Nemuritor

A Vampyre Sketch

                                                                                                            You live accompanied by luck
                                                                                                                          In your narrow world,
                                                                                                    Whilst in my boundless realm I feel
                                                                                                             Both deathless and dead cold
                                                                                        (Mihai Eminescu, The Morning Star)

Having just received a letter from Doru Moroiu, I feel compelled to sit down and pour my thoughts onto paper. It is not something I would have done were it not for that providential encounter with him. Doru Moroiu was, paradoxically, the first person who truly taught me how to be human.

I had just been promoted to senior associate and sent by the firm I was with at the time for a secondment in Bucharest. I initially thought this assignment was part of a complex hazing ritual, so I accepted this supposed sentence with enthusiasm.

Despite the many Soviet-era buildings, I was surprised by the abundance of modern architecture and the even more contemporary fashion of the people. Though I left New York with a sense of commitment, the many beautiful women quickly made me forget whatever promises I had made.They, along with the cheap yet excellent wine, were my only respite as I worked inhuman hours, my BlackBerry constantly buzzing with messages at all times, day or night.

The office was housed in an old mansion in the very heart of Bucharest, built by the local gentry in the 19th century. The furnishings, including heavy mahogany desks, fine leather swivel chairs, and Voltaire armchairs, were walled in by bookshelves that matched the mansion's stately charm. The entire setting provided a striking contrast to the clean and sterile aesthetic of our head office back home. None of the lights cast the harsh blue glow of modern offices. Instead, the space was bathed in a warm, orange hue at night, emanating from vintage fixtures and the many candle holders scattered throughout the rooms. The flickering light lent the office a sense of quiet reverence, as if the past itself lingered in the shadows.

Once, while perusing the shelves in search of a book on precedents, something the Romanian legal industry sorely lacks, I noticed that less than half of the collection consisted of legal works. The majority comprised novels, poetry collections, and treatises on the occult, many of them very old editions, some even older than the building itself.

All of this contrasted with the cutting-edge business of the company, which specialized in the development of solar panels. They had already completed several projects that were now being sold to an international conglomerate originally based in the Czech Republic. The company was run by a handful of engineers, old guard types that thought that they knew everything, including the American Uniform Commercial Code on which the sale and purchase contracts were to be concluded.

Whenever our disagreements grew too fierce and I was forced to remind them that I was engaged to the owner himself, one Doru Moroiu, a man seemingly without a past, the engineers would laugh and say, “My boy, you can try getting him on the phone, but I doubt you’ll reach him before sundown.”

Nothing about this statement seemed odd to me at the time. I simply assumed he was a playboy. The buyers, however, were a different matter entirely. They were relentless, nitpicking every clause and delaying the transaction with endless demands. Just as I was beginning to wonder if the deal would ever go through, I received a letter from Mr. Moroiu. A letter, of all things, in an age when nobody sent letters anymore. In it, he asked me to assist him in selling the entire company, a request that seemed sudden and irrational from a business perspective. Nevertheless, I obliged his request without much thought.

---

The transaction did not go smoothly at all. The sale and purchase agreement for the company was drafted in accordance with the laws of the State of New York, and Mr. Moroiu, through another letter, handed me complete control. I was now the lead, and the Czech buyers did everything in their power to make life difficult. I kept my head down as best I could, and after six infernal months, we were all gathered in the main boardroom at six in the evening on a cold December day.

Doru Moroiu finally made his appearance, and I met my client for the first time. Bald, hairless, actually, his short, upturned nose looked almost as if it had been cut, and his pointy, oversized ears gave him an uncanny appearance. He wore large, round sunglasses and a black zoot suit with a matching black shirt with white pinstripes. When I entered the room, a dozen people were shouting at each other in Romanian, Czech, and German, but mostly in heavily accented English that I struggled to understand.

However, the moment Doru Moroiu stepped inside, the room fell into order. By the time we signed the documents, we were all friends, clinking glasses of champagne and laughing together as if we were old chums.

