Interlude : London 1954

1954

I doubt there is a soul alive who wouldn’t consider the sight in front of me right now as beautiful, romantic, and a perfect setting for what I had in mind.

Imagine, if you please: a quiet, warm summer evening in London, above the quaint rows of houses full of life, none of what reaches the roof I’m currently standing on. The sun is setting to the west, painting the sky with brilliant reds, yellows and oranges. Above me, and to the east behind, it’s full of purples and blues and stars. Smoke from a few chimneys twirls through the still air lazily as families curl up around the fire in their drawing rooms, enjoying the quiet evening, maybe listening to the radio, reading or doing chores. Drinking tea. This is London, after all.

I’ve got everything ready here: a small table, two chairs, nice, lacy tablecloth and a candle. It’s a classic, I know, and something of a cliché, but who cares. A bottle of red is chilling under the table. An old wind-up gramophone is playing quiet music, somewhat scratchily.

Me? I’m dressed in my nicest summer dress, long dark hair tied up to keep my neck cool.

All I’m missing is my ‘date’, but the sun is still up, settling itself on the horizon, so I need to be patient for a little while longer. I take the moment to think on how my life has changed, how the world around me has changed: from a small cold hut in Russia, with not even a hint of electricity or vaccinations in sight, to a brick house in London, full of life, people and things like the radio, music and cars. Airplanes! What will they think of next?

My musings are cut short as there is a noise. Someone coming up the stairs. But the sun is still visible, so I fret a little. Can’t help it, I’m in love, and don’t want to see the man of my so-called life bursting into flames because of impatience.

“Hello Dolly!”

The head that peeks out from behind the small door does belong to a man of my so-called life, but not the one I was expecting.

“Hello Frank.” I greet him with a happy smile. So I had planned this night for just two, but Frank’s been a friend for decades, and is always welcome in our humble little home.

“Your boy says he’ll be up in a stiffy.” Frank says with a smirk. I kind of blink at him for a moment. “He just can’t figure out the lingo, can he?”

“Oh! No. Not really. Part of his charm.” I smirk too. “As long as he doesn’t say that in public, I suppose.”

“All fine and good!” Frank laughs and sits himself comfortably on the warm roof. Looking at the setting sun, he lets out a long, happy sigh and closes his eyes. “Is this the life, or is this the life, Annie?”

He does call me with mostly just one name. Usually. Annie’s short for my real name, and he used it when he created this new identity for me, just so he could keep calling me that. He claims it’s too much of an effort to keep thinking of me in different names, after knowing me for some three decades.

“It indeed is. Paws off.” I can see him inching towards the bottle of wine.

“Is this a special occasion?”

“Not really. Just a pretty evening. So why not enjoy it?” I say with a shrug. We fall silent to do just that, listening leisurely to the gramophone as it scratches through a slow, crooning love song. The sun sets before our eyes, beautiful and bright and deadly, but not to us. Frank, as a werewolf, can survive quite happily in any climate, hot or cold, bright or dark. I, as a dhampir, am a bit more sensitive to the bright sun, but as long as I don’t try to tan myself on the sunniest of summer days completely naked, I need not worry. The one climbing up the stairs as soon as the sun is below the horizon, however. I think I already mentioned the amazing human torch part? That tends to happen to vampires, which Ignacy Wit, my originally Polish lover, who now goes under the name of Irving, just happens to be.

We have a good relationship. The fact that I made my career and reputation killing his kind doesn’t bother us. Mostly because he doesn’t go around killing people for blood, so there is no need for someone to hire me to kill him, or for me to have a crisis of conscience or something dramatic like that.

But seriously! “Good evening, Irving!” Frank and I call out as soon as Iggy pops his head through the door. He waves his book at us scoldingly.

“It is a very fine name, can you two not get over it?” He manages to act almost dignified this time. I gesture at him to sit on the other chair, opposite of me, and he complies. Frank uses this opportunity to grab a hold of the wine bottle, and opens the cork effortlessly. Standing up, acting like a proper waiter, he pours us both a glass and takes a good, long swig from the mouth of the bottle for himself. Neither Iggy nor me really protests. He’s gentleman enough not to finish the whole bottle.

“Do you have the night off from work?” Iggy asks him, and Frank nods. For appearance’s sakes, he’s working as a bouncer at a nightclub. Most of his money comes from people like Iggy and me. The two of us, on the other hand, we pretty much live on my savings and investments. I sometimes work at a nearby shop, and Iggy writes short stories for magazines. A nice, comfortable, cozy life. And so dull that if I didn’t have such nice people to share it with, I’d go crazy. It’s not been so long since I was traveling all around the place, hunting and killing vampires. That wasn’t the greatest way to live, either, but at least every day wasn’t the same as the one before.

Now don’t get me wrong. I love Iggy. I love London. I love my friends. I love our life here. I love the peace. But it’s hard to break out of the habits of a century, you know. Nowadays, excitement is seeing whether the milkman remembered to bring everything we ordered. Iggy is a sucker for hot chocolate. It’s like blood to him.

Looking at him, talking with Frank over whatever, my lover and best friend together, there is peace. But looking at the starry sky above, there is impatience, and the yearning for the road.

“Were you here, dear?” Iggy asks suddenly, turning towards me. I snap out of my thoughts and turn to him.

“Huh? What?”

