LIFE SHADES:

BY: Laura Davis

CHAPTER ONE: CARMEN

All around him was blackness, blackness illuminated by a multitude of torches pinpricking the dark azure sky. Raised voices drowning out the sound of the pouring rain, so damp, so definite... 'Vive la Nation! Vive la Republique'...the humming of the Marseillaise. Sounds of gunfire, a deafening roar of human struggle...his face cold, his vision blurred by rain. He glanced around him, the crowd a swirl of cloth and hair and light.

Steering off to the side, he found himself in the middle of La Place de La Revolution. A rat passed over one of his wet boots, fat and unaffected by the noise. The joy, the release of silence...oh if only he could fully embrace it...poor Louis...a simple man incapable of action...relying on the advice of men who were weak and incompetent. Louis, who cared little for power, did not even want to be king...ah well...it was his destiny. Destined to rule...to be ruled...to die.

He closed his stinging eyes, struggling to tear away the strands of long black hair clinging to his face. Blood. La Place de La Revolution was soaked with blood...and the guillotine waited silently, the blade positioned between the wooden groves...the heads placed one by one on the block…waiting for the blade to drop. Countless tumbrils rattled over the cobblestone, the familiar sound reverberating in his ears, and he knew that the tumbrils would keep on coming to the centre of the square long after the first rush of freedom rang out in the night. The crowd would come too, staring with dead fascinated eyes...women knitting... counting the heads dropping at the same time as they counted their stitches.

His heart pounded. The noise of the crowd was growing more and more faint...and then he was gasping, struggling for breath. Bolting upright in bed, his eyes moved anxiously around the room. He wasn't quite sure where he was. The sunlight seeped through the cracks of the dust covered window shades, illuminating the room like a shroud. Within its' protective cloak lay an antique rosewood bureau, a threadbare colonial chair, one of its claw like legs damaged, and a rug, its' pattern no longer discernible. None of these props escaped the interrogative like rays of the cruel morning sun.

Armand covered his eyes, rubbing them with his fingers as if to clear away the floating images of the Guillotine. Carmen would say it was his refusal to "join the race," (intentionally avoiding the use of the word "human"); that gave him the dreams and the headaches. "How 'n' the hell can you dream of anything else but the past when you have no present...no future?"

Armand allowed himself a smile at the way Carmen's words echoed in his mind like some worn out sermon. It may be true that he often lived in the past...hell...more than that, sometimes he was unable to tell the difference between that and the present. Who 'n' hell cared what century it was anyway, he thought, uttering a kind of growl as he got out of bed. His dark eyes fell on the electric alarm clock perched on top of the bureau. It was nine thirty in the morning. The French revolution was not happening outside his window. It was the 20th century.

Standing in front of his bedroom window looking out at Cote des Neige cemetery across the street, a sense of calmness filled him. He had paid his dues with the living. At this time in his existence he felt it was time to pay some attention to the dead. Carmen would never understand that of course.

Armand headed down the long hallway of his condo toward the bathroom. He stood naked in front of a long mirror. It was cracked at the corners, lines of age weaving their way to the surface of the glass. He, on the other hand, showed none of these signs of age. To every appearance, he was no more than twenty-five or twenty six, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a hard muscular frame. His hair, black, hung down past his shoulders, his eyes large, the colour of deep rich chocolate. He had the markings of an aristocrat, his jaw square, his mouth full, sensuous. The simple adjective of "handsome" had never quite fit. Marie Antoinette had once told him that he was "stunningly beautiful," and gazed at him with such desire that Armand had thought perhaps that he was hallucinating.

Coming back to the present he drew away from the mirror, suddenly bored with his self-examination. There was silence, except for the hum of the central air. He left the bathroom and rounded the corner, moving back down past his bedroom and the spare room, past the front door that was double security locked and walked into the living room. He flung himself onto the velvet sofa, looking around him. In the centre of the room, boxes of books and useless possessions were piled. They were covered with a light film of dust. One day he would go through them, but not today. Across from the sofa, beside a sliding balcony door, sat an overstuffed armchair. The rest of the room was empty.

What to do today he mused, finish reading the last in a series of books by Margaret Laurence, or maybe paint. One day, he would re-enter "the race" as Carmen so aptly called it...but he wasn't ready yet. He just didn't have the strength. There was too much pain out there...pain that spanned centuries... progress that wasn't progress at all...just the same old shit by a different name. So he hid within this impenetrable modern tomb with its sterile white walls and aluminium windows, which really wasn't so unlike the ageing mausoleums encrusted with dirt across the street.

