The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte

by Lesley Truffle

  Roger swayed drunkenly on a table. His tie was undone and his white evening shirt was unbuttoned. He swigged champagne from a bottle as he urged his guests to greater heights of debauchery. Roger had armed himself with a horsewhip for effect and was cracking it over the fornicators’ heads. He’d taken it upon himself to become the ringmaster. He yelled, ‘Don’t hold back, ladies. Get rid of those cumbersome reputations. Come now, Eva, it is not like you to be reticent at this stage of the frolics.’

  Eva Floros tried to grab hold of Roger but he gave her a prod with the whip and shoved her on top of one of the Cads. ‘Showing your true colours at last. Quick my little trollop, put your back into it. Don’t let him escape! Because for one night only it’s strictly ladies’ choice.’

  Roger’s hilarity faded and his face hardened, when his mother shot past in pursuit of a sweating Catholic priest.

  He declaimed:

  ‘Such an act

  That blurs the grace and blush of modesty,

  Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose

  From the fair forehead of an innocent love

  And sets a blister there, makes marriage vows

  As false as dicers’ oaths . . .’

  When he was in his cups Roger had a tendency to become theatrical and the lines were those of Hamlet berating his mother, Queen Gertrude. Obviously all those nights at the Baudelaire Theatre had not been wasted.

  Clare Dasher was impervious to her son’s scathing tribute. Her eyes were glazed, her bodice askew and her corsage in tatters.

  Roger’s recital ended abruptly when he was toppled from his perch by a posse of Methodist matrons. He caught me watching him. ‘Sasha, for fuck’s sake don’t just stand there. Do something! Fetch the night watchmen. Alert the manservants. Sashaaaaa!’

  I ignored his pleas and idly watched him go down. Roger disappeared into a writhing mass of thrashing bodies. One of the dowagers had seized control of his whip and was administering it with relish. She was built like a Japanese wrestler and dedicated to her task. Meantime the other matrons pounded him wherever they could land a punch or a kick. It was difficult to know if their intention was to subdue Roger for the purpose of sexual ravishment or if they were merely taking the opportunity to give the conceited bastard a sound thrashing. I suspect the latter. I’ve always believed in the ancient Indian principle of karma and it still surprises me just how quickly it swings around.

  From the direction of the ballroom came the reassuring sound of a languid waltz. Obviously not all guests had been involved in the orgy and many wouldn’t even know what was happening in the dining hall. Most of the chaperones, older ladies and maiden aunts had moved into a tight circle and were frozen in horror. No doubt the situation was well beyond their worst nightmares.

  Dr Dual was on his knees, attempting resuscitation on Mrs Adair. He kept repeating, ‘Madam, are you all right? Can you hear me?’

  She opened one bloodshot eye and a wily hand shot out. Grabbing Dual by the throat she tried to pull him down on top of her. He fought her off but Mrs Adair’s sudden passion for his legendary cock meant she wasn’t about to give up. My goodness, it was astonishing just how hard Mrs Adair fought to be ravished that night. I was stunned but could see no point interceding as I’d seen her devouring a third helping of croquembouche. God knows how much of the elixir she’d imbibed.

  They grappled like drunken shearers when she made an attempt to chew off his moustache. Or was she trying to kiss him? Dual’s genteel bedside manner had vanished. He was shaking her in a desperate effort to bring her to her senses. But even I could have told the good doctor that he needed to rethink his diagnosis because it was patently obvious that Mrs Adair was out of her mind.

  I went to the rescue of Will Crowthorne, when I heard him yell, ‘Miss Torte, for mercy’s sake, save me!’

  Will was frantically trying to claw his way out of the embrace of a feverish girl. I was stunned to recognise his attacker as Miss Eva Floros. She looked deranged with her hair standing on end. Eva’s lovely evening gown had been ruined by smeared gold paint but she didn’t give a shite about her appearance. She grimly maintained her hold on Will while doing her damndest to make him surrender his loincloth.

  Seizing her by the hair I dragged her backwards. I could see only the whites of her eyes when she screamed, ‘He’s mine. Hands off, you harlot!’

