De Sade felt a frown forming on his forehead. What was the girl playing at? If he wasn’t mistaken, she was actually flirting with the man, which, as Selim was the head of the creed which venerated Man2naM sexual relations as being blessed in the sight of ABBA, was an exercise in futility. The man was an outand-out zadnik and hence would be immune to even the Lady’s undoubted charms.
The Grand Vizier glanced to the Doge for advice, obviously unsure as to the correct protocol when dealing with a putative Messiah. All the Doge did was shrug.
‘It would be my honour, my Lady,’ said the Grand Vizier, finally. ‘I am ever willing to bring a woeMan to a fuller understanding regarding the doctrine of subMISSiveness and to explain the repulsive and despicable nature of her gender.’
Not a terribly gracious acceptance, mused de Sade, but the Lady seemed in no way perturbed. ‘Shall we say tomorrow, at noon?’
The Grand Vizier gave a nod, and then turned to the Doge and bowed. ‘If you will excuse me, Your Excellency, but following our discussions it is important I consult with my staff.’
‘Gut,’ declared the Doge, as she watched the man stride off. ‘I have little patience mit males from NoirVille. Zhey have a pre-pubescent attitude to matters zexual.’ She gave the Lady IMmanual a very meaningful look. ‘You did vell to charm him, my dear, as I am seeking an alliance mit NoirVille. Venice unt NoirVille are not natural bedfellows – zhe NoirVillians are reluctant to be seen taking aid unt assistance from a Sector governed by a voeMan – but zhe political situation in zhe Demi-Monde is zuch zhat needs must vhen Loki drives.’ Another smile. ‘Jah, you have quite enchanted him. Remarkable.’
The conversation faltered and the Lady IMmanual took the opportunity to look around at the men standing waiting on the Doge. ‘I was led to believe by Monsieur Molyneau that some of the Demi-Monde’s foremost academicians are gathered in this room.’
‘Zhat is zo. All zhe best in zhe stuffy world of antiquity are met here today, desperate to be present vhen de Nostredame unveils his vonder unt, of course, to zee zhe famous Lady IMmanual. But zhey are still all just ninny-com-poopies, unt zhey are zuch because pre-Confinement History is predominantly a bastion ov zhe male ov zhe species, a discipline unleavened by zhe more spiritual unt intuitive insights offered by vomen. Zhere are few men capable ov original thought in zhe vorld, unt even fewer amongst zhose who delve like blind moles in zhe archives ov zhe Demi-Monde, lost in zheir study ov zhe Pre-Folk.’
‘You are very censorious.’
‘Merely accurate, my Lady,’ retorted the Doge carelessly. ‘Men are not equipped for intellectual pursuits, zheir minds are infused mit too much of zhe choleric humors of MALEvolence for zhem ever to be able to think logically. All zhey are gut for iz fucking unt fighting.’
This opinion was expressed in such an offhand manner that for a moment it seemed that the Lady wasn’t sure if she had heard the Doge correctly. Even de Sade had to do a double take.
Maybe she is drunk?
Fortunately, the Doge was moved to eliminate any misunderstanding.
‘Jah, as I say, men are only truly capable of outstanding performance in two fields of human endeavour: fucking unt fighting, unt mitout zhese two abilities zhey would be largely superfluous. Unfortunately, I zuzpect zhat mit regard to fucking, zhe men gathered here today are no more lively zhan zhe dusty tomes zhey investigate.’ She gave a disconsolate shrug. ‘Fifty men, unt not vun good fuck in zhe lot of zhem.’
The Doge turned to de Sade. ‘I exclude you from zhis criticism, de Zade, zince your abilities in zhe realm of zhe prurient are vell documented. Unt az you, my Lady, come here today mit zhis pervert on your arm’ – de Sade bowed in appreciation of the compliment – ‘could it be zhat you, too, are in thrall to zhe darker aspects ov zhe erotic?’
Amazingly the Lady wasn’t in the least perplexed by the Doge’s rather impertinent question. ‘I delight in all matters sexual, Your Excellency, whether they be darker or lighter.’
Nodding her understanding the Doge paused to extract a gold case from the folds of her dress and take out a cigarette. Raising her veil, she permitted an attentive waiter to light the cigarette for her and the light cast from the flaring match allowed de Sade to get a better look at her face. Hers was a sad beauty, he decided, a beauty marred by an over-indulgence in Solution … and by worry. The Doge was obviously more disconcerted by the Lady IMmanual than she cared to admit.
