Fruit of the Vine

(with Peter Tennant)

A Modigliani woman, thought Kennedy the first time that he saw her, reminded of a painting he had seen in The Louvre while on a buying trip to Paris. An elongated body, skin that shimmered like ivory, lustrous black hair arranged in a pony tail that curled round the white column of her neck and descended over the slight rise of her chest, the whole dressed in designer clothes of a cut and elegance that was the very embodiment of sophistication.
She stood for a moment in the doorway of R. J. Kennedy and Son, Wine Merchants, allowing her eyes to adjust to the shop's dim interior, and then she moved purposefully towards the section where wines from Eastern Europe were neatly stacked on the shelves. Kennedy watched her out of the corner of his eye, captivated by the sinuous way in which she walked, the simple grace and economy of movement.
He was serving a customer, a pot bellied American who was buying a bottle of cheap Chardonnay to go with his evening meal in the hope that it would endow him with a patina of the culture he so obviously lacked. Kennedy settled up and wished the man bon appetit with a smile in his voice, then gestured for the Saturday girl to mind the counter and moved towards the woman.
She was examining a bottle of Romanian Pinot Noir, body language conveying a disdain of which Kennedy fully approved. While he certainly didn't consider himself a wine snob there was no denying that for the true connoisseur only the French and German vintages were worthy of attention.
'Can I be of any assistance, madam?' he asked, anxious to make an impression, but not wishing to seem too eager to please.
She turned towards him and Kennedy was gratified to find that, when seen close too, the woman's face was as appealing as the rest of her, the features soft and alluring, chestnut brown eyes that were larger than conventional standards of beauty would allow, but just right for her, expressive and smiling with a secret amusement. The thing that made the most impression though were her lips, full and sensuous, a ruby red colour that put him in mind of the finest Burgundy. Even for a man like Kennedy, who prided himself on eschewing the temptations of the flesh in favour of the finer things life had to offer, it was easy to imagine kissing such lips.
And then she turned slightly and he noticed the mark on the right side of her face, a purple stain roughly the size of a hand, as if someone had slapped her hard and the imprint of the blow was still branded into her flesh. It started just below her ear, blossomed on the bare expanse of her cheek and then tapered out as it ran down her neck to finally disappear beneath the collar of the silk blouse that she wore. Port wine stains such stigmata were called. Kennedy had seen them before, but seldom displayed so prominently. He admired beauty above all else, was intoxicated by perfection of form, and could feel nothing but an ineffable sense of loss when confronted by this tragic flaw.
'I'm looking for Devil's Bliss,' she said, her voice as rich and mellifluous as hundred year old brandy, the hint of an accent which he could not pin down.
'Beg pardon?' said Kennedy, flustered by the intrusion on his chain of thought. He quickly turned aside and studied the bottles of wine on the shelf, hoping she hadn't noticed how he'd been staring. Such rudeness was unpardonable.
'Devil's Bliss,' she repeated, giving no sign that she had been aware of his tactless scrutiny. 'Grape Expectations in the High Street said that you might have some in stock.'
Kennedy winced with an almost physical pain at the name Grape Expectations. He considered such establishments with their pile 'em high and sell 'em cheap philosophy a slur on the vintners' noble trade, almost as bad as the supermarkets that were now beginning to cut into his trade. At least Grape Expectations staff had the good sense to direct their customers to a proper wine merchant when they couldn't meet a demand, instead of trying to fob them off with a cheap substitute.
'Devil's Bliss,' said Kennedy. He thought that he was familiar with all of the finest wines, and it was unlikely a woman with such obvious good taste would be interested in any other kind, but the name meant nothing to him. He hoped that it wasn't one of the ghastly New World concoctions that were so popular nowadays.
'It's a red wine,' the woman said, 'from the Trenčín region of Hungary.'
'Well, let's see if we can find anything on the computer,' said Kennedy, gesturing for her to precede him over to the terminal, which was next to the main cash register.
