Renfield and the Modern Woman

After you've been nobbing the hob for a while as a vampire, you discover that it's not all lounging about in evening wear and sipping a glass of the red. No, the undead existence is rather fraught with peril. There are days--nights, rather--when it becomes possible the old self will actually have to hunt and feed, with the risk of damage to one's wardrobe and one's social schedule.

That's why it is absolutely essential that one have a man. I have one, a first-rate man, top-notch, descended of a long line of men. Veritable master-mind. Renfield's his name.

Why, just the other week, I was in an awful unpleasant foodstuff. "Rise and shine, sir," said Renfield and I simply lay there.

"Are you moping, sir?"

"I never mope, Renfield," I told the fellow from my bed. Oh, yes, I sleep in a bed. Renfield suggested it: much more comfortable than a coffin, you know, and much more open to misinterpretation if found. For the same reason I have a huge television, though of course I can't watch it: damnable keen vampire senses render the thing entirely unwatchable, unless you like to see lines crawling across the screen.

However. As I was saying, I was not moping.

"Of course, sir. I had forgotten." Renfield had laid out my clothes.

"Not the navy worsted, Renfield. That's only for seeing Uncle."

"Yes, sir. Your liege left a message, sir. He would like to see you tonight."

"Oh, dash it!" I swore. I understand most people call him Sire or Majesty or something like that, but he is my uncle, and he is forever complaining about my inability to uncork my own bottles, so to speak. Really, that might have been useful in the middle ages, before the discovery of anticoagulants, but now it seems unnecessary and unseemly.

"If I may, sir, he was most insistent."

"Put the old whammy on you, did he?"

"Indeed." Uncle is very keen at all of those vampire power thingies. I've never mastered a one; with Renfield, I have little need.

I gave half a glance to ensure that Uncle was not actually in the room--and, reassured, gave a dismissive wave of my hand. "Piffle, Renfield, piffle. I have a problem of a more delicate nature." I got up and allowed Renfield to dress me. "I seem to be engaged."

"To a woman, sir?" I nodded glumly. "To a living woman, sir?" I nodded once more. "Perhaps you should tell me about it."

And so I laid the facts of the situation before him.

As some bleak egg once said, life is short and death is long, which makes a good club absolutely indispensable. (No television or movies, if you'll recall.) One needs to socialize with one's own kind. I frequent a small establishment called The Meat Market, a name so clever I might have thought of it myself.

There were three of us stiffs playing three-handed euchre, Butcher, Baker, and I. (We had been a foursome until one of our members realized he was dead. Poor philosophy, if you ask me; I say, keep going. In any case, Chandler had gone to ground.) It was at that dramatic juncture that a modern young woman entered.

The Meat Market is not a private club, I'm afraid. It remains open to the public; anyone may enter, although undesirables are discouraged from remaining.

The young woman in question recoiled at the haze in the room and I was able observe her for a few moments through the cigaret smoke. I like to smoke; it reminds me to breathe. More accurately, it reminds me to inhale. (I took it up after I once lost the chance to set up a lone hand because I hadn't air in my lungs when I ordered my partner up. My partner was most vexed.) However, if I haven't a conversational companion, I do sometimes forget to exhale until I need to speak.

She seemed one of those modern women--career, financial independence, exhausting hobbies, the forthright implacable motion of an iceberg. Rather like Uncle, in fact. As she wobbled towards my end of the room, I had yet another clue this woman was modern: she had neglected to put on foundation undergarments. I saw her clamp her arms at her sides to prevent one of her bosoms from circumnavigating her torso.

I'm afraid she took my look of mild distaste for one of interest, for she made her way to my table. Then she compounded matters by introducing herself. "Hello," she said, quite directly, "I'm Yves. Summer Yves."

My attempt to invoke vampiric powers and send her hence had its usual effect: she smiled and sat down beside me. Under the circumstances, there was little to do but introduce myself, which I did.

The silence between us stretched like taffy of a particularly plastic and silent sort, and finally, I asked, "Are you interested in euchre?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "If it's a game of tricks." She smiled upon saying the last word. She had an extraordinary number of sharp white teeth.

"Indeed," I said. "Well, we are searching for a fourth," and then I discovered that both of my companions had vanished. I must say, these keen vampire senses are a nuisance--unable to watch movies except as a series of still pictures, but one's supposed friends can slither away without so much as an embarrassed cough.

In fairness, I suppose they might have coughed but hadn't remembered to inhale first.

"Oh," she said. "Can't it be played by two?" and she placed her hand upon my arm.

"Normally it requires four."

