“La Vendetta” a short story.

 

Venice,  betrayal, a ciscebo and a nasty Russian.

 

LA VENDETTA

 

Maria de Guiseppa Agnesi Faini sprawled on a brocade-covered chair. It was summer and Venice was always hot, humid and moldy. She crinkled her nose at the smell of the water and the slime rotting the stucco sides of the villa.

Her apartments were on the third floor but there was still very little air this sultry morning coming through the long, opened windows.   She could hear the music of gondola men, their songs always the same of beautiful women and brokenhearted lovers as they plied their way down the Grand Canal. The men’s lilting voices called out the names of local courtesans, much as the sellers of fish or fruit sang of their ware’s desirability.

“ A lira for a squeeze of Maria’s breast, with a couple of oranges to sweeten the deal!”

Signora Faini squirmed in her chair. The brocade was hot to her skin, though she wore a muslin morning dress. Sweat dripped down the viola curve of her back to the crease of her buttocks and she scratched where it tickled. L’Inglese had introduced muslin and it was all the rage in Venice this season. She thought them a bloodless race, a country of bad teeth.

“Where is he?” She tapped her foot impatiently. “He better bring some good gossip for his tardiness.”

Signor Alessandro Balsamo was her friend. Actually he was her ciscebo, tolerated by her husband because Signor Balsamo was, unfortunately, a castrato. He had been cut when a young boy (“Viva il coltello!” the audience yelled when he appeared on the stage) and sang until his voice disappeared. Other patrons supported him, but alas, Signor Balsamo was growing old and unattractive. His nose was arching to meet his chin, his belly could no longer be contained in his waistcoat and even his corset was now uncomfortably tight.

Signora Faini sighed. This heat would not let up, and there were at least two more months to bear of this weather. She promenaded  the cobblestones of San Marco plaza, hoping for a breeze from the sea, until she had worn out 20 pairs of slippers in one month, bowing to the left and right, and stopping to gossip with her few friends. Now her feet hurt.

She thought of her new lover and her nipples hardened. Her hand strayed to her bosom and she squeezed a breast, rubbing shapely thighs together. A soft groan escaped her throat.

He was an officer, a dashing lieutenant, now on maneuvers somewhere across the Alps. She remembered the first time, when in Signora Mortanti’s garden, with her skirts flipped over his kneeling form before her. She caught the eye of her husband and had the presence of mind to flutter her fan at him. He barely acknowledged his wife so intent was he in arguing the latest political scandal. Leaning upon a tree, she inched around it, better to obscure her lover’s behavior.   He obediently followed on his knees. There would have been two scandals discussed that soft, spring night, and one ending in bloodshed.

Ah, she missed her Alfredo! He was bold, but perhaps all Romans were so. There was a difference between the men of Venice and Roma. In Venice they talked of commerce, but the men of Roma talked of love, and made exciting scandal.

Still, Venice was a wicked city. There were plenty of places to indulge in passionate embraces. Her husband’s gondola was a cozy one, with the canopy making them a snug nest inside if a bit too warm. A few extra lira to the boatman, and she was assured her secrets. Of course, they could never be completely unclothed, but the necessary parts ‘d’amour’ were available. They tried numerous positions, but the best for her was to bounce upon his lap. Then the boatman did not have to compensate for the side to side thrusts of her lover. Her hands strayed downward to that secret place, not so secret anymore to Alfredo. *Ah, Alfredo! I miss your long sword. Not the insignificant dagger of her husband. No, a real sword, one that pierced to her empty womb and she could play with like a regular puttana. The weight of his balls in her hands were like the golden——

“Signora?” A maid knocked upon her door, interrupting her thoughts.

“Signor Balsamo has arrived.”

“Well, let him in.” Signora Faini’s tone expressed her annoyance. Such a stupid maid.

Signor Balsamo entered and made his best leg. His wig was freshly curled and his waistcoat beautifully embroidered. He was a small, stout man, but still he had a certain charm.

Signora barely nodded her head. She continued to fan herself with her limp lace handkerchief.

“So, Allesandro, my love, you dare to show up late….Again?”

“Forgive me, my dearest Maria, there was a large puppet show at San Marco. I thought of you and your love of puppets and perhaps we could walk down and see. They are quite remarkable, almost life sized. The staging is well done.”

Ah, thought Signora Faini. Puppets! I am in the mood for such entertainment. I won’t have to wear out another pair of slippers. I must remind myself to either hide the shoemaker’s bill or start lying to my husband. He will start yelling again, and there goes my fun.

The signora rang a small porcelain hand bell and called for her personal maid.

Signor Balsamo did not remove himself, for he had been present many times when she was at her toilette. He had little interest in a woman’s charms, with one exception. He sat, leaning his chin on his cane and watched her being undressed by her maid.

She shed the morning dress, a confection of muslin and ruffles. Then, stepping out of two petticoats, she stood in a chemise. Already corseted, the maid went behind the Signora and tightened her laces. Sitting, she lifted a slim leg to her maid, not caring that she exposed her fregna to the eyes of her ciscebo. He blinked, knowing she did it to humiliate him. It was an old and cruel game she played.

Today, she was even crueler. Lifting both breasts from her corset, she examined the nipples. She knew her ciscebo had an attachment to women’s breasts, probably something from his childhood. She twisted each nipple, making the small dark pink flesh stand at attention. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the Signor. She knew he wanted something. Something  she rarely rewarded him with. She could see the hunger, his mouth open like a fish and his eyes droopy with sadness.   She found a perverse thrill in hurting him. He was such a child, so malleable, so predictable.

Rolling up each silk stocking, the maid tied garters around the Signora’s knees. Then she hurried to a large armoire. Opening it, she awaited her mistress’ decision.

“No, not anything heavy this morning, it grows too hot and already the morning breezes are gone. Perhaps a silk. What do you think, Alessandro? Perhaps this watered blue with the ecru lace? Does it look cool to you?”

Signor Balsamo had been present for this game many times. If he said ‘yes’ to her selection, she would discard it. If he said “no” she would consider it, but there would be layers of clothes spread on the floor and sofas before Signora made up her mind. She was woman! What could one expect?

Sitting at the vanity while completing her toilette, she suffered the maid pinning  hair high on her head. Dark, chestnut curls tumbled to her shoulders. At least they would not create heat on the back of her neck. She was a small woman, like a china doll, all curves and bright eyes and rose tinted lips. She rose and turned to her ciscebo.

“Ah, Signora! A vision of radiant beauty, a cornucopia of delights, a —-“

“Enough, Allessandro.” She turned to the window overlooking the canal, dismissing him unkindly.

“You weary me with the same chants. Let us leave, though the hour not fashionable. Come Alessandro, you have promised me a puppet show and perhaps a glace?”
“Ah, something sweet would be very nice! The ice from the Alps is packed in straw. Last time I got a bit of chaff in my ice, this time I will run the vendor through with my sword.”

Signora Faini laughed, her tones like a tinkling bell. “Ah, Alessandro, you are such a man, so bold and advancing. Too bad about the missing parts.”

With that she grabbed up her parasol and took his arm, not caring for the pain in his eyes. He was to pay, and pay dearly for making her wait this morning.

The sunlight was bright but there were huge, puffy clouds floating across the deep blue sky. The water reflected the light like a million, million diamonds thrown on the surface by a very rich Prince. Carefully being handed into her gondola by Signor Balsamo, the Signora settled her dress around her, and raised her parasol. Signor Balsamo sat next to her, rocking the gondola as he stepped in. They floated down the Grand Canal, Signor Balsamo watching her nod at a few other gondolas, some friends, more enemies. She made many of them as he found out over the two years of their acquaintance. Regardless, a public courtesy would have to be maintained. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer” was Signor Faini’s personal motto. It had much meaning lately. He might be a cornuto, but he was a wise cornuto, thought Signor Balsamo.

They crossed under the Ponte dei Sospiri and past the Paigioni, docked and entered San Marco palazzo. A million pigeons took flight, to circle the plaza and return in great spirals to the same stones. The iridescence of their feathers were like tiny winged prisms caught by the sun. The Palazzo Ducale occupied one side of San Marco with its white confection of marble, Moorish tracery.   Signora Faini walked beside Signor Balsamo, her arm entwined in his. He swung his cane with the forward movement of his right leg, and swished it to make the vendors and beggars scatter from their path.

The palazzo was crowded today, even as the bells sounded and the cannon fired, declaring the hour. The sounds of musicians and the bray of vendors added to the festivities. There, before them, rose a stage, with a good crowd fronting the entertainment  already in progress.

It was a large boxed stage, with a black curtain stretching across the wooden frame where the puppets performed. A roof peaked up behind it. Signora Faini recognized “Punchinello” a hunchbacked character with a beak of a nose, and clapped her hands in glee.

