Nicely Pink In The Middle, Part 6

Faites De La Contrabande

Chalon Sur-Saone, 1899. Act, And God Will Act

The railways far behind the rest of Europe they rode. And Jean Roux formerly feted of the Radicals and Parisian to his nose rode very badly. That nose muffled behind a scarf sniffled. He resisted a cough knowing that once started it would continue. Still young he blamed the old men for his downfall, his eagerly reported disgrace over the minor affair of Panama seven years before. His fellow Radicals so clearly jealous of his popularity had become pompous over the losses, and Jean in whose purse the smallest coin was a gold twenty-franc piece was not impressed to find that his brother Radicals had now risen to power.

If he had left Paris with a fortune then it was to his mind a pension. A payment in lieu of all that he would have made of France. Refusing to leave the country for Algeria or Louisiana he had instead run through what friends remained to him until approached each in turn had him leave. He had taken to drink and in his misery fed his colossal hubris in the rat dens of Marseille. There he had on a whim attended that great majesty, that marvel, a demonstration of the Lumiere brother’s cinematographe. Sobering himself, burning his worn clothes and retrieving the treasure he had hidden he risked much by returning to Paris and approaching the two brothers had offered them patronage, which they had rejected but which had seen an approach in turn to Jean Roux, now the Chevalier Roux Blanche Dammes. Despite their interest the temple had frustrated him with their secrecy, with their inner society. Four days ago had been the first time in his year of membership that Roux had been admitted to the temple. There he had demonstrated the cinematographe, their silence giving nothing away as to whether this was a wonder revealed or a treasure feared too widely lost. He had shown them the very latest, Jeanne d’Arc, thinking its message would create the right atmosphere (for Jean Roux flourished amongst rhetoric, passion and jingo). They had said little. He had been escorted to rooms in sight of the Cathedral by the silent women that he supposed would when he was summoned return for him. On rising this morning he had found her waiting, horses saddled.

            It was a terrible day for a fine Parisian. Cold and clear, the winter fields under snow. The trees planted by the Bonaparte to give shade to his marching armies were bare alongside the good road. He disliked the emptiness. The sky was too large. What smells there were, were dull. The only people he had seen on the road had been two peasants with a pole between them all heavy with eels. He had to presume the ride was a part of some ordeal. The chevalier were after all knights. He hoped they did not expect him to fight a dragon though he would have happily saved a fair damsel. Jean Roux was a man that liked his stews. His family had actually been of the chevalier, the real chevalier, not the pretence of the Blanche Dammes. They had survived the terror, Napoleon and the Bourbon, now it was for him to thrive in the Third Republic.

            Ahead and the woman dressed scandalously in cavalry britches and an immense riding coat turned back to see that he kept up.  There was a very old-fashioned sword poking from a vent in the coat and modern pistols of the same style used by the Finnish Guard were holstered about the saddle.  She kept them both in the saddle till noon when and without further explanation she turned about to lead them back they way they had come.

            Jean, miserable, cursed her within his scarf and tried to settle himself more comfortably in the saddle. An impossibility he had already long discovered.

Bognor Regis, 1991. Despair Is A Narcotic

The pretty old Picturedrome cinema opposite the station had been showing a retrospective. Mable At The Wheel, The Bank, Easy Street. But cinemas were no longer picture houses, music halls for the new generation with one stage and a single performance and whilst the lobby and streets nearby had boasted much to his surprise twenty or more people looking much like him, or dressed to be, he was naked. Which was new. It was true his clothes were never his own but he generally came into the world having already begged, borrowed or stolen them. Stood with thin versions of himself, fat versions and girl versions he had been struck with embarrassment. Briefly he had darted into the next screen only to watch with widening eyes an enormous Austrian fighting a liquid American.

            The Little Tramp had been caught in the spell of it. He had sat with exaggerated open mouth. Having missed the very beginning he did not learn why he was naked but he was pretty sure how he could remedy that now. Later he walked towards the smell of the sea and along the front until by the light of a fire on the beach he saw revellers. He saw too bikes. His feet crunched on the stones. He stopped when they saw him.

            “You all right there, mate?” said one of the bikers. Grey, twice The Little Tramps size but looking friendly enough the biker looked concerned. It was after all the club’s Christmas party. The sea was not happy. The fire had to fight the wind. The biker came closer. “What you on, mate? You’re all right now. Having a bad one?”

            The Little Tramp pointed. Something had changed in him.

            The biker frowned, “You need my clothes, boots and motorcycle?”

