She had only meant to try a little, but his blood tasted so raw and hot that she wanted more…
“Please, don’t…” he said, choking, but that was all he managed. She sucked harder, and after a minute he was not struggling so much anymore. That was good.
She still rode him, and though his stamina flagged Elena was no less enthusiastic than before. The delicate curve of her posterior slapped up and down in his lap as her shoulders rose and fell like the gently lapping waters of the tide at St. Mark’s.
They were a complete mess now, hot blood drenching their two bodies and the couch and the floor, sticky red droplets clinging to her hair and her nails. She began lapping spilled blood off his chest. His breathing was ragged. She squeezed as hard as she could, wringing him out, and she thought she felt something pop and break inside of him as the lightning jolt of an orgasm shot through her…
And then he stopped moving. Very soon, the dribble from his throat grew cold, and then it stopped. Licking her fingers, Elena thought that he was quite a sweet young man, in the end.
She rang the silver bell to summon her servants. They arrived with a heavy blanket and rolled the painter’s body up in it, tying a cord about his feet and another around his neck and then hoisting him over their shoulders. They gathered up the artist’s clothes and personal effects in a separate bundle.
The bloodstained couch seemed to give them pause, but then they moved it to one side of the room, apparently resigned to having to dispose of it, too. Almost as an afterthought, they took the portrait.
Elena (still nude, blood still covering her naked breasts and belly) followed them out of the sitting room. They went to a hall pantry with a trapdoor that opened onto a set of old stone stairs. Elena smelled brackish water and heard the tide lapping at the landing below. The men with the ruddy faces tied three stones to the body and dropped it into the water. It vanished into the abyss with barely a sound.
They burned the painter’s clothes, and anything that wouldn’t burn they broke into many pieces and likewise deposited into a canal. The only exception was the painting, which tone servant was about to cast into the water when Elena stopped him. She looked at the study, running her fingers over its surface (trailing blood wherever she touched it). She looked into the eyes of the painted girl and wondered, is this me? The coy woman on the canvas offered no answers. It was the face of a stranger who might as well not exist at all.
Elsewhere in the house, she found a closet full of portraits. Hundreds of them. They were all of the same girl, but no two really looked alike. No two really looked like her. She added the new one to the pile.
She wanted to see the city. In a private gondola steered by one of her sleepwalking servitors, she floated down the dark S of the Grand Canal. There were no stars out; the only light in the dark was Venice itself.
Imagine, she thought, a city on the water. Maybe Venice was a dream. Or was Venice dreaming her? Did the city sleep? Did it know she existed? Whatever the case, the gentle rocking of the little boat and the sound of oars in the water comforted her, like a lullaby.
Dawn was coming when they returned. She hurried inside and, too drowsy to stand on her own, allowed the men to carry her to her crypt. They laid her out in the polished wooden box and closed the lid. The crypt seemed like the darkest, most secret place in Venice, and Elena felt like she belonged. Within seconds, she slept.
***
1896
Elena woke. It was dark. She pushed on the lid of the coffin and it opened.
She remembered nothing before this moment. She explored the crypt, discovered her name, wondered at her whereabouts and, eventually, found the bell that summoned aid. Two men arrived, both short, with dark complexions and wide mustaches, dressed in trousers, vests, and shirts with high collars. They were almost identical, and they didn’t speak, sleepwalking through their chores.
Elena let them clothe her: a dress with a very wide skirt and a low neckline and short, puffed sleeves, with a wire frame holding it up. The color of the fabric was too bright to be natural; she couldn’t imagine where such colors came from. She searched in vain for her reflection in a mirror, watched a serving girl model identical clothes for her, and speculated about what resemblance they two might bear. Still she remembered nothing.
She left the crypt. She found the view of Venice from the balcony. The patterns of its canals and great old buildings comforted her. There was St. Mark’s Square, flooded with the tide, and–
Wait. What was that building on the west side? Elena leaned over the railing to look at it. It was enormous! It was extraordinary! She didn’t remember it being there when…when what? What time was she remembering? How long had she slept? Why didn’t she know? Her heart shrank with horror. She went back inside, fingers trembling while they latched the door.
