Behind the Oval Portrait: A Vampire Love Story

By Michael Smolanoff

This novel draws from a wide variety of source material. In his scenes of seduction, the vampire Plutarch quotes verses from the French, Italian and German love songs of the Renaissance. The Latin verses quoted are taken from poems such as those that were popular among the upper classes of the mid-seventeenth century. Edgar Allan Poes The Oval Portrait is referred to in several instances; the text thereof has been distilled somewhat but the language has not been altered. The erotic poetry of Paul Verlaine is also quoted, as are Anton Chekhov and Salvador Dali.

The character of Plutarch, as he appears in this novel, is to a large extent based on the character Des Esseintes from J.K. Huysmans brilliant and shocking nineteenth-century novel A Rebours (Against Nature). Indeed, his bizarre book served as the fundamental inspiration for this novel. Finally, as to the historical Plutarch, he of course did live, born in A.D. 45 at Chaeronea in Boeotia.

One of the great classical scholars, Plutarch adopted the philosophical standpoint of a Platonist. His historical works were written later in lifeit is known that Shakespeare used Plutarchs writings as source material for his own work. As for his personal habits as portrayed in this piece, I have clearly taken many liberties.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 27, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453539651

Michael Smolanoff

Michael Smolanoff has over thirty years of experience in creative development fields. He is a Juilliard graduate and a past professor of Rutgers University. He has written and produced a plethora of music albums, concerts, children’s programs, and works for the theatre. Michael has also written over forty film scripts in all genres.. He currently has approximately thirty-five compositions published with G. Schirmer, New York, and Chester Novello, England. He is listed in the International Who’s Who of Music, Who’s Who in America, Men of Achievement, Outstanding Young Men of America, and the International Dictionary of Distinguished Musicians. He is a member of the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences and the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The lavatory of the Vortex nightclub was clinically clean. Some Fifth Avenue boutiques were not as impressive as this restroom, with its black and white Italian marble and its ultra chic decorum.

The cacophony of the nearby rock music was somewhat diminished by the thick oak doors, but the laughter and giggling of the two women at the wash basin could still be discerned.

Both wore haute couture. Both were beautiful. One was older, sophisticated. The younger one was looking increasingly excited as they prepared to do a line of cocaine. It was already divided and laid out in two neat lines on the counter. With bright eyes and a giggle, the young woman sniffed hers up through a cocktail straw. Her companion followed. The younger woman pinched her nose, sniffed and smiled as her gaze went to the older woman’s ample cleavage. Oh Elizabeth, I can’t wait any longer, she murmured, as she took her hand and towed her into the nearest stall.

Inside, they immediately melted into each other’s arms and their kisses quickly went from nips, peck and tease to something long, drawn out and passionate. The young woman had Elizabeth stripped to the waist, and as other voices announced themselves in the outer room, the lovers tuned them out as the young woman’s mouth sought Elizabeth’s breast.

Elsewhere, in the city. The loft was deep in shadow, except for track lights illuminating the center of the studio and two people. John Flood’s eyes held their subject like a tiger eyeing its prey just before the leap. The canvas before him depicted a gorgeous young woman, totally nude, in the pose of the first Christian martyr St. Sebastian. To John’s right was Gail, the same mirror image in the flesh. The loft space was both a living room and an artist’s studio; it was filled with hundreds of paintings and drawings, some stacked in corners, others mounted on the walls, plus dozens of photos, and some sculptural work.

All of these creations, every last one of them, were depictions of the model Gail; Gail as temptress, Gail as seductress, Gail as virginal innocent, Gail as Babylonian whore. There was even Gail as Scandinavian neurotic, standing on a bridge and silently screaming, the artist’s homage to Munch’s ‘The Scream’.

Gail was the only subject in all of John’s work . . .

Gail Spiegel, John’s live-in lover, model and muse, had her eyes closed: she stood nude in the St. Sebastian pose, strung up by ropes. Her wrists were tied over her head strapped to the ceiling. A fake wound slashed her ribs, and fake blood streamed down her torso. Her eyes were closed . . . and for a moment it seemed as if she was dead.