After everyone was drunk and hungry, we decided to go out to eat, but Mr. Moroiu excused himself and gently pulled me to the side. Through my suit jacket and shirt, I felt his long nails scratch me slightly, but I did not want to embarrass my client, so I kept quiet. Sensing my discomfort, he quickly let go of my arm.

“Sorry, my good man,” he said. “I just need to have a word with you as my lawyer. There are certain arrangements that you will have to make.”

We stepped into the office, and as soon as we entered, the room was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. There were no electric lights, only rows of candles lining the shelves and tables, flickering to life as if sensing our presence.

---

Doru Moroiu settled into the armchair with an air of practiced ease, removing his sunglasses and placing them carefully on the desk. His eyes, deep ruby without pupils, shimmered in the flickering candlelight. I did not register them as anything out of the ordinary at first, too preoccupied with the weight of the day and the peculiar stillness that followed the celebration.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he slipped off his suit jacket, revealing the startling sight of large, bat-like wings folded neatly against his back. He stretched them with a long sigh, the leathery expanse catching the warm glow of the room.

“You’d think after two decades I’d be used to these by now,” he mused, flexing the joints as if testing them for the first time. “But some things, my good man, take longer to accept than others.”

I knew that if not for the alcohol in my blood, I would have fainted. Instead, I sank into the Voltaire chair in front of his desk, my legs feeling unsteady beneath me. His mouth curled into a forgiving smile, revealing fangs like a wolf’s.

“You took it better than I expected,” he said, his voice amused. “But I think you’ve dealt with worse monsters than I in your illustrious career.” I couldn’t muster a response, so I simply nodded. He reached for a glass and a bottle of whiskey from a cupboard behind his desk, pouring generously until the liquid nearly touched the brim.

“Drink up, my dear boy. I need your wits about you. You are my counselor, after all.” He pushed the glass toward me and leaned back with a knowing look. “And I must apologize for this rude introduction to my nature, but as the saying goes, never lie to your doctor or your lawyer.” His chuckle eased me as much as the fine whiskey, and soon enough we were laughing together, the strangeness of the moment slipping into something almost familiar

---

Now, my good man, I know the questions you’re dying to ask, so please sit back and relax. Enjoy your drink. Take the bottle if you like, just don’t get too drunk, as we will need to discuss some business after I am done regaling you with the story of my unlife.

I can no longer indulge in such pleasures myself, which is a pity because I never got the chance to taste whisky. The last drink I had was raki, brought all the way from Greece by those Eteria boys I was running with at the time. The Filiki Eteria, which translates to the "Society of Friends," founded in 1814 with the aim of liberating Greece from Ottoman rule. They played a significant role in the Greek War of Independence of 1821, though in Wallachia, their presence was felt in other ways.

Back then, I was not the creature you see before you. I was Nicoară Mușat, a noble by birth but a Pandur by choice.¹ My family lost their lands to the Phanariots and their insatiable greed, and I was left with nothing but my name and my sword. Tudor Vladimirescu and I were patriots, not revolutionaries for the sake of chaos, but men who wanted something better for our people. We fought for Wallachia, not for their Greek dreams.

We took Bucharest without much of a fight, marching through its streets in the early spring of 1821, our boots kicking up the last of winter's dust. We seized the boyars’ houses, commandeered their cellars, and sat in their silk-upholstered chairs, dreaming of a Wallachia free from their greed. But dreams, my young friend, quickly fade away when politics are involved.

Our plan was simple. Work with the Ottomans, grant Romania a semblance of autonomy, and keep the wolves, be they Greek or Russian, at bay. The Turks were never too bad, you know. My best business partners have always been Turks, much better company than the Czechs. You ought to believe me when I say that, especially after your troubles.

Our Greek friends fancied themselves liberators, but they were schemers through and through. One night, after too much raki and too many promises, they turned on us. Who would have thought, with a name like that... Tudor and I drank with them, laughed with them, and when our heads were heavy and our swords rested against the walls, they slit our throats like lambs for Easter.

