by David Haynes
Finally the bus began its awkward movement again and they were dragged to the summit of Montmartre.
There, Paris lay below them, untested and unexplored. It was adorned in the glowing pearls of the lamp lit boulevards as they criss-crossed the city, ferrying intrigue and life from one place to another. The lights twinkled like the eyes of a temptress when all hope of salvation has gone.
Blair took Bishop by the arm and began pointing frantically at various landmarks. “Look here, Bishop, La Tour Eiffel! And over there, that is St. Sulpice and below us can you see the lazy arms of Moulin Rouge? Oh the glorious and desperate beauty of the city!” He paused then whispered, “We must be careful for she is a wicked sorceress.”
Bishop looked down, and for the first time since arriving, felt the wondrous, heaving beauty of the city take form in his mind.
“It is so quiet here,” he whispered.
“There are still places in Paris where one can find solitude. See behind us,” he pulled Bishop around, “the unfinished Basilica of the Sacred Heart. There are places between the bricks and scaffold where one can be quite undisturbed. Where one can make love in a church; imagine that!”
“I would rather not.”
They both turned to look over the city again. “The box is open, Bishop. Do you dare look inside?”
The beauty captivated him beyond anything he had seen before. The gentle hum of humanity scattered below him in glorious lamp-lit mystery. It was alluring and repellent in equal measure. He could not help but draw parallels with the grotesque darkness in his mind; unrestrained and hideous but nevertheless, compelling. Bishop knew if he allowed it to consume him he would be lost and beyond redemption.
Without waiting for him to answer, Blair set off and led him along a steep, stony passage, below the skeletal arms of an abandoned windmill. The gregarious city lights were but a memory behind the tall facades of the over-bearing houses. The street was but a forgotten memory of the life Montmartre had once lived.
“Where are we going?” Bishop asked, struggling to keep pace with Blair’s rapid steps.
“Why, to meet your end, of course!” Blair’s ribald humour and unpredictable behaviour were difficult to comprehend at the best of times, but Bishop followed his speedy descent from Montmartre nonetheless. Besides, he was quite lost and would be unable to find his way home without Blair’s aid.
The gloomy passage spewed them out and onto a noisy street. The gentle hum they had heard at the top of the hill had grown into a raucous din. A great throng heaved and bumped and shuffled their way before him, hurrying to reach their destinations.
“Ah, this is more like it. Come on follow me,” Blair set off into the throng at a lively pace, but Bishop was unable to move; the very air caressed his senses. In amongst the chatter and laughter were the odours of decadence and life. Not the stench of death and filth as was common in London. No, here it was cologne, perfume and hair oil mixed with tobacco and sweet pastry. It created an alluring, aromatic and enticing cloud. Voices spoke in words he could not fathom and they floated on the air like the buzz of a bee on the meadow. All at once his nightmares were pushed aside for a brief, intoxicating moment.
“Come on you fool. We’ll be late at this rate,” Blair’s booming voice ruptured the spell.
“Late for what?”
“I’ve told you, death!”
Bishop stopped walking which caused a murmur of annoyance to ripple through the throng, “Be serious for once can’t you.”
“I am perfectly serious. Now come along!”
Bishop permitted himself to be carried along amid the irresistible flow of people until eventually Blair stopped and pulled him to the side. He pointed to the other side of the street, “Monsieur Bishop, I give you Cabaret du Neant.”
Bishop looked as directed and watched a pallbearer patrol slowly and rhythmically back and forth beneath a ghastly green lantern. His area of watch was scarce larger than a shop window and the only time he paused was to gather his cape closer about him. As he did so the lantern caught his face and gave him the appearance of a festering corpse. He guarded a doorway upon which heavy black cerements and accoutrements of death were draped.
“A cabaret you say?” Bishop was slightly perplexed.
“Yes, a cabaret. Isn’t it grand! You will never have seen anything like this before, I can assure you.”
Bishop nodded silently.
Cabaret Du Neant
The solitary pallbearer drew apart the drapes and allowed them entry. The lively atmosphere of the street outside heightened the dismal gloom inside.
“Enter, mortals of this sinful world, enter into the mists and shadows of eternity. Select your biers, to the right, to the left; fit yourselves comfortably to them, and repose in the solemnity and tranquillity of death. May God have mercy on your souls!” A monotone voice droned in the darkness.
A gruesome chandelier hung from the cavernous space above. It provided little light and was not composed of the normal glass or silver, but of bone, and each of the skeletal fingers gripped a single candle. The light was barely sufficient to see what lay before them, yet Bishop’s keen eyes were accustomed to seeing shapes in the darkness of his dreams. Biers had been placed around the perimeter of the room and upon each bier sat a coffin adorned with a solitary candle.
