Michel had rigged a tarpaulin over the simple wooden structure and all the old books were laid out on pieces of old carpet, not much protection against the rain, and yet they never felt damp to the touch.
‘Did you read the book? Asked Juliette.
‘You know nothing in the world could persuade me to open that book.’ Only you are going to sell that book, Juliette. I don’t know where you got a box full of them. Don’t want to know. Shouldn’t be stocking the damn thing. I don’t know why I am.’
Juliette smiled and opened the box. She had never opened the book either but she had known of many who had and what had happened to them.
She looked up aware of eyes on her. Two young men. One taller than his darker haired companion. They stared at her and at the copy of the book she held in her hand. One whispered into the ear of the other, his hand on the other’s arm. The smaller one pushed his hand away. He walked towards her. His finger trembled slightly as he pointed at the book.
‘Is that really what I think it is? A copy of the play—The King in Yellow?’
Juliette nodded.
‘I’ll take a copy.’ He thrust a bundle of notes at her. She took what she thought fair and handed the rest back to him with the book.
The taller one joined the boy who turned the book over and over in his hands. He introduced them both to Juliette. Michel looked on—amused.
‘I’m Henry and this is Charles…and your name is?’
‘Juliette.’
Both young men smiled. She always got that smile when she told anyone.
‘Have you lived in Paris long?’
‘Long enough.’
They talked for a little while. Juliette told them where she lived. They were impressed as they knew the history of the hotel. And of the beats who had lived there not long ago.
‘Did you ever meet Burroughs?’
‘Yes. Great writer. Do you two write?’
She knew the answer straight away. Writers. Lost in Paris. Lost in translation. Finding themselves through other writers. Other writers moving on. All artists consumed by a need to find that ultimate experience through prose or not. Climbing higher. Seeking more until the fall. THE fall.
‘Would you show us the hotel sometime? Charles smiled.
‘I will.’ Decisive. It was almost like a marriage vow. Almost.
Juliette arranged to meet them the next day at the hotel. She asked them for the book back explaining that she would get it signed by someone, and that they would be impressed when they eventually saw it. Charles politely declined.
By lunchtime Juliette was hungry and bored with the tourists. No more writers had happened her way. With a nod to Michel, he gave her some francs, and she was off again. She took a few copies of The King in Yellow for the owner of the Shakespeare bookshop. He always placed them on the highest shelves in a bookcase or in boxes behind boxes so that only the most fervent, the most devoted, would find them. He had never read the play either. Most with any sense hadn’t.
Floor after floor of shelves and books of all the ages attracted Juliette and she roamed up through each level pulling down large dusty tomes—always searching for references to the forbidden and the profane, the unusual and the exotic, the extreme and those sentences put together in such a simple way that molten gold poured from the pages. The yellow again. She found the ‘other’ books wrapped in yellow paper. Between those covers could be found exquisite pleasure and pain. Escape.
She found an old armchair and flopped down with a book. Under pretence of reading she watched the people come and go. Juliette could see. She could really see now. She could see into their hearts and minds and saw which hand fate had dealt them. She watched the girl with the floppy blue hat, white lace scarf, paisley blouse and red cotton skirt that swept against the piles of tatty magazines. A man followed her up the stairs. He was much older than her but could still seduce young women. He was about to talk to the girl. Juliette could see that. He’d brush her arm with his hand as he pulled down a book next to her. He apologised and smiled—those bright blue eyes still doing their thing—she had seen him in the shop before. An Englishman. Cunningham she believed he was called. He didn’t care who he enrolled into his little cabal. So what if the woman was married or had a child. That didn’t matter to him. He never tried for Juliette. He knew better to. He could not surprise her at all. Not at all. He had many books bound in yellow. His heart was made of shadow and she mused that he had lived many times before. Kin to the King in Yellow perhaps? Juliette reminded herself to ask him about Cunningham though she guessed already what the answer would be. When she looked into the heart of the girl she laughed out loud. What foolishness. A fool on an errand with cock in hand. That girl would run a mile.
