Florence, Italy 1503
"I am a
vampire, Leonardo."
"I am well
aware of that fact, Nikolai, but you have the soul of an artist."
"I repeat: I
am a vampire. And make no mistake—I have no soul."
As a course for
survival, Nikolai lost his soul centuries ago, but there was no reason in
belaboring the point. Leonardo da Vinci was entitled to his belief.
Nikolai stood in
the middle of the cavernous room and looked around him. Flickering candles cast
shadows on the walls. A massive wooden desk was shoved against bare brick, one
end piled with old rags coated in deep and rich colors. Leonardo's palette lay
on the floor recklessly abandoned, and paint splashes had spilled onto the
wooden floor, filling the wide cracks between the boards. A stale oil smell
permeated the room; used candles were everywhere, surrounded by mounds of spent
wax. Books were stacked up on the floor against another wall, one on top of the
other. An old wooden chair pushed against a corner, stained with crimson paint;
the cushion looked like a splash of blood. A tapestry covered the wall where a
makeshift straw bed lay on the floor.
"I repeat:
You, my dear friend, have the soul of an artist. Vampire or not."
"I collect
art, hence our deep and abiding friendship—all due to your masterful
accomplishments. I have no other such talents. At least, other than being
eternal, ageless and my uncanny ability to amass a fortune at every
opportunity. Typical vampire standards: anything I want, when I want, and how I
want. Staying alive for eons does allow one to become complacent. Despite the
danger, eternal existence does permit certain pleasures. And for me, the
building of a sizable art collection is most gratifying, and a venture which I
intend to continue through the ages." The brusque, low voice was
mesmerizing in its intensity, and hid any emotion, any visible trace of
anguish. He simply stated these facts as if they were nothing.
Nikolai Volkov
watched as Leonardo picked up burned out candles and stray brushes he had left
everywhere.
"Nikolai, you
support artists that are being ignored, ridiculed. You redeem us. You recognize
ageless talent. I am egotistical enough to say that in the coming centuries I
will survive through my art."
"Of that I
have no doubt. Again, that is why I collect your paintings; your drawings alone
are incomparable. I know you will survive. And you will increase my wealth
substantially." Nikolai turned and looked at the various paintings leaning
against one of the stone walls. In the corner canvases were stacked in no
particular order, and next to them wooden planks.
Leonardo's studio
was plain, utilitarian, and filled with finished and unfinished works of art,
all of which Nikolai coveted and wanted to own. Possess.
"Yes, I am
sure I will survive, but only through my art. You have and will continue to
survive through other means. Ones I do not wish to think about."
"I have paid
dearly for my survival." Nikolai touched his cheek, feeling the ridge of
the deep scar on his face. That attack had been particularly brutal. The cut
went all the way to the bone, and not allowed to heal. Lucrezia Borgia told him
it would mar his stunning beauty and further bind him to her, both physically
and emotionally. She was wrong on both counts. He considered the scar his badge
of courage and tenacity.
His surreal
beauty, as she had once described it, now marred by that one scar. A reminder
of torture. A memory not to be forgotten. Vampires do not scar, yet that one
single scar on his body remained, as if an omen of things yet to come. Centuries
of memories all held within that singular ridged cut on his face that slashed
down to his very soul. The one he claimed not to have.
He was tall, over
six-foot-three, with hair black as night. His eyes were as blue as sapphires
and frigid as the Arctic ice. Nikolai was built hard, like Michelangelo's
David, and just as cold.
The lethal
combination fostered first and foremost fear from man and demon alike. And
admiration, from women. All women. He never lacked for company. Yet, they all
left him unsatisfied, and yearning for something he didn’t understand.
"Leonardo,
will you paint a portrait for me?" Nikolai spoke quietly, staring at a
painting stacked against a wall, his back to Leonardo.
"You?"
"No. Not
me." Nikolai replied, his bleak smile was more of a grimace that did not
reach his eyes. "This will be from memory. My memory."
"Does she
mean something to you? I assume you are speaking of a woman."
"Yes, I was.
And yes, she meant something to me." He ran his finger along the jagged
scar.
"Ah, I see. I
gather she was not a pleasant memory.''
"You gather
correctly."
"I will do it
for you. Tell me everything you know about her. Every single memory. Every
movement. Everything you remember. Give me a perfect description of the
mysterious woman. It will be my gift to you."
"I do not
wish to keep the painting." Nikolai visibly shuddered at the thought.
"You may do with it what you will. Burn it in hell for all I care."
His reply was savage.
"I see."