Signor Balsamo laughed, and infected with her happiness, yelled: “Ah! Punchinello! Coglinni! Does he never change, my dear? He is universal for bravery, for laziness, for pride and bawdiness! He embodies the best and worst in mankind. Bravo, my friend!”

Signor Balsamo greeted this huge headed, almost human sized puppet with the enthusiasm one would greet an old friend. Perhaps they were related.

“Ah! He is ugly, and that never changes!” A true observation that made the crowd laugh.

The ‘teste di fantasia” in Venice were known in Europe to be the finest. But this was not a Venetian production, but the work of a Russian, who was known as a Count, or perhaps he was a Prince. Who could tell? The mystery surrounding M. Swartzskya was thick as the fog over the canals in winter.

They watched the puppets and marveled how realistic they were. Dressed in sumptuous fashion, even if a few years out of date, their puppetry revealed only by the wires that went from their moving parts to high above where the puppeteer was controlling them, they were almost human to observers.

A dance, an awkward embrace, the tangling of wires, the sound of puppet feet hitting the stage and on occasion, a groan. Ah, this Count Swartzskya was a genius! The Doge himself would be entertained, for Signora Faini and Signor Balsamo had never seen such a display of pure delight! All the gold in Venice couldn’t replace the sheer magic of Swartzskya!

The sound of a chamber orchestra floated over the palazzo and Signor Balsamo sighed.

“Ah, Maria, they are playing il Prete Rosso’s music. Ah! I never heard him, but my sainted father did. What a wonderful violinist the Red Priest, he said. Quick as lightening on the strings, and the heartstrings too, my little dove! So many Signoras opened their corsets and gave him their hearts and love and other small pieces of their devotion. He was quite the scandal in his youth.   And a priest!”

“But you know, Alessandro, every priest has a mistress. How could all these puttani exist without the Church?” Signora sniffed in contempt, twirling her silk parasol above her head.

The sounds of Vivaldi’s music floated through the air, adding to the spectacle before them. Suddenly, as if the puppets could hear the music, as if they had become animated with human sentiment and had blood coursing through papier mache veins, they bowed and did a stately minuet. How gracefully did the unseen puppeteer lift the wires binding limbs and life. How perfectly did wooden, painted puppets, faces frozen in carved sentiment, with eyes strangely human, flashing with passion, express such intelligence!

Signora Faini was overcome, and a few silly tears gathered in her eyes. Ah, Madonna! The combination of the music and the display before her was hitting a hole in her soul, pulling at her own heartstrings.   Signor Balsamo patted her hand, a strange smile upon his own countenance.

“Would you like to meet Count Swartzskya? I have had the privilege, Maria, and you will not forget the man easily. This I assure you.”

Before she could agree, a loud rumble of thunder drowned out the music and all eyes looked upward. With curses from the men and screams and laughter from the women, it started to pour down on all standing in the palazzo. The rain was relentless and they could hear “Stronzo di merda!”, “Per carita!” and “Che cazzo!” from the musicians as they scrambled to protect their delicate instruments.

Signora Faini’s parasol, meant for the sun was soaked.   Signor Balsamo drew his arm around her small waist and guided them behind the stage. There was a door and a man, who looked Signor Balsamo in the eye and bowed them in.

Maria looked around at the structure. It was big, almost as big as the reception room in her villa, but the ceiling not as high. There were crates on the sides of the painted, wooden walls, chairs and a large table cluttered with puppetry crossbars, carpentry tools, clothes, all directly behind the stage. As she shook her parasol, the water spun off in clear rainbows of light, landing on the carpeted floor.

Suddenly, from the back of the stage, a huge man appeared as if out of the smoke of a large fire. Maria’s eyes widened as she watched the man come silently towards them. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded.

“Ah, Count Swartzskya! Thank you for receiving us. The sudden rain….”

Signor Balsamo’s words faded away and he shrugged his shoulders, his eyes locked on the man who stood looming over them.

“May I present Signora Faini, Sir? Signora is the lady I was mentioning before. She has a passion for puppets, Count.”

The Count took the hand of Signora Faini and kissed it, she unmoving, her eyes fixed on his face.

Count Swartzskya stood before Maria and she thought, I wouldn’t come up to his chest! What a remarkably formed creature.

Maria had reason for amazement. The Count, perhaps in his late fifties, was over six feet tall. He had black, curly hair, shot with grey and worn in a pigtail at his neck. That he wore no wig would have been remarkable enough in Venice. That he was so large a man was even more striking. He would stand head and shoulders over any crowd in Venice. His hands were huge and long fingered, his thighs were bulging with muscles. Obviously he had either been a horseman or a soldier. Everything about him reeked of physical power. Signora Faini seemed quite overwhelmed by his presence, as her eyes impolitely fanned over his face.

Overhead she could hear the crackle of lightening and the boom of horrendous thunder. She shivered and jumped each time the windows of the room reflected the raging storm outside.   Suddenly she screamed, for the lightening struck close and the hair rose on her arms. She jumped right into the arms of Count Swartzskya and stayed there, trembling like a leaf.

“Oh, Madame! Do not concern yourself with what is happening outside in Zeus’ court. You are safe with me. Come, have tea and settle yourself.”

Count Swartzskaya’s voice was a deep as the thunder, but soothing.

He led them from the main tent to a little chamber, where a servant set a table for tea. Signora Faini appeared grateful for the hot cup of tea. She was shivering.

As she drank one cup and then another, the two men talked and her eyes started to close. It seemed she could barely hold her head up.

Balsamo and the Count continued their discourse in low voices, ignoring Signora Faini sitting at the tea table.

“She has it coming, la bagascia, but no permanent damage, agreed?”

“But of course, it will just be something frivolous, a small humiliation.”

“But will she remember it?”

“No, she will have no memory of this day at all. However, I can arrange for that to change. What is your pleasure, Signor?”

“No, no, our original plan will be enough – this time, Count.”

Swartzskya tossed a bag of coin to Signor Balsamo and he hoisted it in his palm. A broad smile creased Signor Balsamo’s face as he addressed Signora Faini, now sprawled in her chair, one slipper falling from her delicate foot.

“Maria, my dear girl, sometimes you go too far in your wickedness. But you will pay the piper tonight…or shall I say…the Count?”

With those final words he laughed and left, whistling a piece of his beloved Vivaldi.

—–

Signora Faini could hear Balsamo but could not respond. It was as if she was made of wood, like the puppets outside before the rain drove her into the shelter of Count Swartzskya and into his arms. Madonna! Everything felt wooden, numb about her and her breath barely moved her bosom. She could hear but she could not speak or move her limbs. She was like a puppet awaiting the wires to animate her body.

The Count leaned over and his finger made a trail from throat to cleavage, his eyes staring , his face close enough to kiss her. She could not avoid him and suddenly she felt his fleshy lips as he bit her mouth, drawing a little blood. She could only register fear with her eyes.

The Count busied himself with a little squeeze here, a sharp pinch there, but Maria could not feel his hands molesting her. She could only follow his behavior with a limited movement of her eyes.

“You know, Maria, his Holiness and you share a common desire. He loves puppets, just like you. But he will never have the privilege of being one.”

Signora Faini could hear him but could not respond.

“Ah, sweet Maria, some paint to fix your pretty little face, a costume, some wires and you will be ready for a performance. Tonight you will dance before the Doge and his guests. Wonder if they will recognize you? Ah, no matter, I will make you disappear to them in case any are guests of his Holiness. It is a subtle but sharp little revenge of your good friend Signor Balsamo, no? He will be sitting there, enjoying your puppet antics and your memory of this night will be his alone.”

The Count stood and stretched, throwing out his arms over his head. It would be a long night and he had much work. He regarded the little doll of a woman before him, still sitting in her chair, silent, only her eyes animated, and chuckled.

“Ah, Maria…some women learn lessons easily, and some take a bit of the twisting of the wires to get their attention. Perhaps after tonight you will think again before you scorn your Signor Balsamo for his missing parts?”

“Come, Maria, drink a bit more tea. It will fortify you. Is it too bitter? Here, let me add just a little more ‘special sugar’. It will do the trick.”

The Count obligingly held the delicate porcelain teacup to her rosy lips and filled her mouth with tea. She sputtered, but swallowed, her eyes filling with tears.

Maria couldn’t protest, she had no voice. Only the terror in her eyes registered she was even alive.

“Ah, look Maria! Your eyes are sparkling! Tonight you will be the belladonna of the stage. Of course, tomorrow the critics will say your acting was a bit ‘wooden’ but what do they know?”

 

THE END

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010-2019

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Devil in Paris”,…..a short story.

