Death Departed

Chapter Two

Quinton emerges from the bear coat and orders hot chocolate. Beneath the coat he is wearing stiff suit trousers, a sharp white shirt and black tie. I sit opposite him uneasily and wonder where he was headed on the train. We are in the Angelina café on the rue de Rivoli, in the shadows at the back of the room because Quinton said he doesn’t like window seats. Not that I am complaining but I caught a glimpse through the window on our way in and the view was magical: through the glass and falling snow is a street with beautiful arched arcades and elegant shops, all twinkling brightly like newly wrapped presents. Still, I don’t mean to seem ungrateful and I turn my attention back to Quinton and the interior of the café, which itself is eerily smart. I am in the sort of place that I have passed by wistfully before but felt too grubby and unimportant to enter – I feel like that now, even after I have removed my blue and yellow scarf, coat, and two layers of cardigans. I wrung out my hair, wet with snow, onto the pavement before we entered the café but, to my horror, it is still dripping, forming an embarrassing puddle on the tablecloth. That’s not the only thing embarrassing about me either, judging from the judgmental looks I am receiving. I shake my head, if only they knew that most of the leading influential figures in the world today, the political role models and ground-breaking scientific researchers, are all members of the undead like me. But they don’t and they never will. Even though I will live forever while they wither away, they will always look down on me. To them, material possession is everything. Quinton however, seems very much at ease, so much so that I am now mortified to think I asked him if we were related, though he did say as much the last time I met him on the train. He is sitting back in his chair comfortably, telling me, no doubt in a welcoming way, that this is his regular café whenever he’s in Paris. Far from being comforting the knowledge only furthers my awkwardness, I see now that he is so very different from me.

It is only four o’clock but already it is dark outside. There is a magnificent chandelier that glints down above our heads. The waiter glides over to us with our hot chocolate in a sliver pot and the light bounces off the silver, illuminating Quniton's bronze face, the quirky curve of his upper lip, constantly bent into a jagged smile, and a small, silver filagree scar slashed across his cheek. Quinton tells me that it is from a fencing accident as a child but the scar reminds me of my own one, of the fact that I am one of the undead and shouldn't be sitting in a cafe with a living boy. I cross my legs under the table and am about to do what I always do and withdraw within myself when the sugary sweet smell of chocolate being poured arrests my attention and I remind myself that Quinton had insisted there were things he needed to tell me, at the very least I should hear what he has to day.

The drinking chocolate is the most delicious thing that I have ever tasted, it is thick, rich and creamy and sluggishly ebbs back into your cup after you have taken a sip. Contentedly, I savour the chocolate then recline in my chair, cradling a lime green macaroon with pink filling. I want Quinton to tell me straight away what it was he had to tell me but instead he seems intent on passing time with small talk, asking me why I am in Paris, have I been before, and where am I headed. I tell him it is my first time in Paris and that I am here for cultural reasons, partly true. He asks me what I am doing for Christmas. Christmas? I had forgotten it was only a couple of weeks away. I tell him I don't celebrate it, completely true. According to him, there is a garden near here that I must visit while I am in Paris, the Tuileries garden. He says that it is a piece of heaven.

“You said once” I ask, stuttering slightly, “on the train you said you have known about me my whole life. How?”

The question hangs in the air but I am certain that he doesn’t appreciate how crucial this piece of information is to me. To me, the room has dimmed, the hive of sounds in the café have faded away. Not one of the undead knows their past and, as a rule, none of us attempt to find it.