Andras: Beyond Good and Evil

by S L Zammit

  Feeling thoroughly spooked by the fact that the black-eyed man had known impossibly specific details about her activities, augmented by the reaction of the beast which Andras had referred to as a ‘hellhound’, she had suppressed her primary instinct to mention anything about the items to Andras on the spot. Ever since the encounter with black-eyes, she had the feeling of seeing him everywhere through the corner of her eyes, among the crowds on the streets, in the shadows of her apartment, through the watery mist of her morning shower. Occurrences she attributed to fatigue and stress, but the more she recalls the succession of the weird events stemming in her childhood, the more she’s convinced that everything is somehow linked. Her pragmatic mind compels her to find out all the details that would explain the chronology and rationale of events before showing her hand. The sooner she sets things straight, the sooner she can resume her life.

  “I’m sure you’re cheating on me with someone else,” says Philip good-humoredly, startling her again. “I can’t believe mademoiselle doesn’t see anything she likes! Isn’t this beautiful?”

  Holding up a cream, emblazoned crop jacket, “This piece was shown at Chanel’s Métiers d’Art show,” he says reverently.

  “It’s gorgeous,” admits Aurora wistfully, examining the elaborate stitching on the garment.

  Suddenly remembering Graziella’s reaction to the overpriced merchandise in Rome and her reluctance to use the marquis’ black credit card, she feels vulgar and out of place for the first time ever as the glamour and opulence surrounding her comes into full glaring focus. There is so much stuff strewn around the room, that the exquisite pièce de résistance Philip is brandishing seems almost ordinary and blaringly unimportant at the moment.

  Esmie has collected quite a mound of must-haves indicating that the interminable fitting has to be coming to an end soon.

  “I love all the pieces we chose,” gushes Aurora to Esmie, eager to move the proceedings along and get to the real reason for her visit to Paris. “I feel that you have made the best selection of the entire collection.”

  “I agree,” says Esmie. “Though I think Philip has a point, you really should take this opportunity and get some things for yourself. I’m as surprised as he is that you don’t see anything you like.”

  “Today is about you,” says Aurora smiling amiably. “I’ve just been in the mindset of choosing things for you.”

  “Sweet girl,” says Esmie. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re right, I think we’ve done enough damage here.”

  “So that will be it then,” says Philip, instructing his assistant to swiftly put away the merchandise before anyone changes their mind. “I will have everything packed and delivered to your hotel. Where is madame staying?”

  “We’re at the Costes,” says Esmie collecting her purse and following Aurora out of the room.

  “Thank you so much madame et mademoiselle,” says Philip as he shows them out of the apartment. “I look forward to seeing you in a few months.”

  2

  Esmie’s phone starts going off as soon as they step into the car.

  “Joe has made reservations at a Michelin starred French gastronomy restaurant for tonight,” she says. “The ambassador and the French foreign minister and their wives will be joining us. He’s texting me pictures of food,” she chuckles. “He seems seriously excited about the smoked oyster and blue lobster.”

  “Sounds and looks yummy,” says Aurora as Esmie shows her the texts. And ideal, she thinks. No one will miss her when she excuses herself early.

  The driver turns onto Avenue des Champs-Élysées, lined with trees and boutiques, restaurants, cafes and cinemas, heavy with throngs of mainstream shoppers, the Arc de Triomphe looming to the west, crowning the peach-lit dimming day. He apologizes for the road closures impeding the faster back route to the hotel.

  Looking out of the window during the short drive to Rue Saint Honoré, Aurora longingly watches the carefree tourists and locals enjoying the evening. She vows to come back with Graziella as soon as this mess is sorted out.

  3

  “Where would mademoiselle like to go?”

  The taxi driver is an older gentleman wearing a wrinkled suit, and from the way he speaks English, Aurora can tell he’s French. He opens the door for her and helps her into the backseat of the car.

  She opted out of using a cellphone app to locate a cab. Instead she asks the headwaiter at the restaurant, who had paid her an incommensurate amount of attention during dinner, for a recommendation as she is walking out.