Tudor died that night, and so did I. At least for a little while. It couldn't have been more than a year. You see, I was born with a caul over my head, and they say such children cannot stay dead for long. I remember my poor mother dragging a priest to our house to read prayers over me, but I suppose he didn’t read the right ones. Or maybe it was because I wasn’t buried properly, because when I opened my eyes again, I was lying in an abandoned well on the outskirts of Bucharest—the mahala, as we called it back then.

At first, nothing seemed strange. I awoke in the middle of the night, convinced my murder had been nothing more than an alcohol-induced nightmare, and I went looking for my comrades. But there was a hunger in me, a hunger I had never known before. I staggered into the first tavern I found to sup, but I cannot remember what happened. Though I know my crimes. I shall spare you the gruesome details, my dear friend, but keep them in mind. Keep them in mind and forgive me all the same. I have been a monster, though in those early days, I looked not unlike you. It took me decades to grow claws and fangs, and half a century to develop these ruby red eyes. As for the wings, well, as I said, I have not had them for too long.

To be perfectly honest, I do not know my own biology. In those early years of my unlife, I fled westward in search of knowledge, desperate for answers. Although many treatises on vampirism had circulated since the middle of the 18th century, I have yet to find a reliable one. I scoured the libraries of Budapest, Warsaw, Göttingen, Vienna, Paris, Rome, Florence, Lisbon, Madrid, and many more. I slept in common ditches and sewers, in a crypt if I was lucky.

It was one of my kin who taught me our ways and trained me to use the full extent of my powers. A common error regarding vampires is the belief that we need to drink blood to quell our hunger, but it is not blood that sustains us. It is the life force we crave. Blood carries it, just as it carries memories and truths that cannot be spoken, but life force is all around us. It lingers in dreams and feelings, in hopes and sentiments. A good book can hold it within its pages, and a great play or opera can be a feast beyond compare.

But back then, the world was slower, and the common folk were not as restless as they are today. Those who were ambitious had already been drained by the rising, merciless industry. Although I promised myself night after night that I would not feed upon another human, I kept breaking.

The year 1848 marked a turning point. I was living in Palermo at the time, working with another society of friends, though my role was more that of an independent contractor. I did wet work for them, tasks they would rather not dirty their hands with, and in return, they paid me peanuts. It was enough to keep my hunger at bay.

When the revolution came, I followed it across Europe, drifting from one uprising to the next in search of nobler blood. I traveled to Paris, where the barricades ran red with the blood of dreamers who believed in liberty, and from there to Vienna, where the revolutionaries spilled their lifeblood in grand halls and narrow alleyways alike. I walked the cobbled streets of Budapest, where the fire of nationalism burned brightest, and I arrived in Bucharest just as the revolutionaries there dared to hope. Everywhere I went, I fed on the blood of those who gave their lives willingly, those who believed in something greater than themselves.

There was something different in their blood, something richer, filled with purpose and conviction. It was unlike the blood of criminals or the desperate, who only ever bled out fear and regret. For the first time, I tasted courage, and it was intoxicating. After that, I found no satisfaction in the common liquid flowing through average veins.

---

I decided then to remain in Bucharest and vowed to give up blood for the last time. I dedicated myself to the arts, frequenting salons and sponsoring countless creators, feeding on the freshness of their works. I still looked like a man, though my skin had taken on the pallor of marble and my eyes were forever bloodshot. Yet none of my many lovers ever complained about these features. Quite the contrary, my dear fellow.

I fed on the hopes of the former revolutionaries who had managed to return home from their exiles, on the many works presented to me, and on the fiery passions of my lovers. The energy of their ambition and desire sustained me far better than any feast of flesh and blood. Though, I must admit, I had to be cautious with my female companions, as there were certain days each month I had to avoid them entirely.

But my palate soon grew tired, and I found myself craving a taste of politics. Those were days of great temptation, my dear fellow, for the blood of young politicians burned with an intoxicating fire, and I longed for just another bite. I backed Cuza, that great sickly unifier, not because I liked the man, but because he was the only one I was not tempted to sink my teeth into.

Alexandru Ioan Cuza, you see, was the man who united the principalities of Wallachia and Moldavia into a single nation, laying the foundation for modern Romania.² He was a reformer, an idealist, and a man too frail for the burdens of his own vision. His blood, I imagined, must have tasted of duty and exhaustion, a far cry from the fiery temptation of his younger, more ambitious peers.

