Vampire joke
"You can't do this to me!" In helpless anger she pounded a hand against the dashboard of her Ford. Clearly she was far from a skilled mechanic, for the engine remained just as dead as ever. She allowed herself a moment of slumping against the wheel, marshaling her thoughts.The last town she'd passed was probably ten miles away, and the next was at least twice that far. Settlements were few and far between in rural Romania, even in these modern, highly advanced, overpopulated times.
But just as she was about to despair, over the leopard-skin-plated surface of her steering wheel, she caught sight of a building by the side of the road. Admittedly it was debatable whether it deserved the title of "building," it was in such bad shape, but there were a few cars parked outside, and they weren't coated with years' worth of dust, and that reassured her. She left her car in the middle of the road - the most traffic it was likely to block was a peasant's horse-drawn wagon, and if they wanted to write her up for that, so be it. She was in no mood to deal with the minutiae of provincial ordinances.
The gate, large, iron, and topped with a large dragon on either side, made a creaky protest as she pushed past it into the wide lawn leading up to what must once have been a medieval fortress. Parts of it still resembled its preceding purpose: vertical slits in the stone walls and high ramparts spoke of more violent days. And when she knocked at the heavy iron-bound doors, the figure that answered did nothing to detract from the sense of ancient ruin permeating the place. It was practically impossible to tell the sex of the person through all the wrinkles; the only clue lay in the simple flowered skirt she wore, under a loose peasant blouse.
"Yes? May I help you?"
"I- my car- do you speak English?" she asked, in this time of crisis longing for the comfort of a familiar language. Her Romanian was decent, thanks to her immigrant grandparents, but whenever things went wrong, she clung to English like a security blanket.
"I understand more than I speak," the old crone said, sounding in need of a tuneup. "You need place to stay? This is inn. For travelers," she added, in case the word "inn" wasn't enough explanation.
The old lady seemed to ponder this a minute, then shook her head. "No mechanic will come here now. Is Sunday. Only mechanic I can think of is pious man. You can phone though and leave message for him, stay here tonight. Come with me." Without waiting to see if her potential guest was following, the woman turned and shuffled down the dark passageway. Reflecting that, under the circumstances her options were limited, she reluctantly followed. The walls were lined with pear-shaped glass bulbs giving off a flickering light, on closer inspection, they appeared to be gas lamps. Trying hard not to be alarmed by this oddity, she continued after the woman until they emerged into a room barely better lit than the hall they had just left. THrough the shadows she could make out the vague outlines of heavy furniture draped in white cloth. The floor was covered by plush Persian rugs and, at the far end in front of a chaise lounge, was what she thought might have been a bearskin, though she was no expert on taxonomy.
"So, Antonia, we have a guest?"
She jumped. Now she was looking for him, she could just make out the silhouette of a man hunched over the coffee table, pipe clutched between his teeth. Approaching the couch she extended a hand, but cautiously. What if the man had some kind of contagious disease? Her doctor back in New York would never forgive her- and neither would her bank account- if she caught something here. "Hi. Miriam Goldman. My car broke down outside. I'd like to stay the night if... I mean, what's the price for a single room?"
The man did not shake her hand, indeed he hardly looked up from staring at the table in front of him."Price? What is our price?" It sounded like a rhetorical question, but his wife answered anyway.
"Fifty euros," she said.
Miriam found it difficult to conceal her pleasure. Even in such a poor, rural area, that was dirt cheap. Aloud she said, "That will be fine. I can go get my luggage out of the car, then you can show me my room." As soon as the old lady nodded, she hurried out of the room. It seemed to her that the bearskin rug had been watching her with its beady glass eyes, or maybe it was only the husband; either way, the room had discomfited her in a way that previously only a hundred-point dip in the Dow had been able to do. The hallway was hardly better. She still had the feeling of being watched, even though there were no eyes now to follow her movement- at least that she could see, but given the gross inadequacy of the lighting, there might well be peepholes in every one of the doors she passed.
SHe took her time packing her trunk for an overnight stay, not relishing the thought of returning to the inn. However, the weather was undeniably worsening, and as she reluctantly started the trek back, she felt a drop of rain spatter against the back of her hand. That settled things. If it was going to rain, she had to take whatever dubious refuge the inn had to offer. Her Ford was like an old house- it looked great from the outside, it was basically sound, but the roof leaked.
The old hag was waiting for her, clouded eyes narrowed as if a smaller opening might give her better vision. It wasn't meant to be a hostile expression, but that was how it came off. Suppressing a shudder, Miriam followed the old woman down the same hallway this time, however, she turned off before they reached the living room. The door they went through was small and obviously had not been built for anyone taller than five feet. Miriam was no dwarf, yet she had to stoop in order not to catch a forehead full of lintel. Down another dark passage, turn left, up a dark staircase which was so steep she was glad it was poorly lit, then winding through several more hallways that could also have used electric lighting until at last the old woman drew up in front of an unpainted pine door. Miriam was struck by its unadorned appearance, and a vague something seemed to stir within, but like a hibernating bear, it did not take the trouble to do more than make its presence felt. The feeling of unease stuck with her even after the old woman had gone. She tried to focus on unpacking what she would need for the night, and when that was unsuccessful she dug into the innermost pocket of her suitcase and drew out the rosary Frank had given her. The cool rough-grained wood felt good in her hands as she ran the beads along her palm and fingered the silver crucifix. She sat down near the head of the bed and closed her eyes, shutting out everything around her- the hideous floral end-table, the tattered lace curtains covering the grimy window, the wing-backed chair with the stuffing pouring out of multiple exit wounds, the string of garlic tacked up by the door.
"Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee. Blessed art thou-"
She stopped abruptly and looked again at the withered cloves of garlic hanging there, looking for all the world like those decorative chili peppers you saw in the farmers' markets, but if these had ever been attractive, they certainly weren't that now. They were as withered as the two proprietors of the place, maybe they'd even been there as long.
But just as she was about to despair, over the leopard-skin-plated surface of her steering wheel, she caught sight of a building by the side of the road. Admittedly it was debatable whether it deserved the title of "building," it was in such bad shape, but there were a few cars parked outside, and they weren't coated with years' worth of dust, and that reassured her. She left her car in the middle of the road - the most traffic it was likely to block was a peasant's horse-drawn wagon, and if they wanted to write her up for that, so be it. She was in no mood to deal with the minutiae of provincial ordinances.
The gate, large, iron, and topped with a large dragon on either side, made a creaky protest as she pushed past it into the wide lawn leading up to what must once have been a medieval fortress. Parts of it still resembled its preceding purpose: vertical slits in the stone walls and high ramparts spoke of more violent days. And when she knocked at the heavy iron-bound doors, the figure that answered did nothing to detract from the sense of ancient ruin permeating the place. It was practically impossible to tell the sex of the person through all the wrinkles; the only clue lay in the simple flowered skirt she wore, under a loose peasant blouse.
"Yes? May I help you?"
"I- my car- do you speak English?" she asked, in this time of crisis longing for the comfort of a familiar language. Her Romanian was decent, thanks to her immigrant grandparents, but whenever things went wrong, she clung to English like a security blanket.
"I understand more than I speak," the old crone said, sounding in need of a tuneup. "You need place to stay? This is inn. For travelers," she added, in case the word "inn" wasn't enough explanation.
The old lady seemed to ponder this a minute, then shook her head. "No mechanic will come here now. Is Sunday. Only mechanic I can think of is pious man. You can phone though and leave message for him, stay here tonight. Come with me." Without waiting to see if her potential guest was following, the woman turned and shuffled down the dark passageway. Reflecting that, under the circumstances her options were limited, she reluctantly followed. The walls were lined with pear-shaped glass bulbs giving off a flickering light, on closer inspection, they appeared to be gas lamps. Trying hard not to be alarmed by this oddity, she continued after the woman until they emerged into a room barely better lit than the hall they had just left. THrough the shadows she could make out the vague outlines of heavy furniture draped in white cloth. The floor was covered by plush Persian rugs and, at the far end in front of a chaise lounge, was what she thought might have been a bearskin, though she was no expert on taxonomy.
"So, Antonia, we have a guest?"
She jumped. Now she was looking for him, she could just make out the silhouette of a man hunched over the coffee table, pipe clutched between his teeth. Approaching the couch she extended a hand, but cautiously. What if the man had some kind of contagious disease? Her doctor back in New York would never forgive her- and neither would her bank account- if she caught something here. "Hi. Miriam Goldman. My car broke down outside. I'd like to stay the night if... I mean, what's the price for a single room?"
The man did not shake her hand, indeed he hardly looked up from staring at the table in front of him."Price? What is our price?" It sounded like a rhetorical question, but his wife answered anyway.
"Fifty euros," she said.
Miriam found it difficult to conceal her pleasure. Even in such a poor, rural area, that was dirt cheap. Aloud she said, "That will be fine. I can go get my luggage out of the car, then you can show me my room." As soon as the old lady nodded, she hurried out of the room. It seemed to her that the bearskin rug had been watching her with its beady glass eyes, or maybe it was only the husband; either way, the room had discomfited her in a way that previously only a hundred-point dip in the Dow had been able to do. The hallway was hardly better. She still had the feeling of being watched, even though there were no eyes now to follow her movement- at least that she could see, but given the gross inadequacy of the lighting, there might well be peepholes in every one of the doors she passed.
SHe took her time packing her trunk for an overnight stay, not relishing the thought of returning to the inn. However, the weather was undeniably worsening, and as she reluctantly started the trek back, she felt a drop of rain spatter against the back of her hand. That settled things. If it was going to rain, she had to take whatever dubious refuge the inn had to offer. Her Ford was like an old house- it looked great from the outside, it was basically sound, but the roof leaked.
The old hag was waiting for her, clouded eyes narrowed as if a smaller opening might give her better vision. It wasn't meant to be a hostile expression, but that was how it came off. Suppressing a shudder, Miriam followed the old woman down the same hallway this time, however, she turned off before they reached the living room. The door they went through was small and obviously had not been built for anyone taller than five feet. Miriam was no dwarf, yet she had to stoop in order not to catch a forehead full of lintel. Down another dark passage, turn left, up a dark staircase which was so steep she was glad it was poorly lit, then winding through several more hallways that could also have used electric lighting until at last the old woman drew up in front of an unpainted pine door. Miriam was struck by its unadorned appearance, and a vague something seemed to stir within, but like a hibernating bear, it did not take the trouble to do more than make its presence felt. The feeling of unease stuck with her even after the old woman had gone. She tried to focus on unpacking what she would need for the night, and when that was unsuccessful she dug into the innermost pocket of her suitcase and drew out the rosary Frank had given her. The cool rough-grained wood felt good in her hands as she ran the beads along her palm and fingered the silver crucifix. She sat down near the head of the bed and closed her eyes, shutting out everything around her- the hideous floral end-table, the tattered lace curtains covering the grimy window, the wing-backed chair with the stuffing pouring out of multiple exit wounds, the string of garlic tacked up by the door.
"Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee. Blessed art thou-"
She stopped abruptly and looked again at the withered cloves of garlic hanging there, looking for all the world like those decorative chili peppers you saw in the farmers' markets, but if these had ever been attractive, they certainly weren't that now. They were as withered as the two proprietors of the place, maybe they'd even been there as long.