Before even thinking about how to escape this damn Gloaming Inn, Liora and I help ourselves to a ration of blood from the fridge. Three days' worth. Not a drop more, not a drop less. As if whoever stocked it knew exactly how much the two of us would need for three days. And yeah, the blood's nothing special. It's refrigerated. Cold, tasteless, lacking the charm of a nice warm neck. But hey, at least it's not an insult. It's acceptable.
After dinner, I ask Nikandros to tell me his story. I want to get to know this sad vampire inside out. Because, look, sometimes light shows up where you least expect it. And I've always found it in stories—whether they're fictions birthed by some tormented artist touched by brilliance, or real tales from people who've lived, laughed, and most of all, suffered (and not just a little). And Nikandros… well, Nikandros looks like life's chewed him up and spit him out. Like someone grabbed him by the ankle and smashed him against the rocks, over and over. And those lives, trust me, always have something to teach.
I could dig into Nikandros's mind and unearth his past without him saying a word about his joys and sorrows. But Liora can't do that. She can't skip the speech—she needs to hear the story from Nikandros himself. Sure, she can read human minds, but she still hasn't figured out how to get inside a vampire's head. So, to avoid double work—me reading his mind and then relaying everything to Liora—I ask Nikandros to tell us why he's doomed to be the receptionist of this hotel. Well, "ask" isn't quite the right verb. "Demand" would be more accurate. And if we're being honest: demand with violence. Unnecessary violence, of course. So yeah, after slapping him twice—I don't even know why, I just felt like it—I say to Nikandros:
"Quick, tell us your whole fucking story. And try to be a decent storyteller, you damned walking skull. If you're gonna digress or get all explanatory, do it with style. Be smooth. Be entertaining. Show me that the years have taught you the art of telling a good story—like one of those rare old wise men who wield words like a blade. Because let's be real, not everyone turns out wise. Most people live and die without ever learning how to string two sentences together with rhythm and sense."
Suddenly, I remember my days as a writer. Back when I was working on a never-ending novel. A deranged, perverse, shameless, filthy, degenerate, violent, bloody, repulsive, infamous novel. And I could keep piling on the adjectives, but right now I can't think of a single one I haven't already used. Anyway: a novel not only unpublishable because of its endless length, but also because of its content—the kind of content that could hurt the tender sensibilities of a reader still living with their back turned to the reality of the world. A reader who has no fucking clue that there are lawless worlds. Above and below them. Most readers belong to the middle class. And the middle class, generally speaking, sleeps through the chaos. They sleepwalk through life, unaware, caught between the raw violence of poverty and the decorated violence of rich people's ambition. There's no law in the lower classes that can't be broken. Enforcing it down there is almost impossible. And in the upper classes? Even worse. But in the middle, it's easy. Because the middle class is scared. In a poor neighborhood, no one gives a shit what happens, not even the cops—so long as the crime stays within the ghetto. And the upper class? They're protected by their own money. Which puts them above the police, pulling the strings of politics, using force—violence—to win. And in between? The middle class. Afraid. Afraid of being poor. Afraid the rich won't hire them. Afraid of everything. The poor break the law because they've got nothing to lose. The rich because they want more than they already have. But the ones in the middle—they're submissive. They're afraid of losing what little they have, which might not be much compared to the rich, but it's the only thing keeping them from falling into the abyss. And that fear makes them reject anything that even hints at real chaos. Like a book. Or a movie. Or a painting.
Come on, my book would've hit some of society's most sensitive nerves—hard. And publishers, of course, want to make money. To do that, they need a story that sells. If the human world were a place without prejudice, where freedom flowed and no one meddled in each other's business—in those things that belong only to the other—if taboos didn't exist, then sure, my shameless, soulless, never-ending novel could've been published. Probably in volumes, and obviously, with no final one. I'm sure it would've found some success. Made some money. For me, and for the editor. But no. The human world is a world of censorship. No one's free to be who they really are without worrying about what others will say or think. You can't speak your mind because you don't want to be rude, or disagree, or end up left out. So you're not you. You're a clumsy, ridiculous version of yourself. A needy little imitation begging for approval. And everyone else is just the same—each one begging to be accepted by the others. A massive chain that wraps around them and keeps them locked up. Slaves and jailers of themselves. Functional idiots in a system that, since the dawn of humanity, hasn't changed in its essence.