  He is happy to comply although he can’t believe she’s leaving the dinner early. “Why? This is possibly the best food in the whole world!”

  Aurora agrees, the food looks like artwork, and if she could taste it through the surmounting nausea and anxiety the nearing encounter with her mother is causing, she’s sure she’d agree. Yes, the ambiance is fabulous, the service impeccable, the roasted venison is mouthwatering, and yes, it’s a shame she’s about to miss dessert, the chocolate mesh dome sounds delicious. She will definitely be back next time she’s in Paris. She’ll be back with Graziella.

  Handing the address to the driver, “I’d like to go to this place please,” she says.

  The man looks back at her. “Will you be meeting friends?” he asks.

  “No,” she says reluctantly, annoyed at his prying. “It’s just me, no one will be joining me.”

  “The streets of Pigalle can be dangerous at night for a pretty girl like you,” he says.

  Deciding to ignore his comments, Aurora settles back in her seat.

  “Where are you from mademoiselle?” he continues.

  “I’m from the island of Malta,” she replies wishing the man would just shut up and drive.

  “I know Malta,” he says. “My wife and I spent our honeymoon there thirty years ago. It’s a nice place; we always talk about going back sometime. Maybe when I retire. I remember a beach in a cove with bright red sand, I forgot the name.”

  Realizing that the man will not be deterred from conversation, and conceding that small talk might dissipate her apprehension, “That’s Ramla Bay on the smaller island of Gozo,” she says.

  “Yes,” he says, “that’s it. I remember now. We also took a boat to another island with a bright blue lagoon.”

  “That’s the island of Comino,” says Aurora. “It’s funny how most people I encounter know about the Maltese islands despite their small size.”

  “There has been so much movement of people around Europe since the formation of the European Union,” says the man, “and even more so now, with all the displacements of refugees from countries in Africa and the Middle East. The more people I talk to, the more I realize how much of the world I haven’t seen. But Malta is hard to miss, probably because of its location.”

  “You’re right, and now that you mention it, it’s unusual to get a taxi driver that’s actually a local, anywhere in Europe. I’m assuming you’re French,” she says.

  “Yes mademoiselle,” he says proudly. “Born and raised in Paris. I’ve been driving my taxi for three and a half decades and no amount of immigrants will replace me.”

  “Good for you,” says Aurora, observing as the roads outside the car window morph into shabby outskirts. There’s rubbish on the streets, the peeling walls of buildings are covered in graffiti. The people outside are distinguishable into two groups: the locals rush along, while the tourists loiter and enjoy the surroundings.

  Aurora notices a statue of a beheaded man, dressed like a bishop, holding his head in his hands; similar to one of the effigies she had seen carved into the elaborate façade of the Notre Dame Cathedral on a previous visit, the most striking similarity she can discern with the glamorous heart of Paris.

  “Who’s that holding his head?” she asks, pointing out of the window.

  “That is St. Denis, the patron saint of Paris,” says the taxi-driver. “He was the bishop of Paris, martyred by the Romans, following an edict by Emperor Decius
that he was to offer sacrifice to the Roman gods. He refused and the Romans cut his head off. He is said to have picked up his head from the ground and walked six miles, holding his head in his arms, preaching the whole way before dropping dead. The decapitation happened on the highest hill in the city, now Montmartre, the mount of martyrs.”

  Aurora laughs. “People will believe anything,” she says.

  “Have you been to Montmartre before mademoiselle?” asks the driver.

  “No,” says Aurora. “This is my first time here. I was too busy shopping on my last visit to Paris.”

  Aurora spots the glaring red-and-yellow neon blades of a windmill crowning the famous Moulin Rouge. The mill and the adjacent buildings glow red in the night. People line along the Boulevard de Clichy beneath signs promising an extravaganza of scantily clothed bodies, sequins, rhinestones and feathers.

