LES HISTOIR D’AMOUR

By

Jean Legume

The Gayety Bar was situated at the corner of Rue De La Tromp-Lillie and Avenue St Éclair. It was a lively place patronised by most of the Artists in Paris. Nothing gave me more pleasure than to sit at one of the old oil-cloth covered tables with a glass of wine or absinth and scribble away in my pocket note-book while staring out at the snow covered street. There’s something very magical about snow. Sounds are muffled and calmness descends, gentleness inhabits the soul…., but back to the story.

I arrived at the Bar at about seven in the evening. The snow was still coming down and was by now several inches deep. I took off my overcoat and hat and hung them on the stand. ‘Bonsoir’ shouted Philip the manager, ‘Comt-habitude?’ He was asking if I would like the usual, a large mug of hot wine with herbs. ‘Merci Philip’ I shouted back. We were alone in the bar but it was customary to shout.

It seemed like an instant before Philip served me at my usual table. ‘ET Voila’ he said as he placed the steaming mug in front of me. ‘You look very debonair this evening?’ I could tell by his remark that he was fishing. It was true, I had made an extra effort with my appearance that evening, after all, it wasn’t every day of the week I courted a beautiful young lady. Philip crossed his arms in front of his apron and said, ‘I sink you may be having Lady tonight no?’ ‘Oui. Je suis avec une belle fils ce-soir!’ I replied, with a slight but proud smirk. Then he waved his finger at me and in his own very camp sort of way said, ‘Meusure Duvall is a naughty, naughty boy I sink’.

He was right, Meusure Duvall was a very naughty boy and what’s more, was very pleased with the prospect of a wonderful evening. Oh Jannette, I thought to myself, such beauty, such style, and such fabulous knockers. Yes I was very excited that evening. I checked my watch. Only an hour to go I thought. I took a large slurp from my hot mug then pulled out my pocket book and pencil. Heading, Oh Lovely Jannette.

I stared out through the window now busy with droplets of condensation. Outside the street almost deserted, except for the odd horse now and then.

Oh Jannette. I started the first line of a poem.

‘Oh Jannette, I bet your’, I scribbled across the words. It seemed shallow and predictable. I began again. ‘Oh Jannette, since we first met’, this was more like it. I took another huge slurp from the mug then read back my first line…’ Oh Jannette, since first we met’. Then, I was tossed from my seat by the most incredible force. An explosion occurred from behind the bar. Glass and alcohol was everywhere. I was covered in it. The lights had gone out and Philip was shouting from behind the bar,. ‘My Leg, My Leg’ He was obviously in pain. I managed to get to my feet and peer through the smoke coming from behind the bar. Philip lay on the floor clutching his false leg. ‘Is it all right?

‘Oh yes’ replied Philip,’ its all right, look, hardly any damage at all.’ It was Philips passion to create home-made fire-works. He rose from the floor wiping soot from the corners of his mouth, coughed, and then said, ‘Just a little too much Potassium Hydrochloride.’

The Bar had exploded many times over the years but for a man who had lost a leg in a Fire-work accident, Philip remained either foolish or brave. ‘One day’ he yelled, ‘one day I will get it right.’

He fiddled with the straps to get his leg back into position and hobbled from behind the bar with a cloth. It didn’t take long to clear up. Then I was back at my table with a fresh mug and I opened my book. Oh Jannette. Philip was still busy cleaning up the bar area. I checked my watch. Good grief, it was a quarter to eight. She would be here soon. The smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air, like sulphur, like a massive expulsion of wind had occurred. Oh my god, she might think it was me. I rushed from my seat and began dragging the front door back and forth to produce a great draft. ‘What are you doing?’ shouted Philip, though he was stood next to me. ‘Getting rid of the stench,’ I yelled back, pushing the door even faster. Then we heard a fizzing noise from behind the bar, a sound like a fuse burning. Philip noticed my expression and yelled, ‘what’s wrong Mon Ami,’ I can here a noise, like a fuse burning, from behind the bar’. Philip grabbed at my sleeve and pulled me out onto the pavement. ‘Run’ he yelled, its going to blow!’ And of course it didn’t. We waited a while, behind a tramp in a doorway, then, peeping through our fingers then Philip said, ‘False alarm Môn home’.

We tentatively entered and Philip limped carefully to the back of the bar then let out a huge laugh, ‘It was the Cappuccino machine’ he said. Then the door opened behind us and it was as if all the angels were singing as Jannette casually closed the door. ‘Bonsoir’ she said, like a timid little mouse. Er, bonsoir I said then Philip said bonsoir.

