The Curse of the Grand Guignol

by Anna Lord

  Nightmarish yellow gaslight, blurred by a filthy fog, hissed sporadically. He caught his jaundiced reflection in a dirty cafe window and gave himself a fright. He looked like a grotesque parody of a vertiginous gargoyle, like one of the scare-mongering guardians of Notre Dame replete with bulging eyes, distended body, elongated limbs and spewing gorge-hole. A monster spawned from the dark-side of medieval imagination, designed to terrify the illiterate, to convert them to the Catholic faith. See! The devil is outside. Come inside. Step over the holy portal. Here, you will feel safe in the golden glow of God’s love.

  Reaching out into the yellow light, he caught hold of a lamp-post to stop his hands shaking with spontaneous deliriums, unwittingly smearing a bloody handprint on the grooves in the metal. His legs felt wobbly. His knees felt as if they might buckle. He waited for the jambs to strengthen. He waited for his head to stop spinning. He waited for the world to re-right itself…we are the sum of our sorrows.

  The obliging concierge located Dr Watson and the Countess in the conservatory of the Hotel du Palais and the news he had to impart was as welcome as the winter light pouring through the glass roof. He had managed to secure two private sleepers and two places in second class on a train leaving for Paris within the hour. Their tickets were awaiting them at the station and the newspapers that had been requested were awaiting them in the doctor’s compartment.

  The rag and bone man turned a corner and paused to plunge his hands into a horse trough that he knew would be there. The water was covered with a thin crust of ice. The cold gave him a jolt like a lightning bolt. It felt as if an ice-pick had been thrust into the back of his head. He steeled himself and plunged again, careful not to make too much of a splash, rubbing hard, harder than he needed to. In the morning the water would be stained red but he would be long gone. He would be back in the land of the living – appalled, aggrieved, indignant, adding his self-righteous voice to the good citizens of France, calling for action, demanding protection, denouncing the incompetent Paris police, his cries drowning out his cri de coeur…we are the sum of our sorrows.

  Newspaper excerpts for the month prior:

  The body of a prosperous Parisian art dealer was discovered in the Bois de Vincennes in the early hours of the morning. He had been stabbed by a sharp instrument before being robbed. He leaves behind a wife and three sons.

  A Russian émigré living in the Marais was beaten to death with a rolling pin wielded by his Breton wife. Several neighbours heard loud screams but refused to intervene for the man was a drunkard, prone to fits of violence, and they feared for their lives. The wife confessed to the crime and was immediately charged with murder. Seven children were taken to the nearest orphanage; one infant and a three month old baby will join their mother in prison.

  A Malay sailor on shore leave from the opium clipper Indochine was knocked over by a horse and cart outside the Gare du Nord. His face was unrecognizable and every bone in his body was crushed.

  Madame Hertzinger fell from the third floor balcony of her apartment in the Marais. Her salon was a popular meeting place for bohemian artists. She died instantly. The splatter of blood on the pavement was pronounced spectaculaire and has already spawned a new art movement whose adherents have been dubbed The Splattereurs. An exhibition of their daubings will be held at the Galerie soixante-six on the Place de Puces in the Marais, commencing the first day of December and continuing until Lent.

  Five workmen were killed when the ditch they were digging for the foundations of the north gate of the Paris Fair collapsed, burying them alive. A memorial service will be held at the eglise Saint-Sulpice, next Sunday.

  “Nothing macabre in that lot,” declared the Countess, folding the newspaper in half and tossing it on top of the pile before gazing out of the window and realizing that the shift from light to dark had happened without her noticing.

  “How many newspapers have we scanned so far?” quizzed Dr Watson, suppressing the third yawn in a row before pulling down the shade. “Eight? Nine? Ten? I suspect the word ‘macabre’ must have a different meaning in French.”

  “There’s one newspaper left. You read. My throat is hoarse.”

  “My French is not on a par with yours.”

  “This isn’t a reading competition. Marks will not be deducted for missed liaisons.”

