by Robert Levy
“Then do it again, please,” he says, his tone softening. “I’ve already had enough headaches today.”
After a few minutes, a stage manager emerges from the wings. He uses the small set of stairs to step down into the pews, and he approaches me. “This is a closed rehearsal, mademoiselle,” he whispers curtly. “I am going to have to ask you to leave.”
“My apologies, but I am a friend of Maxa’s. Is she here?”
“Unfortunately, no. She has missed the last three performances. We had to call in her understudy,” he says, and casts a baleful look at the actress onstage. “If you see her, please make it clear that Monsieur Jouvin is in a rage, and that he plans to let her go if she does not return at once. He is well aware of her vices, and any irresponsibility will no longer be excused.”
“I will let her know,” I say, the wind going out of me. “Thank you.”
Once I leave the Guignol, I hurry to Maxa’s place. I hope against hope that I will find her there, that she has not been harmed, or indulged in too much opium for her body to withstand. I ring the bell, and wait at the door to the building. When a distractible family exits the premises, I scuttle inside the vestibule and climb the stairs to her flat.
“Maxa?” I call as I knock on her door. “Maxa, are you inside?” I turn the knob, surprised to find it unlocked, and I slip inside. “Maxa?” I call again. “Maxa? Are you here?”
The apartment emits a chill of loneliness and abandonment, as if no one has been here in quite some time. It is dark as night here as well, the windows and walls draped in their heavy black velvets. I creep down the hall to the bedroom, terrified of what I might discover. That I might find Maxa bound and bloodied, tied to the bedposts in a grotesque display of gore and punctured flesh, a scene of blood-drenched Guignol staged by the unforgiving hand of Monsieur Guillard.
The room is empty, however, rumpled bedsheets the only vague reminder of the carnal scene I had witnessed when last I was here. I search the flat as best I can, comb through her drawers and her cosmetics kits, determined to find any clue as to her whereabouts. Did Maxa manage to flee, as is my profound wish? It is true there is no overt sign of struggle, yet I am no detective, and I wonder anew about contacting the police.
Though what would I say if I did? No doubt they would point to her opium consumption as confirmed by the Guignol, confirmable by anyone who may have crossed her path. Maxa was correct: the authorities would be of no use whatsoever.
Just as I am about to take my leave, one of the pictures pinned to the back of the door flutters to the ground, and I bend to retrieve it. It is the photograph of the young woman in a lace slip, curvy and Amazonian and luxuriating upon a red divan. Something about the woman’s ambivalent expression—how it is both welcoming and observant, the eyes vulnerable and unpitying in equal measure—causes me stare at her image for some time. Who is she?
And all of a sudden I know. The young woman standing in the mouth of the cave, her binds untied as she watched from the shadows, an imposing older woman lurking just behind her. The one whose statue was shattered upon the rocky sand, whose face resembled a Modigliani, and I bring the picture closer to my face. The woman on the dark beach, and this woman in the photograph: they appear to be one and the same.
My fingers tremble, and I drop the picture into my bag, nerves frayed like the thief that I am. One final glance about the flat, and I take my leave, the heavy door groaning as I shut it fast behind me.
Henry and I lie in bed, our limbs tangled in the sheets. We hold each other, and watch lazily as dust shivers and dances in the afternoon light that filters through his filthy apartment window. He hums a little song beneath his breath, and I try to keep my mind from Maxa’s disappearance, as if this routine of false normalcy will keep Monsieur Guillard from my door. The Dark Angel himself. His disturbing face haunts me, as does the possibility that I conjured him without understanding or intent, perhaps in the very same manner as Maxa. But how exactly?
There is a change in the atmosphere, and it takes me some time to realize that Henry has ceased his humming and fallen silent. I look over at him, and he squints back at me with a bemused concern.
“Little bird, little bird, where did you fly?” he says, and he gives my arm a little squeeze. “You haven’t been your playful self lately. Not in bed, and not on the page either.”
“I am sorry, Henry. It is just that I have a great deal on my mind.”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed. It’s like fucking a rubber doll, you know? No offense.”
