Had she been waiting on a patron, she may have kept her costume on after the show as she waited in her room for them to arrive. She found often that that made things easier – the tight corsets and green sequins did well to keep her embodied in everything that made ‘Fawn’ so desirable to the men who faithfully came to the performances and emptied their accounts for the chance at spending the night with her.
But Bhari had been different than that since the moment that they’d met – he’d never needed stage lights to see her. She’d never needed to be anyone but Annette when she was alone with him – a feeling that was more welcome for comfort than anything following her return from New York.
At the conclusion of that evenings show – her triumphant return back to the Paris nightlife – she had changed into her silk dressing gown and had unpinned the peroxcided curls, brushing through them as the Victrola played a hushed jazz melody from the far side of the room.
“Entrer, it’s open,” she called, following the tentative knock on the door that she knew could be no one other than the familiar journalist.
Queenie sipped her drink at the bar- bourbon, neat- as she talked up the person next to her. “Being funny in English is hard enough, but being funny in French? Forget about it. It’s so different here. For example, I was getting a cup of coffee the other morning and I said good morning to the waiter, and he looked to me and said with this sneer, ‘Is it?’”
He sat behind his desk, pensive, brown eyes scanning the words over and over-- raw poetry, depictions of heartbreak, of loss and suffering --it was unlike anything the critic had ever read before. Gabriel had been holding on to the notebook for some time now and have kept the precious journal locked away in his drawer, and every two weeks a selected piece would be published. It was unsigned, just as mysterious and alluring as the owner of the notebook was, and the critic waited for the poet to lay claim on their work.
He was discreet about it, Gabriel would submit it typewritten, an anonymous contribution he explained, and the frequency of its publication wouldn’t have aroused any suspicion. But no such luck, no writer had visited Le Petite Journal that Gabriel wondered if the author was even aware of their works being published. And with the sudden departure of his colleague, and all the holiday events and performances to cover, meant more work for Gabriel and less time to devour the pages and select a piece to be published.
But it was already mid-January, and another anonymous poem was due to be published; Gabriel began to type, copying the poem he had just read earlier. Perhaps the new year would bring him some luck.
Death, he comes as church bells toll unwittingly for boys too young to have known what might come and what prices they might pay.
Death, he comes like a raven, circling overhead and watching, sitting in trees, on fences, on hollow, burnt houses, on blood soaked grass, and waiting… waiting…
Death, he comes, crude and crass, he stinks of bile, he whimpers in darkness, in putrid trenches, lined with decay.
Death, he comes with spirits in hand, plucking one from each boy in the no-man’s land, from the bloodied, muddied, bodies, longing for a mother’s embrace.
Death, he comes with patience, watching over the ones that want to stay, glazing their eyes over with his loving gray.
Death, he carries those he embraced tenderly away from the flames, taking final breaths like gentle kisses.
Death, he comes and leaves behind the ones who wait: in the homes, in the parlors, by the door, to those who seek only the return of those lost.
Death, he looks on as worlds are demolished, as spirits crumple, as hearts turn to stone and ash, and he says not a word.
Death, he wanders the countryside, in Life’s domain, until the red flowers bloomed and the cannons began to thunder.
Death, he leaves when the sun peaks through clouds, when the world is howling with loss, when she has cried all her tears, when there is a empty, gnawing ache, when chests feel like they might crack.
In the dark of the night, in the darkest corner of Paris, Rita waits.
Waiting is half the job, and in truth, it’s the hard part. Rita has never been the patient kind, not when there’s a mission to be accomplished and, if someone gets in her way, a trigger to be pulled. Tonight should be easy, admittedly: Holst’s most trusted smugglers would be carrying in a fresh shipment of booze, ready to be shipped to America. But it was never that easy, and tonight, she felt, would be no exception.
Her fingers reached for the trigger, not because she was in danger, but as a sort of comforting reflex. She almost pulled it when she heard someone step her way. “You are late,” she says bluntly as she moves out of the shadows, but she’s shocked to see that it’s not one of the smugglers. Maybe she will get to pull the trigger.
--- - “The architecture of this place is dizzying.” Theo said, with the resigned indifference of someone whose day had become just long enough to justify an air of cynicism. Had he been wiser, he might have taken an exhausting day as an opportunity to see what stars truly shone in the suffocating darkness of neurosis and overwork. Unfortunately, Theo was not wiser. Existential misery was nothing more to him than an opportunity to wallow.
Was the architecture dizzying? Was it even notable? Was it worth stirring a conversation up over? Probably not, but misery loved company, and the addressee of the vague statement seemed like just the type to handle the eccentric ( and infuriating ) ramblings of a pseudo-intellectual.
Get out of the house, he told himself everyday, and even that was sometimes a feat. But around 9pm he had ridden his bike to a bar only a few miles from the funeral home and sat at the counter, ordering tap. He looked around, sipping at the room temperature beer and spotted a collection of women eyeing him. He sighed and quickly turned the other way. Upon scanning this side of the room, he saw a familiar face, then in few strides came upon a man he recognized as Monsieur Guillaume Rousset.
“Guillaume,” he barely smiled while plopping down, grateful to not be in an awkward situation with strangers, trying to swim in the waters of confusing seduction, but instead with someone he liked. Baby steps, he kept telling himself. “Its been...months.” He’d been to Geri’s father’s wake, and they had probably seen each other once or twice after, but it had been a while. “Thank God you’re here,” he hadn’t meant to sound as desperate as it probably came out. “Hope I’m not intruding on...whatever it is you’re doing,” but he knew Gui enough that he’d welcome company, especially from an old friend.
With the hitching of his breath he was brought back to the danger, the mental whiplash blurring his vision. Guillaume fell back and he pawed at the ground around him, shuffling back and covering his head.
“Les Boches!” He exclaimed.
He was in the trenches, the attack was expected, but not now. He wasn’t ready. Where was his gun? His helmet? Where were his men? He kept on shuffling backwards, heels of his shoes kicking up the grass beneath him.
“Non! Non! Les Boches! Les Bo-”
And just then at the voice and the hand placed on his shoulder he tuned back into reality. He caught his breath and blinked until he became grounded once more. In the near distance he could see it was just a broken down car. Possibly the exhaust as he saw the black smoke pouring out from the back. Uneven breaths and nervous hums came from the shaken man, without realising he had placed both hands on the wrists of the person attempting to calm him down.
