The Curse of the Grand Guignol

by Anna Lord

  “Monsieur Radzival will probably write the best poem. Are you having judges?”

  “Yes, there will be La Noire and my step-aunt’s dear friend, Mahmoud. He is Sikh.”

  “Bravo! Negress and Sikh. An interesting mix always makes for the best party. I am looking forward to it with the anticipation of a debutante.”

  “Should I leave Monsieur Radzival’s invitation with you?”

  “Yes, of course, though if you wish to deliver it personally you will find him in the library. Did you visit the library on the night of the salonniere? No? It was my late husband’s pride and joy. The boiserie is seventeenth century and several of the medieval manuscripts are priceless. He was very proud of his Armenian collection. Make sure Casimir shows you the oeuvre of Mesrop of Xizan. I would go with you but as you can see I have not yet finished my croissant.” She rang a little bell and a maid appeared from an adjoining boudoir. “Fifi, show Countess Volodymyrovna to the library.”

  The maid made a little curtsey.

  Several staircases later the Countess found herself in a splendid gallery lined with leather books tooled with gold, Persian rugs scrolled with acanthus leaves and a frescoed ceiling honouring France’s most celebrated auteurs.

  Monsieur Radzival, rarely emotional, appeared delighted to be invited to the Gobolinks party for he rarely went out of an evening and he was keen on poetry. He asked who would be attending and she got the impression he considered the poetry prize his for the taking. Tucked under his arm was the book by Emile Zola that had been sitting on his secretaire the previous evening. He enquired if she had had a chance to read the articles on Dreyfus.

  “I plan to finish them tomorrow,” she said, admiring the creative handiwork of the celebrated master miniaturist and genius known as Mesrop of Xizan before changing the subject. “What can you tell me about the Panama Affair?”

  “Panama?’ he said. “Do you mean the Panama Canal Scandal?”

  “If they are one and the same, then yes.”

  “Did your family lose money? Is that why you ask?”

  “I ask because yesterday when I was visiting Salpetriere I learned there was an influx of prostitutes after the Panama Affair. I wondered how an event in Panama might affect prostitutes in Paris.”

  “I see, well, the Panama Affair involved the construction of the Panama Canal which was being built by the French following their success with the Suez Canal. The Canal Company sold stocks, bonds and shares to finance construction but it soon began making huge losses. In 1889 a civil tribunal forced the company to cease work. A sale to the Americans was planned but the French government delayed the decision. Work continued in sections because of a contract with the Colombians and the financial losses increased.

  By 1892 bankruptcy was declared and the extent of corruption astonished everyone. Ferdinand de Lesseps and Gustave Eiffel were rightly given gaol sentences which were later annulled. Hundreds of ministers who had been taking bribes were either acquitted or fled to England. Jean Jaures conducted the enquiry but it was a white-wash. Many in government and finance profited enormously while eight hundred thousand ordinary citizens of France suffered catastrophic losses.”

  “What was the extent of the loss?”

  “Nearly two billion francs.”

  “Two billion!”

  “Yes, staggering to think about, and some of those who lost everything were single women – fifteen thousand women in all.”

  “I see - many of them would have been forced into prostitution.”

  “Precisely, and that is the reason for Salpetriere’s influx.”

  “Was the Panama Affair tied in with the Dreyfus Affair?”

  “Only in that two of the biggest financiers were Jewish. Reinach and Herz. They distributed the bribe monies. It inflamed anti-Semitic sentiment which later led to bias against Dreyfus.”

  “I vaguely recall Le Libre Parole playing a part?”

  He nodded in the affirmative. “Before Reinach committed suicide he gave a list of names to the anti-Semitic newspaper which published the names of guilty culprits day by day, bit by bit, to prolong their misery. The newspaper became famous overnight and still trades on its Panama heyday.”

  “You have excellent recall of the details of the affair,” she complimented.

  He coloured at the praise and tried to shrug it off. “It comes from working in a library.”

  “Do you know anyone who was affected by the Panama Affair?”

  “There would not be a person living in France today who would not be affected by the affair. It cut deep.”

