Page 7 of Farkas: Gothika

He’d forgotten to put on his watch, which was unusual, and so he had no clear notion of the passage of time. It felt as if he had wandered the house for hours. He’d seen no other signs of life—no servants, and certainly neither of the Farkases—and at some point he realized with alarm that he was lost.

“That’s ridiculous,” he muttered. People got lost in the wilderness, not inside someone’s house. But he couldn’t find his way back to his rooms or—better yet—the front door. He couldn’t even find that enormous stairway he’d ascended the previous night. He continued walking but grew ever more tired and worried. He began to imagine himself meandering the corridors until he dropped from dehydration and, later, his moldering bones becoming another odd ornament inside a gloomy hallway. Out of desperation, he shouted several times but received no response.

Surely there must be at least a few servants in this old heap. Someone had made his meals.

At one point he thought he heard faint mocking laughter. He hurried around a corner only to find a window wide open, its tattered gauzy drapes waving in a breeze. When he looked outside he saw much the same view as from his room, which suggested it might be nearby. The sun had already dropped behind the mountains, obscuring the valley. When he stuck his head out of the window to see better, he remembered with great clarity his dream about flying and then falling. He hastily withdrew from the opening.

The sound he’d heard must have been the wind, not laughter. Still, he yelled again. “Hey! Is anyone here?” Silence.

Maybe none of this was real. Maybe he was stuck in another nightmare, and when he woke up he’d be back in his apartment, in his own bed. He’d brew himself a strong cup of coffee before walking to work.

He didn’t really believe that, though.

He kept on walking for what might have been ten minutes—or perhaps an hour. Everything looked at once familiar and totally strange, so he couldn’t discern whether he was venturing into new territory or retracing his steps.

Finally, defeated, he collapsed onto a carved gilded chair and hid his face in his hands.

“My friend!”

Lee leapt to his feet, almost falling backward when Vincent loomed before him. Vincent grabbed Lee’s arm to steady him. “Are you quite all right, my friend?”

“I….” Lee swallowed drily. “I got turned around.”

To his relief, Vincent didn’t scoff. Instead he nodded in acknowledgment. “My house is quite complex.”

Today he wore a pair of charcoal-colored gabardine trousers, a white shirt, and a dark-red sweater vest. It was a considerably more modern outfit than his previous one, yet somehow it looked anachronistic. He gave Lee’s shoulder a friendly pat. “Well, nothing to worry about. I am happy to escort you to your rooms. Your dinner is almost ready.”

It turned out that it wasn’t far at all, just a few steps down one hallway, a right turn, and then a few steps more. The doors to the drawing room stood open invitingly, and Lee rushed inside as if achieving sanctuary. “I should, uh, freshen up.”

“Of course. Please go ahead. I will return in a short time with your meal.” Vincent swept out of the room, closing the doors behind him.

Lee wasn’t sure what constituted a “short time.” Hoping it wasn’t too brief, he took a quick shower. He’d forgotten to bring soap or shampoo, but the bathroom was well stocked with both, along with shaving cream, a safety razor, hair pomade, toothpaste, and an assortment of other small jars and bottles. He didn’t recognize any of the brands, which seemed to be European and of good quality. By the time he dressed, he felt—and undoubtedly smelled and looked—much better.

As if on cue, Vincent returned with the cart. He again set a single place at the table.

“You’re not eating?” Lee asked.

“I have already dined. But please enjoy.”

Lee didn’t understand why Vincent had eaten separately, especially since he joined Lee at the table anyway. Since Lee couldn’t think of a polite way to ask, he dug into his food. Tonight it was roasted chicken and vegetables in a wine sauce, pasta with olive oil, and an apple cake. Also more of that wine. Lee decided he’d been too hasty in his appraisal the night before; in fact, the wine was very tasty. He had two large glasses.

Over the duration of the meal, Vincent led a light discussion about books—he was much better read than Lee—and movies. It turned out that he was a big fan of the cinema. “Some years ago I had a private theater installed here, and I have amassed a collection of films. Perhaps you would enjoy watching one with me.”

The thought of being alone in the dark with Vincent made Lee shiver. He wasn’t sure whether that was from fear or desire—maybe both. “I came here to work, not to be entertained.”

“Of course. But one’s existence becomes tedious if one works all the time, yes?” Without waiting for an answer, Vincent stood and began clearing the dishes. “But I think you are right for now, anyway. We have business to attend to. Please feel free to remove your sport coat and tie, if you like. I wish for you to be comfortable.”

Lee decided it was a good idea; the drawing room was warm again. As he dropped the discarded items onto his bed, he noticed that it had been neatly made up. So there must have been a servant somewhere. Vincent wouldn’t have performed such a domestic task himself. Even so, Lee pictured his host leaning over the mattress where he had slept, carefully smoothing the duvet over sheets that must still smell of Lee. The image caused another shiver.

Smiling, Vincent waited for him beside one of the desks where he’d piled books, folders, and manila envelopes. There were also a small stack of legal pads and a polished stone holder containing a half-dozen fountain pens. “Let me introduce you to my documents,” he said.

For the next hour or so, he did exactly that, explaining various deeds, certificates, and ledgers. He also showed Lee a small pile of papers pertaining to his identity.

“This says you were born in California,” Lee said, pointing to a line on something claiming to be a birth certificate.

“Yes. A convenient fiction. No true record of my birth exists, you see, and it will be much easier if I am an American citizen.” He paused as if waiting for Lee to either argue or agree.

But Lee didn’t care where this guy was really from or what his true citizenship was. Who was Vincent harming if he fudged a little on this? Besides, Vincent was right: everything would go smoother if he was American; legitimately gaining citizenship would be a pain without official documents from his birthplace. Lee’s parents had gone through a similar process when he was young—naturalizing themselves and his older brothers—and he remembered it as being long and difficult. He’d felt that his brothers were envious of him for having been born on American soil.

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