by David Haynes
“I have loved Victor from the very first moment I saw him. You look surprised, Robert?”
“Alexander said it was Victor who loved you, and that you would not have him because of his ways.”
They walked a little further before turning off the boulevard onto a narrow and dark side street. It was little more than an alleyway and may have been in another country for the similarity it possessed to the rest of Pigalle.
“Alexander knows nothing. We continue the pretence and we show the world a lie. It is just theatre, misdirection. It is unseemly, even in Paris, for a woman such as I to chase a man and seek his affection. He creates the lascivious disguise to protect me, from those who would consider me a harlot,” Eve stopped beside a tall and slender building. They both stared up at its elegant façade.
“He pays me far in excess of what I deserve and he asks nothing in return.” She turned back to Bishop, “I asked him once why he could not love me. Do you know his reply?”
Bishop shook his head.
“He said, ‘If I allow myself to love you, you will know nothing but pain and torment. I have inflicted my misery on my one love and I will not do it again. I will love no other woman ever again.’ It is noble but I would suffer it all ten times over to lie beside him for just one night.”
She turned the key and pushed open the enormous door, “All things are not as they appear. Victor is not the man you think. He has wounds which fester and itch; they will never heal. Alexander and his mother had him, however briefly, and they should be thankful. Goodnight, Robert.” She disappeared inside the darkness and closed the door.
Bishop stood and looked to the window on the first floor. A lamp spluttered briefly into life before its faint glow was concealed behind the drapes.
He turned and walked back toward Boulevard Clichy. The theatre suddenly felt in a perilous position. The show itself was undoubtedly destined for success but the relationships within were strained. It seemed impossible for things to continue as they were, particularly between Alexander and Victor. He hoped they would resolve their issues tonight otherwise a catastrophic end was inevitable.
Across the boulevard, at a table outside Palace Café, a gentleman cursed his luck. He had barely had enough time to take a seat, let alone light his favourite cigar, before Bishop had once again appeared from the narrow side street.
“Fool,” he hissed. The actress was a handsome woman, and judging by her gasping and heaving on stage, she was definitely passionate. He would not have left her side quite as readily as the foolish writer.
He pushed the café au lait to the side and got to his feet. Keeping stride with Bishop was easy, for the writer sauntered lazily down the boulevard clearly lost in his thoughts. He now knew the address of Mademoiselle Bissette. Perhaps it was for the best that Bishop had not stayed with her longer, or even stayed the night. Now he had the opportunity to follow him and to know where his lodgings were. That knowledge may prove useful yet.
*
For the first time since they had begun working together, Bishop and Metier did not tinker with the script or the direction for the following evening’s performance. It was a relief to everyone that there was to be no need for intense rehearsal during the day. It afforded the opportunity for quiet conversation between them.
“I apologise that you were forced to witness the confrontation between my father and me. It was disgraceful.” Metier had not shaved and his eyes were more red than white.
“Think nothing of it. I have already erased it from my memory.”
Metier shook his head and drummed his fingers on the desk, “The conflicts between my father and me are distasteful but necessary.”
“It is not my business, Alexander. I merely wish you both success in settling these matters”
“But I fear it is now your business.” He took his pen from the desk in trembling fingers. “We have gone some way to find resolution but it is not an easy task, for either of us. There are some truths in what he says, but other statements are lies. They must be,” he paused, “I cannot believe he left us in order to protect mother and me from his own violence. His libertine ways are not only confined to excessive displays of violence. You have seen how he desires Eve. It is unseemly and I do not believe him.”
Bishop thought back to his conversation with Eve. “Perhaps it is not as it appears. Perhaps you have come to the wrong conclusion?”
“Impossible. A man such as Victor will never change.”
“Then I fear you are deceiving yourself,” Bishop bit his lip. Eve had spoken frankly to him but was it in confidence, or in the hope he would reveal the information to Alexander?
“You sound as though you know more than I. Robert, you must tell me what you know for I am in torment.”
“I know little but for the conversation I had with Eve. She declared her love for him. She is the one who desires him, loves him and wishes to be with him. She has made this clear to him and yet he has not succumbed to her. She is an attractive woman, Alexander and if Victor is the man you think, he would not be able to restrain himself, of that I am quite sure.”
Metier stared back; the revelation was clearly sinking in, “You think my father is a good man?”
“I did not say that. I do not know him. I am merely reporting to you what I have been told.”
Metier stood from behind his desk, “She has no reason to lie. If she has indeed offered herself to him and he has refused then this demeans her.” Relief flowed through Metier’s voice.
