Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 19. Chapter 19: A Monster's Birthplace

Chapter 19: A Monster's Birthplace

MY DUFFEL BAG FEELS HEAVY SLUNG over my shoulder. Silviu is striding along in total comfort about ten paces out in front. I'm slower because the uneven cobblestones of this medieval town hurt my feet.

Up ahead looms the almost fairytale silhouette of a tower shaded against a twilight burning orange and red. The central spire rises like a pole-tented roof to cast gently curving shadows on our path, only the sheltering material of this square 'tent' is wood and slate. As if its dramatically flaring sides were not enough, the architect added four miniature versions of the same profile at the tower corners. The effect now in this ephemeral light would even give Walt Disney castle envy.

Silviu pauses to wait for me to catch up. He is navigating by his phone, and I imagine the inn is somewhere around here.

"So, this is sig-hee-so-a…" I know I am butchering the name.

"See-gee-swhore-ah," Silviu says phonetically, but without any show of offence at my bad memory. He then adds, patting his belly, "Let's get settled. I'm hungry!"

˚˚˚˚˚

The bell attached to the B&B's door jingles lightly as I close it behind me.

The hallway of the inn looks pleasant and plain as I watch Sil stride over to a rack of brochures. Outside, this pastel-painted building resembles somebody's rich house from the seventeen hundreds.

A clerk appears. He is thin, smiling, and rests his hands on the front desk like he is totally ready to receive our money.

I take a step towards him…

Silviu cuts me off before I can say anything. "Party of two, " he chimes, and then the Romani rudely steps in front of me. "Reservations under the name of Hans Schnyder."

For some reason his tone dipped lower as he said this alias and wound up drawing my attention to it. I slide into a spot next to Silviu, and want to be pissed at his bad manners, but the name he just uttered won’t leave me alone. It's like a momentarily intense spot I want to scratch, but don’t know how to contort the right way to reach it.

While the clerk is busy referencing his appointment book, I grab Sil's right hand and bring it up to my sight. He is fingering a credit card; an Amex Black, and sure enough, 'Hans Schnyder' is embossed on it. I also latch onto a fleeting glimpse of 'Member Since 1985' on it before Silviu pulls it away. That's longer than Sil has been alive, and how would he come to possess one of the fabled 'Centurion' cards anyway? I've heard that less than seventeen thousand were ever issued. See? Finally all my conspiracy program-watching on TV has paid off, but who the hell is 'Hans Schnyder?!'

The clerk asks us with a shifting smile, "Two night stay..?"

"Yes," Silviu says. "Or longer, but we won't know for a couple of days."

"No problem..." The thin man's tone drips with projected romantic interest. "Continental breakfast, for two..?"

"Yes."

I tune them out. That damn 'fake' name is familiar. It is not random, that's for sure, and I knew it instantly. Oh, wait. Isn't there someone famous with that name? Yes, a scientist of some sort… But, that doesn't quite explain away the puzzle of why the mere mention of it immediately raised my hackles.

'Anyway,' I think. 'It will come to me, sooner or later.'

˚˚˚˚˚

We trundle into our room though its narrow opening.

It's not a huge space, but it's nicely appointed.

My Romani protector closes the door behind us, and I say as I drop my bag onto it, "Sil! There's only one bed."

He glowers at me for a second, until I realize I had made a semantic slip. "Silviu," I say calmly. "There appears to be but one bed. Do you know how this could have happened?"

"What does it matter?" Silviu cops an aggressive akimbo. "You'll only make me sleep on the floor, anyway. Right, Em?!"

I just smile; 'We'll see,' I think to myself. But at least now I know why the front desk clerk was so sniggery.

Suddenly my eye catches the dusk. There is a French door at the end of the room, and the setting sun is streaking the room's gauzy curtains in pastel colours.

I go up to it, and throw the doors open. Immediately, a breeze comes in and flaps the drapes into a gentle ballet of ripples.

I step out and have my breath taken away. The fairytale tower is perfectly framed by the fiery licks of twilight color.

I hear Silviu in the room mumble something, but I cannot quite concentrate on his words – the sight is too beautiful.

