by Anna Lord
Like the theatre on rue Chaptal, this theatre had once been a chapel. It had a stage surmounted with cherubic angels and the upper tiers were filled with private booths, similar to private boxes in an opera house. They had originally been the preserve of nuns who could listen to sermons without upsetting priestly male sensibilities. Today the private booths were booked out months in advance. Unable to secure a booth, they had to settle for seats in the tenth row. The view was not brilliant but the Countess had remembered to bring her opera glasses.
There were three short plays, each one more horrific than the last, featuring madness, murder, rape and every conceivable outrage common to the lives of the lower classes. Brief comedy sketches were staged between the lurid plays, providing respite for jangled nerves, however, they seemed to increase rather than decrease the sense of heightened anticipation for the final brutal performance.
“What on earth is happening in the booths?” asked Dr Watson when the upper gallery began shaking.
The Countess rolled her eyes. “Need you ask?”
Dr Watson turned bright red and was about to step outside for a cigarette when his eyes became riveted to the stage. The curtain lifted and the scene opened with a customer sitting outside a café. It was closing time but the customer had passed out from drink. The café owner left him where he was, slumped over the table, and locked up the café as usual. As darkness fell and the limelights dimmed, along came a mad woman carrying a large kitchen knife. She cut out the man’s tongue, took it home, cooked it and fed it to her husband.
The realism was staggering. Blood had fountained from the man’s mouth and covered most of the stage. A dog had appeared and lapped it up. Someone in the fifth row vomited on the person in front and a brawl broke out. The violent melee soon spread. By the time the curtain fell pandemonium had erupted. The Countess and Dr Watson dodged the worst of the punches being thrown by mounting the stairs and escaping to the first floor.
“Did you see that final sketch?” Dr Watson gurgled as they slipped into an empty booth to catch their breaths.
“Yes, yes,” she responded breathlessly, heart pounding as if she had just made passionate love to her late husband, “and there simply must be a connection between what we just witnessed on stage and the latest murder.”
“I think we should report what we’ve seen to Inspector de Guise first thing tomorrow.”
“We can do better than that,” she said, hooking her arm through his and steering him back out of the booth and along a tight corridor toward a black door marked: No Entrance Beyond This Point.
“You cannot go through there,” he protested.
“We need to meet the playwright. This door might lead backstage. We need to find out when the play was written and when it was first performed.”
“Wait up,” he warned sternly as someone stepped out suddenly from an adjacent booth and banged straight into him. He apologized out of habit though it had not been his fault.
The theatre-goer, head cast down, did not acknowledge the courtesy or even offer an apology of his own as he passed swiftly through the prohibited door.
Then, with equal suddenness, a second figure emerged from the next booth and did the same thing, almost knocking the doctor off his feet. It was not surprising the two figures had crashed into him. The first was clad in a long black cloak with a voluminous hood that was pulled down to disguise the face, presumably to avoid being recognised. The second figure was also clad in black, though the disguise was not as successful. The former could have been a monk. The latter was definitely a religious cleric.
“Disgraceful!” mumbled the doctor with a sad shake of his head as the second figure also passed swiftly through the prohibited door.
“We are wasting time,” rebuked the Countess in frustration as the door slammed back into place. “Allons-y!”
The black door did indeed lead backstage via a narrow set of unlit steps that turned sharply more than once. It brought them to a corner jammed with musical instruments. Flecked light leaked in through hidden skylights, highlighting a grand piano here and a set of cymbals there. No one questioned their right to be there and no one tried to stop them, most likely because the place was an exercise in chaos.
Throughout the entire performance there had been but two actresses and three actors on the stage sharing the many roles, and yet backstage there must have been five times that many people rushing back and forth, skirting wooden crates, dodging ropes and pulleys, deftly navigating piles of costumes and stacks of furniture. Voices drifted in and out, a dull cacophony of urgent echoes.
“Sylvie, where’s the mop and bucket!”
