As he stood up from the table, Zolotov raised his glass in a final salute to the rather crestfallen waitress. ‘To tight cunts and easy boots, my dear,’ he crooned. It was a toast which Zolotov thought pretty much encapsulated his philosophy regarding life.
Bole, as he sat toying with his croissant, directed all his formidable concentration towards the side door of the Convent, the one where, so his agent had informed him, Ella Thomas would make her appearance.
Pushing the plate away – Bole refused to eat stale foodstuffs even when they were a product of ABBA’s digital magic – he shuffled impatiently in his seat. He hated having to enter the Demi-Monde, as each manifestation left him feeling weak and dyspeptic on his return to the Real World. But to ensure that matters proceeded satisfactorily it was sometimes necessary for him to get hands-on and give his cyber-experiment a little nudge in the right direction. And as nudges went, they didn’t come any bigger than organising the assassination of Ella Thomas.
She had to be killed and killed quickly. That she was a Lilithi was troubling enough, but now that she had proclaimed herself to be the Messiah, her capacity for mischief had grown alarmingly. The girl had the potential to undo the work of a lifetime … of several lifetimes. She had to be disposed of.
It was a disposal made all the more difficult by the destruction of the girl’s PINC. Now ABBA was unable to track her, obliging Bole to rely on informers to find out where she was in the Demi-Monde. But, he supposed, there were advantages even in this setback, the chief of which was that she would no longer be able to distinguish friend from foe.
Bole sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, concentrating on the task ahead. He had underestimated Ella Thomas and that was not a mistake he would repeat. He would make doubly sure that she was eliminated. He had instructed his most trusted crypto to give Beria’s man, Zolotov, every assistance in finding and killing the girl, but should Zolotov fail, then the Grigori most certainly would not. It was unthinkable that the formidable Semiazaz, who was standing in a shadowy corner of the café waiting for the last rays of sun to disappear, would allow himself to be bested by a Fragile for a second time.
At the moment, though, Bole was ignoring Semiazaz, letting him contemplate his master’s displeasure regarding his failure to kill Vanka Maykov. Bole could smell Semiazaz’s embarrassment; the Grigori were not accustomed to having to report a defeat, and by allowing Maykov to escape they had most certainly experienced one. Not a major defeat, of course – after all, Maykov was only a bit-part player in the drama unfolding in the Demi-Monde – but a defeat nevertheless.
Bole took a sip of his honeyed water and sighed.
So many problems.
He was given no time to ponder this further: he saw the door of the Convent open and Ella Thomas and Sister Florence scuttle out and into a waiting steamer. Behind them came a man Bole recognised as the Marquis de Sade. He almost laughed: Machiavelli couldn’t have selected a more ineffectual bodyguard.
Excellent!
Now the game was truly afoot. ‘There is your prey, Semiazaz,’ he said, pointing to Ella Thomas, ‘and I beg you, no more mistakes.’
19
Paris
The Demi-Monde: 14th Day of Spring, 1005
The wearing of masks in the Quartier Chaud is a custom that began shortly after ImPuritanism was adopted as the philosophy governing life in that Sector. Understandably, many CitiZens were uncomfortable and embarrassed by the sexual responsibilities placed on them by ImPuritanism, and took to wearing masks in order to be better able to assume a new and more sexually enfranchised personality. Over time it became de rigueur for all CitiZens, when in public, to wear a mask, as this allowed them to project any personality they chose towards the outside world, even personalities diametrically opposite those inculcated by Nature. Hence the famous saying: ‘Masks are dangerous things, as behind a mask I am anonymous and there is nothing more dangerous than anonymity.’
A Life of Masks and Masques:
Giacomo Casanova, Fleshtival Books
With the Lady IMmanual swathed from head to toe in a hooded, cloak, the Marquis de Sade ushered her and Sister Florence out of the Convent and bustled them towards the waiting steamer. As soon as the three of them were safely aboard, he rapped his knuckles on the panel which separated the passenger compartment from the driver. ‘The École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts,’ he ordered, ‘and don’t stop for anyone or anything.’
