Body and Soul [Dhara]

[Claude Lambert]

Claude had always considered himself a quiet admirer of jazz music. He had been playing the piano since he was old enough to sit up straight on his own, had learned the violin when he could stand, and had been taught to appreciate the very many styles of the world’s music. Despite his time spent on the genre, which could be considered either a little or a lot depending on who was asked, he never felt as though he had enough of an understanding to claim fanaticism or true jazz musicianship. Performing jazz felt wrong in some bizarre way. There was always the question of what sort of soul one had to possess in order to play something that can be considered jazz. After all, the German had been sired into the upper echelons of Hamburg’s society and so wasn’t exactly privy to the struggles and plights of the common man from which jazz drew heavy influence.

Claude had rarely performed the genre in his youth, but his interest had never waned. With his new-found freedom, however, he had begun to travel and to reminisce his past, and had found that he missed the great vibes of jazz music. And so, on one late spring evening, Claude had decided to head down to Smalls’ Jazz Club in Harper Rock, which was famed to be one of the very best clubs in the city.

The journey proved to be as interesting and influential as the destination.

Tonight, he had chosen to take the train, somewhat humorously from the small apartment he was renting though not for comedic purposes, and ended up in the same subway car as a complete lunatic. This man was African-American, a noteworthy characteristic here, since his speech was focused on the racism he had found here, there, and just about everywhere. According to his wealth of experience, a black man was as racially discriminated against in this fair Canadian city as he was in the South, or so he claimed. He generalised, and then spoke to the passengers directly, labeling them all - Claude included - as racists for one reason or another. Fellow passengers shifted in their seats, moving as far away as they could. The subway car was silent save for the strained voice of this man who only grew angrier in response to the lack of his preferred reaction. They did not even look at him and even Claude grew bored of the incident enough to watch the rush of blurry lights outside his window.

When the train stopped, everyone vacated the car leaving the lunatic alone with his bitterness.

As being German and racist tend to go hand-in-hand, ironically, Claude wasn’t entirely surprised by the outburst and when it was focused on him, but he still felt a little shaken by it. And the anxiety of the situation stuck with him until he reached the club. The venue was not exactly what he had imagine since he had only read about it in magazines; wanting for the visual and auditory experience to be an authentic first impression.The jazz club looked like a little speakeasy tucked into the heart of Gullsborough. A small blackboard standing outside the door indicated that it would be $20 to see the current set fronted by Don Friedman, an amazing and aging pianist. Claude considered the slim windows blacked out by old newspaper pages, and the heavy metal door that looked more like a fire escape than an entrance, but decided he would go ahead. As they say; nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Fortunately, the venue was more authentic inside than it had looked from the outside. Past the front door and down a short set of stairs, the actual club was tiny, though rewardingly intimate. The room was low lit and the walls were covered with mirrors, framed photos, curtains, and tapestries. The floor was crowded with mismatched chairs, which had already been claimed before Claude had arrived. To his right was an expansive bar, and to the left, a bathroom tucked away in a narrow hallway. There was no theatrical stage, but only a section of slightly raised flooring covered with a red carpet: visible upon further inspection during the intermission. The place had a vintage, musty quality to it, which only added to the atmosphere of the actual music set.

The Don Friedman Quartet consisted of the man himself on piano, Tim Armacost on tenor saxophone, Harvie S on string bass, and Klemens Marktl on Drums. Though Armacost led on the tenor saxophone with an airy yet warm tone for a great deal of the time, every musician contributed greatly. Don Friedman especially impressed the fellow pianist. Despite being relegated to the background, his quick licks and improvisation on his given chord progressions stood out for the length of the performance. There were no stands or sheet music, so it was difficult to accurately say how much was improvised and how much was not, though Claude was sure a significant amount of the music was created on the spot.

The quartet musically moved together so well that the German was astounded by the efficiency of their wordless cooperation. When there weren’t any solos going on, he didn’t even feel the desire to pick out individual instrument voices, since the collective voice was perfectly satisfying. Passing solos around, perhaps arbitrarily, each musician had a chance to prove their adeptness, and they certainly did, though they made it sound effortless. Improvisation of solos seemed second nature; unconscious yet highly thought out by some inner natural process. They had soul, mastery, and emotion. Claude was greatly humbled by their performances. He had certainly never played like this.