It was a beautiful summer evening. A cool breeze granted reprieve from a heat wave that had lasted far too long. The air conditioners finally were given a rest from their endless labour, and even the most desperate of creature managed to smile as the cool air brushed across their skin. Boulevard St. Laurent was bustling tonight, the whores and vagrants out in force. Carmen watched the scene with lively eyes like a delighted child would watch a chaotic circus. For awhile she sat on a park bench across from a popular night club, watching the well dressed status seekers disappear behind its exclusive door. The club seemed out of place here on the boulevard, its patrons sneaking inside like ghostly shadows cloaked in their finery. Perhaps, Carmen thought, they even held their breath until they were inside, silently praying that no one on the street would approach them... contaminate their pretentious little world.

Carmen had been inside the shiny dazzling walls of the club a few times. It was expensive. The music was loud, echoing with the vestiges of the "disco age" which somehow got labelled something else in order to ensure its acceptability to contemporary popular culture. They were all well dressed girls and boys, many having attended the best of private schools, their future mapped out and assured. They were looking for something. Looking for what, Carmen wasn't sure. Love, sex, affirmation of their desirability? They were all there to win a prize. Once it was won however, it would eventually cease to have any value.

Bored now, like the patrons of that club would be in a few years, Carmen left the bench and strolled a little. With her skin-tight red leather mini dress and six-inch heels, she drew a great deal of attention. That was okay. She was probably the only woman on the street who didn't have to worry about getting raped...or having her throat cut by some psycho.

Carmen knew many of the people down here. She felt an affinity with the homeless and the druggies; after all they were almost as dead as she was. Yet they clung to their existence, even managing to find joy in it. She was no different.

As she continued walking, she paused to speak to a few of the prostitutes who paraded themselves in front of the Burger King. Many spoke English, coming to Montreal from who knows where. With a break in the hot weather, business appeared to be good tonight. Like Monique, whom everyone called "La Bouche," had told her just last week, "who 'n' hell wants to fuck in this heat?" Tonight, the cool air appeared to put many back "in the mood" to do just that. A parade of cars cruised down the boulevard, men sliding their heads out windows, performing exaggerated gestures with concealed yet well understood meanings... nods of confirmation. The girls with their painted empty smiles brushed carelessly past the local vagrants and the curious voyeurs to rendez-vous with the men in the cars parked around the corner.

Carmen opened the door to the "Burger King," and walked in. Making her way pass the tables where the homeless counted their change, hoping there was enough to "prend un autre café;" she headed for the restroom. It was deserted. Carmen gazed at herself in the mirror. Rummaging in her overstuffed handbag she pulled out blush and lipstick. She looked pale, her face taking on the pallor of an unattended corpse. She applied the makeup, ran a comb through her unruly copper curls and tried to calm the rush of hunger which gnawed at her very core. Peering closer at her reflection, she swore softly; her green eyes glowed almost red, the whites of her eyes giving off a beam of light which seemed unnatural, even here, where the definition of "normal" was widely stretched. Carmen pulled out her Polaroid sunglasses and perched them on her nose. "There," she whispered, that would do until she could eat. If she didn't see an opportunity soon, she would make her way to Verdun or perhaps to the bus terminal on Berri. She would have to make a decision soon. She checked her watch. It was close to midnight. Hastily she tossed her makeup and comb back into her purse. As she was zipping up her handbag, the door swung open. Two young girls entered, both bottle blondes, one desperately in need of a root job. They glanced at her almost absently, then dismissed her, disappearing into one of the stalls. Carmen's nostrils filled with their scent, it aggravated and teased her hunger. She walked toward the closed bathroom stall. She could hear them whispering in French about "ecstasy," a new street drug. Puffs of hash smoke floated over the door, assaulting her senses. Carmen held her breath and turned away.

She felt better once she was back out on the street but her situation was on the border of being desperate. Making it to Verdun, where she sometimes slept, was now out of the question. It was just too far. Instead, she began to walk quickly up St. Laurent, heading for Berri.

The terminal stood buried in a parking lot surrounded by buses. Except for one long line of passengers dancing around randomly distributed luggage; there was little activity. Inside, there were no more than a handful of people sitting around, some absently watching the mini television sets bolted to plastic chairs. Two bored security guards patrolled the platform with radio's pasted to their belts. Engaged in conversation, they spared her no more than a fleeting glance. Passing the deserted information desk, she turned the corner and proceeded to make her way towards the small bar which was almost at the end of the platform. The heels of her shoes made a distinctive clack clacking sound as she walked.