“We shall sit there,” Blair instructed. The chamber was more than half full with the expectant faces of those gently washed in sombre flame.
It was not until he took his seat that Bishop clearly saw what decorated the walls. Various scenes of disfigurement, torture and mutilation were interspersed with yet more bones half sunk into the wall as if trying to escape.
A second pallbearer arrived and took an order for their drinks.
“What did he call us?” Bishop asked.
“He called us Macchabees. It is the name given by sailors to the rotting corpses they find floating on the Seine. What do you think of it?” Half of Blair’s face was shrouded in shadow and it turned his mischievous smile to a menacing grimace.
“Charming, I must say.” His voice was laced with sarcasm. “What have you ordered for me? I hope nothing strong for we haven’t eaten yet.”
“The fluid extracted from syphilitic sores!” the pallbearer announced and placed two glasses before them.
“Here’s to your writing career, Bishop!” Blair held the glass before him, “Come on. Drink with me this once.”
Blair tentatively raised the glass to his nose, “It smells extremely strong. What is it?”
Blair drank the liquid in one thirsty swallow, “Cognac of course,” he stifled a cough, “probably the cheapest gut-rot brandy in all of Paris, actually. Go on, down the hatch!”
Bishop poured the brandy into his mouth and swallowed. What followed was an explosion of coughing which sent Bishop’s body into a violent spasm.
“He has consumption, bring him more syphilitic sores, Monsieur Croque-mort!” Blair bawled into the religious reverence.
When finally Bishop ceased coughing, he found a second glass had been placed on the coffin before him. “I cannot manage another.”
“Why ever not? We are only just beginning to enjoy the evening. They say the brandy here is sprinkled with the dust of ground bones. I presume it is your first experience of brandy seasoned in such a way?”
Bishop frowned, “It is my first time drinking brandy, at all.”
“What?” Blair was astounded, “Your first time drinking brandy?”
The uncomfortable burning sensation had ebbed away leaving only pleasant warmth in Bishop’s belly. “In actual fact, it is my first time drinking strong alcohol of any sort. I have taken ale and wine of course, but never strong liquor.”
“How remarkable! To reach your age and have never touched a drop is truly a feat. Although I might say it is not something, necessarily, to be admired. We must remedy that problem this instant.” He picked up the candle and waved it in the air like a beacon of distress. “The blood of a murderous lu
natic, garçon!”
For the next hour Bishop listened, in an ever-growing alcohol induced muddle, to various discourses on death and the atrocities committed to achieve that state. The lecture was interspersed with magic lantern displays which he considered inadequate to the atmospheric surroundings. After some time they were summoned by a wailing voice, which echoed around the chamber so fast that it was impossible to say whether it was in French or English.
“What did he say?” Bishop asked.
“I have no idea. Something to do with a chamber of death I believe.” Blair grinned wildly.
One by one, the guests filed through a small door to the rear of the room. They followed, but already Bishop was becoming tired with the poorly staged show. Beyond the door, a smaller chamber was packed full of the guests waiting for further instruction. Bishop was the last to enter, and as the door closed behind him, the room was plunged into complete darkness.
For a moment Bishop felt nothing. The blanket of darkness held not the fear or anxiety he could hear in the voices of those around him. It soothed him and the liberating intoxicant that coursed through his veins uncovered the demons of his nightmares.
Even in the darkness, he felt compelled to close his eyes. His fingers reached inside his coat and sought the silver, folding knife his father had given him. A cut here, a slice there. His medical training had provided him with knowledge of where to cut; where the blood ran thickest. Where a single, perfect incision could empty a man in seconds.
The alcohol made his head swim and his body swayed involuntarily.
A terrible piercing scream ruptured the darkness and just as abruptly, stopped. A nervous laughter broke out among the crowd, yet something about the scream disquieted him. He had heard screams like that before. On the operating table as Dr. Atherton cut through bone and ligament with his savage saw.
“Macchabees, prepare to enter the abyss from which you will never return,” a monotone voice wailed in the chamber.
A low door opened at the far end of the room allowing a trickle of light to enter. It was then that the screaming began; an appalling operatic crescendo of grief and of terror. People threw themselves toward the door, trying to escape the room, trying to distance themselves from whatever it was that had frightened them so.
“What is it?” Blair shouted. They were trapped at the rear of the chamber, being the last to enter and could not quite see what was happening. People fell and tumbled, colliding with each other in blind panic.
Bishop pulled at the door behind him but it was locked. “Is this part of the show?” he asked.
“I have been here five times this year and if it is indeed part of the show, it is new.”
“She’s dead!” a voice screamed.
The crowd surged again, filtering through the tiny doorway, shoulder to shoulder.
“Can you see anything yet?” Blair craned his neck.
“Nothing. It is too dark and the crowd too dense.” Bishop replied.
