Love was an odd thing, Odette decided. But then so was Burlesque.
When she had been younger she had always dreamt that one day a prince on a white charger would come and sweep her off her feet but she had never thought that her prince would be fat, gap-toothed and prone to flatulence. But the peculiar thing was that now she had met Burlesque she wouldn’t trade him for the world. Burlesque made her laugh, and laughter, she had come to realise, was the key to love. To be truly in love you had to enjoy being with your man.
Even Burlesque’s inability to speak French wasn’t that much of a problem (especially as she spoke more English than she was prepared to admit); she just loved the way he tried to communicate with her. And anyway, like all true loves, they seemed to know instinctively what the other wanted.
She gave Burlesque a kiss on the cheek and sent a silent prayer to ABBA, thanking Him/Her for bringing Burlesque into her life.
Their strolling eventually brought them to the Pons Fabricus and as they stood there for a moment gazing out over the iron bridge, watching the sun set, Burlesque began to speak in his strange mixture of French and English.
‘Ma cherie, j’ai un idea qui est un real corker. Quand Mademoiselle Norma parle beaucoup de bollocks au sujet de civil disobedience et passive resistance, je pense elle pulling mon jambe, mais maintenant peut-être que elle parle n’est pas daft. Je see un way de fucking up les UnFunnies sans le bang-banging. Comprenez?’
‘Oui,’ Odette giggled and gave Burlesque a bigger kiss and slid her hand towards his codpiece.
‘Get off, you randy Frog tart, you. Okay … Odette, qu’estce que le Frog pour “spanner”?’
True love or not, Odette was thrown for a moment. ‘Pardon?’
‘Wot’s a spanner? Un wrench?’ He tried to mime the tools.
‘Clé?’
‘Bon, puis je veux un grand clé, un really fucking grand clé.’
A smile tugged at Vanka’s mouth as he gazed out of the window towards the majestic Awful Tower, which stood so tall and magnificent over night-time Paris. As he had read in The Stormer, the Tower was to be the centrepiece of the celebrations scheduled for the 60th day of Spring marking the unification of the ForthRight and the Medi. There would be marching by soldiers of the ForthRight, a ceremonial Puff Past of armoured steamers and a huge fireworks display. Even Heydrich would be in attendance to witness this demonstration of the ForthRight’s power.
And all Norma’s efforts wouldn’t be able to prevent it happening.
Oh, he was proud of what Norma had achieved. She had spoken well at the meeting and the way she and Odette Aroca – now, what a revelation that girl was – had organised the delegates had been a sight to behold. With their energy and commitment, there was just a chance – a slim chance, but still a chance – that they might be able to mobilise the Medi behind this hare-brained scheme of Norma’s. But, though Vanka had a natural aversion to violence of any kind, he still couldn’t believe that a policy of civil disobedience would be enough to defeat the ForthRight.
In his opinion, the problem Norma faced was the same one the Varsovians had had when they fought the SS through the streets of Warsaw. It wasn’t enough to simply avoid defeat; people needed the occasional victory to remind them of what they were struggling for, and to give them the encouragement to keep struggling. In other words, they needed to win. And, as Vanka saw it, simply smiling and being polite while the Checkya kicked your head in didn’t – in most people’s books, anyway – constitute a victory. People of the Medi needed proof that the ForthRight was being defeated.
Vanka needed it too. If the ForthRight could be defeated in the Medi, then the war would be over and there would be no need for Ella to carry on playing the Lady IMmanual. She could revert to being the girl he loved. She could be Ella Thomas again.
A thought flared in Vanka’s head, sputtered for a moment, then burst into life as a fully formed ‘good idea’.
Perfect.
He looked around at Rivets, who was sharing the garret room with him. ‘Have you ever had a job, Rivets?’ he asked.
Rivets looked up from the bed he was lounging on, paused in the process of picking his toenails, and frowned. ‘Job? Wotcha mean, Vanka?’
‘I mean, have you ever had a job which necessitated you going to work in the morning, toiling all through the day, and then coming home at night?’
