The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte

by Lesley Truffle

  Viola murmured with a smile, ‘Obviously Sasha’s feeling better given she’s back to criticising our sartorial style.’

  She wiped my forehead with a cool flannel. I could feel Viola caring for me, willing me to be brave. Tears ran down my face. I was skinless and even their kindness was painful to me.

  Viola tucked the quilt up under my chin and said, ‘We are going to leave you to sleep it off, pet. If your demons keep you awake, just ring this bell right here and I’ll come straight away.’

  She ushered Hildegarde out the door and called out, ‘You can come back in now, Tim.’

  Dimly through a haze I saw Tim leaning in the doorway. ‘Sasha, there’s something important I must tell you.’

  I struggled to sit up and focus on the situation at hand. The room was still swirling but it was manageable. ‘Yes, Tim?’

  ‘I killed your father.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Lil suspected as much. But I felt I should do the right thing and tell you myself.’

  ‘Did Grandpa disguise father’s death as a suicide?’

  ‘Yes. I snapped Torte’s neck when I lost my temper and knocked the fucker against the fireplace. As you know I’ve got a short fuse. But Brendan flatly refused to let me turn myself in. He and Jacko slung a hangman’s noose over the eaves in the stables. They strung up Torte’s body so he looked like he’d hung himself.’

  ‘They did the right thing, Tim. The world is a better place without Alain Torte in it. He ruined so many lives.’

  Tim gently tucked the covers up around my chin. ‘I’d better go now. Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.’

  Those were the same words Lil used to whisper to me at bedtime. When Tim gave me a hug I could smell her perfume on his evening coat. I was a child again and Lil’s perfume filled my nostrils as the sharp physical pain of loss engulfed me. Tim’s face receded from my line of vision, then the door clicked shut and he was gone.

  I cried myself to sleep and slept for fourteen hours straight.

  When I awoke, the first thing I saw was Lily’s emerald choker coiled neatly on my bedside table. It glittered wickedly in the cold moonlight and I knew that she’d been there in the Hotel du Barry, watching over me.

  I promptly put the necklace on and didn’t take it off for weeks. I even bathed and swam in it. I’d discovered the hotel’s magnificent pool and swimming up and down soothed me. At three hours after midnight, when the golden lights stroked the waters, it was like swimming through liquid gold. Nobody was around, so I swam wearing nothing but Lil’s emeralds. And she swam with me.

  Grandpa’s letter arrived as we were getting ready to leave London. His elegant writing filled several pages. I cried when I read it. I shall transcribe only a brief section of the letter.

  Having to bury my own child is more than I can endure.

  Lil’s spirit appeared to me shortly after her death. The night she manifested I was in my study, drunkenly contemplating the embers, with only the dogs for company. Lily caught me making a hash of Lear’s speech, the one when the old man realises his daughter is dead.

  ‘Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones:

  Had I your tongues and eyes, I’d use them so

  That heaven’s vault should crack. She’s gone for ever!

  I know when one is dead, and when one lives;

  She’s dead as earth . . .’

  Prospero, Hamlet and Miranda barked and wagged their tails. When I turned around Lil was there – barefoot, wearing a white evening dress and looking stunning. She was cold as marble to the touch and even my greatcoat could not warm her. I made her take it with her. I can’t have my daughter getting around in the middle of the night practically naked.

  It will come as no surprise to you, possum, to hear that Lil dictated several long lists regarding her fiscal and legal affairs. She was also adamant that under no circumstances are you to cut your trip short.

  Lil swore to me that she didn’t slip from the rope above Niagara Falls – she jumped. Her death was courageous and stemmed from her desire never to be carted away in a straitjacket like her mother. To be honest I always knew Lil would die young. I just hoped she’d live long enough to experience the power of true love. Until Tim came into her life she’d had too much adoration and so little love. She told me that no other bloke had dared to stand up to her before Tim claimed her.

  As Lord Byron wrote of another, Lil was, ‘One who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity and all the virtues of man without his vices.’

