Scene 9 // Sûreté Investigation Paris 9th Arrondissement | Thursday Morning | La fin de matinée
Agent Alan Truffaut walks Rue Caumartin in the shadow of the Olympia. What is exciting and electric at night, seems seedy and spent in the late morning light. The theater, brasseries and brothels feel different veiled by the apartments above. Stepping into Les Bacchantes, a café and bakery at the end of Rue Edouard VII, he is comforted by the vibrance and clatter of the restaurant. Ordering coffee and croissant, he motions the pommel of his cane toward a table by the window.
“Please let your supervisor know the Sûreté investigator has arrived.”
Minutes pass as Truffaut observes the happenings of the street.
“Bonjour agente” the egg-shaped supervisor greets him, drying his hands on a white and blue bar towel. The chair groans in protest as he sits.
“Bonjour Monsieur.”
The young fille de cafe places the fresh-from-the-oven croissant and a porcelain cup in front of each of the men. The coffee press placed to steep while they speak.
“Were you the person who reported the body? Did you find it?”
“Oui. Oui, in the alley at the end of Rue Edouard. A starved old man. Can you have him removed?”
“Oui, when reported, it must be investigated first. After which, I will coordinate the transfer to the Morgue. If the body cannot be identified, it will be displayed.”
The men drink the coffee while details are explained. Truffaut thanks the egg man and the young lady at the counter as he leaves the café.
The scent, floral and cloying, a mix of garbage and decay hangs in the stale air. He moves from street to alley his eyes adjust to the lower light. A few meters in, nose hand-covered with his kerchief he sees the body. Clearly, possibly… maybe...? Long dead from what looks like years of malnutrition and ultimate starvation. The face’s emaciated bones visible beneath translucent skin pulled taught. The face frozen in a rictus, black-toothed grin. A rust smear arcs from wall to the alley cobbles. He wets his fingertip, running it over the stain across the wall. Rubbing his fingertip and thumb together he confirms the scent of blood. Leaning over he notes the coat of the grinning corpse’s tattered sleeves, covered in grime with the dried rust of blood. Opening the jacket with the tip of his cane he inspects the corpse’s arms and chest. He identifies no wounds. Reaching into the jacket Truffaut pulls a small worker’s booklet, a livret ouvrier, from a buttoned inner pocket.
Francois Benecrecé
born: 12 August 1856 Nice France
Height: 203 Cm Weight: 130Kg
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Occupation: Mason, Stonecutter
Jobsite:
Paris Limestone Quarry - May 1867
Paris Gare Saint-Lazare Railway - March 1865
…
Truffaut wipes his fingers off on the kerchief and steps back. This makes no sense. This man should be a 22-year-old, hulk of a man. The corpse looks like a shriveled and starved prisoner whose life was hard at every turn. His last work assignment was almost a year ago. Maybe the coat was stolen?
Scene 10 // Le Club Aéronautique Paris 9th Arrondissement | Le club Aéronautique | Friday Afternoon | L'après-midi
Afternoon sun casts columns of light through the clerestory windows across the club. Members and their guests assemble at the main bar. Conversations are comfortable, all the men know each other well enough that there is little guard in their authenticity.
“Where do you stick a mistress that should already be in a tidy box?” Marcus laments.
“Well, you sure don’ put them into a hotel where tongues will wag. Cut her loose!” Joseph implores.
“Why do you bother with this boorish fantasy?” Alex asks.
“The music has stopped and the girl will be looking to you for all her garlands and flowers.”
Leon fidgets with his glass as the members laugh.
From behind the bar, Gwyneth inspects a glass after buffing it to a high sheen…
“You put her where tongues don’ wag. She’s a kept woman, non? Put her in the Bleue… you can keep her at the station you are accustomed and expect.
And, what’s more she might find another bienfaiteur. Master Theroux, you are yet to be married…”
André Theroux snaps to awareness at the mention of his name “Oh not I, I am both betrothed and besotted in love.”
“Bewitched, I’d say!” Marcus laughs.
Ribbing begins about the station Marcus is accustomed and will suffer. The feisty, fire haired barkeep Gwneyth places each member’s preferred at their station.
Marcus and Gwneyth’s eyes meet as he raises his glass.
Scene 11 // Awakening | Paris 9th | Wednesday Pre-dawn | Le petit matin
Colette and Claudette begin their early morning hunting and pecking. Seeds are strewn across the shambles of the kitchen. Theo wakes, legs numb from the long hours of sitting on the low chair. As he moves pins and needles shriek through his thighs. Standing, he pushes his thumbs down the front of his legs, feeling returns slowly.
‘Oi, Shitbird!’
Theo’s eyes snap open in surprise. Slowly they adjust to the darkness. The hairs on his neck stand up and his skin goes cold. The stonecutter leans against the wall.
‘This man gave his life so you could be healed.’
Charred gray mummified remains fill rumpled clothes strewn across the floor.
The ache in his chest and shoulder still there. He feels the gore dried on his shirt under the tattered, to formal for the day coat.
“What the fuck is that? What are you saying? This is my landlord’s apartment.”