“Catch that bloody dog and get him back in his cage!”
“Make sure Kiki puts the knife back in the box before she goes out!”
“Where’s Raoul?”
“Raoul! Raoul!”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
An angry voice pulled them up sharp.
Dr Watson spun round, ready to offer grovelling apologies, while the Countess immediately adopted an attitude of vivacious privilege. Beaming graciously, she turned to face their interlocutor wearing the feminine equivalent of the seigneurial mask of the benevolent aristocrat having recognized the hint of a Russian accent that she thought she might charm. But the cunning bit of feminine contrivance was wasted, for the Ruski was not addressing them. He was addressing three Aryan demigods.
“I told you NOT to come back stage! Get the hell out of here! You can wait on the street with all the other dirty bastards or better still go back to that filthy cafe! Fuck off!”
For one fraught-filled moment it looked as if there might be another lurid murder, including encore of severed tongue, as the hulking trio of blond Atlas lookalikes took umbrage and bunched their not insignificant fists. Everyone held their collective breath.
“Durack – un, deux, trois! Are you deaf?” castigated the Ruski, standing his ground unflinchingly in the face of not one but three pulverizing Goliaths, triptych of blond brows drawn down in a thrice-fold threatening slash. “I said: Fuck off! Bistro! Bistro! Bistro!”
Stage-hands began inching back, looking for some place to hide until the suicidal storm passed, but to everyone’s surprise the Germanic trio, fists still clenched, retreated without recourse. The relief was palpable, though the smell of fear lingered.
“Who was that?” asked the Countess, bailing up the first stage-hand to bustle past, mop and bucket in hand.
‘Kasper, Klaus and Karl Humboldt – they’re in love with Kiki.”
“I meant the Russian.”
“Oh, that’s Monsieur Davidov. The director.”
The Countess waited for the stage-hand to scurry away. “What did you make of that fiery scene?”
“It was as tense a performance as anything we witnessed on the stage tonight,” replied Dr Watson, using a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. “The trio of giants must be the same men Inspector de Guise alluded to earlier; the ones who own the cafe where the fifth murder took place. It establishes a definite link between the café and the theatre.”
“It links one of the actresses to the cafe too.”
“Was she the one who played the role of the old mad woman who cut out the tongue?”
The Countess checked the theatre programme in her hand. “Yes, Mademoiselle Kiki.”
“It appears that all three brothers are in love with the same woman,” he added portentously, “that cannot possibly end well.”
“Let’s see if we can score an introduction to the fatal allumeuse.”
“What about the Russian?”
“What about him?”
“I don’t think he takes kindly to strangers skulking around back-stage.”
“Let me handle him. On y va.”
Dr Watson developed a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder before following in her reckless wake. They made it as far as the next cramped corridor before they came face to face
with the mad Russian. This time he was tearing strips off the doorman.
“If you let those three anarchists in again you can find another job! I don’t want to see those fucking revolutionaries back-stage again! Is that clear!” He turned abruptly and crashed straight into the Countess. “Who the hell are you!”
“Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna.” Without fail, her name stopped people in their tracks, even mad Russians
With flirtatious elegance, she held out a silk-gloved hand and to Dr Watson’s eternal surprise the demented director did not chop it off or tear her limb from limb. Totally tamed, he took her silk-wrapped fingers and brought them to his spittled lips.
“Enchante,” he frothed with husky restraint.
“A thrilling performance tonight,” she praised flirtatiously, “but not half as thrilling as the one we witnessed a few moments ago back-stage. Bravo, Monsieur Davidov.”
The proud and fearless despot burst out laughing and everyone stopped to look, stunned and not a little frightened of the Russian tyrant who sometimes flayed them alive just for the fun of it. Things were always tense after a show as their temperamental director let off steam by venting his spleen, and when the Brothers Boldt showed up there were always sure to be an explosion of fireworks.