I rushed toward her, ’let me take your coat’. I placed her coat carefully on the stand by the door then pulled out her chair. She sat so elegantly, ’Now what will you drink?’ I asked. ‘Crème de Cacao pleases’ she replied. Philip stood in awe hypnotized no doubt by her beauty. ‘Philip’ I shouted. He snapped out of his reverie and said, ‘One Crème De Cacao coming up’.

We sat saying nothing as Philip prepared the order, just staring into each others eyes, smiling. Then she leaned forward and whispered, ‘I must go now.’ ‘So soon, but you haven’t even had your Crème De Cacao!’ ‘I must leave now’ she whispered, ‘I am in terrible danger’. With that she got up, grabbed her coat and fled crying into the night.

Philip looked at me enquiringly. ‘Women! I said, ‘a strange lot!’

None the less I was worried. What did she mean when she said ‘I am in terrible danger’..? I sat drinking in the bar until two in the morning. Through a drunken haze I had seen everyone arrive and eventually leave. Philip sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulder. ’Ah’, he shouted, C’est la vie, I think we have had enough for today. Come my friend; let me help you with your coat. And he did. Soon I was back at my humble apartment. I lit a couple of candles and sat back in my big old armchair.

The last thing I remembered that night was the tick of the clock, the flickering light and thoughts of my beautiful Jannette.

My apartment was situated on Rue Mont Mallard above a massage parlour. Madame Frutescent was a large rotund lady with a love of Opera. She had tried desperately in her younger days to become a professional but having failed decided on the next best thing, prostitution. None the less, her love of all things musical forced her to sing with great gusto almost constantly and it was her boisterous singing that woke me next morning. With great difficulty I lifted my head from the pillow and realised the grim results of the previous nights drinking and the sound of Madame Frutescent ringing in my ears made it difficult to recover. I made some strong black coffee and rolled a cigarette. This was breakfast and the way I always started the day. I wiped at the icy glass on the window and peered at the street below. It was already busy with carts and vendors and all the hustle and bustle of busy people, the kind I like to stay clear of. Oh Jannette, I thought, are you down there somewhere in peril? What is this danger your in? I thought it about while I drank my coffee. I must find out. I must get washed and dressed and find her. I might be too late already. Some mad jealous ex-boyfriend may have butchered her by now. Her torso in several pieces and dumped in the Seine.

Oh Jannette. What has become of you?

Outside my apartment door, I could hear Madame Frutescent singing and sweeping then I heard a tap on the door. ‘A letter for you Meusure Du Val’. Hurriedly I opened the door and snatched the letter from her hand then slammed the door shut. She shouted something about pigs and English people from behind the door. I ignored her ranting’s, too excited with the letter. I smelt the envelope and yes, there was no mistaking her perfume. Could this be the answer to my worries and fear concerning her dangerous situation? I pulled the letter from the envelope. Just one page. It read….

Dear Francois, I am sorry for leaving you so abruptly last night. Believe me when I say it had nothing to do with the smell inside the bar. I cannot tell you the details as I fear for my life. Would you like to come shopping with me on Friday? They want me to meet them but I’m scared. We could have lunch at La Bistro En Vice. They might torture me, what am I to do? Meet me at midnight on the corner by the bread shop. Don’t tell anyone or let anyone see you. They’re ruthless. You could buy me a rose. I don’t want to involve you as they may want to kill you as well. You’re Jannette.

Oh my god! Torture, death, where will it all end? My poor Jannette. It was all too strange. We had only met the day before at the art gallery. I asked her to meet me at the café and she’d agreed. This wasn’t in the script. A shiver went down my spine. I remembered my mothers warning, ‘Don’t get involved with girls!’. A generalisation maybe but somehow her words made sense. It was all too quick. I hardly knew her. Yet it seemed so natural. In the hallway outside my door I heard the clatter of high heels followed by the heavy tread of a man. Business was under way in the massage parlour.

I decided to go back to the art gallery. Maybe she would be there again and I could ask a few questions from behind a newspaper. In any case, and just to be on the safe side I decided to disguise myself with a false moustache, small goatee beard and a cape. My grandfather’s shooting stick completed my outfit and I must say, after a glance in the mirror, I felt quite comfortable with my new identity. I shall call myself Count Reynard of Marseille, a man with a title and a vast inherited fortune.

At the gallery I moved from room to room with all the grace my new look demanded. I paused, raising a monocle as I peered intently at each picture. In the main hall there was a seating area for those wishing to pause or reflect. I sat on the bench next to a very well dressed middle aged lady who, judging by her attire seemed rather well-to-do.

