Dracula Book ©

Jonah West's Journal, August 5, 2004

I could scarce wait to write down the experiences of last night. I am full both of wonder and shame, fear and excitement, for much has happened! First, Sjeklia and I had planned to meet a the Boyar's Bistro, a popular local pub and restaurant where one might enjoy some of the local fare, including paprika chicken, mousaka, lamb, and a plethora of country fowl and game. There is also a local wine, called smirkya in the local tongue, that is rather on the sweet side, but possesses an intoxicating body and fullness the likes of which I have never tasted.

I arrived early out of nerves, and to be a gentleman, as chivalry is very important in this land. Had I arrived late, it would have indicated that I was flippant and nonchalant, and these were not two qualities that the locals favored. The establishment itself, like many of the surrounding buildings, had been built in the 15th Century, and so was positively ancient, with rather Romanesque style, thick stone walls and a squat, thatched roof. Inside was lit only with torches, and so the ambiance was enchanting. I felt as if I could have very well been in the year 1450. The only modern trappings were the federally-mandated Exit signs above the doors, their red, fluorescent light ruining some of the effect.

I sat at the bar and was greeted by a young man about my age with the usual greeting, “Bona.” I replied with “Guten Abend,” indicating my German, as fortunately the locals are almost as fluent in German as their native tongue. He offered me a mug of the house specialty, a locally-brewed beer that is as dark and ruby as blood, and by comparison of body caused Guinness to seem like Bud Light. “Ausgezeichnet,” I offered.

The bartender spoke to me for several minutes, obviously quite interested in America. Unlike the Western Europeans, who are traditionally snobby and hostile to Americans, the Eastern Europeans love America, and desire to learn about her everything possible. We spoke for a bit about American cars and politics, when a tall and stout gentleman, possibly forty years of age, sat directly beside me, and this is when the strangeness began.

The bar was almost empty, and so I wondered why he would choose to sit immediately to my right, almost crowding me, when there were six or seven empty stools to choose from. I noticed that, when the man removed his hat, the bartender appeared pale and weak, and became immediately subservient, ceasing our casual conversation.

The man himself was very pale but with very red lips, deeply-sunk, black eye sockets, and dazzlingly-white teeth. He looked positively ghoulish, and so I suspected that he was no stranger to the bottle. Ho confirmed this by ordering a neat glass of uinyatch, the local version of grappa or moonshine, so strong that even the fumes burned my eyes and caused me to choke. But this gentleman drank the entire glass in one, smooth swallow, and ordered another. If the poor man continued like this, not only his appearance, but also his health would suffer.

After a few minutes of silence, the large man turned to me and grinned, trying obviously to be friendly, but appearing even more corpse-like and hideous. He spoke very good English, but with the obvious intonation and accent of a speaker of a Slavic language.

“Hello, friend. You must be the American who is visiting our beautiful land.”

“Yes, Sir. I am the very one. My name, Sir, is West Jonah,” I offered, inverting my family name and given name as is the tradition in Transylvania.

“I see you observe our customs. This is very gracious of you, friend! And I am the Baron Dracula Igor.”

I almost spat out my beer at the mention of this name!

The man laughed deeply and heartily as he noticed my reaction.

“Ah, do not worry, Mr. West. I know that my family name causes surprise, no?”

“Forgive me, Baron, for I am quite rude. But, it is quite a coincidence that I should have the pleasure to meet you this very night, for just today, I...”

“Yes, you were studying my family at the library, were you not? Ah, do not be surprised. News in this small town travels quickly, as I am sure it does in the small towns of your land. In fact, I came here to meet you. Any man with such an interest in the long and glorious history of my people is surely a man worth meeting! Bartender, please pour Mr. West a uinyatch on me!”

My bowels turned. Though I detested the devil-water, it would have been the height of rudeness to refuse, and so I stomached the stuff, trying to smile.

“Thank you, Baron Dracula. You are quite gracious.”

“And I am certain you will be gracious to the young lady whom you are to meet, no? She is a delicate gem, and to be slapped with delicate gloves.” The last expression was apparent a Transylvanian idiom which the count had translated literally into English, but I understood. I wanted to explain that there nothing in the least romantic about the girl and me, but I did not bother the Baron with such things.

