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"Let me sleep," I said.
I locked the door and lay on the floor, knees drawn up, warm and safe in the thick folds of the blanket, smelling the pine needles and the soil that clung to my clothes, and the smoke, and the bits and pieces of dried excrement, and the blood, of course, the human blood, blood from battlefields, and blood from Hagia Sophia when the dead infant had fallen on me, and the smell of the horse manure, and the smell of the marl of Hell.
All of it was wrapped up with me in this blanket, my hand on the bulk of the unfolded veil against my bare chest.
"Don't come near me!" I whispered one more time for the ears of the immortals outside, who were so confounded and confused.
Then I slept.
Sweet rest. Sweet darkness.
Would that death were like this. Would that one would sleep and sleep and sleep forever.
Chapter 23
23
I REMAINED unconscious the full twenty-four hours, waking only as the sun died behind the winter sky the next evening.
There was a fine outlay of my own good clothes for me displayed on the wooden chest, and a pair of my own shoes.
I tried to imagine who had made this selection from amongst all that David had earlier sent here for me from the nearby hotel. Surely he was the logical choice. And I smiled, thinking of how often in our lives David and I had been utterly entangled in the adventure of clothes.
But you see, if a vampire leaves out details like clothes, the story doesn't make sense. Even the most grandiose mythic characters¡ªif they are flesh and blood¡ªdo have to worry about the latchets on sandals.
It struck me with full force that I was back from the realm where clothes changed shape through the will of the clothed. That I was covered in dirt and did have only one shoe.
I stood up, fully alert, removed the veil carefully without unfolding it or chancing to look at it, though I thought I could see the dark image through the cloth. I removed all my garments with care, and then stacked them together on the blanket, so that not one pine needle would be lost that didn't have to be lost. And then I went into the nearby bathroom¡ªthe customary chamber of tile and ferocious steam¡ªand bathed like a man being baptized in the Jordan. David had laid out for me all the requisite toys¡ªcombs, brushes, scissors. Vampires need almost nothing else, really.
All the while I had the door of the bathroom open. Had anyone dared to step into the bedroom I would have leapt from the steamy downpour and ordered that person out.
At last I myself emerged, wet and clean, combed my hair, dried carefully, and put on all of my own fresh garments from the inside out, that is from silk shorts and undershirt and black socks, to the clean wool pants, shirt, vest, and double-breasted blazer of a blue suit.
Then I bent down and picked up the folded veil. I held it, not daring to open it.
But I could see the darkness on the other side of the fabric. This time I was sure. I put the veil inside my vest, buttoning the vest tight.
I looked in the mirror. It was a madman in a Brooks Brothers suit, a demon with wild, frenzied blond locks, his collar open, staring with one horrible eye at himself in the mirror.
The eye, good God, the eye!
My fingers moved up to examine the empty socket, the slightly wrinkled lids that tried to close it off. What to do, what to do. If only I had a black patch, a gentleman's patch. But I didn't.
My face was desecrated by the missing eye. I realized I was shaking violently. David had left for me one of my broad, scarflike ties, of violet silk, and this I wrapped around my collar, making it stand up like a collar of old, very stiff, the scarf surrounding it with layer after layer as one might see in some portrait of Beethoven.
I tucked the tails of the scarf down into the vest. In the mirror, my eye burnt violet with the violet of the scarf. I saw the blackness on the left side, made myself look at it, rather than simply compensate for it.
I slipped on my shoes, stared back at the ruined clothes, picked up a few bits of dust and dried leaf, and laid all that carefully on the blanket, so that as little as possible would be lost, and then I went outside into the hallway.
The flat was sweetly warm, and full of a popular but not overpowering incense¡ªsomething that made me think of Catholic churches of old, when the altar boy swung the silver censer at the end of his chain.
As I came into the living room, I saw the three of them very distinctly, ranged about the cheerfully lighted space, the even illumination making a mirror of the nightwalls beyond which the snow continued to descend upon New York. I wanted to see the snow. I walked past them and put my eye up against the glass. The whole roof of St. Patrick's was white with fresh snow, the steep spires shaking off as much as they could, though every speck of ornament was decorated in white. The street was an impassable valley of white. Had they ceased to plow it?
People of New York moved below. Were these only the living? I stared with my right eye. I could see only what seemed to be the living.
I scanned the roof of the church in a near panic, suddenly, expecting to see a gargoyle wound into the artwork and discover that the gargoyle was alive and watching me.
But I had no feeling of anyone except those in the room, whom I loved, who were patiently waiting upon me and my melodramatic and self-indulgent silence.