  What Brendan Kane failed to mention was that he’d filched Byron’s words from an epitaph Byron wrote for Boatswain, his beloved Newfoundland dog who died in 1808. Grandpa held animals in high esteem and no doubt saw nothing incongruous in comparing his favourite daughter to a dead dog.

  I knew Lil would have understood, knowing that Brendan Kane had a higher opinion of mongrels than he did of his fellow man.

  20

  SECRET TRYSTS

  Captain Adam Dasher had successfully branded me as his and subsequently London gentlemen could only ever be pale imitations of my lover. It was almost as though I’d become impervious to other men’s charms. I recognised that this state of affairs was unlikely to be permanent. My lack of constancy was another flaw I’d inherited from my wayward mother. At the same time, even though I agreed with Giacomo Casanova’s sentiment, ‘Marriage is the tomb of love’, I hoped that my love for Adam was so wild, fiery and untameable, that it could never be domesticated by marriage or daily living.

  I was yearning for Captain Dasher and mourning for Lily at the same time. Adam was writing long passionate letters but it wasn’t enough to sustain me. My emotional pain was excruciating. I hadn’t been touched for weeks and I craved the sensual comfort of a man. My next step was almost predestined, I decided to sample the best of British manhood. I hoped it would be a wonderful erotic experience or at worst, a timely distraction from what ailed me.

  Aristocratic gentlemen rarely impressed me, so I began my venture with a working-class man, a coachman called Eddie Feeny. Viola had met Eddie’s employer, Sir Richard Snodgrass, the previous year in Melbourne and Snodgrass was still smitten with her Ladyship. When we met up with him at a London society ball, he offered Viola the use of one of his carriages and his best coachman to take us anywhere we fancied. Eddie was a charming chap who knew London like the back of his hand and I must confess the minute I clapped eyes on him I was done for. Viola once informed me, ‘Conversations with the men that one fancies, usually take place without words.’

  This is true, for even though Eddie had the gift of the gab he communicated with me in silence. So one evening I deliberately left my reticule in his carriage and Eddie personally returned it to me before breakfast the next day. His cheeky eyes spoke volumes when he handed it back to me. There was no point in delaying the delicious inevitability of the whole affair and he stayed for breakfast. In my bed, under a sumptuous feather quilt that was as light as an angel croissant.

  Having found the entire experience most agreeable, a week later I helped myself to Mr Jesse Marlow, a young British music maestro. He escorted me back to his suite at the Hotel du Barry for a Cognac and seduced me with a passionate rendition of his latest adagio. After which he ravished me on the top of a glossy black piano. I can highly recommend the experience, lust and high culture work well in tandem.

  Captain Dasher possessed my heart but these two gentlemen provided a welcome distraction from my grief.

  On return from my tryst with Jesse Marlow, Viola caught me sneaking out of one of the Hotel du Barry’s hydraulic lifts at dawn, carrying my evening gown. I was attired in nothing but a long fur coat and Rose’s ruby earrings.

  Viola widened her eyes at me. ‘Sasha, what on earth is going on? This is just not like you.’

  It never occurred to me to ask Viola why she was staggering up the eighth floor corridor looking decidedly wanton at that time of day. I
reacted defensively. ‘What! Viola, you were the one who suggested I should celebrate my independence before committing to holy matrimony.’

  ‘Well, yes. But I had no idea you’d take to it with such gusto. Look, I know you’re still distraught about Lily, but why the sudden interest in all these British chaps?’

  ‘Two gentlemen is hardly being greedy, Viola.’

  She paused reflectively, no doubt thinking of her own lasciviousness. ‘You’re right. I suppose I’m more concerned about your drinking. Last night in the smoking room you were turning brandy tumblers upside down like a horse-guard, yet the Cognac hardly seemed to affect you.’

  ‘I’ve always enjoyed a social tipple.’

  ‘Not like this. You rarely touched spirits. Now you’re throwing down hard spirits as though they’re water. And when did you acquire a taste for cigars? I’m very concerned about you. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘No, Viola. It’s just a phase.’

