Serafim and Claire

by Mark Lavorato

  Cécile

  15

  Claire stepped onto the stage bristling with charisma, the musicians watching her, smoothing their rhythm over, giving her time. She had the full attention of the theatre from the start. When the feature dancer entered the stage on cue, strutting down its centre, Claire was prepared to upstage her throughout the entire act, secretly sure that she would soon become the woman’s replacement anyway. In fact, she was paying the feature performer such little notice that she hadn’t even caught on that the routine she was performing was about to change.

  The lead dancer stopped just behind Claire, removed a heavy scarf from around her neck, winked at the audience, and with an audible cracking sound whipped the side of Claire’s buttock. Claire wheeled around, affronted, breaking out of character. The audience, having paid to see slapstick comedy at some point during the evening, roared with laughter. Then the feature dancer, ignoring Claire’s stupefied reaction, turned to whip the buttocks of the dancer on her other side. The other dancer’s reaction was timed and deliberate, rehearsed, her eyes widening, hands on her mouth, a quick naughty-girl stance before she continued gracefully on with her steps, the two conspirators in perfect time with each other, seamlessly moving away from the debacle, leaving Claire behind to wallow in it alone. Uneasily, the audience laughed again.

  The routine continued, only Claire, the undisputed brunt of the joke, was now shaken, watching out of the corner of her eye for some other rehearsed gag to be conjured without warning, and aimed solely at her ridicule. Her steps felt stiff and contrived, clumsily following the other dancers’ lead, lagging behind, trying to catch up, and she strained to keep the smile on her face from wilting sour. Embarrassed for her, all eyes mercifully returned to the feature dancer. When the act finished, every pair of hands in the theatre clapped exclusively for the restored favourite, back at centre stage, arms outstretched.

  Claire, afraid of what she might do to the other two dancers, didn’t return to the powder room as she had the previous night, but went straight out into the theatre instead and looked around for the manager. Knowing that her window of grandiose opportunity had instantly narrowed (and was likely about to clamp shut), she had the feeling that, if she were going to slip through it at all, she would have to do something quickly, and on the sly.

  She found the manager and sat next to him, ordering a cocktail. Seeing the disappointment in her posture, he reached across and sympathetically patted her hand, lit another cigarette, and forgot all about her. She hovered there beside him, making herself small, having senseless little conversations with some of the powerful men she’d met the night before, her words placed on the tablecloth like cute and quiet artifacts lined up for a child’s amusement. By the end of the night she was still close by, and managed to shuffle into the confusion of cars in a motorcade, on its way to an after-hours party.

  Claire’s heart skipped a beat as the Cadillac she was in pulled up to a massive house on Sherbrooke Street that was, of all places in Montreal, directly across from the mansion she had left as a rebellious jeune fille eight years earlier. Seeing the expression on her face, someone in the cab asked if she was all right. Yes, of course, fine, really — shouldn’t we go inside now? Sure, sure, filing out into the autumn night, her high heels digging into the grass that she’d once furtively stolen across to deliver a ruinous letter.

  In the house, Claire recognized the sights and smells as those belonging to an echelon of society she’d first come to know from the outside looking in: the gilded picture frames that she’d once dusted, the opulent rugs she’d swept, the gleaming silverware she’d polished. Just then a maid appeared with a silver tray listing with champagne glasses. As the woman lowered it to the circle of guests, hands shot in to snag a flute each, fingers raising them high to clink-clink. The maid was ignored, though excused herself anyway, mumbling in a French-Canadian accent and scurrying off to fill more glasses, to keep all the late night visitors cheerful and serviced.

  As Claire watched the maid disappear into the kitchen, she wondered if she recognized the woman — only it was Claire herself who would be recognized.

  “Wait a minute,” an older gentleman said. He had joined the group and was suddenly pointing into Claire’s chest. “Didn’t . . . think . . . no, I’m sure . . . you used to work just across the street, years back, at the Applebys’. Did you not? Yes, I’m sure of it. You sent us that diabolical letter upon leaving their residence.” He chuckled. “That’s right. Is it not?”

