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Paris, Paris, Paris.
It has always been about Paris.
(Noé knows this now.)
Time is a strange concept for a vampire,
Noé thinks one day, as he sits at the table looking through some newspapers, a habit he himself doesn’t quite remember when he’s developed. Some things simply come with age, and as far as Noé’s concerned – he is rather old individual. Not as old as the oldest vampires alive, but still, his age amounts to quite impressive number. Some things, on the other hand, never change, and so his eating and sleeping habits remain just that – unchanged. Even after all these years, his sweet tooth can’t be satisfied. Frankly speaking, there isn’t much to be surprised about, with all the new flavours and all-new sweet treats regularly emerging on the market. So much to see, so much to try.
(There’s something strangely peculiar in watching everybody and everything around you change, while you remain the same, frozen in one place forver.)
Noé chuckles quietly, shakes his head, and distracts himself from thinking too much by skimming his fingers lightly over four pieces of four entirely different cakes, lying on a plate in front of him. It has become yet another habit of his, this thinking too much thing. Sometimes, if he’s not careful enough, a whole day can fly by, while he sits in one spot and deconstructs some very abstract, and frankly absolutely irrelevant to life itself, idea. It’s happened countless times before and enraged the hell out of Dominique, who apparently has had enough and ordered him to get himself together. He’s done just that. He has always known that sweets posses the power to save life, after all. Dominique’s chosen not to comment on that, but she’s been visibly glad that Noé is capable of taking care of himself. From time to time.
(There’s something strangely disturbing in the way everybody around you die, but you don’t.)
Although so many years have passed, there’s still this very same young face greeting Noé in the mirror every morning. Not a single thing has changed, not a single wrinkle has appeared. Time blurs a lot of things, and so Noé can’t remember the details any more, can’t remember if his eyes have always looked upon the world the same way they do today. He can’t recall how he’s used to take in the colourful and gleeful streets of Paris, back in the days his life’s really began. Maybe hie eyes have been different then. Maybe there’s been a true joy and reflections of countless lights of Paris in them, once.
(Has this faint trace of emptiness, lurking somewhere deep behind the red of his eyes, has it always been there?)
(He can’t tell.)
He isn’t sure if he doesn’t remember or doesn’t want to remember. Paris is full of memories that hurt more than the worst torture ever could. Sometimes Noé wonders if that’s really the right thing to do, trying to forget, to carefully pick only those memories that suit best and hurt the least. Maybe one day he’ll no longer see the scar decorating his right cheek, and what will happen then? (The scar he’s obtained during the very last adventure, that much is clear. But the details are all lost in the fog, and Noé knows he slowly lets them slide further away into oblivion.) Will he forget all the things that’s happened then? Will he forget everything about the one he’s used to follow into the darkest pits of what’s been known? (He has already forgotten a great deal.)
Noé shakes his head once more, this time doesn’t chuckle because there’s nothing to laugh about. He’s gotten too caught up in his thoughts again, and hasn’t chosen any cake yet. He half-heartedly decides to try the chocolate one, even though he doesn’t feel hungry any more. Not now, when Paris is looming over him again.
Time is indeed a strange concept for a vampire.
Noé takes a bite of the cake, then flips pages of the newspaper. The date in the highest corner of the page is something his eyes scan automatically. They do so this time as well. The year is far too distant from the one that’s been, when they’ve wandered the exquisite French cobblestone. That’s the only way he measures time now. In relation to what has been and what has been lost. To the days when nobody’s suspected that there will be two great wars in which people will behave worse than animals. To the times when Noé hasn’t known that one day he will have to leave Paris, and France, behind because it will be too dangerous. For Noé life has ended then. It’s ended when he’s packed all that he owned, and moved far away to the North, to cold and darkness, to emptiness and safety. Not that there’s been anyone left in Paris to stay for – by this point, all he’s got left has been Dominique. Everybody else has died long time ago.
The year is far too distant, and the great war – the second one – has precisely stopped raging two months ago. The world is still on fire, the earth soaked with blood. Noé can almost hear the cries of the living, who’s lost everything during these six long and cruel years. It’s all over the papers, on the radio, and everywhere he turns. The war is still resonating within people, echoing in their souls.
He doesn’t really know what makes him pause on this specific page and read just this specific note. There’s plenty of notes like this one, and he never really reads them, just scans them with a quick glance. But it’s fate, Noé thinks, it must be fate, answering all his today’s musings. Because there, at the page tightly filled with grief, somewhere on the side, is a short note written by a young woman who’s never really had the chance to get to know the joys of married life for her husband whom she’s loved deeply, died during the fights. And that’s fine – no, that’s very not fine, but there has to be a way to justify this madness or else everybody will go mad – because there’re thousands of notes like this one, in every newspaper he reads everyday. But this one comes with a poem. Rather short one, the one which Noé has never read before.
(The one that hurts worse than the worst torture ever could.)
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep.
The poem starts, and his heart twists painfully, pangs in his chest with so much force, that Noé is sure his ribcage will crack.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints in snow.