  The next lie was in place. It was no phase and I kept hidden from Viola the bottles of opium tincture I’d acquired from a Harley Street medical practitioner. I’d also obtained laudanum from the hotel’s doctor, as it was the only way I could sleep at night. I was eking out what was left of the Pharaoh’s elixir but catastrophe struck when I dropped the last bottle of elixir on the bathing room tiles. The bottle was still half full as I’d been rationing myself, hoping to replenish my stocks in Paris.

  Deprived of the elixir my childhood fears returned and with them came the violent mood changes I’d always struggled to conceal. The night after I dropped the elixir I was unable to sleep. I got out of bed at three hours after midnight in order to find the laudanum I’d concealed.

  I’d already learnt that it’s better to hide things in plain sight. Neither Viola nor Hildegarde paid any attention to the brown glass bottles tucked behind my beauty creams and potions. I was slurping down laudanum when I thought I saw a shadow flit across the room. I spun around and there was my mother. Still dressed in the evening gown she’d worn in the gazette photograph, a Turkish cigarette smouldering between her long, elegant fingers.

  Rose appeared in the mirror and I thought I heard her murmur, ‘The apple never falls far from the tree, does it, Sasha?’

  Once again I was the guilty child who hadn’t loved her mother. As her image began to fade, her eerie laughter ricocheted around the room. But even after she’d gone I could still smell her complexion powder, rose water and opium.

  After my terrifying hallucination of Rose, I descended further into the deep, dark waters of my imagination and soon I was teetering on the edge of a precipice of my own making. Seizing the hedonistic moment was all I lived for because it provided distraction from my grim thoughts. I completely lost my appetite and even Hildegarde voiced concern over my avoidance of nutritious foodstuffs. At this stage I was sustaining my wellbeing on chocolate, brioches and the odd piece of Camembert cheese. In the louche circles we moved in, champagne was still regarded as a food. Nobody was fussed if they saw me sipping a glass or two in the morning. Accordingly I was mellow by morning tea and half-cut by luncheon.

  For the first time in my life, I became obsessed with gambling. I would bid Viola and Hil goodnight, then sneak off to an all-night bawdy house in Soho. I found gambling for high stakes intellectually rewarding and stimulating. Monetary reward was irrelevant, it was the stimulus of the game. During play my palms sweated and my heart thumped with excitement. I moved into a strange dream state in which I was only half aware of the massive amounts of money I was losing and occasionally winning. Gambling became another way of transcending reality. I found the company of coachmen, soldiers, sailors and navvies cheering. They reminded me of home.

  With a cigar clamped firmly between my teeth, I recklessly downed rotgut brandy and threw money around. I didn’t care, it distracted me from the abyss which was opening up beneath my feet.

  A sense of foreboding and doom gripped me, yet my mood could just as easily slide into hilarity and boundless joy. I became the naughtiest society girl, the one who could be relied upon to lead the dancing up onto the tabletops. I must have been experiencing blackouts because I could never remember who or what had happened the night before. Hildegarde filled me in the next morning and tried to conceal the worst from Viola. I was very selfish and made only a half-hearted attempt to cover my tracks.

  The waters were becoming very deep, so deep I was in danger of drowning.

  Paris was a revelation. It was everything Lil had told me it would be. On our first evening we experienced the quintessentially Parisian moment, when the gas lamps were lit on the Rue de Rivoli. The locals call it ‘the hour between dog and wolf’. The Eiffel Tower was silhouetted against the delicate mauve-silver sky and the rain washed streets were peopled by an army of black umbrellas.

  When a magnificent rainbow arched over the Pont des Arts, Hildegarde dissolved into heart rending sobs. I now understood what Hildegarde’s weeping was all about and said soothingly to Viola, ‘It just means that Hil is thrilled to be in Paris and she’s looking forward to experiencing the uniqueness of French culture.’

  Viola blinked hard.

  It was quite the done thing for foreigners to criticise the Grands Boulevards as obscenely wide and conceited. It was also common to hear Sacré-Coeur described as tasteless and the towers of Saint-Sulpice as resembling chamberpots. Parisians rarely sought to defend their city. What was the point, when the magnificence of Paris was obvious to every Frenchman and his dog?

