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“When you meet the family of the man you are to marry,” Madeleine’s mother told her when she was a little girl, “you may at first be afraid of his father.”
This seemed plausible. Madeleine’s own father was frightening. Not as much as some. He only ever hit with a flat hand, and he never asked disgusting things of her, but he could cut with hurtful words in the way some other fathers cut with a belt.
“But it is his mother you must win over,” Maman went on. “And she will be the more difficult of the two.”
Madeleine didn't think much of her words at the time. She is sure that Maman would have been thrilled to be proven right five decades on.
***
“They're crazy.” Claudia looks at her over the top of her Ciné-Monde magazine. “Crazy individually, a million times crazier when they get together. You know what, this is a terrible idea. Maybe we can get off here.” She glances out the window of the train, currently rocketing through the dark countryside.
“I’ve met Louis, chérie. He is a lovely man.” He gave me eternal life, Madeleine doesn't say. They were unable to get a compartment to themselves, even on the night train, and a middle-aged man with a bad toupee sits in the corner with a newspaper.
“He once threatened to cut off Lestat's head and feed it to a lion in the zoo.”
That is surprising. “What was Lestat's reaction?”
“They fucked about it.”
A rustling from behind the newspaper. Madeleine had assumed the man didn't speak much English.
“Of course,” Claudia goes on, “Lestat also wrote a love song for Louis and had the woman he was cheating with record it. They fucked about that, too.”
“My goodness.” Madeleine tries not to appear amused. This clearly is all quite upsetting for her sweetheart.
“We only left New Orleans to piss him off. That lasted for five years, then Lestat showed up and told Louis it was time to come home.”
“This was after you and I had already moved to the country?” Madeleine knows it was. She has never met Lestat. She and Claudia have avoided Paris ever since, instead exploring rural France, Italy, Spain.
“Not long after. They fucked it out.”
The man stands and leaves with an indignant huff. Madeleine ignores him. He looks too scrawny to make a worthwhile meal. “And now,” she says, “they live together happily in Paris, and they are very excited to see the beautiful, beloved daughter they have not spent time with in twenty years and her equally beautiful wife.”
“All I’m saying is, they're gonna fight, and you don't want to be anywhere near them when they stop.”
“Duly noted.” Since the compartment is now empty, Madeleine moves to sit closer to Claudia, her hand on Claudia's thigh and her head on Claudia's shoulder.
Claudia's parents have a beautiful townhouse in the 7th arrondissement. Madeleine is quite envious to see the tall white façade with dark blue shutters, ivy growing down the middle.
Claudia sighs as they stand in front of the door. It is a very posh neighbourhood. Madeleine hears no rustling of rats between the buildings. “Here goes nothing.”
Madeleine’s heart goes out to her beloved. She takes her hand as Claudia knocks.
Madeleine's maker has not changed. She wouldn't have expected him to. Louis is still gentle, still kind. His eyes fill with bloody tears when he sees Claudia, and he pulls her into a hug. “Been too long, little miss,” he says in English, his American accent as strong as ever.
“Daddy Lou!” Claudia had sworn she wasn't going to call him that, but it seems to come naturally now she's here. Madeleine won't mock her for it.
Louis hugs Madeleine, too, although less effusively. “You're looking well,” he says, casting a fatherly gaze up and down her.
Madeleine has no interest in the popular fashions of the last decade. Flower power, psychedelics, flares, all hideous. She prefers the classic looks: Chanel, Dior. She knows she looks out of place as an apparently young woman wearing a skirt suit, hat and gloves, but she would rather be old-fashioned than fashionable these days.
“It is lovely to see you again,” she tells Louis. La politesse, but she means it. She has never felt any particular attachment to him as her maker, but being in the same room as him feels strangely pleasant, as if she too is coming home.
“Ah, the prodigal daughter returns.” Another voice speaks, this one very French. Madeleine plasters on a smile and turns to take in her father-in-law for the first time.
He is unexpectedly effete.
From the way Claudia spoke of him, she always pictured Lestat something like her own father: tall, strong. A man who kept his hair extremely short and his moustache tightly trimmed. Lestat is slender and clean-shaven, with blond hair longer than Madeleine ever imagined. He's wearing what she is certain are a pair of women's flared trousers in an appalling shade of orange, with a long-sleeved floral shirt. He is even made up with heavy dark eyeliner in the current style.
Claudia does not seem taken aback by his appearance, so Madeleine resolves not to be. She inclines her head respectfully.
“Monsieur.”
He fixes her with a look Madeleine can only describe as calculating. She has never been a shrinking violet, even less so since her turning. She holds his gaze, even as uneasiness creeps up her spine.
“Si vous le voulez,” he finally says, dismissively. If you want.
So not much like her own father after all.
Claudia makes the first move. Madeleine is proud of her for it. She steps towards Lestat, extending a hand. “Uncle Les,” she says, and Lestat pulls her into a hug almost as enthusiastic as Louis’. Louis looks lovingly at them both, relief evident on his face.
“Come on,” he says, grinning at Madeleine. “I’ll show you your room.”
