by Kit Brennan
And suddenly I did. I removed the chair from under the door handle.
Courage. And shuffle the cards.
And so that is that. I danced my début. In my moment of triumph, the hideous voice denounced me: “That’s not Lola Montez!” That voice, that spidery, attenuated shape—I danced it out of the theatre!
Then I clambered to my feet. Backstage, a new kind of chaos was erupting. The opera singers, stagehands, all seeming not to know their next moves. The stage manager finally hustled over, grabbed me by the shoulders and hissed, “Get the bloody hell to your dressing room, young vixen. Get off my stage.”
Passing into the wings, no one would look at me. A group of excitable men in evening clothes, circling someone, whispering and gesticulating fiercely—circling Lumley, the impresario. I heard: “You’ll be embarrassed, no, you’ll be excoriated for perpetrating a fraud!” “—drag members of the nobility into a much worse scandal—” “I remember this young woman, she—” “Apprehend her!”
Run, Lola! Get to your dressing room, change into street clothes, grab your pistols. I hurried down the corridor, threw myself into the room, closed and locked the door, turned—and uttered a little scream: the earl of Malmesbury, his face red and sombre.
“My dear, what have you done?” He took a long swallow from the bottle of champagne clutched in his fist.
“It’s the demon, the murderous devil who—!”
“What about this apparition?” He sounded tired.
I grabbed his hand, stopped him from taking another glug. “Is here, in the theatre! How or why I don’t know but—”
The earl sank onto the settee. “Don’t be preposterous.”
“Here, I tell you! Coming to kill me!”
Malmesbury put his face in his hands, murmuring, “You know and I know, Lola sweet, Eliza mine, that the whole sodding Spanish story, though entertaining, can’t be true.” He raised bleary eyes at me, head wobbling. “You made it up, for me, for my delight. And it was delightful. But it’s over now. You’ve gone too far, dear. I’m exhausted, can’t keep it up.”
I was flabbergasted, horrified. He hadn’t believed . . . ?
As if he’d heard my shocked thought he added, “There are a number of nasty gentlemen out there, and many seem determined to pull down nobility who may, somehow and unknowingly, have become amorously entangled.” His eyes all bloodshot, hair a rumpled mess, he suddenly looked much older than his years. “My wife is the rich one, you know. I am the lucky beneficiary of her bounty.” What in God’s name was he talking about? I took a hopeful step towards him.
He raised a hand to stop me. “I think, my dear Lola, that you are on your own.”
And then—it was as if a chill wind had blown down the back of my dancing gown. The beast was there. I could feel it. I knew with certainty. It was coming, smelling me out, oh dios mio! No time to lose, no time for niceties—I reached into my makeup table’s drawer, drew out the faux book with the pistols. Fingers shaking slightly, I broke each weapon and poured in the black powder, spilling some, then tamped it down. I placed the cap directly onto the first one so that it was fully loaded and dangerous. The cap for the other I pushed into my bodice, to the usual place. The earl was shaking his head at me—or was it just a drunken, muzzy attempt to focus?
“As a last favour,” I whispered hoarsely, “create a diversion. I beg you.”
I opened the door, peeked out; the coast seemed clear. Malmesbury was asking, “A diversion for whom, my dear?” as I fled in my dancing costume and bare feet down the corridor.
Outside, the stage doorman called after me, “Mind your way now, miss, remember what I told you!” And I was off down the alley, running like a deer. And then! I don’t quite remember how, I was apprehended. Had they been in the crowd? Or backstage? I had no idea. They brought me here. To this room. The Cockney and the small man.
What’s that?
They’re coming, I hear them.
AND NOW: THE DENOUEMENT
THE DAPPER ONE STANDS before me, candelabra in one hand, a jug and a cup in the other. He is alone.
“Where is your thug?” I ask. I’m blinking and shielding my eyes from the suddenness of light, at last. “Where are my pistols? How did you take them from me?”
He places the tapers on the floor. “You’re full of questions, even after all this time. To answer one of them: He won’t be returning. His intentions were not honourable.”
The man pulls a small loaf of bread from a pocket and holds it out. I snatch it, then try to restrain my haste. Take small bites. I need water.
“I only now discovered that my colleague did not leave you the meal we had prepared, nor the wine,” he says. “For that, you have my apologies. I have sent for more, and hope this may tide you over until it arrives.” He puts the jug down in front of me.
Water, thank God. I fill the cup. Never has anything tasted so splendid.
He moves around the room as he says, “I have finally finished my investigations into your alleged movements, Lola Montez. Talk to me. Tell me the truth of your involvement in international affairs—and understand, in advance, that I have been very thorough.”
What to do? On the one hand, the first pricklings of relief: the Cockney thug, banished. Perhaps I’ll make it out of this alive. On the other, trepidation. I sense he is uncharmable, this man. I do not know how to deal with men like this one. But I will not let myself show fear. I am Lola Montez, danseuse, friend of royalty and widow of a rebel hero. I am carrying the name that Diego and I created together. I will move into the future, never stay in the past.
