The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte

by Lesley Truffle

  I was in disgrace for the rest of the night.

  Back at the hotel, after a couple of strong nightcaps, Viola relented.

  ‘Sasha, I must confess I felt like slapping that ghastly woman in puce velvet who kept going on about the mice in that Hobart hotel. You’d think she’d come down with the goddamn bubonic plague.’

  Gratified that we were back on speaking terms I slyly sought redemption. ‘What a cheek, given the size of those river rats we spotted yesterday at the Prospect of Whitby.’

  Hildegarde glanced up from her embroidery and raised the stakes. ‘But they were nothing compared to those bloody horrible rats swarming that back alley the other night. That fat bastard almost knocked me over. It gave me a real scare and I’m used to red back spiders the size of dinner plates. My brother’s outhouse is infested with them.’

  I realised one morning at breakfast that Hildegarde was in the habit of hiding her intelligence. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Slipsey Brick had denigrated her accomplishments and undermined her. All the better to keep her under his thumb.

  Hildegarde was putting forward her theory that every human being has a secret animal spirit. ‘So for example, Viola here is a clever pedigree cat. She’s all purrs and affection until someone rubs her up the wrong way and then she turns into a hellcat. I mean look at what happened to poor Dr Giles Peters. Viola sank her claws into him when he least expected it. Not that I’m saying he didn’t have it coming.’

  It was true. Viola threw back her head and laughed.

  I couldn’t resist. ‘Well Hil, what animal am I?’

  She poured us all more tea and carefully considered the question. ‘I reckon you’re a fox. Not just because you’re fine boned and a redhead but because you’re wily, fast on your feet, nimble and ever so clever. But you have a fatal flaw like all foxes.’

  ‘Really? Do explain.’

  ‘I used to go night shooting with my brother on the farm. We had to protect the sheep from predators. The vixens would lead us on a merry dance across the paddocks. My brother reckoned they were leading us away from where their cubs were secreted.’

  I was intrigued. ‘And what’s their fatal flaw?’

  ‘The fox is a naturally curious animal. They’d inevitably glance back over their shoulder. Our torchlights would pick up the glint of their eyes and they’d become an easy target. But we never had the heart to shoot them because it would have orphaned their young.’

  Viola glanced at me. ‘Sasha, it’s true. You are your own worst enemy. You look after everyone but fail to protect yourself from predators.’

  I had no words.

  I was intrigued by the British historical sites. I visited the stomping grounds of Marlowe and Shakespeare and stood dazed in the Temple Church, dreaming about the Knights Templar. Any personal observations I could make about Stonehenge would trivialise it. But I will say this – when I first glimpsed Stonehenge’s megalithic posts and lintels at sunrise, it shook me to my very core. No doubt this had something to do with the elixir. I was stunned to see pagan rites being conducted openly in the early-morning light. Naked women with bouncing breasts and hairy legs and underarms were dancing wildly around the plinths. But as nobody else reacted or commented I had to conclude that I was hallucinating. Frankly I was starting to scare myself.

  Having visions when under the influence of alcohol or drugs is one thing but hallucinating when stone cold sober is terrifying. I’d wake up in the morning in the Hotel du Barry and visualise evil imps hanging off the chandeliers. I distinctly heard them making nasty comments about me. I’d grope for the Pharaoh’s elixir and only then would the imps disappear into thin air.

  Viola left me in peace. She preferred to feel the significance of history by visiting coffee houses built around the mid-eighteenth century. When she wasn’t having appointments with stock brokers, emptying bank vaults or skimming the cream from Balcombe’s investments, Viola could be found sipping tea at Fortnum and Mason or trawling Regent Street’s antique shops for precious art objects. Spending Lord Balcombe’s fortune gave her great pleasure and she became very good at it. Indeed, it was in London that Lord Balcombe’s grieving widow developed a ravenous appetite for priceless antiquities.

  At breakfast one morning at the Hotel du Barry, Viola stretched luxuriously and reached for a pot of thick-cut marmalade. ‘Oh, how I wish I’d been alive in the time of Louis XIV.’