  Eva wouldn’t give in and kept trying to buck me off. When she finally let go of Will, I wrestled her to the floor and sat on top of her. I seized her pearl choker and used it as a restraining harness. Eva’s speech was garbled and she used the type of expletives one expects to hear from sailors of the lower ranks.

  I yelled, ‘Quick, Will. Climb up to the balcony and escape by the servants’ stairs.’

  Away Will went and fortunately the trellis supported his weight. But just as he was clambering over the balcony’s railing to safety, a wanton miss reached out and plucked away his loincloth. I stared in horror as Will swayed on the railing before making a magnificent leap onto the chandelier below. And there he clung, shivering in his naked glory, until the fracas died down and a stable boy could fetch him down with a ladder.

  I did my best to rescue some of the more distressed gentlemen. Four of my bearers were still locked in passionate embrace with the girls who’d claimed them. I let them be, but frankly, what amazed me most were the well-bred young ladies who’d abandoned their simpering mannerisms and taken on the persona of marauding Amazons. Who would have guessed they had it in them?

  I finally found my fifth bearer, Colin O’Toole, pinned to the carpet by the bank manager’s wife, Mrs Edith Clyde. With all the black kajal, smeared gold paint and hair standing on end, Colin looked quite deranged. Mrs Clyde was unrecognisable as the respectable matron who dominated the Baptist Ladies Sewing Circle. Her dishevelled hair hung over her flushed face and in the voice of a fishwife she shrieked, ‘I give in, you foul brute! Take me and do your worst. Spare the innocent virgins. Take me instead, damn you!’

  It seemed to me that Edith Clyde was overeager for Colin to take advantage of her depraved state, but this was just not going to happen as poor Colin was paralysed with fear. I had no choice but to whack Edith several times in order to get her to relinquish him. When she staggered backwards I grabbed her ankles, tripped her up and towed her away from Colin. Despite the fact I’d probably given her carpet burn, Mrs Clyde was laughing like a drain. Recognising full-blown hysteria, I lightly slapped her across the chops a few times and she settled down.

  Colin’s loincloth had been lost in the fight and his teeth were chattering. So I retrieved Edith’s luxurious sable coat from the cloak room and wrapped him up in it. I then helped him into my carriage and instructed Jacko Willow to take him home immediately.

  Jacko later informed me, ‘Col was done for. He just lays on the seat moaning like he was dying, looking like a madman in that bloody fur coat. I kept stopping to check and see if he was still breathing. Something was needed to calm him down, so I poured a flask of rum down his parched throat. Poor Col reckoned, “Jacko mate, them girls had blood lust. I feared for me very life.”’

  Mrs Edith Clyde never had the guts to reclaim her expensive sable coat, so Colin gave it to his mother. Fair enough. Mrs O’Toole proudly wore it down at her fish stall right up until the day she died. Colin told me that she’d loved the fur coat so much, he’d buried her in it.

  Several reputations were ruined but my own was made. I did not applaud myself while waiting for the backlash. I fully expected the local gossips to go into a frenzy but this was not the case. There were so many influential people implicated in the orgy that it was never publicly addressed. I don’t even think Mayor Wolff was told about it on his return from London. People only spoke of it in hushed tones behind closed doors and in time it took on the aura of a myth. It was almost as though it had never happened and as time went on, it became nothing more serious than the depraved imaginings of bored society folk.

  I’d never intended
such an outcome and was racked with guilt. I’d studied enough Egyptology to know that I had no right to use the Pharaoh’s sacred elixir for my own purposes. In an effort to make amends I paid a substantial monetary bonus to all six croquembouche bearers.

  Later when I sailed to Hobart on business, I snuck into St. Mary’s Cathedral and lit candles to atone for my sins and confessed to the priest. I hadn’t wanted to be seen in Wolfftown stepping into a confessional. I hoped that the priest wouldn’t guess I wasn’t a Catholic but more importantly I was desperate to hear that the god of hellfire and damnation had a soft spot for sinners. Was I feeling guilty? Of course. I was so remorseful that it kept me awake at night and I was becoming increasingly dependent on the elixir to fall asleep. I knew damn well that at some point I’d have to do penance and suspected that the gods had postponed my punishment for reasons of their own. But this didn’t stop me from using more of the Pharaoh’s elixir. I was already in too deep.