The Doge blew out a long stream of coiling smoke and then thrust the cigarette case towards the Lady. ‘May I offer you a zigarette, younk lady?’ The Lady shook her head. ‘You are very vise. Although zhe medical profession vould have us believe zhat smoking iz beneficial to zhe constitution, I am ov zhe opinion zhat everything zhat a voman takes into her mouth, be it zigarette smoke, food, alcohol or zemen, shortens her life. But zhen, a truncated life iz not always a bad thing. Life, especially a long vun, can be zo fucking boring.’
‘I disagree, Your Excellency. My own experience is that a long life need be anything but boring.’
Now that, decided de Sade, was a very peculiar thing for such a young woman to say.
‘Perhaps,’ conceded the Doge and then she raised a finger to the Lady’s cheek and ran it along her soft skin. ‘Exquisite. Vould zhat I possessed an SAE as fine unt as zupple as yours.’ She laughed in a most disconcerting manner. ‘But zhen perhaps vun day I vill. Vot do you think, my Lady? Do you think zhat one day I might possess your body?’
Instinctively de Sade stepped closer. This was really quite remarkable: the Doge was clearly testing the Lady’s sexual orientation. He took a quick look around and, as he had expected, there, almost invisible in the shadows shrouding the back of the room, stood the Auralist Sister Florence – her hand heavily bandaged – as she stared unblinkingly at the Lady, examining her aura. The Doge’s overtures were obviously pre-planned, the woman desperate to have the Lady’s aura examined whilst she was sexually excited.
But the question that troubled him was why they doubted her. If they had reservations regarding her Messiahship, then who did they think she was? There was one possibility, but that was a ridiculous notion … or, at least, he hoped it was.
The Lady didn’t seem to be in the mood to be excited, rather, she was amused by the Doge’s advances. ‘I am your ever obedient subject, my Doge.’
All further discussion was interrupted by the sounding of a gong signalling that the attendees should take their seats for the presentation.
‘Gut, I vill remember zhat. Unt now, my Lady, you must take my arm unt we will join zhe men to zee zhe vonder zhat de Nostredame has in store for us.’
25
Venice
The Demi-Monde: 27th Day of Spring, 1005
Of all the mythical creatures thought to have inhabited the pre-Confinement Demi-Monde, none were more fearsome (or more enigmatic) than the Grigori. Although references to them are meagre (most of the scant information having been gleaned from the inscriptions on the ExterSteine Column), it appears that they were a race of super-warriors in the service of Lilith. Their amazing strength, speed, vicious temperament and craving for blood have made them the inspiration for the vampyre characters popular in the more lurid of penny dreadfuls. Whether there is any truth behind the myth is the subject of much conjecture, though WhoDoo mambos are in no doubt: they revile the Grigori as the most hateful of all loas.
Myths and Legends of the Demi-Monde:
Lucien Lévy-Brühl, Quartier Chaud Imprints
Vanka was not a happy man. He had been too long in the conning business not to know when he was being fed bullshit, and as bullshit went, what he had been told by the butler who was guarding the entrance to the Convent of Visual Virgins was decidedly smelly. The butler had been lying through his back teeth when he’d declared that there was no such person as Ella Thomas, the Lady IMmanual or Marie Laveau staying in the Convent. This suspicion had mutated into certainty when the man had turned down a hundred-guinea bribe – a hundred guineas! – to become less
taciturn. In Vanka’s experience, butlers were conditioned from birth to accept bribes, and for one to reject such a huge sum meant that he was either monumentally stupid or terrified of his employer. By the look of the man, Vanka thought it might be a combination of both.
It was a disconsolate Vanka who trudged back to the bar where Burlesque and his friends were waiting for him.
‘You look a bit darn in the dumps, Wanker,’ observed Burlesque, as he sat gnawing on an aged-looking apple.
‘I’ve got a problem.’
‘Oh, you don’t wanna worry abart that none. There’s this cream that does wonders–’
‘It’s not that sort of problem,’ Vanka interrupted. ‘I think Ella’s been abducted.’
‘Abducted? Wot’s bin abducted?’ asked Rivets, suddenly taking an interest in the conversation. ‘Is it wun ov them Frog perversions they show on them funny cigarette cards?’
‘It’s not a fucking perversion,’ insisted a suddenly very tetchy Vanka, as he tried not to let his worries about Ella overwhelm him. ‘It means kidnapped.’