  ‘Only if you were filthy rich. The poor certainly didn’t have much to crow about.’

  ‘True. You know I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what’s wrong with Wolfftown.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘I’m still very keen on worthy causes.’

  ‘Damnit. I knew we’d eventually have to have this conversation.’

  ‘Sasha, do try to be serious. This is something dear to my heart.’ She slathered her toast with marmalade. ‘I’ve always been appalled at the way the prostitutes of our town are used up and discarded. But I’m not interested in setting up a home for what Mayor Wolff sneeringly calls fallen women.’

  I was struggling to deduce what she was getting at. Viola can be a bit circuitous at times. ‘Exactly what do you have in mind, Viola dear?’

  There was a pause as she polished off the toast and slowly licked the delicious marmalade from her fingers. The two of us always ate informally when we were alone together or with Hildegarde. Dunking our shortbreads in hot tea was another social sin we never committed in public.

  Viola burped in a ladylike manner before continuing. ‘I intend to become the madam of the finest knocking shop in the southern hemisphere. It will be sumptuous and replete with first rate European and American plumbing, priceless European antiques and breathtaking opulence. There will also be a sympathetic physician in residence to look after the girls’ health.’

  I was temporarily distracted by the mention of premium plumbing but thought it wise to stay on track. ‘What about girls like Dolores, who realise late in the piece they’re not cut out to be whores?’

  Her face was dreamy. Clearly she’d given the matter a lot of thought. ‘I’ll find respectable employment for them by setting up business schools.’

  ‘What sort of girls will you employ?’

  ‘My courtesans will be in the same league as Parisian grande horizontals. I’ll charge outrageously but my clients will cough up, knowing they’re liaising with professional beauties on par with Parisian courtesans.’

  ‘But where are you going to find so many stunning beauties?’

  Viola went for another slice of toast. She always tends to eat more when she’s finished with one man and hasn’t yet decided on another. Ladies, don’t we all?

  ‘Sasha, feminine beauty is an illusion. It never fails to amaze me what can be achieved with subtle face enamelling, the fine art of blue vein colouration and excellent tailoring. Face paint and powder can work miracles.’

  ‘You’re right. I once saw Marietta Zendik in my shop after she got caught in a thunderstorm. She looked rather plain and just a tad dumpy.’

  Viola grinned at me. ‘So tell me, sly boots, did you revel in her comeuppance?’

  ‘How well you know me, Viola dear.’

  While I feigned interest in a grapefruit, Viola piled an indiscreet quantity of butter onto her toast and then slathered it with marmalade. ‘Sasha, I won’t be doing it for the money. I’ll remunerate my girls extremely well and when they retire from the flesh trade I’ll set them up in respectable businesses of their own.’

  She had me. I could already see that her plan had merit. I’d often been concerned by the fact that Wolfftown women were treated as disposable commodities.

  ‘I’ll help you any way I can, Viola. I’m thinking that we could also train up women in the art of pastry making. I reckon we could interest Snuff and Charlie in such a venture.’

  She nodded her head vehemently. ‘Fantastic. I was hoping you’d want to be involved.’

  ‘But of course I do. We can start ou
r research when we reach Paris. I believe there are some elegant brothels right in the heart of the city.’

  Viola stared out the window. ‘Sasha, the awful truth is I’m seeking redemption.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  When she looked at me, I realised she was fighting back tears. ‘I’ve been told my husband was a habitué of every brothel in Wolfftown, indulging his perversions and sadistic pleasures. He bullied and brutalised one of Clops McCoy’s girls.’

  I tried to avoid her intense gaze. ‘I didn’t think you knew about that.’

  ‘You were keeping it from me, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, it was well in the past and I didn’t want to upset you. It was an ugly business when Lovely Leonie Harris, sweet thirteen at the time, was sold to him as a virgin. Balcombe turned nasty when he discovered she’d already been plucked. What he did to her is unspeakable. Clops McCoy rarely bans anyone but he immediately banned Balcombe for life.’