As the steamer puffed and panted its way out into the traffic, de Sade pulled down the blinds so that now they were hidden from the outside world. This done, he turned to the Lady. ‘When we come to the École, my Lady, we must abandon this steamer. In all probability the Convent is being watched by Beria’s cryptos and undoubtedly they will be following us. But do not be alarmed: once we have disembarked, the confusion of the Fleshtival will make it impossible for anyone to pursue us and, hidden by the crowds, we will make our way through Paris to the Basilica in Rome, where agents of the Abbé Niccolò are waiting to escort us to Venice.’
‘Mark what the Marquis de Sade says full well, my Lady,’ urged Sister Florence. ‘But more, it is imperative that thou think and act as a true ImPuritan this night, lest thou draw unwelcome attention to thyself.’
‘And how should I act?’
‘With sexual abandon. It is the way of ImPuritanism that each CitiZen has a responsibility to aid his brother and sister CitiZens in their quest for sexual satisfaction and for enlightenment through orgasm. During Fleshtivals, all those who participate must make free with their bodies. Mark me well, my Lady, for thou wilt be much accosted and propositioned this night.’
Now that, decided de Sade, is a truism. No man seeing the Lady in her guise as Lilith would be able to resist her … unless he was blind, that is.
‘And it is important that by thy reaction thou dost not cause scandal or raise alarums.’
‘But if I find these propositions unwelcome?’
‘A reckless smile and a butterflied kiss are oft enough to satisfy all but the most ardent of would-be lovers.’ Sister Florence paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. ‘For those more determined, or for enemies who may wish thee dead, I will be on hand to protect both thy honour and thy life most forcibly.’ Here the Sister conjured a nickel-plated derringer from her cloak. ‘There is but one shot in this barker, yet trust thee that I am most accurate and resolute in its use, my Lady.’
Their journey was brought to a premature conclusion a hundred yards or so from the art school, the mass of people swarming through the streets obliging the steamer driver to drop Sister Florence and her two companions at the bottom of Rue de Torquemada. But there was no likelihood of them becoming lost in the strange streets of Saint-Germain-des-Prés: all they had to do was follow the mob. Hundreds upon hundreds of young people, dressed in the most minimal of costumes and displaying a superfluity of flesh, were swarming noisily through the narrow alleys, the local residents leaning out of their windows and doorways yelling encouragement as the revellers passed by. Sister Florence took the Lady’s right arm whilst de Sade took her left, and together they steered her into the throng, the three of them being instantly swept away by the mass of dancing, singing and cavorting students, all of whom were dressed in costumes that made those the Sister and the Lady were wearing look the epitome of decorum.
Even Sister Florence, who was used to the ways of ImPuritanism, had never seen so much bare flesh on display. If she had been in any way anxious regarding how openly the Lady’s charms were presented, then the number of young women who were clad in nothing more than a loincloth and a smile quickly thrust these concerns to the back of her mind.
There was obviously a huge discrepancy between how Jules had interpreted the theme of ‘Daemons and all their Works’ and the interpretation given to it by the art students. As far as the students were concerned, the image of Daemons could best be conjured by smearing themselves in red and blue paint and wearing next to nothing … and by getting very dr
unk on cheap Solution. Her worry now was that the Lady IMmanual might have taken too much care over how she was dressed. The couturier-contrived costume and body art she sported were considerably more stylish than the rather déclassé outfits of the students, and this inevitably marked the Lady out as being ‘different’. Not that the Lady seemed inclined to let this ‘difference’ prevent her enjoying herself. Tossed around in this shouting, cheering swirl of merrymakers, Sister Florence watched as a student thrust a Solution bottle into the Lady IMmanual’s hand. Amazingly, the girl took a deep swig, the price she paid being a very profound kiss and the pleasure of having her right breast fondled. Absent-mindedly, the Sister wondered if the real Lilith ever permitted such familiarity from her disciples.
Zolotov was aghast at the mayhem that greeted him when he stepped out of his steamer. Although he had alighted only seconds after the Lady IMmanual, it was enough time for his quarry to have become lost in the swarm of people that packed the streets.
