Georges Nagelmackers revealed his genius when designing the Tsar’s carriages and the Orient Express trains. He coolly raised the stakes in terms of what was possible and desirable. The maestro’s magic touch was evident in our First Class sleeping cars. They were luxuriously appointed and situated between each pair of compartments were the newest lavatories.
There were urgent calls of, ‘En voiture, s’il vous plait.’
Tears sprang to Hildegarde’s eyes. Being a passionate creature, she’d already absorbed the blast of erotic promise oozing from the Orient Express. Artificially buoyed up on Farrell’s elixir, I too was attuned to the nuances of drama in the air. I felt the great beast of a locomotive readying itself. My heart pounded, my throat went dry and my spirits soared. Fear and arousal often work in unison. I suppose this is one of the benefits of having being born a human being, as opposed to coming into the world as a carrot.
Whistles blew, porters leapt from the carriages and the Orient Express thundered clear of the station. And we were off on another adventure.
Local trains deferentially gave way to the Orient Express as we winged on through the night. The wheels kept up a click-clacking, timing perfectly with each heartbeat. French artistry and Belgian boldness had coalesced into something extraordinary on the Orient Express. We were ensconced in teak, rosewood and mahogany panelling, furniture covered in Spanish leather, magnificent rugs, silk sheets and only the finest woollen blankets and eiderdowns. Greek mythological scenes alternated with a frenzy of ornate cornices, scrolls and friezes. In the dining salons each item was exquisite and heavily ornamented and Baccarat crystal gleamed on the white linen tablecloths. Every section of the train was centrally heated and soft rugs ensured our comfort. So well engineered were Naglemackers’ trains that one could nurse a full glass of champagne and not spill one drop. Viola was ecstatic.
My interest in food was negligible but I admired the quality and variety of dishes that passed untouched before me. Refrigeration permitted the freshest of ingredients and hundreds of miles from Paris they served us fresh Isigny butter and crisp salads. There were seven to ten dinner courses and gourmets and gluttons had no choice but to discreetly loosen their clothing.
We disembarked in Vienna for a few days. I thought the city was magnificent. Viennese architecture has much in common with grandiose wedding cakes. There is a lot of ostentatious embellishment and some of the buildings look decidedly edible. The cuisine was excellent but by that stage I was ingesting an excessive amount of laudanum and having trouble retaining food. Restlessness alternated with chronic weakness and idleness. I regularly swilled down over one hundred drops of opium, dissolved in alcohol. Smaller quantities of opium had virtually no effect. To cap it off, I was making my way through my stock of Farrell’s tonic as well as all manner of alcoholic beverages. And when I looked at myself in the mirror, Rose Torte stared back at me.
I recall the morning Viola, Hil and I were introduced to Dr Sigmund Freud at Café Sperl, situated on the corner of Gumpendorferstrasse and Lehargasse. I was very taken with the décor of Café Sperl. It was a splendid confusion of ornate glass, Rococo ornamentation, marble friezes and iron filigree. Naughty kaffeehaus cherubs wreathed the ceiling. They engaged in all the activities one normally associates with Viennese coffee houses such as reading newspapers, flirting, scoffing pastries and gossiping.
Dr Freud is a Viennese mind specialist and I was already familiar with his earlier work such as, Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality. Since then he’d established a successful private practice specialising in brain disorders and neurosis. Sigmund was a virile man and his wife, Martha Freud, had given him six children within eight years. The Café Sperl gossips whispered – that despite Martha’s best efforts to accommodate her husband – Dr Freud had been paying more attention to his wife’s attractive sister than was decent.
Sigmund Freud was fond of young women and he had trouble focusing on my face as my décolletage distracted him. Frankly, I found him hard going. While Viola and Hil devoured slabs of apfelstrudel, he lectured me on the dynamic unconsciousness of dreams and carnal matters. The café’s eavesdroppers strained their ears as they tried to listen to our risqué conversation.
At one point I leant across the tea table and said in a low voice, ‘Tell me Doctor, how did you reach the conclusion that only some orgasms are worthwhile? I mean, if only vaginal orgasms are “mature” and can only be produced with the help of a man’s penetration – does that make clitoral orgasms infantile? I’m assuming of course that in order to substantiate your theory, you sought the opinions of many married women?’