I call back to him, "You ever see that movie based on E.M. Forster's novel, A Room with a View?"

There's no answer, so I turn back around to see Silviu is looking far from disinterested, but he's not looking at the view – like George Emerson from the book with Miss Honeychurch – he's only looking at me.

The curtains rustle slightly, masking and revealing his strong, masculine eyes locked onto mine. In them, as filtered and yet revealed by the white fabric turned crimson through the living light, an admixture of hope and despair burns. He folds his arms and leans on the dresser.

I step back across the threshold, and approach him slowly, asking, "Well, did you?"

"Yes, Emeric. Room with a View, Howards End, Where Angels Fear to Tread, and Maurice – I've seen them all, many times."

"What was it you just said; now, when I was on the balcony?"

"Um, I told you that I could see the rooms online, and I knew you'd like this view, so that's why there's only one bed."

Aw, fuck. That's about the sweetest thing a man has ever done for me. I find myself fighting a strong desire to reach out and stroke his cheek. I don’t though. "Well, that was very thoughtful." I tell him, letting a wicked smirk raise my lip. "And I know you'll enjoy sleeping on the chair." Truth is, just for this, he's sleeping in the bed and I'll be on the floor.

He laughs, then hold his hands out like he's begging. "Ok, then. So, now can we go eat?"

"Sure. Where?"

As I stride past him to open my bag, Silviu heaves a dramatic sigh, and proceeds like he has to pick up after his little brother, Lupasc. He goes to the window, closes it, locks it with an authoritative click, and then draws the curtains tight, thereby buzz-killing the fresh air and twilight display.

"No repeats of Bucharest," he says walking back to the centre of the room.

I smile, thinking 'my big, strong Gypsy!' But I say, "Okay, big man, where are we gonna eat?"

"Let’s eat at the place we came here to see."

˚˚˚˚˚

We stand outside an old building. The current paint hue reminds me of a cantaloupe on speed, or at least on Miracle-Gro – it's a hyper melon colour.

Several tables sit outside with what appear to be locals. They lounge in chatty comfort with their cigarettes and open bottles of wine.

Silviu leads the way up to the front door, and I see bolted to the side of the entrance is a white marble plaque. It reads:

RESTAURANT CASA VLAD-DRACUL

– BIRTHPLACE OF VLAD DRACULA –

1431 – 14??

Silviu latches onto my arm, and we go in. The hallway strikes me as oddly 'Californian,' with wall colours I'd sooner associate with the Southwest than Romania – rich terracottas accented by trims in adobe-yellow and sage.

Sil tells the hostess something in the local language, which I can guess has to do with how many are in our party. This gives me a chance to look around.

Despite the tourist-friendly vibe promoted by the real sense of cleanliness, there are some macabre chotchkies as well. Above my head, a bust is mounted high between two doorways. The somewhat exaggerated features of a man are done to look like raw stone, but someone has used what looks suspiciously like dime-store lipstick to 'bloody' his lower lip and drool two thick streams of it down to his chin.

'Oh boy,' I think. 'What have I gotten myself into..?'

˚˚˚˚˚

We've been sitting for about 20 minutes. The room we are seated in is spacious, with rich mahogany panelling as a wainscot. There are only three other tables occupied in this room, and we are all spread out. Our waitress is somewhat pretty and she did not seem too impressed to have Sil order our meal in Romanian.

Our appetizers sit in front of us, and it seems Silviu can barely contain himself. I serve him and enjoy the fact that he digs in right away. The menu said this was a "Cold Plateau," but it turned out to be a platter much smaller than an open field. It is loaded with antipasto items on a bed of cooked and seasoned wheat berries: slices of sausage, rounds of a soft cheese like Mozzarella, strips of roasted bacon and halved hardboiled eggs all look appetizing. The whole thing is topped with a fragrant sprinkling of chopped red onions and crumbled feta cheese. I serve myself and watch Silviu's blue eyes glow while he chews. His hair is not so spiky today, I guess because we left the Bucharest hotel this morning in such a hurry, and I have a passing notion that if he let his hair flop, and I take a comb and part it for him just right, he'd make one sexy geek. I might even get him to watch some scary movie with me on the sofa if he looked like that.