Rivets laughed. ‘Don’t be daft, Vanka. Waste ov time, iffn you ask me, ’specially when there’s so much stuff lying around just waiting to be pinched. Anyway, wot the fuck would I wanna get a job for?’
‘Because it would help Miss Norma bring down the ForthRight.’
Rivets shrugged. ‘Well, iffn it’ll do that, I’m willing to give anyfing a shot.’
Vanka rewarded Rivets with a smile. Now all he had to do was persuade Norma to take her clothes off in a good cause. After all, it was she who was always banging on about Normalism being about ‘Love Not War’. Now she’d have a chance to show just how good she was at playing the seductress. He had the sneaking feeling she might be very good at it.
32
Paris The Demi-Monde: 45th to 49th
Days of Spring, 1005
Copy of PigeonGram message sent by Doctor Jezebel Ethobaal
on 45th day of Spring, 1005
45th Day of Spring
‘I understand from my enquiries, Monsieur Girard, that your Ministry is seeking to employ help in its mailroom.’
Gaston Girard shuffled uncomfortably in his somewhat over-stuffed chair, gimleted by the hard and unrelenting stare of the strange and unsettling girl sitting across the desk from him. Strange and unsettling but remarkably attractive, and Gaston Girard had a soft spot for young and attractive girls … and occasionally a very hard spot.
Yet the fact remained that this young girl – Girard doubted she was much over eighteen – was a very determined young girl. She had, after all, browbeaten his secretary until she had been given an appointment with him, and as he was the head of administration of the Medi’s Ministry of Works, such appointments were granted only very begrudgingly. Of course, Girard could still have declined to see her, but she was very pretty and had a sparkle in her eye that suggested … suggestions.
That he had a weakness for French spoken with a foreign accent was another reason why Gaston Girard had granted this interview. The way this Yank so exquisitely mangled his mother tongue was simply irresistible.
But even now, with the interview hardly begun, Gaston Girard was wary. Beautiful and alluring though the girl undoubtedly was, he had an instinct that she would prove difficult, demanding and even dangerous. He had a nose for these things. Famous in the Ministry for his commonsensical approach to business, Gaston Girard was an extremely unimaginative man, except, that is, when it came to his dealings with young girls – and then he could be very imaginative.
Generally, though, caution triumphed over imagination, and he was so nonplussed by the forcefulness of this Norma Cartwright that he had half a mind to give her his most apologetic smile and inform her that the position she was enquiring about had been filled.
But, ever a fool for a heaving bosom, Girard shooed away any suspicions and smiled. ‘Indeed we have such a vacancy, Mademoiselle Norma, though I am at a loss to understand how this very junior position could interest a gentlewoman such as yourself.’ Girard’s voice was deep and grave and like everything about him – including his grey hair, his conservatively cut suit and his lugubrious expression – was designed to cultivate an air of steadfast trustworthiness.
Mademoiselle Norma smiled sweetly, wriggled her pert bottom on her chair, and shuffled herself nearer to Girard’s desk. He watched every movement with a wide-eyed fascination, the girl being possessed of an exquisite figure most charmingly displayed in a green velvet jacket and skirt. This wonderful body was complemented by a face – what he could see of it behind her coquettish half-veil – of such breathtaking loveliness that it even managed to soften the hardness of her blue eyes an
d the very determined set of her alluring mouth. These delightful features were framed by a puff of blonde hair. She was, in sum, a treat.
‘Oh, I’m not looking for a position for myself … not that sort of position, anyway!’ She gave a charmingly mischievous giggle. ‘I am newly arrived from the ForthRight, Monsieur Girard,’ she explained in a smoky voice, ‘having been accompanied to the Medi by my younger brother, Robert. My father has sent us here in anticipation of the unification of our two Sectors, in order that we might perfect our fluency in your wonderful language. To this end, my father has asked me to assist my brother to secure a position here in Paris, of a kind which will demonstrate to him how necessary hard work and diligence will be, if he is to thrive in this rather contrary world. When I heard of the position your department is seeking to fill, well, it seemed perfect for him.’
