NIGHTBREED

CHAPTER 3 – Shadow of the Moon

2007, October 8th, 11.50 pm, outskirts of Paris

The moon stands now high on the sky, half covered by a cirrus cloud, spreading over the darkness like a torn greyish blanket, wind whispers in the trees and plays hide and seek in the hair of the two men in a wooden charriot, hooves rustle in the grass – parisian streets have been left behind. Behind them stretches the town like a sparkling sea, in front of them lay barely visible ruins.

„…the tower over there…“ Étienne points his gloved finger towards a gloomy silhouette and Mana obediently turns his head to the left, leaning over the other man, „…the one with the top that seems to be falling apart, that´s rumoured to be the tower where Magnus took Lestat to give him the dark gift.“ So he does read vampire books, Mana notes momentarily, adding several points into the chart that forms his opinion on Étienne, before his heart skips a beat due to the sudden realisation that he is actually REALLY seeing things that nobody else would be able to show him, things he had only been reading about so far, while laying in his king-sized bed that reminded of old times he enjoyed to fill his dreams with. „Can we get a bit closer?“ he pleads eagerly, hands clasped together in a girly gesture, and Étienne nods – having successfully supressed a grin –, and carefully leads his horses forward into the darkness.

They have been roaming the streets of Paris for two hours already, before getting this far to the outskirts, and every building, every stone in the pavement, every statue, even a flock of pidgeons they saw on the way, Étienne had a tale to tell about. He spoke about the voluptuous lives of french kings and related nobles, battles fought – both well known and private ones, countless affairs between parisian comediants, writers and chansoniers, and of course about blood, ghosts and urban myths. He knew the oldest tree in Paris and discovered the tiny carving in it – a message left by a stable boy for the king´s misstress some time in the 17th century -, he was able to point out the exact place where the guillotine had been standing between the years 1792 and 1851, he recalled the little window in a half forgotten inn that Rimbaud used several times to accept his male lovers.

This is the top of the night, Mana is quite certain of that, a special treat from one darkling to another. „It is a pity that I cannot show you the inside“, Étienne sighs as they stop at the side of the massive tower and Mana inspects the blackened stones. „Why not?“ „They blocked the entrance some twenty years ago“, the boy explains, „apparently it had become popular amongst drug dealers. Immense ammunition of heroin had been found in the cellar… Well, that´s Paris for you. Not just the glitter.“

„And how about the Theatre des Vampires?“ Mana asks with hope clearly reflecting in his voice, recalling his favourite part of Interview with the Vampire, „does it also exist in some form?“ „I am afraid I will have to disappoint you. That has always been just a tale. It seems as though Anne Rice was inspired by The Grand Guignol, a theatre in Pigalle which, from its opening in 1897 to its closing in 1962, specialized in naturalistic horror shows. I think you would like it there, the building was a former chapel, and the boxes looked like confessionals... Sadly, it no longer exists. But look, over there…“ They encircle the tower and Étienne shows Mana a little barred window placed almost on the very top, „this is where he kept Lestat.“ Mana tilts his head backwards and his eyes are momentarily coated by a thin veil as the scenes from the book replay somewhere behind his pupils.

„It is a pity that all those other places disappeared or never existed…“, he lets out a little sigh, „take for example the cemetery of the Innocents… I suppose we live in the wrong era. Wouldn´t it be wonderful to be able to see the places where the coven once gathered?“ „I doubt you´d have come near Les Innocents in the time period Rice wrote about“, Étienne grins sarcastically, refraining from commenting on the way how naturally Mana talks about the book like if it were reality. „Not unless you wanted to walk away with plague. By 1300, it turned into a site for mass gravis, because of course, burial fees brought lots of money to the church. A pit was closed only when it was full – and they were dug to hold around 1,500 dead at a time! Still, by the end of the 14th century, all the ground was used up completely. Instead of slowing the burial rate, the church did quite the opposite; they intimidated their richer parish members into donating enough funds to build long galleries to the inside of all four cemetery walls. When the cycle of mass burials had filled the entire cemetery, the contents of the oldest pit would be dug up and moved to one of the eaves and walls of the long houses. This kept going on in the 18th century, still, which means for more than four houndred years!“

