The Purple Veil
The usual disclaimers apply, all True Blood characters belong to Alan Ball, HBO and Charlaine Harris.
I am just taking Bill on a journey and will return him safely when his story has been told.
Chapter 2
'What can I get you?' Claude Renauld the Parisian barman asked with his heavy French accent, as Bill sat down on the bar stool strategically placed to give a view of the club, including the entrance, tabled areas and dance floor. 'Just a mineral water' Bill replied casually. Claude shrugged, these British he was thinking, so stuffy with their tastes still, he knew that George had hired this dark haired handsome man to be the entertainer and he also knew that the women would love him. He would bring the ladies in droves so that, he thought, would make him a valuable friend to have around. Claude was very lonely you see.
'My name is Claude, you are Monsieur Bill is that right?' he questioned in a friendly manner. 'Bill Compton, please just call me Bill.' 'So Bill, what brings you here to Marrakech?' Claude asked curious as to why someone with Bill's looks and quality would be here of all places. 'My health. I came here for the waters' Bill replied with a small crease of the lips, trying to resist a grin. Bill was a movie buff, he loved watching any thing and everything, his fascination going back right to the start of the fledgling industry during those other war years and like everyone else, he had loved the latest hit movie Casablanca, so he just couldn't resist quoting one of Bogie's famous lines.
'Waters, but there are no waters here? We are in the middle of a desert' Claude replied puzzled, 'I know, I was mistaken' Bill chuckled. The blank look on Claude's face wiped the smile from Bill's; obviously Claude was not a movie fan Bill sighed. 'Do you speak French?' Claude asked suddenly, studying Bill with attention 'you have been to France if I am not mistaken?' he quietly observed. 'I have been to France yes and speak only a little I am afraid' Bill cautiously replied. Any reminders of his French speaking days with Lorena were not a welcome topic.
'Oh Monsieur Bill, do not be alarmed' he said noticing the closed reaction from Bill 'I merely noticed the cologne that you are wearing, it is a particular favourite of mine and can only be bought in Paris, the scent of it reminded me of ….of my wife Kceniya that is all. She had given it to me as a gift for our last anniversary and it bought back so much, so many …memories' Claude said, his voice cracking and tears springing to his eyes. 'She is no longer…?' Bill asked gently. 'No, Paris was taken on the fourteenth of June in nineteen forty, she was rounded up as a suspected under ground member several months later. I have not seen her since but I know, I know in my heart you see' he trailed off. 'I am sorry for your loss Claude, there are many such stories now and all of them sad.' Bill said with feeling.
Bill felt the other man's pain, he too knew what it was like to lose a wife and children. Even though his loss was under different circumstances, he had always felt that he was a casualty of war. Had it not been for the war, the civil war he thought, he would not have been likely to have met Lorena and his life would have played out as it was meant to be. In an act of compassion that was unusual for Bill at that time, he reached across the bar and sympathetically patted Claude's hand. 'Bill' Claude exclaimed 'Are you well, your hand is like ice?' Bill kicked himself, his genuine sympathy for the other man had been spontaneous and without thinking he had offered the most human of reactions, a sympathetic touch, carried away by the moment and completely forgetting that he was not human and did not have the warm blooded feel to him of the living.
Just as Bill was about to respond with a quickly thought out excuse, there was a commotion near the entrance to the club that thankfully caused a distraction and Bill was able to excuse himself to wander off to a small table on the outer fringes of the room where he sat down in the semi shadows to observe all the comings and goings in the club and ponder on why he had felt so moved by Claude that he had made such a blunder. He was normally so much more cautious, so on his guard and rarely, if ever, touched anyone. Actually that was not the truth, those he did touch he touched on his nocturnal wanderings, normally glamouring his victims to forget their encounter with him but in this instance of course, that was out of the question. Perhaps that was it, deep down underneath it all Bill craved to touch, to feel, to interact like a normal person, to do the most normal thing in the world, to …offer comfort to a fellow human in need.
