CHAPTER 3
Chaim watched as the valet drove his car off to be parked. His older model Civic looked rather out of place among the BMW, Mercedes, and Cadillac models that filled most of the parking lot. He smiled a little, shrugged, and turned to enter The Dove. He had been here once or twice before. It was a small, very exclusive restaurant that catered to primarily a Jewish clientele and featured menus that strictly abided by the kashrut rules. It kept a low profile among the community, doing no advertising, but there were enough monied Orthodox and traditional Conservative Jewish families in the area that word of mouth gave them a steady business. Needless to say, their prices were on the high end of the scale, but his father insisted that they were worth it, and if it was good enough for Moses Caan, it had to be good enough for anyone. Chaim was rather regretful that he wasn’t dining there tonight, but on the other hand, he was glad he wasn’t paying for the meal, either. Getting the use of their back room for a couple of hours had not been cheap.
Chaim had dithered about what to wear, but had finally decided to go old school with a blazer jacket—he still had one he hadn’t outgrown—over a dress shirt with no tie and a pair of casual slacks. Mortimer, the restaurant’s usual maître d’hôtel, looked up as he entered the door at 8:50 p.m. “Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation, or are you meeting someone tonight?”
Chaim repressed an urge to adjust his coat-sleeve cuffs, and said, “Good evening. I am Chaim Caan. I believe I have the back room reserved at nine. Have my guests arrived?”
Mortimer checked the reservation list. “Yes, sir, that is the reservation, but you are the first to arrive. The reservation says that this will not be a meal, only drinks?”
“I won’t be eating, but my guest might. We’ll have to see. But please have a bottle of kosher wine available.”
“Certainly, sir. Do you wish to go to the room or to await your guest here?”
Mortimer’s voice had a trace of an accent that Chaim was not able to place, but his diction and use of grammar was better than his own.
“I’ll wait here for him,” Chaim said. He stepped to one side as an older couple appeared in the doorway to be greeted by Mortimer. “Mr. and Mrs. Lipschutz, how nice to see you again. This way to your table.”
While Mortimer led that couple to their table, Chaim looked around as two more people appeared in the doorway—two men, neither of whom looked to be from the local coastal California population. He wasn’t expecting two, but they had to be who he was waiting for.
The first was a blocky figure of middle height dressed in an old-school professorial tweed jacket and gray slacks with the tasseled fringe of a tallit peeking out from under the coat. He pretty much had to be Rabbi Mendel. His face was framed by a gray-white square-cut beard with bushy sideburns and curly payess locks hanging before his ears, prominent cheekbones, and head crowned by a black homburg hat. His looks didn’t surprise Chaim much, given his name. He’d done some research, and Mendel was a prominent name in Lubavitcher and Chassidic circles.
The second was a contrast in all ways: taller, very lean—almost gaunt—clean shaven with a face that reminded Reuben of the actor Basil Rathbone, long coal-black hair combed straight back, and dressed in a dark blue suit that fit him so well it reminded Chaim of Prince Philip of Great Britain before he had passed away.
He mustered up his courage and stepped forward. “Rabbi Mendel?” At the older man’s nod, he offered his hand. “I’m Chaim Caan.”
The older man grabbed his hand and gave it a hearty shake. “Of course you are! Pleased to meet you in the flesh, Reb Chaim.” Mendel released his hand and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “This is Mordechai Zalman, my associate, keeper, and occasional guardian. I tend to get lost when I travel, so I’m no longer allowed to travel alone.” The last was said with a large, toothy grin.
Zalman shook his head and held out his own hand to exchange a firm handclasp with Chaim. “It’s not quite as bad as all that,” he said with a strong Eastern European accent. “He’s simply a bit absent-minded at times. We won’t talk about the time he ended up in Tijuana when he was supposed to be in Toronto.” That last was said with a very deadpan expression. Chaim wasn’t sure how to take that, until he saw the corners of Zalman’s mouth curling up slightly and heard Mendel’s chuckle.