Madame Gormosy is a Devil. She can change her sex at will, from Louise Gormosy to Louis Gormosy. John Garret is also a Devil, but not so powerful. They have known each other for centuries as devils generally do. The scene is Paris, in the 1770’s.

.

THE DEVIL IN PARIS

–

CHAPTER ONE

–

Madame Louise Gormosy stood by the tall window, looking down at the rain-slicked street. Paris was cold and dreary this spring. Wood had gone up in price, and a timely delivery was a matter of bribes. That should be the concern of her steward, but he had disappeared. Already her servants were breaking up small cabinets and chairs to burn in the main salon and kitchen. She could hear the smashing of wood somewhere in the large apartment.

Madame shivered for the room was chilly. Ah, she thought, if ever I see him again, I will make him pay with his life for my discomfort. I will tear his stomach open with my nails and cook his liver.

She had a visitor, a sullen-looking Englishman, now with his large frame stretched across her sofa. John Garrett had been a friend for many years. He was an easy-going devil and good company when in the proper temper.   She cast her eyes towards him, a smile forming on her painted lips. Patting her high-dressed hair and smoothing the gray satin front of her gown, she wondered what had put him in such a mood. She remembered he was quite a wit when not bothered with serious thought. She hoped he would reform his manners, for she wanted nothing to spoil the afternoon. The rain could not be helped.

“John Garrett!”   Madame’s natural voice was low pitched but now showed her exasperation with a rise in key. “Are you going to continue your gloom and sour my day?”

Garrett, his eyes drawn slowly from the low burning flames that hardly threw any warmth, looked up at her. He stared for a long minute, a sneer forming on his handsome face.

“We are alone,” Garrett said quietly. “I know you better as “Louis”. Why behave this way amongst friends? “

Madame did not answer.   She walked to the double door, locked it and threw the key into his lap. For a moment she stood there, with her head cocked to the side, an elegant older woman, dressed in the latest fashion and only a sharp rise in the middle of her skirt gave warning of what was to happen.

In an instant, “Louise Gormosy” was “Louis Gormosy”. Gone were Madame’s satin overdress, the high coifed and perfumed hair. A bit of makeup remained, but it was the current fashion among Parisian men. Louis laughed at the expression on Garrett’s face. He now was a slight-figured man, above middle age, with powdered hair and white silk stockings sagging around thin calves.

John Garrett shuddered. He knew his friend was not just any man in Paris. He was a demon, an important one– the Archduke Demon of Lust, with sixty legions under his command.

Louis Gormosy had ridden out of Hell on a white camel and long tormented the earth. It could not be helped; it was his nature. It was his…. calling.

Ah, he thought, I miss my camel… along with my legions, but tant pis! Paris cobblestones were hard on her aging hooves.

His present guest, John Garrett, was also a demon, but not of the same stature. Louis Gormosy was not sure of Garrett’s actual position in Hell, but knew him to have the patronage of the powerful Archduke Abigor, close to the throne. With friends like that, even the powerful Demon of Lust had to watch his hoof.

Louis Gormosy chuckled at his guest’s surprise. “Oh come, John, surely you are getting used to my little trick? Non? Well then, I have another reason to invite you here, besides parlor tricks. This evening I am expecting some guests, and I have reason for you to meet them.”

John Garrett sat up, stretching his legs. “Are you planning a little entertainment this evening? You know, Louis, one never can tell with you.”

Louis Gormosy lay a finger aside his nose and winked. “You have come at a good time, John.   I expect a young woman, a girl actually. She is the daughter of a neighbor in the country. She is around eighteen and her mother is anxious to have her married.”

“I am almost afraid to ask, Louis. What part do you play? ”

John Garrett looked at his friend from half-closed lids, like a cat settling in for a long story.

Monsieur Gormosy walked to the window and looked out at the still pouring rain. He turned his head slightly and gave Garrett a nervous smile before peering down at the street, watching for a carriage to stop at his door.

“Madame Luciern is a silly woman, a bit more stupid than usual. She has a daughter on her hands she complains is a ‘bookworm’. Ah! Bon Dieu! So the young woman will educate herself with novels and newsprint. Tant pis!”

Louis Gormosy threw up his hands in disgust. The words “Good God” had a strange sound in his mouth, just shy of a gurgle.

“You still don’t tell me what your part is in this affair.”

Gormosy turned and looked at his friend. “Better you ask me what your part is.”

John Garrett sucked his breath in sharply, and let out with a soft “Oh no, Louis!”

Louis gestured with his hands outward, all Gallic charm, and continued his appeal.

“What is a little fun amongst devils, neh? You have certain…ah…attributes that I unfortunately, do not have.”

“The starch issue again, Louis?” Garrett’s words rattled Louis and he winced.

“Quel dommage! I don’t know if this is a little trick of Heaven or Hell, John…but it persists. I begin the attack, a few thrusts with the sword, and even with one parry, I wilt.”

And, thought Louis sadly, it always came down to what devil had more ‘reach’. It always came down to a measurement. Here on earth the length of the cock, and in Hell, the amount of control.

 

“So, what is your plan and why should I care?”

Monsieur sucked on the side of his thumb, thinking how to present his case.

“I have not seen the young woman. Her mother keeps her well hidden in the house. If she is a bookworm as the mother says, perhaps any attempt here in Paris to marry her off will be impossible. Perhaps she is ugly!”

“Or perhaps she has no bosom,” said Garrett from his sofa, eyes wandering back to the fire.

“Or perhaps… she has a harelip!” said Gormosy. “What do I know? I have not seen the poor girl.”

With a grimace, Gormosy shook out his hand. He had bitten deeply into his flesh, and blood spurted from his thumb.

Garrett asked, “Does she have a good fortune?”

“Non, unfortunately not. Madame Luciern is a widow and her estate is lessened with the behavior of her oldest son. That young man has no sense at cards…and worse luck! I would give him some pointers in faro, but I do not cheat at cards.”

What a big lie, thought John, laughing silently. There was honor amongst devils but not at cards. What was the worse that could happen? A duel, you die, you come back fresh and new, with another chance to cheat life. And at cards.

“But!” continued Louis, raising a finger into the air for dramatic emphasis. “She has an honorable name! That is worth something, I think.”

“Hah,” said Garrett. “Perhaps of worth to mortals. But it is something.”

The blood continued to spurt from Gormosy’s thumb. “Merde”. He pulled a sooty handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped his thumb.

“So, what do you intend to do with Mademoiselle? Do you have a cuckold in mind?”

“Why would he be a cuckold, mon ami? I have all intention of marrying her to someone worthy and with a good fortune.”

“And if she is not marriageable due to this harelip or flat bosom? What do you intend then for Mademoiselle?” asked Garrett.

“I intend to make her a whore.”

There. It was out, thought Gormosy. Let him chew on that. There was profit to be made here, and he, Louis, would take the advantage.

“Why do you need me?” John Garrett’s eyes half closed again as he looked at his friend who was grinning stupidly.

“ If I can not obtain an acceptable offer, I will need your –ah, efforts, John.”

“Meaning? Come Louis, do not make me beat it out of you.”

“You will seduce her. You will make her more pliable for her gentleman callers…I, of course, will revert back to Madame, for this is all her mother knows of me, and you will play…”

“Hold on, Louis. Do you or don’t you intend to get her a husband?”

“How should I know?” Louis Gormosy shrugged his shoulders and presented his palms upward.

“I don’t know if she has a harelip or an unfortunate bosom. We both, my old friend, will find out this evening.”

CHAPTER TWO

–

John Garrett stood at the window looking out at the rain when he heard the knock on the door. He watched Louis cross his hands over his breast and shake his head violently. Louis became Louise again. Voila! Her high coifed powdered hair, the satin dress, the tight corset and breasts returned. As many times as he witnessed this transformation, it always took him by surprise. Louis was one tricky devil. A snap of Louis’ fingers and the door unlocked.

Garrett watched Madame and Mlle. Luciern entered the room, Madame like a clipper ship in full rig. Madame was a short, plump woman, middle- aged, with powdered hair that showed the effects of the rain. Her dark plum, satin gown was ten years out of fashion. She wore little face powder and there were honest wrinkles and age-spots enough to signify that Madame was no longer young. Kissing Louise on both cheeks she shook herself, rather like a hen ruffling her feathers. Louise gestured for her to sit.

Garrett listened to Madame Luciern introduce her daughter to her hostess. Louise took the young woman’s hands in hers, studying her carefully and called for him to come be introduced.

Garrett bowed over Madame Luciern’s hand and watched her face color with delight. Mlle Luciern had no such reaction to his presence. Her face remained expressionless.

Taking a chair across from Mlle., he listened to Louise Gormosy ask the mother questions about their trip from the countryside. The two older women were soon lost in chatter and he had a chance to observe the silent young woman.