He smiled knowingly and changed the subject.
Freud was making a meal out of an oversized cigar. It looked for all the world like a big brown turd. Puff, puff, puff went the mighty Freud. Great clouds of smoke wreathed his distinguished head. I was wracked with mirth until Viola gave me a sharp kick under the table. No doubt the elixir had heightened my sense of the ridiculous.
Then before my very eyes Freud negligently dropped cigar ash on a whole fraisier, chock full of luscious strawberries and heavy cream. He yawned, butted his cigar out on the cake and signalled the waiter to get rid of it. You should have seen the way that pompous man dismissed the fraisier without an apology or a backward glance.
The fraisier was an ephemeral work of love and dedication and I was appalled. My mind travelled to the kitchen with the vandalised cake and I imagined the kitchen staff gathering around as the chef sadly surveyed the damage wreaked on his masterpiece. How skilfully he’d stabilised his egg whites with sugar syrup, how conscientiously he’d strained his pastry cream. Each strawberry had been checked for flaws and only the very best had been selected to decorate the glaze.
It brought tears to my eyes and being empathic Hildegarde promptly joined in. Freud politely averted his eyes from the sight of two young Australian women weeping all over the apfelstrudel. Viola took charge and tenderly ushered us from the café. But Hildegarde and I knew she was furious and there would be hell to pay once we were back at our hotel.
I should admit that I’ve since developed more of an appreciation of Freud’s achievements. Prior to Freud many psychotic and unstable folk were treated with neglect and contempt. Female patients were frequently operated on by doctors, simply because they’d been diagnosed as hysterical or neurotic. At least Freud talks to his patients rather than surgically removing sections of their genitalia.
When we attended Vienna’s opera house we were introduced to the Sultan. He was a notorious potentate with a magnificent palace in Constantinople. The night we met he was wearing a blood-red turban, embedded with a diamond the size of an egg and on each finger sparkled a priceless gem. Every member of his entourage was smothered in precious jewels and gewgaws.
In order to compensate for his own lack of height, the Sultan’s bodyguards were all over seven foot and preposterously handsome. Viennese ladies swooned at the sight of such confident masculinity.
The Sultan told us, ‘My private train has broken down and I will be making the rest of the journey aboard the Orient Express.’
He seemed rather gloomy at the prospect. I surmised that compared to his private Hotel du Barry on wheels, the magnificent Orient Express probably resembled a livestock dray. But as it turned out the Sultan was pleasantly surprised by the accoutrements on board the Orient Express.
Viola fell in lust with the muscled killer who doubled as the Sultan’s personal secretary and she turned her arsenal of feminine charms onto him. While we lingered on the observation platform enjoying an evening tipple, Her Ladyship whispered, ‘Sasha, what do you think of Ahmed? I couldn’t sleep last night just thinking about his manly physique.’
Instantly I was on red flag alert. ‘Viola, the man is dangerous. He’s a trained professional assassin. Ahmed is not a bauble a lady should seek to lightly adorn herself with.’
Too late. Viola’s eyes were drifty. She bit her lip. ‘Hil found out from one of the Sultan’s bod
yguards that if Ahmed wants a woman he just helps himself, “as easily as plucking a ripe peach from an unguarded tree”. Apparently Ahmed sports solid gold nipple rings. Imagine that!’
‘Viola dear, I’m trying not to.’
She dreamily emptied a glass of sherry down her throat. ‘He punishes the furniture like a fiend but he’s never been known to harm a woman. Ahmed also likes to behead stemmed wineglasses and champagne bottles with his sabre, as a prelude to ravishment. Ooooh, just thinking about him makes me tremble. Who knows what he might do?’
Nervousness did not deter our Viola. That night I took an extra draught of opium, in the hope that it would silence the sound of breaking crystal and wild lovemaking going on in the compartment next door.
No such luck. I could still hear Viola’s yelps of delight and Ahmed grunting as he worked up a sweat, beating up the exquisite rosewood panelling and bending the superb copper and brass fittings out of shape with his bare hands. According to Viola vandalism really got him into the mood for lovemaking. He was far too primal for my tastes but Viola had a very agreeable time all the way to Constantinople.
