(correctly) he was being bled of funds by corrupt officials, but couldn’t afford to lodge a complaint. Without the Romanian army, he didn’t have a cavalry, didn’t have a horde. Without location permits that still hadn’t come through, he couldn’t shoot the story beyond Borgo Pass.
‘I can keep the rabble in line, maestro,’ Ion said, smiling.
Somehow, he had learned how to work his jaws and lips into a smile. With her blood in him, he had more control. She noticed him chameleoning. His smile, she thought, might be a little like hers.
Francis chuckled. He liked being called ‘maestro’. Ion was good at getting on the right side of people. After all, he had certainly got on the right side of her.
‘Okay, but keep out of the way if you see anyone in a suit.’
Ion was effusively grateful. Again, he acted his apparent age, hugging Francis, then her, saluting like a toy soldier. Martin Sheen, noticing, raised an eyebrow.
Francis took Ion off to meet his own children - Roman, Gio and Sofia - and Sheen’s sons - Emilio and Charlie. It had not sunk in that this wiry kid, obviously keen to learn baseball and chew gum, was in warm terms middle-aged.
Then again, Kate never knew whether to be twenty-five, the age at which she turned, or 116. And how was a 116-year-old supposed to behave anyway?
Since she had let him bleed her, she was having flashes of his past: scurrying through back-streets and sewers, like a rat; the stabbing pains of betrayal; eye-searing flashes of firelight; constant cold and red thirst and filth.
Ion had never had the time to grow up. Or even to be a proper child. He was a waif and a stray. She couldn’t help but love him a little. She had chosen not to pass on the Dark Kiss, though she had once, during the Great War, come close and regretted it.
Her bloodline, she thought, was not good for a new-born. There was too much Dracula in it, maybe too much Kate Reed.
To Ion, she was a teacher not a mother. Before she insisted on becoming a journalist, her whole family seemed to feel she was predestined to be a governess. Now, at last, she thought she saw what they meant.
Ion was admiring six-year-old Sofia’s dress, eyes bright with what Kate hoped was not hunger. The little girl laughed, plainly taken with her new friend. The boys, heads full of the vampires of the film, were less sure about him. He would have to earn their friendship.
Later, Kate would deal with Part Two of the Ion Popescu Problem. After the film was over, which would not be until the 1980s at the current rate of progress, he wanted to leave the country, hidden in among the production crew. He was tired of skulking and dodging the political police, and didn’t think he could manage it much longer. In the West, he said, he would be free from persecution.
She knew he would be disappointed. The warm didn’t really like vampires in London or Rome or Dublin any more than they did in Timişoara or Bucharest or Cluj. It was just more difficult legally to have them destroyed.
10
Back in the mountains, there was the usual chaos. A sudden thunderstorm, whipped up out of nowhere like a djinn, had torn up real and fake trees and scattered them throughout the valley, demolishing the gypsy encampment production designer Dean Tavoularis had been building. About half a million dollars’ worth of set was irrevocably lost. The bunker itself had been struck by lightning and split open like a pumpkin. Steady rain poured in and streamed out of the structure, washing away props, documents, equipment and costumes. Crews foraged in the valley for stuff that could be reclaimed and used.
Francis acted as if God were personally out to destroy him.
‘Doesn’t anybody else notice what a disaster this film is?’ he shouted. ‘I haven’t got a script, I haven’t got an actor, I’m running out of money, I’m all out of time. This is the goddamned Unfinished Symphony, man.’
Nobody wanted to talk to the director when he was in this
‘I can keep the rabble in line, maestro,’ Ion said, smiling.
Somehow, he had learned how to work his jaws and lips into a smile. With her blood in him, he had more control. She noticed him chameleoning. His smile, she thought, might be a little like hers.
Francis chuckled. He liked being called ‘maestro’. Ion was good at getting on the right side of people. After all, he had certainly got on the right side of her.
‘Okay, but keep out of the way if you see anyone in a suit.’
Ion was effusively grateful. Again, he acted his apparent age, hugging Francis, then her, saluting like a toy soldier. Martin Sheen, noticing, raised an eyebrow.
Francis took Ion off to meet his own children - Roman, Gio and Sofia - and Sheen’s sons - Emilio and Charlie. It had not sunk in that this wiry kid, obviously keen to learn baseball and chew gum, was in warm terms middle-aged.
Then again, Kate never knew whether to be twenty-five, the age at which she turned, or 116. And how was a 116-year-old supposed to behave anyway?
Since she had let him bleed her, she was having flashes of his past: scurrying through back-streets and sewers, like a rat; the stabbing pains of betrayal; eye-searing flashes of firelight; constant cold and red thirst and filth.
Ion had never had the time to grow up. Or even to be a proper child. He was a waif and a stray. She couldn’t help but love him a little. She had chosen not to pass on the Dark Kiss, though she had once, during the Great War, come close and regretted it.
Her bloodline, she thought, was not good for a new-born. There was too much Dracula in it, maybe too much Kate Reed.
To Ion, she was a teacher not a mother. Before she insisted on becoming a journalist, her whole family seemed to feel she was predestined to be a governess. Now, at last, she thought she saw what they meant.
Ion was admiring six-year-old Sofia’s dress, eyes bright with what Kate hoped was not hunger. The little girl laughed, plainly taken with her new friend. The boys, heads full of the vampires of the film, were less sure about him. He would have to earn their friendship.
Later, Kate would deal with Part Two of the Ion Popescu Problem. After the film was over, which would not be until the 1980s at the current rate of progress, he wanted to leave the country, hidden in among the production crew. He was tired of skulking and dodging the political police, and didn’t think he could manage it much longer. In the West, he said, he would be free from persecution.
She knew he would be disappointed. The warm didn’t really like vampires in London or Rome or Dublin any more than they did in Timişoara or Bucharest or Cluj. It was just more difficult legally to have them destroyed.
10
Back in the mountains, there was the usual chaos. A sudden thunderstorm, whipped up out of nowhere like a djinn, had torn up real and fake trees and scattered them throughout the valley, demolishing the gypsy encampment production designer Dean Tavoularis had been building. About half a million dollars’ worth of set was irrevocably lost. The bunker itself had been struck by lightning and split open like a pumpkin. Steady rain poured in and streamed out of the structure, washing away props, documents, equipment and costumes. Crews foraged in the valley for stuff that could be reclaimed and used.
Francis acted as if God were personally out to destroy him.
‘Doesn’t anybody else notice what a disaster this film is?’ he shouted. ‘I haven’t got a script, I haven’t got an actor, I’m running out of money, I’m all out of time. This is the goddamned Unfinished Symphony, man.’
Nobody wanted to talk to the director when he was in this
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