  Reluctantly, he coughed to clear his throat which suddenly felt hoarse in sympathy with hers. “Here goes: The battered body of a prominent French citizen was found at the base of the steps of Scare Coeur. It appeared he may have trod on dog excrement, lost his footing, and tumbled to his death. Parisians of all classes are incensed at the senselessness of such a disgraceful death. Several men-of-letters have petitioned for amendments to the city’s by-laws: All dogs should be kept on leashes and dog-walkers imprisoned for one week for not cleaning up after their four-legged charges. The name of the deceased has been suppressed to spare his family name being dragged into the matter.”

  “That one sounds a little bizarre,” she said hopefully.

  “Mmm, but not what you might call macabre.”

  “True, pray continue.”

  The rag-picker’s prayers were answered when he slipped into the narrow rue de Brouillard where phantoms conspired to cloak him mist; colluding with Night to veil him in layers of murky pigments. Like a grey ghost in the aptly named Street of Fog he slipped quickly between the shafts of sooty light like a man careful to avoid slipping between the cracks, moving rapidly between pockets of cold, dead, black shadows, blacker than his heart, avoiding the pitfalls of unforgiving, dirty, yellow, hissing light before disappearing into a dingy hovel like a rat down a drain…we are the sum of our sorrows.

  Dr Watson drew breath. “The body of an unidentified woman was found in an alleyway a short distance from the Theatre of the Grand Guignol on rue Chaptal. Her cloak was from the House of Worth – a purple beaded evening mantle with contrasting mauve silk lining - suggesting a woman of means and social rank. She may have been attending the latest horreur and was accosted on her way home. The Director General of the Sûreté Nationale warned women to avoid walking alone in the Pigalle.”

  “The article didn’t say how she died.”

  “Mmm, what do you think it means by ‘the latest horreur’?”

  “I imagine it is a reference to the Grand Guignol – a theatre that stages graphic performances depicting acts of naturalistic horror.”

  “Oh, yes, there was a full-page advertisement in one of the newspapers – vile, immoral, shocking, lurid, violent images masquerading as entertainment. Theatricals aimed at perverts, degenerates and lowlifes.”

  “Before you condemn it completely think back to Shakespeare and Webster. The Grand Guignol is merely restaging Jacobean drama in a more modern form. Shakespeare and Webster made their name staging vivid horror. Have you ever seen Titus Andronicus or The Duchess of Malfi? They were wildly popular in their time. In fact, the scenes of lurid brutality are considered brilliant theatre to this day. By the way, the Christian church does a rather lurid version of naturalistic horror every Easter with the Crucifixion – lots of torture, gore, brutality and bloody death – and how it draws the crowds! Yet it is not only church-goers who are drawn to such horror, and certainly it is not limited to perverts, degenerates and lowlifes. Perhaps it says something about the dark nature of humanity that we continue to be attracted to lurid spectacle despite being on the cusp of the twentieth century.”

  “Speak for yourself, but I agree it appeals to the primitive soul of man.”

  “Quite – in fact, the more civilized we become, the more I suspect we cling to our primal roots in some atavistic way.”

  “Have you ever been to a theatre of horror?”

  She shook her head. “The Grand Guignol opened its doors in 1897. I was married and living in Melbourne at the time. This is my first trip to Paris for more than a decade.”

  “That reminds me. I meant to ask when we boarded the train – do you own a house in Paris, by that I me
an, did your late step-aunt own a house in Paris?”

  “Mais oui, Aunt Zoya owned a pied-a-terre in the sixth arrondisement on rue Bonaparte, midway between rue Visconti and rue Jacob. From my aunt I also inherited a petit chateau in the Loire and a villa in Cap Ferrat – you must come and stay next year in the spring or summer; perhaps when we travel to Switzerland to visit Reichenbach Falls.

  But to return to the pied-a-terre – I only visited once when I was a child, about twenty years ago, yes, I was probably about four or five years of age and vaguely recall a fierce looking maître de maison who crept about stealthily with a curved dagger strapped to his side and a cloth wrapped around his head. His intimidating appearance induced chilling nightmares long after we decamped to sunny Cap Ferrat.