The Sultan was highly amused by the decimation of the Orient Express’s French crystal and he willingly coughed up for the outrageous damage bills. I heard him giggling when he was officially informed about Ahmed’s destruction of Viola’s compartment. Even the mattress had been torn in half. This had necessitated Viola moving to another compartment at four in the morning.
You may well ask, why did the Sultan put up with such outrageous behaviour? It was largely due to the fact that Ahmed had saved the Sultan’s life on three separate occasions and subsequently the Sultan allowed him every liberty.
In short, Ahmed could do no wrong. Who knows what Dr Sigmund Freud would have made of him?
23
VIVE LA FRANCE!
It was thrilling to arrive in Constantinople. I glimpsed the central cupola of St. Sophia, the curved roofs of the meandering bazaar Kapali Carsi and the fabulous dome of the Blue Mosque. My senses were assailed by exotic music, pungent foreign cooking, hashish and well-favoured dark-eyed men. We’d regretfully turned down the Sultan’s invitation to stay at his sumptuous palace and stuck with our original hotel booking. Viola and I thought it wise to preserve what was left of our reputations and hole up at the Grand Hotel de Pera.
Her Ladyship had quite worn herself out liaising with Ahmed and was now keen to recuperate in her role as a tragic young widow. Foreign women could violate all known etiquette as long as they preserved a modicum of propriety. Let’s face it, even Anna Karenina could have saved herself if she’d been willing to put in just a little effort.
The Grand Hotel de Pera had been designed by a French architect to cater to Orient Express travellers. It was far from shabby and reminded me of the Hotel du Barry. We were shown to a luxurious top floor which commanded a magnificent view of the city. While we were bathing a cable arrived. Hildegarde placed it on the chiffonier and promptly forgot about it.
We lounged about in our peignoirs, throwing open the large windows to admire the rooftops, Ottoman mosques, pavilions and hanging terraces. The heat was debilitating. It wasn’t until we were reviving ourselves with chilled champagne that Viola found the cable and ripped it open. Even before she spoke I knew Adam was in serious trouble.
Viola turned pale. ‘Sasha, it’s from Clare Dasher. Adam’s ship has disappeared. He was on his way to see you. There’s something here about pirate attacks. Oh my God!’
I immediately claimed full responsibility for luring Captain Dasher to his death. No doubt my thinking was scrambled from the excess of mind-altering substances coursing through my veins. I was convinced my selfishness had killed Adam as surely as if I’d shot him down. My life was over. I leapt to my feet, grabbed a champagne bottle and before they could stop me I was out on the window ledge, swaying in the shimmering heat.
Viola screamed, ‘Everybody stay calm! Sasha, get down from there! Hil, tell the concierge to summon the hotel doctor. Quickly now.’
I leant out and vertigo caused me to stagger. ‘Don’t touch me, Viola, or I’ll jump.’
Hildegarde bolted from the room yelling, ‘I’ll get the doctor and fetch her health elixir!’
My mind was in disarray. I stared at the courtyard below. The gargoyle sniggered and nudged me closer to the edge. I sensed him taking control of the situation but was too weak to resist. Viola hovered, no doubt trying to gauge the best time to drag me back into the room.
Hildegarde returned clutching a bottle of Farrell’s elixir and when she glanced at me, I pointed at the ledge. ‘Put it down there, Hil. Then step away.’
Her hands shook as she placed the bottle down. Hildegarde spoke without taking her eyes off me, ‘Viola, several servants have been sent to find the hotel doctor. It may take some time. The concierge thinks he’s down at the bazaar.’
I smiled knowingly at the gargoyle as I took a gulp of the elixir. Everything had become crystal clear. I only had to make one final decision and then peace would be mine.
While I was distracted by the elixir, Viola tried grabbing hold of me. I eluded her and snarled, ‘If you come any closer, I will jump.’
Viola rushed out of the room. This struck me as decidedly odd. It was completely out of character, how on earth could my dearest friend abandon me at a time like this?