After a moment she turned to me and said, ‘Do you like Monet?’ I lowered my newspaper and placed my monocle over my left eye. ‘I do’ I said, ‘I adore all the impressionists, and you?’ She looked at me for what seemed an age and I felt my pulse increase as I began to worry that she might see through my disguise. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked. ‘You look familiar.’ ‘Erm, er, no, I don’t think so.’ I said. ‘Oh, you look like one of the Chavilles.’ She continued. ‘Would you mind helping me out to my carriage Meusure?’ ‘Reynard’, I said, Count Reynard of Marseille at your service’ and offered her my arm. ‘Thank you so much’ she said, ‘I’m honoured, you are indeed most kind Count.’ I helped her down the steps outside the Gallery and just as we reached her waiting carriage I saw her; Jannette. She was making her way up the stairs into the gallery. I raised my arm and was about to shout when the Lady I was helping said, ‘Come Count, you must join me for lunch with my friends from the Society.’ ‘The Society?’ I asked, ‘What Society would that be?’ ‘Why the Theosophists’ she replied as if I should have known. ‘I would love to join you but I have an engagement elsewhere and I fear I may be late.’ ‘Then you may wish to join me another time she replied, here, take my card. And with that her carriage was away.

I quickly ran back up the stairway into the gallery. I couldn’t wait to see my beautiful Jannette. I walked from room to room trying not to draw attention to myself then I spotted her, by the huge painting called ‘The Nudists’ by Rafael. What was I doing here I thought to myself? Why was she back here? I decided to sit and watch for a while. I sat on the bench seat in the middle of the hall and opened my newspaper.

It wasn’t long before I felt movement on the bench next to me. From the corner of my eye I could see it was Jannette. What was I to do? How could I explain myself to her if she discovered I was hiding behind a disguise. I trembled in fear then I felt something touching my side. She had slipped an envelope into my pocket then quickly dashed from the gallery. What was going on I wondered? Then, a man dressed not dissimilar to myself sat down on the bench next to me. I moved to my right making more space between us then he said, ‘Count Reynard?’ I couldn’t believe it. How did he know my new identity? He continued, ‘Count Reynard Of Marseille?’ I waited a moment, cleared my throat then said ‘Yes, I am Count Reynard, and you sir?’ ‘I am Charles Guilimont, I have a message for you from Lady Rothesmere. She would like you to join her for dinner tomorrow at her residence in the Place De La Festoon. She is most anxious to repay the kindness you offered her today. Oh and she asked if you will be bringing a young lady with you, your wife perhaps? ‘I am indeed most grateful and please convey my gratitude to err, Lady Rothesmere. And yes I will be accompanied by an acquaintance, a friend; I am not as yet married’. ‘Oh splendid’ said the man, ‘Her Ladyship will be most pleased to hear that your not married.’ Then he rose from the bench and left.

This was turning into the most fascinating of days. The encounter with lady Rothesmere, the envelope secreted in my pocket by Jannette and now an invitation to dinner with a Lady no less. What more adventure could one wish for? I decided it was time to leave for home, get out of my disguise, read the contents of the envelope and prepare for my meeting with Jannette. Oh poor Jannette. What was this mess she was entangled in?

Back at the massage parlour things were brisk. The long hallway leading to madams room was lined with men of all shapes and sizes, all waiting for there turn at the ladies behind the curtain. Ten franc heaven and most if not all had a wife and children waiting for them at home. But this was the norm in Paris in those days. Head down to reduce any embarrassment I eased my way past the waiting line to the stairs and was about to ascend when the booming voice of Madame hit me full blast in the ear.

‘Where do you think you are going?’ she yelled. I turned to face her. ‘Oh its you!’ she exclaimed, up to your theatrics again are you? I had once played the part of Anita the Fishmongers wife in a play by my old friend Bernard and Madame was most amused.

She would wave me off before each performance, making sure my make-up was right, not too tarty, and my bust not too high. So she saw through my disguise immediately. ‘Yes Madame’ I replied, ‘it’s only me.’ I climbed to my room on the third floor. Mine was the attic room and though small, it was one of the warmest in the whole house. I pulled my moustache off , washed my face then sat down and pulled out the envelope from my pocket. I carefully opened it. A letter in Jannette’s own hand. It read,

I beg of you to release him. Please find a cheque enclosed for twenty thousand francs.

This is all the money I have. Spare his life I beg you.