‘Kidnapped? ’Oo by?’ asked Burlesque, suddenly serious.
‘My money’s on that bastard Machiavelli, who’s in charge of the Venetian secret police. I reckon the Venetians are holding Ella so that they can say that the Messiah is on their side. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I don’t buy Josie Baker’s idea that she’s changed; Ella isn’t like that.’
‘I dunno,’ persisted Rivets. ‘That Miss Baker is a really downy bird.’
Vanka ignored him. He refused to buy into Josie’s claim that Ella’s attitude towards him had altered to such an extent that she now saw him as an enemy.
‘The trouble is that the bastard butler is so shit-scared of Machiavelli that he’s playing Mr Stumm. I couldn’t get a word out of him.’
‘That’s ’cos yous a gentleman, Wanker,’ Burlesque observed, as he hauled himself to his feet and swilled down the last of his glass of Solution. ‘Why don’t you let me ’ave a word wiv ’im? I’m a dab ’and at interrogations.’
It was a little after five in the afternoon when Pascal Leroy, long-time butler to the Convent of Visual Virgins, opened the front door of the Convent in response to the persistent hammering. He was less than impressed by the three ruffians he found adorning his immaculately clean steps, a trio comprising two men and one very large woman. The two men – a man and a boy, rather – made an odd couple, since one was large and fat and the other small and thin. What they had in common, though, was that their clothes looked like they had been slept in. They made incongruous bookends to the somewhat larger, florid-faced girl who stood between them. But what the men lacked in gravitas they certainly made up for in impertinence.
‘Je church pour Mademoiselle Ella Thomas, silver plate,’ said the fat one, his accent so appalling as to make the masticated sentence almost unintelligible.
‘Je ne connais aucune personne qui s’appelle Mademoiselle Ella Thomas,’ (‘I do not know of anyone called Mademoiselle Ella Thomas’) Pascal Leroy sneered, and made to shut the door, though his hand trembled as he did so. That the Lady IMmanual was lodged in the Convent was meant to be a secret, but this was the second time that afternoon that callers had come enquiring about her. He would, in normal circumstances, have sent an urgent message to the Abbé Niccolò, asking for instructions, but that was impossible at the moment. He had only been able to smuggle Mademoiselle Armaros inside the Convent when the Signori di Notte platoon guarding the Lady and all the Sisters had left to accompany her to the Galerie des Anciens, and with the girl waiting to greet the Lady on her return the last thing he wanted was Machiavelli snooping about the place. Murder was a very private business.
The large hobnailed boot the small ruffian placed firmly across the threshold prevented him closing the door. ‘Où is elle?’ asked the boy, who was sporting a mask which gave him the appearance of a rabbit, and whose French accent was, remarkably, even worse than his colleague’s. The boy compounded his insolence by spitting on Monsieur Leroy’s freshly scrubbed steps.
Incandescent with rage at the violation of the sanctity of his Convent, Pascal Leroy wagged a warning finger at the truncated boy, refusing to be intimidated by such a small, insignificant individual. ‘Va-t-en … vaurien … ou j’appelle les GrandHarms!’ (‘Go away, you … nonentity you … or I will call the GrandHarms!’)
‘D’you want me to put wun on ’im, Burlesque?’ Pascal Leroy heard the boy ask his friend. To Leroy, who prided himself in the fluency of his English, it seemed remarkable that he understood less of the boy’s English than he did of his French.
The bearded man shook his head. ‘Nah, Rivets, leave ’im be. There’s more’n one way to skin a cat.’ And with that, the malodorous trio turned around, marched back down the steps and, to Leroy’s great relief, away from the Convent.
When they were safely around the corner, Burlesque attempted to explain his plan. ‘Odette …’ he began but was somewhat put off his stride by the beaming smile he received from her. The girl’s burgeoning affection for him was becoming distinctly distracting. ‘Je désire …’
He was stopped by the coquettish giggles he’d provoked from the silly girl. Desperately he searched his limited vocabulary to find what he’d said wrong.
‘Odette,’ he began again, ‘je veux tu to climbez’ – he mimed a walking motion with two fingers of his right hand, which he hoped would compensate for his rotten French – ‘à la porte de la Convent et fait beaucoup de noise. Shoutez vous’ – now he pantomimed shouting, which provoked even more laughter – ‘et bangez sur la porte.’