His first impression of Mlle was favorable. She was slender, with an underdeveloped bosom, a fine complexion and a pretty mouth.   She did look like a bookworm, he thought with a chuckle.   She had a serious demeanor, with pale gray eyes and dark brows that did not arch in the necessary fashion. Fine brown hair pulled into a simple unadorned bun exposed a slender neck.   He was curious. He had his fill of coquettes and fashionable young women in Paris. They were of a general order, all schooled in manners to attract a man’s attention and hold it captive for an afternoon. Their charms passed through him like water. How bored he had become with the women of Paris!

In Mlle. Luciern he saw something different. Something intriguing and virginal, but virginity had little value in Paris. He laughed to himself. Virtue was good for children but pointless in an attractive woman. Already the gloom of his mood was lifting in the presence of a rather mysterious young woman.

The two Madames were lost in conversation and twittering with laughter as old friends do. Both her mother and Louise seemingly forgot Mlle. Her face was politely blank, trained to assume a mask in company, but Garrett could see she was not empty of thought. Her fine eyes narrowed as she listened to her mother and Louise rattle on and a pained look cracked the mask.

“You have been in Paris before, Mlle.?” Garrett’s voice was low enough to not disturb the chatter of the two older women. Mlle. Luciern turned her gray eyes to his and answered his question quietly, but with little interest reflected in her voice.

“Oui, Monsieur, I have visited Paris before, but not recently. I was a girl when I was last here.” Her voice was almost husky, and the pitch of it surprised him. Most young women were taught to have ‘musical’ voices in company, to laugh as affectedly as a tinkling bell. Mlle Luciern seemed unspoiled by such manners.

He did not have a chance to question her further, for the sound of Mlle’s voice made her mother remember her.

“M. Garrett”, said Madame with a bright smile. “Margot-Elisabeth was a little girl the last time we were here, only about twelve years old. She is now nineteen years of age, and a stay with Madame Gormosy will bring some color to her cheeks and some polish to her manners. Ah, Bon Dieu! The countryside is good for virtue but there is little opportunity were we live to make her a wife!”

Mlle Luciern’s face showed distress at her mother’s words. Garrett saw how Madame Gormosy’s eyes glittered.

“Ah, my dear Marie,” Gormosy said to the mother. “We will polish the apple and find her a mate. She has promise, but is too pale in the face. Perhaps a bit of rouge and the labors of my hairdresser?”

Madame Luciern laughed at Gormosy’s words. “Bon chance, Louise! I can barely get Margot-Elisabeth to brush her hair!”

Poor Mlle. Luciern blushed at her mother’s words and Garrett suppressed a smile. Margot meant ‘pearl’ and this one would need quite a bit of polish to catch a husband in Paris.

Garrett tried to make small conversation with Mlle. but she was now as shy as unpolished. The two older women chatted away without stopping for breath and the conversation was all about Margot-Elisabeth, unconcerned with her growing discomfort.

She could have been invisible in the room for all they noticed.

Garrett heard the amount of funds pledged by Madame Luciern to Gormosy, and almost whistled aloud. A dressmaker would be sent for immediately.

“Ah, Louise,” said Madame Luciern with a look of gratitude. “You work your magic with Margot-Elisabeth. In your competent hands I am sure she will bloom.”

Garrett wondered how much ‘magic’ would be needed by Louise, and how her mother would react if she knew the source of Madame’s….ah….magic.

How droll it was. Mother Luciern to leave her precious daughter in the hands of a devil. All the rosaries in France would not amount to a hill of shit once Louise got her claws into the prey.

Garrett laughed to himself. Tant pis! The bargain was struck. The Devil would have his due.

CHAPTER THREE

–

A week later, John Garrett was shown into Madame’s apartment by an old servant. He glanced at the dark and wizened man and smelled brimstone. Madame was known to choose her servants carefully. Life could be a subterranean maze in Paris. He knew other demons in the city and all were not friendly devils.

“Ah, John! Bonjour!” Madame was drinking tea with a young woman, one Garrett did not recognize.

“You remember Mlle. Luciern? What changes we have wrought! Such an elegant young woman. What man in his right mind could resist her! Could you, John?”

Ah, thought Garrett. Madame is up to her old tricks. She insists in making me part of her plan for this young woman.

Madame’s eyes glittered as she turned to look at the young woman sitting across the tea table. Garrett bowed over the jewelled hand of Louise, and then stood back to look at Mlle. Luciern.

Madame had indeed worked her magic. Mlle. was coifed and gowned like a young, elegant Parisian matron. He admired her hair, piled high on her head, with many curls and loops and one long curled tendril, a thick sausage over her shoulder. At least Madame’s hairdresser had forgone the powder and her natural color was preserved. Mlle’s complexion was good but now she had some bloom in her cheeks. He knew this was all art, for Louise was an expert with faces and makeup. He saw Mlle. had only two black satin patches on her face, one near the left eye, and one near the mouth to draw attention to her painted lips. They did look alluring to him, like they were stung by an amorous bee.

Garrett cocked his head to the side and let his gaze travel down her figure. Her morning dress was of light blue silk. Ruffles framed her breast. Garrett let his eyes linger only a second, but Mlle. did present a lovely bosom to onlookers. He knew this was due to more of Madame’s magic – this time with pads in the corset. Round, delicate mounds above and the merest of rouged nipples appeared like little mouse noses peeking over the tops of the corset. Such was the fashion for seduction. He wondered how far Madame had corrupted her student.

“No, Madame Gormosy, no man could resist such a beautiful young woman.”

Garrett was surprised to see Margot blush so deeply. At least Madame’s instructions had not destroyed this vestige of virtue in the girl.

“Mlle. is an good student, John. She learns fast and takes an interest in her future. Her mother will be proud of her. We will get her matched up with the proper husband soon enough. But as I have told Mlle. Margot, there is plenty time for an engagement. Now is to be given to sharpening her feminine skills. That way she will attract the best prospect for her future happiness. Mais bon Dieu!   She is still so young and innocent. We must hone her wit and deportment. Nothing like the polish upon an apple to attract the proper bites.”

Garrett stared at Madame Gormosy. He could easily see through her designs, but of course, the young woman was too naïve to understand what was happening right under her nose. She was a pretty morsel, and it was hard to take his eyes from parts of her. The swell of her breast, how gently it rose with an almost imperceptible movement. He could feast his eyes on that tender piece of flesh all morning. How much more alluring she would be if she were panting, he thought. A sly smile appeared on his face.

Ah, Madame Gormosy was full of devilry this morning, and it was infectious.

Louise Gormosy spoke with excitement. “Today we will work on the great science of “coquetry”. Non, M. Garrett, do not laugh, for women have their own science. Let the men work with fire and chemicals. We women have our own fire and it is called “La Passion”

Garrett winced and hoped Mlle. Margot would forgive the bad prose of her patroness. But Madame would press her case.

“Surely Mlle. Margot has higher aspirations than to be a housewife to her husband. It is a most contemptible and unfashionable position for any women of breeding, and has no social standing except for a parson’s wife or a lowly farmer’s. Ah Dieu! Mlle. is made by nature for much finer things!”

Garrett wondered if the word “God” did not burn the inside of Madame’s mouth, but since she was an old devil, he imagined she would have a mouth immune to heat. Still, he had heard this speech before, but he could not remember when. Perhaps it was another time in another century, while attending Madame under similar circumstances, that she had used these same words. They seemed familiar to him in any case. He heard her drone on.

“Now, Mlle. Margot, advice today is seen as ridiculous to be given, and even more ridiculous to be taken, but your dear maman would want you to listen to me very closely. Alors! She has given you into my hands for more than to fluff your beautiful hair and plump your fine bosom. It is her choicest desire to prepare you for entrance into the best of society and this is the path to catch the eyes of a husband. Have you read Madame d’Effine’s letters? Non? Pity. But I can supply you a copy of her book. Or better yet, I can give you the benefit of my long experience.”

Garrett could not stop a smile creeping across his face. Mlle Margot would have no idea just how long that experience really was. Yes, Mlle Luciern, it goes back a long way. Whether Madame could read his mind, which was standard fare amongst devils, or she caught a glimpse of his sly smile, she turned around suddenly and gave Garrett a vicious look. His face went neutral and he closed his eyes in compliance. He would not interrupt her behavior. Besides, it was entertainment for a morning’s visit.

“Now, Mlle.Margot. Virtue is all very fine and good, but to get a husband, or any admirer, a woman must use what attributes she has and develop more. A fine voice, the ability to cut to the heart of a man’s desire just with the cast of your eyes, the flutter of your fan, ah! There is so much to learn, but we will persist. Now, M.Garrett, please attend to Mlle. and lead her around the room, s’il vous plait.