And there it was, a cheque for twenty thousand francs. For whatever reason I must have resembled the man destined to receive the cheque. Now by complete accident I had placed poor Jannette in even more peril. I took out my pocket book and sat by the window. I must write something, with all the excitement of the last two days I had totally ignored my calling in life, that I am a writer of verse. I read back the only line I had written. Oh Jannette, Since first we met… I read it aloud again..then there was a timid tap at the door. Hello, who is it? I called.’ The police’ came a rough response. The Police! Oh my god. I quickly tidied things up, putting this months copy of ‘Paris Lady’s’ under my mattress then answered the door. Masseur Du Val? Asked the officer,

‘Yes’ I said, ‘do you know the whereabouts of this young lady?’ then he thrust a very crude drawing of semi glad girl into my face. ‘Erm, er, no I don’t’ I said. ’Should I ?’ The officer continued,’Well your friend Philip at the coffee bar says he saw you with this very girl, however briefly, last evening at his bar.’ Well I was with a young lady but’, The officer went on, ‘She was found in the Seine this morning. Chopped to pieces she was. Look!’ Then he showed me another drawing of pieces of meat on a butchers slab. ‘What’s that I said, ‘Never mind’ he continued, ‘Suffice to say that we may be asking you more questions Masseur Du Val.’ then he left.

What a web of intrigue. Could it be true? My beautiful Jannette murdered?

Only my rendezvous at midnight would answer these questions and midnight seemed so far away.

I decided to have a nap. It was only three in the afternoon and I find sleeping the best way of wasting time. I set my little travel alarm to wake me at seven giving me plenty of time to get washed and ready. And it did. I sprang from my slumbers in quite a state I can tell you. Perhaps I was sleeping lightly or maybe the alarm clock had triggered it but I was having the weirdest dream. Jannette was tied to tree, naked in the olive grove at the back of the pickle factory. A dwarf tickled her with feather, laughing in a hysterical dwarf type way. I had a megaphone and was shouting at the dwarf, ‘Leave her alone, she means no harm!’ But the dwarf ignored me or couldn’t hear me, he just carried on with his sadistic tickling. Then a group of travelling Indian performers rode by on elephants waving large falic shaped pieces of mahogany. It was vulgar and sickening. I wanted to cover Jannette’s eyes from this filthy display. She so fair and innocent to the world.

I got dressed, shaved and washed then poured myself stiff refreshment. Then I set off for The Gayety Bar. As usual I was first through the door. As usual Philip was shouting. ‘Oh my God’ he yelled, ‘quick, get into this sack!’ I was confused. ‘But why?’ I shouted. ‘Police, they are after you! You must hide from them immediately. They think you are the butcher of Paris.’ ‘The what?’ I retorted, I couldn’t believe it. Or could I? Have I turned into some depraved wolf like creature that stalks the Paris streets at night, dragging prostitutes into alleyways and cutting them to pieces with surgical precision? ‘No’ said Philip, ‘please don’t say it’s you’. Its not me’ I shouted back, I was just thinking aloud.’ Ok, I’ll get you a drink then’ he said. I gulped it down. ‘They had a picture’ Philip said, ‘they had a picture of a girl.’ ‘Yes they did’ I answered firmly, ‘but it didn’t look anything like Jannette. The general form was that of an old crone bent double after years of carrying bricks on her back while Jannette stands upright and proud. The hair was long and matted like that of a drowned Afghan hound, Jannette’s hair is short and blond, and the eyes, the eyes were like a corpse from an Egyptian mummy, how could you say that hideous picture bore even the remotest resemblance to my beautiful Jannette? Then I started sobbing into my sleeve.

There was a short pause then a voice from the corner of the bar said, ‘I take it then you are offended with my work?’ I lifted my sleeve from my arm very slowly. I recognised the voice but, surely not! I turned to face the corner of the bar and there he was, Eric.

I sprang from my seat and hurried over to him and we embraced as old friends should. We kissed and hugged and looked at each other and then hugged again. It was so good to see him. He had been away for nearly three years give or take two years or so, fighting for the rebel cause in Belgium. ‘Oh my Eric’ I said, I have missed you so much but where are the others?’ ‘All dead’ he said sadly. ‘I am the only one who made it.’ I took my hanky from my pocket and wiped the tears from my eyes, some of joy and some for those who had spared their lives so cowards like me could carry on with a life of selfishness. Then, just at that moment there was a huge bang from behind the bar. Oh no I thought, not another night of third degree burns. But to my astonishment it was a small bang, there was a small plume of smoke and stood behind the bar were the rest of the men Eric said had been lost in the Great Struggle in Belgium. Oh how we laughed. ‘I got you there’ sniggered Eric. ‘Salute Measure Du Val’ shouted the boys from the bar, all clutching a drink. It was time to celebrate. ‘So come on’ I said to Eric, ‘Tell me of your adventure in Belgium?’ In unison, the boys, Eric and Philip began laughing hysterically. Eric struggled to contain himself, ‘It was closed’ and they all laughed again. ‘What was closed?’ I asked, still nonplussed. ‘Belgium my friend, it was closed, so, we decided to get drunk and come home.’ ‘But you’ve been away for more than a year or more?’ They laughed even more. ‘I know’ Eric said, ‘its crazy no?’

‘There was no war, there was no struggle in Belgium. It’s a shit hole’.