“British authorities recently became aware, and then concerned,” the small man continues, “about the Spanish dancing sensation—all that advance publicity—who suddenly appeared in our capital. When someone appears out of nowhere, it’s going to raise eyebrows, correct?” I take another quick nip at the bread. “So I ask myself, on behalf of our government: Who is she? Where has she come from? Who has sent you, and what are you supposed to find out? Are you a papist spy?”
I remain silent, then sip from the cup. A papist spy? How ridiculous.
He looks very thoughtful, before saying things which astonish me. “I shall begin, then. In Southampton, the Spanish consul was happy to assist. Farther back, your trail was more difficult. Finally I unearthed a pilgrimage; the presence of an unknown, beautiful, young and sometimes mute nun was noted amongst the pilgrims, and at the border. Farther back still? Diego de León had never been married. You are not his widow. No papers, no records anywhere. Lola Montez, apparently, did not exist until seven weeks ago. When you set foot on English soil, madam.”
Damnation! I lick my lips. They are suddenly so dry.
“You’re an entertainer, this much is obvious.” He just goes on and on! “But a charlatan, perhaps. A chameleon, certainly. You understand our dilemma?”
I must escape this room or expire! I have reviewed it all, for hours and hours. I believe I have it ordered well—what to say and what to avoid. Bluff it out, Lola! So I begin to speak, using my best Spanish-inflected English, and I tell him the truth, or a semblance of it, about many things and many people—Grimaldi, Cristina, Diego—with numerous references to the homicidal dangerousness of the Jesuit priest, presently loose in London, but nothing about my previous incarnation as Eliza Gilbert. Of course not.
When I finish, he surveys me with unreadable eyes. “If what you’ve just told me is true, why are you here? In England?” We stare at each other. Blast and damn! “You arrived with nothing, according to the Spanish consul—no baggage, no possessions—claiming your widowhood, then throwing yourself upon the mercy of the earl of Malmesbury. He’s a government man. You know that, don’t you?” When I nod in some confusion, he adds, “And so was Pedro Coria. He worked for us, for the British government. He sent dispatches back on a regular basis . . . Miss Gilbert.”
What! How did—?
“Once he realized what was happening, Coria was actually trying to look out fo
r you, both in France and in Spain—a giddy girl who had gotten herself involved in affairs far beyond her grasp.”
Wait, Pedro Coria? The glass-eyed pirate was an English spy? My head is reeling, and not just from hunger.
The small man looks extremely stern now. “The earl of Malmesbury is a romantic fool and has been severely reprimanded. He may lose his parliamentary position over this. He should never have put the idea of a visit to Spain into your silly head. You are fortunate to be alive.”
I have to sit down, and do so.
“In conclusion, Miss Gilbert—”
I want to interject and protest at his use of this name, but he holds up a prissy hand and won’t allow it.
“In conclusion, it is as I suspected. You have cost us a great deal of time and money, but you are free to go.”
I stand up again, ready to berate him and his sneaky government, hotly.
“You are free to go because you’re a nobody, Miss Gilbert. You have simply gotten in the way.”
At this moment, there is a knock at the door and a woman enters, carrying a tray. She sets it down on the floor, gives a little curtsy, and exits.
The dapper little shit turns back to me with a brief nod. “Good day to you. I have concluded that this is a case of insignificance, of fancying yourself to be important. Now go away and try not to cause any more mischief in the future, or you may not be so lucky,” and he follows the woman, leaving the door ajar behind him.
Oh! I’m so angry I could spit! You bastard! I’m not, I’m not a nobody! I am Lola! I will make something of myself, you wait and see! You can’t stand to see anyone this full of verve! You want to smash me, crush me, stop me from taking what joy and pleasure and power I can in this world. Well, I won’t let you!
I burst out onto the street, and find myself, to my amazement, still in the theatre district. There’s Her Majesty’s Theatre, right over there! Sod it all and bugger boots! From the light in the sky, I guess it to be early evening—but of what day? First things first. I rush to the stage door and convince Bell, the doorman, to let me in. He is trying to tell me something, yelling words after me, but I don’t stop to hear them. There are only a few stagehands about as I barge past and into my dressing room. But wait, the room has been emptied of my belongings!
This is part of a plot, it must be. They are taking away my identity, bit by bit!
The stage manager thrusts his uppity head inside the door. “Bell told me you were here. You’ve been dismissed; your contract has been cancelled. Get out.”
I rise precipitately, looking about for my pistol—and would use it too!—except that it is missing. In that second, I realize that both of my darling muff pistols must still be in the hands of the small man and his thug, and that my poor cold feet are still bare! There’s a riding crop on the floor, however, so I snatch that up, then nearly fall down again from lightheadedness, having rushed from my prison room so precipitately, and bypassing the meal that had been delivered. Oh, life is too cruel!
Now the stage manager rushes in and—this cannot be believed!—grabs me bodily by the back of my dancing costume and by one flailing hand, and propels me out of the dressing room, down the corridor, and past the stage where the singers are beginning to warm up their voices. All the while, with the other hand, I am trying to land him a good wallop with the riding crop, but he’s agile, as if accustomed to dealing with all manner of wild cats. Or drunken actors. Which of course, he is. His assistant is following nervously with a bundle of my possessions in his arms: cloak, hat, dressing robe, and so on. As we approach the stage door, I manage to twist about and land the stage manager a good one, a neat flick and a sting with the tip of the crop, and a vivid slash of blood spurts forth from his cheek! Huzzah!