Garrett stood and offered his arm to Mlle. Margot. They walked around the large salon, Mlle. Margot only as high as his chest. He was a tall and well- built man, with broad shoulders, and Mlle. petite next to him. He observed her blush as she placed her hand on his and looked up into his face.

Entertaining as Madame was, he was beginning to have his doubts about her plans. He believed this young woman to be innocent. He rarely, now that he thought of it, came across a woman so – uncorrupted, and certainly not in Paris. The thought crossed his mind: Quelle dommage, as Madame liked to say. Perhaps he would have his own plan for Mlle. Luciern. What was a little competition between devils? They had shared tender morsels before in their long history.

“Eh bien! Attendez–moi! John, give me the advantage of your eyes. Tell me what you think are the best points of Mlle.’s figure. Does that style of dress, the color suit her the best, mon ami? Speak out loud what her beau would say, and let us see how Mlle. reacts to such praise!”

Ah, it was clear what Madame’s plan was now! Madame was a terrible devil this morning, and she would have her fun at the expense of the painful blushes of Mlle. He decided to turn the game to his own advantage, and perhaps spare Mlle some pain.

At that very moment, the old devil servant of Madame Gormosy slipped into the room and approaching quickly, whispered into the ear of his mistress. Madame cocked her head towards his mouth, and though she did not take her eyes from John Garrett and Mlle. Luciern, Garrett saw they grew dark with concern. Muttering some curses low under her breath, she rose and went with her servant from the room, forgetting her two guests.

Garrett took the time of Madame’s absence to lead Mlle. Luciern to a chair and to sit down across from her. He observed Mlle. sink gratefully into her seat, and with a motion beneath her skirts, kick off one shoe.

“Ah, Mlle, does your foot hurt?”

“M.Garrett, I can not get used to these narrow shoes Madame makes me wear. I am not used to this fashion. And if you would know further, I am not used to these headaches. They are from my hair pulled from my head and pinned so tightly. And I can breathe only a little. Madame demands my corset be laced tight.” Mlle. blushed, but Garrett could hear in the distress in her voice.

“Ah! I sympathize. Perhaps you think what Madame does here is far off the mark?”

“I don’t understand what you mean, Monsieur.” Another sharp kick under her skirts and off came the other shoe.

“Mlle Luciern. Forgive my blunt words, but Madame is an “old fogey” as we say in England. She means well, but she is generations behind in her thinking.”

How many generations Mlle could never guess.

Tears formed in Mlle. Luciern’s eyes, and she shook her head. Garrett could only sympathize.

“Here, Mlle. Let me do something for your comfort. I will take all the blame, but tant pis! I am an old friend of Madame’s and used to her ways.”

He stood and moved behind Mlle’s chair. With practiced movements, he removed the pins from her hair and spread them from their high peaks and down her back. With gentle hands he massaged her temples and she groaned in relief.

“Ah! Bon Dieu, Monsieur. That feels so good. My poor head was about to explode. Madame means well, but she does not seem to suffer pain like the rest of us. I saw her put on a hat the other day and plunge a long pin into her head. Mon Dieu! She said she did not hit her skin but her hair, but to me, ah goodness! To my eyes, it seemed to go through her head!”

Garrett smiled from behind Mlle’s chair. In fact, he had seen Madame do this before and other such things and had warned her if observed her game would be over. Madame had laughed, she had been doing such tricks for centuries. Besides, the winds of Paris were strong and her hat would blow off if she didn’t get a good layer of skin beneath her hat pin.

“Madame has a thick skull, Mlle. Luciern”, Garrett said drolly. “She is used to all sorts of torture for fashion.”

Garrett looked down Mlle. Luciern’s bosom and watch the gentle curves rise and fall with her breathing. Too bad his plans for Mlle. did not include a seduction. He would like to savor those two young mounds in his mouth. But it would be a passing fancy and his plans for Mlle. Luciern’s future did not include this fleeting pleasure. He had a more lasting pleasure to savor.

And his good friend Louis would be the poorer for it.

CHAPTER FOUR

–

John Garrett was standing behind Mlle. kneading her temples when Madame Gormosy entered the room.

“Ah!– Oh no! What have you done to Mlle’s hair, John? All the work and effort of my hairdresser! Ah well, it can’t be helped now. Would you like me to leave?”

Madame’s voice cut into the silence and Mlle. Luciern jumped from her chair. She had almost fallen asleep, Garrett’s hands soothing her nerves. But she was young and obeyed orders, her face showing her distress.

“Oh Madame! Forgive me! My head was pounding and I thought I would be sick with the headache. Monsieur Garrett has saved me from my pain. Please, I beg you, I am very sorry about the hair.”

Madame cocked her head at Garrett and raised her eyebrows. He just smiled and closed his eyes like an owl.   He did this many times with Madame. It was his way of signaling he would not answer her questions. He could be as stubborn as Madame was persistent.

“Well, Mlle.,” she said with a sniff, “if you are recovered, perhaps we can salvage this morning with a lesson.” She would put aside her annoyance and continued with Mlle’s instruction, but gave Garrett a withering glance first.

“Perhaps we can start with “The Art of Seduction”. Do not laugh M. Garrett! Do not dare laugh. These are important lessons I impart to Mlle. Her future happiness rests upon honing what she has been given naturally. We must polish the apple some more until she can attract the fruitful nibbles.”

Garrett almost groaned aloud. Louis was stuck in this apple cart.

Madame sat down across from Mlle. who had hurriedly twisted her hair into a chignon.

“Attendez-moi! Seduction by a man is his act of attaining the affections of a woman, of becoming deeply enamoured, and applauding her for her generosity and attention.”

Garrett moved to the window where he could look out at the street below and listen to Madame. When he heard her definition of seduction, he almost guffawed. Ah, Madame, he thought. You meant to say that the great art of seduction is that of gaining a woman’s affections under pretence of being enamoured, when you really despise the woman for her vanity and weakness in playing your game. But of course, your pigeon will know no better.

Again, whether there was an unseen current between thoughts, or Garrett actually did laugh at Madame’s words, she whipped her head around to look at him, her mouth tight against her teeth.

“Ah, Mlle.”, Madame continued. “Seduction is a little game between a man and a woman which leads to great results. Do not be discouraged by what the moralists think or say. Seduction is the engine that drives amours. Amour leads to marriage and to happiness in the future.”

Mlle. Luciern nodded her head, seeming to attend carefully to what Madame was saying. She appeared to be a diligent student.

“Now, consider the fan. A woman can make a great conversation of love with just the flick of a fan. Regardez–moi.”

Garrett watched Madame picked up a white silk fan from a little table by her chair and opened it, holding it just beneath her eyes. Isolated by the fan’s whiteness, her eyes glittered like diamonds. Mlle. Luciern’s own eyes widened at the effect.

“When you put the fan’s handle to your lips, you are saying “Kiss me.” When you twirl the fan in the left hand, you signal: “We are being watched.” Fan held over the left ear means: “I wish to get rid of you. Allez!” Fanning yourself slowly, ever so slowly means, “I am married.” Fanning quickly, “I am engaged.” Hiding the eyes behind a fully opened fan, like so, means “I love you.” Now, Mlle., you show me what you have learned from my efforts.”

Mlle. Luciern took the fan from Madame’s hand and did as she was told. She hesitated on a number of turns, but Garrett thought that was to be expected.

“Eh bien! Now, we will extend the lesson. With the flick of the fan like so—“ Madame started another lesson of the fan, when she noticed large tears collecting in the eyes of Mlle. Luciern. Suddenly Mlle. burst out crying and threw herself dramatically onto the floor, clutching the skirts of Madame Gormosy.

“What in Hell’s name—“. Madame forgot her manners and looked with surprise at the young woman now sobbing into the fabric of Madame’s dress.

“Oh, Madame Gormosy, I can no longer deceive you! I am already engaged, though my maman does not know of this. She suspects something but she would die a thousand deaths if she knew all!”

Madame Gormosy stood up suddenly and moved from the clutches of the young woman as she would a grabbing beggar. She looked down at her, a cold sneer on her face.

“Ah. So, my time and efforts are to be wasted on you? Well, who is he, this great beau of yours? Is he a groom? Your maman’s steward? Who, girl, out with it. Do not defy me!”

Mlle. Luciern stayed on her knees, her face streaming with her tears, her hands clasped in supplication before her.

“Madame, my maman did not deceive you. It was I who deceived you. My dear maman thought it was over for I steeled my heart and hid my emotions behind my books. I was determined to give him up, my Etain, but it is too late. I am expecting a child!”

Madame’s breath sounded like a rasp in her throat and her face appeared blackened with rage.