„The way you make it sound, Armand or Louis would not have set a foot in such a place, as cool as Anne Rice made it seem…“ Mana shudders, not failing to notice how much passion Étienne puts into the description, like if the state of parisian cemeteries in middle ages was still a valid environmental problem. „They sure wouldn´t“, Étienne frowns, „and of course the whole Les Halles quarter suffered from this beyond imagination. Inspectors recorded local stories of meat that rotted before one's eyes, a perfumery unable to sell its wares because of the overpowering smell of the cemetery, tapestry merchants whose wares changed colour if exposed for long periods of time in Les Halles, and wine merchants whose barrels yielded only vinegar if they stayed in the cellar too long. Louis XVI, in 1775, in his first year on the throne, ordered the elimination of all Parisian cemeteries, but the church openly opposed this measure.“ „What was it then, that put an end to it?“ „Rain. On the 30th of May 1780, a cellar wall in a property bordering Les Innocents gave way under the weight of excess burials and humidity, spilling a mess of decomposed bodies and infected mud into the room… and streets. Quite horrible, really.“

Mana is both enthralled and disgusted - his companion again describes the situation as if he had actually been there. „How can you know so much about everything?“ he wonders, leaning back as the horses speed up, for the charriot is now aiming back towards the centre of Paris. „I have lived in this city all my life…“, the boy shruggs. „You are so young though“, the guitarist voices his disbelief, mixed with obvious admiration, „some people live in their hometown for sixty years or more and never reveal anything but the way to the closest bus station.“ „I read, I listen, but mainly, walk with my eyes open…“ Étienne smiles softly, „it´s what I always did… walk with my eyes open and look for holes.“ „…holes?!“ The young man´s laughter echoes through the night. „But of course! For example, just a few steps behind the right corner, there is a large hole in the wall that surrounds Versailles. During the day, the chateau is literally bursting with tourists… but at night… oh, nothing can match the beauty of those empty gardens in moonlight! If only you had more days in Paris, I would take you there… Alas, it is far away and we have other plans for this night.“

That comes as a little shock - Mana thought the night was over, and now he finds out there is something else in store for him, perhaps equally grand like what he has seen so far. To his own surprise, the attitude of a proffessional and perfectionist, which he so rarely put aside during his life, and which invites him to catch the medically recomended eight hours of sleep before an important concert - the first one of the european tour - dissolves into the velvet darkness of parisian night. Instead of thoughts about their sound check in the morning, there are images of majestic cathedrals, dark streets and hidden passages swarming in his head, each of them leaving behind uncertain smell of adventure. Somehow, it is easy to give in and follow curiosity…

And somehow, it is not a surprise when, half an hour later, the charriot stops at the Montparnasse cemetery.

2007, October 9th, 00.40 am, Montparnasse cemetery, Paris

„I thought you had explicitely mentioned looking for holes“, Mana grits between his teeth as he pulls himself up onto the wall with his hands, while his feet are still ballancing on a tree branch. He can´t help but imagine the embarassing newspaper headlines back at home: „Mana-sama arrested during an unauthorised attempt to enter a parisian cemetery by climbing over the wall one hour after midnight“. Whatever got into him, that he agreed to this childish adventure?! Thankfully, for once, he had chosen shoes that do not impose any restriction in form of several inches thick platforms or magnificent heels. „Sometimes there are none…“, Étienne chuckles, and with one mighty swing, he conquers the top of the wall and lands on all fours in the grass on the other side, accompanied by a disgraceful thud. Mana sits on the wall like in a saddle, one leg dangling on each side, contemplating the best strategy. There are more than two and half metres of darkness separating him from the ground, definitely not enough to break his neck, but quite enough to twist or break an ankle. Jumping like Étienne did doesn´t strike as a good idea.

He casts a reproachful look at Étienne, who is hinting with outstretched arms that he would catch Mana if necessary. „No, thanks, I´ll manage. I do have a little issue with finding myself in the arms of a person I have known for just a few hours. Very ridiculous hours at that, if I may add.“ Somehow the words sound harsher than intended - after all, Mana had stepped into this willingly and Étienne was merely offering help… However, no matter how much Mana enjoys listening to the french man, the thought of being touched by him – or anyone else at that matter - makes him shudder. Having thoroughly judged the situation, he decides to grip the wall with both hands and slowly let his body down with his back facing the cemetery. Hanging like that minimizes the distance between him and the soil, so that when he finally lets loose, he only sligtly stumbles after the fall.