  “Parisians rarely come here. This is mostly a place for tourists. I sometimes drive my wife to the tailor on rue Tholozé, up that one way street to your right,” he says, pointing towards the street. “Walking up takes you to the Sacré-Cœur Basilica at the top of the mount. It’s a beautiful church and the view of the Paris skyline from up there is amazing, even in the dark. You really must go see it.”

  No pretty white churches and stunning skylines for me, just old hookers, baggage from the past. “Unfortunately I won’t be doing any sightseeing tonight,” says Aurora.

  “This area at the base of the mount is Pigalle. It was nicknamed Pig Alley by soldiers in the Second World War. I’m familiar with this address you’re going to,” he says. “It’s quite a popular place. Are you visiting someone you know?”

  “Someone I used to know,” she says softly.

  The man drives farther along the busy street. Scantily dressed women loiter around the streets, mingling with tourists, their provocative dress and poses suggest that they are prostitutes. Aurora notices men in doorways watching over the girls, soliciting pedestrians into establishments.

  Unconsciously searching the faces for her mother, her spirit soars when she doesn’t recognize anyone. These girls are young, too young.

  She finds herself hoping her mother has retired, she imagines a reformed older woman doing well for herself, an accountant maybe. These establishments must need office staff to keep their books in order. There’s no way mother is walking the streets, or dancing with some sleazy troupe, she’s too old. She has most likely worked herself up to a desk job somewhere. The thought mollifies her, and in her mind she pictures a good-looking lady in a nice suit.

  “This is the sleaziest part of Paris,” states the taxi man, sounding apologetic. “I wouldn’t recommend walking around here or Rue Saint-Denis alone at night.”

  No kidding, thinks Aurora, her eyes scanning over the names of the stores in screaming hues of neon, leaving nothing to the imagination:

  SEXSHOPsexshopSexShopsexshopsexshopsexshopsexshopsexshop.

  Erotic mega markets, signs promising live shows, erotic fantasy, porno, lingerie, toys, discothèques de naked girls, where your most depraved dreams come true, take a souvenir home.

  ‘Mummy, mummy, where are you?’ the little girl calls inside her head. “Maybe I should just go back and forget this,” she whispers.

  “What was that mademoiselle?” asks the cab driver craning his neck, looking at her through the rearview mirror while turning out of the main thoroughfare. “We’ll be there soon. This place is slightly off the beaten path. I like to think of it as a badly kept secret. Their reputation travels by word-of-mouth.”

  “Great,” says Aurora, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I can’t wait.”

  Finally the driver stops the car at the mouth of a dark side street, just out of reach of the hustle and bustle and beyond the last light cast in neon.

  The alley is deserted apart from two big men standing in the shadows, just outside the dim circle from a single lantern on the doorway of a huge blackened building.

  “This is it mademoiselle,” says the driver almost reluctantly. “I have nothing going on right now. Would you like me to wait for you?”

  “No,” says Aurora. “You can leave. I don’t know how long this will take.”

  “Feel free to call me when you’re done,” he says handing her his card. “I’m working all night.”

  “Thanks,” says Aurora as she steps out of the cab.

  “Bonne chance,” she hears him say as she walks away.

  Chapter 21

  Club Débauche

  1

  Walking closer, Aurora realizes that the building is much larger than it appeared from a distance, comprising an entire block with barricaded windows and blotted-out panes. With dark walls and a single smallish door painted black, the building is well camouflaged in the night. Not a sliver of light or sound escapes the edifice.

  With menacing stares, unflinching at their posts and scrutinizing passers by, the two muscular figures remind her of Rottweilers, certainly not the types to be messed with.

  “I’m looking for my mother, Celeste,” she rehearses softly. “Je cherche ma mère, Celeste.”

  “Arrêtez,” growls the man on the left as she steps into the pool of light in front of the door.

  “Stop right there,” confirms gruffly the one on the right.

  Looking up in unison, diverting her glance to a CCTV camera blinking green at the top of the doorway, the metal cylinder moving, scanning her head to toe, she notices that both men are wearing earpieces.