Before I know it, I am out on the street, my things are thrown out after me, and Bell has closed the door firmly. I even hear the key turn in the lock.
Bastards, all of them! I can’t believe it. I must start again, do it all over again. I have no allies, obviously. I have been used! Abominably!
And then I stop still. I cease my stamping and snarling. Something feels wrong; a heaviness, suddenly, a concentration of malevolence. From the corner of my eye, I see it—a shadow detaches itself from the wall. A long, attenuated shadow with the breath of a snake. Holy Mary, Mother of God, it’s the priest, stepping out from behind a stack of crates in an evening suit, as if he has been waiting there all along, waiting for me to return! I take off like a ball from a cannon: fly!
The best thing, I tell myself frantically, is to twist and turn through these narrow streets, try to lose him, then head for the Strand. But of course I can’t rely on my sense of place. I’m the idiot who can’t find her way out of a matchbox! Is there a police station nearby? What do I know of this section of London except the theatre building itself? Why oh why don’t I keep my eyes open and actually register what I see? Alternately castigating and encouraging myself, I run like the wind. Then I step on something horribly sharp, a broken bottle. ¡Mierda! Now limping and panting, I hear booted feet. And gasping breath, gaining on me. Oh Jésu! Why am I always running? Through my head, nightmare images: the black-robed wolf falling down from the sky. A slender throat slit from side to side. A smothered baby. Fleeing on horseback, crouched over Lindo’s ears. I look over my shoulder, and, oh God, how I wish I hadn’t! Father Miguel de la Vega is swooping after me like a death dragon, lurching unevenly from side to side but still coming fast, mouth open and breathing fire, demon eyes blazing. We charge down the narrow dirty cobbled street, high brick buildings on either side hemming the world into one long rectangular cage, where I’ll die like a rat, without a soul to mourn me. Still flying pell-mell, I check again, see him draw forth a knife which he flicks open! I let out an eldritch screech, put on a burst of speed, and—
Another shrill noise cuts the air. I can’t place it, high-pitched and strange. I spy a small, filthy alleyway and bolt down it, pray it’s not a cul-de-sac, but he’s still with me, the limp very pronounced but not slowing him down at all. God, God! I’m dead! At any second I expect to feel the hair ripped from my head, the knife flung with great force between my shoulder blades—some horrible form of painful death. Another quick frantic check, searching about for a side alley, a landmark, anything at all! And then—wham! I fall to the ground, winded; so does the immovable object I’ve crashed into. A very big man in a funny hat.
“My God, look out!” I scream.
The man turns to look.
With the last of my breath, I wail, “He’s a killer! Oh God, he’s the killer of women! He’s been preying on women! But he’ll kill you too!”
Then, from out of nowhere, like some glorious deus ex machina duo, two other burly men charge, converging upon the hurtling priest. The Jesuit snarls and lashes out, and one of the men falls to the ground, blood gushing from an arm. The first big man and the third now converge, one grabbing the priest’s knife arm while the other punches him hard. The flick knife is kicked away, Miguel’s arms dragged behind his back and tied, then the biggest one sits on him. The other blows his whistle repeatedly while scrambling to the aid of their fallen companion, yanking a length of clean cloth from an inner pocket and applying a tourniquet to the gushing arm.
“Are you well, miss?” the big one says gently, as if he isn’t sitting upon a madman’s heaving body. “Has he hurt you?”
Policemen. The shrill noise—I can place it now. Their lovely whistles.
“No. No, thank God. And thank you.” London policemen, thank God and bless them! If I was going to keep crashing into men, let them all be policemen!
“But your foot? There’s a lot of blood, miss.”
My foot? I barely noticed. “Will be fine, I trust. What about your comrade?”
“Can’t tell yet. You must come with us, to aid our inquiries.”
I don’t want to stay anywhere near that depraved Spanish lunatic, whose head is twisting and writhing, whose torso is trapped beneath the large policeman’s but
tocks. “Do all women a favour,” I say, unable to look any longer at the devil incarnate.
“And what would that be, miss?”
“If you can’t kill it, incarcerate this thing in the deepest of dungeons, and throw away the key.”
“After what he’s done to the officer here, that might be fairly easy. And that’s the only good thing about this whole sorry business, miss.” Miguel turns his loathsome head to try to speak or snarl or spit, and the officer thumps it. The priest appears to have fainted.
“Oh dear,” says the policeman. “Sometimes I don’t know my own strength. Shame.”
Almost before he’s finished speaking, a police wagon drives up at speed. The unconscious priest is loaded in unceremoniously, with several more unnecessary, but hugely satisfying, thumps. The wounded officer is helped up to sit by the driver, looking pale but strong. My large friend turns to me and says, “We need you to accompany us, miss, but, as you can see, this conveyance hasn’t the room for yourself. We’ll send another.”