Inside, a sleepy bartender wiped spots from overused glasses and a lone man watched a previewed baseball game. The place was dead, a far cry from the activity going on a few blocks down. Taking a seat at the bar, Carmen motioned to the bartender, a short dark haired man in his fifties. She ordered a beer, tossing a five-dollar bill on the bar. She left the change.

The man at the table was in his thirties, but he looked far older. She turned on her barstool, beer she had no intention of drinking cradled in her hand. She studied him for a moment. He seemed either unaware of her presence or unconcerned with it, because he kept his eyes glued to the large screen positioned in the corner at the far side of the dingy room. Outside she heard the hollow sound of a voice over the loudspeaker announcing the arrival of a bus from Ottawa. Concentrating, Carmen tried to penetrate his thoughts. She sensed he was not really interested in what was happening on the screen. At first, the man's thinking appeared to be scrambled, unclear. Perhaps he was drunk or stoned. Then, almost like the tuning in of radio waves, she began to make sense of it. He was wanted in New York City for killing a police officer in a bank robbery attempt. He was low on cash and experiencing high stress. His wife had left him because he couldn't keep his hands off his stepdaughter. Was he remorseful? That was important of course. Did he live with regret, guilt...she waited for what felt like an eternity. Come on, she urged inwardly, it was a quarter to fucking one in the morning.

The man's thoughts suddenly turned to the subject of his ex-wife. Carmen sensed rage. "Bitch...whore..." he muttered in his mind, "one day you'll really pay…and the beating I gave you that one time will feel like a tickle compared to what you got coming..." Carmen smiled. I don't think so asshole, she thought as she stepped down from the bar stool, the now warm glass of beer cradled in her hand.

"Hi there, handsome," Carmen crooned.

The man glanced up at the tall shapely young woman in the skin-tight red dress. He made no secret of tracing every curve of her shapely bust and hips with his eyes. What 'n' hell did she want? He had no money for pussy tonight. "Look girl," he drawled in his American accent, "you're barking up the wrong wanker, I'm broke."

One elegant hand with long red finger nails reached out and touched his arm. "Who said anything about money?" Carmen whispered, pulling out a chair next to him. She put down her glass of beer. "Couldn't a girl just be lonely?" she suggested softly, holding his eyes. When he didn't respond, still looking at her in awe, Carmen reached a hand under the table and caressed one of his thighs. "Where you from?" she asked. "New York."

"Ah, the big apple. I was in New York once. Took a ferry ride. Saw the statue of liberty."

Her hand continued to work her way up his thigh. He looked at her in disbelief. How could he have got so lucky? He had all night, nothing to do, nowhere to sleep. If this bitch wanted action, then he was the man to give it to her.

He clutched her hand suddenly, halting its procession. "You got a room somewhere baby?" he breathed. Carmen nodded with a smile. "Well, let’s lose this place and I'll show you just what it is that I got here between my legs."

"I can't wait," Carmen murmured, running her tongue over blood red lips as she got up from the table...and it was true, she couldn't.

By the time Carmen finished with the New Yorker, it was a little after four in the morning. The metro had stopped a few hours ago. Ordinarily she would have taken the metro to Plateau Mont Royal, now she would have to walk, or hail a cab. She hated to fly. If she was to go back to her place, it would take her half an hour and sunrise was at two minutes after six today. Oh hell, Armand could let her stay there for the day. It wouldn't be the first time.

Feeling invigorated, she began to make her way in the direction of Mount Royal. She could see the lights from St. Joseph's Oratory in the distance. It wouldn't be long now.

Armand tossed and turned in his sleep. He had opened the window to let in the cool night breeze, but it still felt stifling hot. The central air was not working well anymore and he couldn't be bothered to have it fixed. He couldn't sleep. He might as well give up. He crawled out of his damp sheets, pushing his long black hair out of his face. Opening the closet door, he dug out a portable black and white television set. He had put the damn thing in here during the telecast of the Gulf War and he hadn't watched it since. Without cable, there were few channels to watch, although channel 12 came in quite well. He placed the set on top of his bureau, plugged it in, and turned the knob to 12. Sitting on his bed, he watched a commercial for dog food without interest and had the sudden urge for a cigarette. He got up, went into the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers. He found one cigarette laying in a battered package, smiled, and lit it. Trucking back down the hallway to his bedroom, he fell back on his bed and glanced at the television screen. As he exhaled some smoke, he suddenly became aware of what movie was playing. The eerie music grew intense as Bela Lagoci moved across the screen, the high collar of his black cloak hiding his hideous fangs. "Children of the night," he professed thickly, "what beautiful music they make." Armand almost choked on his cigarette. He laughed, tears streaming down his face. He had seen this movie so many times. He had practically memorised the script.