“Can a rubber doll do this?” I pepper his face with kisses, his lips, his cheeks and nose, the bald crest of his skull, testing if I can break him of his worry. But when I withdraw, Henry’s expression remains unchanged.
“You going to tell me what’s going on with you or what?” He leans up on his elbow, as if preparing himself for a lengthy response. I sigh, and sit up myself. Henry knows so much of me, there is no denying this. More than Allendy or my cousin Eduardo, perhaps even more than Hugo. What I have experienced of late, however, is another matter entirely. How can I begin to explain to him the transgression made flesh that walks among us? That a night creature in the guise of a man has come for me in both this world and his own, and now threatens to consume me altogether? These are matters that even a man of Henry’s great experience would not be able to comprehend.
“It is one thing to be under the sway of another,” I say, an attempt to speak in our common tongue of metaphor and myth, the language of symbol and allusion. “A man, say. Or even a woman,” for he knows that I remain entranced by June’s lingering spell, just as surely as he does himself. “It is quite another to be haunted by a being that inhabits another world. An angel, or a demon, a creation of light and darkness that cannot be escaped or denied. I have fallen under the influence of such a creature, one I cannot properly begin to fathom. In turn, my life has become a waking dream from which I cannot fully rouse.”
“So you’re hung up on someone. What else is new?”
“You do not understand my meaning.”
“Well pardonnez-vous, Madame! Maybe you’re just shutting me out with all this mumbo jumbo because you don’t want me to understand. Ever think about that?”
I get up from the bed. “Maybe it is because I know you are incapable of it.”
He reaches for me but I shrug him off, and go into the bathroom to wash myself. I shut the door and run a wet cloth over my face, my breasts, between my legs. All the places where Henry has been, with his hands, his mouth, his penis. My pleasure with him here in Clichy, this once precious place, noticeably dimmed. The same way Louveciennes has grown colorless, Hugo along with it. I know it is because of Monsieur Guillard. The monster that fills me with an evil and unspeakable poison, my usual pleasures steadily drained from the world around me until there is nothing left but the empty husk of a life once lived to its fullest.
I emerge from the bathroom to find Henry seated on the edge of the bed. He stares down at something in his hands, my bag lying open on the pillow beside him.
“So, is this the lucky lady?” He holds up the photograph from the back of Maxa’s door, the portrait of the voluptuous young woman upon the divan.
“Who gave you permission to go through my possessions?” I snatch the picture away from him. “If my husband can manage to respect my privacy, I expect nothing less from you.”
“Hey, hey, take it easy,” he says, and holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m just looking out for you, alright? Let’s just say you better make sure June doesn’t find out about this girl. Take it from me. She skips town with a broken heart, and you turn around and fall for a whore? Wouldn’t exactly make her feel like the belle of the ball, if you catch my drift.”
“A whore?” I yank my bag from the bed and tuck the photograph back inside. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“That woman in the picture. She’s a professional.” He clears his throat. “I don’t want to go into any great detail here.
Suffice it to say, that’s one of Louisa’s girls, over at 32 Rue Blondel. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. It’s not a good idea, that’s all.”
“You do not understand.”
“Yeah, you’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
“Listen to me! I do not know this woman, but she might be in grave danger. Regardless, she may well have information about a missing friend of mine. I am going to need your help, Henry.”
“Anything you want, kid. You know that.”
“All right, then.” I straighten up as tall as I can make myself, allow Henry’s gaze to travel the contours of my body until his eyes return to my face. I place my hands on my bare hips, and I smile. “I want you to take me to the Rue Blondel.”
The taxi lets us out at the mouth of the narrow little street. I take Henry’s arm as we make our way to the unassuming building, the number “32” painted in red over the door. He knocks three times, pauses, then knocks three times again, after which he shares a smile both sheepish and mischievous, that of a naughty little boy. The door cracks open, and we slip into the darkness within.