  Viola wiped her eyes. ‘What a vile creature he was. To him women could only ever be whores or Madonnas. And his whores had to be punished for “leading him astray” as he put it. Sasha, I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve got a secret fantasy.’

  ‘Tell me. It can’t be any worse than what I come up with at four in the morning.’

  What an understatement. The night before I’d had the recurring nightmare in which I’d become the Medusa. I’d then spent the rest of the midnight hours chasing a virile, nude Perseus all over the nine floors of the Hotel du Barry, trying to kill him with my infamous death stare.

  Viola hesitated, then looked me straight in the eye. ‘I want Balcombe to turn in his grave every time one of my courtesans marries respectably or makes her fortune in a legitimate business. I’m determined to make that fucker suffer for all of eternity.’

  Viola popped the last quarter of marmalade toast into her mouth and daintily dabbed her lips with a linen napkin.

  19

  BEAUTY WITHOUT VANITY

  Another week went by and I was disappointed to find there was still no word from Lily concerning her arrival. The day wore on and as darkness descended I became increasingly melancholy and anxious. My intuition told me something had gone wrong. I’d already come to this conclusion that morning while standing on Canary Wharf and watching the fishing boats getting soundly thrashed by the roiling seas. I’d gone down to the docks for some solitude. To be honest I was also homesick and usually the sight of the sea and sailors going about their business soothed my soul. But this time it didn’t work. Even a double dose of elixir had failed to lift my mood.

  In my reticule I had the last three letters that Lily had sent me. The rest of her letters were carefully packed away back in Wolfftown.

  I’d kept every single one of them, wrapped up in bundles and tied in mauve satin ribbon. Lily’s favourite colour. When it started to rain I retreated to an alley that featured a sly booze den masquerading as a teashop. A fine open fire was blazing away and brandy was on offer in teacups. A banker tried to engage me in conversation but I gave him the slip. I sat in a nook so I could reread Lil’s letters in privacy. What I was looking for were clues as to why she hadn’t contacted me. But there were none. In the most recent letter she’d written about her honeymoon in Niagara Falls. She told me about the rugged beauty of the landscape and described the ferocity of the waterfalls. Lil also wrote about an American couple who were staying at the same hotel.

  Mr and Mrs Smith are a friendly couple from Illinois Chicago. Do you remember the childhood rhyme?

  ‘Jack Sprat could eat no fat.

  His wife could eat no lean.

  And so between them both, you see,

  They licked the platter clean.’

  Oh Sasha, I find it so difficult not to stare when the Smiths are at dinner. Every night Flossie Smith polishes off several courses, along with a bottle or two of claret and the better part of her husband’s dinner. She’s jolly, exceedingly buxom and quite devoted to Scottish tartans.

  Flossie has a burning passion for MacLeod of Lewis tartan, but personally I don’t think it’s in her best interests. For most of us, yellow tartan is best enjoyed as a woollen travel rug. Although I must admit, the MacLeod tartan looked marvellous on a young, virile Scottish laird I met in Scotland a few years ago. He performed a vigorous highland fling, just for my private delectation. Wearing nothing but his tartan kilt and sporran.

  Wicked, wicked Lily. I smiled when I read her letter. And I tried to tell myself, surely Lily wouldn’t be discussing the demerits of yellow tartan if there was something seriously wrong?

  Back at the Hotel du Barry I could neither rest, eat nor drink. I paced the carpet until Tim O’Flaherty’s arrival was announced. Lily wasn’t with him when he entered our suite, accompanied by Viola. They both looked decidedly grim. Hildegarde threw me a worried look.

  Tim was as handsome as ever and his black hair was still thick and glossy. I’d never seen him attired as a gentleman of means. It suited his natural masculine grace but his whole being was strained and tense. When he first saw me he looked startled and immediately I knew.

  ‘How did it happen, Tim?’

  His gaze was haunted, almost unseeing.

  ‘It was late at night in Niagara Falls. Lil climbed over the safety ropes and swung herself out across the river. Lovers, spooning in the bushes, told the constabulary she was naked and “dicing with the cables like an acrobat”. Her body was found the next day.’