  I lost myself in admiring the vistas made familiar to me by Louise Colet and trod the same cobblestones traversed by Gustave Flaubert, Voltaire, Guy de Maupassant, Charles Baudelaire, Théophile Gautier and Victor Hugo. Viola found my veneration unfathomable as she wasn’t much of a reader. Viola liked to get out in the world and do things such as plundering the antiquities shops on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, sampling chocolates at Debauve & Gallais or having atelier seamstresses whip her up half a dozen silk peignoirs.

  The moment I set foot on French soil, the Pharaoh’s elixir made its presence felt. The map, detailing the location of Dr Farrell’s apothecary, was burning a hole between the pages of my locked diary. I could no longer ignore it. I just had to find a way of sneaking off on my own. And as I told myself, I only needed a supply of the elixir so I could start weaning myself off the other drugs. Then once I’d stabilised my mood swings, I’d be in a good position to regain my equanimity and usual rude health.

  During our first night at the Ritz Paris, I tossed and turned as the elixir whispered to me through opium-induced nightmares. I’d become even thinner and had taken to gargling with cologne in order to conceal the odour of opium tincture. Frequently I’d glance up and catch Viola or Hildegarde eyeing me with concern. I was aware they were keeping a close watch on me and taking turns to ensure I was rarely left alone. It was almost impossible to escape their watchful eyes, so I had to resort to subterfuge.

  The next afternoon, on hearing that Viola had worn herself out pillaging antiquities, I announced, ‘I’d love some fine French cigars. The concierge tells me that La Civette on the Rue Saint-Honoré, has been supplying exceptionally fine cigars for about a century.’

  Viola yawned. ‘Why not buy some Cigares de joy, instead? The frightfully serene Madame Gidet swears that cannabis cured her nervousness and saved her marriage. Gosh, I’m plum tuckered out. Sasha, do take Hil with you. She’s keen on seeing more of Paris before we leave for Constantinople.’

  Excellent. I knew I could manipulate Hildegarde if I kept my wits about me. For like every other addict the world over, the only thing I ever seriously thought about was my need to obtain more of the drug that had me by the throat.

  I was in deep. And anything that wasn’t directly connected to the Pharaoh’s elixir was in danger of becoming inconsequential.

  21

  THE PHARAOH’S CURSE

  Hildegarde was glancing around suspiciously. She must have realised our carriage was
heading in the wrong direction. Instead of heading towards the Jardin des Tuileries, we were crossing the Seine and heading towards the Palais du Luxembourg. Hildegarde couldn’t help but notice the streets were getting narrower and the dwellings and shops meaner. I realised I needed a better story.

  I said to her, ‘I’m sorry to have deceived you, Hil, but I need to visit a Doctor Farrell. He can provide an elixir for my failing health. I didn’t want to worry Viola.’

  She was relieved but not completely taken in. ‘Of course I understand, but isn’t it a peculiar district for a respectable doctor to practise in?’

  It was.

  We had entered medieval back streets, given over to trade. Our carriage finally stopped at an alley just off the Rue de Rennes. The Cour du Dragon was a twisted cobbled alley with trade shops either side. A sculptured, winged dragon hovered over the arched entrance and a running gutter stagnated in the middle of the alley. Unsavoury smells drifted down from the dwellings above the shops. Rusty metal signs swung in the breeze and the sound of anvils and tongs rang out. Furnaces could be glimpsed through open doorways and rotting wooden barrels made a poor show of collecting rainwater.

  A blackened smithy sauntered down the alley and leered in the carriage window at us. He winked, made an obscene rutting gesture by gripping his testicles and then hitching up his filthy trousers disappeared around the corner.

  Hildegarde’s eyes were wide and her face was exceptionally pale. She was probably thinking that the Paris of her dreaming was actually turning out to be just another Wolfftown.

  I tried to cheer her up. ‘Ah yes, isn’t it extraordinary how lewdness speaks all languages? Hil, I need to see Dr Farrell alone. You can see his premises from here and I’ll be quick. Then we can pop over to the Île de la Cité and visit Notre-Dame. I think it will be everything you hoped for and we can see those gargoyles Grandpa was telling you about.’