An organ started up in my head and I closed my eyes and listened to the swelling music. It was J.S. Bach’s ‘Come, Sweet Death’ and I realised that my wicked id had seized control of my mind. Let’s face it, Freud’s id inevitably gets the upper hand when one is indulging in a first-rate tantrum.
My voice came from far away. ‘You know Hil, I’ve always wanted my life to flow like Albinoni’s Adagio. G minor, organ and strings. Exquisite, dramatic, passionate yet peaceful. But instead of an adagio gently unfolding, I’ve descended into farce and am now succumbing to low comedy.’
Hildegarde leant out the window and pleaded, ‘Sasha, please come inside. You’re overwrought and not yourself.’
I laughed contemptuously. ‘Don’t interrupt, I’m confessing my sins and you shall be my priest. Let me finish my story.’ I took another swig of elixir. ‘And for fuck’s sake, pay attention Hil. So, what did I do when I found the love of my life? I killed him. Adam is dead. Dead.’
Tears streamed down Hildegarde’s face. I didn’t want to upset her but I just couldn’t help myself. Spinning around, I kicked off my Turkish slippers and idly watched them sail away into the hot blue sky. ‘Leave me be, Hil. I want to be alone.’
‘Sasha, you’re not thinking clearly. All we know at this stage is that Captain Dasher is missing in action. Here, have some more champagne. It will calm your nerves.’
Hildegarde passed me the champagne. I knew it was a trap. So when she tried to grab hold of me, I snatched the bottle out of her hand and danced out of reach.
I was inconsolable and full of self-pity. Tomaso Giovanni Albinoni’s Adagio was now playing in my head. Bliss. I took another swig. It was damn fine champagne and I was parched. ‘Adam is dead and it turns out that I am as cursed and dangerous as my wretched mother. I have become Rose Torte. For what difference does it make to kill with selfishness, or to kill with a six-inch blade? None. None at all.’
Dizziness claimed me. I almost lost my footing but somehow managed to steady myself.
Hildegarde wore a crafty expression. When we locked eyes she said, ‘Isn’t the Veuve Clicquot a splendid drop?’
‘What the hell are you getting at, Hil?’
‘Don’t you think it would be a terrible waste of fine French champagne, if you were to jump to your death before we’d polished it off?’
I was struggling to follow her reasoning. ‘Really? Do you think so?’
‘Oh, yes indeed. You’d be insulting Frenchmen everywhere. And just look at yourself, you’re hardly attired for a dignified death, no undergarments and only a flimsy silk peignoir. Tsk, tsk, tsk. If you want to die with dignity, I suggest
you put on some clothes. It will only take a few minutes. Let’s face it, you’re going to be dead for eternity.’
When I tried to hold onto the window frame it leapt away from me. So I clung to the champagne bottle instead. Hildegarde was fading in and out of my vision. Terror consumed me. Had the Kane curse finally found me? Was I going mad like Ophelia? I squinted in the direction of Hildegarde. The burning sun was drilling a hole in the top of my head. The champagne was playing havoc with the elixir in my stomach. The view was spinning at a rate of knots and I was having difficulty remaining upright.
‘Surely my death is inconsequential to the great French nation, Hil?’
‘Of course not, silly. You’re the only Australian pâtissière who understands the fine nuances of French cuisine. Back home many French sailors praised your choux pastries, Paris-Brests and profiteroles. And remember what that French sea captain said about your remarkable skill with blown sugars?’
I knew she was trying to appeal to my ego but my mind was befuddled. I was still hungover from the previous night’s absinthe binge. I yearned to lie down on one of the passing white clouds and take a short kip.
However, Hildegarde’s reasoning seemed logical and I tried to focus. ‘You’re right. I will be dead for eternity and France’s honour is at stake. So how about we polish off this bottle, Hil?’
‘I knew you’d come to your senses. Here, give me your hand.’
The gargoyle sniggered and whispered in my ear. He’d had enough and wanted me to end it. His deep voice snarled out of my mouth. ‘What’s so great about being Tasmania’s premier pâtissière, when family and lovers are damaged, dead or barking mad? The cake has burnt, it’s too fucking late! So let’s quit all this goddamn whining.’
The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte Page 31