„It almost seems like this is not your first time…“ Étienne grins, again that wolf-like smile, as if pleased that he has just found a partner in crime. „Actually, it is not“, Mana returns the smirk. „Some time ago, with my old band, we used to frequent the cemeteries. We were young and… well, we had our heads filled with the romantic ideas of ellegant vampires dressed in lace – so we gathered around the tombstones, sometimes bringing the instruments along and playing under the moon… Hoping, in a way, that the music would arouse the immortals from their sleep and call them out, draw them to us, make us one of them. Those were eerie nights full of magic. Mind you…“ he snaps out of the dreamy mood, feeling a bit uneasy for having shared something of personal value with a complete stranger, „we usually hid somewhere before the closing hour and got ourselves locked in, instead of climbing over the walls.“

For a while, they walk silently on a path Étienne had chosen, taking in the atmosphere, until the boy unexpectedly turns his head to face Mana, emerald eyes sparkling with interest. „Why would you want that? To become vampires?“ The Japanese contemplates for a while, seemingly captivated with a pair of stone doves, one sprawled over the top of a marble tombstone, its slender neck and white wings hanging limp downwards, the other one gracefully hiding its head under the left wing – perhaps to conceal tears, while the right wing gently touches the corpse of his companion. „I could tell you it was for the sake of our music, so it would live forever… but it was much more simple, and much more egoistic“, he finally admits. „Yuki loved the whole concept of it – the heroism, the ellegance, the supernatural powers, the ability to cause fear in others, and the gore, too, like in our favourite movies. Gackt… he simply loved himself too much, and still does, I think. He was intrigued by the possibility to stay forever young, forever beautiful and perfect. Közi was turned on by it. Sucking blood, pain, lust, taking away someone´s innocence, destroying lives by causing pleasure. It goes all too well with the way he prefers to have sex. And Kami… he never really wanted that at all. For him, it was an adventure game – and he played along because he was a friend.“

„And you?“ Mana jerks, as if he wasn´t expecting the question, but authomatically open his lips, and through his pupils, Étienne can see the battle that´s going on inside of his head. Then, those full lips fall close again and the raw, conflicted look disappears from his eyes. Whatever it was he would have revealed, had his control of him self not been this strong, will remain locked away from the world. „I wanted more time“, he offers simply. „There is never enough time for all the things you need to do in one lifetime, don´t you think? Speaking of which… It is getting quite late. Would you care to show me, what is here to see?“

Étienne nods, he has understood the hint, and again he plays the well-educated tourguide, leading Mana around the most elaborate tombstone and heart-touching statues, pointing out all those famous personalities who lay in their eternal rest within the cemetery walls: Susan Sontag, Camille Saint-Saens, Alfred Dreyfus, Andre Citroen, Cesar Franck, Guy de Maupassant, Philippe Noiret, Jean-Paul Sartre and Charles Baudelaire. „I love his poetry… All of the damned poets hold certain magic of the dark romanticism, but they do not reach Baudelaire´ s cold and sinister beauty, not by far.“ „But of course“, Étienne agrees, „he was, after all, the first one. Fleurs du mal caused quite an outrage in the mainstreem literary magazines at that time. They wrote… how was it? „Everything in it which is not hideous is incomprehensible, everything one understands is putrid”.“ For the second time that night, they exchange a half-smile.

„My favourite one was always Beauty“, Étienne confesses. „Mine was The Sadness of the Moon“, Mana replies, and as he says it, his eyes roll upwards to the moon, which seems to have turned slightly, illuminating the gravestone with more force than before, as if she had heard. He knows it must have been only an illusion… however, the soft yet firm voice that suddenly penetrates the silence of the burial site, is very real.

"The Moon more indolently dreams tonight

than a fair woman on her couch at rest,

caressing, with a hand distraught and light,

before she sleeps, the contour of her breast."

Mana turns towards Étienne as if in trance, eyes following the line of his red, red lips as they move. His voice has the quality of steel, wrapped in velvet – it cuts through the night like a knife, but strokes the ears with gentleness beyond imagination.

"Upon her silken avalanche of down,

dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;

and watches the white visions past her flown,

which rise like blossoms to the azure sky."

The wind seems to play into his hands, stealing the words from his mouth and carrying them, like dandelions in the fall, wide and far. The Moon paints moving pictures in the fallen leaves and reflects on the tombstones, making them seem colder, menacing.

"And when, at times, wrapped in her languor deep,

Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,

Some pious poet, enemy of sleep… "

Now, the whispers an underlaying melody in the trees, accompanied by the drumming of first raindrops. The statues on the cemetery are desperately reaching towards the sky, but the clouds refuse to soothe them – instead, they add their own cold tears to the misery of those mourning angels.

"Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow

Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,

And hides it from the Sun, deep in his heart. "