She was lit like a Caravaggio painting, bathed in chiaroscuro. She stood perfectly still as John pondered his next brush stroke.

His newest creation was a half-finished oil painting: this depiction of Gail as the martyr St. Sebastian, with a background that strangely matched the lavatory of the Vortex nightclub. A fine-tipped paintbrush, expertly held, applied highlights to Gail’s hair. John’s hand held the brush firmly, as it mixed several red paints on a white palette. He stood back to admire his work, as the brush stabbed red paint at Gail’s head. The model was perfectly still even as she said, John, I’m really tired. How much longer?

John, carefully loading his brush, muttered, Just a bit longer, darling. Martyrdom can’t be rushed.

Gail’s eyes were now open and revealed her fatigue.

The Vortex lavatory stall. Deep in languor, the young woman sat back, her slim long legs open and dangling above Elizabeth’s bare shoulders.

As if guided by the Sapphic moans, the older woman eventually redirected her roaming tongue, and began to climb up the young woman’s naked torso. She was nibbling on her neck when her paramour murmured, Oh Elizabeth, please, please, I . . .

The young woman was rapturous. Her eyes were closed, her nipples erect. She tilted her head back in a state of delirium. She reached her arms out to support herself, as her body started to quiver.

Elizabeth gazed intensely at the young woman’s face, her neck, her breasts . . . her manner was predatory.

Before she could finish, Elizabeth sank her teeth into the porcelain white neck even as she thrilled at the scream. For a moment the body twitched and jerked, and as blood flowed down her neck, she collapsed. Suddenly, her eyes opened in alarm. Her mouth also opened, but no sound emerged. The young woman’s face froze into a death mask. Elizabeth knelt before the collapsed younger woman; the two were locked in an embrace. She withdrew quickly, the better to avoid the spurting of the younger woman’s blood. As the young woman’s feet changed position she slowly started to drop down to the black and white tile floor.

The young woman laid face-up on the floor, dying. She moved her mouth but no sounds emerged. Her dress was slightly torn, exposing one blood-smeared breast. A quickly growing pool of blood formed under her. After several hideously forced gasps, she fell silent. She looked up forever, for a God that wasn’t there. Elizabeth then stepped over her, making a hasty departure. She stood weak-kneed with pleasure . . . and then a tinge of revulsion.

CHAPTER ONE

Elizabeth was clearly distraught as she emerged from the ladies room and weaved through the dancers on the floor toward her table. The music was deafening, the pulsating percussion primal. The dancers were writhing and gyrating to the primitive beat as dizzying arrays of strobe lights painted and distorted their bodies in bizarre colors and shapes. The place was a monument to exhibition and lechery, as people grinded against one another and exchanged lascivious smiles.

When Elizabeth reached her table, her partner, a strikingly handsome man with classical features and steely green eyes, stood up. It was a rather quaint, archaic gesture of chivalry considering the atmosphere. Plutarch was profoundly handsome . . . with a cruel, chiseled face and dark piercing eyes. She blurted, Plutarch, we must leave. Now!

He leveled his gaze at her. What is wrong, Elizabeth?

Please, Plutarch.

Wordlessly he rose and headed for the exit, with Elizabeth close behind. Plutarch had a word with the outdoor valet, and soon they were boarding their gray stretch limousine.

The interior of the limo was a cool, dark cavern of silence as it moved off. The only sound was the muted drone of traffic. Before they reached the next block, the night had become alive with the wail of sirens. Elizabeth nervously twirled a piece of her hair. Plutarch stared out the tinted window. Eventually he turned to her. The passing light of a movie theater revealed a smear of blood on her cheek. He slowly removed his glove, and carefully wiped up the blood with his forefinger. Elizabeth was slightly startled, and began to sob softly. Then she took Plutarch’s bloody finger and sucked it, softly at first, then hungrily. Plutarch looked on; his eyes narrowed with concern and revulsion.