As he stood there, jostled and pummelled by the crowd, he was at a loss as to what to do next. The Lady IMmanual and the Sister Florence, tall though they were, had vanished from sight. What he needed was a vantage point …
Quick as a flash, he clambered up onto the steamer’s roof – ignoring the cabbie’s protests – and stood there for a moment, peering out over the sea of people.
He saw her!
Leaping down from the steamer, he plunged into the crowd, fighting and wrestling his way towards the girl. It wasn’t easy: the streets were blocked by very drunk and very boisterous students, who obviously thought it a great game to tease and torment a respectable-looking man like Zolotov. His top hat was the first to go, and it was only by the very adept use of his boots and fists that Zolotov was able to ward off several impassioned attacks on his manhood. His bright red codpiece made a very tempting target.
The five minutes he spent struggling in that frenzied mêlée, pushing and shoving his way towards the Lady, were enough to reduce the wonderfully coiffed and costumed man of fashion that was Andrei Zolotov to a howling, deafened vagabond, his jacket torn at the pockets, his trousers soaked in wine and his long hair swishing in disarray about his shoulders. Ever the élégant, Zolotov was not pleased, and he determined that he would make this witch pay dearly for his discomfort. Her death, he decided, would be very slow, very painful, and all the more enjoyable for it.
As de Sade quickly discovered after leaving the sanctuary of the steamer, the Fleshtival des Quat’z Arts was a very noisy event. Several makeshift bands were playing – only occasionally in tune – for the encouragement of the crowd, and quite a few of the celebrants had equipped themselves with drums and tambourines, which meant that the crowd moved to a noisy rhythm, every eighth beat being echoed by loud shouts of vive les artistes or vive les sculpteurs. And to accompany the music and the singing there were jugglers and fire-eaters, acrobats and contortionists, and all of these were mixed up in the confusion of laughter and lovemaking that was the Fleshtival des Quat’z Arts. In the end de Sade simply yielded to fate, allowing himself to be swept along by the tide of people, but after ten minutes of being jostled, pawed and manhandled, deafened by raucous music and drenched in spilt Solution and sprayed champagne, de Sade found it was all becoming just a little overpowering and somewhat unpleasant. He began to feel like an adult who had strayed into a children’s party.
Unfortunately, the Lady IMmanual seemed far from bored, that is if the way she was so enthusiastically throwing herself into the spirit of the Fleshtival was any indication. In all the excitement, she seemed to have forgotten that the objective was to use the Fleshtival to cover her escape to Venice. Indeed, the fervent way she was responding to the overtures of the art students suggested that this was the last thing on her mind.
Suddenly the crowd seemed to thin, probably a result of a line of naked girls being borne past atop floats pulled by equally naked male students loudly proclaiming the praises of their particular ‘Daemon’. Whatever the reason, it gave de Sade a chance to pull his two companions out of the press. But as they stood in the shelter of a doorway catching their breath, he felt Sister Florence stiffen.
‘There … over the road,’ she gasped, ‘dost thou see them? Dost thou see those two tall men masked as Bauta?’
De Sade did see them, indeed it was almost impossible not to see them, they were so very tall, each man standing a good head taller than any around them. And even by the uncertain glow of the gaslight cast by the lamp standard to their right, it was possible to see that there was something feral about them. De Sade shivered.
‘Their auras are inhuman,’ stammered Sister Florence, ‘like none I have ever encountered. Could they be … Grigori?’
Grigori?
Grigori were mythological devils who had supposedly haunted a pre-Confinement Demi-Monde. Well, de Sade hoped they were mythological; if they were real, then someone was in real trouble. Grigori were reputed to have been evil bastards, with superhuman abilities to boot. But more to the point, their appearance told him that he’d been double-crossed, and that if he didn’t move quickly then the rewards he’d been promised would have all the substance of smoke.
And then one of the Grigori did something very strange: he inclined his head back, testing the air. De Sade had seen Blood Hounders do the selfsame thing when they searched for the spoor of their prey, and he had no doubt that the Grigori’s prey was the Lady IMmanual.