By the time he was deposed, the game had become too dangerous. I was forced to abandon politics, not out of boredom, but because my visage had begun to betray my inhuman nature. The signs were subtle at first, a pallor too deep, eyes that gleamed too red in candlelight, and whispers that I was not quite what I seemed.

So, I went out of sight, but not underground. Young Romania was changing fast in those days, and where there was business, there was greed. Not my favorite meal by any means, but it was enough to keep me full and my hands clean. The War of Independence found me selling guns, and once the fighting was done, I turned to steel, supplying the growing railways. I owned a few clubs, a couple of cabarets, and before I knew it, the decades passed swiftly, each one blending into the next.

The Great War came, and with it, a feast like no other. But the true banquet came after, when Micul Paris roared louder than anything Fitzgerald could have dreamed of in The Great Gatsby. Those were fine and beautiful nights, my dear fellow, where every street light had a halo around it, and the champagne flowed like water.

When that ghastly second war arrived, I thought little of it at first. I was far more troubled by the religious zealots marching in their damned green shirts, waving icons that left a tainted smell lingering even through the nights. How foolish I was. I should have feared what followed. The communists came to power, riding in on the backs of the Red Army, and this cursed land was swallowed whole.

By the middle of the century, I was a pauper. My clubs were shut down and all my other business belonged to the state. But I did not mind my material ruin too much. Fear, after all, was abundant, and even amid the shadows of ration lines and secret police, there was always a bit of hope to feed upon. I was never a collaborator, though many nowadays believe that my success is due to ties to the now old regime.

No, I helped the dissidents however I could. I hosted secret cenacles where we listened to jazz, rock and roll, and even punk, though I always preferred what you would call classical music. We sat in dimly lit rooms, surrounded by the scent of cheap cigarettes and stronger ideals, as they recited their forbidden poems. Their anger and their hope provided me with sustenance far richer than any feast of flesh.

I even lent a hand to the smugglers, slipping past watchful eyes to bring in the small luxuries that made life bearable. The happiness of students when they purchased their first pair of Turkish jeans was a sweet treat I sometimes find myself missing. The thrill in their eyes, the way they clutched their contraband treasures like relics of a better world. It was something pure, something that almost made me believe in the future they dreamed of.

These decades passed slowly, weighed down by suspicion and silence, but they passed nevertheless. Time, as always, moves forward, whether you will it or not. The nineties found me more monstrous than I had ever been before, but then again, so was Romania. The streets flooded with drugs, crime flourished, and corruption took root in places even I had not expected.

Yet with all this modern technology, I found it easier to communicate without revealing myself too often. Not that I needed to hide too much. People, as you may have noticed, no longer see the world as their parents and grandparents once did. They rush through life, too distracted to notice what lurks in the corners. So I set up company after company, moving as fast as the market demanded, shifting from one business to the next like a shadow flitting across the centuries. And here we are together now.

---

“Sir, and sorry if I am being too forward,” I found myself staring more at the untouched glass of whisky than daring to meet his ruby red eyes, “but do your employees know any of this?”

“You can’t be forward with me, my good man. And yes, those close to me know exactly what I am. You are not the first to whom I have told my unlife story.” He leaned back with a knowing smile. “Had you been more relaxed, you might have noticed that my narration has been thoroughly rehearsed. Over the ages, I have had the opportunity to avail myself of a few literary techniques,” he added, his voice tinged with pride.

I nodded, feeling a bit embarrassed by my own foolishness. “You mentioned a few arrangements that you wanted to discuss with me,” I said quickly, as if trying to prove something to this illustrious individual.

“A professional through and through, that’s what I like about you, my young friend. Maybe it’s your American education, but I think there is something deeper there... But let’s talk shop, as you say over there in the States. I want you to help me move over there, but not before you assist me in purchasing a private jet. I want one custom-made, without any windows, for obvious reasons. I know there are certain regulations that might prevent this, but I am sure a creative solicitor such as yourself will find a legal solution,” he said, getting up from his chair to stretch his wings and legs.