Despite also having a renowned Jewish name—even Chaim remembered that Zalman had been the surname of the Vilna Gaon—the other man didn’t have the Chassidic look to him. Their voices were also distinctly different. Zalman’s baritone was so deep it almost rumbled in stark contrast to the lyric tenor of the older man.
Before he could respond to that, Chaim realized that Mortimer had appeared at his elbow with an eyebrow raised. He turned to the maître d’ with, “Mortimer, here are my guests, so if you could have someone lead us to the room?”
Mortimer nodded his head. “This way, if you please.”
The maître d’ led them himself through the smallish seating area and between the tables until they arrived at a door set far back in the right wall. Mortimer held the door open, and Chaim led the others into the room.
Once in the room they stared at each other for a moment, before Chaim kind of shook himself and gestured toward a nearby table. “Please, let’s sit and get comfortable.”
The round table was set with a white tablecloth and seating for two. Silverware glinted on the tabletop, and wine glasses were set as well.
Mortimer brought another chair from another table. Mendel and Chaim ended up opposite each other, with Zalman to one side. Before they sat, Mendel took off his homburg and handed it to Zalman, who laid it atop a nearby table. Chaim was not surprised to see a black kippah on the back of Mendel’s head.
Mortimer stepped forward as they settled into their seats. “Will any of you gentlemen be wanting to see a menu this evening?” Chaim looked at the others, but upon receiving shakes of their heads, said, “No, that won’t be needed. Wine?” he asked, looking around again.
“That would be a kindness,” Mendel observed with a smile. Zalman shook his head, which surprised Chaim a bit.
“Wine for the rabbi, then,” Chaim indicated, “and two waters.”
Mortimer moved to a side table, returning to pour a dark red wine into Mendel’s glass. A bare moment later, Zalman and Chaim had ice water in their glasses.
Collecting the silverware, Mortimer paused at the door and murmured, “If you need anything else, only ask,” before slipping out.
Mendel reached out and picked up his wine glass as the door closed. He closed his eyes and recited, “Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of all, Creator of the fruit of the vine.” Eyes still closed, he took a sip from his glass, then opened his eyes with a beatific smile. “Very nice.” He lifted his glass to Chaim. “Thank you, young man. I don’t often get the good stuff.” He took another sip, and set his glass down.
Chaim took a sip of water, setting his glass down just after Mendel did. He looked at the rabbi, who took the lead.
“Young man—Chaim—I understand that you are dealing with an unusual problem.”
“You could call it that,” Chaim muttered.
“Please, to refresh my memory and for Reb Mordechai’s sake, tell me again in your own words what you have experienced.” Mendel laced his fingers together across his abdomen and leaned back a bit in his chair.
Chaim laced his own fingers together before him on the table and stared down at his joined hands for a long moment before speaking. “It was a little over two weeks ago…” he began in a low voice, not looking up.
No one moved as Chaim spoke. No other sounds were heard other than his voice and the faint murmur of conversations occurring in the main dining room on the other side of the door. He gave his account in much the same manner and same wording as when he had confronted Reuben in the parking lot that first night. It flowed smoothly, and he thought to himself that he’d had some practice in telling the story.
After Chaim concluded, no one spoke right away. Mendel nodded a few times, a slow movement where his beard brushed his thumbs where they rested together atop his sternum. At length the rabbi looked over at his companion. “Mordechai?”
Zalman pursed his lips, then nodded. “It’s true. He’s been converted. I smelled it when we walked into the room. Pheromones, you know. Those changes are among the first to occur.” He looked over to where Chaim’s jaw hung open in a fair rendition of the expression “gobsmacked.” “What, boy? Did you think you were the only one this had ever happened to?”
Chaim’s head was spinning. He reached out, picked up his glass and drained it in a single swallow. Setting the glass down, he repressed a ferocious cough with difficulty. “Wha…what are you talking about? Are you saying you’re…you’re…a…” He couldn’t get the words out.
“A vampire?” Mordechai’s face carried a very thin grin—not a smile, a razor-sharp grin. “Yes. A Jewish vampire? Yes.”
Chaim’s mouth had closed, but he had a very bewildered expression on his face. “Are there…are there very many of…us?” He swallowed afterward.