  I presume he is still in residence for I have not heard otherwise. I sent a telegram to the Paris novaire to instruct him to let the maître de maison know to prepare the house for our arrival. I cannot for the life of me recall his name – it was something starting with M. Are there any other articles on murder?”

  He turned the page. “Just one more. The body of an old man was fished out of the Seine. The body was badly decomposed. No one reported a missing person and it is believed he may have been a rag and bone man. A hand-cart was found abandoned on the riverbank.”

  “C’est tout?”

  “Yes, that’s it I’m afraid; nothing macabre in that lot.”

  Dr Watson was starting to suspect the French inspector of sending a telegram to Biarritz in order to lure the Countess to Paris for the purpose of pressing a romantic suit. The murders were all run-of-mill stuff; nothing sinister or even remotely interesting. Nothing that an ordinary French plod couldn’t solve with his eyes closed. He let his head fall back on the padded headrest and closed his lids. Oh, well, the detour might actually work in his favour. They would return to London earlier than expected and he could get some Christmas shopping done. He always left it to the last minute and swore last year to do better than a new apron for Mrs H.

  He didn’t hear the Countess click off the reading light, creep out of his compartment and return to her own private sleeper.

  Startled, the gentleman leapt back onto the pavement, frightened out of his wits. Shock sent a rush of blood straight to his head as he fell heavily against a brick wall at the end of the rue de Brouillard, desperate to calm himself, slow his breathing, wipe away the last tell-tale speck of puke clinging to dry lips; fear spinning out of control – of being followed, being watched, being found out.

  “Are you all right, monsieur?”

  “Yes, yes, the cobblestones here are still wet from that burst of rain we had earlier and, well, I may have imbibed a touch too much champagne. My wife will kill me. But how can a hot-blooded Frenchman deny his mistress a flute of stars and not partake himself!”

  The policeman glanced down the inky-dark alleyway lined with the stinking hovels of rag-grubbers, suppressed a shudder, then laughed good-naturedly – if only his pitiful salary ran to champagne and keeping a mistress.

  “No stars out tonight. You should keep to the gas-lit rues. I don’t recommend taking shortcuts. Would you like me to walk with you?”

  “Has there been another murder?”

  “No, no, not tonight,” assured the policeman trying to sound brave, “but you seem a bit unsteady on your feet, monsieur.”

  “I thank you but I am fine, almost home, yes, I thank you once again for the kind offer but not far to go now. It is reassuring to know that the good citizens of Paris are being protected by the brave guardians of the city. Good evening to you, officer.”

  The policeman acknowledged the high praise, doffed his flat-topped black cap then walked on, thankful that if had been a quiet night. The whole of Paris was on tenterhooks. That string murders which had started at the beginning of the month did it – four in all so far and they had been told by the boss to expect more. That was enough to put the wind up most of the men. There was a rumour going round that the last murder in the Cimetiere du Calvaire featured a mutilated corpse. What sort of madman mutilated corpses!

  A couple of cats yowled and a dog barked in the distance. The sounds were muffled by the thick woolly fog off the Seine. He heard some leaves rustling but it was only the wind, or so he told himself. He paused at the gate leading into the park and decided not to enter. It was only the wind rustling the leaves. His wife had begged him to stay home, noticing how he jumped at every little sound. It was reassuring to bump into someone normal, a decent citizen, well, decent enough if you discounted keeping a mistress! Lucky devil!

  What was that? Someone was sitting outside that squalid little café where the anarchists and revolutionaries plotted crimes. Café Bistro. Well, the customer would have a bit of a wait for his café au lait! It had just gone midnight. It would be hours before he got served. Nothing speedy about the service tonight. He laughed at his own joke – making a pun out of the fact bistro meant fast.