As Carmen eased back the balcony door, and stepped inside Armand's living room, she paused. She could hear a man's deep hearty laughter and for a minute she thought she had landed on the wrong balcony. Then she saw Armand's boxes strewed around the carpeted floor and she knew where she was. God, was that Armand laughing? It had been a long time since she'd heard him laugh like that. As she walked through the living room and down the hallway, strange muted mumblings reached her sharp ears. He was watching television.

Armand ceased laughing, and tensed for a second. Instinctively, he knew someone else was in the house. After a few seconds, he relaxed. It was only Carmen.

"What do you mean by ONLY Carmen?" She made an attempt at sounding insulted as she stood there in the threshold of the door, spiked shoes dangling by their heels in her hand. She threw the shoes and then her handbag on the floor and walked in.

"Reading my mind again...very rude if I may say so." Armand smiled at her as he rose from his half sitting position on the bed. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners as he spoke.

Carmen shrugged, glancing absently at the television screen. "A bloodsucker movie...what a thrill. Can't you get anything else on that relic?" She sat down on the bed beside him. Before he could reply, she sniffed. "What's that putrid smell?"

"Cigarette," he offered with a shrug.

Carmen wrinkled her nose. "Stinks."

Armand studied her face for a moment, the cheeks were flushed red, her eyes a clear mystic green. She had fed just recently. "You cut it close tonight." He tilted his dark head. "It's after four."

Carmen fell back on the bed. "Feeding or retiring?" she asked softly, closing her eyes, running a hand absently over the white duvet comforter.

"Both really," he commented dryly.

"Well, there wasn't enough time to make it back home. I'll just stay right here." She yawned, and turned on her side.

Armand sighed. "Fine, but not in my bed."

Carmen laughed. "You have no fear of losing your virtue to me; remember I have no need for such things now."

Armand shook his head. "I've long ceased to worry about my virtue, just my need to sleep. Go to the room down the hall, you know that this one is too light in the morning."

"Carry me," she reached out her arms luxuriously, throwing back her head. "Take me to bed my lord, and ravish me."

Armand smiled, and raised an eyebrow. "You're not interested, remember?"

"Oh," she opened her eyes and sat up, "ya" she grinned. "Well, I'm off to never never land. Don't bother waking me for lunch, slave," she teased in what sounded like an overdone British accent.

Armand watched her go, smiling. He leaned over and picked up the shoes and the handbag, thinking that he should begin to charge her room and board, well... maybe not board. He placed her belongings on the tattered chair. He should try to get some sleep.

Switching off the television, he laid back down on his bed. He stripped off the cotton shorts and awaited the infrequent invasion of the cool breeze tunnelling through his window. When his eyes finally closed, sleep seemed to pin him to a foggy reality in which he couldn't emerge. Someone was calling him in his sleep, the voice far away...so far away. "Mama," he murmured. "I can't help you mama...I can't." He tried to push the image away, struggling to wake up. He didn't want to see her, awake or asleep. But she was there now with him, hobbling stiffly toward him, arms outreached, her eyes hollowed, protruding cheekbones almost obscuring their orbs. Her mouth was trembling and rimmed with blood. And even the blood looked old, faded. Her hair, the same coal black as his own, hung like limp strings over her shoulders, skin wrinkled, breasts sagging in her blue moth eaten dress. She looked like death. She was death. In her agony, she embraced the true essence of her being.

Armand awoke crying, his eyes dry and red, his face damp. Damn. He shook his head as if to shake off the bad feelings the dream had invoked in him. It was almost noon. He padded down the hall pass the closed door where Carmen slept. He took a long hot shower, letting the water stream down the length of him, relaxing the tense muscles in his shoulders and his back. He tried to think of anything, except Nicole. Even thinking about Alexander or the Vampire Counsel was better than dwelling on his mother.