Claudia's parents have purchased a pair of matching coffins for them and set them up in a guest bedroom.
“A lot easier than travelling with your own,” Louis tells her. “And who knows, you might want to come and stay more often.” He sounds so hopeful, Madeleine can reply only, “How kind of you.”
Maybe Claudia will want to visit more. She and her parent she calls an uncle are still talking together. Madeleine can hear him complaining about Claudia's French while Claudia asks if he ever improved his reading. Despite their words, there's a light, friendly tone between them. They sound happy to be sniping.
“They love each other,” Louis says, although Madeleine knows he can't read her mind. It seems clear to her it's true. “They're a little weird about it. We're all a little weird sometimes, to be honest.” He looks sheepish.
“I think this could be said of every family,” Madeleine reassures him. She gets another hug in return.
For dinner, Louis and Lestat have procured two large, muscular men, currently lying unconscious on the Persian rug of their sitting room.
“This one is stealing from his poor old grandmother,” Lestat says, pointing to one man as if discussing a fine wine. “The other beats his children. My darling wife has been playing Inspector Clouseau for weeks to obtain the best of ethical meals for our daughters.”
“Fuck you, Lestat!” Louis calls from another room.
“Bisous, mon amour!” Lestat calls back, with a wink. He looks rakish and charming and, for the first time, Madeleine understands why even someone like Louis could go so mad for him.
Lestat hauls the second man, the child-beater, onto the middle of the cream-coloured Louis XV sofa. He gestures to Madeleine, who hesitates. She is the guest, but he is the head of the house. She doesn't defer to men anymore, but this is ingrained.
“Après vous.”
“There is room for two," he replies.
The idea of sharing an intimate meal with him feels awkward. They have only just met. “Go ahead,” she says to Claudia instead, and the pair of them, Claudia and Lestat, sit on either side of the man. Lestat holds up their victim's lolling head, and they dig in.
Claudia has always been a messy eater. It's rather sweet to see where she learned it. Blood spatters everywhere–on Claudia's face, on the floorboards, mingling with the atrocious floral pattern on Lestat's shirt–as they gorge themselves with little care and a lot of noise. Madeleine can picture them doing just this when Claudia was a child. As soon as the man's blood stops spurting, Lestat pushes her away from the body. Madeleine imagines that's an old habit, too.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Louis appears in the doorway, carrying a crystal decanter and glasses. “If there is a single stain on that sofa, I swear to God, you can both go sleep on the streets.” Madeleine doesn't hear any real anger in his voice.
Both of Claudia's parents chain smoke like it's their chosen profession. Madeleine has a couple of cigarettes after dinner, but she can't keep up with the thick layer of fog that builds up near the ceiling as morning approaches.
She doesn't need to breathe, technically, but she is wondering if she could step out for a little fresh air when she hears a voice.
“Je dois vous parler.”
Lestat has an arm around Louis and his eyes on Claudia, but he's whispering into her mind. There's no one else it could be.
“D’accord,” she agrees silently. She can talk to him like this if he wants.
“You can shield your thoughts from her?” Lestat asks, in silence.
“When I wish to.” She and Claudia would never have lasted this long if she couldn't.
“Louis told me about you. That you are good for her.”
“She is also good for me.” An understatement.
“She will have told you I made her for him. That I came back to France for him, that everything I do is for him.” Claudia has said all these things. That she grew up feeling Lestat saw her as an inconvenience at best, as competition for Louis' love and attention at worst. “I can tell you not everything is about my darling Louis.”
Lestat is looking at her, his eyes fixed on hers. She knows he is judging her, but Madeleine has had a lifetime of being judged. More than a lifetime, now.
“Orange is not your colour,” she says, hoping her tone hits the right casual, unconcerned note. “I am a seamstress by trade. If you get me a darker fabric, I can make you a nice dress.”
He laughs out loud. Louis glances at him and goes back to telling a story about New Orleans.
“Very kind,” Lestat continues silently. “My conservative wife does not always like me to wear such things.”
“He’ll like this one.”
“Claudia.” Lestat speaks aloud, interrupting Louis. “You must keep this woman.”
Claudia glances over. “Yeah, okay, Uncle Les.” She rolls her eyes. “As long as you say so.”
Later, as they prepare for coffin, Claudia says, “He prefers you already.” She doesn't need to specify who she means.
Before she can reply, Madeleine jumps at an unexpected bang from beyond their bedroom door. It's followed by Louis saying, “You're out of your fucking mind, baby,” and a long string of billingual curses from Lestat.
“What are they–”
“Oh, who the fuck knows.” Claudia opens one of the coffins. “It's not so bad once you close the lid.” She looks at Madeleine. “And, you know, it might be even harder to hear them if we make a little noise of our own.” She smiles so saucily, Madeleine remembers at once why she fell in love. As if she could ever forget.
Madeleine climbs into Claudia's coffin. She hears glass shatter against a wall, followed very quickly by the unmistakably rhythmic noise of her in-laws doing something she emphatically does not wish to picture on the sofa. As instructed, Madeleine closes the lid, plunging herself and her bride into blissful quiet darkness.