The young Blood Thief found the style of jazz the quartet played to be smooth rather than punchy; a style he was more accustomed to. The melodies weren’t catchy and all that memorable like one commonly heard in current pop music. Instead, the melodies were fluid, flowing from one to another. Intricate rhythms threaded with syncopation on the part of every quartet member, drove the music on and kept the audience members on the edges of their seats. Since Claude didn’t have a seat, he spent the night swaying nonchalantly to the contours of the music and tapping his foot to the persistently strong beat from the bar. Though jazz may not be entirely unique in its ability to enter people’s bodies and fill them up with musical euphoria, it is undoubtedly a frequent culprit.

[Dhara]

She had met her childe in a jazz club, and so, out of nostalgia, sought one out in the city they called home. She knew Jay was probably touring around somewhere, and she wanted to try and cultivate an appreciation for the music style he enjoyed. However, it failed more often than not. She just couldn’t get in to it. She came from humble beginnings, her past fraught with the same trauma and drama that was present in Jazz, but for her there was no connection. For Jay though, she would try and try and try again until maybe one day she found a liking for the music.

She paid the 20 bucks cover charge and ghosted in to the small club. Her petite, pixie like frame and bubblegum pink hair stood out among the more staid, mellow looking crowd who occupied the chairs and tables. She tucked a stray lock back and held onto her skirt as she walked, lifting the hem slightly so she didn’t trip over it. She made her way to the bar and leaned against the polished expanse. When the bartender came over, she ordered a black coffee in her lilting German voice.

Holding the mug, she watched the people as much as she listened to the music, amber eyes skipping around until they landed on Claude. She stared, perhaps rudely, but she recognized him and was trying to figure out why and where she had seen him. She ran with a small, one could almost say intimate, circle of very close friends. So for her to recognize someone outside that circle caught her off guard. Musicians fingers tapped on her mug as she continued to watch the not unattractive young man take in the music.

[Claude Lambert]

The feeling of being watched had different effects on different people. This was generally dependent on the context; the situation, the intent, and the individuals involved. Claude had always suffered the judgemental gazes of those around him, whether it was because the people around him questioned his competency as a young CEO, questioned his commitment as a flexible character, or they questioned his motives as a man who seemed to want to please everyone but ultimately cared only for his own ambitions, feelings, and wants. Leaving his life – or, more to the fact, what was left of it – behind in Hamburg, was a way of leaving behind those questionable stares. Only, now the eyes that watched him from a distance were doing so for an altogether more maleficent reason.

In Harper Rock, Claude felt a consistent, yet unknown number of eyes concentrate on his pulse at every second of his waking existence – as if those who watched him might wish to snatch his pulse away. He’d not noticed that heavy presence at first; being far too preoccupied with the fug of intoxication to sense the cloak of danger pulling in all around him. Besides, he’d done enough to invite that danger and intrigue, and purposefully staved off his own survival mechanisms with copious amounts of alcohol. It hadn’t done him much good, inviting the darkness to have its way with him and cleanse him from the Earth, and now he was cursed into an addiction that might very well kill him to put a stop to.

But it wasn’t all bad. This new circumstance left him with equal challenges and opportunities. On the one hand, Claude did not fear the probing eyes of those who watched him because they seemed somewhat opposed to taking advantage of his Human facade. On the other hand, his coping mechanism was no longer very effective and he was compelled to live each day with painful sobriety. Whatever magic or medicine which coursed through his body from a daily imbibing of Vampire blood, seemed to have the most uncanny effect on his metabolic system; shifting it into overdrive to flush out whatever it considered poisonous to the body.

