by F. R. Tallis
Intimacy with Thérèse no longer felt like an optional indulgence but, rather, something necessary, vital: a form of sustenance that I could not do without. Inhaling her sweet, heady fragrance, I would lose myself in her beauty, become enraged by desire and batter her with my body until it seemed that her bones might shatter. Her eyes would show alarm, but then, quite suddenly, her expression would change as she abandoned herself to my fevered clutches. Something in her nature, something dark and aberrant, was gradually awakening in response to my need. Months passed and she became increasingly compliant. She was obviously excited by my violent passions and I interpreted her passivity as a form of consent. I knew that I was hurting her, but she did not protest, and the cast of her face, half-closed eyes, parted lips, cheeks flushed with pleasure, and the little moans that issued from her mouth encouraged me to further excesses. After these ravishments, these assaults on her flesh, I would make a token apology. I want you so much. You don’t understand what it’s like, not having you – as a wife – completely. It’s unbearable.’ But I was play-acting, feigning remorse and fully conscious that Thérèse was a willing accomplice.
As I lay on the bed, smoking a cigar, admiring Thérèse’s exquisite body, its planes and intersections, its loose-limbed perfection, she turned to show me her outer thigh. The skin was marred by five oval bruises, corresponding with the fingers and thumb of my left hand. ‘Look what you’ve done!’
‘Forgive me,’ I said, raising myself up and kissing each blemish. ‘I got carried away.’
‘What if Henri was to notice?’
If only, I thought to myself. If only he were more observant!
I still begged her to leave him. My constant appeals had not swayed her in the past, but I persisted nevertheless. She tried to mollify me with bland assurances: her marriage was sexless, they lived like brother and sister, she was always asleep by the time he came to bed, but none of it had any effect, because I was not jealous, as she seemed to think. I did not view Courbertin as a competitor. He was much less than that, a nuisance, a handicap, an obstacle, and why Thérèse should be so resistant to the dissolution of their disastrous marriage was beyond my comprehension. There was Philippe’s welfare to consider, I understood that – of course I did – but Courbertin was not a vindictive or malicious man. He would not seek to remove the child. Everything could be resolved amicably. Thérèse had long since tired of hearing my opinions and increasingly her typical response was a heavy, impatient sigh. The ensuing silence was always tense and intractable. I suppose it was inevitable that my resentment would build and eventually find expression.
Circumstances had prevented us from meeting for two weeks and I was desperate to see her again. I went to the apartment early, hoping that she would make efforts to do the same, and passed the time drinking rum and pacing the well-worn carpets. When she finally entered, at the exact hour we had prearranged, I leaped out of my chair and threw my arms around her. I kissed her face, stroked her hair and started fumbling with the hooks of her dress. Her perfume was stronger than ever, almost overpowering. She put up some slight resistance, and when I did not stop, she twisted out of my embrace. ‘Let’s sit and talk,’ she said. ‘We don’t talk as much as we used to.’
I did not want to talk. Even so, I attempted to comply and sat with her on the couch, holding hands, making conversation. It was difficult to concentrate, given the urgency of my desire. Before long, I was once again kissing her neck and reaching round to unfasten the back of her dress.
‘No!’ Thérèse cried, pushing me away. ‘I don’t want to. Not today.’
‘Then why on earth did you bother coming?’
‘To be with you!’ Her eyes flashed angrily.
The tense exchanges that followed quickly escalated. Accusations were followed by counter-accusations, voices were raised and yet, even as we argued, my wanting of her did not diminish. I found her denial completely unreasonable, petty, callous and spiteful. Eventually, she burst into tears and laying a hand over her abdomen, informed me that she had a ‘stomach ache’ and was in considerable pain. I realized at once that she was speaking euphemistically.
The situation was beyond repair. We sat in uncomfortable silence, until Thérèse bid me a frosty adieu. I did not try to prevent her from leaving.