“No,” Mendel entered the conversation. “There are never many—never have been many—Jewish vampires. How many others are there?” He moved his shoulders in the inimitable Jewish shrug. “Eh, no one knows. Undoubtedly there are some, but how many? haShem might know, but we certainly do not.”
“Actually, we do know of at least two Jewish vampires in Israel,” Zalman said, “which probably explains some things about why Israel still exists and their enemies seem so feckless.” He shrugged. “And there may be one in eastern Europe somewhere based on a few hints of things that have happened in the last twenty or thirty years. But yes, for the most part, Rav Avram is correct. We have very little way of detecting vampires, whether Jewish or other types, unless they want to be found.”
“Other types?” Chaim asked, sitting back in his chair. “You mean…”
“Yes, vampires, both Jewish and goy, do exist,” Mendel reentered the conversation, “though they are neither as prevalent as recent books would have you believe, nor as wantonly destructive. Evil, yes, most of them”—the rabbi spread his hands—“but not horrific, if you see the difference. It’s not as easy to create a vampire as the stories would have you think, or we would undoubtedly be overrun with them. For the most part, they don’t seem to survive for very long.”
“Wait,” Chaim interjected. “Are you one, too?”
“No.” Mendel straightened and shook his head. “Not me. I’m older than I look. I was born in Gdańsk in disputed Poland in 1934, so I am well past haShem’s allotment of three score and ten years. But I have nothing like my friend’s tally”—he gestured toward Zalman—“and I am alive solely because He has not yet sent His angel for me.”
Chaim’s head turned toward Zalman. “Just how old are you?”
That thin, sharp grin fleeted across his face again for a moment. “I believe I was born in 1739, but it’s hard to be certain after all this time. Things that far back do get foggy in memory, as you might imagine. I was definitely born in Białystok, though.” A good-humored smile appeared on his face after that.
There was a stunned silence for a long moment. Chaim’s eyes closed for a moment, then reopened slowly. “You’re…two hundred and eighty years old,” he said carefully, not wanting to believe this most extraordinary statement of the evening.
Zalman lifted his palms and made a scales-balancing motion. “Give or take a decade or so, yes.”
“You don’t sound that old. You don’t sound old-fashioned at all.”
“I learned English in the twentieth century,” Zalman said with a smile. “My Yiddish and my German do sound funny to modern speakers. My Russian…” He pursed his lips and shook his head slightly.
“I can vouch for that,” Mendel contributed. “His Yiddish could be smeared with a knife, and his German is old-style Hochdeutsch. He gets many funny looks when we’re in Germany or Austria.”
There was another pause before Chaim resumed.
“This is all very interesting—in a horrifying sort of way—but none of this addresses my concerns. Can we please get back to that?” He was kind of proud at how he had managed to hang on to his sanity long enough to steer the conversation back to its original purpose.
Mendel looked a bit abashed. “Quite right. Sorry.” He folded his hands together. “The short version is that yes, you are a vampire; yes, we do know something about this; and no, this does not in and of itself exclude you from the congregation of Israel.”
“But the mitzvah—” Chaim began.
Mendel raised a hand. “Mordechai, if you would.”
Zalman reached a hand inside the breast of his exquisitely tailored suit and brought forth a folded paper from an inside pocket. He unfolded the paper with care, smoothed it flat on the table top, then turned it and presented it to Chaim.
Chaim made his way through the thick Hebrew lettering with some difficulty, and looked up. “What…what is this?”
“That, my friend,” Zalman said soberly, “is a scanned copy of a ruling. Most authorities consider that the mitzvah that so concerns you is part of the foundation of the kashrut rules. There is, however, a minority opinion that it is also meant to apply to circumstances of pagan worship where blood is drunk. Regardless, it does not apply to accidentally consuming traces of blood when the kashrut rules are not adequately applied. It does not apply to times of duress or stress when blood must be consumed to survive. And most importantly for us, it does not apply to those whose only hope of life is to consume blood.” He touched a finger to the page. “It is signed by the Vilna Gaon.”
