FAMILY
November is a lazy month. It's also the month when I recover
from my brother's visit which invariably takes place on Halloween. I might just
as well get it out of the way now: my brother isn't any man. He's a vampire and
(if he can be trusted) he is an important vampire wherever it is that vampires
can be important, since obviously they don't live among us. Except on
Halloween. Very little happens on that night: my brother doesn't eat so there's
no need for a meal. Mostly he asks me questions about my life and I try to
answer them. We rarely finish a conversation, because when the doorbell rings,
he will answer it: "I'm glad for the company," he says. His Halloween
manners are impeccable: "I get to spend a lot of time with very old
aristocrats," he says. It's because of him, not because of my candy, that
my apartment is so popular among the children that night. The power that
surrounds my brother draws them to my door in droves. Rather than remain
outside to chant 'trick or treat', they come in and crowd around him. He just
stands there, his tall, pale self, touching them lightly, tousling the hair on
their vulnerable little skulls. He has a word of encouragement or advice for
everyone of them, and he will dispense it like a medicine when he hands them
the sweets. He locks their eyes, steadies their gaze and says things like:
"that dream will never come back"; "it's okay to harbor a desire
for your mother"; "when I was your age, I was afraid that I would
never grow tall, too"; and so on. As if he knew what they were thinking.
When they have received a bonbon or a chocolate or a candy bar together with a
piece of advice, they turned around as if in a deep trance, their faces not
smiling but wrapped in a veil of great seriousness that will last a lifetime.
At some point in the evening, the steady stream of young ones turns into a
trickle and finally dries up entirely. I open a bottle of wine and we both
enjoy the scents that infuse the room with the sweet bitterness of prohibition.
"It's lovely to fill up with memories not my own," he says, "I
always forget how open children are. He looks at me: "you always worry
that I might bite one of them and drink their blood, don't you," he says,
and I shake my head, though it's true. “I don't know why I couldn't also be a
vampire,” I say, “sometimes I think you people have all the fun.” “It only
looks like that from the outside, my dear little ectoplastic brother,” he says,
“sometimes I wish I could hide in a bottle or do these color symphonies you
do.” I knew he was going to say that and just to entertain him I turned into an
arc-shaped vaporous cloud stretching from one end of the room to the other and
played my piece of sixteen thousand colors accompanied by music I had composed
myself. “Bravo, bravo!” said my brother and clapped. Now it was his turn to
look like a happy child. All year I'm looking forward to this only moment of
togetherness in our estranged, supernatural family. “You know,” he says
laughing, “we should really do something together for the kids next year.”
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A most intriguing story with a deep red heart at its center.
ReplyDeleteThank you Susan! I had fun this one. Red is right!
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