by Claude Izner
‘Oh, Victor, you’re so funny! “I have my sources.” Anyone would think you were Inspector Lecacheur!’
She was hiccupping with laughter. Outraged to be compared to that plodding policeman, he leapt from his chair and attempted to grab her shawl. She deftly slipped out of his reach.
‘Stop it, sorry! I just couldn’t help it, I…’
She let out another hoot, then succeeded in controlling herself.
‘It’s true, Henri likes girls with red hair, and he has made advances to me; in spite of his deformity he is not without charm. But even if he were Adonis himself he would stand no chance with me. You are my only love. Did your sources tell you that?’
Why bother to pretend he was interested in the last works of Armand Charpentier and Abel Hermant? Victor just could not focus on them. Joseph swept several orders up from the counter. He tried to concentrate, but it was impossible; his mind kept wandering back to Rue Fontaine. He was surprised to feel such fulfilment; it was as if his very existence had been given new meaning by those words, ‘You are my only love.’ A long embrace had followed Tasha’s announcement. Reassured, he had relaxed and had almost revealed that he had also been at Le Moulin-Rouge. It was as well he had held back; everything would have been ruined had he told her. There was no point in betraying his fascination with the new investigation; she hated it when he involved himself in mysteries. And when she had wondered aloud about the new tenant of the hairdresser, he had whistled softly.
He was to meet her at seven o’clock at the studio and accompany her to Le Chat-Noir, where she wanted to sketch a young writer.
‘Boss, I’ve finished the window, only prim little stories. “It was so beautiful, but so sad, the Fire Brigade Captain wept into his helmet,”’ mimicked Jojo. I’ll close up the storeroom.’
Furnished with his apple and his notebook, he settled down to skim through the dailies.
‘You’ll make yourself ill if you don’t eat more than that,’ remarked Victor, suddenly solicitous.
‘Don’t fret, I fill up in the evening, and not just on any old thing; my mother makes sure of that. But don’t let me keep you from your Crayfish à la Bordelaise…if Monsieur Mori leaves you some…What do you think of Blood and Betrayal? It’s the title of my novel.
‘Very catchy. So you’re abandoning…Love and Blood?’
‘Yes, too sentimental. I’m teeming with ideas for the book; I’m going to use lots of unconnected news items and fashion them into a mystery that’ll keep everyone guessing.’
‘That seems a rather random approach,’ murmured Victor.
‘Exactly, a plot woven out of episodes. I just have to put the finishing touches to the key to the mystery. My point of departure is inspired by the murder at Killer’s Crossing. I’m calling her Red Cinderella. I’ll graft on to it some of the cases I’ve been keeping warm all these years. It’s amazing the number of bizarre things that happen in Paris; you just have to keep your eyes peeled. Look, today for example I’ve unearthed this gem:
CORPSE FOUND IN WINE CASK
Yesterday morning before opening time an employee at the wine market…
‘Victor! Your lunch is getting cold!’ shouted Kenji, his mouth full.
‘Coming.’
Joseph wearily closed his notebook.
‘I’m wasting my breath. Grub, that’s all people think about!’
He bit violently into his apple.
The concierge at L’Eldorado wore a lugubrious expression, but a generous tip perked him up.
‘She lives beside the Théâtre des Variétés, number 1 Passage des Panoramas. You can walk there – it’s very near.’
‘I know. Which floor?’
‘Second, I think.’
Victor was beginning to be quite familiar with the road between Boulevard de Strasbourg and Boulevard Montmartre. He noticed, not without apprehension, that Noémi Gerfleur lived near Killer’s Crossing. He slipped into the alley, where bookshops beloved of bibliophiles sat side by side with perfumeries and confectionery shops. He lingered in front of a fan-maker, wondering whether an imitation eighteenth-century fan might tempt Tasha and if going to see Noémi Gerfleur was really necessary. The most important thing was that Élisa was with her mother, safe and sound. But how could he be certain without asking?