A while later, the limousine pulled up in front of a large, multi-turreted Victorian in an elegant neighborhood. Strategically placed lights on the grounds tended to cast the place in deep shadow, making it less than cheery and emphasizing the gothic. The driver, Alex, an albino, opened the door and helped them from the car.

Elizabeth was undressing in front of a huge four-poster bed in an ornately decorated bedroom, getting ready for bed, oblivious to Plutarch who was on the phone. He often did business late at night. He was telling his European broker, Yes, alright then, sell Google at a measured pace, drop Halliburton, buy Exxon . . . . Yes. Yes. Excellent. Yes, sorry for the lateness. Thank you, Gaston, and good morning to you, too. He rose from his settee chair, and drained his glass of cognac.

During this, Elizabeth emerged from the adjacent bathroom wearing a sheer black lace negligee. She joined him, her body pale and cadaverous in the dim light. Plutarch began undoing his tie, when a nervous Elizabeth broke the silence, I know. I was bad.

So you know that, my darling, then why the waste?

Her answer was in the form of a statement, I’m very sorry for this. I mean it. Truly sorry.

Plutarch’s eyes were steely, resolute. He murmured, Seduction. Seduction, never rape.

I know that.

He unbuttoned his shirt collar. Do you now?

Again twisting at her hair, she said, I haven’t been myself lately.

Plutarch pulled an aged journal from a drawer, and placed it on his desk, open. He removed his shirt and tie and left them on a chair. His bare torso, rippling with muscle and sinew, added to his aura of supreme power and control.

Indeed, he commented.

Yes, it’s true.

Something comes over you. You cannot fight it.

Yes.

It’s like a feeding frenzy. His statement was almost a question but not quite.

Yes, yes. Exactly.

It drove you crazy. You lose control. Again the statement question.

Yes.

And you must kill.

Elizabeth seemed shocked at the obvious. She joined Plutarch who was on the other side of the bed. Help me fight it.

Without waiting for an answer she got onto the bed. With precision and ritual, she pulled out hidden silken ropes that were attached to the bedposts and slipped her hands into them, tightening the noose. Plutarch murmured, Elizabeth.

Her voice was soft. Tie my feet.

Plutarch said, The mind, Elizabeth. Keep it in the mind.

I’m not like you yet. I still have . . . needs.

Yes, of course.

His lips compressed, Plutarch reached for the hidden foot restraints and tied her feet.

Elizabeth again murmured. So many years . . .

Yes.

I need you to forgive me.

You are absolved.

He picked up a hand mirror from the nightstand. It was finely crafted in silver. Next to it was a wooden carving of a raven in flight.

Elizabeth’s voice reached him. Come to me, my love. Whisper. Fill me with your thoughts.

Plutarch turned to face her. I’ve tried to warn you.

Her face now contorted into a visage of fear. She sensed the danger. She struggled against the ropes, muttering, I’ve been good.

He now grasped the hand mirror in one hand and the wooden carving in the other. His eyes were cold, resolute. You take too many risks, Elizabeth.

Her voice was desperate. No. Please.

He got on the bed and straddled her writhing form. She now wept uncontrollably. I beg you.

I thought that the years would teach you restraint. But . . .

God. No!

Close your eyes.

I love you, Plutarch.

Plutarch murmured, Do not scream.

Deliberately he placed the handle of the mirror between her heaving breasts, so that she could see herself in the glass. She gasped. Then he brought the carving down hard on the handle and drove it into her chest. The flesh yielded immediately, spurting crimson blood.

Elizabeth’s terror was seen clearly by her in the mirror—before it splintered from the impact. Her eyes were wide open, her face was a mask of terror. Blood poured from her mouth, nose, eyes and ears. Her skin cracked and then started to turn to ash, and slowly disintegrated piece by piece. She struggled feebly, in horror as her face—which she can still see in the cracked mirror—turned into a grisly skull. And she died, staring at her own decaying self. As her flesh disintegrated into ash, leaving just her skeleton frame, her two tied arms slipped out of their bonds. Plutarch quietly stared at what was left.

He crossed the room in silence. He sat at his ancient desk, writing with a quill pen, in his endless journal.