Dazed, she allowed herself to be taken to a sitting room. A man was waiting for her. He was very tall, with a black beard and dark spectacles that made it impossible to see his eyes. She wasn’t certain of his accent; German, maybe? The nearby trunks suggested he’d just arrived.
“My lady,” he said, kissing her hand. “How pleasing to put a face to such a long correspondence. I hope you’re pleased to see me as well?”
She smiled in a way that didn’t show her teeth.
“I have everything prepared,” the German said. “Shall we adjourn to the terrace?”
Outside, the dark, furtive scent of Venice–canal water and smoke–hung in the air. It seemed he meant to paint her, although why he would do such a thing here, in the pitch black, was beyond her. He made reference to something called a “card portrait” several times. He seemed to have no canvas, no easel, and no paints. Instead, he spent a great deal of time laboring over a contraption he unpacked, a box that stood on very tall legs.
“You’ve seen tintypes, no doubt?” he said. “The principle is the same. We treat the paper with egg whites, of all things. You’ll find new photography much superior to the old, primitive daguerreotypes. And I have a new innovation to offer…”
Elena smiled so that he would keep talking.
“We can now capture an image in less than a single minute, with the help of this,” the German said, holding up a strand of wire. “Magnesium. When it burns, it produces illumination as intense as daylight. An Englishman conceived of using it to light dark scenes like this, but I have done him one step better.”
He produced a metal bowl, scorched on the bottom and filled with a foul-smelling mixture. “If we mix the wire shavings with gunpowder, we can fully illuminate even the darkest surroundings in an instant,” he said.
Elena nodded, pondering the substance proffered. She almost daubed a finger in it, but it smelled of sulfur. The German prepared another contraption, a kind of lamp with a bowl full of his powders.
“No need to be concerned,” he said. “I have been trained by one of the most accomplished chemists in Europe. The reaction will be small and controlled. But I warn you, it can be frightening to those who have not witnessed it before.”
He kept talking, but Elena wasn’t listening. She noticed that the back of his lamp was a curved mirror. In it, she saw the terrace, the balcony railing, and the lights of the city, but not herself. Imagine, that a piece of polished glass could contain an entire city, but have no place for her. The German was lighting a fuse, but she was so fascinated with the mirror that she was only faintly aware of what was happening…
And then the world exploded. Blinding white madness, a crackle like lightning, a smell like burning Hell. Everything turned silver, and time stood still.
Then it was over. When the spots faded from Elena’s eyes she realized that the German was dead, and that she was holding him by the throat. In the split second of the explosion she had sprinted across the terrace, knocked over the strange box, lifted the man off his feet, and broken his neck, all without even knowing what she was doing.
The sinews of her arms felt like taut wires. The German’s head slumped, his dark spectacles askew, an expression of blank surprise frozen on his features, like a painted image. Slowly, she set him down. He crumpled.
Elena picked up the mirrored lamp and threw it off the balcony. The box on legs followed. She watched them both sink, and when she was satisfied that the black waters of Venice had consumed them both she went inside. She walked right past the sleepwalking servants as they prepared to dispose of the unfortunate artist, barely realizing they were there.
She spent time looking in the mirror. There was nothing to look at, but she looked anyway. Then she rang the bell and summoned the servant girl who had modeled her clothes. She cupped the girl’s face in her hand and ran her fingers over her cheekbones and forehead and the profile of her nose and the curve of her chin. Do I look like this, she thought? Are all portraits so unsatisfying, or only the living ones?
Without thinking, she sank her teeth into the girl’s neck. The girl screamed and, perhaps, woke from her stupor, but she didn’t resist. When she no longer had the strength to stand, Elena held her up. They embraced this way for a long time while Elena counted the beats of the girl’s heart, feeling them come slower, and slower, and slower…
Finished, Elena let her fall. The wounded girl stirred, sluggish, as Elena stepped over her, both of their identical dresses now in bloody ruins. The two servant men seemed confused when they came on the scene, trying to revive the fallen girl. Elena didn’t care.
She went to the outer balcony again. Venice greeted her, but it seemed strange now, like an old lover made indifferent by age. Not caring who saw, she stripped the bloody clothes off and threw them away. Did they float, or sink? She didn’t watch. She went inside. She went to the crypt. She slept. But her dreams gave her no peace.
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