Before the last person had left the room, they were able to see what had caused the panic. A female figure lay prone on the floor.
“Bring me light!” Bishop roared. He knelt beside the figure and rolled her onto her back. The darkness made ink of her blood as it pooled beneath her.
“What can we do?” Blair remained standing.
Bishop did not need to feel for her pulse to know she was dead. The gaping hole in her throat informed him of that.
“There is nothing we can do except call for the police.” He stared into the ink well her throat had become. “Prevent anyone from leaving.” He cupped her head in his hand and closed her eyes. The blood was warm and thick where it already congealed on his hands. For what seemed like a glorious age he remained with her. The blood soaked through the knees on his woollen trousers but he cared not for he was in rapture.
“Too late, they’ve fled to the streets like the rats they are,” Blair panted and placed two candles on the floor beside Bishop. “Lord! What happened to her?”
“Someone slit her throat and cut out her trachea.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“I do not know.” Bishop lowered her head to the floor and walked to the corner of the chamber before emptying himself of the brandy.
*
The two men watched as the body was eventually removed from the cabaret. It created an enormous stir on the Boulevard de Clichy and a crowd of spectators gathered to watch. At one point, the same ghastly pallbearer who patrolled the street attempted to charge a fee to those who had gathered. The crowd booed and jeered him until he was beaten back by their derision and he crawled back inside where he belonged.
“It will be good for business,” exclaimed Blair as they strode away.
“I imagine so,” replied Bishop, “An actual murder in the cabaret of death will be hard to compete against.”
“I think we should go somewhere to lighten the mood. We should try and forget about this awful night. What say you?”
Bishop shook his head, “I require my bed, Blair. I will leave sleep to remove it from my thoughts. Besides, look at my knees.”
“Nonsense! How can you possibly sleep after that? There is only one thing that can help us now. Le Moulin Rouge!”
Bishop wanted nothing more than to lie in his bed and recall every single moment of what had occurred. To write about it, to record every intricate detail of every drop of her blood would be as if he were holding her body once again. That sensation would not come easily against the backdrop of a visit to a bawdy cabaret.
He followed Blair in a daydream listening to him conjecture about the murderer. He cared neither for the killer, nor for his purpose, but he cared greatly about the words he would write in honour of that beautiful scene.
The glittering lights and the brightly coloured lanterns on the building’s façade danced and swayed in time with the footsteps of all of Paris. The garish red windmill paid respect to the agricultural heritage of Montmartre, but its lazy crimson sails prompted minds to turn down darker avenues. It could not have been more different from the dismal place they had just come from. The reputation of the cabaret was known throughout the world and had not evaded the attention of Bishop’s father. It was in fact one of the places his father had specifically mentioned as a place to avoid, lest he become ‘lost.’ Yet, as he stood beside Blair and looked up at the swinging lights, he realised he had felt something far more intoxicating than the undergarments of a prostitute. He had felt the soothing warmth of death.
“Shall we?” Blair seemed to have shaken off the earlier incident with indifferent speed. His eyes were full of schoolboy mischief.
The din was astounding once they were inside. It seemed all of Parisian society was represented within the walls. Gentlemen with top hat and cane stood easily beside men who had spent the day on the river. Ladies with feathered stoles and fancy hats paraded themselves to the men whilst others hung on the arms of their lovers at the bar. And in the centre of the hall, a great dance-floor was filled with the slender, stocking-covered legs of the wild dancers. They kicked their skirts and petticoats into the air and bent their bodies into provocative forms. The men lit cigars, consumed La Fee Verte and dreamed of the dancers, prone in their beds. The ladies watched the men and imagined sticking hairpins through their lovers’ cruel eyes. The air was charged with the red fire of their boiling blood and the orchestra took them to the edge of the abyss with the furious frenzy of Orpheus in the Underworld.
“Here, take this. You appear to need it,” Blair thrust a glass into Bishop’s hand.
Without taking his eyes from the dancers, Bishop threw back the glass and swallowed the fire within.
“Aha! We have found him at last.” Blair patted him roughly on the back but he hardly heard a sound for he was transfixed by the scene before him.
Gilt edged mirrors the size of a man covered the walls. They gave birth to a thousand more dancers, all petticoats and lace in the swirl of cigar smoke.
Was it
heaven, or was it hell? Bishop felt lost.
The alcohol flowed, and soon Bishop’s mind was full not only of the events at Cabaret du Neant. His mind was a spinning carousel of beautiful women and lust. Yet at the centre, about which all else spun, was the image of the girl and her mutilated form.
He danced with three women at Blair’s insistence and he did it badly. His feet were not his own and he felt ashamed for his efforts. He tried to apologise but the girls were French and in his inebriated condition, his paltry language skills were horribly exposed. His attempts were met by cold stares of incomprehension.