  Claire felt herself growing very small. She feigned confusion, tried to be dismissive. “Non. No-no. I don’t know what you mean. Honest.” She shook her head, sipped from her glass, watched him above its tight rim.

  “But I am sure of it. In fact, let me get my wife, see if she recognizes you too. Just a moment.” He left the circle as more people filed through the front door, fanning out into the open spaces and dark wood of the manor like spilt milk. A band swept into the party and, after tuning their instruments, began to play. The people who had been standing around mingling were slowly drawn towards the music.

  Claire, suddenly alone, looked at the front door, then looked around for the manager of the Gayety, whom she spotted talking to a young girl at the top of a curving, red-carpeted staircase. Meanwhile, the owner of the house had found his wife and the couple were now making their way towards her, the husband explaining his conviction as they shouldered through the crowd, which was just starting to snap its fingers, women’s hips beginning to sway.

  Claire’s window of opportunity had diminished to a sliver of light. She had one simple decision to make: engage or retreat. Claire took a deep breath, placed her champagne glass on a small table at her side, and tucked a strand of hair further beneath her cloche hat. Then she slipped into the salon, out of sight, and re-emerged near the red-carpeted staircase, which she quickly climbed, directly towards the manager. She grabbed him by the hand and dragged him to the first door that she could reach.

  She pulled him inside, closed the door behind them, and began kissing him, fighting to pin him against the wall as he initially tried to free himself, laughing uncomfortably. He looked around the dark of the room, which appeared to be a guest bedroom. Claire loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, kissed his chest, eased onto her knees, and unfastened his belt.

  They locked the door and eventually made their way to the bed, where the sex was abrupt and assertive, on top of the sheets. The manager pinned her arms above her head and thrusted with sickly wheezes, baring his cigarette-yellowed teeth. When he was finished, he rolled off her, caught his breath, and made his way to his clothes.

  “Listen,” Claire whispered as he picked his pants up off the floor, “I think we should go. Back to your place. Right now.”

  The manager was already buttoning his shirt. “Gotta better idea, doll. Back in a jiffy.”

  Claire strained to give him a teasing smile as he straightened his bow tie and opened the door. “I will wait right here, then,” she said, running a hand along her bare thigh.

  He paused, taking her in, giving his head a shake. “Bearcat!” Then he left.

  When the door opened again, he wasn’t alone. He’d brought two of the other executives she’d been talking to earlier, both of them with crooked smiles, slicked hair, and empty eyes. Claire turned onto her stomach, covering herself and trying to giggle, though trying harder to work out just exactly what was expected of her. The door was locked and both of the new men began to undress, watching her as they did so, exchanging mischievous glances.

  The manager sat on the edge of the bed beside Claire and produced a small brown bottle with a wide mouth and stubby glass stopper. “Little present for you, doll.”

  Claire looked at it doubtfully. “Whiskey?”

  “Cream sherry, only hopped up, and how!” He removed the stopper and licked its rim. “Mmm, mmm, mmm, he says!” He dipped his pointer finger deep into the bottle an
d held it out in front of Claire’s mouth, waiting for her to suck it. She did as expected, sure that the taste was going to be bitter, some sour concoction, but instead found it to be sweet, nutty, velvety. She suggestively sucked on his finger for a long while, until she’d licked the last of the residue from the skin of his knuckles. As she removed his finger from her mouth, her lips and tongue began to go numb and tingle, an easing wave of calm washed over her, her body felt like a weight that was growing heavy, sinking into dark water, as her head nodded down onto the mattress, her body submerging, drawing her further into a floating quietude.

  In the drifting of this slow oblivion, she was aware of two distant facts. Her body seemed to be having sex incessantly, with man after man, numberless dry hands squeezing at her breasts and buttocks, while a finger with the same sweet liquid kept wetting her lips, kept dabbing her farther and farther into the dark.