  “I meant personally.”

  He considered the question thoughtfully. “Well, Monsignor Delgardo hails from Colombia but that is tenuous, I admit.”

  “I meant closer to home.”

  Neatly arched brows registered the audacious inference. “La marquise? No, no, out of the question. My patroness hails from a noble French family going back hundreds of years to the Knights Templar. And she is immensely wealthy. Look around,” he invited with a grandiloquent sweep of his hand that took in thousands of rare and beautiful books. “She is a widow, neither Colombian nor Jewish, and she is not at all interested in affairs of state. She is interested only in the arts.”

  The Countess went straight from the Hotel de Merimont to rue Ballu. She was determined not to miss any part of the rehearsal and not to be turned away by the temperamental Monsieur Davidov. She had brought a substantial offering in the event he was in a bad mood.

  Dr Watson was waiting for her outside the theatre. She practically kissed him.

  “I thought you would be half way to Calais by now.”

  “I considered it,” he said bluntly.

  “Thank you for re-considering it.”

  “Did you deliver the invitations?’

  “Yes, and it’s just as well you absented yourself. La marquise was still in bed. I was ushered into her bed chamber but it might have been awkward for you.”

  “Ha!” he snorted. “From what you said about French literary salons that is the equivalent of the English reception room.”

  “You sound much chirpier.”

  “I went back to rue des Bouffons and bought some new pipe tobacco. I ran out of Latakia. They didn’t have any stuff from Syria but they had some stuff from Egypt. It is much stronger but now that I have broken the calabash in I can pack it with the stronger stuff. By the way, the old marionette man is dead. There was a black wreath on the door of his shop.”

  Her heart wobbled for a bit. “Monsieur Grimaldi - how did he die?”

  “The tobacconist said he died peacefully in his sleep. Shall we sneak in the stage door and do battle with Davidov?”

  Davidov was delighted to see them. He kissed the Countess on both cheeks – French style, not Russian - then did the same to Dr Watson. They sat in the front row.

  The three horror plays consisted of a rape, a beheading, and a dismembering.

  Rape was a perennial favourite, especially if the victim was bound and gagged first. This victim was tied to a bed for the purposes of titillation, and the similarity to Coco did not escape the Countess. Kiki played the lead role and so convincing was her ordeal that Dr Watson almost leapt to her rescue. Felix was the rapist. After being violated, the girl was untied, and an exhausted Felix fell asleep. She climbed onto a swing to console herself. A white dove flew into her hand and all looked well. But then Felix awoke, strangled the girl with the rope from the swing, broke the neck of the dove and crushed it beneath his jackboot.

  Beheadings were a mainstay of stage acts, particularly magic acts, and this time it was Vincent’s turn to suffer for his art. His head was sawn off by Hilaire the lunatic butcher and then tossed through a window. Real glass shattered with spectacular violence. The defenestration added a dramatic flourish to what might have been a humdrum death. The severed head bounced several times across the stage, spurting blood everywhere, until it rolled into the orchestra pit.

  Dismembering, though common dur
ing the Inquisition, Roman conquest, Dark Ages, Medici period, Crusades and Punic Wars, was less common in the nineteenth century. Hilaire, the strong man, was strung up from a windmill semi-naked and his member was sliced off by La Noire, the classic woman scorned. She then put it somewhere where it could not physically go if it were still attached.

  Dr Watson squirmed and the Countess laughed. But that was the strange thing about the Grand Guignol. Comedy could be horrible. Horror could be funny. The performances gave them a lot to think about as they hurried back-stage.

  Dr Watson, perhaps to check that Mademoiselle Kiki had suffered no actual harm, went to her dressing-room first, but she had already cleaned herself up and disappeared. Most likely to Café Bistro. He moved right along and found the Negress tossing off her blood-splattered garments. Fortunately she was doing it behind a screen.

  “Thanks, sweetie,” she drawled when he praised her performance. “Will you be going to the red mill tonight with your lady friend and the sheik? I’d really love to see you there. I waited and waited last night but no one showed.”