Modern technology, with its emphasis on the ephemeral, was not something of which he greatly approved, but Kennedy had to admit that the new database had more than paid its way, enabling him to trace the most obscure wines with an ease that delighted potential customers. He typed in the name Devil's Bliss and within a matter of seconds he had the name of a wholesaler in Kent who could supply the wine. The firm had a bad reputation in the trade and they were not people he would normally have done business with, but inexplicably he wanted to impress this woman, to leave in her mind the idea of himself as a man who could and would get things done. Devil's Bliss seemed prohibitively expensive for such a little known wine. Kennedy quoted a much lower price, cutting his own profit margin to the bone, afraid of losing such an elegant and charming customer, one whose needs it would be his pleasure to serve.
'I would like to place a regular order,' she said, 'if that is possible.'
'Of course. How many bottles did you have in mind?'
'Let us say twelve bottles a week.' Seeing his eyes raise slightly she added, 'I entertain a lot and all of my friends enjoy Devil's Bliss.'
Smiling Kennedy quoted her a price per crate, adding yet a further small discount, which he was sure he would be able to pass on to the wholesaler; probably they would be glad to shift some of this obscure wine. If regular orders were his bread and butter, then this customer had suddenly graduated to the status of angels-on-horseback.
'I'll require personal details, your name, address and proposed method of payment.'
'Certainly. My name is Emilia Bathory,' she said, and spelled out the latter name while he typed the details into the computer. She lived in St Stephen's Court, which was one of the most desirable areas of town, where property prices began in the high six figures and ended with the buyer's willingness to pay, and her American Express card, he was pleased to note, was Platinum.
'Your first consignment should be here by Friday, Ms Bathory. You can either collect or we can deliver if you would prefer.'
She nodded. 'I will collect. Many thanks for your help, Mr...?'
'Kennedy,' he supplied, and gave her a card with Robert Kennedy Proprietor neatly printed between the shop's name and telephone number. 'If there's ever anything I can do, please don't hesitate to call.'
'I will,' she said and smiled, the sudden brightening of her face adding a note of intimacy to the words so that they seemed to imply far more than a mere business transaction.
As soon as she had gone out of the door the Saturday girl sidled closer and winked at him in that annoying way she had, as if they were co-conspirators in some absurd plot to gull the shop's clientele.
'Countess Dracula,' she whispered, her voice low so that none of the customers could hear her; she at least had that much sense.
'Beg pardon?' said Kennedy.
'Elizabeth Bathory,' said the girl, a twenty something doing media studies at the local university and supplementing her grant with cash in hand casual labour. Her name was Keely, Kylie or Kelly, something ridiculous anyway; Kennedy was never sure exactly what and sometimes he suspected that she kept changing it to confuse him. He didn't really like the girl. She dressed inappropriately, her belly always exposed and a stud in her nose that looked like a lump of nasal mucus. He'd talked to her about it, but she always ignored him. He would have sacked her, but she worked hard and she was cheap.
'Elizabeth Bathory,' repeated the girl, seeing his obvious puzzlement. 'She was a Hungarian noblewoman who bathed in virgins' blood to preserve her youth. They made a film about her called Countess Dracula. Ingrid Pitt had the lead role.'
Kennedy slowly shook his head, the gesture intended to convey some of the weariness he felt when confronted with the youth of the day and their unsavoury concerns. And yet he had to admit that there had been something aristocratic about the woman, a certain refinement of manner that could only have come from good breeding. Briefly he thought of Ms Bathory laying full length in a bath of soapy water, and was delighted with the image, but at the same time shocked to find himself enjoying such an obviously adolescent fantasy. A shiver ran down his back, like long fingers walking the length of his spine.
'Her name was Emilia,' he said somewhat stiffly. 'Not Elizabeth.'

It was quarter past five and still Ms Bathory had not arrived to collect her case of Devil's Bliss. For the last six weeks she had been as regular as clockwork, arriving at four thirty every Friday afternoon, and now this. Kennedy had come to look forward to her visits, to see the few minutes spent in her company and listening to the sound of her voice as the highlight of his week, the dependable centre around which everything else revolved. He looked at the clock on the wall again, willing its hands to move backwards, but to no avail. Soon he would have to close up.
