Hildegarde clung fast to my arm when I tried to get out the carriage door. ‘Sasha, please don’t do it. My sister died when she tried to terminate her sixth pregnancy. The quack’s potion destroyed her stomach lining and womb.’
I touched her cheek. ‘It’s all right, Hil. I promise you I’m not consulting an angel maker. Cross my heart and hope to die. Now, you just sit tight for a few minutes and I’ll be right back.’
I could feel her eyes boring into the back of my skull as I walked off down the alley. Lifting my skirts high, I stepped over a pair of stray kittens playing in the gutter. My stomach lurched when I glimpsed unmentionable filth lying underfoot. A woman’s voice from above shrieked, ‘Mademoiselle! Arretez!’
I leapt backwards as a full bucket of dirty water missed me by inches and splashed up onto my pink velvet boots. Glancing upwards, I saw the guilty party. She bared her rotting teeth at me. It made me feel alive. For weeks I’d been steeped in relentless luxury and I was feeling somewhat jaded. Reality made a pleasant change, even if it was accompanied by the vile stench of cabbage soup.
I continued to pick my way along the alley to an old apothecary with dusty chemical bottles displayed in the window. I knew I was in the right place because the elixir vitae was beckoning me. I could feel its evil presence distinctly when I pushed open the grimy door. There was nobody in attendance so I rang the counter bell several times and drummed my fingers on the counter.
A couple of minutes ticked by before a disembodied voice said, ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle.’
I turned and found myself ogling a rotund man. He stood not much higher than my chest. His hair was oiled excessively and he smelt strongly of camphor moth repellent. His pin-pricked pupils indicated he was nothing more than a common garden drug addict.
‘Excusez-moi, Monsieur. Je voudrais –’
Without waiting to hear the rest he asked, ‘Parlez-vous Anglais?’
‘Oui.’
‘In that case, my dear, we shall proceed in the King’s English.’
‘I’m here to see Dr Farrell, on a private matter.’
‘You’ve made a mistake, Mademoiselle. There’s no one here by that name.’
He wrenched open the door. A blast of cold air entered the dowdy interior and got the dust moving. I sneezed several times. The elixir was no longer whispering, it was shouting so loudly I could barely hear myself speak. Purposefully I planted my parasol on the floor and raised myself another inch or two over him. ‘I’m here to see Dr Farrell on a matter of great importance and have no intention of leaving without doing so. Kindly inform him immediately that I have a letter of introduction from Mr Roger Dasher of Tasmania.’
I pulled Roger’s letter out of my reticule. It took all my self-control not to slap him around the head with it. He quickly shut the door. Something akin to fear crossed his face. ‘Ah, Mr Dasher. One should always respect Mr Dasher. A fine gentleman indeed. I travelled with him to Egypt on an archaeological expedition.’
‘So, it’s true after all?’
‘Absolutely. Mr Dasher financed and led the expedition himself. He’s fearless. When our guides warned him about the Pharaoh’s curse, Mr Dasher laughed. He even went so far as to sing bawdy songs as we blew open the sealed chamber door, then he uncorked a bottle of wine and did a celebratory jig on top of the sarcophagus.’
I stared into his pinned eyeballs. ‘Tell me, do you believe in the Pharaoh’s curse?’
He licked his lips and tried to avoid my gaze. ‘Yes, I do indeed. But I must not delay further in taking your letter to Dr Farrell. We have to be very careful. There have been incidents.’
I waited but he didn’t continue.
I felt like strangling him but instead I assumed a chilly tone. ‘I take it that Dr Farrell is on the premises?’
‘Yes. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Monsieur Seurat, Dr Farrell’s chief laboratory assistant. And I have the pleasure of addressing Mademoiselle –’
‘Sasha Torte.’
‘One moment please, Mademoiselle Torte.’
I handed him Roger’s letter and he disappeared up the staircase, hidden behind a moth-eaten curtain.
Soon I was being ushered up the rickety stairs. The steps were steep and wound in a tight circle. The dirt of many years had burnished the wood to an oily black finish. I pulled my skirts in tightly so as to avoid the mildewed walls and mounds of dust collecting under the lip of each step. My damp boots became stained as we ascended. On the third landing Monsieur Seurat knocked on the door and indicated I should enter.