  He had no idea who or what she was talking about but thought it best to humour her. A lady who wielded a sharp blade with skilful relish was not one he wished to disappoint, especially when that blade was currently reposing within arm’s reach on her dressing-table.

  “Yes, yes, that’s a thought.”

  The Countess found the three actors in various stages of semi-undress in their spotlessly clean, shared dressing-room. They were arguing about whose turn it was to empty the ash-tray.

  “Let me do it,” she said, scooping it up, going out into the corridor and tipping the spent butts into an up-turned top hat. Returning, she offered the trio a gold-tipped cigarette from her silver etui and lighted one for herself. “Bravo on your performances, gentlemen.”

  They were not often referred to as gentlemen and warmed to the Countess at once, however they were not big on conversation so she decided to get the ball rolling.

  “Have you been working together very long?”

  “Since we ran away from the orphanage together,” said Hilaire, savouring a reminiscing puff. “How old was we Vincent?”

  “You was six, Felix was eight and I was ten.”

  “You joined the circus together?”

  Felix laughed harshly. “We was press-ganged!”

  “At least there was money in it back then,” said Hilaire bitterly.

  “What happened to make you leave the circus?”

  “It went belly-up after we poured our life savings into it,” said the jongleur, the eldest of the trio. “The whole country went broke and no one could afford to go to the circus no more.”

  “The elephant died first,” remembered Felix. “And then the lion. We couldn’t afford to feed them.”

  Monsieur Radzival had summed it up neatly - the Panama Canal Scandal cut deep. The Countess feigned ignorance. “Why did the whole country go broke?”

  “The Canal Company went belly-up,” confirmed the clown.

  “It weren’t like the Suez,” explained Vincent. “That made everyone rich but the Panama was different. Mud and rain the whole time.”

  “And dirty Jews,” added the strong man, clenching his fists. “They got filthy rich and went to England along with half the French parliament. Should have strung up the lot of them while we had the chance.”

  The other two men clenched their jaws and nodded.

  “But now you have found success here on the Paris stage,” she said brightly.

  “But there’s no skill to it. No juggling, no knife-throwing, no nothing like that.”

  “No proper laughter,” added Felix miserably.

  “Just murder and torture and rape – that’s what people want to see now,” said Hilaire.

  “But there’s good money in it,” argued the Countess. “You’re sold out every night.”

  The men laughed crudely and pathetically.

  “Davidov pays us a pittance,” admitted Vincent ruefully. “He got us to sign contracts before we knew what we was getting into.”

  “He wanted Kiki,” added the clown, “and we came along for the ride.”

  “He’s got us tied up good and proper now,” said the strong man, wringing his hands.

  Davidov’s booming voice could be heard coming down the corridor. The trio looked askance at each other.

  “You better go now,” said Vincent, ushering her quickly to the door.

  She bumped into Dr Watson coming out of the dressing-room of La Noire.

  “The Negress said something about you and a sheik and a red mill. I had no idea what she was talking about.”

  The Countess recalled the third act featuring the windmill and kicked herself. “Go back and tell her we will meet her at the Moulin Rouge tonight after the show. I will go and invite Davidov. It will be my treat. Hurry, for we must reserve a table at once!”

  The Moulin Rouge on the Boulevard de Clichy in the Pigalle was at the height of its popularity. It opened its doors in 1889 and never closed them. The second most popular attraction was the dance known as the can-can, a risqué version of the quadrille. It featured frilly petticoats and lots of legs. The most popular was the eye-popping chahut, a bawdier version of the can-can with splits-sans-culottes.

  Courtesans, who had worked the Garden of Montmartre for as long as anyone could remember, felt at home at the red mill, and among their number was the shiny Negress known as La Noire. At age thirty she was too old to turn tricks and had taken to belting out Mississippi tunes between comedy acts like Footit and Chocolat, and between dances, for which she was built all wrong, having big bones instead of none at all, like Kiki who was a petite rag-doll of boneless grace. But Davidov had snapped her up for his horror show regardless and she was eternally grateful.