With all the jollity and laughter I paid no respect to time when suddenly I realised. I sprang to my feet. ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Eric, you look like you’ve missed an appointment with a lovely young thing. It was fifteen before midnight. I addressed all present, ‘Friends, Eric is right, a lady waits my company and I must beg my leave. Tomorrow we shall continue our celebration.’ And I left.

I made my way along the snowy streets as fast as I could. All I could think about was poor Jannette, shivering in the cold. Her thin clothing tight against her firm breasts, cold, perky. Then, through the falling snow I could see her thin outline in the distance outside the bakers. I quickened my pace slipping here and there but managing to stay upright. Just a few more yards, I shouted along the empty street, ‘Jannette?’ She stepped away from the baker’s doorway. She heard me. She began waving. ‘Here I am.’

The snow fell thicker now. I called again, ‘Jannette?’ Then I stopped dead in my tracks. Through the blur of the falling snow I watched in horror as I saw two hooded men lurch from the shadows and drag poor Jannette away. I ran to the very spot she had been standing. There were her footprints in the snow. And there, lying in the wetness, her scarf and a gold chain with a crucifix. I picked them up and put them in my pocket. Then I looked down at the marks in the snow. All the signs of the struggle, a few drops are of blood, and tracks leading away around the corner. I followed the tracks along Rue des Tangiers determined to find her. I hadn’t gone far when the trail in the snow stopped suddenly. The tracks lead beneath a pair of huge doors. I looked up above the doorway shocked still more at the sight of a hideous gargoyle with great bulging eyes staring down at me. What was this place and who lived behind these doors? I banged at the doors as hard as I could. I yelled, ‘Jannette, are you in there, make a noise if you can here me?’ No reply. Again I hammered on the door, harder this time and I kept hammering. Then I noticed a brass plaque on the wall. I rubbed the snow from its face to reveal the words, Dr Franz Klettleman. Not THE Franz Klettleman I thought. That swine, struck off several times by the gendarme de medicine for mal practice yet still allowed to carry out his butchery on any young lady with enough nerve and francs for a termination. Oh god. Mon Dui. It all began to make sense. She was pregnant and scared, forced to the knife of Dr Klettleman by her parents, both unaware of the Paris liberal night scene where a tender young thing like Jannette could so easily swoon to the advances from temporary Portuguese sailors. What was I to do?

Then, very slowly and to my utter surprise, the doors began to open. As I drew away in some fear the head of an aged man peered through the gap. ‘The Doctor is expecting you’ he said, with low dramatic tones, ‘please, do come in.’ I was scared but felt no threat from the old minder so I moved cautiously inside. He slammed the great doors shut behind me then let out a huge laugh. ‘Where’s Jannette?’ I said, ‘I know she’s here’. Then, a voice from the top of the huge staircase came thundering down at me.

It was him, the evil doctor. I caught the smell of peppermints as he spoke. This vision almost defies description. His hands held what looked like the writhing last moments of a foetus, or chicken portions. His doctor’s coat soiled and decrepit and his eyes, wide open and staring with the most evil glare imaginable. ‘And who have we here?’ he said. ‘Looking for meat are we?’ His voice, colder than ice made we need the toilet.

‘Where is Jannette?’ I shouted, knowing this kind of bravado could well be my undoing. ‘What have you done with her?’

Then, I felt something very heavy hit the back of my head and as the fireworks of pain surged through every cell in my body, I fell to the marble floor.

I presumed it was morning. I could hear birds. A draft from an open window blew cold against my skin. The reality of my surroundings gradually gained focus. I was tied, naked to the waist to a chair. Outside the open window, the tops of the trees swayed suggesting I was at least on the second or third floor. I twisted my head as far as I could both left and right. The room was empty, just me, tied to a chair.

I recounted the previous night. I tried to make sense of this strange story. I wondered how business was back at the house, then, as I dreamt of Jannette, the door opened behind me. The Doctors heels clicked against the stone floor. His stride was slow and determined each click louder as he came up behind me. Then I heard him click his knuckles like some stupid knuckle clicker. ‘You’ll get arthritis doing that’, I said, rising to the part. He sniggered, and then leant forward placing his fat lips against my ear. The smell of peppermint returned as he said, in a very menacing way, ‘She knows where the key is, and so do you. I am a doctor Meusure Duvall. I will remove your organs in the correct order. That is to say, you will die, very slowly. First I will remove your hair, then your nails. Now, where is the key?’

What was he on about? The key, what key? Remove my nails! This was becoming decidedly dangerous. The Dr paced around the chair and in his hand; a scalpel.