Chaim sat paralyzed. Yet another remarkable revelation in the evening. He was beyond stunned, surprised, and shocked. Signed by the greatest of rabbinic authorities of modern times? How?
“So just as you are not unique in being a Jewish vampire,” Mendel said with gentle kindness, “you are also not unique in this concern of yours.”
Chaim’s finger traced the signature line. “Eliyahu ben Shlomo of Vilna.” He looked up with shining eyes. “This is for real?”
Mendel nodded with a smile. “It is real, Chaim. It has been verified.”
“But…how…”
Zalman lifted his finger from the page and held it between them. “The ruling was issued late in the sage’s life, and there was only one copy of it. His family never saw it, so it was never published after his death. The man he gave it to preserved it for many years.”
Chaim’s mind chewed through everything he’d heard this evening, and arrived at what would have been an unthinkable conclusion at the beginning of the conversation. “You?”
Zalman nodded. “I guarded that piece of parchment as if it had been written by the finger of haShem. It was my sole protection, my sole justification, my sole explanation and defense of my life from 1793 until I met Rav Avram.” He lowered his hand. “It is why afterward I took his surname for my own. I was not born Zalman.”
Chaim released a deep sigh. “I guess I can understand that.” He looked back and forth at the two men. “I want a copy of this.”
“Take that one,” Zalman said.
Chaim folded the page along its crease lines with care, and put it in his inner jacket pocket. “Thank you,” he said. “This”—he touched the breast of his blazer—“means a lot to me.”
Before he could continue, Zalman spoke. “Not to be rude,” the older vampire said, “but I have a couple of questions to ask.” He looked at Chaim. “First, if you were converted over two weeks ago, how have you fed in that time? You’re conscious, alert, articulate—you’ve had to have fed at least four times in that period. What did you do?”
Chaim looked down at the table. “I…uh, I…” Chaim began with a stutter, “I…would go down to one of the homeless areas, find someone who seemed healthy, and…I’d buy them a meal, then I’d buy them a bottle of their favorite booze. Once they were unconscious, I’d…feed from them, but only enough to quiet the hunger. I never took more than probably half a unit. And I’d leave them more food for when they woke up.”
“Where did you feed from? The neck?” Zalman’s tone was dispassionate; his face was expressionless, almost as if it didn’t matter.
“No.” Chaim shook his head, still looking down. “From the lower arm and wrist.” He looked up, almost pleading. “I didn’t know what else to do! But I made sure that I went to different areas, and I made sure I only used each one once. I tried to be careful, and not create more of me!”
Zalman held up his right hand. “Peace, child. You did as well as anyone could have done. And it takes more than one contact to create a new vampire. Be at peace about that.”
Chaim’s look of shame slowly transitioned to one more of relief. He sat in silence, and the others gave him that moment.
At length, Chaim looked up again. “Why do I feel like there’s more to your agenda? You could have handled this much with a phone call and a fax machine.”
“Because you are a good man filled with wisdom and a discerning spirit,” Mendel replied with a smile. “My young friend, as you may have guessed from some of our earlier conversation, Mordechai and I are part of a small organization. It’s not a clandestine group, by any means, but we don’t go out of our way to publicize it, either. Our purpose is to investigate and collect information on what some people call the paranormal.”
After a moment, Chaim nodded. “And vampires are part of that work?”
“Indeed,” Mendel said. “Now, with the help of Mordechai and one or two others over the years, we have gathered some knowledge, but we have never been able to work with or examine a new vampire. We would greatly appreciate it if you would return with us to our place of study and allow our doctors to examine you. Getting a baseline of what a new vampire is like will greatly help us understand the process by which we arrive at one like, well, Mordechai, for example.”
“They’ll pay you for that, by the way.” Mordechai’s grin was back, and his tone was dry enough to suck all the humidity out of the room’s air.
“Of course we will,” Mendel said, waving a hand in dismissal at his friend, “and pay you well. Did you say you were a premed student?” Chaim nodded. “Then you may find our facilities and our work interesting. We’ll fly you out and fly you back, of course.”
