Page 8 of Just for a Taste
D uca de’ Medici was late for our meal. I had the feeling he would have said he was fashionably so, but I filed away that he was exactly five minutes late—to the second, according to my watch. Five extra minutes for me to plan my reconnaissance.
I had no clue how this would go. For reasons that stumped me entirely, this conversation was two weeks in the making. Both times we had spoken had ended in me blowing my fuse, but now that I knew the vampire was more awkward than antagonistic, I’d have to force myself to be open-minded. And of course, I’d have to plan.
When Duca de’ Medici finally arrived, he carried himself with a nonchalant air and tossed his coat over the back of the chair before sitting. Good. I had prepared a casual yet upfront way of approaching the conversation.
“I heard you’ve been looking at the library logbook,” I said, giving him a sideways glance. Studying his face, waiting for a reaction.
“I heard you’ve been painting me.”
I grew as red as the carpet at my feet. Maybe if I stared hard enough at the floor, I could bore a hole into it and curl up into a ball.
“No, no need for that look,” Duca de’ Medici exclaimed, voice loud and dripping with mirth. “I’m flattered, really. It’s very Degas, you know, with the heavy chiaroscuro.”
He tilted his head up and to the side, which revealed the elegant curve of his jaw I had tried to capture time and time again.
“Don’t worry,” he continued, stifling a laugh. “I won’t send a cease and desist or anything. All I ask is a cut of the profits for my likeness.”
Never mind the floor now. It was time to launch a grenade at this man with my eyes.
But instead of exploding, he softened. His laughter subdued into a nervous chuckle, and the red in his cheeks remained. “Joking aside, I am. Flattered, I mean. Degas is one of my favorites.”
“Thanks, I think.” A small but genuine smile came to my lips. The embarrassment remained, though mildly mitigated. “I don’t know why I did it, honestly.”
He shrugged broadly and said, “I don’t know why I did what I did either.”
The mood in the room shifted to something alien, but quickly turned awkward upon its recognition. I considered venturing further into this uncharted territory when the vampire quickly backpedaled.
“Have you explored this corner of the library before?” he asked, dipping a scone into his now-lukewarm tea. “Or do you still hide out in that little section of yours?”
It was as if the massive, untouched tray of cookies and Earl Grey had only just materialized before my eyes. I shook my head and took a sip from my cup.
“No, I haven’t read anything in this section.” I searched for the subterfuge in this strange mixture of authenticity and pretense. “But you knew all of that already, right? So I don’t know why you’re asking.”
“I did know all of that,” he admitted. “I just asked to make conversation.”
“Why not ask something you don’t already know, if you want to make conversation?”
He didn’t respond, but the way he bit his lips was enough for me to parse the implicit reply: Anything I don’t know can’t be in the script.
“I’d like you to ask things you’re actually curious about,” I pressed firmly. “Or else I’d rather you just ignore me again than try to have some preplanned discussion.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you.” His voice was unexpectedly soft. “I just didn’t know what to say or do. I still don’t.”
In that moment, with all that uncertainty swimming around him, Duca de’ Medici reminded me of myself when I was younger. When I skipped recess and hid in the back of the class every day during the year my sister started middle school and left me behind. When I reread the same few books over and over, hoping in vain that someone would talk to me, or better yet, pull up a chair beside me.
Without another word, I stood. Panic painted the vampire’s features until he realized I wasn’t heading for the door. Instead, he watched with interest as I went to the return shelf and trailed my finger along the spines of the records. I had checked out a few of them, but they were mostly unknown records. I thumbed through them. Plenty of Grieg and Chopin, but also some contemporary composers and even some singer-songwriters I had never heard of.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Did you listen to the music I picked out when you were reading those books?” I glanced over my shoulder at him, and all my confidence melted away. “It might sound silly, but I like to match the books to the music.”
“It isn’t silly,” he answered quickly. “I tried to match them, too, but I’m a slow reader with poems. So I supplemented the songs you picked.”
Remembering everything I had read over the past few weeks, I felt my face grow hot. There were so many books in this library, and yet I had read Greek epics, Arthurian legend, and Shakespeare almost exclusively.
“If I had known I was leading a book club, I would have chosen a bit more variety. I mean, I can’t imagine you liked all of that old poetry. It was probably pretty tiring reading all that Homer, right? And how pretentious you must think—”
“No,” he cut in with an unexpectedly sharp tone. “I liked them. I liked every book and every word you chose. I learned a lot.”
About me or about literature? The question coagulated on my tongue, and anything else I could think of asking or replying was clotted behind it.
Duca de’ Medici broke the painful silence. “Signorina Bowling, can I keep reading with you? And please, only read what you wish to. Nothing to please me.”
Now my reply came easily: “Only if I can keep painting you.”
We said little after that, but the rest of the hour passed quickly. He picked out a record to match what I had been reading. “Mahler’s Symphony No. 5,” he told me. “Conducted by Bernstein, of course. Why listen to any other version?”
To my relief, the small library had two copies of A Long Fatal Love Chase , so we could sit across from one another and read together. Occasionally, he would point out something from the symphony, such as, “Listen to this part—Bernstein wished to be buried with this Adagietto pressed against his heart,” or I would comment on the unusually modern pacing of the book, but otherwise, the music was punctuated only by the flipping of a page or a long sip of tea.
I didn’t realize a distant bell had rung until the vampire stood, bowed, and left the room. I remained in my chair for a moment. Teatime was over?
I could continue reading at the dinner table, so why was I so disappointed? Why was it that for the first time, I felt alone in this abbey, now that he was gone?