When the phone rang he just knew that it would be Ms Bathory, Emilia as he thought of her in private, even before he raised it to his ear, but the voice he heard on the other end of the line was so faint as to be almost inaudible.
'Kennedy...'
'Ms Bathory?' he queried, still not able to bring himself to call her Emilia.
'I fell asleep. Feel weak... So weak...'
Kennedy couldn't believe his ears. Her voice was so strange, almost as if she were intoxicated, but the idea of Emilia, his Emilia, as a drunkard was one that flatly contradicted the impression he had formed of her. It was simply not possible.
'Are you all right?' asked Kennedy. 'Is there anything that I can do?'
'Need Devil's Bliss... Now!'
And then he heard a loud thump and the clattering sound of the telephone dropping to the floor. At once the distressing image of Emilia lying unconscious upon some expensive carpet took shape inside his head.
'Hello!' he said, repeating the word over and over again, almost shouting in his anguish, but there was no response.
Kennedy lowered the phone, twisting it round and round in his hands while he pondered what to do for the best. His first thought was to phone for an ambulance to be sent to her home, but after a moment's pause to consider he realised this would not be a sensible thing to do. If his terrible suspicion was correct and Emilia was under the influence of alcohol, she would not thank him for sending the emergency services to her door. No, the sensible thing would be to take care of the matter himself. After all, she was his customer and he had a duty to look out for her best interests. He would deliver the Devil's Bliss as Emilia had asked him to do, and when he arrived he would be able to assess what further action was necessary, if any.
Pausing only to close up the shop, Kennedy loaded the crate of wine into the boot of his car and eased himself behind the wheel.

Ms Bathory's residence was one of the most impressive in St Stephen's Court, an elegant Georgian town house that would have been out of the price range of all but the most successful men and women. Though his own financial position was not to be scoffed at Kennedy felt like a pauper when confronted by such a palatial dwelling place. The denizens of St Stephen's Court led lives of wealth and sophistication that the likes of him could only dream about and envy. Not for the first time Kennedy wondered at the source of the wealth which enabled Ms Bathory to live in such splendour.
The front door of the Bathory residence was a solid looking portal of oak with a brass knocker cast in the form of a hideous gargoyle. Kennedy rapped on it several times and waited, half expecting a liveried manservant to refer him to the tradesman's entrance at the rear, but there was no response. He shifted nervously from foot to foot, his face crawling with perspiration. Seconds seemed to pass like hours, and he filled his head with morbid thoughts of his darling Emilia lying there, and losing some desperate struggle for life while he only stood and waited.
At last, deciding that the circumstances warranted drastic action, Kennedy looked all around him to see if anyone was watching and, when he was satisfied that his movements were unobserved, furtively reached out and tried the door, which much to his dismay swung open on well oiled hinges. It was hard to believe that anyone would leave a door unlocked in this day and age. Certainly he would never have done such a thing. It suggested a certain innocence and naiveté with regard to human nature that he found endearing.
Kennedy waited a moment longer and then, in defiance of twenty years spent acting in a manner calculated not to cause a scandalous breach of the social proprieties, he crept into the huge hallway that lay on the other side of the door, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, rather like an unstealthy cat. At once he detected a familiar scent, the perfume he had come to know so well over the past weeks. If he had been in any doubt that he was in the right house then that doubt was now assuaged.
'Anyone home?' he called in a half-whisper as he advanced along the hallway. 'Ms Bathory!'
From somewhere close at hand there came a faint murmur, perhaps the cry of someone in distress. Kennedy turned in the direction of the sound, his heartbeat increasing in pace, reluctant to have his worst fears confirmed. The thought of his dear Emilia exposed as a drunkard left him tremulous with dread. He was tempted to abandon this intrusion into her life, to depart with all his illusions intact and find solace in his customary pleasures, a drop of vintage Beaujolais, Verdi on the gramophone perhaps. Such pursuits were far less fraught with peril. It was only the thought that Emilia might be in trouble of some kind and need his help which kept him there.