Juliette looked up and saw a book cover facing out. Unusual for the bookshop as there was so little room. On it was the caricature of a fool, imagine one that Beardsley would draw, an elegant fool if you like. Fools. Fiends. Fallacy. Dogs. Delicacy. Devilry.
Devilry. Der Puderquast. The naked woman being carried by a man with a goat’s head and someone else. The someone else wasn’t important. Beardsley would be her brother one day. Leda and the swan flew into her mind then.
Ah. Cunningham and the young girl were leaving together. So soon. What a fool. His arm around her waist and then insisting he goes first down the steep steps. The steps would become steeper for that girl.
Juliette yawned. Time to go home. Not a home. Just a place to drift through. She’d get some wine on the way.
Out into blue and grey again. Rain. She saw Cunningham in the distance, still with his arm around the girl. Where was he taking her? Juliette followed. She was curious to see where he lived. A grand apartment perhaps? The girl laughed. Enchanted. Juliette thought of her King in Yellow and turned away from them. She thought of Henry and Charles. Could they write astounding literature? She would find out and no doubt be bored again in minutes. It had happened before.
Halfway home she sat down on a bench and waited. She could hear the sound of the riot, the students up in arms only to have them tied behind their backs again. The workers looking for more than they had— and why not?
She walked towards the noise. She thought of actresses in ancient Rome. They used to act naked. One didn’t. Juliette had heard that the actress had said, ‘I’d rather give pleasure to few with my talent than many with my body.’ A riot ensued and she was thrown off the stage. Always by choice, girl. Always by choice. These rioters wanted social justice. Then again in 1229, after the student riots, they closed the university for two years. Who noticed?
Juliette walked by those throwing petrol bombs and over turning cars. She looked up and saw The King in Yellow. He faced her but his hood hid his eyes. She felt them. She saw Henry and Charles running ahead over the cobblestones. Charles slipped and the book he had bought that day slid under a burning car. Juliette smiled at that.
Perhaps it would be time to leave now but would HE give her permission?
Madame Rachou looked at her with a sad smile on her ruby red lips as Juliette entered the hotel. She didn’t run up the steps. There wasn’t any rush. He was waiting for her in her room. The King in Yellow reached out and she took his hand. The wall became a blaze of one colour—the yellow. Juliette melted into it and as she did she saw her father look at her with pleading eyes. He was on his knees. The guillotine blade fell. The sound of it thundered through her blood. A few seconds and she had left her world, and that other half –world between walls. Juliette looked up to see the twin moons.
This was where true Carcosian’s go when they are finished with those pale places. Rimbaud, Bierce, Villon, Romualdo Locatelli, Hart Crane, Kaja, Lew Welch—even Corso managed. Helen Strange can be found there— too.
The cat followed them.
Table of Contents
"This Yellow Madness"
My Voice is Dead
Beyond the Banks of the River Seine
Movie Night at Phil's
MS Found in a Chicago Hotel Roo
m
it sees me when I'm not looking
Finale, Act Two
Yellow Bird Strings
The Theatre and its Double
The Hymn of the Hyades
Slick Black Bones and Soft Black Stars
Not Enough Hope
Whose Hearts are Pure Gold
April Dawn
King Wolf
The White-Face at Dawn
Wishing Well
Sweetums
The King is Yellow
D T
Salvation in Yellow
The Beat Hotel
Table of Contents
"This Yellow Madness"
My Voice is Dead
Beyond the Banks of the River Seine
Movie Night at Phil's
MS Found in a Chicago Hotel Room
it sees me when I'm not looking
Finale, Act Two
Yellow Bird Strings
The Theatre and its Double
The Hymn of the Hyades
Slick Black Bones and Soft Black Stars
Not Enough Hope
Whose Hearts are Pure Gold
April Dawn
King Wolf
The White-Face at Dawn
Wishing Well
Sweetums
The King is Yellow
D T
Salvation in Yellow
The Beat Hotel
A Season In Carcosa Page 31