As he started up the stairs, a man in an alpaca overcoat, his hat crammed down on his forehead, murmured an apology and pushed past him, striding up the steps to the upper floors two by two.
Victor rang the bell. Eyes cast down, nose streaming, apron filthy, the maid who answered was rather unprepossessing.
‘I would like to speak to Madame Gerfleur.’
‘She’s not here.’
‘Will she be back soon?’
‘Not likely. When she goes to her milliner it takes her all day; with all the frills and baubles she orders for her ridiculous hats, they wouldn’t look out of place at a carnival.’
‘I’m sorry, a carnival?’
The maid wet her finger and stooped to collect a stray crumb from the carpet.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, straightening up. ‘Fruit, flowers, feathers – the works.’
‘Perhaps her daughter will be able to see me?’
‘Her daughter?’
‘Yes. Mademoiselle Gerfleur. Or Fourchon, Élisa.’
She stared at him a moment, then relaxed and sniffed.
‘What are you talking about? She doesn’t have a daughter.’
‘Are you certain about that?’
‘She doesn’t tell me everything, so, no, I’m not certain. What I know is that officially Madame Gerfleur is single. Leave me your card and I’ll pass it on to her.’
She smiled conspiratorially and the door closed softly.
‘I’ll come back later,’ said Victor.
The man in alpaca who had passed Victor on the stairs leant over the third-floor banister and watched him go back down. Deep in his pocket, his right hand caressed the handle of a knife. It comforted him to keep this memento with him, and he had not been parted from it for years. Would he use it again? Even if he did not, how soothing to feel its bulk weighing down his coat, like a loyal soldier ready to second him! A trusted companion in the absence of a real friend. So Noémi was not there. That upset his plan, but no matter, he would just have to rearrange their charming rendezvous. After so many years, he could certainly wait another few hours. He was amused at the maid’s reply: ‘She doesn’t have a daughter!’ That was not quite correct; there should be a qualification to the denial: ‘She doesn’t have a daughter any more!’
Victor hailed a cab on Boulevard Montmartre, in a state of uncertainty.
When he reached Rue Fontaine, he spied the deformed painter on the other side of the road. Had he just left Tasha? She was painting, naked beneath her paint-stained smock.
‘I must be hallucinating. I thought I just saw Lautrec.’
‘You’ve just missed him; he was here two minutes ago. He’s our neighbour, he moved into number 21 in April. I’m just going to change quickly.’
Was she mocking him? Did she not realise that he was upset at her having received the painter here, and in that get-up?
He could not resist the impulse to unveil the canvas she was working on. What he saw only increased his anxiety: a dishevelled cancan dancer whirling her petticoats to reveal black stockings. It imitated Lautrec’s style without having any of the life of his paintings; it was static, soulless. Why had she chosen such a subject? She was coming back! He just had time to put the cover back over.
‘Do you like this?’
She was wearing her best hat, and had put on a Russian blouse with sleeves gathered in at the wrists, and a black skirt. She was wearing the lapis lazuli necklace he had given her for her birthday and embroidered gloves belonging to her mother. She was un-corseted and her curves were shown to best advantage.
‘You look ravishing.’
Calm again, he kissed her neck lightly as he helped her into her coat.
&n
bsp; They were only five minutes from Rue Victor-Massé and the former studio of the Belgian painter Alfred Stevens, which had since 1885 had housed Le Chat-Noir cabaret. Victor admired the façade. A massive terracotta cat backed by a glowing sun concealed the second floor window. Two enormous lanterns illuminated a wooden sign on which he could make out the first and last words of text marked in yellow letters:
Ladies and Gentlemen! […] Enter the modern world!
They went up a short flight of stairs and bumped into a man in Swiss national costume with halberd and silver-topped cane, who led them along a corridor to a hallway ending in further steps.
‘Thank you, Bel-Ami,’ said Tasha.