“Private jet,” Mordechai added. “No ticket necessary, no security searches. Only way to travel.” His grin grew a bit sharper. “If you like, you could fly back with us tomorrow night.”
“Umm, let me think about it tonight. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
There followed a long moment of silence, then the rabbi placed his palms flat on the table. “Well, I think perhaps that is enough for a beginning. I have your phone number. Shall I call you tomorrow afternoon?”
Chaim nodded, still somewhat in a daze from everything he had heard that evening. Mendel stood, and the others followed suit. The meeting was apparently over.
Chaim’s head was spinning. “I don’t think I’m going to believe all this tomorrow,” he muttered.
“It doesn’t matter if you do or don’t, Reb Chaim. You’ve been part of a very good thing tonight, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Mendel threw his arms around Chaim, who discovered that although the man was over eighty years old he could still hug like a bear. He staggered a bit after Mendel released his clasp.
“Thank you, Rabbi,” Chaim said with a smile and shining eyes. “Thank you so much for meeting with me. I think you’ve saved my life.”
“This is only the beginning,” Mendel replied. “We’ll speak again tomorrow.”
The rabbi picked up his hat and headed toward the door. Zalman looked at Chaim with his head tilted to one side. “You going to be okay, young friend?”
Chaim thought for a moment, then nodded. “I think so. I’ve just had my understanding of the universe expanded considerably.”
Zalman smiled. “Contact with Rabbi Avram can do that.” He chuckled. “Remind me to tell you some day of my first meeting with him.” With that, he turned and followed the rabbi.
Chaim was left in the empty room, the door standing open, feeling absolutely washed out. After a moment, he sighed, picked up his water glass and moved to the side table where he refilled it from a carafe. The maître d’ stepped into the room as he was taking a slow sip.
“All done this evening, Mr. Caan? They didn’t stay long.”
“All done, Mortimer. Thanks for hosting us. It didn’t take as long as we thought it would to settle our business.”
“Our pleasure.” Mortimer gave a small smile, turned and exited the room.
Chaim finished the water, set the glass down carefully, and headed for the door himself.
“I’m still probably not going to believe this tomorrow,” he muttered.
* * *
Once the valet brought his car around and he got out on the street, Chaim focused on driving to work. Halfway there, he realized he’d made his decision, apparently without consciously thinking about it. He was going to take Rabbi Mendel’s offer. That meant he needed to tell Karli about it, though. Better to get it over with, so at the next stoplight he pulled out his phone and said, “Call Karli.”
The phone dialed out and linked up with the car’s Bluetooth systems. He heard it ring once, twice, then…
“Hello, Chaim. What do you want?” Karli didn’t sound very happy, but then again, if he was getting a phone call at 10:00 p.m. after a long day, he probably wouldn’t be happy either.
“Hi, Karli. I hate to be calling you at this hour, and I hate to be bringing you bad news, but there’s no way around it. Tonight’s going to be my last shift.”
“What? Are you kidding me?”
“No. I got a chance at a position with a really significant medical research project, but I had to tell them yes or no right away and I have to report right away. I’m going to take it. Sorry. I really am, but this is a big opportunity for me that I can’t pass up.” Another statement, he realized, that wasn’t totally factual but was in essence true.
There was a long silence, then Karli said in a very controlled tone, “It’s a good thing you’re not in arm’s reach of me right now.” Her sigh sounded heavy even over the phone. “Okay, I understand you didn’t have any time to give notice, and I understand it’s a good opportunity for you. But you can tell your new boss for me that he’s a rat bastard.” Another pause and a sense of Karli being distracted. “Crap. I’ve got a conference call with corporate first thing in the morning, so I won’t be in until about 9:00 a.m. Just leave me a resignation letter in the desk. I’ll deal with it when I get there.”
“Okay,” Chaim replied.
“And Chaim?” Karli’s voice was softer.
“Yeah?”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
Late Thursday afternoon Chaim’s phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Chaim, this is Rabbi Mendel. Have you reached your decision?”
“Yes, I have.” He took a deep breath. “I’m in. And I’m packed. Where do I go?”