pan on the grounds. The Dracula household celebrated eternal Saturnalia, a nebulous and never-ending party that attracted guests like flies.
Tom had been here since Spring and wasn’t sure if he should stay much longer. There was no particular reason to move on and he certainly didn’t want to return to the bailiwick of the New York Police Department. He’d left the States in the first place to avoid questions about a silly stunt some folk might call mail fraud though it hadn’t gone on long enough for him to make money out of it, worse luck. The exclusive company of the dead was deepening his customary ennui. Someone dangerous might pick up on the irritation he attempted to conceal behind fashionable disinterest. The dead were clowns, but also killers.
This was, however, the life of ease and refinement he always imagined would suit him best. Goodish paintings were about, mostly from old and fussy schools he didn’t cotton to. A VistaVision Schalcken hung in his tower room, an angry horse with nightmare eyes. Renaissance schlock adorned the ballrooms, Biblical scenes heavy with bloody thunderclouds and gross nudes.
The dead clung to the fashions of their lives. The exception was il principe, whose premature enthusiasm for Van Gogh — he was the only person to buy from the painter in his lifetime — had paid off in his several exiles. Canvases worthless when bought now stood security for loans that kept the household among the wealthiest in Europe. Those daubs, at which Tom would have liked to get a look, were shut up in Dracula’s private apartments, in the lower cellar depths.
In this topsy-turvy world, the most luxurious and sought-after quarters were the deepest underground, the nearest to Hell, the most like tombs or vaults. Penthouses that’d do for American millionaires were palmed off on half-living servants and enslaved blood donors.
In his months here, Tom had only set eyes on il principe once, with Penelope. He stuck to his apartments and rarely visited the party of which he was the host. He seemed like any other ancient dead man, with long white military moustaches and dark glasses like the wings of a black beetle. Nevertheless, Tom admired Dracula, for his Van Gogh craze if nothing else. That taste, once daringly radical, suggested an openness to the new uncharacteristic of the dead. Also, that — whatever his current circumstances — he could still be a dangerous man, a predator. Tom respected him. He’d leave il principe alone, and hope Dracula did the same for him.
In the mornings, before the household stirred, Tom took precious time to himself. He liked to sit in the Crystal Room, a conservatory on the first floor, looking out at the grounds through forty-foot walls of glass. Before noon, the room was a kaleidoscope of sunlight; he was rarely bugged by the dead.
He claimed a favourite chair to read the International Herald Tribune and drink continuous thimble-cups of bitter, strong espresso. The warm
Similar Books