“Let me look into it, and we will see what we can do. But…” I said, glancing at his wings.

“Oh, these? I’ve never used them before. And I wouldn’t want to attempt a Transatlantic maiden flight,” he replied, his tone playful.

“Understandable,” I said, taking a sip of whisky. “Do you have a visa? A... man of your means could easily get a business visa. But you’ll need to decide what kind of business you want to be involved in. After 9/11, every governmental service has been on high alert. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, renewables aren’t exactly popular. They are a bit of a partisan issue over there.”

“Good point, my wise counsel, good point indeed. Honestly, I was thinking of going back into the movie business, as you call it nowadays,” he said pensively.

“Were you involved in it before? You haven’t mentioned it,” I replied, my mind already forming a checklist of tasks I would need to handle, a professional reflex by now.

“Yes, almost a century ago. Back when films were cutting-edge art. I worked with some fellows I knew through my occultist circle. It was, as you would say, an attempt at public relations. I wanted to improve the image of my kind. Still, those Germans disappointed me. They titled the movie Nosferatu, which is derived from nesuferit, the Romanian word for unbearable, beastly, horrid. I financed them, provided them with hidden lore, and they dared to call my kind unbearable. Can you imagine?”

He began pacing the room, his wings fluttering slightly as his agitation grew. “I was overjoyed when they got sued for copyright infringement. I even financed the plaintiff and bribed the judges. They lost, and all copies were ordered to be destroyed. Justice, I thought at the time.” He paused, looking back at me with narrowed eyes. “And I heard through the grapevine. Do you still say that?”

“Yes, it’s still a common idiom,” I replied, trying to mask my unease at his rising anger.

“So, through the grapevine, I heard there are talks of making another version of that ghastly slander. One thing we will do when we get to Tinsel Town is stop this project in its tracks,” he said, his voice sharp and resolute.

“Consider it done, sir. Now, are there other issues you want me to deal with regarding winding up the business you have here in Bucharest?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. It was a good move, as his wings relaxed and a smile formed on his face.

“Yes, there is one more important issue I want you to take care of. You see, we have an employee in the financial department who has no appetite for his work. He is a very talented poet, but poetry is no way to earn a living. I want him to be provided for, but I don’t want him to have all the money at once.”

“We can set up a trust. It’s quite a common legal mechanism in common law. I don’t think there’s a counterpart yet in Romania,” I said, already thinking through the logistics.

“I am sure there isn’t,” he replied, pacing slowly. “And even if there is, I fear how the courts here would rule. Everything in this country has been done using forms without substance, ever since the days I was still involved in politics. Oh, I think my dear Titu must be turning in his grave,” he added, stopping mid-step with a chuckle.

“You know, these hollow forms are precisely why I have engaged your services. I have signed many sale and purchase agreements, and all of them include warranties and indemnities, concepts borrowed from common law. So, I asked one of my Romanian lawyers how the courts would interpret these in the event of litigation. Do you know what they said?” He turned, raising his wings like one would raise an eyebrow. “They said the courts have not yet issued a judgment on such matters. Thousands of such contracts have already been concluded, and yet we are not even certain if Romanian courts will recognize warranties and indemnities. Can you imagine that?”

“Sir, this is not the strangest thing I have heard this evening. But as a lawyer, I must say it’s the most offensive,” I said with an involuntary chuckle.

Mr. Moroiu pointed his finger at me, chuckling with relish. “Professional and witty! I knew I was lucky to have you as my counsel. A cut above the rest, I say. In this day and age, it’s a rare quality that modern education has not made you stupid.”

“Stupid, sir?” I asked.

“Stupid is as stupid does. Who said that? I always liked this saying.”

“I don’t know where it originated, but I heard it in Forrest Gump,” I replied.

Mr. Moroiu squinted his ruby eyes in confusion. “The movie with Tom Hanks? It’s been out for a few decades,” I added quickly.

“Tom Hanks, an American icon, yes. But I must admit I am not familiar with his work.”