That evening, I found myself ordering absinthes in a dingy cafe near Saint-Sulpice. I poured water over the trowel, and with studied restraint, watched the sugar crystals dissolve and the green liquor turn opaque. I was aware that my thoughts were not as they should be, but I could not divert them from their course. I imagined Thérèse, in bed, with Courbertin beside her, his bloated face embedded in her hair, his arms around her waist. It was so unfair. Everything was on her terms.
Stumbling out of the cafe and onto the pavement, I hailed a cab and said to the driver, ‘Take me to the Folies Bergère’. Until that instant, the idea of going to the theatre had not crossed my mind, and some part of me was still lucid enough to register mild surprise. The words had tripped off my tongue in the absence of any accompanying desire to be amused or entertained, yet I did not reflect on my impulsivity and simply climbed into the vehicle without thought.
The facade of the Folies Bergère was brightly illuminated and many carriages were parked outside. I went to the box office, bought myself a ticket, and made my way through the milling crowd. The auditorium was stifling, the air not merely warm, but hot. In front of me, the stage was only visible between columns of smoke that rose upwards, perpetually feeding a layer of cloud that hung like a stormy sky beneath the wide dome. I took my seat and gazed over bald heads and feathered hats at a man and woman performing a trapeze act. They were succeeded by a magician and then by a pretty chanteuse who practised her art in a state of semi-undress. The heat was overpowering and I decided to venture out into the garden: a covered space, planted with yew trees, resounding with the splash of fountains. It was a great relief to step through the doorway and breathe the cool night air. Couples sat at zinc-topped tables, heads tilted towards each other, almost touching, sharing drinks and stealing kisses; others sat alone, solitary gentlemen whose dark, hungry eyes feasted on the spectacle of so many whores gliding beneath the boughs and dispersing fragrances with their fans. I was captivated by their method of locomotion, which involved a languid swaying of the rump. Sitting down at an empty table, I called a waiter and ordered an absinthe. I don’t know how many absinthes I had drunk earlier, but this additional glass, even though of modest size, was the one that finally interfered with my powers of perception. Everything became luminescent, fantastical.
Two of these whores were looking at me, one of whom had black hair, the other brunette. I tipped my hat at the latter and she came forward. Her face was caked with white powder, her eyes artfully elongated with a pencil and her lips were the brightest red. A smile opened cracks in her cosmetic mask: ‘Buy me a drink, monsieur?’
Of course, mademoiselle, my pleasure. What would you like?’
‘A grenadine?’
‘Certainly. Waiter?’ I snapped my fingers. ‘A grenadine.’
She sat down beside me and we made some small talk, which evolved into a pathetic, artificial flirtation; however, she quickly tired of this game and bluntly stated her terms. It was evident that she was anxious to clarify my intentions so as not to waste any time. Subsequently, we found ourselves in a grubby brothel a short distance from the theatre. I was still feeling angry with Thérèse, resentful, affronted, and some of this bad feeling was transferred onto my companion. ‘If you want to be rough,’ she scolded, ‘there are specialists. Places you can go to.’ Afterwards, she stood in front of a full length oval mirror, looking over her shoulder, inspecting her back. There was a small scratch. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘This should make amends.’ I tossed a pile of coins onto the eiderdown and when she saw the extent of my generosity, she rushed across the room and planted a kiss on my cheek. ‘Just cut your fingernails next time, eh?’ she laughed.
I emerged int
o the thin light of a grey dawn and managed to get a cab back to Saint-Germain. Throughout the night I had not felt at all tired, but as the sun began to rise I experienced a sudden, deep exhaustion. I longed for sleep.
Before retiring, I picked up the little figure that the demoniac had regurgitated and wondered where Lambert had got it from? As I handled the bronze, I noticed my fingernails. The whore had been right to admonish me. They were long and sharp, which was curious, because I had not neglected my toilet. I found a pair of scissors and gave them a trim, finding the activity more of an effort than usual. The substance of my nails had thickened. When I had finished, I drew the curtains and listened to the bells of Saint-Sulpice. I experienced a flicker of guilt, but the emotion was dull and muted. Standing by the window, I seemed diminished, an echo of my former self.