The patronne swiftly shuts the door behind us, and we follow her down a crooked hallway to a wall of heavy and torn red curtains, which she parts as she ushers us through with a sly smile of her own. The high commotion of the room envelops me. The acrid smell of smoke and stale spirits, a tinny waltz playing on the phonograph, and above all the laughter of women, who sit naked at various café tables and along the oak bar. A dozen of them or more, dark and pale and every shade in between, drinking and smoking and carousing in stockings and heels, their buttocks and breasts and mounds of wiry pubic hair on proud display. I blush at the banquet on offer, and turn to Henry, who watches me closely beneath the low brim of his hat.
“Like anything you see?” he says. “We’re here already. Don’t see why we shouldn’t kill two birds with one stone, if you know what I mean.”
“We are only here to talk,” I say, as I scan the room. “You can return to play some other time.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, and shrugs. “You’re the one who’s paying.”
Two prostitutes approach, and cling to the both of us in a clumsy attempt at seduction. We send them away, however, and circle the room in search of the woman from the photograph. When we fail to find her, I summon over the patronne and show her the picture.
“Ah, yes,” she says, and nods. “She is one of mine. Her name is Sonia. Unfortunately, she is not working this evening.”
“Do you know where we might find her? It is quite urgent.” I return the photograph to my bag and produce a handful of bills. “We will compensate you most fairly for delivering us to her.”
“But of course.” The patronne bows in deference, and guides us to the uneven staircase. We follow her up, the sounds and sights and smells of the café setting dissolving below as we reach the landing and continue to the next flight. Here in these dim warrens, any private desire imaginable can be negotiated and consummated. Or so I had once thought, before I encountered Monsieur Guillard.
Harsh grunts and other rutting noises resound beyond the thin walls, the contradictory scents of perfume and sex hanging heavy in the air as we reach a door at the end of the hall. The patronne knocks rapidly before she produces an iron key from her apron. “Please,” she says, and holds her palm open. I hand over the money, and she bows with an obsequious flourish before unlocking the door, only to turn on her heel and head back down the stairs.
The room is softly lighted, a red glow from a silk scarf hung over a lamp atop a decrepit armoire that gapes open from the corner. Beside it is a rumpled bed and a cluttered night table that bears an almost-drained bottle of Le Peau Verte. Two half-emptied glasses and a bowl of sugar cubes as well, alongside a variety of accoutrements.
Barely a moment passes before the woman in question staggers naked from an adjoining room. She is busy pinning her damp hair, arms held high so that her large breasts heave as she works. It takes her some time to register our presence, and which point she freezes in her pose, her own kind of statue.
“What are you doing in here?” Sonia reaches for the dresser and takes up what appears to be a simple hair comb. With a flick of the wrist, however, the comb snaps open to reveal a deadly steel blade disguised in its ivory encasing, which she now brandishes with what can only be described as a world-weary familiarity.
“Whoa, lady!” Henry, ever the gentlemen, leaps in front of me. “Take it easy there. Who comes to a cathouse looking for a fight?”
“Did Louisa let you in? I told that bitch I’m not working tonight,” Sonia says matter-of-factly. “You will have to find another girl to entertain you.”
“We are not here to be entertained,” I say. “My name is Anaïs, and this is Henry. We are looking for answers about a friend of mine. Her name is Paula Maxa. I found your photograph in her apartment, which led us here to you.”
“Maxa?” She raises a thinly painted eyebrow and snaps the blade closed before flinging the camouflaged weapon back onto the dresser. “What do you need me for? You can find her over at the Grand Guignol in Pigalle. She is probably on stage getting tortured by a psychopathic dentist as we speak. If you hurry, you can still catch the show.”
“Unfortunately, Maxa has gone missing.”
“Missing? What do you mean, missing?” she says, her voice uneven. “Maybe she took a lover. Everyone needs a break from the world now and then.”
“No one seems to have seen her for few days now.” I hand her Maxa’s letter. “I think she might be in terrible trouble.”