Suddenly Odette’s face became hard and resolute. She delved into the voluminous carpet bag she had slung over her arm, and drew out the huge pistol she’d brought with her from Paris. ‘Je comprends, Burlesque. Je bang-bang,’ and she demonstrated how she intended to shoot the butler.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Burlesque shook his head desperately. ‘Non, non, Odette, no fuckin’ bang-bang avec le fuckin’ pistol. Just fait beaucoup de racket. Makez-vous le tow-row.’ Again he enacted what he was asking of the girl, and eventually understanding dawned in her eyes. She pushed the revolver back into her bag, sat down on the low wall that bordered the front garden of the Convent, and smiled at Burlesque, obviously awaiting his next instruction.
‘I dunno, Burlesque,’ observed Rivets. ‘It might’n be a bad idea to top that Frog bastard. Why’n you let Odette just put a bullet frew ’is eye?’
‘Oh, shut yer clack, Rivets. It’s bad enough ’avin’ to keep this bloodfirsty Frog tart from shootin’ anywun wiv a beatin’ body clock, wivout you encouragin’ ’er.’ He handed his watch to Odette. ‘Dicks minutes,’ he said, and Odette nodded in compliance. ‘Right, Rivets, round the back.’
Burlesque had been advised by his old man – when his old man hadn’t been corked by Solution or in clink, that is – that the bigger the house, the sloppier the security. And the sloppiest part of that security was always the servants. This being the case, his dad had told him, the best way to break into a house was through the servants’ entrance. But when he tried all the basement doors at the back of the Convent, and found them securely locked and bolted, Burlesque was reminded once again of how his father had gone through life talking total bollocks.
‘Fuck,’ he commented, as he tried the last of the windows and found it firmly shut. He gave his arse a scratch, in search of inspiration and whatever it was that was gnawing at him down there, then in desperation looked over to Rivets. ‘Waddya fink, Rivets, me old cock?’
Rivets shrugged. ‘It ain’t a problem, Burlesque. I’ll get us in, easy as shellin’ peas. Just wait until Odette’s kickin’ up a rumpus, an’ I’m frew that door smoove as shit frew a goose. You’s gotta remember that I’m a wonder at breakin’ an’ entry.’
So confident did Rivets sound that Burlesque was persuaded to follow his advice, taking the chance to pull out a fag and have a quick relaxing puff. But hardly had he got his cigarette lit tha
n Odette began her assault on the Convent. He’d never have imagined that one girl could make so much noise; even though he was at the back of the building and Odette was attacking it from the front, the hammering, screaming, kicking and, he suspected, swearing were clearly audible.
‘Gor, ole Odette’s got a rare pair of bellows on ’er, ain’t she?’ commented Rivets admiringly. ‘Gonna bust ’er stays, she goes on like that.’
Burlesque gave it a count of ten. ‘Righto, Rivets, work yer magic.’
Rivets nodded and flicked the cigarette out of his hand, sending it spinning in a shower of sparks down the alleyway, then he stooped down to pick up a brick lying in the gutter and advanced on the half-windowed back door. With two savage and very noisy blows of the brick, he spanked the glaze, then reached through the shattered glass and unlocked the door from the inside. He pushed it open, and bowed Burlesque through with a triumphant wave of his hand.
‘You daft prick!’ gasped an astonished Burlesque. ‘I thought you knew ’ow to crack an ’ouse proper.’
Rivets gave Burlesque a rather hurt look. ‘Well, waddya fink I’ve just done? This gaff is proper broke into. It ain’t called breakin’ an’ entry for nuffink, you know.’
‘Everyone in the ’ole fucking street will ’ave ’eard yer ’ammerin’!’
Laughing, Rivets passed through the door and crunched his way over broken glass into the kitchen. ‘I don’t fink you should concern yerself abart that, Burlesque. The way ole ’Ollering Odette’s givin’ art wiv ’er vocals, I don’t fink anybody’s gonna be worried abart the sound ov a bit of breakin’ glass. Anyway, careful as you go, Burlesque; wiv all these shutters shut it’s black as midnight’s arsehole in ’ere.’
It was difficult creeping through an unfamiliar house, especially one swathed in darkness and shadows, and most especially when Burlesque, who was leading the exploration, didn’t have the faintest idea where he was going. He suspected though that Ella Thomas wouldn’t be found in the kitchen, so when he bumped into the stairs leading from the basement, he climbed upwards. And every step he took, the noise that Odette was generating became louder. How one woman could make so much of a commotion was beyond him.
Rod Rees - [The Demi-Monde 02] Page 27