  Having stolen my maidenhead, Roger Dasher wanted more of me. He was obsessed with me but I didn’t flatter myself that he loved me. Well, maybe he did but not in the way one usually defines love. I’m ashamed to admit that I took advantage of his infatuation and persuaded him to tell me everything he knew about the elixir. Accordingly, Roger wrote out the Parisian address of the last man alive to possess the formula and I filed it away in my locked diary. When I told Roger I needed the Pharaoh’s elixir for use in my popular eight-tier wedding cakes, he gave me the last dozen elixir jars in his possession.

  To borrow one of Dolores’s favourite sayings, I didn’t even have to go on my back for it.

  Sasha Torte Patisserie’s fame spread like bushfire and we were flat out keeping up with the demand for exotic foodstuffs. My staff’s hours greatly increased as the business expanded. Sailors, miners and travellers praised it far and wide. Maggie and Dolores had a lot of fun teasing me about my newfound fame. Some of Lady Dasher’s well-connected guests bragged about what they’d eaten at the Winter Ball to their friends back in the home country. Lily wrote me that her stocks had risen amongst London’s fashionable tastemakers when it was revealed that not only was she particularly wicked but she was also the aunt of the genius antipodean pastry chef Sasha Torte.

  I was lulled into a false sense of security and assumed I’d escaped punishment. But hubris eventually catches up with one. To quote William Blake, ‘All the riches of this world may be gifts from the devil.’

  In my case I yearned to reach the summit and become The Patisserie Goddess. To have kings, queens and knaves begging for my attention. I envisaged fireworks thrusting my name into the night sky: Sasha Torte Patisserie. An emporium of delights piled high: brioche, almond croissants fit for an angel, truffles that transported one to the heavens and marzipan fruits so delectable that people cried out for them in their sleep. Naturally my croquembouche were so divine that courtesans were willing to risk their waistlines. I also fantasised that my delicious chocolates were so addictive that children would throw tantrums if denied them. I knew deep down that I was guilty of Shakespeare’s vaulting ambition and would quite likely end up on my arse. But that didn’t deter me for one single moment.

  Part of the problem is that we Arians never know when to call a halt. We are known for our rampant sexual appetites and our impatience. Unless the horns become inverted and then Arians turn maudlin. Ghastly. I once witnessed such a change when an Arian lover fell into a pit of despair. It was a staggering loss as he’d always been so very mattressable.

  My reaction to the orgy readily demonstrates the overconfidence of youth. I was feeling optimistic because a letter had arrived from Lily. She wrote that Tim O’Flaherty was making his mark on the world and they were now betrothed. They would wed in Paris, honeymoon in America and then sail back home to Wolfftown for a Christmas visit.

  Grandpa and I visited Nanny in her cottage by the wharf and we celebrated Lil’s wonderful news with a premium luncheon hamper from my patisserie and several bottles of Perrier-Jouët champagne. Nanny has always adored champagne and she got so pickled that she slid off her chair. She lay on the hearth rug with her lacy bloomers and freckled legs exposed, laughing uproariously. Grandpa helped her to her feet and then fox trotted her around the parlour and up and down the hallway.

  The world was turning and it seemed my nearest and dearest could do no wrong. It augured well for the future and I assumed that Lil and I had escaped the Kane curse.

  But Nemesis was in no hurry because she knew she still had the rest of our lives to dice with.

  15

  THE GUILTY FERRET

  Spring yielded to summer and Sasha Torte Patisserie went from strength to strength. Roger’s relentless pursuit of me continued unabated. He laughed off my refusal to consider marrying him and instead he upped the stakes. My every refusal seemed to strengthen his resolve to have me at all costs.

  I devised a code in consultation with Dolores and Maggie. It was easy to see who was entering the patisserie as customers had to climb a few steps to the front door. Three slow tinkles on the shop’s counter bell meant that Roger was entering the premises. Six quick tinkles meant he was heading back out the door. Snuff offered to have Roger kidnapped and beaten into submission but I didn’t think it necessary. I honestly believed that given time Mr Roger Dasher, Gentleman would turn his attentions elsewhere and foist his aberrant desires on some other girl.