‘Well, you beat him nearly to death with a table leg.’
“I did not.”
‘Oh yes Shitbird, you did. And then, you, well we… I, consumed his… essence.’ The stonecutter seesaws his hand out indicating it was mediocre.
“Don’t call me that. Why do you keep calling me that?”
‘That’s what this fine purveyor of your domicile called you.’
“He calls everyone that. Who are you? How did I get here?”
‘You got yourself killed in a duel. Be grateful, I saved you from yourself.’
He races through his last few hours. Unsure how much time has passed, how he is here, alive or not arrested for the duel in Square Louis. After his unceremonious exit from Le Club Aeronautique, a credit misunderstanding. Alex and Stephane shoving their condescending superiority in his face.
‘Ahh, there you go, the dim light brightens.
You can call me Francois.”
Thankful his headache is no longer splitting Theo presses his forefingers to his temples.
He notices a chicken by his foot. Looking closer aghast he pulls his boot away as the hen pecks at bloody sinew from teeth on the floor.
‘That is Claudette. The other is Colette. Please pick those up. I am a collector of sort.’
Theo shakes his head confused.
“What the fuck. How do you know that?
I have lived in this building for years and didn’t know that.”
‘Let me explain in ways your simple mind will understand.
Here is what we know. You are a murderer. You are broke. You cannot shoot.
You clearly cannot fight. You are boastful, shallow, and dim.
Here is what you need to know.
You are a murderer. A large gallery saw you take a shot to the chest.
His essence was required. It was necessary to heal you.
There are more elegant ways to achieve the outcome, but you and more important I, did not have time for elegance.
Did you ever have an imaginary friend as a child, hmmm?’
“Yes.”
‘Like that then, but we are not friends.
You and I are bound. Bound for the rest of your existence.
Young Theo, do you believe in God? Religion?’
“Yes!”
‘Well stop. This is not that.’
Theo shakes his head in confusion.
Theo gathers the remains and clothes into the hen’s box. He tosses seed from a sack on the counter, picks up keys and teeth from the floor and the hand of rental fee envelopes. Theo, dazed locks the door behind him as he goes to his fourth-floor apartment.
Scene 12 // My Solution | Paris 11th | Parisian Ballet Company | Monday Late Morning | La fin de matinée
Standing outside the door to the sitting room Marcus steels himself for what will be an uncomfortable conversation. He is not a cruel man, but his carefully curated and tailored image indicates a wealth beyond its reality. Committed to sponsoring Raquel while she is a performing dancer, a kept woman with an apartment or live-in hotel is another entirely. He fluffs the bouquet of roses in hand, sighs deeply and enters the room.
“Raquel Ma Cher, how are you? I came as soon as I could.” He lies, arms wide.
He presents the bouquet, placing it aside, he kisses her awkwardly. She sits knowing this cannot be a conversation that will go well. Knowing Marcus is deeply uncomfortable with confrontation Raquel entertains small talk as long as necessary. Having explained her predicament in an earlier note. Marcus sits at the edge of the day bed, fumbling his words.
“I have a solution for you.”
Raquel’s eyebrow raises.
“I know you want to move to the Olympia.”
“A hotel?”
“I can get you a residence in La Fleur Bleue.” His eyes dart to the floor. “A brothel.”
Her eyes go cold.
“Are you fucking mad!?”
“Non, Ma Cher, this is not mad. This is what I offer.”
Seething and without option, her head and her ankle throb.
Straightening his jacket “Let us visit together. I know the proprietress. I will arrange it. We can see the opera on Thursday, stay at Le Grande and visit La Fleur Bleue after. If truly untenable we can consider options. This is my solution.”
Scene 13 // A Bit of Courtesan Paris 11th | Paris Ballet Company | Monday Twilight | Le crépuscule
Danielle fluffs the pillow under Raquel’s ankle, though still tender she can walk for short periods. Jingling the small quarter full bottle like a bell Raquel puts a few drops of the Laudanum into each cup of tea.
“We are going to visit La Fleur Bleue on Thursday after the Opera.
Without the ballet, I feel I have little option.
I have none. I won’t be… will I have to be a whore?”
“Non! You will be the grande horizontale!
We all have a bit of courtesan in us.
He is an abonné after all.
Now Marcus must ensure your decoration.” Danielle sips the tea blinking coquettishly.
“The Olympia is quite cosmopolitan. If you bore of Marcus, you can always find another.”
“But I will be kept, I have less agency there than here!”
“Are you in love with Marcus?”
“Non. Though intimate, the transaction is cold.
If I did not fuck him, he would move on to another.
If not for my need it would leave no impact, no trace. “
“Allow him to shower you with the finest clothes, the finest food and finest wines.
Heal and come back to the ballet!”
Danielle slyly looks Raquel up and down like Mistress Camille, “Do not become a doughy fillé.”
Raquel laughs quietly under her breath.
“I survived the Foyer de la Danse and the sweaty and fatted hands of those men.
If the brothel is safe and I am not on the menu, I will accept.”
Share this post