His breath is hitching now, heart constricting and bleeding, ready to break any second. His mind is a blur of images he’s pushed away for so long, all of them so vivid and alive, now that they’ve broken down the barrier.
(There’s the buzz of Paris streets, and the sound of heels smashing into the cobblestone. There’s the laughter and the blue moon, and piercing eyes of the same colour – as blue as the Blue Moon.)
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
There’re tears streaming down his cheeks, and he’s shaking, shaking so violently that the table starts shaking with him.
(There’s a ridiculously big coat on a much thinner frame, draping itself on it comically, and there’re long nights and rooftops of Paris, there’s vulnerability and scars, and the life Noé so desperately wanted to protect.)
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
He can’t breathe, it’s so hard to breathe with the sobs tearing out of his throat, and with the heart that feels as if it has been broken into million pieces, and the lungs and whole ribcage that’s been crushed under the weight of new-old grief.
(There’s the boy – yes, the boy, and Noé sees that now – who had to grow up too quickly. The man who wanted to save them all but never cared for himself, who detested himself so much it made Noé’s heart shatter just a little bit more everyday. And his voice echoing from every corner of Noé’s memory. There’s the scared boy, who had to become a man too fast, with his beautifully glimmering blue eyes, and his fears hidden behind hundreds of walls. The man so strong and powerful, and yet so vulnerable all the same. The man whose true name Noé learned and chose to never use. The man – the human, the doctor – who let Noé in and showed him his true self. The man whose fragile body Noé held in his arms and worshipped and loved whole night, like it was the only thing in the whole world worth worshipping. It was. The scars that Noé traced, until they burned themselves in his brain, until he knew them all by heart.)
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
(There’s Vanitas. Sweet, lovely Vanitas who learned Noé what it meant to love, who showed him that the world was so much more than what is seemed. Vanitas who drove him mad countless times, Vanitas who had always been the enigma, the one question Noé could never know the real answer to, even after all the things they had come through, even after all the things they had done together. There’s Vanitas whose blood was so delicious and hot. Vanitas who trusted Noé with everything what was left of his trust. Vanitas whose blood was all over Noé, cold and bitter and lifeless.)
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
(Vanitas who said that he would never die, even if he wasn’t there anymore.)
I am not there. I did not die.
(Vanitas who sacrificed his life and left Noé behind with all that love that filled his heart and all the pain, that consumed it, after everything was said and done. Vanitas with his humble gravestone in the graveyard outside of Paris, and with all those people who attended the funeral. He never really had the chance to find out how much he had influenced the others’ lives. Oh, he would have hated this crowd, the crowd that came to say the final goodbye. Because above all things, Vanitas had always been afraid of getting attached to others. Scared of love.)
There’s blood on his hands, Noé realizes after few minutes have passed, or hours, or days maybe. The blood is fresh and smells nothing like Vanitas. The teapot is crushed, the table broken. Porcelain pieces sit deep in Noé’s flesh. It doesn’t hurt, so it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters now is Vanitas.
You should have killed me, why haven’t you killed me?, thinks Noé, only to realize that he yells the words out loud. This too doesn’t matter. You would live, you deserved to live. You could do this, you should have killed me just like you said you would. Remember? Because I didn’t. How could I forget? Damn you and damn your destructive mind. He scream s , and scream s , and scream s until h e’s hoarse, until it hurts, until he can’t get out another word. He pleads silently then, whispering so quietly that the sound can easily get lost in the faintest hum of wind. Come back.
(There’s Vanitas who let himself be touched and held and kissed. Vanitas who let Noé drink his blood but never wanted to speak of what Noé had seen then. Vanitas who would shake violently after awakening from his nightmares and fall apart, whith no one else as a witness but Noé, who would put a smiling face to show off to others, even if he was irreparably broken inside. Vanitas who held his hand, held on to it as if his life depended on it, who danced with him on the rooftops of Paris, and kissed him under the Blue Moon, who said the quiet I love you when he thought Noé is asleep, and he was so terrified of this feeling himself. Vanitas whose eyes were impossibly big and round, when Noé said I love you loud and clear. Vanitas who claimed to hate all equally, but loved Paris for all the possibilities, and all the contrasts this city held, who deep inside couldn’t bear to lose anyone else.)
(There’s Vanitas who was all colours of the world and all shades of grey, who could never be defined. Vanitas who was the calm before the storm, hurricane destroying everything on its path, brisk autumn morning and late spring afternoon. Vanitas who burned brighter than thousand stars and died just like they die.)
(There’s Vanitas who will always be there in the sky, among the stars they used to watch during long nights on the rooftops, and in the Blue Moon, whenever Noé looks up.)
It has always been about Paris and Noé has always known. But above all, it has always been about Vanitas. There is no Paris without him, no cobblestone and no colours, no Parisian cafeterias, no moon and early mornings.
Noé knows this now, or maybe he has known it since the moment they met.
It has always been about Paris, because this is where Vanitas always will be – in every alleyway, on every rooftop, in every step that echoes between tenements.
Noé knows this, as he walks down the streets of Paris for the first time in years. There’s this familiar laughter in the sound of his steps and the voice calling his name. I won’t die, Noé. Even if I’m no longer here.