Both laugh a little, and Iggy repeats his question. “Were you here when Jack the Ripper was doing his killings?” he lifts up the book he brought up with him. He’s always reading something. Apparently, the notorious serial killer is the object of today’s interest.

“Oh, no. I heard of him, back then, but I was busy in Prague.” I explained, thinking back some sixty years.

“How about you?” Iggy turns to Frank, who laughs some more.

“I’m not that old! My parents hadn’t even met yet. But, you know…” he smirks and winks, “there are rumours that old Jack’s still about.”

“What, that he’s one of us?” Iggy’s eyes go wide and he lowers his voice. Not like anyone could hear us, up here. Frank nods, leaning forward.

“Oh yeah. A vampire.”

Iggy’s laugh is a little strained, and he looks at me with disbelief. He knows Frank well enough not to trust everything he says. Let’s face it; most things that come out of the man’s mouth are at least exaggerations. “Do you know of this?”

I shrug and allow myself a smirk, too. “Know of this? Hell, I know the man.”

“What?!” both Iggy and Frank shout more or less in unison. So obviously Frank was just trying to pull Iggy’s leg.

“He is a vampire?” Iggy asks, leaning excitedly over the table now.

“Oh yes. And he’s still alive. Well, alive for a vampire. As far as I know.”

They both look at me expectantly. “You’re really met him, though?” Frank asks.

“Yes, once. In Budapest, a few years after the murders.”

“And you didn’t kill him?” Iggy, now.

“No.”

“Why not?” Frank.

“I didn’t really believe him, for one. He seemed like a mostly harmless guy, for a vampire, and since I was just heading out of the area after some hard work, I let him be. I only found out later that he had been telling me the truth. He was bragging about it, you know. How they were still talking about him in London, and all over, too. And how he would never be caught.”

They both still stare at me, obviously not knowing whether to believe me or not. Frank eventually laughs, taking my words only for a continuation of his own yarn. Iggy’s smile is slower in coming, but he finally relaxes as well, and tells Frank to fill our glasses.

The evening turns into night, and Frank leaves our company for a fairer one, or so he says. The moon is halfway to full, the stars are bright above us, not a cloud in sight, and the gentle music from the gramophone fills the still warm night air. Iggy finally takes the hint and asks me to dance with him. Oh, I have no problems with me being the one to ask him to dance, but a girl needs some romance every now and then.

Yes, I know I organized this whole evening. Shut up.

We dance slowly, my cheek resting on his collarbone –he is quite tall- until the side of the record ends. I turn it over, and we dance some more as the moon travels across the sky. There are no words. Sometimes they just aren’t needed. There’s no kissing either, no traveling hands. There’s just this moment, him and me and the music and the moon.

It’s nice, and the peace doesn’t seem so stifling for a moment.

Eventually we sit back down and finish the bottle, talking about this and that. Planning a trip somewhere in Europe for the autumn. I’ve traveled all over, but Iggy hasn’t really been anywhere besides a few towns in Poland, and the greater London area here. Traveling overseas and over moving water can cause trouble for vampires, but he is not some newborn anymore. There’s over a decade under his belt, and we both are eager to see some other sights for a change.

“So since there is nowhere that you haven’t been yet, is there somewhere you would like to go again?” he asks, swirling the last of his wine somewhat unsteadily in his glass.

“The question rather is, since you haven’t been anywhere, where would you like to go? I’m happy to revisit everywhere.” I turn the question back at him, since it’s only true and fair. “And remember, this’ll be just the first trip of many. You have centuries ahead of you, if you’re careful.”

He leans back in his chair, thoughtful, the front legs of the chair rising into the air. This will take a while. We are talking about a man who can take ten minutes to choose a drink in a pub, while the barkeep is waiting. I try to remember whether we have another bottle of wine somewhere. But the chair suddenly comes back down, and Iggy snaps his fingers with glee.

“I have it!”

I blink at him, confused for a moment. “What?”

“I want to go to…” he draws out the final word, smiling and leaning towards me over the table. I laugh and reach over to pinch his cheek.

“Spit it out already.”

“…to Paris! Can we?”

All right. Not exactly what I expected. Not very ambitious, either. “Sure, if you want to. Kind of like going to Wales, distance-wise, but sure.”

“Great! I wanted to go there during the war, but never had the chance.”

“We can take the ferry over to Calais, not a lot of traveling overseas there, and drive the rest of the way. Or take a night train.” I start to warm up to the idea as well. Paris is always nice, and it has been a while since I’ve gone, either.

The song playing on the gramophone catches our ears, and Iggy pulls me up to dance again, excited. “I hear it is a very beautiful place in the autumn. And every other time of the year as well.” He pulls me close and sings along, quietly, only to my ear.

“I love Paris every moment
Every moment of the year
I love Paris, why oh why do I love Paris
Because my love is here…”

“You’re a big softie, you know that, Irving?” I whisper back and kiss his neck. I can’t reach much higher when he’s standing up.

“Can we go back in? It would be nicer there.” He suggests, and I nod. We pack up the gramophone and the records, the rest can wait.

“Was that true, what you said about Jack the Ripper? Him being a vampire?” Iggy asks as we’re heading back down, to our apartment. He has his book with him, reminding him of out conversation.

I nod with a smirk. “Every word of it.”

“Then why haven’t you gone out and killed him?”

“You read what he did to those women? No way am I going near that mad bastard again.”

--

I love Paris is written by Cole Porter.