A small part of Bishop felt he should not interfere and allow the natural course of events to occur. Yet, the future of the theatre hung in the balance and with it his prospects. He continued, “Furthermore she told me that he would never love another woman again. I suspect that woman is your mother. They all know he is your father. They have known for some time.”
Metier almost ran toward him, “This is what he told me but I did not believe him. How could I?” he grasped Bishop around the shoulders. “The grey clouds are lifting, Robert, I can feel it. I must find my father,” he grinned wildly and ran from the office and then almost immediately poked his head around the door. “Of course they know. They would have to be imbeciles not to realise. We are too alike, my father and I!”
Perhaps the uncertainty around the theatre was starting to lift. Perhaps there was a long-term future after all. He followed Metier from the office but walked toward the stage. He could hear Heath’s infectious laughter scuttling toward him.
When he arrived, he found Heath chasing the pianist around the stage with the now dried pig entrails. The others laughed and cheered him on and even the poor pianist laughed.
Bishop approached Eve. He was anxious to tell her of his disclosure to Alexander.
“I must apologise. I have told Alexander everything you told me last evening. I offer no excuse other than it may improve all of our fortunes if they can work together and not argue,” he lowered his head.
“I hoped you would. Alexander would not listen to me about this matter. Now I must be to him nothing more than a common prostitute.” She looked to the floor, “Is that how you see me, Robert?”
Bishop was shocked. He had not considered the sacrifice Eve had made in revealing the true nature of her feelings. “It is absurd to think that way. You have done nothing to feel shame for. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to fall for Victor’s charms. Besides, I consider you to be the pin about which this theatre operates. Without you we are nothing.”
“Perhaps.” Eve replied flatly.
After a few awkward, silent moments she pointed at Heath, smiling, “He is quite demented. You may have your hands full trying to keep him in line. He is destined for greater things, I imagine. As are you and Alexander.”
Bishop watched as Heath caught the pianist and dragged him to the floor, “And why should this not be the same for you? There is no reason this should not be the making of all of us!”
“Not now. Not for me. I feel quite sure I shall
finish my career here, in Le Grand Guignol. I gave up much to perform here and I will happily end my days under the gaze of the angels.”
Bishop had not been in a position to examine Eve so closely as now. She looked weary, as if the torture she endured night after night was taking its toll. He looked back to Heath who was busy looping the guts around the pianist’s neck, “He is a natural, I think. I have no experience but I imagine it is quite rare to find someone quite so comfortable performing this macabre material.”
“Indeed it is. It is unnatural for any of us to perform this way. For a man, even an actor, to be quite so blasé about such matters leads me to believe he has seen violence before. Although he seems to believe it is all a game. It is not a bad way to be.”
“Then we have been most fortunate in finding him. It would appear the future is promising for Le Grand Guignol!” Bishop was deliberately over enthusiastic. He wanted Eve to be as excited as he was about their prospects.
Heath bounded over with the remains of the intestines draped across his shoulders, “Do not think me presumptuous, Robert, but in assaulting Jeromé with these guts I have had an idea about the final act of disembowelment. My character is convinced that Eve is pregnant, yes?”
“That’s the idea, yes.”
“So can we not obtain a stillborn baby or a foetus from the hospital and throw that to the angels instead?” he looked excited and expectant. “It would be more symbolic I think.”
Eve’s gasp prompted a swift reply from Bishop, “But she is not with child. That is the entire point. His delusions have taken over and what seems real to him is in fact a cruel illusion played by his tortured mind.”
“But that is what the audience believe. Can we not trick them? Can she not, in fact, be with child?
Bishop was conscious that Eve had walked away and he felt compelled to end the conversation quickly.
“It is a step too far, Andrew. It would not be tolerated by Paris or the rest of the cast.”
Heath shrugged and turned away, “Where is Jeromé? Jeromé!”
Pere Lachaise
He had followed the creature Blair all night, keeping a safe distance lest he should be spotted. It mattered not though, for he was not known to Blair and if their paths crossed then it would be nothing more than a passing of strangers on a busy Parisian boulevard.
Blair strode confidently from café to café, from one lecherous encounter to another until at least the alcohol penetrated his core. His staggering and lurching path across the city took him finally to the highest point. To Montmartre and to the shadow of the great basilica.
It was less easy to remain concealed at such a place for they were the only souls there. But when a man loses a fight with fatigue, he must allow his eyelids to fall silently across his eyes.
Blair had collapsed against the basilica and pressed his back against the cold stone. “Help me!” he had called into the night air, so sweet with the scent of cherry blossom.
He walked toward him, holding in his hand the little knife his father had given him. The shadow of the unfinished domed roof fell upon him and made the clear night dark.
“Help you, Mr Blair? Do you really want help or is just another of your childish tricks?”