Sister Florence had obviously come to the same conclusion. ‘Thou knowest Paris and its districts better than any, de Sade. So I beg thee most earnestly: take the Lady IMmanual to a safe haven.’
Hardly able to believe how generous ABBA was being, de Sade gabbled out an answer. ‘Yes, I know a place … the Maison d’Illusion. It’s a bal-musette – a public dance hall on Rue de Simeon.’
‘Good. If I am not with thee in an hour, go from thence to the Basilica and seek Machiavelli.’
‘What about you?’ asked the Lady IMmanual.
‘I am of no consequence. Exchange thy cloak with mine, my Lady, and I will serve as a decoy, leading these most malignant Grigori away from thee.’
Quickly the Lady did as she was bade, the Sister taking her scarlet cloak in exchange for her more anonymous brown one. This done, Sister Florence gave de Sade a fierce look. ‘The fate of the Demi-Monde is in thy hands, de Sade. The Lady IMmanual must be preservèd at all cost.’ And with that she raised the cloak’s hood and disappeared into the crowd.
With the Lady IMmanual at his side, de Sade scurried through the backstreets of Paris, streets which suddenly seemed very dark and very foreboding. Even without the pursuing Grigori, this was a very dangerous arrondissement to be walking around at night. It was not a neighbourhood where respectable people ventured after dark … even less than respectable people thought twice about it.
But that was why de Sade had chosen it. The district’s clutter of alleyways provided a perfect escape route. No one could follow them here; to do that they’d have to know exactly where they were heading.
Not that de Sade was overly sure where he was going. In all the excitement his usually infallible sense of direction had become addled and, as the pair of them twisted and turned through the backstreets, he’d lost his bearings. But thankfully, just as he was about to succumb to panic, he spotted, perhaps fifty metres ahead of him, the glowing lantern that signalled their destination. Its flickering red light illuminated a sign that read ‘Maison d’Illusion’.
He and the Lady IMmanual were now standing on the Rue de Simeon, an infamous Parisian thoroughfare favoured by pimps, prostitutes and wayward intellectuals of a particular – even peculiar – bent. It was a place to be careful of, so, taking a firm grip on the butt of his Cloverleaf, he marched the Lady IMmanual along the pavement, the clip-clopping of his boot heels echoing off the scarred walls of the buildings they passed.
The Maison d’Illusion wasn’t so much a bar as an open-air dance hall, so even at a distance of fifty metres he could hear
the strange music come drifting out of the place. It was located in a courtyard bounded on three sides by the walls of decrepit tenement buildings, the remaining side closed off by a red-painted wooden wall, in the centre of which was an entrance fashioned in the style of a Covenite pagoda. The entrance was guarded by a couple of startlingly young toughs in tattered, baggy suits, who had propped themselves up against the wall on either side of a narrow doorway. It was one of these, a dark-skinned youth sporting an ugly scar on his cheek, who raised his hand to halt the pair of them as they approached.
The boy looked the Lady IMmanual over carefully, winked at her and then asked, ‘Combien?’ In reply, de Sade tossed him a franc and a dismissive ‘Trop cher,’ which provoked a laugh as the boy stood aside to let them in.
The Maison was crowded with drinkers and dancers, all of them swaying to the music provided by a quartet playing on a low stage set at the rear of the courtyard. Anxious that the Lady IMmanual should understand that bals-musettes also functioned as brothels, de Sade made a whispered entreaty to her that she should not return any looks or stares she might receive from the Maison’s customers. In a place like this, misunderstandings were often settled with a knife and the last thing de Sade wanted was to die protecting the Lady IMmanual.
With the dance hall being so crowded, and the moon obscured by clouds, it was almost impossible for de Sade to see where he was going, and what little he could make out in the gloom reminded him of how cheap and down-at-heel the Maison was, the tatty decor made even more vulgar by the efforts of art students to embellish it. Everywhere de Sade looked there were painted images of demons and devils, elves and imps, ghosts and Grigori, which, together with the decadent and diabolical costumes adopted by the students who were capering around the place, gave the Maison a thoroughly sinister ambience.
Rod Rees - [The Demi-Monde 02] Page 21