Dracula: The Un-Dead. Ian Holt
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the show, Quincey made his way backstage. There was a great deal of activity as crew members packed away the sets. Basarab’s production company was in Paris for only one week, hence the exorbitant ticket price. The timing could prove fortuitous. Quincey found his way to Basarab’s dressing room, drew a breath, and knocked.
“Mr. Basarab?”
From inside: “Enter.”
Quincey found Basarab garbed in a black-and-red satin smoking jacket, clipping articles about himself from a stack of newspapers and carefully placing them in a scrapbook.
“I see you found your reviews.”
Basarab smiled. “Always remember, Mr. Harker, shame is placed on arrogance by those who lack talent.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quincey became aware of the strong scent of food on the table where the tea set had been the previous week. Skipping meals was proving more difficult than he’d imagined. He hoped Basarab couldn’t hear his stomach rumbling.
After pasting in a clipping, Basarab reached behind his wooden makeup case and held up the copy of Dracula.
“I’ve read the book that you left for me.”
Quincey was amazed that he could have read it so quickly. “What did you think?”
“A rather odd title.”
“I’ve done some research,” Quincey said, proudly pulling the German books from his satchel. “The title makes sense when you know there actually was a fifteenth-century Romanian prince named Vlad Dracula. He was quite the villain.”
“I would hardly refer to him as a villain,” Basarab said. “He was the father of my nation.”
Quincey smiled to himself. The money he’d invested in the bookstore, instead of in food, was about to pay dividends. Basarab crossed the room and slipped behind the changing screen adjacent to his wardrobe trunk. As if reading Quincey’s mind, he gestured to the spread of food and said, “Please, enjoy.”
“Thank you.” Quincey tried not to sound too eager. Putting his embarrassment aside, he sat down. As Basarab removed his smoking jacket, Quincey took a bite out of a delicious-looking roast chicken. It was the best he had ever tasted.
“This is wonderful. What is it?”
Without warning, the strong spice hit and Quincey’s mouth began to burn. He coughed, scrambling for a glass of water to quench the flames.
“No,” Basarab said, “water will only serve to fuel the spice. Eat some rice.”
Quincey obeyed and was surprised how quickly the rice seemed to counter the spicy chicken’s heat. After a moment, Quincey tried again, taking a bite of chicken and rice at the same time.
“It is called paprika hendl, a popular dish in my homeland.”
“Very good, actually,” Quincey said between mouthfuls. “Might I guess that you will be taking some time off now that the Paris leg of your tour is complete? Will you be returning to Romania?”
“I have not decided what my next course of action will be. I have a standing offer to bring the production to a theatre in Madrid. As of yet, I have not accepted.”
Quincey strained not to smile. He could not believe his good fortune.
“So Dracula is considered the father of your nation? From what I’ve read, he murdered thousands, and was known to drink their blood.”
“An ancient pagan ritual. It is said that those who drink the blood of their enemies consume their power.”
“And then there is the translation of his name,” Quincey said. He riffled through the pages to find the passage and read it to Basarab. “’Son of the Devil.’”
“The true translation of Dracula’s name is ‘Son of the Dragon.’ His father was a knight in the Catholic Order of the Dragon, sworn to protect Christendom from the Muslims. The symbol for the Devil in Christian Orthodox culture is a dragon. Hence the confusion.”
Basarab struggled with his ascot in front of the mirror. Quincey knew how to tie them; he’d seen his mother helping his father. Without thinking, he crossed the room and helped Basarab adjust his tie.
“I suppose, as in all things, the truth is relative to one’s point of view. All the same, this fellow Dracula is quite an interesting character, wouldn’t you say?”
It seemed as if an eternity passed as Basarab looked at him, considering his next words. “Ah, now we come to it. You want me to play Dracula for the stage. And you would, no doubt, play your father, Jonathan Harker?”
“He always did want me to follow in his footsteps.”
Basarab chuckled, and gently placed a hand on Quincey’s shoulder. “I’m quite impressed by your ambition, young Quincey. From hopeful apprentice to producer and star inside a week. A man to be reckoned with.”
“You read my letter? You’ll come to England?”
Basarab grabbed his hat, gloves, and walking stick. Quincey cursed himself for being too eager. The lack of immediate response from Basarab was more than he could bear.
The great actor turned to him. “I make no promises. I prefer to play English characters. They have a knack for dying well. I have made my career superbly playing well-died Englishmen.”
Quincey and Basarab shared another laugh. All the tension seemed to leave the room. Quincey couldn’t help but think that this was what he had always wished he could do with his own father. “I am going to watch some late-night performances at Les Folies Bergère,” Basarab said. “Would you care to join me?”
A good sign! Quincey had often wanted to visit this infamous Parisian music hall, known for its exotic performances. He agreed readily.
“We shall have a few drinks and discuss this proposition of yours,” Basarab said.
It took immense self-restraint for Quincey not to jump for joy.
They walked northward toward the 18th arrondissement of Paris. Basarab questioned him about the production of Dracula, the theatre, timing, and even payment. Quincey finally felt comfortable enough to ask a question of his own.
“There is one thing I was wondering about. My books make frequent reference to what I believe is a Romanian word. Dracula is sometimes referred to as tepes. Would you know what it means?”
Basarab spun toward Quincey with a sudden, icy look of anger, and stabbed him in the chest with his walking stick to emphasize his point. “It is a vile word used by Dracula’s political enemies to discredit him. Never speak it again!”
After a few more steps, Basarab stopped and turned back. Thankfully, the anger had washed away, and Basarab was his charming self once again, as if he had realized he had been too harsh with the naïve young man. In a tone of apology, he said, “Tepes means ’impaler.’”
The Fleet Street Dragon was watching him. From Jonathan’s office window, he could see it sitting on the street in the middle of Temple Bar, taunting him, judging him. The Temple Bar had once had a stone archway, which marked where Fleet Street turned into the Strand. Due to its vicinity to the Temple, a complex once owned by the Knights Templar, it was now where the guilds of solicitors organized into an area that was known as “Legal London.” During the eighteenth century, the heads of traitors on iron spikes had been displayed in Temple Bar protruding from the top of the stone archway. That archway had been removed in 1878. Two years later, the Temple Bar Monument had been erected in its place, a forty-foot-tall pedestal surmounted by a black dragon, which stood in the middle of Fleet Street. The Fleet Street Dragon. Of the