It was a strange request but these were strange times, and as he mulled it over, Girard was not inclined to consider it frivolous. A father determined to set his son to work, to teach him the ways of the world seemed to him an admirable ambition. But it was not an ambition with which he could assist, and he spread his hands to indicate his helplessness. ‘Alas, Mademoiselle, much as I am inclined to aid so charming a visitor to Paris, such is the unsettled political and economic nature of the world that the powers that be have issued an edict stipulating that all positions within the civil service of Paris must be filled by persons born in the Medi. As a consequence, my Ministry is only permitted to employ Quartier Chaudians. It is a policy known as “Looking After Our Own” and as your brother is not one of our own, I am not able to look after him.’
The girl seemed not one wit deterred by Girard’s demurral. She smiled again and edged even closer to the desk, leaning forward so her succulent breasts were temptingly within reach. It took an act of will for him not to reach out and caress them, but such ImPure familiarity was nowadays rather frowned upon. ‘Of course, my father is more concerned with little Robert gaining a proper insight into the world of commerce than with his being rewarded financially. And as Robert would refuse all reimbursement, it is a moot point whether he would, technically, be “employed”.’
‘Your brother would not require to be paid?’ asked a dumb-founded Girard, whose experience of good fortune persuaded him that it only touched those other than himself.
‘Not one centime.’
‘Ah,’ said Girard, and it was an ‘Ah’ replete with much meaning. If the brother of this angel would work for nothing, then his unpaid salary could be used to supplement Girard’s own. Certainly the thirty francs or so the boy would earn each week was not a fortune, but it was thirty francs better in his pocket than in someone else’s. ‘That, of course,’ he mused, as greed struggled with prudence, ‘is an interesting consideration, but really, Mademoiselle, it is impossible. The potential for scandal is considerable, you see.’
‘How unfortunate. I am sure that working under a man as powerful and potent as yourself would be a rewarding experience for any boy … or any girl for that matter. I myself, for instance, would deem it an honour to service … to serve you.’
Girard wondered for a moment whether he had heard this girl aright. No, it was impossible. ‘I am sorry, Mademoiselle?’
Norma Cartwright lowered her sad, sad eyes, then drew a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her jacket to dab them. ‘You should know, Monsieur Girard, that my father is ill at the moment. The pressures of political life, you understand. So I am most concerned that nothing occurs that might exacerbate his already fragile condition. I know how he frets about little Robert, and, as a dutiful daughter, I am inclined to do anything which might settle my brother in a suitable position, and thus bring my father some peace of mind.’
Her emphasis on the word ‘anything’ was almost undetectable, but after twenty years of picking his way so adroitly through the intricacies of Ministry politics, Girard was alive to the subtlest of nuances. The hairs on the back of his neck – and other places – bristled with excitement.
‘Anything?’ The word limped out of Girard’s mouth, as he struggled with the thought that this might, finally, be his lucky day.
Mademoiselle Norma Cartwright said nothing, but simply gazed at Girard with an amused half-smile adorning her lovely face. Then she stood up from her chair and went to stand by the window, gazing down to the street below. ‘You really have no idea, Monsieur Girard,’ she said finally, ‘how important it is that I have my brother safely positioned within the Ministry.’
And to Girard’s amazement she began to slowly unbutton the front of her close-fitting jacket. ‘Today, Monsieur, is my nineteenth birthday and it is traditional to give gifts on such a day. If you were to assist me in this matter, then you would receive a very special cadeau … a very special cadeau indeed.’ Unbuttoning finished, Norma Cartwright drew her jacket apart, revealing herself naked beneath. Girard sat stunned by the sight of such wonderful flesh. Norma Cartwright was beautiful when clothed; she was mesmerisingly lovely semi-naked. Girard was sure he had never seen breasts to equal those that this strange young woman was flaunting so openly.
‘This body, Monsieur Girard, will be yours on the same day that Rivets … er, Robert takes up his position in the mail-room. Do we have a bargain?’
All Gaston Girard could do was nod.