“Mr. West, as you are interested in the history of the Dracula name, especially in its connection with the legends that are so popular in your country, I have a special treat for you. You see, as one of the last surviving members of the Dracula name, and being the only Dracula in Transylvania today, I have inherited the very castle of the Count, and would be most honored if I might entertain you there tomorrow night, with your guest, of course. I am holding a dinner party, and you will be one of many guests.”

“Baron, I would be honored! I cannot believe my good fortune! I do not know how to thank you, Sir. This will be an invaluable experience for me.”

“You owe me no repayment. I am glad to help you, and to share with you the history of my people. I understand that you are writing a book about us?”

“Yes, Sir, an historical fiction.”

“Ah, a fiction. I love to read fiction, Mr. West. But, you may find, that the truth is often more difficult to believe than the most fantastical fiction. I will expect you tomorrow evening at eight o'clock at Castle Dracula, then? Any hackney knows where it is, if you can find one willing to..make the journey.” At this he chuckled from deep within his breast, a chuckle that did not sound entirely humorous. “And, of course, I expect an early copy of the book, no?

“Of course, Baron. And as for tomorrow night, I eagerly await it with anticipation, Sir.”

He departed, and the bartender immediately relaxed. He looked at me gravely, and said in German, “Mr. West, I know that you have come a long way to research your book. I know that it is a thrill to see Castle Dracula. But I must warn you, Mr. West.” At this, he lowered to a hoarse whisper. “There are stories about the Dracula family, as you know. And this man, the Baron, is said to be even stranger and crueler than his predecessor. There are many in the village, even today, who say he is..he is a vampire, Mr. West.”

I knew better than to laugh in his face, for the social rules are much more formal than in America. He would have been greatly and violently offended. So, I tried to answer him the best I knew how.

“Friend, I truly appreciate your warning and your concern. I know that old legends die hard in this land, and I do not doubt your sincerity. But I am a man of reason, and I know that there are no such creatures. The Baron may be strange, but he seemed very nice and courteous, and this is the Twenty-First Century after all. I will even be in view of the town, and there is a Parliament in this country that makes laws to protect visitors like me. I will be perfectly fine, I assure you.”

He looked into my eyes more gravely, then shook his head. “Very well, Sir. But if you must go, please, I beseech you, take this.” He handed me a rosary with a crucifix at the end. I am not a religious man, and so I viewed it neither with superstitious reverence or atheistic scorn, but merely as a token of hospitality and concern from a sincere young man, and so I thanked him, put it around my neck, and tucked it under my overshirt so that it would not be noticed. He then looked over my shoulder and smiled. “Sir, I believe someone has come to meet you.”

I turned and gasped. There was Sjeklia, a vision of beauty, like the night, in an elegant black dress and a fur overcoat. She had the hair of a waterfall, black as a crow yet shining as a phoenix. Her hair – I tell you I am not lying! – was as if it has its own source of light, and cast off bits of the sun as she turned. Her delicate little face, like ivory teacups, like the alabaster wine glasses of the wealthiest merchants, of the honed and translucent pink marble of kings. White, so white, snow white, milky white, as if every day smooths her face with the thick cream of the morning cows. Her cheeks were sculpted by the hand of God, shaped like a fine vase, rounder on top and tapering towards her blessed chin. Her nose was as the bill of the most holy swan, the holy geese of ancient Rome, and arched as if the great Etruscan poets and architects had collaborated together to produce the perfect buttress, in a great cathedral, strong but also striking and pleasing to the eyes. Her eyes! Shaped like the Eastern almonds and cherry blossoms which I have read of, like the wings of a great bird when viewed from the side, wide and deep like the lakes, and then tapering at the sides ever so subtly, to meet in the corner as two lovers meet and embrace. Her skin was so smooth that is appeared to be spread with cream and mashed garlic. The particular whiteness of her cheeks contrasted with her black hair, so that she dazzled the eyes. Her breasts were the size of apples. Her shame and modesty caused her pale cheeks to flush, to blush, in a delightful pink tinge, as if she were embarrassed or flustered. I must confess that, after my initial start, I felt an inner shame as I thought of Carmella. I resigned myself to admitting Sjeklia's beauty, but thought of the love I felt for Carmella, and so soon my senses calmed.