Monsieur Davidov was the epitome of the passionate Russian artiste. He possessed a blistering gaze and a pugnacious chin. His zealous hair was wild and woolly. Startling black eyebrows looked like they’d been forged from pig-iron; they framed the windows to his dark Slavic soul and could have held up the Eiffel Tower in the event of collapse. Despite being minus his frock-coat he was well-groomed with a fine silk cravat and diamond pin, matching waistcoat and gold pocket watch.
“I am thrilled you found it thrilling. Be sure to tell all your rich friends. The play runs all week. Next week we do another thrilling piece. Bring all your rich friends to that one too.” He waved his hand in the air as he spoke as if painting with broad brushstrokes on a large canvas. The effect was expressive, impressive and outrageous.
“The current play started when?”
He was in the process of rushing away when the Countess’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Last night was opening night.”
“Each play runs for one week?”
“Da.”
“You are the director?”
“Da – producer, director, owner, everything!”
“You own the theatre?”
“Da, da, da! Questions, questions, questions! What is this – a Tsarist interrogation!”
“Do you write the plays too?”
“More questions!” He threw back his head and guffawed riotously. “That is the one thing I do not do. Raoul writes the plays.” The name seemed to trigger something in the dim recesses of his long lost memory as he swept the wild shaggy mane out of his darkly shining eyes. “Raoul? Where is Raoul? I want to speak to Raoul now! That opening scene was a stinker! Where is Raoul? You little weasel you cannot hide from me! I will sniff you out!” He lifted his face to the blackened rafters, cupped his mouth and bellowed, “Raoooul!”
“You sound like a castrati.”
A gently chiding voice forced the trio to wheel round, but it was not the voice of a man, not the hapless, elusive Raoul who spoke. It was a lady of un certain age.
“What is the matter Serge? You bellow like a castrated bull. The play was a huge success and still you are not satisfied.”
“Ah, la marquise,” said Monsieur Davidov, bowing reverently, “my most devoted critic, my most ardent patroness. I am a perfectionist, as you know. That opening scene was rubbish. Stilted. Awkward. Flat. Dead. It needs a subtle change of direction here and there.”
“Nonsense. It worked just fine. But do as you will. You always do. Introduce me.”
Smiling indulgently, the lady shifted her soft sea-green gaze to the Countess.
“La marquise,” said the Russian proudly, intuiting perhaps a new patroness, younger and wealthier whose name he had memorized already, “let me introduce la comtesse Volodymyrovna. La comtesse may I present the Marquise de Merimont.”
Recognition lit up the limpid sea-green eyes. “The step-child of Countess Zoya, non?”
“Oui,” replied the Countess.
“Your aunt was a remarkable woman. Remarkable,” the voice repeated softly, a curious intonation winnowing the first from the last.
“Allow me to introduce my travelling companion, Dr Watson,” said the Countess, circumventing the conversation veering toward the usual sympathetic platitudes. The term ‘travelling companion’ was incredibly handy, one of those all-encompassing terms that covered just about every eventuality, as well as every unreality.
The Marquise de Merimont was a lady of advanced years with a pearlescent complexion that seemed to sparkle, as if it had been dusted with finely ground diamonds. Her fine silver hair was elegantly fashioned into flattering ringlets not unlike the style favoured by that doyenne of French fashion ages past, Empress Josephine. The silver ringlets were kept in place by an abundance of silver combs and diamond hair pins that glittered like tiny stars.
The noble name was not known to the Countess. The two aristocrats had never crossed paths. Unsurprising, really, as a child the Countess had come often to Paris, but she had stayed only once at her aunt’s pied-a-terre on rue Bonaparte, and, naturally, due to her youth, she had not attended the musical soirees and grand bals of the day. Later, when she might have joined in such social occasions, after completing a year at a Swiss finishing school, she had immediately been whisked off to England, America, South America and Australia…
Dr Watson bowed slightly, sensing he was in the company not only of a lady of noble rank, but a mature woman of immense courtesy and wisdom. The way she had soothed the savage Russian bear was a feat to behold. She had compromised without appearing condescending, placated without weakening, and steered a diplomatic course without making it seem obvious. He took his hat off to her. Literally.