“You little devil! You little whore! You come here, instill yourself into my tender affections and you have deceived me! Where is your honor? Where is your breeding? You are no better than a gutterslut! You mother will know what you are, why am I wasting words upon you? Out of my house, you whore, you little—“

Madame raised her hand and was about to descend with it across the face of the stricken-looking and pale Mlle. Luciern, but Garrett had crossed the room at the first words of Madame. He had seen her temper first hand and knew her for what she was. He grabbed Madame’s hand and held it firmly so she could not strike the young woman on the floor before her. Madame whirled around, her face distorted with her anger and she hissed like a snake. At that very moment, she did appear like a viper, with her cold, glittery eyes, and suddenly her tongue snaked out of her mouth, a forked tongue like a snake! He had seen many tricks of Madame before, but this was a new one. Later, when he had time to reflect, he realized that it was not a trick, but very much a part of the nature of Madame. After all, he thought, the serpent figured in the story of lust, and Madame Gormosy was, after all, the Demon of Lust.

Whether it was because of her passion or because of her tight corset, Mlle. Luciern’s eyes rolled back into her head and she fainted away. It was a mercy for then Mlle. would not witness what happened next.

John Garrett kept a hard grip upon Madame’s arm, raised up in the air, and Madame continued to hiss at him. He knew devils could use greater or lesser magic against each other, and what to do Garrett was not clear. But he knew enough to put distance between them, and dropping her arm, stepped fast behind a sofa.

“You have lost, Louise, she is of no benefit to you now. Let the girl go with your blessing. Play the generous Madame and let her return to her mother and her fate.”

“You!” Madame’s voice came back to her. She no longer hissed like a snake. But Garrett observed there was no cessation in her rage.

“You would stay my arm? You, who is not even a proper Devil? The Archduke Abigor only knows what you are, yet you would counter my behavior to this little slut? Do you know what I can do to you? I could turn you to cinders right now along with your little friend here.”

“But you won’t dare, Louise, because of what Abigor will do to you. Do you want to try his humor? Do you want to find out what Abigor will do to you and all you know? Is this little woman before you, now senseless, worth the risk that you take? And, knowing Abigor’s affection for me, you know what fate you will have. There will be no fire of Hell hot enough to punish you. Abigor will cook up his own punishment. Don’t chance it, Louise. Think about your beloved camel.”

Garrett knew Louise Gormosy on a better day might have thought of her camel, but today she was in an inconsolable rage. She couldn’t stand that Fate had frustrated all her fun.

It just wasn’t fair.

But Madame Gormosy could not contain her anger, for it was consuming her before Garrett’s eyes. Her face began to darken, and she began to stamp her foot on the floor. Within seconds she was jumping up and down, and suddenly she was on fire! Before Garrett could move, she was nothing more than a cinder herself, and black ash floated down to the floor, to collect in a puddle of soot.

Tant pis, thought Garrett. She will be back. She always came back.

A fortnight later…..

Garrett heard gossip Mlle. Luciern was sent home to her mother with a considerable fortune. He heard from impeccable sources this was to appease the mother but also to allow Mlle and her beloved to start life together.

The money went a long way to sooth Madame Luciern’s passions over the circumstances, but what could she do? Etain d’Aubringe did not have a fortune, but he did have an old name, and with the money given by Madame Gormosy, Madame Luciern had her satisfaction. Her daughter was married, supplied with a fortune and Madame had the prospects of a grandson.

*************************

That spring, a strange sight was seen in the fashionable boulevards of Paris. A woman, heavily veiled, with a golden girdle surrounding her waist and a crescent moon headdress, was seen leaving Paris on a large camel. Behind her walked her household, a collection of dark-skinned little men and women, who left sooty footsteps behind on the cobblestones. Paris had never seen such a parade, and this one passed in utter silence.

Except for the camel. She complained loudly with groans and spat upon all she could reach. But those who saw her– the camel, not the veiled rider– would long remember the intelligence that gleamed from those eyes.

The End

–

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2008-2015

The Desert Zar, a short story

“The Zar Tales”, published by Lulu.com, 2010

I need a break. It’s summer and my garden looks horrid, the grass uncut, the brown spots courtesy of the three dogs need tending, the chicken coop cleaned out and the chicken manure used to best advantage. I’m posting this short story here, in part because I am trying to get back into the mindset of finishing “Tin Hinan” and I did lose (or forgot to save) the last long chapter. So….I am looking forward to going back into that ‘space’ of Hyperarousal Trance where all things slightly spooky gives some inspiration.

I’ve written before about the Zar ritual, still an important ritual in many North African and Middle East countries and what the demon Zar represents.

I just got in the mail (bless you, Amazon.com) a new Berber group, Tianiwen, and their music I already know will throw me into that place where things connect and efforts are effortless.

See you on the other side.

Lady Nyo

A DESERT ZAR

The dust settled from the desert. All day it howled and swirled around the souk, a locust plague of stinging matter, a towering and maddened djinn. Now the sky over the sands was fading pink, as daylight filtered through the violent storm resolved into a dark blue night.

The roiling sea of sand, shifting like high waves of water, was now placid. Off to the east, bells of a caravan mixed with the groans and protestations of camels, floated over heavy air. Jasmine and bougainvillea scented the night along with dung fires from Bedouin camps.

Dusk was settling in, this narrow ribbon between light and dark, bridged by a few soft breezes. The djinn of night inhaled deeply, holding the memories of the day close, then blew to the desert, to repeat at each dusk into eternity.

This was Tunis, a hundred years ago, before the awnings of the souk now woven reed mats, were replaced with sheet tin, and the trampled dirt paved beyond cobble.

Somewhere a drum begin a steady beat, sounding like a heart beat, drawn from the village core. Then the soft piping of the ney flute floated out over the souk, it’s sweetness rising like a descant over the measured beat of more drums.

Black clad shadows moved down the length of adobe walls to the center well. Bundles of jasmine, tuberose, bougainvillea, red poppies and lavender were placed on the steps of the well, seeming to scent the still water.

An old Negress, her back twisted by life, took a few coins from women as they passed. Her hair twinkled like dull stars from the pierced coins strung from her dull dreadlocks.

This was the price of the Zar. Each woman would exorcise her demon, her hysteria or her bad luck. And with hope, perhaps a mean husband.

As more and more women came around the well, it seemed the drums became louder and the ney flute shriller. The bleating of a goat near by could be heard.

Still, black figures moved in the settling darkness down the cobbles to the well and placed their few coins in the Negress’ hand.

Around the corner and halfway down the street was a doorway. A curtain was drawn over the opening but the incense within puffed out with each opening. It scented the nighttime air, dueling with jasmine growing up walls. The shrillness of the ney increased and the drums picked up rhythm.

Go through the curtain and you enter a room heavy with smells. The incense–powerful, but there were undercurrents of tobacco from a hookah being smoked in the darkened room. There was something acrid, like the smell of fear or sweat. The raw smells of a crowded humanity perfumed the room.

Wooden benches placed far back upon the walls were already filled. Men and women, but mostly women, were sitting in the smoky fog. Most were still clad in the black chadors, but here and there were sparkles of an elaborately beaded head scarf. One women sat like a princess with a camel’s saddle beneath her feet. She was dressed in embroidered robes with silver jewelry over her forehead. She was the youngest wife of the local warlord and woe be to anyone who accosted her. Black eyes, two ebony moons dulled by the poppy, looked out from a face veil. The heavy sandalwood perfume coming from her robes scented the air, mingling with other scents.

In the middle of the floor a high wooden stool was placed where a large tray of sweets and fruits were offered to the spirits of the night. No mortal hand or mouth would partake of such offerings.

The drums beat varying rhythms, and all combined into a gigantic heartbeat, or perhaps many heartbeats reflecting those within the room.

Suddenly a woman appeared and walked around the altar, muttering something in a sing-song voice. Her hair unbound and tossed with the rotations of her head, she nodded back and forth in time with her pacing. As she walked and muttered, her eyes rolled back in her head. She was deep in trance.

The Sheikha! The power of a demon catcher, the handler of the Zar demons! The Wise Woman, for who but such could demand anything of the invisible and dangerous Zar?

She paced the room, muttering to herself, her body now expressing violent movements. Off to the side was a younger woman sitting on her haunches, covered with a white cloth. With the shrill call of the wooden ney, the woman was helped to her feet, uncovered, where she stood with bowed head.

She was the possessed. Perhaps her husband had brought her to the ritual. Perhaps she could be healed.
But perhaps the Zar that possessed her could overcome all the magic of the Sheikha and possess her!