The whore’s rebuke played on my mind. ‘If you want to be rough, there are specialists. Places you can go to.’ Even when I was living a dissolute life on Saint-Sébastien, visiting the brothels of Port Basieux with Tavernier, the pleasures I craved were never unorthodox: excessive, yes, but not exceptional. I was feeling increasingly frustrated, as if I was being denied an entitlement. The prospect of obtaining proper and full satisfaction proved a temptation impossible for me to resist, and, after making judicious enquiries I learned of an establishment situated in the Marais that had gained a reputation for accommodating patrons with very particular requirements. It was frequented by men of a certain type, effete, foppish individuals with slow mannerisms and drawling voices, many of whom claimed to be poets. I made their acquaintance in the waiting room, which was cavernous and lit by an iron chandelier. The wallpaper was made from red satin, embossed with Egyptian hieroglyphs, and the floor was littered with hookahs. Large Venetian mirrors reflected images of women sprawled on banquettes, their dressing gowns loosely tied, or falling open to reveal enticing glimpses of lace underwear or a silk stocking. Something about their disposition created an impression of exotic flowers with heavy heads, drooping in the humid heat of a conservatory. Occasionally, the madam would circulate, offering the sleepy clientele strawberries soaked in ether. On my first visit, she seated herself beside me, and after making some witty remarks, said, ‘So, monsieur, what are you looking for?’ We had a curious, elliptical discussion, and at its end, she said, If I’m not mistaken, monsieur, you’ll be wanting to spend some time with our Lili.’ She directed my gaze across the room to a diminutive figure, encased in a cocoon of smoke that issued in spirals from the bowl of an enormous pipe. The stem of the pipe was long and its ceramic bowl supported by a cage-like contraption containing an oil lamp. ‘I can promise you, monsieur, Lili is very willing.’
The madam must have been a perceptive woman, because, although I did try some of the other girls, none of them was able to satisfy my desires as much as Lili. I would take her tiny hand and lead her to one of the upstairs rooms, where she would stand before me, swaying slightly, her ribs protruding through rice-paper skin, her nipples erect, her stomach a shadowy hollow.
‘Do whatever you want with me, monsieur,’ she would say in a voice made hoarse by her addiction, before advancing like a ghost, weightless and sacrificial. When we were coupled, I would abandon moderation, she would wrap her flimsy arms around my shoulders, pull me closer, and whisper enticements in my ear.
On one such occasion, my nostrils were filled with the sweet perfume that I had hitherto associated with Thérèse. It was unusually strong and, inhaling deeply, I became more and more intoxicated, losing all of my inhibitions and entering into a state of rapturous abandon. My hands travelled over her body, grasping, squeezing, until, wildly excited, my nails sank into her flesh. I raked them down her neck and chest, but was too transported, at first, to notice the injury I had inflicted. Then, I saw the three red trails, the blood welling up, the formation of glistening droplets that eventually trickled away. The air was suddenly as fragrant as honeysuckle and I found myself kissing and licking the broken skin. It was not iron that I tasted, but the sublime essence of the perfume that had tormented me for so long. Pressing my mouth against the wounds, I sucked and sucked until I was overwhelmed by an ecstatic swoon and lost consciousness completely.
When I awoke, Lili was sitting on the edge of the bed, inspecting the large white rose that she had previously worn in her chignon. The edges of each petal had darkened. Then, turning her smudged eyes towards me, she said, ‘Are you all right? You collapsed on top of me. I had to struggle to get out from under you. You’re very heavy – heavier than I thought.’
I reached out and touched the scratches on her neck.
‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what . . .’
Looking down, she saw how I had scored her body; however, she merely blinked and assumed her habitually vacant expression.
What was happening to me? For the first time since my resuscitation, I experienced a reawakening of self-disgust, dismay at my own depravity. I could still taste the sweetness in my mouth, but it had turned sickly. Getting up from the bed, I picked up my jacket and went through the pockets until I found my cigarettes. The tobacco was soothing, but I still felt queasy and feared that I might throw up.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Lili, raising her chin with a crooked finger. But even as I said those words, the accompanying remorse had already begun to diminish.
