Not long after this conversation, they moved into an apartment atop the House of Griaule, one that until then had been reserved for visiting dignitaries, and there they lived for the next three years. The opulence of the place cheered Amelita. She would wander through the rooms, trailing her hand across the backs of gilt chairs and sofas upholstered with cloth that presented a dragon motif; she would sit and study the ornately worked tops of teak tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl by the light of brass lamps mounted on the walls, and gaze intently at the icy, delicate chandelier in the living room, as if she saw in its prismatic depths a kind of resolution. Rosacher could not be certain that these luxurious appointments actually increased her happiness, but they did appear to lift her out of herself, to satisfy some vital need, for her tears no longer flowed so easily and she developed an interest in the fauna that occupied Griaule—indeed, she began to go for day-long walks about the dragon, sketching the creatures that she spotted (marvelously complicated sketches that displayed a heretofore unexploited talent for art), and collecting them in a folio, along with her written observations. Her favorite room in the apartment was their bedchamber. It was dominated by a richly carved ebony four-poster mounted on a dais, with a painted canopy (more dragons) and peach-colored satin sheets; but the main attraction for Amelita was the carpet, an intricate weave of reds, purples, gray and white imported from Isfahan. The design was partitioned into two large hemispheres like, she said, an ancient map of an imaginary world, and once she had formulated this connection, she broke off her nature walks and would lie in bed all day sketching the fantastic creature with which her mind populated that world. Rosacher did not think this inactivity was good for her health, either mental or physical, and urged her to start walking again; but she would not budge and told him she found this type of art more creative and inspiring, and assured him that she was content. Before too long, however, her bouts of weeping grew more frequent and prolonged, and her moods darkened to the point that he feared she might take her own life. Her face began to betray signs of aging—faint crowsfeet, a worry line on the bridge of the nose—whereas his face, the undamaged portion of it, betrayed none, and he was led to consider the possibility that this discrepancy might be a factor in her despair.
One day while he sat beside a twenty-gallon tub of golden blood in the treatment room, entranced by its shifting patterns, it occurred to him that the reason for his lack of aging might be the massive injection of the dragon’s blood given him by the late Arthur Honeyman. And if such were the case, if a huge dose of the blood ameliorated the signs of aging and, perhaps, increased one’s longevity. If the effect were not peculiar to him, he could give a similar dose to Amelita and, once she became aware of its effect, that might have the secondary effect of enlivening her. None of this struck him with the force of a revelation—they were idle thoughts, merely—but he kept returning to them, re-examining them, and they acquired a revelatory power. Here was the answer to a question he had asked himself for decades: why had Griaule sought to distract him from his work? If he had arrived at this conclusion early on (it seemed impossible now that he had not) and, whether correct or incorrect, that conclusion had become known, there would have been a run on the blood by those desiring a longer prime of life. Despite his vast bulk, Griaule would have been drained, his veins and arteries emptied. Did the fact that the dragon had ceased distracting him from these ideas portend that he was prepared to die, or did he now trust in Rosacher’s devotion and so had offered up the remedy of his blood as a blessing to reward him for his faith? A myriad doctrinal questions attendant on that initial question arose, all of them casting doubt on his basic assumption, but in his eagerness to find a cure for his relationship with Amelita and to bring her the gift of an extended youth, he brushed them aside. That night, as she lay on their bed, naked beneath the peach-colored sheets, he sat next to her and spoke about his experience with the blood and explained what he intended to do, showing her a full syringe. She took the syringe from him and peered at the fluid—in the unsteady lantern light, the dark characters of the blood surfaced and faded with the elusiveness of eels, staying only long enough to give an impression of sinuous vigor before slipping away into their golden medium.
“Is this something you want?” she asked. “Am I not sufficiently beautiful?”
He had expected this kind of joyless reaction and advised her that the blood would not enhance her looks, merely maintain them longer than was usual.
“But is this what you want?”
“I thought it would please you,” he said. “Doesn’t every women wish to prolong her beauty?”
“I’ve always been beautiful,” she said. “I think it would be interesting to grow old and wrinkled.”
Impatient with her, he tried to take back the syringe; but she resisted him playfully and tucked the syringe beneath a pillow.
“Prove you love me,” she said. “And I’ll give it back.”
“After all these years,” he said, “I shouldn’t have to prove anything.”
“‘All these years?’” Her playful mien evaporated. “Has it been such a chore? Putting up with me?”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
She looked at him soberly. “You amaze me, Richard. You continually amaze me.”
He sought to make a joke of her comment. “That’s been my aim.”
“Well, you’ve succeeded. You’re a brothel keeper, a drug dealer, and you’re ruthless in your business practices. You’ve had people murdered. Yet you think of yourself as a good man. Most people are no different. We all engage in that sort of deceit, but we’re not as skilled at it as you. Your sins are so great, yet you hide the fact from yourself so thoroughly! It’s truly remarkable.”
Her words sliced into him and he said, “Damn it, ’lita! Must our pleasure always be held hostage to your morbid outlook on life.”
He made another try for the syringe and she pushed him away, this time with considerable force.
“You’re not a good man,” she said. “You don’t love me…except in the way most people love, and that isn’t really love, but a form of self-aggrandisement. I wish I had your talent for hiding from myself, for ignoring the realities—then I could love you the way you pretend to love me.”
“Then why are you with me? The money…is that it? The power. Do you find it exhilarating?”
“What I find exhilarating is that you’re so adept at deluding yourself, sometimes I’m able to believe the fairy tales you tell yourself.”