               

The Dorchester, 1988.  Prove Itself Worthy Of Its Own Past

Needing privacy the new owners of the hotel had closed it for extensive refurbishment. They had always stayed at the Dorchester whose sharp lines and concrete, open spaces and fraying luxury reminded them of Germany, the reconstruction. Their suite was hard to reach and only by a single elevator. Neither of the two brothers had any use for stairs. Both were old, terribly old. The younger of the two occupied a settee sized for two and framed by a whole tree decorated for Christmas and sparkling with real candles. It was rare to see an old, fat person but he was certainly both dressed only in a blanket robe and bedsores. Balanced on his chest were sausages that he had a young man to chew for him. He held a long fork whose prongs were topped with a cork. The second and older was by contrast sword-thin, a lich, a cadaver with little between skin and skull. Bald he was dressed in Hugo Boss, in black, the association with the 40s that did not escape him. In a wheelchair he was nonetheless a commanding figure. A ruthless corpse with one hand withered and one missing to the elbow. The suit was tailored to take account. That afternoon they had taken tea at the Palace, the brother’s long late mother had been a Bowes-Lyon. When the youngest of the two, Albrecht, had heard decades before of the adoption of the name Windsor he had joked ‘that then he would look forward to seeing once again your bard’s Merry Wives Of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha’.

            They were not alone. Stood about the room were more Germans. Though their hair was long and their clothing fashionable they were mercenaries, and they protected the Graf Von Bode, and the Baron Meersburg (both of whom were very rich). They entertained two guests that stood before Imric on a sheet of stiff plastic. Imric said, “Gentlemen, you are both reputed to be thieves of the highest talent. I wish something stolen. It is to appear at Sotheby’s tomorrow," he took from a padded envelope a catalogue that had arrived by post that morning. "I do not wish to bid. Instead I make the offer to you. One million pounds in whatever currency or bank account you wish, on delivery, but here and by morning.”

            One of the two lit up a cigarette without asking and much to Imric’s disdain. That man said, “Can’t be done. Not for a mill.”

            “The price is one million. It will auction for much less but I do not believe in taking chances, nor do I care to worry myself like some merchant at market.”

            “Two million, and given the time limit it’s worth that - not for whatever you want to be mysteriously moved,” said the first thief.

            Imric said, “Karl?”

            There was a cough, a clack. The first thief dropped splashing the second. There was less of that on the sheet by the body, the thief having been taking cleanly in the heart. Imric turned to the second thief, “I hope you are not also under the misapprehension that I wish to either barter, nor give you a choice. I keep my word - if successful you will not be harmed. But your life now depends upon bringing to me, by morning, a certain case. You will be provided with photographs and information regarding the security precautions. Time is therefore short for both of us, as an old man this is something I am used to. You as a young man are not. So,” at this Karl pointed his pistol at the second thief, then, “I am going to count to three, there will be no four.”

            “By morning,” promised the thief, shaking.

            “I breakfast early,” said Imric. Then, “Nice suit, John Philips of London. I have two of them myself. Rumour has it Arafat buys his there.”  

Part Seven tomorrow: How Old Is Mae West?

Nicely Pink In The Middle, Part 5

The Music Box

231 East 47^th Street, Midtown Manhattan, 1974. She’ll Make You Cry

An apple was covered in tinfoil. The bare walls were silver. The legs of a mannequin, student lockers and tin cars all the same bright sheen in this part of the Factory that looked so terribly empty otherwise. There were ghosts from the night before; the smell of cigarettes, a smashed bottle of bourbon and on a glitter-ball seat head down a girl, or a boy, or both, slumped like a coat forgotten when everyone had left.

            Andy said, “I, ah, loved the work. In a very real, ah, sense, Mucha was one of the very first... pop artists. Commercial, beautiful, ah, irrelevant.”

            “You have to look at everything in context to the time,” said Mme Roux. “I really do.”

            “I, ah, no. No I don’t,” he did not look directly at his guest. Hidden behind his dark glasses he twitched his head first one way then the next. He held one hand firmly in the other. Between them and the cause-apparent for her visit a silkscreen of Mucha’s Spring, 1899. Replicated four times the colours clashing, the resemblance was nearly exact. Andy did not ask how as to how little his guest had changed.  She liked that, what he did say was, “France?”

            She confessed she had had cause to be there. She was honest. Mme Roux did not like the little lies to interfere with the big ones. She had helped a man she would later marry to escape from a choir of angels, all bloody handed and devoutly awful. Andy accepted that without comment, touching a hand to his hair perhaps to make sure it was still there. She said, “Are you familiar with the movies from the Expressionist movement?”

            “Metropolis, ah, Nosferatu? Of course.”

            “They voiced them over you know, when sound came in. Mostly dreadful,” she said. She picked up a paperback the only thing that wasn’t people that wasn’t silver. She showed it to Andy as a question.

            “I might film it,” he said, the conversation having been taken there by Mme Roux. Then, “Tell me, have you ever acted? You should. Tell me, ah, your name.”

            “Mme Roux, you may call me Madame.”

            Andy’s lip twitched. He said, “No, no I, ah, don’t think so. Your name.”

            That was rather personal but that was rather the point. That was a boundary, but here was where boundaries were broken. She said, “Alexandra.”

            “And do you have, ah, ah a cock, Alex?”