  When she awoke in the same strange bedroom, it was noon of the following day. She heard church bells tolling in the distance. Claire, cold and unclothed on top of the covers, rolled around to gather sheets closer to her skin, coiling herself into a ball and moaning. Her sounds, however, beckoned a set of quick footsteps, and the door was suddenly flung open.

  “What in the . . . Just . . . who . . . Why, goodness! Would you please leave at once!” It was the same wife who had been summoned (and eluded) the night before. By the looks of it, she had finally succeeded in recognizing Claire.

  Claire scrambled out of the bed and yanked her clothes on, while the woman, clearly disgusted, watched, her narrow eyes seething, arms across her chest. Claire’s hand slid down the wooden banister and she was quickly out in the bright Sunday light. The couple gawped at her from the porch, scandalized again.

  As she walked, Claire became aware of just how sore she was between her thighs, and how sensitive her eyes had become to the hard autumn sun. She cupped her brows with her hands, and a block later waved down a taxi. She went directly to the manager’s house, opened his door as if she’d been living there for years, and found him reading the paper at his kitchen table, in his housecoat and slippers, clearly not happy to see her. “Got something against knocking, doll? Am a little busy today.”

  Claire took a deep breath and used the very last of her patience and energy to give him an easygoing smile. “I didn’t have a chance to talk to you last night, about my career.”

  The manager looked regrettably into his coffee cup, put it down, and lit a cigarette. “Well, I don’t need you to stand in anymore, if that’s what you mean. Gotta real floorflusher on her way up from New York right now. She’ll get in this afternoon. I’ll pay you what we agreed, though, even throw in a little bonus for ya.” He gave her a wink, took a swig of coffee.

  “Non. No, I’m not talking of this small part. I’m talking about my career. Of Broadway, Hollywood. You can help me.”

  He sighed, slumped in his chair. “Look, we established ya can’t act, can’t sing, butcha can dance.”

  “So a Broadway show, of a dancer! Can’t you see it?”

  He scowled, shook his head. “No. No, I can’t see it. Look, doll, I’ll tell it to yuh straight. You’re a looker, a real tight tomato, and you can dance, no question. You’re good. But you’re not great, and surely not prodigious. With only a couple years before you dry up, you got it good here, in this town, right where you are.” He butted out his freshly lit cigarette. “Sorry, doll. That’s how it goes. Now, be on your way.” He waved her back towards his front door. “Your cheque’ll be ready to pick up next week. So, if you’ll excuse me.” He lifted his newspaper, folded it in his lap.

  Claire stood in his kitchen, staring at the sunlight on the floor. She could hear children playing nearby, their muffled shouts of mock terror and elation. She was shaking, weak, and wanted to cry, but she wanted more to simply smash something, feel it break in her hands, and then inspect the millions of tiny pieces in her palms. She looked to her left and saw a series of envelopes, the tops of which were ripped and frayed, a copper letter opener resting beside them. She snatched it, making a fist, its handle in her grip, and stepped towards the manager. He stood up, eyes wide, hands open, displaying his complete submission and readiness to co-operate. “Now just . . . now just calm down there.”

  Claire held the knife against his neck, his Adam’s apple rising and falling around the tip, which was pressing a dimple into the soft skin of his throat. He took a few steps back, and she took a few steps forward to compensate, until he had backed himself into a corner.

  At that point, Claire glanced down at his feet, and with sudden clarity commanded that he kick off his slippers and slide them across the floor. He complied. Then, holding the knife out at him still, she slowly backed away, towards his kitchen cupboards, where her reaching hand seized upon a wineglass. She hurled it in his general direction, and it smashed against the wall to his left, shards splaying onto the floor around his bare feet. He flinched, cursed, and tried to take a step towards safety, quickly realizing his inability to escape.

  Seeming to grasp what was coming next, he slowly crouched into a tight ball, tucked himself into the corner, and placed his hands over his head. The next glass shattered just above his crumpled form, slightly to his right. It was hard for Claire to believe how satisfying these sounds and sensations were. She grabbed another glass. Wineglass after snifter after tumbler after flute were pitched against the white walls of the kitchen, exploding into crystalline splinters that further constricted his movements until he could no longer even rock onto the sides of his feet to shift his weight, and every last glass in his kitchen had been obliterated. As she left towards the front door, he lifted his head to watch her go, shards in his hair and on his shoulders tinkling to the floor. Moving very carefully, he said nothing.