"What..?" he asks through his half-chewed wheat berries.

I ignore his question, try to tap down my smile, and pick up our open bottle of red wine. "Dracul Abernet Sauvignon, Romanian Dry Red Wine," I read for him, and top up Sil's glass to get him to relax some. In point of fact, I'm feeling pretty loose myself – the local booze is kinda good.

I fill my own glass that somehow had become empty and set the bottle down marvelling that three-quarters of its contents are already gone.

Drinking some, then hoisting my fork to go at my appetizers, I feel relaxed with my handsome company. I slouch forward on my seat a bit and kick my legs out. I bump into Sil's knees, and with a tiny grin, he slouches too; soon our inner knees fit together like warm fingers interlacing, one on either side of the other. It looks like he is finally letting his guard down.

"Did you check out the dessert menu?" I ask.

"Yeah…"

"I love how we have a choice between 'Curd Cake,' or 'Prune Pie.'"

"Wisenheimer." He jostles his fork at me. "You are smart enough to know curd cake will come to the table looking like a slice of cheesecake."

"And the prune pie?"

"My daj makes that – it's like the French cherry clafouti, only made with fresh plum or apricot halves."

"Oh, actually that sounds delicious. I never…" I suddenly stop myself. I was about to bum both of us out by saying I never had a mom to bake me anything, but, what does that matter? Focus Emeric, on the here and now.

"Yes?" Sil asks with sweetly concerned azure blinking at me.

"Um, I think I'm having the prune pie. You've convinced me."

He offers me a halfway evil sneer.

"What..?" I say taking my first bite, and raising my defenses a bit.

Silviu forks a sausage round. "Nothing. I'm just thinking how nice it might be to go out on a date with you, that's all."

"That's all?!" I chuckle and move my knee deeper along his. "You speak as if you have to use your imagination."

"Well, it would be presumptuous of me to consider this…unless, of course, if you consider this to be – "

I cut him off in the form of an escaping sigh. "Damn, Vasile – you can really deliver the ole one-two sometimes, you know that?"

He puzzles his eyebrows for a moment.

"I mean," I explain. "You can make me think you're going to say or do one thing, and wind up going off on a totally unexpected path."

A moment of doubt clouds his baby-blues.

"What?" I ask.

"How long did you date Erich?"

Wow – and there's the ole one-two right now. I sit up straight and withdraw my legs from his; they suddenly feel cold, but I sigh and let me face facts. "I met him on campus, and we hit it off right away. I don’t know how to express it, but there was just a comfort level there – a connection – and we were together for about nine months."

"Oh."

"And what about you, big boy? You know Erich was my one true, long-term relationship, but you never mentioned any exes." I went back to eating.

Over my cheese, I could see him chuckle softly, lean back on his chair and fold his arms. "You wanna know about my love life?"

"Yep," I mumble as I chew.

"I think my story is all too typical nowadays. I never had any heartbreak, but I also never felt that 'connection' you mentioned. I met a few guys, and then we'd do the formal, ritualized 'talking' to test things out – compatibility and whatnot – we'd text, we'd skype, we'd talk about 'How was your day,' and try and figure 'things' out – meaning if there were any feelings there being forged or not. It’s all so ambiguous and slow; it's all so frustrating because with each word it seems like a lot is at stake. Should we date, should we hang out more, should we bust a move and hold hands and see about a kiss? – Or, not..?

"So, to answer your question…" he chortles softly and lets his hands fall to his sides. "I've talked to a few guys, dated one or two, but never met a person who made me stop in my tracks…"

Suddenly, while I swallow and reach for my wine – while he continues to talk – I know he just lied to me. There is one who has done that to him, I can almost feel how his heartbeat surged on the day he first felt that emotion, the day he first laid eyes on that guy, but who it could be, I don’t have any way of knowing.

"…And say to myself, 'He's just right for me.' Know what I mean?"

I just nod and think about how to change the subject. "Finish your food; I bet the main course is coming out soon."