  Viola turned to Hildegarde. ‘Hil, please have room service send up a drinks trolley. Immediately.’

  I made Tim sit down. He was a man still in his physical prime but his spirit was ailing. Dark shadows circled his eyes and his hands shook. ‘Sasha, I briefly mistook you for Lil. I still don’t feel she’s gone. For a long time I knew she was slipping away from me but I couldn’t work out how to fix her.’

  He dropped his head and seemed to be struggling for words.

  ‘Go on, Tim.’

  ‘I hired every damn doctor I could lay my hands on, even shipped in a trio of medical specialists from London. Those tossers prescribed drugs, spa treatments, ballooning, bicycling. You name it. I even took Lil to India to consult a guru with a reputation for treating melancholia. But he turned out to be a charlatan.’

  This all bore a startling resemblance to what Grandpa had told me about the last few years of my grandmother’s life. I didn’t want to ask the question but I had to know.

  ‘Was Lil behaving oddly? Laughing then crying?’

  ‘Yes. Recently she seemed too damned cheerful. Lil’s always been able to move between extremes of emotion within seconds, but recently her emotional changes have been lightning fast. I can, as you know, train a sheepdog to ride a horse bareback but when it came to straightening out my woman I was fucked. Lil tried to get better. She even did a short stint at an exclusive sanatorium in Switzerland but nothing worked.’

  I was so overwhelmed I had to sit down. ‘Lil never mentioned any of this in her letters.’

  ‘I know, Sasha. She didn’t want you or Brendan to think the Kane curse had found her.’

  We stared at the crackling fire in silence, until the drinks trolley arrived. Hildegarde and Viola melted away. The waiter handed Tim a large Scotch whisky and I quickly downed a snifter of Cognac.

  ‘Where is she buried, Tim?’

  ‘Her heart is buried at Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, not far from Eugène Delacroix’s grave. The rest of her remains were cremated as she’d stipulated when she told me she’d never make old bones. I still have her ashes.’

  I sensed there was something Tim wasn’t telling me. I got up and stood with my back to the fire.

  ‘Tim, how did you manage to get her heart to Paris?’

  ‘Bribery. I paid the captain of an Atlantic liner an exorbitant fee to guarantee her heart safe passage back to Europe. Under refrigeration, with the First Class foodstuffs. I guarded it night and day. No doubt Lil would have been amused by my dedication to her mortal remains.
’

  He poured more drinks and we sat in silence. The shadows lengthened as night crept into the room. The only sound was the fire crackling when he stirred the coals.

  Up there in the stillness of the eighth floor something inside of me broke. I knew I’d never be the same again. I’d always shared my most secret desires with Lily. For weeks I’d been savouring the excitement of seeing her again. Now she was gone forever. As I write my tears are smearing the ink. The sorrow never leaves me.

  When Tim stood up, he staggered slightly and had to grip the mantelpiece. Although he was immaculately groomed I sensed he’d not been looking after himself.

  ‘When did you last eat, Tim?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Let me order something for you. The food here is sensational.’

  ‘No. Let’s go to my club. I think it will amuse you. I’d like to treat you to a classic British establishment dinner.’

  Even though the food was marvellous neither Tim nor I had any appetite. But by God, did we drink. I can’t remember the journey back to the Hotel du Barry. I lapsed in and out of consciousness and the next thing I knew, Viola and Hildegarde were removing my gown and tucking me into bed. Both were attired in dressing gowns and slippers. Hildegarde’s lovely hair was hidden under a most unfortunate lace nightcap. The room was swirling, tilting on its axis and revolving in ever widening circles.

  Hildegarde advised me in the grave tones of an expert, ‘If you feel nauseous, Sasha, just reconnect your feet with the floor. The room is only spinning because you’re horizontal.’

  Fortunately she chose that moment to shove a bucket under my chin. In between bouts of retching, I gasped, ‘Hil, what on earth is that abomination on your head?’

  ‘Mama made me five of these bedcaps on her deathbed. The lace is handmade, you know. Sadly she passed on before she could finish the sixth.’