  Acting came easy to La Noire, she got to sleep in of a morning, and she didn’t have to entertain the men in the crowd if she didn’t feel like it, which generally she didn’t since she’d entertained enough of them to last her a lifetime. But the sheik was different. She’d never met anyone like him before and it caused a queer flutter in her big black belly.

  His name was Mahmoud and he spoke French but he didn’t talk much and she didn’t mind. She could talk the legs off a table and since the Countess was paying for the champagne, and champagne made her extra-talkative, there was not much chance for him to get a word in.

  Serge Davidov was in a good mood too. Someone else was paying for the champagne for a change. He used to come to the Moulin Rouge a lot when he was younger but after that night with Lulu-en-l’air he’d lost interest. Besides, he was busy these days raking in the money. If Lulu could see him now she would drop to her knees and beg him to take her back. He sometimes wondered where she was and who she was with. But only when he was drunk. He felt like getting drunk tonight.

  Mahmoud never drank alcohol. He didn’t like to lose control of himself. Not since that time in Kabul. The mullahs and the dancing boys. It made him feel sick just thinking about it. How old was he then? Ten. That’s right. Zoya had been twenty. Travelling with a group of mujahedeen. She had a gun and shot the bastard. He’d vowed to be her slave from that day on. When he was eighteen they became lovers. But her brother threatened to shoot him. So she brought him to Paris. To the house on rue Bonaparte. You will be safe here, she laughed. You can be my maître de maison. That was forty years ago.

  Dr Watson was enjoying himself. He’d heard of the can-can, of course. Every red-blooded Englishman had heard of it ever since the Prince of Wales paid a visit to the Moulin Rouge in 1890. The entertainment was light-hearted good fun. It made him forget the murders and the Grand Guignol and the fact his chest felt tight nearly all the time.

  Countess Volodymyrova ordered another bottle of French champagne…

  Chapter 13 - The Insane Asylum

  Suffering from the after-effects of too much bubbly, the Countess did not notice when Mahmoud served her breakfast in bed instead of Xenia. It wasn’t until he start
ed preparing her bath in the adjoining dressing-room that she knew something was amiss.

  “Where’s Xenia?”

  Mahmoud told her the maid had gone out yesterday with her brother prior to breakfast and had not yet returned.

  The feeling that something was amiss grew exponentially. “Where’s Fedir?”

  “I believe your manservant is still sleeping. He came in late last night, later than we did, and has not yet risen.”

  Mahmoud, who hadn’t touched a drop of champagne, was looking a picture of hardiness. He had not run to fat as most men his age had. He had to be sixty and yet he was not in the least back-bent or brittle-boned. He picked up on her alarm. “Is something the matter?”

  “Yes, yes it is,” she said tensely. “Wake my manservant tout de suite and send him to me at once. Tell him it is urgent.”

  Fedir arrived looking the worse for wear. Days and nights of heavy vodka drinking were taking their toll. He had the latest seditious pamphlet in his hand. “I thought you might want to see this. The French inspector is being drawn with a hare’s tail on his hat. It is a sign of –”

  “Yes, yes,” she interrupted impatiently, hardly glancing at the scathing caricature before tossing it aside, “a sign of cowardice. I know. Xenia is missing.”

  Fedir blinked and straightened up. “Xenia.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Yesterday morning. I leave her at Salpetriere and go to Café Bistro. She say she make own way home when she finish.”

  “She never returned. No one has seen her since yesterday morning.”

  Fear threatened to paralyse him if he didn’t do something physical. He began pacing the foot of the bed. “I must go to Salpetriere now!”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but first, tell me what you did there. Who did you see? Who did you speak to? Where did you go?”

  Xenia and Fedir were more than servants, they had been childhood companions, playmates; they had been by her side for as long as she could remember. They had travelled everywhere with her. They were brother and sister - and the closest thing to a brother and sister she was ever likely to have. They knew all her secrets except for those she kept to herself. She could not bear the thought of life without them. And to be responsible for placing one of them in mortal danger was a thought she could not bear either.