Page 4 of Farkas: Gothika

It didn’t take him long to put away his clothing, use the toilet, and wash his hands and face. He peered through the bedroom window but could see nothing at all, not even the moon. Deciding he could wait until later to inspect the paintings and other decorative items, he thought he might glean an inkling of his purpose by examining the books—which proved to be only legal codes and casebooks. A decent collection of them, to be sure, but they gave no hint about what work would be expected of him.

Finally the large painting over the fireplace caught his attention: an oil portrait of a man who very closely resembled Farkas, but with much longer hair and wearing an elaborate velvet-and-silk ensemble with tall black boots and an embroidered, feathered cap. The cracks in the varnish and the small dings in the gilded frame suggested that the painting was old.

“An excellent likeness.”

Lee jumped in startlement and spun around to find Farkas wheeling a cloth-covered cart into the room. The scent of cooked meat hit Lee at once, making his mouth water.

“Boucher was a bit too rococo for my taste, but I do admire the degree of eroticism he employed in his work. Wouldn’t you agree?” Farkas waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Lee turned back to the painting to hide his blush. Even as he desperately wondered which of his secrets Farkas was aware of, Lee couldn’t help but see what Farkas was talking about: the slight leer on the painted man’s face, the way he stood with one hand on his hip and the other reaching forward, the noticeable bulge at his groin. And behind him, not quite obscured in shadows, a bed with the covers rumpled and… was that a man’s bare leg sticking out from the blanket? None of these things had been obvious until Farkas’s comment.

“Is that an ancestor?” Lee hoped his voice sounded steady.

Ignoring the question, Farkas removed the cover from the cart and began putting dishes on the table, setting a place for only one person. “I have eaten already,” he explained. “But perhaps you will not mind my company as you partake?”

“Of course not.”

They sat opposite each other, and Farkas poured a large glass of wine from a carafe and handed it to Lee. He didn’t take any for himself but sat back in his chair, looking as comfortable and content as a well-fed cat by a fire.

The meal was excellent: steak with peppercorns, a buttery baked potato, roasted root vegetables, and crusty bread.

“Do you like the wine?” Farkas asked.

Lee hesitated before answering. It had a rich, deep flavor that was more bitter than sweet, and although the taste almost made him recoil with every sip, he found himself wanting more. “It’s… complex,” he said diplomatically. “Sorry—I’m not much of a wine connoisseur.”

“No need to apologize. My family produces this, but it is not to everyone’s taste. However, some people find that they become quite fond of it eventually.” Chuckling as if at some private joke, Farkas poured a refill and then beamed as Lee drank some more and devoured a pear tart.

“Tell me, Mr. Harker, where are you from originally?”

It wasn’t truly a rude question, but it made Lee bristle nonetheless. “The Midwest,” he said shortly.

“Ah. I’ve spent some time there, but it is not to my taste. I prefer to be amidst mountains. And your name—what was it before you adopted a more American sobriquet?”

This time Lee had to suppress a growl. “My name is Lee Harker.”

Farkas sighed. “My friend, you and I will be working together quite closely these next several days, and I will of necessity be revealing to you some of my most personal confidences. I wish to foster an atmosphere of openness. Let us be frank with one another, yes?”

Lee could have pointed out that everything about this day had been a complete fucking mystery. But the wine was going to his head and he was too enervated to argue. “My parents named me Ludwig Hasenkamp. I had my name legally changed shortly after I turned eighteen.” That had been in 1942, when a German name was a burden.

“And were you born abroad?”

“My mother was pregnant with me when they came to the United States, but I was born here.” His parents had been proud of that; he was their American son.

“I see. Thank you for sharing this with me. May I call you Lee?” Farkas tilted his head slightly as if intentionally creating the best angle for the firelight to highlight his cheekbones.

“Sure.”

“Wonderful. And you will call me Vincent, of course. Now, let me introduce you to the scope of our task.”

Finally, Lee thought. But Vincent didn’t say anything right away. Instead he cleared away the dishes onto the cart, which he rolled into the hallway. Then he poured another glass of wine and indicated that Lee should join him in the armchairs. The air was almost stiflingly warm near the fire, so much so that Lee gave an apologetic shrug and took off his suit jacket. He even rolled up his shirtsleeves. Vincent, however, remained fully cocooned in his old-fashioned tuxedo.

“Allow me to explain some of my situation,” Vincent said.

Lee swallowed a mouthful of wine—it tasted almost sweet now—and sat back to listen.

Chapter Three

“Like yours, my family came to this country some years ago,” Vincent began. “We were… oh, a family of some importance in our homeland, but for a variety of reasons it became expedient to pull up roots and journey to a new realm. Our holdings were extensive and complicated, so the move was quite difficult. America presents so many exciting opportunities, however. Does it not?”

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