Yes, Bill thought to himself, he touched others but not on a human level. Since leaving Lorena and attempting to mainstream he touched others when he was feeding, but that was different. There was no love in the relationship with your food source other than being grateful to find a victim that would provide sustenance. It was not a warm and caring spiritual or philosophical relationship, it was a necessity and even though he no longer committed the barbaric atrocities Lorena had so enjoyed, he gained no pleasure from the act itself.
He gained no pleasure from the few sexual encounters he had either. He has told me that although once separated from his maker he did have sex with his victims, he glamoured all memory of this away too. He was not proud of these encounters, he did not enjoy them but he needed them, he was after all a male creature and it was also a part of the ancient feeding ritual and part of his very being but he has emphasised there was no passion, no connection and none of what he hungered for so much and not had since departing his human life, there was no love.
He did not need to tell me this, I knew with my heart how starving he was for some care and warmth in his life, to be held in the arms of a lover, is there anything in this world or others that can make one feel as safe, cared for and wanted? I think not and so Bill fed, seduced and glamoured all with no feeling other than revulsion for his situation and no satisfaction. Living but not living, searching for something that he was yet to find.
Bill shook himself out of his brown study and back to reality, observing that what ever the commotion had been, it had involved a small group of ladies who apparently had reserved a table but had discovered it was for the wrong night. Raoul the maitre de had explained that they would need to return tomorrow as the club was too crowded tonight and advised it would be to their benefit as there would be a new entertainer commencing, generously offering drinks on the house and a table close to the performer to appease them. The group left happily enough and things quietened down once again or as much as it could in a club of this sort.
After some time sitting and watching, Bill called it a night and left to return to his lodgings, navigating his way carefully through the narrow ways until he came to his home. He had arranged for the purchase a building in the old quarter away from the hustle and bustle of the more European area, preferring the anonymity of the old stone buildings with their large ornately carved wooden double doors and thick cool stone walls. He had been delighted with the place. From the outside there was nothing to look at, no distinguishing features that would set it apart from any number its neighbours, but the inside, oh he had done wonders with the inside.
As I have said, he had begun to embrace the nature and the culture of the place so it was no surprise that he had decorated it to suit his environment. The main living area was a kaleidoscope of rich tapestries in the Berber fashion and was only out matched for colour by the piles of rainbow coloured silk cushions scattered throughout the room. The jewelled carpets of many hues completed the cacophony of riotous colours assaulting your eyes upon entering. Pockets of emerald palms pooled in the corners of the room, providing an oasis of green and the deep purple velvet couches invited you to lay prostrate with wonder at the whole scene.
From the arched double doors of the room opposite to the entrance, you were cunningly lured outside into a courtyard by the delicate tinkling of water flowing in the central fountain, surrounded on all sides by deep shaded verandas housing yet more luxuriously appointed day beds and the obligatory cane furniture left as a reminder of the previous owner's tribute to colonialism. Bill loved this space and many nights after finishing at the club, feeding well on his way home, he spent his hours sitting here in the moonlight reading one of his many beloved books, his favourite of the moment very fittingly being One Thousand and One Nights. He loved the main theme of Scheherazade and her husband the fictional Persian ruler Shahryār, the stories she recountered epitomized the experience of wonder in those ancient times.
He was overjoyed with the light tight room he had created out of the underground cellar beneath the house, no doubt normally used to keep food stores cool. He could picture the huge clay jars and the pots of another time filled with grain, almonds and besan flour, the sealed ampoules of oil used for cooking, the aromatic spices hanging in bunches to dry next to the mortar and pestle waiting to grind them into one of the many pastes used for flavouring the stewed meats that were cooked slowly in a tagine over the charcoal burners. Unleavened flat breads would be lying like huge saucers on the stone benches that were long gone, next to the baskets of dates, pomegranates and honey pots all laid out in Bill's mind, like a window into the past. The thick stone walls and lack of windows made the perfect place for him to go to ground without fear. He felt safe here.