Kennedy called her name once more, louder this time, and stepped in the direction of the soft sounds that came in response, gazing about him intently, alert for any hint of something awry. And then, beyond the open door of a room that he guessed to be a library from its book lined walls, Kennedy discerned a familiar foot, done up in a shoe of the finest Italian leather. He would have been able to recognise that slender ankle anywhere.
'Emilia!' he called, indifferent to matters of social etiquette in the terror of that moment.
Kennedy dashed into the room, oblivious to whatever else might have been lurking within, aware only of the woman he had come to hold in such fond regard sprawled across the carpet in a motionless heap. Panic threatened to overwhelm him, but Kennedy held it at bay and summoned up sufficient good sense to fling himself to the floor and feel for a pulse, which to his vast relief he found.
'Thank God!'
Close to tears he cradled her in his arms, feeling the warmth of her body through the scarlet dress that she wore. She seemed to be burning up. He pushed the hair back from her face and stroked her cheek, something he had dreamed of doing, but not in circumstances like this. Her eyes flickered open.
'Kennedy...' she muttered in an otherworldly tone, and he felt a thrill of delight that she had recognised him. ‘You came.’
'It's going to be all right,' he assured her.
The thing to do now was to call for an ambulance. Kennedy didn't know what was wrong with her, but plainly it was not an excess of alcohol, as her unsullied breath testified to his enormous relief. She needed medical assistance. The telephone handset was still on the floor, and with his free hand he placed it back into position on the base. In doing so he was afforded a more general view of her body and recoiled in shock from the sight that met his eyes. The ugly purple blotch that had marred the beauty of her exquisite face appeared to have spread to other parts of her body. Her arms, legs and chest - the blemishes had crept onto these and possibly further, tainting what should have been perfection in human form. Kennedy was sickened by the sight of those hideous stigmata.
'Devil's Bliss...' she said, voice weak.
'What?' said Kennedy, and then he remembered the wine she had asked him to bring, his pretext for intruding into her life. It was absurd for her to be concerned about such a thing in the circumstances, but obviously she was ill and the fevered mind was prone to wander.
'It's in my car,' he informed her. 'Don't worry about it. We have to get you to a hospital.'
She opened her eyes fully and stared at him with a hypnotic intensity, like a wild thing, a crazed maenad who would tear the world to pieces in her fury. Kennedy had never seen her like this before and it frightened him. In that moment she appeared the very opposite of all he had imagined her to be.
'No hospital,' she hissed, a note of urgency in her voice. 'Devil's Bliss!'
'You need medical attention right away. There's no...'
'Devil's Bliss!' she repeated, voice almost a shriek and her hand clenching in a fist.
'You want the wine? You want it now?'
'Yes,' she said. 'Bring me the wine. But first take me to the bathroom.'
Kennedy's eyes went wide with disbelief. What she was asking him to do was quite incomprehensible.
'The bathroom?' he queried.
'Yes! The first door at the top of the stairway. Take me there right away.'
'But...'
'I know what I'm doing,' said Emilia, her chestnut eyes imploring him, binding his will to her own through some arcane process of enchantment even though he knew that this was madness. 'Trust me.'
'Very well.'
Reluctantly Kennedy placed one arm across her back and eased the other beneath the crook of her legs, then lifted. She came easily, as light as a child, insubstantial. He shifted her slightly, and she draped an arm around his neck for support, the blotched hand dangling down towards his heart. Her heavenly scent wafted into his nostrils and he wallowed in the pure sensuality of it, every fibre of his body tingling with the intimacy of their contact. There was a feel of inevitability to this special moment. It was the culmination of all Kennedy had hoped and prayed for in the days since he had first met Emilia. He strode from the room with her in his arms like a man bearing a great and delicate treasure, a veritable pearl beyond price.
