Anne Rice
 Interview with the vampire
  
  
  
  
  
  PART I
  
  "I see . . .' said the vampire thoughtfully, and slowly he walked across the room 
towards the window. For a long time he stood there against the dim light from Divisadero 
Street and the passing beams of traffic. The boy could see the furnishings of the room 
more clearly now, the round oak table, the chairs. A wash basin hung on one wall with a 
mirror. He set his brief case on the table and waited.
  "But how much tape do you have with you?" asked the vampire, turning now so the boy 
could see his profile. "Enough for the story of a life?"
  "Sure, if it's a good life. Sometimes I interview as many as three or four people a 
night if I'm lucky. But it has to be a good story. That's only fair, isn't it?"
  "Admirably fair," the vampire answered. "I would like to tell you the story of my life, 
then. I would like to do that very much."
  "Great," said the boy. And quickly he removed the small tape recorder from his brief 
case, making a check of the cassette and the batteries. "I'm really anxious to hear why 
you believe this, why you . . ."
  "No," said the vampire abruptly. "We can't begin that way. Is your equipment ready?"
  "Yes," said the boy.
  "Then sit down. I'm going to turn on the overhead light."
  "But I thought vampires didn't like light," said the boy. "If you think the dark adds 
to the atmosphere."
  " But then he stopped. The vampire was watching him with his back to the window. The 
boy could make out nothing of his face now, and something about the still figure there 
distracted him. He started to say something again but he said nothing. And then he sighed 
with relief when the vampire moved towards the table and reached for the overhead cord.
  At once the room was flooded with a harsh yellow light. And the boy, staring up at the 
vampire, could not repress a gasp. His fingers danced backwards on the table to grasp the 
edge. "Dear God!" he whispered, and then he gazed, speechless, at the vampire.
  The vampire was utterly white and smooth, as if he were sculpted from bleached bone, 
and his face was as seemingly inanimate as a statue, except for two brilliant green eyes 
that looked down at the boy intently like flames in a skull. But then the vampire smiled 
almost wistfully, and the smooth white substance of his face moved with the infinitely 
flexible but minimal lines of a cartoon. "Do you see?" he asked softly.
  The boy shuddered, lifting his hand as if to shield himself from a powerful light. His 
eyes moved slowly over the finely tailored black coat he'd only glimpsed in the bar, the 
long folds of the cape, the black silk tie knotted at the throat, and the gleam of the 
white collar that was as white as the vampire's flesh. He stared at the vampire's full 
black hair, the waves that were combed back over the tips of the ears, the curls that 
barely touched the edge of the white collar.
  "Now, do you still want the interview?" the vampire asked.
  The boy's mouth was open before the sound came out. He was nodding. Then he said, "Yes."
  The vampire sat down slowly opposite him and, leaning forward, said gently, 
confidentially, "Don't be afraid. Just start the tape."
  And then he reached out over the length of the table. The boy recoiled, sweat running 
down the sides of his face. The vampire clamped a hand on the boy's shoulder and said, 
"Believe me, I won't hurt you. I want this opportunity. It's more important to me than 
you can realize now. I want you to begin." And he withdrew his hand and sat collected, 
waiting.
  It took a moment for the boy to wipe his forehead and his lips with a handkerchief, to 
stammer that the microphone was in the machine, to press the button, to say that the 
machine was on.
  "You weren't always a vampire, were you?" he began.
  "No," answered the vampire. "I was a twenty-five year-old man when I became a vampire, 
and the year was seventeen ninety-one."
  The boy was startled by the preciseness of the date and he repeated it before he asked, 
"How did it come about?"
  "There's a simple answer to that. I don't believe I want to give simple answers," said 
the vampire. "I think I want to tell the real story. . . '
  "Yes," the boy said quickly. He was folding his handkerchief over and over and wiping 
his lips now with it again.
  "There was a tragedy . . ." the vampire started. "It was my younger brother . . . . He 
died." And then he stopped, so that the boy cleared his throat and wiped at his face 
again before stuffing the handkerchief almost impatiently into his pocket.
  "It's not painful, is it?" he asked timidly.
  "Does it seem so?" asked the vampire. "No." He shook his head. "It's simply that I've 
only told this story to one other person. And that was so long ago. No, it's not pa'
  "We were living. in Louisiana then. We'd received a land grant and settled two indigo 
plantations on the Mississippi very near New Orleans . . . ."
  "Ah, that's the accent . . ." the boy said softly.
  For a moment the vampire stared blankly. "I have an accent?" He began to laugh.
  And the boy, flustered, answered quickly. "I noticed it in the bar when I asked you 
what you did for a living. It's just a slight sharpness to the consonants, that's all. I 
never guessed it was French."
  "It's all right," the vampire assured him. "ran not as shocked as I pretend to be. It's 
only that I forget it from time to time. But let me go on. . . . '
  "Please . . " said the boy.
  "I was talking about the plantations. They had a great deal to do with it, really, my 
becoming a vampire. But I'll come to that. Our life there was both luxurious and 
primitive. And we ourselves found it extremely attractive. You see, we lived far better 
there than we could have ever lived in France. Perhaps the sheer wilderness of Louisiana 
only made it seem so, but seeming so, it was. I remember the imported furniture that 
cluttered the house." The vampire smiled. "And the harpsichord; that was lovely. My 
sister used to play it. On summer evenings, she would sit at the keys with her back to 
the open French windows. And I can still remember that thin, rapid music and the vision 
of the swamp rising beyond her, the moss-hung cypresses floating against the sky. And 
there were the sounds of the swamp, a chorus of creatures, the cry of the birds. I think 
we loved it. It made the rosewood furniture all the more precious, the music more 
delicate and desirable. Even when the wisteria tore the shutters oft the attic windows 
and worked its tendrils right into the whitewashed brick in less than a year . . . . Yes, 
we loved it. All except my brother. I don't think I ever heard him complain of anything, 
but I knew how he felt. My father was dead then, and I was head of the family and I had 
to defend him constantly from my mother and sister. They wanted to take him visiting, and 
to New Orleans for parties, but he hated these things. I think he stopped going