‘I shall ask you again’ he said, gently placing the scalpel against my cheek, ‘Where is the key?’ I took a huge gulp afraid my cheek would force itself against the Dr’s steel weapon. ‘The key,! Oh, that key.’ It’s in my pocket, just here.’ I nodded to my right. ‘Go on’ I said, ‘help yourself.’ I knew that my pocket contained the key to my apartment and if I was right the Dr might just fall for this simple diversion. He plunged his hand into my pocket then waved the key in front of my face. ‘I hope your not playing games with me Duvall, this key is worth more than you can imagine.’ He moved over to the window. ‘You see, this key is ...’ he was interrupted by a knock on the door. ‘What is it’ he yelled. The thin voice of the old man, his servant replied, ‘Your next client has arrived Sir.’ Putting the key in his pocket the Dr untied my hands. ‘Now,’ he said, you may leave, you and that wretched girl, but be warned Meusure Duvall, if this key does not fit I shall find you both and cut out your hearts.’

I backed away rubbing my wrists, sore from their binding. I ran as quick as I could down the stairs and there sat waiting crying into her handkerchief was Jannette. She stood up as i approached, ‘Oh Francois’ she said, ‘I am so sorry’. I gave her a tight hug then said, ‘Come, we must leave this place quickly,’ ‘But how did you manage to…?’ I stopped her abruptly, ‘No time to explain, come or we shall both be dead.’ I grabbed her hand and we ran as fast as our legs could carry us out to the street. Once at a good distance from the house we stopped, panting hard. I pulled her close to me. She looked so weak and afraid. ‘We must go to Philip’s place,’ I said, ‘He will hide us and you can tell me what this terrible story is all about.’ Tears ran down her pale soft cheeks as she looked down into my eyes. ‘It’s about a young handsome writer’ she said ‘who meets a girl called Jannette who is mixed up in some terrible ordeal!’ I placed my finger gently against her lips, ‘Come’ I said, ‘You can explain at Philip’s.’

Again I took her hand and we made our way through the back streets. The snow had started melting and made our way slow, meandering between the busy hustle and bustle of Paris business until we arrived at the bar. ‘Oh no!,’ I exclaimed, ‘What is it?’ asked Jannette? ‘Look,’ I said, ‘Philip is not here.’ A note tacked to the inside of the window read: Gone to Nantes, Back at seven. ‘I know where we can go,’ said Jannette, pulling at my sleeve, ‘My sister lives just a few streets from here. We will be safe and,’

a smile suddenly lit her face, ‘her croissants are the best in Paris.’ My heart leapt with joy at the sight of Jannette smiling. ‘Lead the way then’ I said excitedly.

A left, then a right, two more lefts, then another left, then finally, a right.

We were heading for the area known as La Pigalle, infamous for its whore houses, sordid entertainment and crime. Drunken joy riders would pound the streets on their horses paying no heed to life or limb and one could easily end up on the slab at the university dissection rooms.