  Because my shop was located on Main Street, we were in close proximity to the wharf gangs who ruled the area. One gang was known as the Ollies. These were Marcus Olive’s men, local actors who regularly performed at the Baudelaire Theatre.

  Marcus Olive had formed a gang one night in order to get up the noses of the Cads and the actors had such a good time that they decided to keep the Ollies gang going. Through nefarious means Marcus liberated several trunks of opulent costumes destined for the Melbourne Opera season and the Ollies took to dressing up in the manner of debauched rakes from the era of King Charles the Second. They got around town in long curly wigs, ruffled shirts with exquisite drooping lace cuffs, brocade jackets and ostentatious buckled shoes. Extravagant paste baubles adorned their persons and they took great pride in their tight-fitting buckskin knee breeches. The breeches displayed their manly bulges to perfection and provided Wolfftown’s maidens with enough fantasies to fuel the erotic tension generated by Mrs Elinor Glyn’s novellas.

  Marcus loathed the bullying masculinity and conceit of the Cads, so he invented a strange patois, a secret language that borrowed heavily from Molière. When the Ollies wanted to goad the Cads into a fight they’d insult them in witty verse. The Ollies developed a passion for the lost art of duelling and slapped unwary blokes across the face with a satin glove at the earliest opportunity.

  The Cads may have been wealthy but they lacked style. They were no match for the cutting wit, worldly intellect and bravado of the Ollies. Grandpa paid the Ollies to maintain order in his pubs. He also gave them free board in his hotels, so that Wolfftown’s criminals got the message that there was always an intimidating presence lurking above stairs. Marcus Ollie lived in splendour upstairs at the House of Blazes and subsequently the drinkers downstairs minded their p’s and q’s.

  When Marcus wasn’t busy acting, fornicating or duelling he liked to invite ladies, such as I, over to his place of residence for what he termed a twilight tipple. One evening at the House of Blazes, Maggie and I were having a tipple with Marcus in the main bar when a scuffle broke out. Glancing around, I realised every local bruiser, bully, slugger and eye gouger was present. Within minutes there were about nine blokes goading and insulting each other.

  ‘Kill the fucker!’

  ‘Gouge out his eyeballs, mate!’

  ‘On the head of me beloved mother, there’ll be trouble for yar!’

  Marcus sighed, put down his beer, removed his black wig and tossed it to the barmaid. She reverently folded it and stashed it safely under the bar. On cue, four Ollies stepped up to the bar: Piggy Shay, Patsy Flahert
y, Suds Gallagher and Billy Mahoney. They stripped off their gloves and rolled up their fine lace cuffs. The sight of four outsized pairs of black satin gloves, laid out neatly on the bar, was the signal for all drinkers to get the fuck out of the way.

  As we flattened ourselves against the wall Maggie whispered, ‘Marcus is right tough yet you can tell he’s a proper gentleman.’ The little minx flashed her lovely big brown eyes and gave him the come on. ‘Oooooh, I fancy him something rotten. Perhaps he’s a bit lonely with Trevor Schwab out at sea?’

  Marcus heard her and was temporarily thrown by her warm regard but he dutifully focused on the task at hand. Maggie knew damn well that women didn’t feature in Marcus’s love life. However, she was aware that he’d been known to switch his allegiances to the fair sex on occasion.

  Piggy Shay head-butted one of the protagonists in the chest and he went down like a sack of potatoes. Suds Gallagher grabbed another brawler’s nose between his strong fingers and rotated it until it broke. Meantime Patsy Flaherty kept slapping a brawny sailor around the head until his victim’s eyes crossed over. The Ollies were extremely economical in their movements and rapidly got things sorted to their satisfaction.

  Marcus and his men swept the brawlers out the door. Then Marcus reclaimed his wig, the Ollies put their gloves back on and business resumed. No one dared to comment on the fight.

  When I told Grandpa about the brawl he reckoned, ‘The Ollies can clear any bar in under five minutes. They rarely engage in gutter fights with other gangs and prefer old style sword play to sort their differences. Clean living, hardworking fellas all of them. Quite warms the cockles of this publican’s heart it does.’