Once they were alone they took a turn around the ground floor, the François-Villon room, and the guard room, which was a superbly decorated tavern. A stained-glass window by Willette representing the worship of Mammon reflected the flaming fire in the hearth of the grandiose fireplace. A real life black cat was asleep, perched at the top of a potted palm.
They climbed a large oak staircase. Tasha indicated a closed door.
‘That’s where the editorial meetings take place.’
‘Do you often attend them?’
‘I have sold some drawings to the journal; their print run can be as many as twenty thousand copies. But I never got on with Willette and now I don’t care, since he’s fallen out with the club’s owners.’
They went on up to the heart of the cabaret. About a dozen spectators were already seated. An athletic-looking man, with red hair and beard, wearing a collarless waisted frock coat welcomed them in a booming voice:
‘Good evening! Welcome aboard the pleasure train. Make yourselves at home!’
Victor paid. A waiter in academic garb led them to their seats.
‘Who is that yelling buffoon?’
‘Rodolphe Salis. Unkindly know as “The Red Donkey”. A genial smooth-talker – you either love him or loathe him.’
‘Which is it with you?’
‘I don’t want to make you jealous, so I’ll just say I admire him. He created this cabaret, and he makes sure the cabaret artists get their due.’
Victor had imagined finding billiard tables and card or domino players, not this bourgeois interior dominated by a piano, near which a blonde woman stood, smiling – Madame Salis. The small amount of space left by the pictures, drawings and engravings on the walls was filled with earthenware trinkets and copper bric-a-brac, creating a medieval ambiance. Above an enormous composition by Willette entitled Parce Domine were depictions of many Pierrots and Colombines escaped from the cabarets of Montmartre.
The room was filling up with men in tailcoats, gently mocked by Salis who called out in a raucous voice:
‘Goodness me, we’ve got a conventional bunch in tonight! Welcome, admiral. Excuse me, I mistook you for one of those dreadful politicians.’
He scoffed at the parliamentarians with the air of a naughty child. Although that was nothing, according to Tasha, compared with the coarse insults beloved of Bruant at Le Mirliton cabaret.
‘Mesdames, Messieurs,’ he declared, ‘this evening we have the great pleasure of welcoming our esteemed friend Louis Dolbreuse, in honour of whom the nymphs of the hill have adorned themselves with crowns! He is going to regale you with his poems!’
Even though he knew that Dolbreuse performed at Le Chat-Noir, Victor had not expected to see him again so soon. The lothario, in his sombrero, took his place at the piano.
‘Although it does not operate here as strictly as it does at Le Mirliton, censorship is the enemy of the artist. Our colleagues in the theatre and in the café-concerts experience it every day. That is why I have dedicated my poem “Anastasia” to them.’
He began to declaim:
How does the press tell the truth?
With silent tongue.
Why does the press tell the truth
With silent tongue?
Because the truth is not always worth telling
Even when there’s a public scandal?
‘Is that him – your Personality of the Parisian Nightlife?’ whispered Victor.
‘No, I don’t know him. Shh, listen to the poem.’
And what does the journalist eager for truth opine?
He follows the dictum: he who is silent will dine.
Hungry bellies hear no evil!
Louis Dolbreuse raised his sombrero in response to the laughter and applause, then went over to a spectator in an Inverness cape and muttered something to him. Victor prayed that Dolbreuse would not notice him; he wanted to draw a veil over what he had been doing the night before.
‘Montmartre, granite breast at which the idealistic youth come to suckle! Montmartre, the centre of the universe! Never will you have heard a work like the one we are about to admire!’ bellowed Salis.
A pianist sat down at the keyboard.
‘And here is our maestro, Charles de Sivry, and the famous author and narrator Maurice Donnay!’
‘That’s who I have to caricature,’ said Tasha when a young man with horsy features and a pointed moustache joined the composer.
‘You won’t see the illustrious Henri Rivière,20 creator of the figures and plays of light that are about to enchant you; he operates behind the scenes. Prepare to dream; to be carried off to far off places with a Gallic poem that is mystical, socialist and absurd, depicted in twenty tableaux and dedicated to our master of all, Paul Verlaine!’