He had opened his eyes then, just for a moment before closing them again. Did Blair think he was dreaming?
He crouched beside him and ran the sharp point of the blade down Blair’s cheek.
“Does this help?” The blade drew a pencil thin line of crimson blood along its path. “Open your eyes and look upon me. You may find my face familiar.”
As instructed, Blair opened his eyes again and blinked rapidly, trying to bring focus where there was only confusion, “You have cut me?”
“Yes I have, but fear not, there is more to come.”
Blair had shown recognition then. The merest flash of familiarity lit up his eyes for just a fraction of a second and then it was gone.
He thrust the point of the knife through the side of Blair’s neck sending an arc of deepest blood onto the grey stone. The sharpened blade did not slip easily through the hard cartilage and the twisting effort sent a spasm along his arm. He pushed again and felt it break through. The tips of his fingers were slick and slipped above the hilt. They wriggled deeper into the wound.
He gasped involuntarily. It was delicious rapture to sink below the flesh like this; to feel the blood caress and paint his fingers red. To explore virgin territory, untouched by anyone save for God.
He supported the body and removed the blade. He had no need for it now for his fingers could do the work far swifter than the little knife. He pushed his fingers deeper and widened the wound. They searched for a prize in the dark silence of Blair’s throat and wrenched. Blair’s head lolled to the side like a collapsed marionette and a faint but pleasant hiss of air sent a shiver down his spine. Two cuts from the little blade and Blair’s hold on his own voice had ended.
He stared down at it. “Exquisite,” he whispered.
It was a shame that he had not screamed or wailed in death but that little hiss was just as sweet. Besides now he had it, he could listen to the poisonous voice of the drunken fool for all eternity.
He placed it beside his ear, as one would with a seashell, “What’s that you say? Ah do not fret for your colleagues; they will be joining you soon. I have a special place for the three of you. You may talk to me now. Allow me to cure your ills.”
*
“Is this not a normal occurrence then?” Heath asked.
“It is not normal for a man to beat his wife, Andrew. A man and woman who are married should be in love and whisper sweet nothings to each other. He should sing her love songs and paint glorious pictures in her honour. Beating her until she weeps blood is not normal. No.” Eve replied.
The two writers and their leading actors sat around a table at the bustling Café d’Harcourt. The show had once again been a triumphant display of the utmost barbaric lunacy imaginable. Heath, it appeared, was made for the role.
“I cannot speak of the relationship between man and wife for I have little knowledge, but it would appear your childhood experience is neither normal nor correct.” Bishop was forced to speak loudly to make his voice heard over the din.
Heath had consumed a great deal of champagne at Bishop’s expense and he leaned forward unsteadily, “She would come to my room with blood at the corners of her mouth. She would hold me while I wept and the blood would wash over my face. Downstairs, I could hear him growling in the parlour like an animal until she returned and accepted her fate,” he almost spat the words at Bishop.
“And where is he now?” Metier asked.
Heath leaned back and threw his arms in the air, “One night he took a knife and tried to cut out her eyes. They slung him in Bethlem where he rots to this day.”
“This is awful, Andrew!” Eve placed her hand over his, “Your poor mother. Where is she now?”
“Oh quite dead of course. The beatings and torment drove her as mad as my father. She existed merely as a ghost in the shadow of laudanum. They found her bloated carcass beneath Putney Bridge all covered in Thames mud.”
Eve bought her hands to her mouth, “What horrors you have suffered! Is it any wonder you do not find our little play so shocking.”
They sat in silence for a while content to listen to the music being played by the quartet rather than Heath’s dismal account of his childhood.
In a flurry of red silk and ostrich feather, Eve jumped up and took hold of Heath’s arm, “Come and dance with me. I feel the need to lighten your sprits!”
Heath did not object and followed her happily.
“Why has your father not joined us?” Bishop asked Metier.
“I fear his spirit has been broken and not just by the death of his friend.”
“What else is causing him anguish?”
“Me,” Metier paused, “or rather what he has done to my mother and me. This reconciliation between us has awoken feelings which I suspe
ct he has buried for many years. He is asking to see my mother again.”
“And will she come? Will she see him?”
“She would not hesitate. Not even for a second.” Metier replied instantly.
“Then why not allow him to see her?”
“It is not a case of allowing them to meet again,” They both looked at Eve who was laughing and dancing with Heath. “I do not think any good can come from it. It will undoubtedly lead to further anguish. For all concerned.”
Bishop poured the remaining champagne into both their glasses, “I cannot advise you on what you should do but perhaps if you sleep on it the solution will become clearer,” he checked his pocket watch. “I am afraid I must leave you. I have yet to write to my father about Blair and he would be angry if he missed the funeral.”