Kennedy carried her up a long winding flight of stairs, at the top of which was a landing. Emilia indicated one door with a brief movement of her elegant foot and Kennedy pushed it open and took her in to the white tiled bathroom that lay beyond. Gently he placed her on a pine chair just inside the doorway, then looked all around him. A pink flannel hung down from a bar above the sink. He wet it under the tap and then rubbed her burning face with the moist material. Emilia pushed the flannel aside.
'No time for that,' she said, her voice still perilously weak. 'Get the wine. Quickly!'
'But...' Kennedy objected, still unsure of the wisdom of whatever it was she planned to do, but the look in her eyes was implacable and bent him to her will. Without another word of protest he dashed from the house and ran to the boot of his car, gathered up the case of wine in his arms and carried it back to the side of his true love.
Emilia looked at the case and smiled weakly. 'Now undress me,' she breathed.
'Beg pardon?' Kennedy could not believe that he had just heard her say such a thing. He stood there paralysed, more uncertain than ever as to what to do, what action to take.
'I can't do it by myself,' she said, tugging uselessly at the neck of her dress. 'I'm too weak. You have to help me.'
Kennedy hesitated for a moment and then knelt down in front of her and pulled off her shoes, carelessly tossing them aside. Her feet were the only part of Emilia's body that seemed as yet to be untouched by the hideous discoloration. He ran his hands over them, revelling in the feel of her flesh, like finest alabaster, and the perfect proportions. Just above the ankles the purple blotching began, and Kennedy instinctively recoiled from that terrible blemish, sickened by the ghastly slur on her beauty.
'Quickly,' said Emilia, and then to his dismay her body seemed to go limp and she flopped to one side, almost cracking her head on the porcelain sink. Kennedy caught hold of her just in time.
As if in a trance he continued to undress her, not believing that this was happening, trying hard to avert his eyes from her body, but at the same time unable to resist looking at the woman with whom he had so often dreamed of sharing just such an intimacy.
Her dress came off easily enough. Kennedy merely undid the zipper at the back and it slid free of her arms and down to her waist almost of its own accord. He lifted her slightly and tugged the garment down her legs and off over her feet. Her underwear was of pink silk, the barest wisp of material covering her breasts and between her legs. Kennedy lifted her again and slipped off her panties, taking care to keep his eyes trained on her face. He did not want her to think that he was taking advantage of the situation, giving in to ungentlemanly conduct.
The brassiere caused him more difficulty. Repulsed by his father's womanising ways and the misery they had caused his mother, Kennedy had stoutly resisted the modern trend to casual relationships, holding himself aloof until the right woman came along. At thirty eight years of age he was still a virgin, and proud of that fact. His knowledge of female lingerie was limited. He fumbled at the strap in the middle of Emilia's back, but couldn't seem to manage it. He could feel himself going red. Emilia smiled in encouragement. There was no hint of mockery in the look. He felt that she understood the reason for his ineptitude and respected him because of it. Finally the catch came free and the garment fell away.
Kennedy stepped back, trying to hide the sense of despair he felt now that she was finally naked and he was able to witness the full horror of her condition. The dark stains covered almost the entirety of her skin, appearing as massive, ugly smudges, and he felt quite nauseated at the monstrous sight. And yet he found that he could not look away. Despite the blotches her essence shone through. She was an exquisitely beautiful woman, like a statue fashioned by the genius of a Michelangelo, the very embodiment of all that he considered desirable in the female form.
'I must get in the bath,' she said.
She held the arms of the pine chair and pushed herself on to her feet, then tottered towards the bath. Kennedy grabbed hold of her arm to steady her, overcoming his distaste at contact with her body where the stain fell. She raised one foot over the side of the bath and then the other, sliding down into its cool porcelain depths, Kennedy's arm at her back to provide support, his hand curling round her side, fingers tantalisingly close to her breast, but not touching, trying to keep his own body from any close contact for fear she would realise he was aroused, a fact that caused him shame. He could feel the heat of her skin, smell the rich musk scent that came off of her in waves. Her eyes were distant, as if she was in a strange, dreamlike state, on a drug induced trip of some kind. Kennedy felt himself gripped by an odd sense of unreality, the fantastical quality of these events. He allowed her to sink back, then put in the plug and reached for the tap.