‘Not much further’ said Jannette, now clearly excited with the prospect of seeing her sister. And this was it, a thin house on a terrace of bawdy bars and brothels. The whole building, narrow as the doorway itself. Jannette thumped hard on the door and flakes of ageing blue paint fell like snow to the ground. The door opened and there stood Jannette’s sister, slightly smaller than Jannette but younger with the most amazing blue eyes. ‘Oh my Nadine!’ said Jannette, ‘Please, may we come in? We are in terrible trouble and need somewhere safe to hide.’ Then they hugged each other and Nadine looked quickly up and down the street. ‘Quick’ she said, ‘Go on up the stairs.’ The doorway was extremely tight and we had to force our way past Nadine and as we did, I caught her perfume, the unmistakeable fragrance, ‘Nuits du Famme’ or ‘Nights of Lady.’ I noticed that there were no doorways either left or right as we climbed each flight of stairs. ‘What do think of the place?’ asked Nadine. We stopped at the third floor. ‘It’s cosy’ I said. Jannette quickly interrupted, ‘Oh how selfish of me, this is Francois Duvall, we may be going shopping together isn’t it?’ she looked at me with a questioning glare. ‘Not the Poet?’ asked Nadine. ‘You’ve heard of me?’ I asked. ‘Oh yes’ said Nadine excitedly, ‘Phillip at the gaiety bar says you’re a really good writer and with hard work and if you cut down on the drink you might find a publisher in the years ahead.’ Thanks Phillip I thought to myself. She continued, ‘Yes this is an unusual house. Keep going up the stairs.’ And we did, keep going up the stairs. Now we must be at least seven flights up and still there were no doors. ‘How many rooms are there in the house?’ I asked. ‘Just the one’ replied Nadine, ‘Well I say that but it’s not really a room, more a sort of space.’ And she was right. At the very top of the stairs, nine floors up, there was an open area which contained a bed, a chair, a cooker and a skylight. ‘I saved for years to get this place she said, filling the kettle. ‘Please, make yourselves at home.’ Jannette sat on the only chair and I squatted against the top of the banister. ‘ Nadine sat on the edge of the single bed and patted the covers. ‘Come and sit here,’ she said, ‘You’ll catch your death squatting there. Jannette stood up from her chair to allow me to pass and I sat on the bed next to Nadine. ‘Tell me a poem, she said, tossing her hair back over her shoulder and pulling down the shoulder of her dress to reveal her shoulder. Jannette said, ‘No Nadine. First we must tell you why we are here.’ ‘Yes’ I said, ‘You must tell us.’ Nadine turned to me as if shocked, ‘You mean you don’t know why you’re here?’ ‘No, it’s all happened so fast’ I said, ‘I only met Jannette yesterday and we were held prisoner and,’ Jannette interrupted, ‘Let me explain Nadine.’ Trying her best to be the hostess, Nadine rose to her feet. The kettle was whistling. ‘Tea? She asked. We nodded. ‘I buy this off an Indian man’ she said, ‘he sells all kinds of things, including pigeons, but I love his tea.’ It was obvious by now that Nadine, as pretty and polite as she seemed, wasn’t quite all there. Her focus shifted like cheap binoculars and her general loudness of voice made me wonder just how safe we were. ‘do go on,’ she said to Jannette, ‘It all sounds terribly exciting.’ She stirred sugar into the tea, pounding the spoon against the inside of the cups. Then, in the most bizarre way, she removed the cover from a cage suspended in the corner of the area I had privately named, the top of the stairs. A small African bird pruned its feathers and began the most beautiful bird song. Nadine pursed her lips against the cage and made a sort of kissing sound. We were both stunned. ‘Isn’t she the most adorable bird’ said Nadine. She took a small piece of carrot from the sink and forced it between the bars of the cage. ‘Does my little birdie like a carrot?’ Then she put the cover back over the cage and the poor thing stopped singing. She passed our cups of tea with all the gentleness of a maid, and then sat back down next to me. I felt strangely relaxed. Nadine stood up and said, ‘Do you mind if I read?’ Jannette became agitated. ‘Where is the toilet?’ she suddenly said. ‘Bottom of the stairs, first on the right,’ answered Nadine.

Jannette seemed horrified. ‘You mean I must go all the way down to the street then into the brothel next door?’ Nadine looked up from her book, the pale light from the gas lamp causing an eerie glow.

‘Yes my dear’. ‘Let me escort you, I said, ‘Its all right’ said Jannette, I won’t be long.’ Jannette’s footsteps gradually faded into the distance down the stairs. Nadine seemed lost in her book. Now I felt nervous. This wasn’t at all what I had expected. I started to get up from the bed thinking it more polite to sit on the chair. Nadine grabbed me firmly by the hand, ‘No, please stay here next to me’ she said, ‘It’s so seldom I feel the warmth of a man’s shoulder next to my shoulder.’

She looked down at me, her big blue eyes intent on lust and all sense of morality left my soul; I wanted her, then, now, like a dog, but I knew Jannette would return at any moment. ‘You have beautiful shoulders, so firm, so warm, and inviting.’ Her words sounded so poetic. ‘I must write this down,’ I said, ‘do you mind?’ ‘Oh, do you think so?’ she asked, ‘Yes, you have a very natural flow with words.’ She sort of squirmed in her seat, excited. ‘Yes, you must, write it down. Will I get any money?’ she asked. ‘Well, perhaps if it’s published’ I said. ‘Oh yes Francois, let’s do poetry together and get it published.’ She sprang to her feet. ‘Write this!’ she announced. I took my little note book out. She waved her arms around as she spoke. ‘Look at me ladies and gentlemen, I am bohemian.’

I didn’t write anything and she noticed. ‘Aren’t you writing it down Francois?’ ‘No, erm, it’s just that I don’t really think your flowing yet, in the literal sense, I mean, it’s more of an announcement, what you just said, it’s not really poetry.’ This seemed to annoy Nadine and she suddenly stopped her contortions and faced me. ‘What do you mean not really poetry?’ It took me at least twenty minutes to explain to Nadine the finer points of poetry. She didn’t like the idea and sat down on the bed next to me dejected. ‘I’m useless,’ she said, and began to weep,’ All I ever wanted to do in life was rub shoulders with a poet and participate in the odd line here or there, now look at me, I’m a failure; Yes I’ve met a wonderful handsome poet who loves me and wants nothing more than to look after my five children, but what good is all his love and gold if he doesn’t let me add a word here and there to the final draft?’ She turned away from me weeping into her arms, and nothing I could say brought consolation. I could hear Jannette’s footstep approaching up the stairs. I begged Nadine, ‘Please, all is not lost!’ ‘What’s happened to Nadine?’ asked a worried looking Jannette. Nadine, eyes red from tears and black from cheap mascara looked up from her sleeve, ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said, ‘oh that’s wonderful news,’ said Jannette, ‘you must be happy, why all these tears, all this sorrow?’ Nadine rose to her feet. ‘Because this Bastard, she said looking directly at me ‘is the father!’ Then she struck me across the face. Jannette filled with rage then she too struck me, on the other cheek. ‘You bastard’ yelled Jannette. Then she went running down the stairs shouting, ‘Gendarme, Gendarme!’

