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Dora. Dora, who had cut him to the heart tonight refusing his gift.
His entire posture changed; he didn't want to think about Doraagain, and all the things Dora had said梩hat he had to renouncewhat he did, that she'd never take another cent for the church, thatshe couldn't help but love him and suffer if he did go to court, thatshe didn't want the veil.
What veil? Just a fake, he'd said, but one of the best he'd found sofar. Veil? I suddenly connected his hot little memory with somethinghanging on the far wall, a framed bit of fabric, a painted Christface.
Veil. Veronica's veil.
And just an hour ago he'd said to Dora, "Thirteenth century, andso beautiful, Dora, for the love of heaven. Take it. If I can't leavethese things to you, Dora...."So this Christface had been his precious gift?
"I won't take them anymore, Daddy, I told you. I won't."He had pressed her with the vague scheme that this new gift couldbe exhibited for the public. So could all his relics. They could raise?money for the church.
She had started to cry, and all this had been going on back at thehotel, whilst David and I had been in the bar only yards from them.
"And say these bastards do manage to pick me up, some warrant,something I haven't covered, you're telling me you won't take thesethings? You'll let strangers take them?""Stolen, Daddy," she had cried. "They are not clean. They aretainted."He really could not understand his daughter. It seemed he'd beena thief ever since he was a child. New Orleans. The boardinghouse,the curious mixture of poverty and elegance and his mother drunkmost of the time. The old captain who ran the antique shop. All thiswas going through his mind. Old Captain had had the front rooms ofthe house, and he, my Victim, had brought the breakfast tray eachmorning to Old Captain, before going on to school. Boardinghouse,service, elegant oldsters, St. Charles Avenue. The time when the mensat on the galleries in the evening and the old ladies did, too, withtheir hats. Daylight times I'd never know again.
Such reverie. No, Dora wouldn't like this. And he wasn't so surehe did either, suddenly. He had standards which were often difficultto explain to people. He began some defense as though talking to thedealer who'd brought this. "It's beautiful, yes, but it's too Baroque! Itlacks that element of distortion that I treasure."I smiled. I loved this guy's mind. And the smell of the blood, well.
I took a deliberate breath of it, and let it turn me into a total predator.
Go slowly, Lestat. You've waited for months. Don't rush it. And he'ssuch a monster himself. He'd shot people in the head, killed themwith knives. Once in a small grocery he had shot both his enemy andthe proprietor's wife with utter indifference. Woman in the way. Andhe had coolly walked out. Those were early New York days, beforeMiami, before South America. But he remembered that murder, andthat's why I knew about it.
He thought a lot about those various deaths. That's why I thoughtabout them.
He was studying the hoofed feet of this thing, this angel, devil,demon. I realized its wings reached the ceiling. I could feel thatshiver again if I let myself. But again, I was on firm ground, and therewas nothing from any other realm in this place.
He slipped off his coat now, and stood in shirtsleeves. That wastoo much. I could see the flesh of his neck, of course, as he opened hiscollar. I could see that particularly beautiful place right below his ear,that special measure between the back of the neck of a human and thelobe of his ear, which has so much to do with male beauty.
Hell, I had not invented the significance of necks. Everyone knewwhat those proportions meant. He was all over pleasing to me, but itwas the mind, really. To hell with his Asian beauty and all that, evenhis vanity which made him glow for fifty feet in all directions. It wasthe mind, the mind that was locked onto the statue, and had for onemerciful moment let thoughts of Dora go.
He reached for another one of the little halogen spots andclamped his hand over the hot metal and directed it hill on thedemon's wing, the wing I could best see, and I too saw the perfectionhe was thinking about, the Baroque love of detail; no. He did notcollect this sort of thing. His taste was for the grotesque, and thisthing was only grotesque by accident. God, it was hideous. It had aferocious mane of hair, and a scowl on its face that could have beendesigned by William Blake, and huge rounded eyes that fixed on himin seeming hatred.
"Blake, yes!" he said suddenly. He turned around. "Blake. Thedamned thing looks like one of those drawings by Blake."I realized he was staring at me. I had projected the thought,carelessly, yes, obviously with purpose. I felt a shock of connection. Hesaw me. He saw the glasses perhaps, and the light, or maybe my hair.
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