He gave me a significant look which I couldn’t decipher and retreated, closing the door behind him with barely a whisper. I heard his footsteps heading back down the stairs and a sense of foreboding gripped me. What did Monsieur Seurat know that I didn’t?
At first I couldn’t see anything as thick dark curtains covered every window. I thought I was alone but then my eyes adjusted to the gloom. The office interior was cavernous and thick with hashish smoke. I discerned a male figure rising to his feet from behind a desk. I’d expected an elderly gentleman and was disconcerted to note that he was about the same age as Tim O’Flaherty and Roger Dasher. Farrell was tall and dressed in the current English fashion of slim fitting suit coat and matching tapered trousers. Despite the filth of his surroundings he was immaculate. His chestnut-brown hair had been waved and waxed and in his lapel he sported a yellow rosebud, which perfectly matched his elegant silk cravat.
On closer inspection I realised Farrell’s desk was a Mayan altar. It would have weighed about six hundred pounds and was at least one thousand years old, probably pillaged from the jungles of Guatemala. Sitting on the altar was a burning tallow candle and an enormous brass hookah with serpentine tubes attached.
Farrell spoke in a clipped Oxford accent, ‘Mademoiselle Torte, please do take a seat. Allow me to beg forgiveness for Monsieur Seurat’s reticence in welcoming you to my establishment. He is under my orders. A necessary precaution as there have been incidents.’
I waited for Farrell to finish but he chose not to explain further. I knew he was trying to read my mind because I was aware of a strange sense of invasion. My intellect was telling me to get the hell out of there but my feet were nailed to the dirt-encrusted floor. Was it possible that during his excursions into deepest darkest Africa Farrell had discovered how to mesmerise his prey? Or was I simply descending into a paranoid state?
I remained calm by reminding myself that the predator never expects the prey to attack. I could use this to my advantage. I carefully adjusted my lace cuffs, thereby giving him the impression that my mind was on other matters. I was letting Farrell know that I was not a woman who could be intimidated.
Seating myself in a deep wing-backed armchair I spoke briskly. ‘Well, Dr Farrell, I admit to being taken aback by my reception but let’s get down to business. You will see from Mr Dasher’s letter that I’m here to purchase six dozen bottles of the Pharaoh’s elixir. I understand they can be packaged in a specially made Louis Vuitton trunk and labelled specifically as a health tonic.’
‘Correct. We can have them delivered tomorrow morning to your hotel. Regarding any future Australian export requirements, we welcome your business. But there’s no need to rush the transaction, let’s first negotiate price.’
I’m too embarrassed to tell you Farrell’s price. Let’s just say it was an extortionate amount and I was appalled by his audacity.
Farrell proffered me a hookah coil. ‘Do try, Mademoiselle. It’s a truly exceptional product. It does wonders for the health, stimulates the gastric juices and gets the heart pumping. I recently imported a large quantity of hashish from Morocco for my more discerning customers.’
Nothing would have pleased me more than to lose myself in the hashish but the situation was fraught with peril. ‘No thank you. I only smoke cigars.’
Farrell put the coiled pipe into his mouth and sucked down the smoke. His eyes turned bloodshot and a silly grin hovered on his chops.
While I waited to re
gain his attention I looked around. The place was a warehouse of looted Egyptian, Greek, Roman and Mayan antiquities. Farrell was utilising a pair of ancient Egyptian mummy heads, mounted on marble, as bookends. The eye sockets seemed alive and wisps of hennaed hair were still attached to the scalps. It was pretty damned obvious that Farrell had no respect for sacred objects or ancient cultures. To this day he remains one of the most contemptible individuals I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.
There were several ramshackle wooden shelves, laden with all manner of fleshy substances pickled in embalming fluid. Wax-sealed jars contained foetuses of various animals, including Homo sapiens. Also on display were human hearts, brains, livers and a horrendous display of finger digits and severed male genitalia.
Farrell was slyly observing me through hooded eyes as I surveyed his kingdom. I made a point of remaining expressionless even though my very soul was recoiling. One could not help but wonder exactly how he’d acquired his grisly collection.
He held the hashish smoke in his lungs as he spoke and it gave his voice a peculiar breathy quality. ‘Mademoiselle, in fairness I admit that my standard fee is somewhat exorbitant. So I’m prepared to make you a generous offer and provide a significant reduction.’