  Courage restored, he breathed easier. He even felt some sympathy for the old drunk on a freezing-cold night like this. Oh, well, he’d have to move him on regardless. Better do it before the idiot urinated on the cane chair or spewed on the table.

  Hang on! Weren’t the café owners supposed to put away the tables and chairs before closing up? Lazy bastards! Serves them right if the furniture got damaged or stolen!

  Chapter 2 - Mahmoud

  Mahmoud stood like a sentry at the balcony window where melancholy winter light softened the severity of his stony gaze. Barely a muscle had moved for the last ten minutes as he stared defiantly down at the street, raking every passing carriage and charabanc, wondering if the next one would disgorge the visitors who were about to shatter his intensely private world.

  He rarely gazed out of the window that gave onto rue Bonaparte, caring nothing for the world outside, preferring the view that looked inward, that looked backward, down at the courtyard garden with the linden tree where he had sometimes sat in the rosy evening with his mistress and shared a tisane of mint and honey. The tree was leafless now, the spreading branches denuded, exposing the wrought-iron table and the cane chairs that in the summertime were shaded and offered privacy from prying eyes.

  Nothing had changed since her death. All was exactly as it had been the day she left, as if she might one day return, whirl through the door, plant a coquettish kiss on his cheek and greet him as if she had never been away; or only briefly; attending a musical soiree or le grand bal – time always seemed to stop when not in her presence. Time was invented for ordinary men and women, not for the gods and goddesses who moved among lesser beings on winged feet, fleet of foot, airy and immortal.

  The Ormolu clock on the mantel ticked but it was an illusion. Time itself was standing still. The half-finished book was still on her bedside table, the tasselled bookmark still marking the same page, as if she had just put it down and intended to return to it later. Balzac. She liked Balzac but not as much as she liked Victor Hugo or Emile Zola.

  The delicate glass bottles were still lined up on her dressing table among the ivory combs and silver hair brushes, even the strands of blonde hair were there still. The stray hair and the scent of the parfum made it seem as if she was still there too. He had removed the vases of roses and lilacs after the petals started to stain the woodwork; and the box of half-eaten chocolates when he found a cockroach.

  But her wonderful gowns remained as they were in their mirrored wardrobes, as magical as the Galerie des Glaces at Versailles. The ball gowns, the dinner gowns, the evening gowns, the tea gowns – all with matching silk shoes, silk fans, silk gloves, silk purses – pristine and ready to wear as if Monsieur Worth had personally delivered them that very morning.

  And the costly jewels. He had not touched them. The priceless diadems, the ropes of pearls, the stunning diamond parure, the emerald and ruby rings, but most of all the amber beads that held a special place in the hearts of Ukrainians – they continued to slumber safe and sound in their black velvet beds. />
  Now! Now, would come from nowhere the two intruders. They would make changes, he was sure. They would move objects about: the Sevres vase she preferred on the Boule commode in the entry hall, the Meissen on the marble mantelpiece, the enamelled Faberge cigarette box that always sat on the étagère abutting the drinks trolley where the Cointreau sat at the front, the vodka at the back, the cognac to the right and the absinthe to the left. Perhaps they would even sell off the furniture and replace it with something more baroque, more bourgeois, more bohemian. Heaven forbid!

  It would be criminal to make changes. He did not like change. It unnerved him. He preferred things as they were, as they always had been, or at least, as they had been since he first crossed the threshold of Des Ballerines forty years ago.

  The pied-a-terre had started life as a private school for girls with slender limbs who wished to train as ballerinas; most ended up in the Pigalle. Still, it was better than earning a living on the street. It was run by Madame Blanche before she was struck down with arthritis and became crippled; thin and frail, hunch-backed, hands like claws, lips pressed into a thin red line, face pinched with pain, like one of the grotesques hanging off Notre Dame. She had retired to the south of France where the weather was kinder to old bones. She sold Des Ballerines to the Duc d’Otranto for a tidy profit. He gifted it to his Ukrainian mistress. The girlchild only came once; a strange little thing with a wise old head on her young shoulders.