  Finally, “Welcome to Club Débauche,” says the man on the right, motionless as the door clicks open letting out ear-splitting reverberations of rock music, any vestige of human feeling in the invitation just proffered clearly missing from their facial expressions.

  Aurora rushes through the doorway, deciding to leave inquiries about her mother for friendlier looking people. The door slams shut behind her.

  Finding herself in a dark, smoky corridor, she walks towards the sound of voices. The corridor opens into an anteroom guarded by an even bulkier Rottweiler of a man. Behind him a young, naked girl with flowers in her blonde hair, sits on the leather seat of a swing suspended by chains from a low ceiling, swaying gently. The words ‘Le Labyrinthe du Minotaure’ sprawl across the wall behind her, beneath which two bright red doors are labeled Taureaux and Dames. Otherwise, the walls of the room are painted black and bare apart from a gold curtain covering most of the left wall.

  The Rottweiler leers at her and grins. “The girls usually come in the back way for vetting, but you’ll do. Go through that door,” he says brusquely over the raucous music, pointing to the red door labeled Dames. “Take your clothes off and follow the signs into the labyrinth. Payment after you finish, if you make the grade!”

  Aurora shudders. “I’m not here for work,” she says indignantly.

  The man seems confused.

  “I’m looking for a woman named Celeste,” she explains.

  Moving towards Aurora swiftly, grabbing her firmly by the shoulder, Rottweiler leads her back down the corridor towards the entrance. “There must have been a misunderstanding,” he says curtly. “You need to leave.”

  But halfway down the passageway he stops, and pressing his earpiece closer to his ear, shrugs and turns around with Aurora in tow.

  “You wait in the viewing room for now,” he says feeling along the right wall of the anteroom with his hand and pressing hard revealing a sliding door.

  Shoved into a room filled with more security personnel watching monitors, laughing and chatting amongst themselves, Aurora has a full view of the labyrinth, which is way worse than she expected.

  She watches horrified as all shapes and sorts of naked men, their faces hidden under bull-masks, enter one end of a network of passages. Flabby skins, crepe skins, skins dimpled with cellulite, bald heads, hairy heads, pudgy distended bellies, flat ones, long skinny legs and short tubby ones, body hair ranging from chest tufts to thick fuzz coating belly-to-back and shoulders, the strong spotlights bringing out ever
y detail, and the obvious excitement of the naked hoard, magnified on the screen ten-fold.

  From the other end of the tangled maze, the females are herded in. In stark contrast to the males, the bodies are invariably fit and beautiful. Aurora zones in on the youthful exposed faces and notices that although a few look seasoned and geared for the oncoming events, doubt and anxiety is noticeable on most. Some of the girls look way too young to be out and about at this time of night, let alone naked in the passageway of a sex labyrinth.

  Cringing at the encounters between predator and prey throughout the maze, Aurora diverts her glance from the lurid scenes on the monitors. Scanning over the backs of the security guards raptly watching the screens, she approaches the least intimidating one.

  “I’m looking for a woman named Celeste,” says Aurora softly, tapping on his shoulder attempting to conceal the revulsion on her face.

  The man looks back at her, annoyance at the fact that she is still fully clothed and diverting his attention from the orgy, fully evident in his eyes.

  “She’s up in the Colosseum,” he says.

  Noticing Aurora’s eyes widen, “The boss is big on themes. I’ll show you,” he continues, reluctantly leaving his spot and leading her back out to where Rottweiler is busy collecting stacks of cash and ushering excited wannabe Minotaurs into the red door.

  “You could have shown her to the stairs,” he yells at him in French.

  “The boss says to have one of you take her up,” replies Rottweiler meekly.

  “I thought he left for the night,” argues the man.

  “No he didn’t! He said he’ll be right back,” insists Rottweiler.

  The man blows hard through pursed lips, curses beneath his breath, and drawing the gold curtain draping the left wall, reveals a wide spiraling staircase.