Before anyone could question our tour leader, Meera continued. “I became a vampire in Romania, my home country and home to others more famous than myself—Vlad the Impaler and Count Dracula. The count was jealous of my power, and he’s responsible for my becoming a vampress and for banishing me around the world to California. Of course, I was unwilling to go so far from home and family, but it turned out to be a good move for me. I arrived by ship in San Francisco, but at the time the action was all in the goldfields, so it was overland for me to the mother lode country. Long story short, since the late nineties—that’s the 1890s—I’ve lived under and on the streets of this great city. Until recently, when I moved to the suburbs. Of all the neighborhoods, Nob Hill, one of the original seven hills, is my favorite. When I retire, I intend to move back here.” She waved her arm toward the houses nestled between high-rises. “It has the best views and the biggest mansions. I’ve seen a lot of history made here. Felt the aught-six earthquake. Escaped the fire. Saved a few lives. And met a lot of interesting people.”
“But Count Dracula, he’s not real is he? Isn’t he just a character in a book?” a woman asked.
Meera shot her a stern look. “Romanians have many legends and stories, most based on true persons and facts. We have many counts, princes and kings. Only a Romanian knows for sure who is for real and who is not. It is not for me to spread rumors if I want to return to my country.”
The questioner still looked dubious. I thought I’d better keep my mouth shut even if I had a few questions. That is if I wanted to stay on our guide’s good side, not to mention the fact that I was the guest of her and her nephew.
“How does it feel to be so old?” someone asked. “Let’s see, you must be . . .”
“One hundred twenty-seven,” Meera said automatically as if she didn’t realize she had her dates off. “I feel fine. Never better. My job allows me to talk about myself and my country and the history of this city every Friday and Saturday night. I know, some of you think vampires don’t exist.” Here she gave a pointed look toward the woman who’d had the audacity to question her. “They’re only imaginary, mythical or literary, you may say. But here I am. A member of the undead, alive and in person.”
She smiled and her sharp pointed teeth gleamed in the light from her candelabra.
“How do you feel about living forever?” someone else asked after Meera’s remarks had settled in.
“It’s great. How can I complain? As long as I have my health, I couldn’t be happier. I get a front-row seat to history happening right before my eyes. I don’t fear death or old age. What can be wrong with that?”
I thought I knew what Jack Wall would say. “Sure, she wears black, looks pale and has her teeth capped, but come on, give me a break. Don’t you get it? She claims to have supernatural powers because she feels powerless. You don’t have to be a psychotherapist to see what’s going on here. She’s a fraud, a phony and she’s psycho.”
I didn’t let his unsaid words stop me from asking Meera a question.
“Do you ever get a chance to meet the recent undead, I mean those who have just crossed over?” I asked. I know it was crazy, but what was the harm in playing along with the woman? What if she knew something? Who was I to turn down any helpful information no matter who it came from? She looked confused. Maybe I wasn’t phrasing it right. Maybe she didn’t know who I meant. Maybe I should have waited until later to ask about a specific person, namely MarySue.
“We meet the new arrivals at orientation. So, yes, there’s a meet-and-greet every few months. Is there someone special . . . ?” she asked eagerly. “Someone rich and famous perhaps?”
“Not really,” I said. MarySue was richer than I was, but not rich enough to buy the kind of shoes she wanted. And famous? I’d have to say she was well-known in certain circles, but not really famous.
“She just died recently, and I have no reason to think she’s a vampire. Except I saw someone wearing her shoes the other night and I thought maybe . . .” I waited hopefully. Not that Meera was really a vampire, but she might know something. It was worth a try.
“Of course you thought she’d returned. Which is quite possible especially if the mourners looked back as they left the grave site. Is that what happened?”
I shrugged. How did I know?
“That way the body could easily find her way back, you see.”
I nodded, thought I really didn’t see.
“But I have to tell you the undead often come back in a different form than when they were alive,” Meera said. “And they usually wouldn’t be wearing the same shoes.”
I felt foolish for asking. Now everyone would think I was gullible enough to believe.
The next question was from a guy standing on the edge of the crowd. I wasn’t even sure he was with the tour.
“Do you drink blood?” he asked.
“Good question. Most vampires do not actually drink blood,” Meera said patiently. “We enjoy real food, mostly red meat but leafy green vegetables also.”
“Do you only come out at night?” a woman asked.
“Vampires typically have night jobs,” Meera said. “We find it difficult to adjust to daytime schedules. So we work as night watchmen, security guards, nurses, air-traffic controllers or funeral directors. Things like that.”
When she finished the tour of the hotels, the men’s club and a private residence, Meera thanked us for our attention. Then she handed out discount cards for the Transylvania Café to everyone. She told Nick she’d meet us there.
“Are they still open?” I asked Nick as he drove west on California Street.
“Of course. Romanians dine stylishly late. It’s their custom. You will find others from the tour there. The chef is an old friend of Meera’s.”
“By old do you mean more than one hundred twenty-seven?”
He chuckled. “I don’t believe Chef Ramon is as old as my aunt, but I am sometimes wrong about such matters. In any case, the food is authentic and they stay open for those who work late.”
“Like security guards and funeral directors?”
“Perhaps,” he said.
The food in the tiny restaurant out in a residential neighborhood called the Sunset was served family style. I didn’t see any of my fellow tourists there, but there were other eaters who looked like they might be Romanian. Of course I was famished by that time, and the sarmalute, cabbage stuffed with rice, meat and herbs, was delicious. There were bowls of pickled vegetables on the table and a carafe of dark red wine. For dessert the chef brought out a cake called cozonoc, that Nick told me was often served at Christmas or Easter.
Meera sat next to Nick and spoke Romanian to him from time to time. Then she leaned over and told me she was so happy to have her favorite nephew here in the United States where there was more opportunity for jobs.
“He’s a very good teacher,” I said. “I observed his class recently.”
“And you yourself will be taking gymnastics, Nick tells me,” she said. “Many women have signed up for classes at the gym since my nephew arrived. He is not only a gifted teacher, but a very attractive man, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Yes, I did,” I said politely. “And I’m definitely interested in a class. As soon as my ankle is completely healed and I have a go-ahead from my doctor.” I wanted to have an out in case I decided I wanted to go back to kung fu.
Before we left the restaurant, I asked Meera what was the difference between galumpkis and sarmalute. She sighed, then she thought for a long moment before she said she couldn’t explain it, you had to eat some of both and it was best to be Romanian to understand and she was exhausted from her tour. So I just snapped a picture of her even though she ducked her head and said, “I’m not photogenic. I take terrible pictures.” I thanked Nick for a wonderful evening and I meant it.