He exhaled an extraordinary amount of smoke, before oiling around the altar and standing right behind my chair. From the corner of my eye I watched his polished shoes edge in closer. I felt hot breath on the back of my neck and my sense of smell sharpened. The cloying aroma of his cologne was doing combat with the stench of formaldehyde and the lingering hashish odour. It made me queasy and I wished he’d open a bloody window and let in some air.
He smirked. ‘Such a magnificent bush of flaming red hair you have and what finely pored alabaster skin. You must be bathing in asses’ milk, as did Cleopatra. You know, my dear, we could easily reach a mutually advantageous arrangement.’
As he spoke Farrell ran his manicured fingers down my arm and caressed the inside of my wrist. ‘Ah, so soft to the touch. I ask myself, is Mademoiselle’s skin as soft as silk? Or does it feel more like moist satin?’
The way he said moist made my skin crawl. I shrank back but he’d insinuated himself over the side of my chair and his wide mouth hovered close to my lips. I retreated even further into the winged chair but Farrell quickly cornered me. I was trapped. His movements were premeditated and practised and I sensed the brutal violence he was struggling to keep in check. In my mind’s eye I saw Farrell as a cobra swaying up out of an oriental basket.
Behind me was an overstuffed sofa, suspiciously stained. No doubt the sofa was regularly pressed into service and many a financial deal had been brokered on its filthy linen fabric. I was scared but a wave of hilarity threatened to be my undoing. I tried to contain myself. ‘Even though your price is significantly more than expected, Dr Farrell, I shall pay the full amount stipulated and take a bottle with me today.’
He bared the alarmingly white teeth that I suspected were false. ‘But my dear, you haven’t yet heard my generous offer.’
I gave him my most punishing don’t-fuck-with-me look. ‘Dr Farrell, your presumptuous manner indicates you’ve had considerable success with women of lesser means. But remember this – I never deal in the lower bazaar.’
He froze. Clearly this wasn’t the response he’d come to expect. Farrell retreated behind the altar and made a great show of shuffling some paperwork. His final attempt was, ‘I can offer you a sample of the Pharaoh’s elixir before you leave. A complimentary taste, right here in the seclusion of my office. What do you say?’
I was desperate to taste the elixir. My taste buds tingled and my body was sweaty with anxiety and desire for the elixir. But I wasn’t stupid enough to take up his offer, for I suspected Farrell’s seduction technique was similar to Roger Dasher’s patented style.
Within minutes I was safely back in the carriage with Hildegarde. Clutched in my hand was a dark bottle containing half a pint of the elixir. Hildegarde was relieved to see me take a dainty swig of Dr Farrell’s Patented Life-Giving Health Tonic. She gasped, ‘Why, Sasha, this is wonderful! Quite miraculous in fact. Already your complexion is rosy and you seem rejuvenated. He must be quite a genius this Dr Farrell.’
I felt like a traitor but my God, the sheer bloody relief of finally being in possession of the Pharaoh’s elixir. Within a few minutes I felt every cell in my body responding. Relief washed over me as I began to feel like my old self.
That afternoon I felt no pain or anxiety and I can’t even begin to tell you how stunning the gargoyles looked at Notre-Dame Cathedral. They were shimmering and beckoning, with a radiance more commonly associated with Byzantine depictions of angels. In fact the whole of Notre-Dame was infused with a pulsating golden glow. Even the cold stonework had taken on the texture and warmth of sun-soaked flesh. Naturally Hildegarde failed to notice this phenomenon. My hallucination remained real despite the hailstorm that drenched us getting from our carriage to the portico of the church. Our thin soled boots squelched on the stone flagstones and Hildegarde shivered until her teeth chattered like castanets. Needless to say, I was impervious to the bone chill one acquires from traipsing around historical stone edifices. My body was suffused with calmness, security and warmth. My spirit was completely at rest for the first time in days. It was absolute bliss and I couldn’t stop smiling at total strangers. Darling Hildegarde relaxed her vigilance and remained unconcerned, even when I leaned precariously over the edge of a parapet.