Each woman had a story behind her. This one was a very young woman, now married to a much older man. He lurked in the background, anger hard in his eyes, his mouth set in a grimace. He had paid a good marriage price for his wife and she had not given him what he expected. A son was what he demanded and she had only produced one stillborn in the two years they had been married. Something was wrong with her. Perhaps the ritual he paid for with heavy coin would answer to his concerns. If not, perhaps he could ship her back to her parents and demand the bride price back.

The Sheikha’s voice called out, her arms raised towards the woman, and this woman began to pace around the altar. At first her head just nodded back and forth as she slowly moved around the room. Then her body began to twitch, her arms rose upwards, jerking with her movements. Her hair was unbound, and with each violent movement of her head, it swung around in great, undulating waves.

Still the drums increased their tempo. The drummers were off in their own trances, their faces blank, their eyes unfocused. The ney player, his wooden flute dark with age and the stains of fingers, was answered with finger cymbals and an undercurrent of chants. The room seemed to pulsate within another dimension as the incense and drums took over the senses. The chants increased in strength and sweat poured down the face and breasts of the Sheika and the possessed young woman, making transparent their white cotton dresses. Dark tipped nipples and golden breasts, the sheen of skin heated to match the frenzy of all around them, they danced on, now uttering incoherent growls and high pitched exclamations. Other women sat in place and tossed their bodies back and forth and a few stood up and joined the young woman, their own bodies beginning to mimic hers. Shrieks and groans were heard from different corners of the room and still the drums increased in rhythm, exciting the senses to a fever pitch.

Suddenly the Sheikha stiffened, her eyes rolled back as the young woman passing before her collapsed at her feet.

She had caught the Zar! He had released hold of the ends of the hair of the young woman and flown into the arms of the Sheikha! He had hit her with enough force that she staggered backwards and only the support of the women behind her kept her on her two feet.

Now the Wise Woman talked in a low, unknown language. She berated, cajoled, implored and threatened the Zar. She grasped at the air and shook it violently. She brought the Zar to her breast, seemed to stroke it, this unseen matter, and then push it from her, chiding and scolding.

For those in the room who knew about Zars, knew one never could get rid them. No, he could be appealed to, reasoned with, but who but one equal to a Zar can reason with a Demon?

A man brought forth a white cock and with a quick flash of his knife, cut its throat. With a bow he presented the dying cock to the Sheikha who began to sprinkle the warm blood about the now still woman. Again low guttural chants rose all around but the drums remained silent.

The Sheikha would threaten this Zar with her own spirits. She would threaten with her own history of wrestling with past Zars, and call upon their power for her to subdue this one.

Silently she prayed the demon before her would attend. It would be a fierce battle to the end, and onlookers watched for signs of who was winning; who was more powerful.

Ah! There always was signs of the battle within. Exhaustion threatened to overtake the Sheikha. She would have to bargain hard with this Zar. He was a powerful one; not about to give up his berth without a fight.

But, slowly, slowly….there were signs she was winning, and those who knew of these things would see renewed energy on the part of the Sheikha, a renewed passion for what she was facing. If she was coming to victory, her voice would soften, her appeals would be as to a child and perhaps this Zar would listen.

But success was never assured. These Zars were thousands of years old and wily creatures. They may be made of air and malevolence, but they were a force outside Nature.

No victory over a supernatural force could be guaranteed. It always was a battle to the end. For you never get ride of a Zar, the possessor. You only give him a good shakeup, new marching orders, and you send him back into the possessed.

No one wants a Zar running around scaring the children and chickens. And a goat for possession will not do.

The Sheikha looked down at the woman at her feet. Ah! There was a change in her face, a smoothing of her brow, a peaceful countenance. She could be restored to her husband and the Sheikha prayed that he would see his wife in a new light.

The Sheikha knew what was wrong here. It was the same old story over and over. A man, too old to give his wife the pleasure she was made for, would demand from her what he could not give. So the senses were imbalanced, the forces of love were destroyed, the woman would suffer unless….

The Sheikha’s eyes snapped to the husband and with a gesture she had him approach. She stared deep into his eyes and held them. She muttered in her strange and frightening language and still she did not drop her eyes. Then she sprinkled his white robes liberally with the cock’s blood.

She had the satisfaction of seeing the fear in his eyes.

Perhaps this time the Zar will behave. And better, perhaps so the husband, too.

*******

Outside the walls of the souk, outside where the night wind rested, camels complained and the dung fires scented the air, where the moon looked down on the sea of sand, other Zars were gathering to float over the walls.

The food on the altar would not last long. Again Spirit would invade Flesh and the drums would call out demons into the arms of some Sheikha.

In this part of the world, the Zars were part of human destiny.

They were a part of life as much as the desert sands, the groans of camels and the dark eyes of beautiful women.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2012-2014

“La Vendetta”, Chapter Three

West side of front garden

 

Chapter III. 

Signora Faini could hear Balsamo but could not respond.  It was as if she was made of wood, like the puppets before the rain drove her into the shelter of Count Swartzskya and into his arms.  Madonna!  Everything felt wooden, numb about her and her breath barely moved her bosom.  She could hear but she could not speak or move her limbs.  She was like a puppet awaiting the wires to animate her body.

The Count leaned over and his finger made a trail from throat to cleavage, his eyes staring intently, his face close enough to kiss her.  She could not avoid him and suddenly she felt his fleshy lips as he bit her mouth, drawing a little blood.  She could only register fear with her eyes.

The Count busied himself with a little squeeze here, a sharp pinch there, and Maria could not feel his hands molesting her.  She could only follow his behavior with a limited movement of her eyes.

“You know, Maria, his Holiness and you share a common desire.  He loves puppets too, just like you.  But he will never have the privilege of being one.” 

Signora Faini could hear him but could not respond.  Her mouth seemed frozen.

“Ah, sweet Maria, some paint to fix your pretty little face, a costume, some wires and you will be ready for a performance.  Tonight you will dance before the Doge and his guests.  Wonder if they will recognize you?  Ah, no matter, I will disguise you well enough.” 

Maria could hear him mumble and laugh, but it was as if from a far distance. 

 “It is a subtle and sharp little revenge of your good friend Signor Balsamo, no?  He will be sitting there, enjoying your puppet antics and your memory of this night will be his alone.” 

The Count stood and stretched, throwing his arms over his head.  It would be a long night and he had much work.  He regarded the little doll of a woman before him, still sitting in her chair, silent, only her eyes animated, and chuckled.

“Ah, Maria…some women learn lessons easily, and some take a bit of the twisting of the wires to get their attention.  Perhaps after tonight you will think again before you scorn your Signor Balsamo for his missing parts?” 

“Come, Maria, drink a bit more tea.  It will fortify you. Is it too bitter?  Here, let me add just a little more ‘special sugar’.  It will do the trick.” 

The Count obligingly held the delicate porcelain teacup to her rosy lips and filled her mouth with tea. She sputtered, but swallowed, her eyes filling with tears. 

Maria couldn’t protest, she had no voice.  Only the terror in her eyes registered she was even alive. 

“Ah, look Maria!  Your eyes are sparkling!  Tonight you will be the belladonna of the stage. Of course tomorrow the critics will say your acting was a bit ‘wooden’ but what do they know?”

THE END

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2013

 

“La Vendetta”, a short story. Chapter Two

 

Rose from garden ….

Chapter Two

 

The sunlight was blazing, bouncing off the pitted walls of the buildings around them.  Huge puffy clouds floated across the deep blue sky. The water reflected the light like a million, million diamonds thrown on the surface by a very rich Prince. 

Carefully being handed into her gondola by Signor Balsamo, the Signora settled in, spreading her skirts around her while the Signor rocked the gondola as he stepped in. They floated down the Grand Canal, Signor Balsamo watching her nod at a few other gondolas, some friends, more enemies.  She had made many as he found over the two years of acquaintance. Still, a public courtesy would have to be maintained.  “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer” was Signor Faini’s personal motto.  It had much meaning.  He might be a cornuto, but he was a wise cornuto.

They crossed under the Ponte dei Sospiri and past the Paigioni, docked and entered San. Marco palazzo.  A million pigeons took flight, to circle the plaza and return in great circling spirals to the same stones.  The iridescence of their feathers were tiny winged prisms caught by the sun.  The Palazzo Ducale occupied one side of San Marco with its white confection of marble and Moorish tracery.   Signora Faini walked beside Signor Balsamo, her arm entwined in his.  He swung his cane with the forward movement of his right leg, and swished the cane to make vendors and beggars scatter from his path.

The palazzo was crowded today as bells pealed and cannon fired, declaring the hour.  The sound of musicians and the bray of vendors added to the festivities.  There, before them, rose a stage, with a good crowd watching the entertainment already in progress. 

It was a very large boxed stage, with a black curtain stretching across the wooden frame where the puppets performed.  A roof peaked up behind it.  Signora Faini recognized “Punchinello” a hunchbacked character with a beak of a nose and clapped her hands in glee. 