Leonardo replied thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "Why do you want me to
paint it?"
"To exorcise
a demon. One among many."
"Do you wish
to discuss it, my friend?"
"No. Just
paint the damn thing. You will be well paid."
"No,"
Leonardo replied vehemently, shaking his hand in the air. "There will be
no money changing hands. I will paint it. I will not burn it; I will sell it. I
do have a payment to demand of you. Once I am done, I expect to hear why I
painted it. That is my demand. Do you agree?"
"Yes, damn
you. I will agree to your terms. Your absurd demand."
"Why absurd?
She obviously damaged you. I would have to be an idiot not to recognize the
symptoms. And I am not an idiot."
"Yes, I am
fully aware that you are not an idiot. You should be terrified of me. Yet you
are not. You reason things out. You think. A vampire, even in your century,
should horrify you. Yet, I do not."
"You terrify
me, all right. Your power. Your strength. Your ability to kill without thought.
Your survival through the centuries. Your knowledge of the past. Yes, you alarm
me, my friend."
"Alarm…that
is a milksop statement. Leonardo, look at your own drawings. You see what is to
come. What does that say about you? Your work foreshadows the future. It is
right there in your drawings." Nikolai pointed to a canvas leaning against
a wall. "You are more than an artist; our long discussions have proven
that. You are a genius. A man of re-birth. You, here and now, could be
considered demonic. That is how some would interpret your work."
"I will
ignore that. It is safer not to discuss people and their survival methods—it
might be misunderstood. Fortunately for me, my work is not well understood.
Most everyone sees a painting or a drawing, nothing more. Perhaps they even
think I am mad. A simple man cannot interpret what I imagine simply by looking
at my canvas. That is indeed very good for me." Leonardo sighed.
"Now, let us get back to your description of the woman."
"Have I
touched a sensitive spot?" the vampire asked. Sarcasm dripped from every
word.
"Yes."
Leonardo hissed between his teeth. "Now, give me the damn
description."
"Paint her as
you would a beloved portrait. Make her mysterious. Enigmatic. Serene. Perfectly
poised to attract attention. Paint her as the central and pivotal person in the
scene. In fact blur everything else. Nothing should matter much save her face
and hands. Long, beautiful fingers, elegant hands with perfect skin, relaxed.
Incapable of hard work. Make her look innocent. Wistful." Nikolai stopped
speaking, and again touched his face along the line of the scar.
"Make the
damn demon, the savage beast…saintly. That will be the joke for centuries to
come. Paint it dark, yet give her light. A shimmer, so that she almost glows.
Make her irresistible. Give her eyes that damn the soul. Eyes that see beyond
the present. Is that enough for you?"
"Yes. Do I
have leave to choose the color of her hair and eyes?" Leonardo asked
quietly, captivated by Nikolai’s mesmerizing voice and the tortured memories he
was reliving.
"I do not
care what color you choose. Dark is what I desire."
"It shall be
done. You want her to look enigmatic, a mystery through the ages. How is that
for conceit? She will survive centuries, whereas I will die."
"You, my
friend, will be reborn every time someone looks at your work. But you already
know that. Your art will speak for you for eternity."
"Let us
continue as we have in the past, Nikolai." Leonardo preferred to ignore
rather than acknowledge the reality of his existence. "Your life is
eternal. You do not age. Let us leave it at that. Be careful not be recognized,
it might endanger you."
"I am four
hundred years old. Through the centuries of battles, corruption, and betrayal,
no one pays any attention to whether or not I age. Everyone is consumed with
their own survival. I expect that in the future, I shall need to take better
care."
"Take better
care, but live. Even if you cannot be killed, live as you have done in the
past." Leonardo spoke softly, as if afraid of being overheard.
"I aim to
live better, and I can be killed; one just has to know how. I certainly do not
discuss that aspect of my survival. I am alone, removed from my clan. Solitary,
my lair and art my only comfort. It has been this way for centuries and, make
no mistake, Leonardo—it is a lonely existence. You, my friend are a true master
and you bring me a great deal of pleasure. Someday your work will be priceless.
Look at your drawings. See the things I see in your work. You behold the future
in front of you."
"Indeed." Leonardo dismissed
Nikolai's predictions with a wave of his hand. "I may need you again,
after I begin the portrait, of course." Leonardo spoke absentmindedly,
stretching his fingers, already thinking about the unusual commission.
Cheers,
Margot Justes
A Hotel in Paris
A Hotel in Bath
A Hotel in Venice
Blood Art
www.mjustes.com
www.mjustes.com
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