In the police cell I passed the time reading various graffiti. Some of it filled with all the intensity of great poetry, but mostly crude and desperate. I am Pascal Du Brett, a Murderer, I am innocent. Luke Fisentres the Rapist was here, and so on.

I had often wondered what the experience must be like. To be locked away with villains, vagabonds and the meanest men of society, but not for a crime of which I was innocent. I wandered through the memories of the last few days trying desperately to make some sense of it all, the mysterious Jannette, the madness of her sister Nadine, the bizarre consequences which had found me in this desperate plight. Then, the heavy bolt on the old cell door made a terrible screech as it pulled open and a burly policeman entered. He tapped his truncheon in the palm of his hand indicating the possibility I might loose blood at some point. ‘Are you going to confess?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Confess to what?’ I asked, with the tiredness of a mouse. ‘Right’ he grabbed me by the scruff of the coat, ‘Let’s have you in the interrogation room’.

He then dragged me along a corridor, down several flights of stairs which led to another corridor then down a set of stairs to a doorway. He quickly unlocked the door and forcing me through it said ‘Here we are!’ It was another corridor. He dragged me its full length to a spiral staircase. He hit me across the back with his truncheon. ‘Get up there!’ he shouted at me. I struggled to the top to be met by a different guard who greeted me with a heavy blow across the stomach. ‘You’re all mine now,’ said the guard, with an evil laugh, ‘Get up that corridor!’ He poked at me with his truncheon along a very narrow corridor then down a flight steep stone stairs. I noticed blood stains on the floor and my heart pounded in fear.

‘Just another corridor’ he said, with all the subtlety of those who understand bondage. This relentless journey lasted several hours. Being passed from one guard to another, through a different doorway, down then up, all left me totally without any sense of where I was. ‘Get in there’ yelled the bully as he forced me through yet another doorway.

As my eyes gradually accustomed to the dim light, I could just make out the figure of a women seated in the corner of the room. The air was filled with a smell all prisons breathe. A mixture of human decay, dampness and despair, yet here, in this room, something pleasant made breathing a pleasure, an additive, in the pungent stench of corporal correction? Surely not, yet I was sure. I know the delicate fragrance of Lady-Fair. It was my Jannette sat in the corner. I blinked in the half-light as my captor dragged me to my feet. ‘Is this the man?’ he demanded of Jannette. There was a pause. Inside I cried out, ‘oh Jannette, please say it wasn’t me.’

The gaoler asked again. ‘Is this the man who saved you?’

Saved? I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘Yes’ said Jannette. ‘That’s him.’

My dear reader, if I were to say I felt like the luckiest man alive at that moment it would be an understatement. But that’s not the truth. I only wondered what terrible fate awaited me by admitting I was the man who had saved my beautiful Jannette. How could I know? What was it I had saved her from? Whence shaft mine thrifts lay open on the drapes? I wasn’t making sense. I needed a drink.

At Philips bar the party was in full swing, the lecturous, the free artistic souls of Paris, consuming, all so free and unaware of my personal plight. Jacque Monte, now flushed with success after a sell out exhibition at the Tomb Des respired stopped me as I interfered, ‘Still scribbling in that book of yours Franz?’ His voice was embarrassingly loud. ‘Come, you must join us.’ I wanted so much to be near this man but knew he would embarrass me in his usual way. How many times had he reminded me I wasn’t a ‘Real’ poet? A lady I’d never met before passed me a glass containing a wild cocktail. She was tall, at least a foot above me and somehow I realised my position within the universe. ‘You look like a man who desires?’ she said with a very husky voice. ‘I do, er, desire’, I answered timidly, ‘I am a poet, I write about desire. Desire is like a honeybee, desperate for pollen, on a flower where none is left.’ That’s crap, she replied, Why don’t you try painting?

I mingled at the bar till I couldn’t mingle further. I staggered home, so drunk even the lamp-posts sneered in disapproval. I remember as much of that night as you have read. The rest is, will always be a bad head or someone else’s version.

The light from the street, the hurly burly in motion, the noise of human contact, What a disgusting way to start the day? Do these people not understand the concept of ‘tranquillity’?