Page 118 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

Mr Deane’s smile fled as he became aware of the miasma of displeasure filling the room. He held up his palms. ‘I’ve no intention of taking it further, not without your consent. I’m aware there have been … issues … A foreign company taking liberties with copyright and such. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything so unethical. Why, that’s theft.’

‘It certainly is,’ piped up Mr Bang, taking a cautious sip of his tea. ‘And that attracts penalties, you understand.’

‘Oh, I do. I do. But unlike those German filmmakers,’ said Mr Deane, nonplussed, ‘I intend to not only pay you for the privilege of adapting the novel but remain true to the original.’ He reached for the satchel he’d brought with him and pulled out a very worn journal. There were crumpled pages sticking out, notes and other pieces of paper crammed within the leather covers. ‘I bought two copies of Dracula and cut out every piece of dialogue and pieced it together. See? I removed all the descriptive passages so I might hear the characters speak.’

He opened the journal at a random page and carefully held it out for me and Mr Bang to study.

He wasn’t exaggerating. Even though it was a bit of a blur, I could make out ribbons of printed paper. They were glued one above the other. He flicked the pages to reveal more of the same.

‘Mrs Stoker, Mr Bang,’ he continued, ‘if I may say so, Mr Stoker had an ear for dialogue, and I want to use as much of it as possible. But I can’t proceed any further without a binding contract.’ He shut the book and Bram’s characters ceased to talk.

‘I’m relieved to hear that, Mr Deane,’ I said as calmly as I could. It was quite unsettling seeing Bram’s work carved into pieces like that. I put my empty teacup beside Mr Deane’s and was pleased to note my hands at least were steady, even if my stomach was not. ‘Dialogue aside, why don’t you tell me exactly how you envisage a theatrical production of Dracula. After all, the book is vast in scope, moving from somewhere in Europe, to London, Whitby, and other locations. I can’t imagine it being easy to adapt, let alone stage.’

‘In that, you’re absolutely right, Mrs Stoker.’ First putting the journal back in his satchel, Mr Deane wiped his hands down his trousers, inhaled deeply and leapt to his feet. The movement was so unexpected, Mr Bang and I startled.

Poised before my chair, he towered over me. ‘Imagine this, if you will.’ He flung out his arms. His voice was deep, husky and beguiling. ‘A darkened auditorium, lit only by a few tremulous candles. A large, arched window at the rear through which the tenebrous sky can just be discerned. Slowly, the lights brighten to reveal a large room, lined with books, some comfortable leather chairs, a desk and table. In this room are three men and a woman, all of whom are grieving the mysterious death of a beloved friend …’

For the next few minutes, Mr Deane gave what I suspect was the performance of his life. What he described was an abridged version of Bram’s novel, which not only removed many of the settings and characters but had most of the action taking place in one room in a house in London.

As he spoke and glided about with leonine grace, the day grew dim, the sunshine weaker. His onyx silhouette followed the walls, climbing across the mantelpiece, the sideboard, swallowing the silverware, the books, the flowers in their vases. It grew and diminished, reaching, yearning, camouflaging Mr Bang’s features, casting mine into temporary shade as the tale of Count Dracula and the Crew of Light was told anew. The mouth I’d thought mobile and generous became thin, cruel, a hollow space from which I expected elongated teeth to protrude. Gone were Mr Deane’s kind eyes, replaced by fearsome, all-seeing bloodshot orbs. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Neither could Mr Bang.

Once again, Bram’s vampire had entered my home. I’d invited him in.

I wasn’t aware Mr Deane had finished until the thrumming in my ears alerted me. How long I’d sat there without speaking, one hand pressed to my breast, I’m uncertain.

‘I must say, that’s a very interesting adaptation, Mr Deane,’ said Mr Bang, finally. ‘Very good. What do you think, Mrs Stoker?’ Mr Bang pulled out a huge handkerchief and blew his nose. Such an ordinary gesture.

As Mr Deane helped himself to a piece of cake, I took my time refilling my teacup, offering to pour for the men. Mr Bang declined but Mr Deane helpfully held up his empty one. His hands were no longer quivering.

‘Yes, what do you think, Mrs Stoker?’ he asked, swallowing the last morsel of cake and brushing crumbs from his jacket. ‘I should add, though I’ve removed all the Transylvanian scenes, I’m considering opening the play with the count climbing down the castle walls. A prologue, if you will. It’s such a powerful scene in the novel, when Jonathan Harker sees the count doing that, the batwing-like cape. It’s the first time the reader has confirmation of what Harker’s dealing with.’

‘I doubt you’d be able to stage that convincingly,’ said Mr Bang. ‘Not without compromising your drawing room opening.’

Rather than being offended, Mr Deane nodded. ‘That was my concern, too. But maybe, with Mrs Stoker’s approval, we could use the image on the posters and other advertising? Alert people to the gothic nature of the play. That it’s based entirely on Mr Stoker’s work.’ He regarded me with hope-filled eyes.

‘I think,’ I began slowly, then paused to have a sip of tea. It was lukewarm. Though I’d already made up my mind, I wanted to delay gratification. Perverse of me, I know. But Count Dracula had escaped my control before, and I was in no hurry for him to do so again. I had to assert my authority over this, my imprint too. For all his fine ideas, Mr Deane still needed my permission to proceed. ‘Opening scenes and posters aside, before I make any decision, there are a few things I must insist upon if I’m to allow this adaptation to go ahead.’

Mr Bang stifled a moan. A frown flashed across Mr Deane’s face before he schooled it. With studied nonchalance, he leaned back against the cushion and waved his arm dramatically. ‘Please,’ he added, as if he were the host and I his guest.

‘It’s about Count Dracula,’ I began. ‘I’ve always felt that portraying him as more beast than human somehow lessened his … evil.’ I raised a hand to prevent Mr Deane’s protests. ‘I know Bram describes the vampire in no uncertain terms as having hair on his palms and shocking halitosis. He’s able to alter his shape, transforming into —’ I searched my memory, ‘wolves, mist, rats and other creatures. He pursues his own desires at any cost and murders ruthlessly. Why, in their film, the Germans linked the vampire with rats, or so I’m told.’ If Mr Deane was to truly base a play on Bram’s book, then his Dracula – our Dracula, I reminded myself – must bear no resemblance to the film one.

‘I would insist that for the stage, Count Dracula be portrayed as a gentleman.’

Mr Bang made a noise of – what? Disapproval? Surprise? Mr Deane sat upright, his eyes never leaving my face.

I repressed a small smile. ‘I want him to be someone fit to mingle with lawyers, doctors, lords and ladies. Enter their drawing room world without causing a murmur.’

‘How … how might he do that?’ asked Mr Deane.

‘He could wear a dinner suit for one.’ An image of Bram looking resplendent in his top hat and tails as he escorted people around the Lyceum or presided over a Beefsteak dinner came to mind, followed by a memory of Oscar. ‘Maybe a cape as well.’

Mr Deane reached into his satchel and drew out another journal and pen. He began making notes. It was hard to hide my pleasure. I was being taken seriously. About Dracula. Oh, the irony.

‘I would like him to have excellent manners, be beguiling in a way that the novel’s Dracula isn’t. Be both fearsome and yet utterly irresistible. Noble. He is, after all, a count.’

Mr Deane finished what he was writing, then rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, twirling the pen. His eyes narrowed.

Mr Bang’s head dropped into his hands.