“I am holding an impromptu salonniere tonight to celebrate the success of le Cirque du Grand Guignol,” said la marquise, addressing the Countess and her travelling companion. “Consider yourselves invited. Hotel de Merimont. Clos de Millefleurs. Come as you are. It is nothing grand. Shall we say one hour from now?” She turned to Monsieur Davidov. “Make sure Kiki and Maxine look their best. Tell Raoul to steer clear of la fee verte before he arrives. Monsignor Delgardo will be present,” she warned, “and you know what happened last time. The Monsignor can throw his weight around when Raoul let’s fly with impertinence; he has the ear of the Director General and the censorship issue can become tiresome, as you know.”
Scowling, Monsieur Davidov nodded knowingly before spinning on his heel and bellowing, “Raoooul!”
On a strained smile la marquise bid them a bientôt and disappeared into the theatrical charivari. There was now no need to search for Kiki. They would meet the actress later at the salonniere. Dr Watson waited until he and the Countess were back on the pavement of rue Ballu.
“I was loath to look like an ignorant Englishman but what on earth is a salonniere?” he said as they clambered into their landau.
“A salonniere is another name for a literary salon.”
His face fell. “You mean like a gathering of bluestockings?”
“More like a gathering that pleases or educates,” she corrected, paraphrasing Horace. “Aut delectare aut prodesse est. The French do things in style. There may be a brief poetry recital, a reading from a novel, a political discussion, some music, but generally it is a meeting of creative minds.”
“By the way,” he said, “where are we going? We’re not due at the salonniere for another hour.”
“We’re going home to change, of course.”
“I distinctly remember the marquise saying ‘come as you are’ and ‘nothing grand’.
“Ca c’est Paris, mon ami…not London.”
Chapter 5 - The Salonniere
In less than one hour our two sleuths were rumb
ling through the gas-lit rues toward the Marais on their way to clos de Millefleurs and the Hotel de Merimont where they discovered their renowned hostess had also swapped her tailored costume for an evening gown that might have out-shone the Countess’s but for the fact Madame Coquelicot had dispatched a season’s worth of the most fashionable haute couture to rue Bonaparte in their absence and periwinkle blue satin with an overlay of pale blue silk chiffon lavishly banded with river pearls nicely complimented the stupendous sea pearls in the Countess’s superlative collection.
At the top of the marble stairs, they collected flutes of champagne from a perambulating footman decked out in seventeenth century livery, including powdered wig, presumably so that the guests could tell the servants from the bohemian crowd who never bothered to swap their costumes for anything a la mode.
The candle-scented enfilade of salons situated on the piano nobile was a fête galante study in pastels straight out of a picturesque Watteau and several of the guests looked quite bucolic, perhaps even pastorale. There was a charming shepherdess singing an aria and a handsome young goatherd posing as a poet, or perhaps the other way around. He was reciting Petrarchan sonnets in Italian to a small clique of ardent female admirers, fans aflutter.
In an adjoining ante-chamber lined with rococo boiserie a couple of Dreyfusards had gravitated towards a group of Dreyfusists and Dreyfusiens and a heated three-way exchange was coming rapidly to the boil. Most of the guests were giving the heat a wide berth.
“That short dumpy cleric in the black robe standing by the window looks like the one who scuttled out of the booth and almost knocked you over,” said the Countess, pretending to be interested in the Fragonard hanging above a Boulle commode.
“Yes, you’re right,” agreed her companion, endeavouring not to sound too tightly wound-up. “I’m sure it’s the same man.”
“I’ll introduce myself. You mingle.”
Mingle! He hated mingling! He was no good at mingling! “Why don’t I introduce myself to the dumpy cleric,” he said peevishly, “and you mingle?”