In laymen’s terms, this meant that Claude could drink two whole bottles of 40% ABV vodka in order to feel a slight tingling in his extremities; four bottles to feel anything like the sweet escape of inebriation; and next to ten whole bottles to succumb to torpor. Provided, of course, he was able to absorb such volumes quicker than his body would process it, and as such, was certainly more likely to regurgitate those litres before ever being able to get into such a state. Case in point: a sober Claude was a largely unhappy Claude. He would now have to find alternative methods to distract himself from the disappointment, the guilt, and the mourning which consumed his soul.

Music had always been a well appreciated and reliable escape from the turbulence of board meetings, strategic workshops, client schmoozing, charity balls, and hospitality functions. More often than not this escape was sought directly – releasing weeks of frustration, exasperation, and sheer tedium through ivory keys – but when Claude’s fingers tired from penning directives, he was happy enough to be the audience rather than the artist. During his time in Harper Rock, Claude had leant on his musical talents to fund a comfortable lifestyle. Incidentally, it was by selling his time to curious bidders that he had earned substantial funds; enough to live on for at least a few months in familiar levity. As it happened, it was this poignant memory which instigated a glance across to his left and where he found a young lady staring at him as the music faded into soft applause.

Claude’s first instinct was to smile at her, half out of amusement and the remainder out of flattery, curiosity, and a vague sense of duty. Eyes the shape and substance of bronze discs regarded her fondly, etching into his mind the cheerful hue of pink hair and how it surrounded a heart-shaped face like threads of cotton candy. With her skin being the perfect canvas for art, it became natural to closely study the cerulean of her eyes, the structure of her pert nose and cheekbones, and the allure of her cupid lips against the stalwart white of her skin. If he were to assign an age to her, it would fall safely into the range of those exciting early twenties, and yet, there was something terribly old about the lady leaning there at the bar. Perhaps it was the way she cradled her coffee cup; her slender fingers tapping muted notes against the porcelain. Or, perhaps it was the way she looked at him; as if she had the wisdom to gaze into his soul. Whatever it was, it only encouraged him to sidle closer to her and spark up a conversation during the interlude.

“You’re drinking coffee,” he offered her, as plain and practical as a mirror would reflect the facts in front of them. “In a jazz lounge. At 11 o’clock at night.”

Although Claude had no interesting quirks to his genealogy in the grand scheme of things, meaning that several generations of his bloodline had kept within the borders of Germany, the man did not speak with the typical Hamburg accent. In fact, Claude made the very distinct impression that he was a resident of the United Kingdom; the suave, sophisticated tenor of his voice matched the instantly recognisable accent often described as being typically British. It is the accent on which phonemic transcriptions in dictionaries are based, and it is widely used (in competition with General American) for teaching English as a foreign language – as Claude had done when he was but a child. While the typical British accent is probably the most widely studied and most frequently described variety of spoken English in the world, recent estimates suggest only 2% of the UK population speak it. It has a negligible presence in Scotland and Northern Ireland and is arguably losing its prestige status in Wales as well. It should properly, therefore, be described as an English, rather than a British, accent, but few people knew enough to debate with him or question why he was pretending to be something he was not.

“Forgive me for being bold,” Claude continued, his voice becoming as sincere as the smile on his face. “But I have to know the choice behind such an unusual beverage choice at such a venue. And it would be a pleasure to engage in this intriguing conversation while waiting for the next performance.”

[Dhara]

British. How tragically boring. She could have sworn he was German. Then again, she'd been wrong before, about a great many things. She studied the young man, noting his casual-ish dress. A black blazer over a black and white horizontal striped t-shirt. The broad stripes were a good look as it served to make his chest and shoulders look broader than they probably were. This tapered down to black slacks and loafers. Comfortable, and yet convertible, displaying an efficiency of wardrobe that could go from board room, to poker to a date with out changing a thing save for a splash or two of cologne to refresh through out the day.

His bronze colored eyes reminded her much of Baltic Amber in the sunlight, flecks of darker bronze seeming trapped with in the honeyed hues. With a chiseled jaw straight off the cover of a romance novel, and a smile that had probably melted many many a heart colder than hers, he spoke about her odd choice of beverage, striking up a rather mundane conversation, but one she was happy to indulge in.