'No,' said Emilia. 'Not water! Wine! Devil's Bliss!'
Kennedy froze, his hand halfway to the tap. In spite of all that had happened this latest request was beyond his comprehension. It was absurd for a woman in Emilia's condition to even consider something as perverse as bathing in wine. For the first time he wondered if her illness might have mental side effects; certainly that would account for much of her strange behaviour. He looked at her hard, seeking in her face some sign of incipient mania, but there was nothing except for her eyes, silently imploring, demanding his absolute obedience. Gazing into those lustrous orbs Kennedy found that he could deny her nothing.
He popped the cork on the first bottle of Devil's Bliss and poured the contents into the bath, splashing the aromatic smelling liquid over her torso and limbs, sickened by the way in which it made her tainted skin gleam. Emilia smiled, the strength seeming to flood back into her face, and sighed with contentment. Encouraged by this sign of hope Kennedy quickly emptied the other bottles until the entire case of Devil's Bliss was swirling in the bath, a frothy, crimson sea of wine. The dark red colour reminded him of blood, and he cringed at the thought.
Emilia slid down the bath and immersed herself completely in the wine. When she surfaced she seemed somewhat restored to her old vitality, full of life and high spirits, like a schoolgirl playing truant on a summer day, the wine dribbling down her face. She grabbed up a sponge and began to scrub herself. At her request Kennedy washed her back, rubbing the skin with another sponge, enchanted by the cut of her shoulder blades. How he wished that he could put down the sponge and caress those elegant arches with his bare hands. And then all such thoughts were driven from his mind by the miracle that was occurring. His mesmerised eyes gaped in disbelief as he watched the blotches on her body begin to disappear.
Kennedy looked closer. It was true. The stains that had so tragically cast down her great beauty were being washed away. He used the sponge to wipe off a livid purple streak that ran down half the length of her spine. The skin revealed was as white and pristine as ivory. The wine in the bath had grown darker, until it was almost black. Kennedy could not understand what was happening. He was certain that the stain was not something painted on, but a discoloration in her skin itself, and yet he could not deny the evidence of his own eyes.
When Emilia finally emerged from the bath there was no sign of the hideous blotching, except for the original stain on her face. She was her old self again. Kennedy stepped towards her, a fluffy white towel in his hands and a broad smile on his face.

Afterwards they sat in the library. Emilia poured him a glass of the finest cognac, and Kennedy discreetly studied her as he savoured its taste. She sat in a leather armchair facing him, her hair bundled up in a white towel, a linen robe wrapped round her body, though even that shapeless garment could not disguise her beauty. She appeared to have fully recovered from her ordeal.
'You must have a lot of questions,' she said, her voice as silky smooth and alluring as the fine brandy he was drinking.
Kennedy only nodded, not trusting himself to say anything, relying on her to tell him all that she thought he should know.
'There is a medical name for my condition,' she said, 'something Latin and quite, quite unpronounceable, but in my mind I have always thought of it simply as the Bathory Curse. It has been in my family for generations, handed down on the distaff side for hundreds of years.'
'Can't you...' began Kennedy.
She shook her head, knowing what he was going to ask. 'There is no known cure. The only thing that holds it in check is the Devil's Bliss, and nobody knows why. Perhaps some enzyme only found in the grapes from which the wine is trod.
'I must bathe constantly in Devil's Bliss, or else...' she left the words and their frightful import to hang in the air.
'Countess Dracula,' said Kennedy, and then went bright red with embarrassment.
Fortunately Emilia only laughed at his dreadful faux pas.