"Kinky," she said, and she licked her lips. I took this as modern slang of approbation, and I was encouraged by her attention to the rules. One rarely finds a woman who will truly listen on the topic of proper play of euchre.

I outlined the bare necessities of play and then mentioned that one could order up one's partner. She said she liked the sound of that and immediately asked me to order her up.

I began enumerating the conditions under which one should order up one's partner, from most favourable to least. As I reached the case where one has the left bauer and ace of trump with two aces supporting, she was so still that I began to suspect I might have managed that entrancement thingie after all.

Finally she looked across at me and said, "Can I order you up to my place?" She smiled again and batted her large dark eyes at me.

My first inclination was to say yes--I had another forty-six combinations to discuss--but I thought to check my watch, and indeed, the dawn was creeping up on us.

"I'm afraid not; I must go."

"Tomorrow night, then?" she asked, fluttering her eyelashes most prettily. One drifted off, revealing a stripe of grey skin beneath her makeup. "I could offer you...refreshment." The pause in that sentence was as obvious as Renfield's disapproval, and I could only surmise it was as significant. I quickly reviewed her behavior--she had invited herself to an unknown man, listened to his every word, and was now offering him refreshment. Her clothing revealed loose bosoms, broad hips, long legs uncovered by hose, and a lack of foundation garments.

Clearly a young woman in search of a husband.

"Well, I--"

She pressed a slip of paper into my hand and said, "I consider that an engagement." She left after favouring me with what can only be called a flirtatious smile.

"If I may be so bold," said Renfield after I had relayed this tale, "it seems clear to me that there was no engagement in the marital sense. I believe she simply wanted to see you again."

"Renfield," I said firmly, "she was clearly sending me signals of a--well, of a sexual nature, if I may be frank," and if blood had flowed in my veins, I should have blushed.

"Indeed, sir, I quite concur."

"Well, that sort of thing is only done in the confines of marriage, is it not?"

"Not any more, sir."

"Really? That's shameful. I wonder if Uncle knows."

"I'm sure he does, sir. Your liege has kept track of events over the last eighty years. However, it is opportune for you. It means that you can go to her residence without being obliged in a marital sense."

"Ah. Indeed. But, Renfield, what if she desires...I mean, what if what she wants is..." I made a gesture involving the union of both hands.

He raised an eyebrow. We had never before discussed such things.

I inhaled and coughed slightly. "I have no such...urges."

He took the news with perfect equanimity. "Perhaps you are worrying in advance of the facts, sir. She may want your company alone."

I brightened. "Do you think so? She seems interested in cards. Now, we must escape before Uncle comes to visit."

"Before, nephew?" asked Uncle. He had, of course, appeared in the room without notice. Oh, I could keep him out by revoking his invitation, but that would cause problems.

"Lovely to see you, Uncle. Renfield, a glass of the red for Uncle." Renfield disappeared--he's nearly as silent as Uncle when he wants to be.

"Have you read the papers?" Uncle asked, brandishing a tabloid at me. Uncle is always concerned about the tabloids. Sooner or later, he claims, they must print something true and be believed, so he's always on about mysterious lights in the sky and strange disappearances. It is difficult to argue with him, as I personally know two yetis and a sasquatch--they're bouncers at my club.

"Only the illustrated pages."

Uncle sniffed. "There is a serial killer in this city, and some of the tabloids have claimed it was a vampire because the bodies are missing blood."

"That's a bit rough." Commiseration is almost always appropriate with Uncle--he's very fond of reminding me that heavy lies the head that crowns the bear, and so forth.

"It's not...it's not you, is it?" asked Uncle.

I was shocked. "Certainly not! You know my feelings on the matter."

"You are one of the indolent dead," remarked Uncle. "The bodies were also mutilated and I thought that might be your sort of idea for covering up."

"Your drink, sir," said Renfield. "If I may, sir, the bodies were also missing a variety of internal organs, in the manner of extraterrestrial cattle mutilations."

"Yes," said Uncle. He looked at his glass with some disdain, then drained it, his fangs glittering in the light, then blotted his lips with a handkerchief. I saw him finger his toothbrush case as he debated the merits of another glass. Good oral hygiene prevents much of the social stigma associated with our kind in previous centuries.

"May I reveal your surprise to the Sire, sir?" Renfield asked me. I nodded: I was curious to learn my surprise as well.

"Is there a preferred disposal method? My master is going out tonight with the intent of making his first bite."

Uncle turned and looked at me. "Is this true? Are you finally accepting some measure of adulthood?"

I shrugged and smiled.

He clasped at the shoulders and pulled me tightly to his chest. "Adam," he said, "some real blood will help alleviate this anoxia problem you've carried for too long."

