1462: Prince Vlad III Dracul, also known as Vlad Tepes, (Rom.: “The Impaler”) routs the Ottoman Turks in the area south of the Danube between Serbia and the Black Sea in what is described as “an orgy of blood” leaving over 20,000 dead…

1956: Bela Lugosi dies.

1983:Peter Murphy awakens at approximately 11:17 AM in his agreeably firm queen size bed on the 19th floor of the Plaza Ataturk Regency, Istanbul. He would be lunching with Daniel, Roger, both Davids, and a reporter from a Tel Aviv musical variety programme before heading back to Athens. He climbs out of bed and throws on the kimono Bowie had given him as a gift on the set of The Hunger, which had come attached with a cryptic note:

Avoid the green ones. Charlene knows. Better than a pomegranate, even.
Salutations,
Bowie.

Peter knows nothing of any ‘green ones’, or any ‘Charlene’ for that matter. He gets the chance to ask him about it six years later, backstage at the NME awards, and Bowie looks at him as though he has no idea what he’s talking about. The more Peter tries to elaborate, the more distant Bowie becomes, finally fixing his gaze on a spot on the wall above and behind Peter’s right shoulder. Peter calls out his name several times, waves his hand in his face, snaps his fingers until Bowie suddenly becomes lucid once more. “I’m sorry, Peter,” he replies, “Did you say something?”

Back in the hotel room in Istanbul, Peter ties the kimono’s belt around his waist, pours himself some Turkish coffee from a polished silver urn and takes a bite of a croissant. Odd, he thinks, because if memory serves him correctly, the croissant was originally created centuries ago to commemorate a Turkish defeat in Hungary, which had prevented Islam from sweeping through Europe forever after (croissant= Fr. ‘crescent’= the universal symbol for Islam). A rather morbid delicacy to be partaking of in a Turkish establishment, maybe, but this is exactly the sort of thing whose significance is obscured through the mists of time, he thinks, like fashions and the meanings of words.

He turns on the television set, flipping through the channels objectively, as an archaeologist poring over ancient ruins—passing judgment on nothing, he simply takes note and moves on—when a revelation strikes him. He leaps up from the edge of the bed and runs to the closet. He opens the door and lets out a sigh of relief. There it is, nibbling on a handful of dried garbanzo beans: the Rhesus Macaque Peter had purchased at the marketplace the day prior—oh the things one finds in Istanbul!

His last attempt to conjure the homunculus of legend having been an utter disaster—a dreary weekend in Northampton with an older hippie couple when he was seventeen, which only succeeded in conjuring a rash over half of his body—Peter decides to get the next best thing. While the primate is not in fact a miniature supernatural man capable of granting wishes, it is fairly handy. He can climb into hard to reach spaces and pick up objects at will. The night before had been spent trying to train the monkey to perform various simple tasks: turning the lights off and on, fetching a bottle of sleeping pills from the medicine cabinet, turning down the bed, etc. At this, it could be said Peter is not entirely unsuccessful. The monkey proves itself acutely capable of stripping the bed completely, which it does several times. It manages to fling the bottle of pills roughly in the vicinity of Peter’s feet; this he considers a victory after dozens of attempts. But the monkey demonstrates an especial proclivity—and relish, it might be added—in turning the lights on and off, which it does repeatedly throughout the night, leading Peter to finally lock it in the closet.

After lunch and the interview, Peter packs his bags and rides in a taxicab to the airport, the monkey stashed away in a brown leather valise laid across his lap. Peter coos and scratches the top of the monkey’s head, whispering tender promises to it under his breath. “Now, now, Crowley, this hellish journey will be over soon. We’ll be home, you and I, together for all eternity”… Peter’s mind wanders. He imagines himself and the monkey, now outfitted in top hat and a smart vest with walking stick, strolling down High Streets from Dunkirk to Glasgow, perusing the shops and terrorizing children. He would train the monkey to drop a lump of coal in the cup of every beggar they passed, and play the concertina terribly on the steps of the church on Sundays as worshippers plugged their fingers in their ears. The two of them, thick as thieves, would be renowned for their general wickedness and carve out a spot in the local folklore, while having top-drawer good times, to boot…

As they pass through customs, Peter’s heart flutters with the rhythmic abandon of a Bedouin drum. The fierce-looking German shepherds standing between him and the gate are trained to sniff out hashish, opium and the like—as for live monkeys Peter has no idea. He prays silently to himself, to whichever God might be listening—the God of airports and monkeys and brown leather valises—prays for safe passage. For a split second he swears he sees the flaming visage of St. Elmo somewhere behind the baggage carousel —just as those intrepid Venetian sailors had on their way to Tyre, Acre, Jerusalem so long ago. Just then he hears a loud bark, as one of the dogs motions for his valise. He feels Crowley struggling inside the bag. He tries—oh how he tries—but the monkey slips out, lightning fast, and leaps atop the dogs back, howling and thumping it with its tiny fists. A violent cloud of tooth, tail, and fur rolls across the floor of the terminal, growling, barking, and screeching. Peter, now realizing these are probably the last moments he would ever spend with the monkey, cheers on with all his heart. The dogs, while obviously well trained, are no match for the monkey’s speed and agility. Then, just as soon as it had began, it’s over.

One of the gendarmes, a round pleasant-looking man with an amused smile on his face, pulls a handful of dates from his coat pocket and holds them out. The monkey immediately notices this, extricates itself from the scuffle with the dogs, and trots over to the man with the dates. Peter feels as if he’s been kicked in the stomach. He screams out to the monkey—“No! Run! Run while you still can! Don’t let them take you alive!” But he can only watch as the monkey follows the gendarme down a hallway, and voluntarily at that.

Peter Murphy is heartbroken. It’s not the same feeling as when one experiences the death of a loved one, when some substantial part of one’s life, one’s past, is suddenly rendered incorporeal. No—it is as though some meaningful part of his future has been taken from him, violently, carved away from his body like a pound of flesh, the pain of a child stillborn…