            Mme Roux tucked her hands in her pockets, “Well, not here.”      

Phoenix Cinema, East Finchley, 1979. You Can Lead A Horse To Water But A Pencil Must Be Lead     

He only ever felt alive when he’d had that first piss, and by habit in the popcorn. Fumbling with dungarees and work belt, saw, sabre and pistol Arthur tried with one hand to do the work of three. A thin man and all chin he had an idiot’s smile. The idiot would never miss it. The crowds had gone. The usherette had gone. The lights were all from other rooms, an elsewhere light that gave the stairs a borrowed glow. Arthur needed to kill like another man needed to eat. That other man Norvell, much fatter, watched Arthur fumble, drop first saw then sabre. He shook his head, ridiculous. Fetching a scoop he helped himself to popcorn.

He said, “You’re a fool, if I had any sense I’d walk out on you.”

“Then it’s a good thing you don’t have any sense,” said Arthur. Dungarees now buttoned he looked about for his saw.

“It certainly is.”

It was later than the late showing but early for Norvell and Arthur who had only been Norvell and Arthur for the last reel. The one looked at the other, pleased as he picked up the saw. His sabre next, and with tools in hand he fixed up his smile. Arthur said, “Can we find someone lonely, someone lost. Someone who will be missed?”

Norvell nodded once and firmly. “I could kill,” he admitted.

            On the street they looked about themselves until turning back each jumped, startled, when coming face-to-face. Norvell smacked Arthur about the back of the head setting Arthur to tears. Norvell had to wait until Arthur was done. He recalled now that they had places to go, people to see. And whose heads they had to cut off. They walked until they found a bus stop where Norvell spent five minutes inspecting the times, the numbers and destinations. He made a great show of nodding and of tapping the timetables. They were a nonsense.

            Arthur said, “You know what our problem is, we never had no education. We’re not illiterate enough.”

            “We certainly aren’t.”

            In a nearby phone box cards were rammed on every surface. Arthur had to assume that a lot of people were advertising for their lost clothes. Ladies mostly. Amongst them he found plainer cards and one of these showed a picture of a taxi. Proudly he showed it to Norvell.

            Norvell preened at the cleverness of his partner. He said, “Call me a cab!”

            Arthur couldn’t help himself, “You’re a cab.”

Brixton, 1988. And Clear Understanding

Kull exited Brixton Prison to where waiting for him in the frozen morning were the Mighty Battling Finns, a little less than half he noted. He the last to be released his clothes were creased, ill-fitting and uncomfortable, his face pale and spotty the colour of an uncooked chip. The British Police had not appreciated their illegal entry into the country, no less than by vintage submarine. Armed, they had been surprised in a greasy spoon down the coast from Pevensey, in Pepperinge Eye. The siege was famous for being the first time that anyone had seen the SAS, leading to a surge of interest and some fame for the Mighty Battling Finns (who had surrendered without a shot fired, having run out of cigarettes and akavit). No one had been hurt yet still they had been lucky to get away with the sentences they had, Kull having proudly declared himself the leader had got by far the longest.

            They sat in the George and counted themselves lucky to have missed Punk whose marks were still on the filthy pub, papered on the walls and stamped into the stage, a raised corner. Kull giddy on his first pint slapped the table, “So!”

            The Mighty Battling Finns agreed. So.

            “Nothing has changed,” said Kull his English much improved after his years in a cell. He had learned to appreciate the order, the regularity of things. Outside and already the empty pub unnerved him. Inside and it was easy. The screws did as they pleased, and Young Mr Bridger ruled. Famous, needing the now renowned SAS to have taken him and never having shot neither kiddies, old ladies, or anyone’s mum he had enjoyed the same status as the armed robbers. In the last two years he had even taken a little wife, a hippy called Foxy that had been in there for stealing a Scorpion tank and invading the Houses of Parliament (only to find no one there over the summer recess). Through it all though he had nurtured the mission, the quest, the great epic upon which he had embarked and in hindsight had not thought through particularly well. And he had met men in Brixton that had put him in touch with others outside, others who could help him.

            Kull waited for another pint. Without thinking about it he broke up each dog-end in the ashtray and put the tobacco in a sandwich bag. When all were settled again he said, “There is a man that can help us. He can supply passports, papers, weapons and smuggle us where we wish to go. He can find out where the enemy is. He is a powerful man, his lawyer suggests,” and he had only met the lawyer.

            “Who is this man?”

            “I do not know,” Kull held up his hand to still any disbelief. “But we must earn these things, and first of all we must find and take a case. A very special case, and take it to a certain address. I am not to go there empty-handed, I am not to bother them unless I do this thing. I can walk away now without debt, but we need these things that they can give us. What would Lemmy do?”

             They all nodded. Their purpose was revived. Lemmy would do whatever it took. He would have a magnificent time, one he would never forget. He might not remember it, but he would never forget it.

Part Six tomorrow: Faites De La Contrabande