Dracula: The Un-Dead. Ian Holt
Читать онлайн книгу.
front of the Théâtre de l’Odéon. A tragic accident.
The old man was about to shut the paper when the article caught his attention once more. A witness was quoted as saying he had seen two women climb into the carriage as it fled the scene, but that the police believed the witness was mistaken when he claimed that the carriage had been driverless.
It might have seemed an insignificant detail to the French authorities, but to the old man, it was a beacon of danger. He had always believed there were no such things as accidents.
“Hij leeft…He lives,” he whispered to himself, his heart now racing in fear. He felt a sharp pain in his jaw, as if being impaled by a hot knife.
Within seconds, his chest tightened. The old man reached into his pocket for his brass pillbox. His left arm went numb. His fingers shook as he struggled one-handed to unhinge the tiny clasp. The Reaper squeezed tighter, causing him to drop the tablets onto the rug. The old man opened his mouth to scream in agony, but only a whimper emerged from his dry lips. He fell out of his chair, onto the floor. If he died here, his body would not be discovered until the delivery boy returned the next week. He would lie rotting, alone and forgotten. The old man grabbed a single nitroglycerine pill, placed it under his tongue, and waited for the tablet to take effect. The warm glow from the fire flickered, casting an eerie light into the glass eyes of the taxidermied birds and animals displayed about the room. Their dead stares taunted him.
In a few minutes, he felt warm blood coursing through his limbs again. Death loosened its grip. His rheumy eyes glanced back to the newspaper. The old man knew that death from something as mundane as a heart attack would not be his fate. There was a reason God had kept him alive. With all the strength he could muster, he pulled himself back up into his chair and rose with purpose.
Quincey had no memory of his trip from London to Harbor station in Dover Priory, or of waiting for the ferry to take him to Calais. For the entire twenty-four-hour journey, his nose was stuck in Bram Stoker’s novel. He continued turning pages traveling from Calais-Fréthun station on the Chemin de Fer du Nord to the Gare du Nord in Paris.
He found Stoker’s combination of a first-person narrative, journal entries, and letter correspondence unique, and despite the fact that a walking dead monster was completely unrealistic, he found himself intrigued by the character of Dracula, a creation full of contradictions: a tragic figure, a symbol of pure evil, the dark hunter who then becomes the hunted. But seeing his mother and father featured as the main characters was quite surreal. Even his home in Exeter and how his father had inherited the Hawkins law firm were mentioned. He found it offensive to read Stoker’s suggestion that his mother would have been less than pure in her dealings with the vampire Dracula. But as Quincey read on, his anger subsided. In the end, Stoker had restored his mother’s virtue by having her help the brave band of heroes hunt down and destroy Dracula. Funny, he had never thought of his father as much of a hero. But there had to be a reason that Stoker chose his parents as models for the lead characters in his novel, and he hoped Stoker would be more receptive to questions next time he met him.
Quincey became excited at the prospect of using this stage adaptation of Dracula not only as an opportunity to prove to himself that he could succeed in the theatrical business and as an actor, but also to prove his worth to Stoker as a member of the Lyceum Theatre Company.
“Welcome, Monsieur Harker!” Antoine, the manager of the Théâtre de l’Odéon, was waiting for Quincey when he arrived shortly after four o’clock. Quincey was taken aback by the warm reception, a far cry from the welcome he’d received only a week ago.
Antoine shook his hand. “How was your voyage to London?”
“Quite eventful,” Quincey replied. “Is Monsieur Basarab here?”
“Non, I’m afraid none of the actors has arrived yet. Call time is not for another two hours.”
Quincey had suspected as much. He took Dracula out of his satchel, along with a sealed envelope, which he placed inside the book’s front cover. “Could you see that Mr. Basarab receives this for me?”
“I shall hand it to him personally.”
After watching Antoine disappear into the theatre, Quincey set off to find a room for the night in the Latin Quarter. Quincey yawned as he dragged his feet along the cobbled street. He had not slept since leaving London and hoped to return to the theatre after the show, but he knew that the moment his head made contact with a pillow, he would be dead to the world.
He dreamed that night of a future when his name would appear on the boards beside Basarab’s, and awoke the next morning feeling refreshed, and itching to know what Basarab thought of the letter and the book itself. Everything hinged on his reaction. Quincey could hardly wait to go to the theatre in the evening and meet his fate head-on. Dressing quickly, he went out in search of breakfast and passed the theatre. He knew Basarab would not be there yet, but he felt the need to stop and dream once again.
Over the next few hours, Quincey strolled through the streets of Paris, his mind rolling through Stoker’s novel over and over again. He wondered if Stoker was a genius at creating the character, or if his depiction of Dracula was actually based on someone. Stoker had written that Dracula was a Romanian noble. It occurred to Quincey that if a real Dracula had ever existed, Basarab might be familiar with his history. A good producer would acquaint himself as best he could with the historical Dracula in order to impress his potential star. With that thought, Quincey took himself to boulevard du Montparnasse, where a number of good bookshops were to be found along the stretch near the university.
Two hours and three bookshops later, and he had not found a single copy of Stoker’s Dracula. It could be that it had not been well received. Quincey was beginning to fear that he had backed the wrong horse. He came to a fourth bookshop, known for having titles from all over the world. There, Quincey was surprised to find two books about Dracula, both translated from German. The smaller of the two was actually a long poem entitled The Story of a Bloodthirsty Madman Called Dracula of Wallachia. The other, larger book was The Frightening and Truly Extraordinary Story of a Wicked Blood-Drinking Tyrant Called Prince Dracula.
Could the Germans make their titles any longer?
Quincey’s speculations about Dracula’s origins were correct; Stoker’s vampire, Count Dracula, had links to a real historical personage. Although he was trying to be frugal with his money, Quincey purchased the books for character research. He would have to save money by forgoing some meals, but it was a necessary sacrifice. He wanted to know all he could about this mysterious figure.
Quincey stopped at the office of Compagnie Française des Câbles Télégraphiques, on the boulevard Saint-Germaine, to send a telegram telling Hamilton Deane of his wondrous discovery at the bookstore. He spent most of the day at his favorite carved-stone bench, near the man-made pond in the Luxembourg Gardens, reading the historical accounts of Prince Dracula. He became so engrossed in the brutal accounts of the diabolical prince that he did not realize the sun was setting until he could barely read the type on the page. Almost eight o’clock! He dashed off northward to the theatre and there quickly sought out Antoine.
“Monsieur Harker, Basarab was expecting you to come by tonight. He asked that I give you a complimentary ticket to view the show.”
Quincey was ecstatic to be able to see this grand production of Richard III a second time, only a week later. This time, while he watched Basarab as the king, he could see how easily he could play Dracula. The characters were similar: proud warriors, cunning, ambitious, cruel, and charming at the same time. He could not help but imagine what it would have been like to be alive in the fifteenth century and come face-to-face with the brutal Dracula himself. The thought gave him shudders. Dracula was a man who could impale forty thousand people. Quincey could not imagine the unspeakable pain Dracula’s poor victims must have suffered. Richard III’s crimes seemed to pale in comparison. Prince