I've abandoned the book I was writing, that never-ending novel that entertained me so much, a novel where I mixed all genres, a novel where, if I were still human, I would keep blending those literary genres until the day I would have to find out if the life I was living would be the last of them all. And why did I abandon the novel? Well, because it no longer makes sense to me to dedicate time to literature. Because this eternal life I have now is much more interesting than any fiction, and I enjoy so much more doing what I do and living what I live with Agnes. You could say that being a vampire is my new drug. Well, not exactly being a vampire, but being a vampire to drink blood, to have fun drinking new and increasingly delicious victims dry. Because let's face it, drinking blood is a fucking blast. It not only nourishes me, but it also takes me to the nirvana of heaven. And, of course, a not insignificant detail—if one wants to be a beautiful and vigorous vampire, it's always necessary to drink blood of high quality. Anyway, I realize I'm just repeating what Agnes says.
And speaking of Agnes, I have to say her life here in Miraverde is too fulfilling. And look, she not only loves this city but the whole country. This country, Nueva Brisenia, is paradise for her. Here, the blood is really high-class, from all over the world. Creole blood. Mixed blood. Caucasian blood. African blood. Asian blood. And here, everything has blended, she tells me, in a harmonious way. Almost every night, Agnes does the same thing: she climbs to the roof of our house and deeply breathes in the air of the city. At first, I didn't get it, but now I do, and I do the same. I like feeling the smell that floats in the air. It's the scent of the unique fragrances of the skins of Miraverde's inhabitants. In this case, to be more precise, it's the smell of the fragrances of the people from the best part of the city, from the south of Miraverde. And that smell is truly delicious. I don't know how to explain it exactly, but I'll try. Imagine that you, a regular human being, are starving. Then, the air comes to you with the fragrance of a blackberry pie, as if one of those grandmothers who used to cook, the ones that are almost gone, was making one. The pie is in the oven, cooking slowly, and with every passing minute, the aroma becomes more succulent, enveloping, stirring in you an uncontrollable desire to take a bite, to savor it like it's the only thing you could wish for. Now, let's be honest, being a vampire, that human sensation of smelling the pie when you're hungry has to be multiplied by a trillion times, maybe more, to even come close to what I feel when I breathe in the air where the fragrances of the bodies from the south of Miraverde mix.
Agnes says to me:
"This city has all the charm of New York's structure, but obviously, without the New Yorkers, those people with polluted blood. Damn, the blood of those people is really disgusting. I couldn't live there. The blood of their inhabitants depresses you horribly. It gives you a terrible crash. Besides, to make matters worse, there are a lot of old, decadent vampires in that place. Those vampires are more boring than a sermon."
"Are there more vampires here?"
"Yes, there are."
"Why haven't I met them?"
"Because they're inferior."
"And you're not going to introduce me to them?"
"When have you ever seen a queen going around telling her friends: 'Come, I'm going to introduce you to my servants?'"
"Do you have them under control like you have me?"
"I could. But they're useless to me. You're special, my love."
"But you never tell me why I'm special."
"Everything in its due time."
"I'm tired of that damn answer."
"Don't be annoying, Zico. Don't act like a child who's a machine gun of questions. You're always on the same thing, asking and asking again. You think too much, handsome. You're always asking something. 'Are there more vampires, Agnes?' 'How can I read your mind like you read mine, Agnes?' 'How can I see the Beyond, Agnes?' 'What are we going to do when there's no life left on this planet, Agnes?' 'How are we going to live if there's no blood to drink, Agnes?' 'Are we going to have to help humans so they never go extinct, Agnes?' 'Agnes, Agnes, Agnes!' You're going to drive me crazy, little curious bastard."
"I just want to know. That can't be wrong. Damn it, only idiots embrace ignorance with complete ease."
"I already told you, you'll know everything, but not now, and not all at once. And if you haven't understood, I'll say it again: Everything in its due time. You won't always be ignorant. So, be content with that, and now come on, we have to go to the southwest, to the La Alberta neighborhood. Tonight we're having middle-class blood for dinner."
An hour later, we're both satisfied. The house we're in is a beautiful British-style townhouse. The two people who lived here, and who are now dead, the two who've served as food for Agnes and me, were a newlywed couple still living their moment of peak happiness, that happiness of the first year of marriage. He was in his early thirties. She was in her twenties. Needless to say, they were two beautiful human specimens in excellent physical condition. If these two hadn't been chosen by Agnes to be our dinner, they would have had children that might've come straight out of an eugenics lab. Drinking their blood was a delight. Now, the newlywed couple lies lifeless on the living room carpet. Agnes wanted to play a little, so she placed them together, embraced. Agnes searches for a song on the laptop the woman had left on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Agnes finds a song she likes. She says to me:
"Come on, my love. Let's sit for a while."
We sit on the sofa. Blackbird by The Beatles plays.
Agnes and I sing softly, not looking at each other, holding hands.