As she veritably glided towards me, I stood as a gentleman is to do, and bowed to her, as is the custom of that land. She bowed and smiled subtly. She offered her arm, which I took, and we walked towards the dining room. I already realized that I had made a mistake in asking her to dinner, for it was clear from her dress and demeanor that she took this evening as a date. I thought in advance how I should tell her the truth, but determined at the least to be a perfect gentleman, for she really is a lovely girl.

We dined on pheasant and swine and choice vegetables and all sorts of other dishes that I could not pronounce, and I dared not ask about. I simply ate and enjoyed. We drank deeply of the smirkya, and I was not a little intoxicated as the maître d' offered me a very fine cigar for my after-dinner smoke. I puffed luxuriously as Sjeklia told me stories of her youth in Transylvania.

After dinner I offered her a stroll along the main street, but I noticed that it was almost deserted at ten o'clock. She seemed hesitant to stroll, and asked me if I could walk her directly to her apartment for a nightcap. If I were not so intoxicated, I would have obliged the escort but refused the nightcap. But, I was intoxicated. I entered her apartment at her invitation and we enjoyed a few glasses of aged port, very nice. Her sofa was quite comfortable, and plush, and so naturally I could not help the fact that anyone seated on it would lean towards the lowest point, which happened to be Sjeklia.

We were very close. She laughed at something I had said and then looked into my eyes. Her deep eyes enchanted me. They must have! For I cannot explain my actions. I leaned in and kissed her, and then we were kissing passionately. Then we were groping each other. Then our clothes somehow fell off. And then, dear God what have I done, we made love all night in her bed. I fell asleep full of joy, but knew that the morning would bring trouble and shame.

The late morning light splayed into her window and into my eyes, and I woke. My head pounded terribly, and so I discovered than Transylvanian hangovers, though thousands of miles away, are exactly the same as hangovers in Ohio. At first I thought myself in my hotel room, but when a bare leg slid over mine, everything of the night before came back to me in an almost physical jolt. What had I done? I had betrayed my dear Carmella! Oh God be merciful to me, I have done an evil thing. But this creature, this fair doe lying next to me, was as beautiful in the morning as in the night, and my heart melted. As she turned waking and began to kiss me, I could not very well control myself.

After that, she left the bed and cooked a simple breakfast of eggs and goat cheese. It was really quite delicious. I drank copious amounts of water because I was parched from all of the wine from the night before. We began to talk about nothing, the little delightful pleasantries that always follow a night of passion. I decided to relate to her my experience with the Baron, and to ask her to join me on my visit to the castle. Though I was – I swear it! -- plagued with guilt for my infidelity, I did not want to appear at the Baron's dinner alone, because he had invited us both, and I needed all of his graces that I could garner, because I needed good research material for my novel. Would that I had never invited her! When I extended the invitation, I half expected her reaction.

“What? You are crazy? Baron to invite you, and you will go? I cannot to let you do this! Is evil man! No, I will not be guest to death party.”

“Come now, Sjeklia, this is utter foolishness! We are living in a modern, scientific world. There is electricity, there are laws, there is technology. What is the Baron going to do, lock us in a cell? We could just use the cell phone.”

I intended the last comment as a joke, but she remained grim. “No, no, no! You put you in great evil danger, Jonah! Man is evil, is dead.”

“He looked quite alive to me as he drank the fire-water.”

“Look alive, but to die! Is dead, I tell you. Baron is man of darkness, like all his fathers. Please, I beg, Jonah, not to go!”

She was quite sincere, and obviously quite terrified. I pitied her, living under the iron grip of such superstition. Could the Baron possibly be this evil? Was he a murderer? Preposterous. There was a police force in this town, backed by a federal force, backed by Parliament. This was a modern country, a member of the European Union, and I simply refused to believe that a vampire could somehow exist without notice. The Baron was, quite certainly, simply a reclusive man with a dark family history, and nothing more. He, like his infamous ancestor the Count, was being misunderstood because of a few oddities.

Sjeklia told me that she had to go to work. I asked her once more to join me at the party, and she refused.

“Well, I will still come and see you at the library, and give you one last opportunity.” She kissed me and left for work, obviously perturbed.

continued...