"I do not drink." She said, as if that was the simple explanation and all that was needed. Unlike her erstwhile companion, her soft voice was colored by her Bavarian roots. She was strongly, proudly German, though prodding would reveal she was a half-breed as her mother was Australian. A fact that could be heard in her voice, the lilting Aussie twang coloring the stronger German, adding a bright note to her voice when she spoke.

"I find soda to be too sweet, water is boring. Coffee is life." She could probably drink soda these days, since she couldn't taste anything she consumed. But habits were habits, even after 'death', and coffee was her drug and drink of choice, just as it was when she was human. "Apologies for staring, but I think I recognized you and I am unable to place where. I am Dhara." She pried a delicate hand off her coffee mug, offering it to him by way of introduction. Her hands were tiny, with the long fingers of a musician, fingers calloused from hours upon hours on the strings. The pale appendage was warm thanks to the residual heat of the mug, but she knew it wouldn't stay that way for long. Not that it much mattered in a world where vampires were common knowledge.

[Claude Lambert]

The German had been accused many a time of undressing people with his eyes. For the most part, it had been correctly assumed that he was a man of the flesh and indulged frequently in this appetite. Only occasionally had those bronzed eyes sought to dig beneath the layers of a person for honest dissection; for the sake of his curiosity regarding their full nature. In this case, the way he gazed at the young lady in front of him could very well have fallen somewhere between the two instances. For the time that they engaged in conversation, the whole world faded behind them – sound, light, colour, and substance fading into an amalgam of grey din.

In his experience, far more could be assumed of a character that spoke infrequently than those that spoke frequently. When confronted with a direct question, people responded generally within three categories. The first category consisted of those who considered themselves honest, self-assured individuals who often wore their hearts on their sleeves and cared naught for a world that judged them – this category would answer the direct question as openly as they could. The second category consisted of those who were a little less confident in themselves, building their value on the judgements of others and often coming undone when faced with criticism – this category would become defensive at the question provided it didn’t already agree with their world view. The third category consisted of those who wore fake smiles and cried crocodile tears, who mirrored the view of the world looking inward to its favour whilst guarding their own sense of ambition and identity – this category would avoid the question altogether, divert attentions, and deflect.

In response to Dhara’s confession of sobriety, Claude had merely smirked and shook his head before a list of her beverage preferences was provided in earnest. Of course, the German was well aware of how mundane their conversation was in the grand scheme of things, but it was difficult to judge a book by its cover – particularly when that cover was overshadowed by dim lights and the potential of magic. You might never know who you’re talking to at a bar in Harper Rock: whether that’s the typical oblivious civilian who had little interests outside of themselves and the latest celebrity trends, or the slightly more educated civilian who could at least be engaged in stimulating debate on one subject or another, or perhaps the monarchy of all darkness who had little interest in conversing beyond the means of ensnaring one in a spider’s web. It was simply more advantageous to a mortal’s health to start off small, build a rapport, then follow up with something a bit more bespoke depending on the nature of the individual involved and Claude’s variable interest. Frankly, most people bored him and it would be true to assume that the only reason he had been intrigued by the woman beside him was because she had been intrigued by him.

“I would like to think I would remember you if we’d met before,” Claude offered with a small, yet wicked smile. “Regardless, it’s a pleasure to meet you officially, Dhara,” he said as he took her hand to shake it confidently.

The warmth that radiated from the tiny appendage that had been folded into his larger hand was as pleasant and invigorating as the coffee she was drinking. Despite the delicacy of her appearance, there seemed to be a kind of hidden strength to the young lady, which Claude recognised to be somehow beyond that of self-nurtured confidence. True, there was more to her than met the eye – as there was with most people and especially in Harper Rock – but he rarely felt a connection of familiarity. Claude couldn’t consciously apply reason to it, couldn’t tag an identifier to the way her voice fell upon his ears like the whisper from a lover, nor why her hand felt both comforting and inspiring to him. Despite his surprise and intrigue, Claude pursued a facade of vapid, masculine confidence and merely made the effort to introduce himself and continue the small talk.