“It’s quite a good movie. You should see it if you want to get back into making movies. Your story, sir, reminded me of it,” I said, realizing the potential blunder I had made.

“Oh, don’t worry, my good lad. You’ve made no blunder by speaking your mind. Only a fool could begrudge his fellow man for speaking with an innocent heart. I haven’t picked it up since I’ve died, but I do remember the Good Book says that we should be like children if we are to gain the Kingdom.

“And you are right; maybe I should prime myself on film history. See that you get me a list of celebrated films. But keep in mind that I shan’t be watching them as a producer or financier, but as an aesthete through and through. People think, in their foolishness, that each industry has its own intricacies, but I’ve been doing business longer than anyone on earth, and I can assure you it’s all the same: supply and demand, demand and supply, and a chase after shadows with a puff of smoke and mirrors. Once you know how little people need, but how much they want, why, you could sell snow to an Eskimo any day of the week. Do people still say that?”

I nodded, and Mr. Moroiu turned his back on me, walking slowly to the window. He looked out at the sky, which had begun to lose its pitch blackness, faint streaks of grey marking the horizon. He let out a sigh, soft and slow, but it chilled me to the bone.

---

“Art today, my young friend, is but a product,” he replied, his voice heavy with disdain. “A painting, even if it is sold for millions of dollars, has as much creative force as a solar panel. Sometimes, it has even less than that. I am called a vam-pyre, but as my dear departed friend, Uncle Iancu³, once said to me, I may have been born one, but others choose to be foolish bampirs, as one of his genial characters put it—sucking the blood of their nation, of their fellow man.”

He paused, looking out the window, his voice softening, as if the weight of centuries pressed down on it. “My dear boy, in the summer, I sleep up to 16 hours a day. Say, what do you think you would be capable of if you slept that much?”

“I would probably be more tired than I usually am,” I spoke my mind unfiltered.

“Nonsense, my boy, nonsense. A grift peddled by psychopaths, by bampirs, such as Henry Ford.”

“I must admit,” he continued, “I miss the sun. On nights such as these, I ask myself, why don’t I wait for the sunrise? Why shouldn’t I end this story? I am not ending it all. The all will continue just as well without me…”

For a moment, he fell silent, gazing at the faint glow creeping into the horizon. When he spoke again, his tone was resolute, though tinged with an almost imperceptible sadness.

“But no. I have loved the sun too long to let it be lost to others. Perhaps that is why I pursued renewables. Not for profit, not for redemption, but to feel some echo of its warmth, even if only by proxy. A foolish endeavor for an old, unbearable beast, wouldn’t you agree?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could speak, Doru Moroiu disappeared into the shadows. I never saw him again after that night. I fulfilled my duties to the best of my ability, ensuring every detail of his wishes was carried out. Yet, more importantly, I fulfilled the duties I had to my soul. Something I am eager to share with my ancient and learned friend.

1. Pandur refers to members of a militia in 18th and 19th-century Romania, originally formed to protect local communities from Ottoman raids. By the time of the 1821 Wallachian uprising, led by Tudor Vladimirescu, the Pandurs had become a symbol of resistance and patriotism. These irregular soldiers, often recruited from peasants and lower-ranking nobles, played a key role in the fight for Romanian autonomy, making their legacy one of bravery and defiance against oppression.

2. Alexandru Ioan Cuza (1820–1873), as Doru Moroiu said, was Romania’s first ruler after the unification of Wallachia and Moldavia. While celebrated as a reformer who modernized Romania through land reforms and secularization, his later years saw him adopt increasingly authoritarian measures to maintain control. This shift alienated many of his supporters, ultimately leading to his forced abdication in 1866. Despite his complicated legacy, Cuza remains a pivotal figure in the creation of modern Romania.

3. Nenea Iancu (Uncle Iancu) was the nickname of Ion Luca Caragiale (1852–1912), Romania’s greatest satirist and playwright. Known for his sharp wit and biting humor, Caragiale exposed the absurdities of politics and society in works like A Lost Letter. His observations on human folly, including his famous line about "bampirs" draining the nation, feel eerily timeless—something Doru Moroiu himself might agree with.