weary of his own struggles.
“That I did,” he confessed.
Even now the whole village knew it was war between him and his father. Nicki wouldn’t go back to school in Paris.
“You make life when you play,” I said. “You create something from nothing. You make something good happen. And that is blessed to me.”
“I make music and it makes me happy,” he said. “What is blessed or good about that?”
I waved it away as I always did his cynicism now.
“I’ve lived all these years among those who create nothing and change nothing,” I said. “Actors and musicians—they’re saints to me.”
“Saints?” he asked. “Blessedness? Goodness? Lestat, your language baffles me.”
I smiled and shook my head.
“You don’t understand. I’m speaking of the character of human beings, not what they believe in. I’m speaking of those who won’t accept a useless life, just because they were born to it. I mean those who would be some-thing better. They work, they sacrifice, they do things . . . ”
He was moved by this, and I was a little surprised that I’d said it. Yet I felt I had hurt him somehow.
“There is blessedness in that,” I said. “There’s sanctity. And God or no God, there is goodness in it. I know this the way I know the mountains are out there, that the stars shine.”
He looked sad for me. And he looked hurt still. But for the moment I didn’t think of him.
I was thinking of the conversation I had had with my mother and my perception that I couldn’t be good and defy my family. But if I believed what I was saying . . .
As if he could read my mind, he asked:
“But do you really believe those things?”
“Maybe yes. Maybe no,” I said. I couldn’t bear to see him look so sad.
And I think more on account of that than anything else I told him the whole story of how I’d run off with the players. I told him what I’d never told anyone, not even my mother, about those few days and the happiness they’d given me.
“Now, how could it not have been good,” I asked, “to give and receive such happiness? We brought to life that town when we put on our play. Magic, I tell you. It could heal the sick, it could.”
He shook his head. And I knew there were things he wanted to say, which out of respect for me he was leaving to silence.
“You don’t understand, do you?” I asked.
“Lestat, sin always feels good,” he said gravely. “Don’t you see that? Why do you think the Church has always condemned the players? It was from Dionysus, the wine god, that the theater came. You can read that inAristotle. And Dionysus was a god that drove men to debauchery. It felt good to you to be on that stage because it was abandoned and lewd—the age-old service of the god of the grape—and you were having a high time of it defying your father—”
“No, Nicki. No, a thousand times no.”
“Lestat, we’re partners in sin,” he said, smiling finally. “We’ve always been. We’ve both behaved badly, both been utterly disreputable. It’s what binds us together.”
Now it was my turn to look sad and hurt. And the Golden Moment was gone beyond reprieve—unless something new was to happen.
“Come on,” I said suddenly. “Get your violin, and we’ll go off somewhere in the woods where the music won’t wake up anybody. We’ll see if there isn’t some goodness in it.”
“You’re a madman!” he said. But he grabbed the unopened bottle by the neck and headed for the door immediately.
I was right behind him.
When he came out of his house with the violin, he said:
“Let’s go to the witches’ place! Look, it’s a half moon. Plenty of light. We’ll do the devil’s dance and play for the spirits of the witches.”
I laughed. I had to be drunk to go along with that. “We’ll reconsecrate the spot,” I insisted, “with good and pure music.”
It had been years and years since I’d walked in the witches’ place.
The moon was bright enough, as he’d said,
“That I did,” he confessed.
Even now the whole village knew it was war between him and his father. Nicki wouldn’t go back to school in Paris.
“You make life when you play,” I said. “You create something from nothing. You make something good happen. And that is blessed to me.”
“I make music and it makes me happy,” he said. “What is blessed or good about that?”
I waved it away as I always did his cynicism now.
“I’ve lived all these years among those who create nothing and change nothing,” I said. “Actors and musicians—they’re saints to me.”
“Saints?” he asked. “Blessedness? Goodness? Lestat, your language baffles me.”
I smiled and shook my head.
“You don’t understand. I’m speaking of the character of human beings, not what they believe in. I’m speaking of those who won’t accept a useless life, just because they were born to it. I mean those who would be some-thing better. They work, they sacrifice, they do things . . . ”
He was moved by this, and I was a little surprised that I’d said it. Yet I felt I had hurt him somehow.
“There is blessedness in that,” I said. “There’s sanctity. And God or no God, there is goodness in it. I know this the way I know the mountains are out there, that the stars shine.”
He looked sad for me. And he looked hurt still. But for the moment I didn’t think of him.
I was thinking of the conversation I had had with my mother and my perception that I couldn’t be good and defy my family. But if I believed what I was saying . . .
As if he could read my mind, he asked:
“But do you really believe those things?”
“Maybe yes. Maybe no,” I said. I couldn’t bear to see him look so sad.
And I think more on account of that than anything else I told him the whole story of how I’d run off with the players. I told him what I’d never told anyone, not even my mother, about those few days and the happiness they’d given me.
“Now, how could it not have been good,” I asked, “to give and receive such happiness? We brought to life that town when we put on our play. Magic, I tell you. It could heal the sick, it could.”
He shook his head. And I knew there were things he wanted to say, which out of respect for me he was leaving to silence.
“You don’t understand, do you?” I asked.
“Lestat, sin always feels good,” he said gravely. “Don’t you see that? Why do you think the Church has always condemned the players? It was from Dionysus, the wine god, that the theater came. You can read that inAristotle. And Dionysus was a god that drove men to debauchery. It felt good to you to be on that stage because it was abandoned and lewd—the age-old service of the god of the grape—and you were having a high time of it defying your father—”
“No, Nicki. No, a thousand times no.”
“Lestat, we’re partners in sin,” he said, smiling finally. “We’ve always been. We’ve both behaved badly, both been utterly disreputable. It’s what binds us together.”
Now it was my turn to look sad and hurt. And the Golden Moment was gone beyond reprieve—unless something new was to happen.
“Come on,” I said suddenly. “Get your violin, and we’ll go off somewhere in the woods where the music won’t wake up anybody. We’ll see if there isn’t some goodness in it.”
“You’re a madman!” he said. But he grabbed the unopened bottle by the neck and headed for the door immediately.
I was right behind him.
When he came out of his house with the violin, he said:
“Let’s go to the witches’ place! Look, it’s a half moon. Plenty of light. We’ll do the devil’s dance and play for the spirits of the witches.”
I laughed. I had to be drunk to go along with that. “We’ll reconsecrate the spot,” I insisted, “with good and pure music.”
It had been years and years since I’d walked in the witches’ place.
The moon was bright enough, as he’d said,
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