'Elizabeth Bathory was an ancestor of mine, one of the first to suffer from this terrible affliction. A superstitious peasant woman accused her of bathing in virgins' blood, and she was sentenced to be walled up alive by the King of Hungary. The Bathory Curse cost poor Elizabeth her life.'
'I'm so sorry,' said Kennedy.
Emilia shrugged, as if to say it was all long ago. 'Now you know the true story of Countess Dracula.'
A thought suddenly occurred to Kennedy 'Why don't you stock up with Devil's Bliss, so that you always have a ready supply?'
'The wine is difficult to acquire,' she said. 'The grape grows only in vineyards owned by our family in Trenčín. At the time of the communist takeover in my country there was a split in our family. My parents and many others were expelled from Hungary. Ownership of the vineyards fell into the hands of a younger branch of the family. They export only what they do not use themselves, and those of us in exile have been forced to rely on that meagre supply.'
'That's most unfortunate,' said Kennedy.
'But perhaps now things will change,' said Emilia. 'Since the end of communist rule, our relations with the Trenčín branch of the Bathory clan have improved somewhat. We have been able to secure cuttings of the vine from which the grape is grown and the services of a master viticulturist who knows all the secrets of the wine's preparation. Last season I set up my own personal vineyard in the grounds of my country estate. The first harvest is expected soon.'
'Why that's marvellous news,' said Kennedy, but he could not avoid the inescapable conclusion that if Emilia was successful in her plans then he might never see her again. 'The wine works very well. Your skin is so clear now, and so beautiful...'
'Beautiful,' repeated Emilia. 'You really think that I am beautiful?'
Kennedy nodded and then, aware that he was burning his bridges, he said, 'I love you.'
The words sounded so trite, but he knew that he was speaking the truth and from the look of wonder on her face so did Emilia.
‘You love me?’
‘I love you,’ he said, and then again, ‘I love you.
Kennedy wasn't sure how it happened, but suddenly they were standing, arms round each other and kissing. Her breath smelled of wine, sweet and rich. His head began to swim with intoxication. The world seemed to be going round and round and round.
'You belong in my vineyard,' Emilia whispered, her scented breath warm upon his flesh, the words seeming to promise so much more.
Kennedy nodded, though the words made no sense. At that magical moment he would have agreed with anything she said, no matter how absurd or incomprehensible. He loved her and only that mattered.
And then she bit him, sinking her teeth into his neck with an inhuman force, breaking the skin, her incisors driving into the vein beneath. Kennedy cried out at the sudden pain, and the word Dracula flashed through his brain, even though he knew the idea of his darling Emilia as a vampire was utter nonsense and cursed the Saturday girl for planting such a ridiculous notion in his head.
Emilia released him and Kennedy teetered on uncertain feet, then fell to the floor, certain she had injected him with something, venom of some kind. Insane as it seemed, he had no other explanation for this sudden loss of mobility. There was no strength in his limbs. He could only flop uselessly, unable even to turn on his side, incapable of opening his mouth to ask what was happening to him.
Through blurred eyes, eyes that he had to fight to keep open, he gazed up at Emilia, so far away, as distant and unattainable as the stars in the night sky.
‘I have perhaps been economical with the truth,’ she said, the words crystal clear. ‘There is no vineyard in Trenčín. My vineyards are not of this world and their fruit is not that of the vine. At Trenčín there is only a gateway, as there is a gateway here.’
At her back he saw darkness and in the darkness something stirred. Light folding and coalescing in patterns that defied Kennedy’s reason, his ability to comprehend, so that he had to close his eyes, and let slip his hold on consciousness with a feeling akin to relief.

Kennedy woke from drugged sleep for what seemed like the thousandth time to find that nothing had changed. Blistering sunshine struck like a dagger in his eyes, forcing him to screw them up against the glare. He could feel the rays on his skin, burning him with their heat. His head rolled to the side, the sudden movement sending a jolt of pain through his neck muscles. He tried to cry out, but was unable to make a sound. His tongue had been torn loose. He could still feel blood in the back of his throat.