He pulls his elbows up to the table and the momentary flash of the bottom whites of his eyes looks like I have inadvertently hurt him again.

"Yes, Silviu. I know what you mean. Don’t worry, your Mr. Right is out there."

Shit. That only seems to make him sadder.

I slide down on my seat and try to slip my right knee between his. He blinks a moment, as if he's thinking about it, then lets me slip in again.

I can't help but smile and reach for the bottle. "This Romanian red wine is pretty good." I motion the bottom of it to him, and he drinks about half of his already full glass. I top it up, and turn surprised to see my glass is empty again. The remainder of the bottles goes in there. I set the hollow vessel down with a thud as Sil continues to clean his plate. "Damn, I must have been parched!"

He ignores me and asks, "So, what was this mysterious Erich like?"

"What do you want to know?"

"I want to know if you're willing to talk about him."

"Not really."

His knees come in to vice mine in a friendly hold. "One question then."

"What?" I know exactly what's about to come of his mouth.

"Did you love him?"

Fuck, see? I knew it, but nevertheless, I tell him the truth. "Yes. I loved him, desperately."

"Then at least the two of you were lucky." He takes a deep swig of wine like he needs some courage.

"What...Why?"

"Neither of you had to try and win someone who was emotionally damaged."

I scowl, and 'accidentally' kick him under the table.

"I mean," he goes on calmly. "Hypothetically speaking now, that if there are two guys – both knowing they care about each other – but one is damaged goods, then the pursuer is in a rough spot."

I glance at his hand on the table. His rings look so good against his skin. "How so?" I ask.

"If in the mind of the one who is forced to be hot and heavy, he knows this guy is the one for him – without any question – he can't make too strong a play. Because he'll only wind up driving the one who's been hurt farther away." He fingers his glass and cannot hold my gaze anymore. "Then that leaves the pursuer feeling desperate and sad."

I slip my left hand into his right. He inhales softly and returns his look to me.

Into his soft vulnerability, I say, "I bet – hypothetically speaking – that would be an awful feeling for someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

I feel a smile come to lift my cheeks. "From what I've seen, you like to be in control. I imagine you are used to the people in your life, like your family, deferring to your sense of what's best. In other words, you expect your family to trust your instincts as part of your 'gift.'"

He grips my hand and breaks into unguarded laughter. "All except my mum – Daj will always boss me around – that's only natural."

"Yeah, until she gets you a husband to boss you around for her."

"I will be picking my mate, thank you very much." He slumps a bit more and our legs slide deeper together. He stokes my hand gently, and licks his ruby lips. "Besides, that will be different. A marriage is a partnership of equals – despite any bossy tendencies."

"You're speaking of your own, I suppose."

"Two strong types need to be matched for them to work together as a couple. You believe that, don’t you?"

The confident beauty spreading across my Gypsy protector's fair skin as a blush has an unexpected effect. I shift slightly to glance to make sure he does not have a view down to my growing bulge.

I pull on his hand slightly so our arms come up on the table and our wrists are in contact as well. I play with his rings, especially the sexy one on his thumb. "Let me ask you this, and it might be a rough question…"

"Shoot." He squeezes my hand for reassurance.

"Don’t all Romani men cheat on their spouses, you know, as a matter of course?"

Silviu looks deflated. His fingers open and he withdraws his hand, leaving mine standing up and growing cold. "Oh…" He latches back on and looks instantly regretful. "I'm sorry. I guess to be confronted by something in one's culture that's not very savoury. But, to answer your question, that's between a man and a woman, and sadly both parties go into the relationship expecting it. However, if a Romani guy cheats on his man, then he's a piece of shit, and opens himself up to a curse…" He smiles wickedly. "Like yours."

"I don’t think that's what happened in my case, but you never know." I suddenly want to bring the conversation around to why we are here. "What will we do in Sighisoara?"

"Did you see this is Vlad's birthplace? Do you 'feel' anything here?"

I smile like a dolt and simultaneously jostle his knees and hand. "Nothing bad, so far."