“Please, do call me Claude.” A pause, a look around their immediate surroundings to bring the world back to life, and Claude was quick to change the subject onto the evening’s focal point. “Are you enjoying your evening? This happens to be my first time here. I wasn’t aware that the city had a Jazz lounge.”

[Dhara]

His hand wrapped around hers and wasn't quick to let go, nor was she quick to pull away. A small indulgence in the touch of another person. It was such a rare treat for her, to speak with and touch another person. She left her hand tucked in his as he made his observation of the club and the music. Her lips folded in to a small smile as she looked around and then shrugged with one shoulder.

"Truthfully?" She asked with a small chuckle, then leaned in as if to convey a secret, though she was far shorter than him, so her quiet voice fell well below his ears. "I am not a fan of Jazz. This is only the second time I've heard it though." Her smile was somewhat cheeky as she looked up at him. "I have a friend who keeps trying to convince me that Jazz is worth the time and effort. But I remain unconvinced. What about you?"

She realized her hand was still enveloped in his when she tried to sip her coffee. And when she pulled away it was slowly, almost with reluctance. It was funny how one could miss something with out realizing it. For her it was conversation and the simple touch of anothers hand. Of course that realization only made her vow to cherish the conversation even more, for however long or short it was.

[Claude Lambert]

It was a dangerous game to play in allowing physical contact to linger, and while Claude would willingly push people’s boundaries on any given day, he was rather oblivious of his actions in this particular scenario. The cues that should have alerted him to overstepping his bounds were just not there. The German hadn’t noticed any discomfort from his companion and as a matter of fact, Dhara had leant into him as if to share an intimate secret. Their new proximity gifted him with the teasing scent of her perfume. Claude instinctively moved toward her, a mere hair breadth’s distance to keep them parted. Her words left him bemused yet fascinated. Here she was: a woman who had declared a distinct lack of interest in all the key components of her surroundings. Yet, she had given him a perfectly good reason for her presence here tonight. She was doing this for a friend of hers, learning to walk a mile in another’s shoes, even though she wasn’t quite convinced of their appreciation just yet. Claude’s smile tinged with a sense of pride; appeased by her noble deed and astute observations.

“Jazz has always been a guilty pleasure of mine,” he confessed. Speaking so easily that he wasn’t immediately able to elaborate without giving too much of himself away. To reiterate then, Claude reflected on what Dhara had said regarding her own preferences for the genre and used it as a veil over the truth with an uncanny degree of smoothness. “It isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, after all,” he added with a smile and a wink.

If probed, Claude would suggest that he simply had friends who disapproved of his tastes much like she disapproved of her friend’s taste in jazz. Truthfully, his love for the music was a guilty pleasure because of his upbringing and culture. The bildungsbürgertum, or educated bourgeoisie of Germany, found it unbecoming of their social class to indulge in the common man’s fantasies. That, and well, the upper classes were often targets of the genre; specifically the antagonists of their tale. For the whole world was convinced that it was money which caused the Earth to spin, and having too much made you a villain whilst having too little made you the victim. There was plenty of evidence to suggest that it was easier to move down the ladder of success, wealth, and class than it was to move up, but that didn’t make it impossible and it shouldn’t have cemented the stereotypes.

The Lambert family had moved mountains in the past century to sit proudly on the top rungs of that ladder. In less than half a decade, Claude had slid his way down to the bottom rungs and sat there quite stubbornly. He purposefully avoided any activity that echoed his life in Hamburg; he lied about his background, adopted a British accent, he took on manual forms of labour, he lived in a studio apartment, and even travelled with the use of public transport. Claude also spent his time focused on leisure rather than work, providing more than enough opportunity to venture into bars and talk his way into the affections of strangers. Claude did not represent the exception which proved the rule; he represented the rule to its totality. And so it was that the Jazz genre would likely always remain a guilty pleasure of his – regardless of the lies he told.

“Where would you rather be right now?” he asked her, bronzed eyes focused and compelling as they gazed into her honeyed orbs. He kept his voice low so that the illusion of their intimacy held, even as the band began to set up for the next session. “Feel free to be as impractical as you’d like with your answer. I’m fascinated with how your mind works.”