“She’s flown the coop,” Henry says, as Sonia scans the letter. “Sounds to me like she’s dug herself a hole she can’t get out of. Either that, or someone’s dug a hole for her.”
“No,” Sonia says, and thrusts the letter back at me. “I cannot hear about this now. Not now!” She sinks against the wall until she is curled in a ball on the floor, her hands raking violently through her straw-colored hair until I am afraid she will tear it from its roots. “I already paid my debt,” she mutters beneath her breath. “I won’t be made to do it again...”
“Henry.” I go to him, my voice dropping into a whisper. “Do you think you can give us some privacy?”
“Are you nuts? I’m not leaving you alone with her. Her pupils are the size of dimes. She looks like she’s whacked out of her mind!”
“She may be under the spell of the green fairy,” I say, and cast my eyes toward the night table. “That only means she requires a gentle hand. Regardless, your presence is only going to upset her.”
“There’s not a lot this chick hasn’t seen by now. Trust me.”
“Be that as it may, this occasion calls for a woman’s touch.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll be downstairs, checking out the merchandise. But don’t take too long, okay?”
I close the door behind Henry and settle on the floor beside her. “Sonia,” I begin softly. “Do you know what might have happened to Maxa?”
“It is nothing I can properly explain to you.” She lifts her head, her pink-rimmed eyes still fixed on the floor, on whatever horrors her mind has conjured before her. “It is nothing you can hope to understand.”
“He is called by many names,” I say. “The Dark Angel of Music. Crocell, the Lord of the Great Deep. Those, and more.”
Her gaze meets mine, her wide eyes glassy and no less haunted. “So Maxa told you about him.”
“Some, yes. But not all.”
“She should have kept quiet. Nothing good can come of speaking of him. Quite the contrary.” Sonia lights a cigarette, her fingers quivering. “You should pray that you never come face to face with him.”
“I have already faced him. He came to me, at a masquerade in Passy. And then he came to be again inside a terrible dream, a dream that was as real as life.”
“You.” Her hands move to her mouth, red lacquered fingernails tap-tapping against her lips in a blur of motion. “You are the one from the pool
of stone. The woman on the shore.”
“And you are the one who watched from the cave. The one whose statue lay shattered upon the sand.”
She looks to the corner of the room, as if someone else is there. “You are the next of us, then,” she whispers. “He already knows your name.”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes.”
“Now I know why Therese wanted to...” Sonia trails off, and quickly stands. She stumbles to the night table, where she empties the rest of the absinthe into a glass. “In a few hours, just before dawn, wait for me at the eastern side of the Barrière d’Enfer,” she says, her voice newly firm. “I will meet you there. Make sure you are alone. And tell no one. Otherwise, Therese will know, and then she will not meet you.”
“And who is Therese?”
“If you do as I say, then you will find out soon enough.” She swallows down the drink with a wince, wipes her lips with the back of her hand, and turns to face the window, the leaded glass grimed with soot. “Now go. And take care not to be seen on the street.” I want to speak with her more, but I stand in silence instead, my bag with her picture inside clutched to my chest.
As I cross the room to leave, I glimpse Sonia in the scuffed mirror nailed to the back of the door. She remains frozen in place, her voluptuous form framed in the dirty square of the solitary window as I depart.
I already told Hugo that I would be remaining overnight in the city to work on the latest pages of my novel. Indeed, I booked a room at the Hotel Anjou and made it available for Henry’s use. No one knows where I am really going, however, as Sonia insisted in her instructions. Not even Henry.
Now, dawn fast approaches as I stand alone at the Barrière d’Enfer, and I try not to pace as I wait. The Hell Gate, fittingly, though I have never thought of the pair of austere tollhouses quite so literally. For what other kind of dark journey must I take tonight, save one that will bring me ever deeper into the unmapped terrain of the Underworld? A dark thought enters my mind, that this clandestine meeting is in truth an elaborate plot to draw me into a trap. That this woman Sonia is not aligned with me, but rather has offered me up as a sacrifice. If so, my recent actions have done nothing but hasten my demise, an ending that fast approaches.