(I should point out that it is Uncle's contention that my general unwillingness to kill and my attitude are the result of oxygen deprivation during my change. Most vampires, apparently, grow out of this after sufficient kills. I have no wish to.)

"Yes, of course."

"You're not concerned, are you?"

"No, of course not." I confess that I'm not even certain where the major arteries are, but I would never tell Uncle.

"The best technique is not to kill at all, but if it happens, it happens." He clapped me on the shoulder heartily. "Once you get your teeth in, you'll find that instinct takes over. It all happens quite easily."

Uncle left then, his concerns about the tabloids allayed by his joy over my desire to tap the draft myself.

Renfield had left to pour my breakfast. While I waited for him, I read the article about vampires and ran across the disturbing claim that vampires were a symbol of disease and therefore obsolete in an era of antibiotics.

Renfield surprised me with his return. "I hope you don't mind, sir. It occurred to me that the young woman might have guessed something about your unique nature and might be one of those few who took pleasure in the act of biting. Whether you bite her or not, your liege need never know."

"Quite so!" I said. "Renfield, you're brilliant."

"Thank you, sir. Shall I drive you?"

"Not yet," I said. You must take the upper hand once in a while with servants, or they own you. I shook the newspaper at him. "Renfield, do you think I'm an obsolete symbol of syphilis?"

The man didn't bat an eye. "Not at all sir; you're a symbol of class discrimination."

"Ah. That's all right, then."

It is perfectly acceptable to be a symbol, but one must be a symbol of the right thing.

"Come in," Summer said breathily, which eliminated that awkward pause waiting for the invite. She was clad in a robe and her hair was be-turbaned in a towel. "I'll be ready in a few moments," she said as she handed me a glass. "Enjoy your drink."

I took a sip for show, although really, I couldn't have distinguished it from formaldehyde. I picked up a book that was lying on the table, entitled "To Serve a Man." "Is this a cookbook?" I asked her.

"Why, no," she replied. "It's a new translation of the Kama Sutra." We had another of those taffy-like silences, and then she explained, "It's a sex manual."

I flipped it open. There was a diagram of the male figure, mapped into segments labeled using a cooking mnemonic--"short roast," "brisket," "sweet breads," and so forth.

"Erogenous zones," she said.

"Ah. Bent rope," I replied, since approbation seemed appropriate, and she disappeared into the other room.

An entire chapter of the book was dedicated to the use of a barbecue, which seemed somewhat at odds with what I understood of a physical relationship. I was now ever more certain that Renfield's advice was correct. She was one of those people who took pleasure in being bitten.

Summer came back into the room. Her clothes had been subtly rearranged so that her hair was loose and disarrayed, revealing that tantalizing streak of gray between her scalp and her blonde wig, and one of her breasts was now above the other. "Hope you're enjoying your drink."

"It's strong," I told her. "What's it called?"

"Mickey F-something-or-other," she replied absently as she pinched the flesh over my biceps with a pair of calipers. "Tell me," she said, "do you believe in aliens?"

"Oh, I deal with immigration incidents all the time." One can hardly apply for correct papers after death, you know.

She laughed prettily, a sound rather like a playing card caught in the spokes of a bicycle. "Oh, you're so witty--I could just eat you up."

"Funny," I said, feeling rather suave, "I was thinking the same thing about you. Feel like a bite?"

"I certainly do." She approached me, showing an impressive number of teeth with her smile, bearing out Renfield's analysis.

Well, next thing you know I had the old fangs out. She was awfully athletic about the whole thing--thank goodness I didn't need to breathe. Nearly tore my cravat, and quite dyed my favorite shirt in the red. Although in her case, it was a deep purple.

I should mention that Uncle was entirely incorrect. It took me forever to make a wound that bled sufficiently. Tasted a bit odd; I hadn't realized heparin did so much to the flavor. Improves it quite a bit, it turns out. All the exercise turned out to make Summer a bit of a deader, however.

Well, Uncle burst in at that moment, pleased as midnight I'd finally done the deed.

It became evident in the disposal that poor Summer terribly needed the wig, makeup, and substitute bosoms. She was actually emaciated, gray, and utterly lacking in bosoms or body hair. I felt quite sorry for the poor thing.

Uncle congratulated me on stopping an insidious alien threat. I accepted, of course, though I hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about. The reknown went a good way to easing my way with the other stiffs at the club.

"I took the liberty of notifying your liege," Renfield told me later. "It occurred to me that this might have been a variation on the badger game."

"No, we never got around to cards at all."

But--here's the best part--Renfield got the stain right out.