  That same afternoon, Claire learned, officially, that she’d lost her job at Midway. She spent the following week soaking her pillow with tears, but eventually she left the house to visit the only two other burlesque theatres in town, Starland and the King Edward. She knew she was going to run out of money soon. But the news of her madcap stunt against the manager of the Gayety had fanned out across the city’s entertainment world like windy fire through parched grass, and neither of the theatres wanted anything to do with her. The same went for every other reputable establishment. This more than pleased the other dancers Claire was rooming with, who vehemently demanded she pay her late rent, knowing she must be nearing the limits of her means.

  Claire moved out and found a minuscule and incredibly cheap apartment where she could be alone and free from their smug remarks. She got a job at an off-the-map cabaret in the east end, which only just managed to cover her expenses, eating scraps of food she was meant to be clearing from patrons’ plates, as well as the secret packages of leftovers that her flirtations with the plump and sweaty cook afforded her.

  Convinced that things couldn’t possibly get worse, she then missed her monthly cycle. She would close her eyes at night, willing her next one to come along with the new moon, as it always had before. Soon she began waking at dawn with an irrepressible need to vomit. Claire took steps to force herself to miscarry, but they didn’t work. By the time she’d missed her third month, she was beginning to show, and started asking other waitresses and dancers at her scruffy cabaret if they knew of a place where she could be “treated for a suppression of her cycles.” One of them did, and not only gave her the address but lent her the substantial sum she would need to have the procedure performed.

  Meanwhile, the wind had turned icy and the streets were full of dirty snowdrifts. Claire’s appointment was at night, and while she’d noticed that the address was in the Red Light district, she’d never thought to consider that it might actually be inside a brothel. A madam answered the door. Confused, Claire handed her the slip of paper she’d been given, with the address on it and the name of a man. The madam told her to stop looking so sheepish and out of place.

&nb
sp; She led Claire by the arm through a tiny common room where a piano player was jumpily pounding at the keys. He gave them a missing-tooth smile and leaned further into the ragtime song he was playing as they passed behind him. Claire was pointed to the top of a staircase and told to go to the last door on the right. No one was in the room, but it smelled of sex, the bed ruffled, creased, and moist. Moans and grunts of women’s pleasure, clearly exaggerated for their patrons’ benefit, pulsed through the walls on all sides. Somewhere, someone was laughing uncontrollably.

  The door burst open and a thin and awkwardly tall man stepped in with a case, from which he produced a bottle of rye whiskey and a knitting needle. After she’d handed him the agreed-upon fee, he handed her the bottle of rye, adding that she should drink at least three-quarters of it, as fast as she could. Claire did as she was told.

  The moment she was feeling drunk, he asked her to swallow one last shot before he began. He then had her lie on the bed, hike up her skirt, and take off her underclothes. He produced a small wooden spoon, had her clamp it in her mouth, and inserted the long knitting needle between her legs, soon finding the spot where it would continue much farther. The pain was instant and intense. She bit into the wood. The man then applied pressure down, up, from side to side, as a means of dilating her cervix. Claire almost lost consciousness twice from the pain. But with the spoon in her mouth, her muffled shrieks blended readily into the medley of noises in the brothel. After several minutes of this, he stood up and nodded. Now, he said, he could begin.

  That was when the piano abruptly stopped in the middle of a Scott Joplin tune. There was the sound of scuffling downstairs, then a door slamming shut, someone whistling, followed by the thunder of footsteps both climbing and descending stairs. The man hustled to the window, peered down into the street. “Câlice . . . Tabarnak!” He scurried out of the room, though in all the confusion it was hard to distinguish which of the footsteps were his. Claire, drunk, maudlin, draped her hands over her face and began to whimper.