Claude Poisson, Directeur Général of Mitraille de Medi, the largest scrap-metal company in the Quartier Chaud, gazed towards heaven and for the first time in his life believed that somewhere up there ABBA was smiling back down on him. As far as he could estimate, the Awful Tower contained 10,550 tons of premium-grade steel, and in today’s market – with all the talk of war, embargoes and production shutdowns – that had to be worth…
Poisson cursed the three bottles of finest blood-claret he had shared that lunchtime with Monsieur Vanka Kruchkov of the ForthRight’s Procurement Commission. The wine had completely befuddled his abacus-like ability to calculate francs and profits. But what he did know was that, reduced to scrap metal, the Awful Tower was worth a lot – a fucking lot. A ‘fucking lot’ so big that it would set him up in that mansion off the Bois de Boulogne which he had his eye on and persuade Naughty Nancy, principal dancer at the Folies-Bergère, to become his mistress. A ‘fucking lot’ so big that he could feel himself stiffening just at the possibility of such a prize being within his grasp. Naughty Nancy with her marvellous mouth was a prize beyond compare. He might even be able to afford her sister, too.
‘C’est une grande, grande tâche,’ he muttered, as he tried desperately to estimate how many men and steamers would be necessary to dismantle the Tower.
‘Too big a job for Mitraille de Medi, perhaps?’ came the question from his side.
Cursing himself for his faux pas – he hadn’t realised Kruchkov was standing within earshot or that he understood French – Poisson vigorously shook his head. ‘Mais non, Monsieur Kruchkov, with Mitraille de Medi you are dealing with the biggest and the longest-standing of all the firms trading in scrap metal throughout the whole Quartier Chaud. Be of no doubt that if we are awarded the contract it will be executed with an aplomb most expeditious.’
‘How expeditious?’ asked Kruchkov.
Poisson studied his interrogator for a moment. He seemed very young to have been entrusted with such a large and politically sensitive project as the dismantling of the Awful Tower, and with his long hair and frivolous attitude he certainly did not possess the seriousness one normally expected of such a high-ranking official. But then all Russkis were rumoured to be a trifle eccentric, and this Kruchkov had implied earlier that his family connections were lofty. Still, it would do no harm to check out his bona fides.
He shrugged in that oh-so-eloquent way only Frenchmen are capable of. ‘Given access to the site, with a team of, say, forty men equipped with the most modern steam-driven chisels, and a fleet of ten of the biggest steamer lorries …’ He scratched his chin: he hated giving estimates when he was pissed. ‘Two months,’ he said finally.
Kruchkov stood silently assessing him for a long moment, then suddenly held out his hand in that oh-so-eloquent way only Russians are capable of. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Monsieur Poisson, and thanks for lunch. My Commission will be in touch.’ The Russian then turned on his heel, signalling that the meeting was over.
Poisson felt faint as images of future nights spent locked in the arms – and other parts – of Naughty Nancy vanished in a puff of reality. ‘Monsieur Kruchkov, please’ – he made a grab at the Russki’s arm – ‘have I said something which has mayhap offended you?’
The Russian paused, then gave an indulgent smile. ‘Not at all, Monsieur Poisson. It’s just that you seem not to have grasped the urgency the ForthRight ascribes to this project. That edifice,’ and here Kruchkov made a sneering glance towards the Tower, ‘is a carbuncle on the face of this great city, it is a ridiculous monument to the discredited philosophy of ImPuritanism. As such, its dismantling will be symbolic of the rejection of ImPuritanism by the Medi and of the sacrifice demanded of its CitiZens if UnFunDaMentalism is to triumph over the decadent philosophies at large in the Demi-Monde. The Provisional Government of the Free UnFunDaMentalist Medi wants the Awful Tower gone, and it wants it gone not in two months but in two weeks.’
‘Two weeks?’ Poisson felt the fug in his mind disperse as he struggled with the problem of how to dismantle such an enormous structure in such a ridiculously short time.
‘I have had discussions with ForthRight-based scrap-metal companies, and they believe a two-week timescale is feasible.’
Rod Rees - [The Demi-Monde 02] Page 35