He sat for some time that night in the cool courtyard, shadows casting bizarre patterns of their own across the beautifully designed mosaic floor tiling, creating a mandala within a mandala. He did not read that night, he was content to sit and listen to the night noises, the small sounds that only his vampire hearing would be aware of. In the far off distance he heard some small child crying while nearer by a dog barked in a warning to his master of a stranger passing close by.
He told me he had sat there thinking of Claude Renauld and his Ukrainian émigré wife Kceniya and he had been filled with the sadness of his plight. He knew that what Claude was suffering Caroline, his beloved wife, must have felt too. To know in your heart but to never be sure was such a cruel trick of fate. What must she have endured believing him to have met his death during the dying days of the war? Of course like Claude she would never have ever really known what had happened, there would be no letter or telegram of condolence from a sincere well meaning company commander praising the 'valour and gallantry of one of the South's finest'. No, Bill thought bitterly, she would not even have been able to shed tears of sorrow over the name of a far off battlefield reported to have claimed his life nor had a body to mourn over and bury. All she was left with were her memories and a memorial headstone as a tribute to him.
He dreamt that night, as he did on other such nights of melancholy, a dream that was recurring and disturbing. It was always the same, it never varied and he always awoke in the evening heavy hearted and disturbed. Bill told me he would suddenly find himself standing on the front lawn of his family home, uniform ragged, hungry and exhausted. He would look towards the front of the house and his heart would burst for joy at seeing his beloved Caroline with little Thomas and Sarah on the porch. The boy would look up and see his Papa, squealing with delight at the first instance of recognition before leaping down the front steps and running as fast as his small legs could carry him towards him.
But Bill could not move. As hard as he tried his limbs were like a dead weight mired in a thick black tar, sucking him down. With the effort of a dying man he would manage to move a step but it took a life time and all the while Thomas, followed by Sarah now, would be running to him but never reaching him. He struggled on, never giving up until dusk, when suddenly he would find his legs free to move but the children were no longer in sight. With one last effort before exhaustion would finally take him, he would reach the veranda seeking Caroline standing in the shadows, staggering up the front steps to the comfort of her outstretched arms and the safety of her bosom.
With eyes closed in a pray of thanks, he would hold her before reaching down to meet her lips, hungering for the soft warmth and tenderness of her mouth, her peach like soft skin against his face and her silky hair cascading through his fingers. But suddenly as dreams often do, it would change. He would feel the sharp sting of brutal fangs puncturing his neck and a vice like grip to his body. Struggling to free himself he would stagger to break away from the horror that darkened his mind and then, as the moon broke through the scurrying clouds, he would behold this spectre of death, this hideous creature of darkness, this evil incarnate and Lorena would stand before him laughing as his humanity slipped away.
He would wake panting, although he did not breathe, his pillow stained red from the tears shed for his long gone life and loved ones. It never changed and it always haunted him. That day was no different to any other when he had dreamt his dream. He got up and did all the usual things that he does, he was a methodical creature in his own way. With vampire speed he completed all the chores that he liked to think helped to keep him human. He did not think why he chose to keep the place neat or clean as he never had visitors, he just did these things for himself and to give himself reassurance that he was not like other creatures of the night, and definitely not like he had been with Lorena.
He dressed with a little extra care this evening as it would be his first night at the club and although he cared little for impressions, he had always been what he liked to consider a sharp dresser. That was perhaps the only thing that he had to thank Lorena for. She had given him a sense of style that he had not previously had any need for, he was after all just a southern farmer like any other farmer who only wore their 'best clothes' to church on Sundays or for weddings, christenings or funerals. When he had been turned he was in uniform and so in desperate need of new clothes. It had not taken Lorena long to acquire some for him. He was after all her progeny and she was so besotted with his beauty, his morality and his demeanour that recreating him into a new being to suit her fashionable tastes and ideals, was something of a passion to her and one that she taught him well.