The lights went down and the piano began a bright little tune. The curtain opened to reveal a pale, circular screen. Steel scenery mounted on frames appeared against this background, which was gradually filled with a sky shining with stars. A coppery light revealed Paris and the terrace of the Institut, with the statue of Voltaire in the middle. An astonished silence gave way to gasps and whispering. The statue of Voltaire had just jumped from its pedestal to go and greet a poet called Terminus. Ruined and discouraged, Terminus threw himself into the Seine, dragging Voltaire into the depths of the river. Their shadows, bathed in the clear light of the moon, overhung the buildings, the rocks and the trees, as they were buffeted by the wind. In a toneless, funereal voice Maurice Donnay read a poem by Chopinhauer: Adophe ou Le jeune homme triste,
He was foul and weak of chest
Having sucked the watery breast
Of a nurse who was so sad
He became a whining lad
As the poem progressed through Adolphe’s stages of disillusionment, a man came and sat down next to Victor. Turning slightly, Victor recognised Louis Dolbreuse.
‘So, dear friend, you’re doing a tour of the nightspots of the capital? Yesterday Le Moulin-Rouge, today Le Chat-Noir, a nicely spiced itinerary! Or perhaps you’re still looking for Gaston Molina?’
‘I’m here for pleasure,’ murmured Victor, disconcerted.
Tasha did not react, but her puzzled expression and slight frown did not bode well.
In the middle of the applause the lights came back on. Salis announced:
‘There will now be a half-hour interval! I hope Your Lordships will use it to imbibe some libations at ridiculously inflated prices!’
‘Can I buy you a drink on the ground floor?’ proposed Dolbreuse. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just a beer served in a Madeira glass.’
‘I would…but I’m not here on my own.’
‘Oh! Mademoiselle or Madame is with you? The more the merrier…Have we met?’
‘I would have remembered,’ replied Tasha. ‘Excuse me, I have to go and talk to Maurice Donnay.’
‘Exquisite,’ pronounced Dolbreuse, leading Victor away. ‘A journalist?’
The guard room was packed. They succeeded in finding a seat under one of the iconic Steinlen posters dedicated to the feline race: Apotheosis of Cats.
‘Drink, my friends, drink, it’s your contribution to our artistic endeavours!’ brayed Salis.
The man with the Inverness cape murmured something in Dolbreuse’s ear and then melted into the crowd, a glass of bitter in his ha
nd.
‘That’s Navarre, an acquaintance who would be of interest to your lady friend. He’s going to edit a literary review. For three months now he has been a regular at our soirées. He has good contacts at L’Écho de Paris and he’s asked me to write some articles. Shall I introduce you to him?’
‘No need,’ muttered Victor, anxious to know whether Tasha had picked up the reference to Le Moulin-Rouge.
Without waiting for Dolbreuse, he went back to take his seat and found Tasha just finishing a sketch of Maurice Donnay, an engineer fresh out of the École Centrale, but more attracted by poetry than industry.
Victor hoped he had shaken off Dolbreuse, but when the show ended at about midnight, as he followed Tasha into a sort of screened off area attached to the inside wall behind the stage, he glimpsed him at the back of the hall.
The cramped space contained ladders up to three platforms, one above the other, the first for musical instruments, the next for the stagehands who operated the discs of coloured glass and the highest reserved for the puppeteers. There were an impressive number of strings.
‘It’s complicated, but we never make even the smallest mistake,’ explained Henri Rivière, who reigned over his team like a captain over his sailors. ‘Everything must be done with extreme precision. You have to manoeuvre the three layers of zinc silhouettes at the same time and angle the mirrors so that they recreate a rising sun or a storm.’
Victor listened distractedly to the painter’s explanations; he was observing Tasha. Had she heard what Dolbreuse had said?
‘How do you make the stars shine?’ she asked.
‘By flapping a shutter in front of this box pierced with pin holes.’