But like most strigoi mortii, it was devastatingly handsome, even in my eyes — and I detested Duca more than anything alive or dead. Its face was angular, with hooded, sea green eyes, and a sharp, straight nose. Its jaw was clearly defined and it had lips of extraordinary sensuality, as if it had just finished giving a woman the most intimate kiss imaginable, and had not yet wiped its mouth. The girl at the house in Schildersstraat had been right: it strongly resembled a male incarnation of Marlene Dietrich.
It turned away from the window and smiled at us. Behind it, in the garden, I could see a dilapidated pergola, so wildly overgrown with creepers that it looked as if it were infested with green snakes. Beside it stood a marble statue of a pensive woman, holding a water jug.
“So, you are to be married,” said Duca. It turned its head toward me, but it never once took its eyes off Jill. “You are a very lucky man, Mr. ”
“Billings. John Billings.”
“And your very desirable bride-to-be?”
“Catherine Erskine.”
“Catherine. ah, yes. In my country you would be called Katryn, which means ‘pure.’ You are an extremely beautiful woman, Catherine. You deserve many years of joy.”
“Thank you,” said Jill. Although Duca was being so absurdly flirtatious, I had the feeling that, in a way, she was enjoying it. Its voice was so mellow and yet it had an air of intense danger about it that was both alarming and attractive at the same time. It gave me the same sensation as standing too close to the edge of a cliff. For some reason, I always feel insanely tempted to throw myself over.
“Why don’t you both sit down?” it asked us. “Then you can tell me what it is that you wish to know.”
We sat down in two leatherette armchairs facing Duca’s desk. Or rather Dr. Norman Watkins’s desk, because it had Dr. Watkins’s nameplate on it, and a sepia photograph of a rather overweight family standing by a sea wall somewhere. Duca eased itself into a high-backed chair and tilted itself back, still keeping its eyes fixed on Jill.
“We were wondering about birth control,” said Jill, and blushed. Either she was a very good actress, or else she was genuinely embarrassed. “We’re not at all sure what the best method is.”
“Well, you are both mature adults, capable of deciding what your priorities are,” Duca replied. “Are you looking for complete safety, or are you looking for unmitigated pleasure?”
“Both, I hope,” I told him, but Duca still didn’t look at me.
Duca raised its eyebrows. “No method of course is foolproof. But there are four different ways in which you can lessen the risk of conception. The occlusive cap, sometimes known as the Dutch cap, which would cover the neck of your desirable young lady’s womb and prevent the entry of spermatozoa. The sheath, or condom, which would prevent spermatozoa from entering your desirable young lady at all. Then there are chemical pessaries or solutions which kill the spermatozoa on contact.
“You can practice coitus interruptus, withdrawing yourself from your desirable young lady immediately prior to ejaculation; or you can try the rhythm method, whereby you should only have intercourse with your desirable young lady during that time of the month when she is not ovulating.”
The way in which its tongue lingered around the words “your desirable young lady” would have really raised my hackles, if I had genuinely been intending to marry Jill. But all I did was nod, and say, “Unh-hunh, I see,” as if I were taking this all very seriously, and didn’t realize how lubriciously it was talking to her.
“It’s difficult to decide, isn’t it?” said Jill. “Which method do you personally recommend?”
“Well. ” said Duca, “the rhythm method of course is the best for natural pleasure, but it is very unreliable for contraceptive purposes. Coitus interruptus is also unreliable in that some spermatozoa can escape prior to ejaculation, or the husband may not be prompt enough in his withdrawal. Also, somewhat messy.”
“The sheath sounds the most effective to me,” I put in.
For the first time, Duca really looked at me. “You may think so, my dear sir. But it is only effective if you can be relied upon to wear one.”
“Is there any reason why I shouldn’t? I’ve always used one before.”
“Perhaps one night you may have drunk too much wine, and forget. Perhaps one night you may decide that you are tired of sheaths, that they diminish your pleasure. After all, what does it matter to you? You are not the one who will have to carry the child, and go through the agony of labor.”
“Well, no, I guess not.”
“In my opinion, the Dutch cap is the best protective, because your desirable young lady herself will ensure that she always fits it.” Duca lifted its thumb and two fingers, as if it were folding a Dutch cap prior to insertion. It was one of the most sexually suggestive gestures I had ever seen anyone make.
“Where can I get one?” asked Jill. “Do they sell them at the chemist’s?”
“No, no. Your doctor has first to measure your cervix so that you have the correct size. Then he has to demonstrate to you how to insert the Dutch cap so that it snugly seals the neck of your womb. Usually I insist that my young ladies insert it for themselves at home and then visit the surgery so that I can ensure they have learned how to fit it correctly.”
Jill looked at me, her eyes wide, and the look on her face said absolutely not.
I cleared my throat and said, “That was — uh — very enlightening, Doctor, thank you. I think you’ve told us just about everything we need to know. Maybe my fiancée and I should go away now and talk this over between ourselves.”
“Of course,” said Duca. “But you are to be married in only a few days’ time, so if your desirable young lady has need of my services it would be better if you made your decision sooner rather than later.”
“Sure,” I said, and stood up. As I did so, however, Duca looked at me again and this time its sea green eyes narrowed a little and a crease appeared in the middle of its forehead, as if it had suddenly remembered something.
“You know, my dear sir, it’s very strange. You remind me very much of somebody I once knew well.”
“I do?”
Duca nodded “I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s in your expression. You don’t have any Romanian blood in you, do you?”
“Me? My parents were Irish.”
“Irish? It’s still very strange. I have a long memory for faces, and your face. it’s so much like this person I knew.”
“Can’t help you, I’m afraid,” I told him. But he kept on staring at me and I was convinced that he could see my mother looking out of my eyes.
Night Fever
At around six that evening, the sky clouded over from the west and it grew so dark that Terence had to drive with his headlights on. Rain began to fall on the windshield, big fat drops as warm as blood.
We drove to Jill’s house in Purley and Terence parked in the driveway. We had decided that there was no point in my going all the way back to central London, so Jill had invited me to stay over. Terence would find me a local bed-and-breakfast in the morning, and have my cases brought down.