Bill was hungry. The dream always left him hungry. He despised the way it made him feel like a newly made creature where nothing will assuage the hunger or the lust. But Bill was older now and had learnt how to control his needs and he was determined to never again be the creature he had been in the past. He knew that he would never be able to make up for his past deeds but he would not contribute to any further debauchery of innocents, he promised himself. He would feed later, after leaving the club he would find some person returning late to their home after a visit to friends or lovers. He knew there was no fear that he would go hungry, that was one thing about Marrakech that he loved, it was populated with others who enjoyed the pleasures of the cool night air after the long hot days.
And so Bill left his home and made his way to the club for his first night entertaining the patrons. He was not nervous, he did not get nervous, he was what I told him laughingly a 'cool customer' but he was excited. He loved the thought of finally living as close as he could to a normal life and funnily enough, he loved to play and sing and he was so good at it. As George the club owner had been rather vague about what exactly was required of him, Bill simply sat at the piano and played and occasionally sang, if the mood took him.
He had a wide repertoire of songs from all the years of his life but he chose to concentrate on hits from the last few decades. He loved the Englishman Ivor Novello and sang I Can Give You the Starlight and The Land of Might Have Been in his clear melodious voice but he also included other favourites of his, having a penchant for Fred Astaire movies he included many of the songs that had made the movies a hit such as Anything Goes, Top Hat and Cheek to Cheek. He finished his first set with the ever popular I've Got You under My Skin to much applause, particularly from the table of ladies who had caused the commotion the night before and were now sitting in pride of place next to the miniscule dance floor and the piano.
The ladies of the group had sat mesmerised as he played, watching his hands as they delicately caressed the keys, his light strokes teasing the notes and bringing delight to all.
As Bill had finished his first set one of the ladies had timidly approached him. Bill smiled as way of a greeting and she smiled back, her face lighting up with a natural beauty that made her eyes sparkle. 'Hello, I was wondering if I could request a song' she said shyly with what he thought may have been a Swedish accent. 'Sure, what would you like me to play for you? I am just going on a break but if you are here for the night I will make sure to play it for you a little later' Bill responded kindly, his eyes twinkling, attempting to put this beautiful woman at ease. 'Could you play Night and Day?' she asked, her cheeks flaming as she gazed into the bluest eyes she had ever seen.
Bill liked the look of this shy young woman and found her softly spoken voice with its faint lilt to be appealing. He did not have a conniving bone in his body but looking at her he did think that it would be a nice way to finish off his evening after the club by spending some time with her, he was like Claude the barman, he too was lonely. 'I will make sure to play it for you. May I ask your name so I can dedicate it to you?' his charming smile melting her heart. 'Oh thank you, that would be …' she was a little lost for words 'you are so kind. My name is Zuzana' she smiled again. 'Well Zuzana, I will make sure that I remember that. Perhaps if you are not doing anything after I finish tonight you would care to join me for a drink?' he said persuasively. 'Thank you, that would be very nice' she replied smiling.
Bill told me later of his first night playing at the club and of Zuzana. She was here in Marrakech running a charity for the care of displaced émigrés who had fled the horrors of Europe, barely escaping with their lives in tact, their hopes for a future somewhere in a safer place all they had to keep them going. He spoke with the highest of regard for all the good works that she did and of her generous heart and of the difference she made to all those she came in contact with. Her memories of the night at the club and the events after were all of a wonderful experience with a handsome man, who had paid some attention to her and had treated her with care and respect only. Any other memories having been glamoured out of her mind for her own sake with perhaps a little more compassion than usual, this lovely caring soul with her zeal for life and tender hearted humanitarian ways had moved him deeply. But this is not Zuzana's story and again I have digressed. This is Bill's story and we must move on.
To be continued ….