The Delicate Dependency: A Novel of the Vampire Life by Michael Talbot
Authors: Michael Talbot
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man’8 pockets in hope of discovering any clues to his identity. All I found were several crisp hundred-pound notes, a small vial containing a fragrant oil, and a gold pillbox containing a number of shiny black pills. Because of the severity of the fracture it was necessary for the nameless young man to undergo surgery, and this I insisted upon performing myself.
Under the bright lights of the operating table I examined him carefully. His hands were as sleek and youthful as a child’s. There wasn’t even the vaguest hint of a wrinkle upon his smooth face. When I saw this, I realized it was impossible that he could be the same young man I had seen in the garden. I dismissed the resemblance as an uncanny coincidence, but I remained captivated by the haunting familiarity of his face.
As I began to set the bones I discovered the cause of the young man’s pallor. His blood was more of a straw color than red. It was apparent he was in the last stages of leukemia. His pupils were also so incredibly dilated I suspected he had very recently used some sort of atropic drug, perhaps cocaine or belladonna. When I had completed the operation I accompanied the intern as he wheeled my strange young patient to a private room.
I remained by the young man’s bedside for the next three hours, partially out of a sense of responsibility for the accident, and partially, I confess, because his resemblance to the angel still held me transfixed. When he finally stirred from his slumber I almost froze with excitement. I grabbed his hand and patted it gently. “Don’t worry. It’s all right.”
His grogginess faded and he stared at me questioningly. “You’re in safe hands,” I continued. “There was an accident. You walked in front of my carriage. The driver couldn’t stop.”
“I remember everything distinctly, signore, he stated with a thick Italian accent.
“Your legs were pretty badly broken,” I went on. “I spent almost two hours operating on you.”
“How convenient to have stepped out in front of a physician,” he returned as his eyes searched the room. “Where is my evening coat?”
I pointed to the chair by his bedside and he reached into the pocket. He withdrew the gold pillbox and placed one of the shiny black pills in his mouth.
“May I inquire as to what those are?”
“No,” he stated simply as he swallowed the pill without water.
“Are they for your—” I hesitated “—are they for your leukemia?”
“You mean, are they morphine to ease the pain from an advanced state of Virchow’s leucocythemia, characterized by the abundance of white corpuscles in my blood?” he questioned dryly.
“Why, yes,” I said, marveling at his technical grasp of the disease.
“No,” he answered again. I straightened slightly as he stared directly into my eyes. Once again I was struck by the familiarity of the very tilt of his head. The manner in which he pursed his brow made me realize he knew I was examining him closely. “You are very anxious about something, Dottore. What is it?”
“What makes you think I’m anxious?”
“The rapid beat of your pulse in your temples.”
I nervously allowed one finger to brush against the side of my forehead. “You’re very observant to notice that.”
“You have not begun to imagine how observant I am,” he replied “For example, I can tell you that they are mopping the floors directly above this one. I can smell the carbolic acid, and the fumes are coming from above, from the transom, not from beneath the door. From the gait of their walk and the pressure of their footsteps I can tell you a woman is in the room directly to the right of us, a very old and frail woman, and to the left a rather heavy man is deep in slumber.” Then, with a strange melancholy, the young man withdrew the vial of aromatic oil and flung a few drops into the air The room became perfumed with a sweet and pungent odor.
“Whatever are you doing?” I asked.
“It’s oil of lily and
Under the bright lights of the operating table I examined him carefully. His hands were as sleek and youthful as a child’s. There wasn’t even the vaguest hint of a wrinkle upon his smooth face. When I saw this, I realized it was impossible that he could be the same young man I had seen in the garden. I dismissed the resemblance as an uncanny coincidence, but I remained captivated by the haunting familiarity of his face.
As I began to set the bones I discovered the cause of the young man’s pallor. His blood was more of a straw color than red. It was apparent he was in the last stages of leukemia. His pupils were also so incredibly dilated I suspected he had very recently used some sort of atropic drug, perhaps cocaine or belladonna. When I had completed the operation I accompanied the intern as he wheeled my strange young patient to a private room.
I remained by the young man’s bedside for the next three hours, partially out of a sense of responsibility for the accident, and partially, I confess, because his resemblance to the angel still held me transfixed. When he finally stirred from his slumber I almost froze with excitement. I grabbed his hand and patted it gently. “Don’t worry. It’s all right.”
His grogginess faded and he stared at me questioningly. “You’re in safe hands,” I continued. “There was an accident. You walked in front of my carriage. The driver couldn’t stop.”
“I remember everything distinctly, signore, he stated with a thick Italian accent.
“Your legs were pretty badly broken,” I went on. “I spent almost two hours operating on you.”
“How convenient to have stepped out in front of a physician,” he returned as his eyes searched the room. “Where is my evening coat?”
I pointed to the chair by his bedside and he reached into the pocket. He withdrew the gold pillbox and placed one of the shiny black pills in his mouth.
“May I inquire as to what those are?”
“No,” he stated simply as he swallowed the pill without water.
“Are they for your—” I hesitated “—are they for your leukemia?”
“You mean, are they morphine to ease the pain from an advanced state of Virchow’s leucocythemia, characterized by the abundance of white corpuscles in my blood?” he questioned dryly.
“Why, yes,” I said, marveling at his technical grasp of the disease.
“No,” he answered again. I straightened slightly as he stared directly into my eyes. Once again I was struck by the familiarity of the very tilt of his head. The manner in which he pursed his brow made me realize he knew I was examining him closely. “You are very anxious about something, Dottore. What is it?”
“What makes you think I’m anxious?”
“The rapid beat of your pulse in your temples.”
I nervously allowed one finger to brush against the side of my forehead. “You’re very observant to notice that.”
“You have not begun to imagine how observant I am,” he replied “For example, I can tell you that they are mopping the floors directly above this one. I can smell the carbolic acid, and the fumes are coming from above, from the transom, not from beneath the door. From the gait of their walk and the pressure of their footsteps I can tell you a woman is in the room directly to the right of us, a very old and frail woman, and to the left a rather heavy man is deep in slumber.” Then, with a strange melancholy, the young man withdrew the vial of aromatic oil and flung a few drops into the air The room became perfumed with a sweet and pungent odor.
“Whatever are you doing?” I asked.
“It’s oil of lily and
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