He was standing in the middle of the living room painting when Carmen emerged from her sleep. Naked to the waist with a streak of black paint across his chest, he looked more like a bohemian than a former member of the aristocracy. He had tied his long black hair back at the nape of his neck and his brow was furled in concentration, as he dabbed at the painter's pallet with the tip of his brush. He seemed lost in the immortalised image before him on the canvas, haunted by memories of past lives and joys.

"What are you doing?" she asked softly, so as not to startle him, but she did anyway. Her voice forced him rudely into the present. He turned his dark eyes toward her, seeming not to recognise who, or what she was for a moment then he dropped his brush into the old water filled coffee can and came towards her.

"You look refreshed," he said deeply and she ran her eyes appreciatively over his muscular body, and nodded. Under different circumstances she would have been half crazed with desire for him. The physical need for that kind of pleasure had long since left her immortal soul but at times the distant memories of a warm body, a passionate caress, filled her with such longing.

"That room is warm," she muttered. "It's a wonder I could rouse myself out of the sleep at all."

Armand nodded, his handsome face smiling at her. "Central air doesn't work very well anymore."

"Can I see the painting?" Carmen asked, moving soundlessly toward the canvas. He went to stand in front of it protectively, shaking his head.

"Come on, who is it? Me?"

He looked apologetic suddenly. "No."

"Some former lover you still pine for?" she enquired, trying to manoeuvre her way around him, to steal a peek at the canvas. He positioned his body in such a way as to block her movement and she shrugged, giving up. "Why don't you paint a portrait of me?"

Armand thought for a moment. "Perhaps your beauty is so great that my painting would never do it justice." He lifted a dark eyebrow as if inviting her reaction and then grinned at her when she clicked her tongue in disgust.

"Prattle. Empty male prattle. You don't expect me to buy that bull, do you?"

He laughed. "Of course not, but it was worth a try."

"Hardly!" she snorted, watching as Armand hastily threw a veil over his painting. He returned to her side now, and taking her elbow, he propelled her out of the room.

Sometime later, Carmen stood in front of the balcony door, looking out. The sun had been set now for less than thirty minutes. The inky star less sky hovered over the uneven smattering of gravestones, spanning the vast landscape across the street. She turned away. Armand was lying casually across the velvet sofa, watching her silently. She shook her head at him, uttering what sounded like a grunt. "Why "n' hell must you live in a fucking graveyard? It’s morbid." Carmen picked her way across the room in her stocking feet, through the hodgepodge of carelessly placed cardboard containers.

"One persons' morbidity, is another person's comfort," Armand commented dryly, making a space for her to sit beside him on the sofa. "Besides, I don't live in the graveyard, I live across the street from it, as do my neighbours," He murmured, inclining his head.

Carmen ignored his qualification and sat down beside him. "One cannot live in a graveyard, one can only die there."

"Now who is being morbid?" he asked softly; brushing his warm lips against one of her cool hands.

Carmen almost blushed at the kiss and pulled her hand away, giving his own hand a slight slap as she did. "Fool. You are not going to distract me with your charm. You have the best of both worlds and yet you waste it, here..." she flung her hands out passionately in front of her, searching for the right words to describe it, "hiding in this ugly bland condo with your belongings still in cardboard boxes."

"I'll have you know my dear," Armand smiled patiently at her, "that condo's are tres chic, and very expensive."

She shook her head. "Who cares! It’s like a god damned box, people living like small animals hibernating in these square little compartments like experimental rats. How long have you been here now anyway...years...closing yourself off from the world?" She sighed and looked far away suddenly, "What I wouldn't give to be you...to see the sun...to have your gifts and yet still have a human soul...still be able to throb with desire...still be able to love..."

Carmen hastily walked across the room and stood silently in front of the window again. She didn't look outside. She couldn't bear to see the cemetery suddenly.

Armand sensed her pain. There was little he could do to comfort her. She was in one of her moods, where she still longed for life...sensory memories filtered through time causing her to recall only the sweetness, but not the pain. Within moments, the memories would become faint and non-retrievable and she would speak of other things...the girls on St. Laurent Boulevard... a funny story someone recently told her.

When she didn't turn around, Armand crossed the room and touched her gently on the shoulder. She turned. There was a strange little smile on her face. She reached up to lay a hand on his cheek. "When will you come back to the world, my love?" she asked, her eyes beseeching him.

"Soon," Armand whispered softly, brushing a whisk of hair off her forehead, "soon."