It was not the monumental Gothic extravagance of Notre-Dame which reduced me to a state of penitence. It was the quintessential evil of the beak-nosed gargoyle leaning on one of the balconies. He was master of all he surveyed and I recognised him from my nightmares. The gargoyle had been stalking me ever since I’d become dependent on the Pharaoh’s elixir. He was the embodiment of my childhood fears. The gargoyle was the monster at the foot of the stairs, the ghoul in the closet, the poltergeist in the cellar and the evil presence lurking between the cobblestones. It was his presence I’d detected down in the subterranean world of London’s underground railway.
For months the elixir had been surreptitiously manipulating my subconsciousness. But it was the Notre-Dame gargoyle who forced me to concede that I was no longer a free agent. He let me know in no uncertain terms that I would live or die according to the whims of the devil himself. The gargoyle’s sneer confirmed that I was nothing more than a pawn in a low farce.
Held in bondage to the Pharaoh’s elixir, I readily believed that there was nothing I could do to shape my future. I had no more fight left in me, so I gave up and abandoned myself to the wheel of predestined fate. And in return I experienced a voluptuous sense of release.
In short, dear reader, I lost my way and gave myself over to the devil.
22
FEMMES FATALE
Sadness overcame me when it was time to leave Paris. It was a clear, crisp evening and Parisians were already hard at play on the boulevards. The Seine glittered as couples strolled along the quays or furtively embraced in the shadows of the Pont-Neuf. Pleasure seekers were arriving in carriages and well-heeled folk were pouring into the theatre, opera and dining venues. Impoverished Parisians had spruced themselves up and were aimlessly sauntering along the Champs-Élysées, bathing in the abundant light pouring out from cafés and restaurants.
Notorious courtesans were alighting from their private carriages and mingling with the fashion set. The beautiful world of fashionable society has always benefited from cross-fertilisation with the world of artists, writers, actors, courtesans and rebels. Just as mongrel dogs tend to be tougher and more interesting than pedigree dogs, so too are those living on the creative edge.
There was a brief flash of the courtisanes’ brilliant jewels before they disappeared from their adoring public. Some grandes horizontales would dine with their lovers, while others feigned bliss in private rooms or hotel suites. Meanwhile their poorer sisters plied their trade in darkened stairwells and back alleys.
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As we bowled along the Boulevard de Magenta towards the railway station I thought about fictional femmes fatale. Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary immediately sprang to mind simply because they irritate me. To throw away one’s life for the sake of a noble cause or to die fighting a revolution is one thing but to commit suicide over a man is just plain stupid.
Mind you, dying ignobly after an untamed life holds no appeal either. Let us not underestimate the supreme irony of outlaw, Jesse James, being shot in the back while dusting a picture in his own home. Prestigious museums display the weaponry used to dispatch renegades and folk heroes but no one saw fit to preserve the feather duster gripped by Mr James in his death throes. As to myself? I fully intend to die as a woman of action. Hopefully I shall go toes up wearing my fabulous vamp cut, opera-heeled, pink velvet boots, rather than departing the world wearing soft tartan bedroom slippers.
Real women tend to get their comeuppance once they make the transition to works of fiction. A real life courtesan, Marie Duplessis, was romanticised and sanitised shamelessly in La Dame aux Camelias, by her playwright lover Alexandre Dumas. But she still did better than the fictional Anna Karenina who died an excruciatingly brutal death.
Strangely enough when we arrived at the Gare de l’Est, I finally understood why Anna Karenina decided it was a good idea to throw herself under a train. Why? Because Gare de l’Est could well be a stage setting for a magnificent opera. Divas such as Rose Torte and Anna Karenina require operatic scenery and a substantial audience for their histrionics.
Bright lights dramatised the hissing steam and smoke. The platforms contained a large cast of jostling porters, conductors, hawkers, officials and passengers. Trains were being shunted back and forth and ear-piercing whistles cut through the hubbub. It was choreographed chaos on an epic scale.
The powerful locomotive designated to haul our train was being coupled and the excitement in the air was palpable. Mysterious women strolled by with their faces concealed behind dark veils. Wealthy men freely indulged their mistresses on the transcontinental trains and the station was suffused with an aura of romance. European royalty were also keen travellers and had been suitably impressed by the Orient Express. Well before we arrived in Europe, the Russian Tsar and his entourage had popularised luxurious train travel during a state visit to Paris.
The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte Page 30