I was still finding it difficult to sleep at nights. With the arrival of evening, I became restless and when I retired, the pillow quickly became hot and the mattress uncomfortable. I felt trapped, anxious and agitated, needful of open spaces. The apartment became airless and the walls seemed to close in on me. Not wishing to inconvenience the concierge, I would climb out of the window onto the pavement and walk the streets. These nocturnal excursions were mostly aimless, and I would wander from district to district without any notion of reaching a particular destination. More often than not, I found myself standing in front of Notre-Dame, looking up at the western facade, humbled by the upward thrust of the stone, the three sculpted portals, the Gallery of Kings, the circular perfection of the rose window and the delicate arches of the open colonnade. It had become strangely fascinating to me. I would circle the great edifice, studying its intricately carved exterior, impressed by the span of the flying buttresses which leaped audaciously from the ground to the roof and urged the eye to ascend even further: to the spire and the saintly statues that surrounded its eminence. And I was reminded of that night when I had looked down on those same statues from my impossible vantage point before plummeting through the cathedral, the earth and the pit.
Early one morning, I happened to see a priest unlocking the door to the north tower. He disappeared inside and a few minutes later reappeared, clutching some books. He then dashed off, his stride widening to hasten his progress. The sky was only just beginning to glow in the east. I crossed the road, opened the door and started to climb the spiral staircase. Although some candles had been lit, the interior was gloomy and it was necessary to navigate partly by sense of touch, feeling the walls for safety and guidance. I emerged abruptly onto the viewing platform above the colonnade. The panorama was breathtaking; roofs, domes and steeples receding in all directions, and the steel-grey river flowing beneath the arches of the Petit Pont and the Pont-Saint-Michel. In the distance I could see plumes of smoke rising out of factory chimneys and the purple masses of the surrounding hills. The parvis was empty, but the streets were coming to life. I could hear the sound of stallholders greeting each other, the rattle of carts and the whinnying of horses.
Clinging to the parapet were the famous gargoyles or ‘chimera’ of the cathedral: mysterious veiled birds, sleek predatory cats, goats, grotesque apes, dragons and semi-human things that were the stuff of nightmares, abominations that combined the characteristics of several species, freakish and unnatural. Open beaks and gaping jaws suggested a petrified dawn chorus of screeches, screams and mocking laughter. The balustrade was an infernal menagerie. Only one representation of humanity was included in
this unholy assembly, a bearded sage, whose stone face expressed fear and speechless horror.
I found myself drawn to the most striking of all these creatures, a curiously melancholic personification of evil whose elbows rested on a cornerstone, and whose hands, distinguished by long fingers and sharp, tapering nails, supported a massive blockish head. His great, folded wings curled forward over his shoulders and two stump-like horns projected from his forehead. His eyes were deep cavities, his nose broad with flaring nostrils, and a swollen, lascivious tongue protruded from his open mouth. He seemed to exude indolence and lechery. Standing next to this Satanic likeness, I was reminded of the temptation of Christ.
It is recorded in the Holy Bible that the Devil showed Our Lord the kingdoms of the world, and said, ‘All this will I give unto thee if thou wilt bow down and worship me.’ Jesus did not question the Devil’s right of possession. Evidently, the Devil’s terms were valid, for when, as proud Lucifer, the Devil had been driven out of heaven by the archangel Michael, God decreed that the earth should be his domain. It has always been understood that the Devil is master here.
Looking out over the sprawling city, this proposition seemed incontestable. Here, surely, was the new Babylon: Paris, renowned for its vices, its tens of thousands of whores, its alcoholics and opium addicts, its voluptuaries, thieves, cut-throats and degenerates – a turbulent city of barricades and revolutions, blood and execution, of cruelty, lust, disease and madness. The melancholy demon was well placed to see it all, and I imagined him deriving much pleasure from observing the various permutations of human iniquity. Feeling uneasy, I returned to the stairs and, after descending to the street, made my way directly to the hospital.