Here's a perfect example of why art turns mediocre. Not because of the artist—but because of the people who hate it. Because they're afraid of art. If there's a little group with some influence that doesn't like what you write, well, tough luck, brother. Or sister. These people don't care that what you wrote is fiction. That through your art, you're trying to expose the filth of the human soul. No, sir. To them—to her, to him—those little groups who claim to hate fascism but practice it religiously, you are the enemy. They'll hunt you down like you're a killer. In fact, they'll forget about the real killers just to focus on you. On your book. Your work. Your head. They'll want to burn it, erase it, wipe it from existence. Just like they've done before. They'll ban you. Bury you alive. Turn you into a persona non grata. And then the sheep will show up—the functional idiots. The ones who haven't even read your work, who don't give a shit about art—and they'll hate you too. Because noise drags people along. Ah, but even so, truth sticks around. And truth hurts. And the best art is nothing but truth. And truth, when we finally look it in the eye, slaps us hard across the face. And yeah—it hurts. But only through that pain, through the shock of facing the soul's misery, can something better be born. Something that refuses to repeat those same miseries. Or well, what do I know. I'm just a vampire philosophizing. Maybe I'm just talking shit.
In short: no publisher wants trouble. They'd rather make money without complications. No one's going to take a risk for an author who might piss off the little fascist groups that despise creative freedom. Small groups, yes—but powerful. The kind that censors everything they don't like, without a single thought for others, for their fellow human beings. Without even considering that maybe the art they're banning could help someone understand the world a little better. Someone who doesn't belong to their shitty little clique. Do you get it now? Do you understand why we vampires—who don't hate our nature, who embrace it, who don't pretend we're not complete, unrepentant bastards—are so disgusted by human behavior? Yeah. I suppose now you get it.
And now that everything's been said, we return to Nikandros. The poor bastard tells us he used to be a highwayman back in the days of Ancient Greece. While he talks, of course, I dive into his mind to see the memories firsthand. I see. I smell. I touch. I feel everything he remembers. God, what a boring place Ancient Greece was. And don't get me started on the humans who served as vampire dinners back then—fucking disgusting. If you think it was anything like in the movies, you're dead wrong. People stink. They don't bathe. They don't even wipe their asses properly. Their teeth are rotten. And by the time they're twenty-eight, they're practically falling apart. There's Nikandros: twenty-two years old with the face of a man in his forties. He steals. He kills. He's not stupid. In a world where life is worthless, why bother sparing someone else's? And to be honest, I kind of like him. He acts without scruples. He wants the money. He needs it. He takes it. Fuck the other guy. For Nikandros, his needs come first.
Nikandros has a family. A wife and a son. He had three other children, but they all died as little creatures who never even got the chance to be anything more. The one he has now is the only one who's made it past five. The boy is ten when, one night on the dark—very dark—roads of Greece, his father, Nikandros, gets caught by a vampire. And this vampire—this bastard bursting with vitality—he's nothing like the humans. He's clean. He's got all his teeth. He's strong, tall, elegant. He dresses like a prince. Like he raided a god's closet. Everything about him is stylish—sure, stylish by the standards of over two thousand years ago, but still, the guy's a fucking dandy in context. And yeah, I recognize him immediately. I know exactly who he is. It's Du la Font. Fucking Du la Font.
I have to ask Nikandros to stop the story. I need to process this.
Liora looks at me and asks, "What's wrong, sir?"
"Du la Font," I say, in the voice of a dumbass cuckold who just saw his wife walk out of a hotel with his best friend. And then I repeat, "Du la Font."
Liora knows who that is. She knows he's Agnes's father. She knows he's my grandfather, even if he won't admit it. She asks,
"You mean your grandfather, sir?"
I stare at Nikandros. He says, very calmly,
"My creator has nothing to do with what's happening to you, Mr. Fabrizio. Well—if that's what you're thinking."
"Of course that's what I'm thinking, for fuck's sake."
"Well, you shouldn't. And let me tell you something: it was a good idea to ask me to tell my story. Most vampires don't do that. They don't know that, sometimes, in other people's stories, we find great truths. Truths that set us free. That solve our problems."
Liora steps in, confused.
"I don't get any of this."
I look at her. She looks at me like she's waiting for me to make sense of it all. And I get it. It's not just my life on the line here. It's hers too. She says, almost pleading,
"Can you please explain what's going on, sir?"
"I don't really understand it either, little one," I tell her. "But as soon as I do, I swear, I'll let you know."
I pause. I fix my eyes on Nikandros again. His eyes, his face, his story. Without looking away from him, I say to Liora, "For now, all I know is that our friend Nikandros here is—believe it or not—my uncle."
"What? Your uncle, sir?" Liora says, like she just heard the dumbest thing in the history of the universe. "But he's a wimp! I beat the crap out of him without even messing up my hair. This pathetic little vampire can't possibly be related to you."
""Yeah, I know it makes no sense. But he is. He's my uncle. Now he doesn't look like it. But I'm sure that before being condemned to the Gloaming Inn, he was nothing like what he is now. Am I wrong, Nikandros?"
"No, Mr. Fabrizio. You're not wrong. I used to be powerful. One of the most beautiful and respected vampires to ever walk the Earth."