Movement was nearly impossible. This was partly due to the weak state of his body, but the main reason was that he was attached to some sort of wooden frame, arms stretched wide at either side, as if he were being crucified. The flesh of each arm had been punctured and his veins stood out, almost as if they were not a part of him, but plant like tendrils embedded in his limbs and holding him securely to the wooden trellis. He looked down at the black soil that surrounded him, and the ugliness of his naked flesh. His legs were planted in the earth, buried up to the knee. Vague memories floated about in his head, of his feet being amputated and strange rootlike things grafted onto the still bleeding stumps. He could feel them, burrowing deeper and deeper into the soil in their incessant search for moisture and nutrition. He was completely helpless. He could do nothing except wriggle and squirm upon the woodwork, sending fresh waves of pain through his hideously transmuted body. All about him were other souls in similar anguish, row upon row of naked men with expressions of utter horror on their faces. Kennedy could hardly bear to look at them. He was pleased that he spent most of his time unconscious, lost in dreams of the life he had once known, a life that now seemed unreal.
Attached to the flesh of each man were grotesque scrotal sacs, hideous growths that sprouted obscenely from their bodies, making them look like sickening caricatures of a statue Kennedy had seen one time in the British Museum, a pagan goddess by the name of many breasted Ishtar. Dozens and dozens of these pendulous clumps covered his own chest and belly, making him lean forward on the frame with the sheer weight of them and mercifully hiding his own genital region from view.
Kennedy tried to drift back into dreamful sleep, but a noise from close by prevented him doing so. He turned his head slightly and a feeling of utter dread raced through him at the sight of a monster in human form approaching. Slowly the creature he had come to think of as The Harvester moved closer, a misshapen dwarf whose features were twisted into an expression of such leering evil that Kennedy feared for the safety of his immortal soul. He was dressed in a costume of brown rags and tatters, and pushing a cumbersome wooden barrow, filled with metal pails. He stopped when he drew level with Kennedy. The pails were awash with a red liquid that Kennedy guessed to be blood and just below the surface were vile looking things that he could not identify, white lumps like cancerous tumours cut from diseased flesh.
The Harvester reached out and touched some of the scrotal sacs that clung to Kennedy's body, kneading and caressing them, almost like a lover. He nodded with satisfaction and mumbled a word that sounded like, 'Ripe.'
The Harvester took a knife from his belt and proceeded to cut open the bulging sacs. There was a clinical efficiency to the way in which he worked, expertly slitting each sac down the middle with a single stroke, sending a tiny fall of blood rain pattering down to enrich the soil. The sharpness of the metal made Kennedy want to scream, but all he could produce was a feeble gurgling sound. Once every sac had been sliced open The Harvester returned the knife to his belt. He began peeling apart the flaps of lacerated skin, poking a calloused thumb into each gaping wound and plucking loose the bloated testicles, carelessly tossing them into one of the pails on the barrow, like shelling peas from a pod. When the harvest was complete he once again took up the handles of his barrow and trudged away, boots squelching in the muddy soil.
Kennedy watched through tear filled eyes as The Harvester bore his precious cargo to a large wooden building at the end of the row. Through the open doors he could see a giant vat-like tub, in which stood three peasant women, their flowered dresses tucked into their knickers and red stains upon their legs. The Harvester took the pails from his barrow and emptied the contents into the tub. The women began to sing as they trod the testicles underfoot, the sound of their song floating to him on the breeze, words in a tongue he did not recognise.
Kennedy's head began to spin, but before he passed out from the pain he had a vision of the woman he had once known as Emilia Bathory. She was standing in the shade of a large veranda and wearing a magnificent red dress, the dark stain ablaze on her cheek. Kennedy felt certain that she knew he was watching her. He wanted to cry out, to tell Emilia that he loved her and would do anything for her, even though it was that same love that kept him in thrall here with all the other men she had known, that was trod from the loathsome things they tore from his body and used to feed her hunger, but Kennedy could see from the way in which she smiled that Emilia already knew.