Our waitress arrives with our main course. We clear room by parting our hands and clearing elbows off the table. A busboy grabs our empty 'plateau' and the waitress looks on with the new platter hovering near our ears.

Silviu says, "We'll go walking around after dinner. There must be more to this place – maybe a museum."

"Looking for the Sighisoara experience?" our waitress asks.

I open my mouth to speak – Sil instantly reminds me I'm not suspicious enough by simply raising his finger.

He asks her with aloofness, "And what do you know about it, dragă?"

By his tone, I can figure the last word is something like 'darling,' or 'sweetheart.'

She sets the tray of skewers down and appears rather sly as she says, "I know the tourist places are too commercial. If I were you – looking for answers – I'd go to Pădure Laslea well."

"And why should we do that?" I ask.

She stands erect, smiles and begins to walk away, leaving us with a repeated "Pădure Laslea well."

While I select and place different skewers on his plate, Sil pulls out his phone and looks it up. He reads: "Pădure Laslea Well is believed to be the place Vlad Tepes was baptized into The Order of the Dragon by his father." He sets his phone down and picks up some food. "I think we should check it out tomorrow."

"Me too, after we see what else this place has to offer."

˚˚˚˚˚

I follow Silviu single file up a narrow stairs within the building of the Casa Vlad. As I feel content and full – and recall that both my prune pie, and a snatched taste of Sil's curd cake were delicious – I have to admire the way my protector's fancy jeans have a way of highlighting his meaty ass in just the right way. They do it with rivets and zippers and embroidery that makes me want to reach out for a thorough inspection…wait, how much wine have I had?

This stairwell is white and a light comes from overhead from behind a four-paned window used as a fixture cover on the ceiling.

Sil gets to the top landing, and waits for me to join him. The wall with a portal is super thick and protected by a black iron gate, which is standing open.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Ready."

There is no door, so his hand pulls on a black satin drape, and we go in.

I guess I didn't know what to expect from "Vlad's birth-chamber" – maybe some glass display cases, Vlad's bronzed baby shoes, or some loose teeth the impaling tooth fairy gave him a drachma for – but not this!

The light is low and flickering, but immediately I can tell the floor is a solid mass of red carpeting, and the walls and ceiling are draped top to bottom in alternating panels of crimson and black satin.

Straight ahead, on the other side of the room, moody light filters through one of the red fabric panels to silhouette a coffin propped on the floor. The head-end is raised about one metre, and I have a perfect view of a man – an actor – resting inside. At the foot of the coffin, a three-armed brass candelabra burns a trio of red tapers.

We inch our way across the moody chamber, not feeling like we should talk, and wind up peering at the actor. His eyes are closed, but his chest rises and falls in way that says he's not asleep. Oddly enough, one would presume this effigy is meant to be of Vlad Tepes, medieval monster, but the man I see is dressed in Victorian garb. It's the same satin top hat/suit combo I saw the Vamp kids wear at the club in Bucharest. Now I get it, this is a portrayal of Bram Stoker's Dracula, and not of the man who was actually born here.

In the flicker of candlelight, I catch Silviu casting glances at me. I 'accidentally' brush against his side, hoping he'd take my hand for a moment.

It seems the mood of this room, and its theatrical atmosphere, has worked up some kind of impulse in me. It's the same sort of compulsion that two people watching a scary movie feel; a wordless and primal feeling that the simple act of holding on will be enough to vanquish that which they are afraid of. It's a blissfully dumb notion that holding on will make everything all right.

I feel that I am at that moment of letting go, and allowing Silviu's real intentions to take a grip of me.

In the dark, two people who care about one another can protect each other – if both of them are ready, that is.

Silviu sighs, and wordlessly lets me know he's done with this tourist trap experience.

He does not take my hand; instead he moves away from me and towards the exit.

I wonder, but I know it's true – I wanted to be held by him, but I did not want him to think I was doing it to tease him.

As my big and commanding Romani man pauses in the half-light coming through the exit, I admire him as someone truly beautiful, inside and out.

Teasing? No, I think I'm slowly coming to the point where I can even stop kidding myself.