Signor Balsamo laughed, and infected with her happiness, said,  “Ah! Punchinello!  Coglinni!  Does he never change, my dear? He is universal for bravery, for laziness, for pride and bawdiness!  He embodies the best and worst of mankind.  Bravo, my friend!”

Signor Balsamo greeted this huge headed, almost human sized puppet with the enthusiasm one would greet an old friend.  Perhaps he was related. They looked a bit alike. 

“Ah! He is ugly, and that never changes!”  An observation from someone in the crowd created laughter.

The ‘teste di fantasia” in Venice was known in Europe to be the finest.  But this was not a Venetian production, but the work of a Russian, who was known as a Count, or perhaps he was a Prince.  Who could tell?  The mystery surrounding M. Swartzskya was thick as the fog over the canals in winter.

They watched the puppets and marveled how realistic they seemed.  Dressed in sumptuous fashion, even if a few years out of date, their puppetry revealed only by the wires that went from their moving parts to high above where the puppeteer was controlling them.   They seemed almost human. 

A dance, an awkward embrace, the tangling of wires, the sound of puppet feet hitting the stage and on occasion– a groan.  Ah, this Count Swartzskya was a genius! The Doge himself would be entertained, for Signora Faini and Signor Balsamo had never seen such a display of pure delight!  All the gold in Venice couldn’t replace the sheer magic of Swartzskya!

The sound of a chamber orchestra floated over the palazzo and Signor Balsamo sighed.

“Ah, Maria, they are playing il Prete Rosso’s music.  Ah! I never heard him, but my sainted father did. What a wonderful violinist the Red Priest, he said.  Quick as lightening on the strings and the heartstrings too, my little dove!  So many Signoras opened their corsets and gave him their hearts and love and other small pieces of their devotion.  He was quite the scandal in his youth.   And a priest!. 

“But you know, Alessandro, every priest has a mistress.  How could all these puttani

exist without the Church?”  Signora sniffed in contempt, twirling her silk parasol above her head.

The sounds of Vivaldi’s music wafted through the air, adding to the spectacle before them.  Suddenly, as if the puppets could hear the music, as if they had become animated with human sentiment and had blood coursing through papier mache veins, they bowed and did a stately minuet.  How gracefully did the unseen puppeteer lift the wires binding limbs and life.  How perfectly did wooden, painted puppets, faces frozen in carved sentiment, with eyes strangely human, flashing with passion, express such intelligence!

Signora Faini was overcome, and a few silly tears gathered in her eyes.  Ah, Madonna!

The combination of the music and the display before her was hitting a hole in her soul, pulling at her own heartstrings.   Signor Balsamo patted her hand, a strange smile upon his own countenance.

“Would you like to meet Count Swartzskya?  I have had the privilege, Maria, and you will not forget the man easily.  This I assure you.”

Before she had a chance to agree, a loud rumble of thunder drowned out the music and all eyes looked upward.  With curses from the men and screams and laughter from the women, it started to pour down on all standing in the palazzo. The rain was relentless and they could hear “Stronzo di merda!”,  “Per carita!” and “Che cazzo!” from the musicians as they scrambled to protect their delicate instruments. 

Signora Faini’s parasol, meant for the sun, was soaked.   Signor Balsamo drew his arm around her small waist and guided them behind the stage.  There was a door and a man, who looked Signor Balsamo in the eye and bowed them in. 

Maria looked around at the structure.  It was big, almost as big as the reception room in her villa, but the ceiling not as high. There were crates on the sides of the painted, wooden walls, chairs and a large table cluttered with puppetry crossbars, carpentry tools, clothes, all directly behind the stage.  As she shook her parasol, the water spun off in clear ribbons, landing on the carpeted floor.

Suddenly, from the back of the stage, a huge man appeared as if out of the smoke of a large fire.  Maria’s eyes widened as she watched the man come silently towards them.  Her breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded.

“Ah, Count Swartzskya!  Thank you for receiving us. The sudden rain….”

Signor Balsamo’s words faded away and he shrugged his shoulders, his eyes locked on the man who stood looming over them.

“May I present Signora Faini, Sir?  Signora is the lady I was mentioning before.  She has a passion for puppets, Count.”

The Count took the hand of Signora Faini and kissed it, she unmoving, her eyes fixed on his face.

 Count Swartzskya stood before Maria and she thought,  *I wouldn’t come up to his chest!  What a remarkably formed creature.*

Maria had reason for amazement.  The Count, perhaps in his late fourties, was

well over six feet tall.  He had black hair, shot with grey and worn in a pigtail at his neck.  The fact that he wore no wig would have been remarkable enough in Venice.  That he was so large a man was even more striking. He would stand head and shoulders over any crowd in Venice.  His hands were huge and long fingered; his thighs were bulging with muscles.  Obviously he had either been a horseman or a soldier ….and certainly a fencer.  Everything about him reeked of physical power.  Signora Faini seemed quite overwhelmed by his presence, as her eyes impolitely fanned over his face.

Overhead she could hear the crackle of lightening and the boom of horrendous thunder.  She shivered and jumped each time the windows of the room reflected the raging storm outside.   Suddenly she screamed, for the lightning struck close and the hair rose on her arms.  She jumped right into the arms of Count Swartzskya and stayed there, trembling like a child.

“Oh, Madame!  Do not concern yourself with what is happening outside in Zeus’ court.  You are safe with me.  Come, have tea and settle yourself.”

Count Swartzskaya’s voice was a deep as the thunder, but soothing. 

He led them from the main room to a little chamber, where a servant set a table for tea. Signora Faini was grateful for the hot cup of tea. She was shivering.

As she drank one cup and then another, the two men talked and her eyes started to close.  It seemed she could barely hold her head up.

Balsamo and the Count continued their discourse in low voices, ignoring Signora Faini sitting at the tea table.

“She has it coming, la bagascia, but no permanent damage, agreed?”

“But of course, it will just be something frivolous, a small humiliation.”

“But will she remember it?” 

“No, she will have no memory of this day at all.  However, I can arrange for that to change.  What is your pleasure, Signor?”

“No, no, our original plan will be enough – this time, Count.” 

Swartzskya tossed a bag of coin to Signor Balsamo and he hoisted it in his palm.  A broad smile creased his face, as he addressed Signora Faini, now sprawled in her chair, one slipper off her delicate foot.

“Maria, my dear girl, sometimes you go too far in your wickedness.  But the piper will be paid   tonight…or shall I say…the Count?” 

He laughed and with those last words, he left, whistling a piece of his beloved Vivaldi.

To be continued……

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2013

“La Vendetta”….a short story.

 

WARNING:  Adult content

 

 

LA VENDETTA 

 

Chapter One

  

Maria de Guiseppa Agnesi Faini sprawled on a brocade-covered chair. Summer in Venice was always hot, humid and moldy.  She crinkled her nose at the smell of the water and the slime rotting the stucco sides of the villa. 

Her apartments were on the third floor but very little air this sultry morning was  coming through the long, opened windows.   She could hear singing of gondola men, their songs  of beautiful women and brokenhearted lovers as they poled their way down the Grand Canal. The men’s lilting voices called out the names of local courtesans, much as the sellers of fish or fruit sang of their  desirability.  

“ A lira for a squeeze of Maria’s breast, with a couple of oranges to sweeten the deal!” 

Signora Faini squirmed in her chair.  The brocade was hot to her skin, though she wore a muslin morning dress. Sweat dripped down the viola curve of her back to the crease of her buttocks and she scratched where it tickled.  L’Inglese had introduced muslin and it was all the rage in Venice this season.  She thought them a bloodless race, a country of bad teeth. 

”Where is he?”  She tapped her foot impatiently.  “He better bring some good gossip for his lateness”.  Signor Alessandro Balsamo was her friend.  Actually he was her ciscebo, tolerated by her husband because Signor Balsamo was a castrato.  He had been cut when only a young boy (“Viva il coltello!” the audience yelled when he appeared on the stage) and sang until his voice disappeared.  Other patrons supported him, but alas, Signor Balsamo was growing old and unattractive.  His nose was arching to meet his chin, his belly could no longer be contained in his waistcoat and even his corset was straining.  

Signora Faini sighed.  This heat would not let up, and there were at least two more months of this weather.  She promenaded upon the stones of San Marco plaza, hoping for a breeze from the sea until she had worn out  ten pairs of slippers in one month, bowing to the left and right, stopping to gossip with her few friends. Now her feet hurt. 

She thought of her new lover and her nipples hardened. Her hand strayed to her bosom and she squeezed a breast, rubbing shapely thighs together.  A soft groan escaped her throat.  

He was an officer, a dashing lieutenant, now on maneuvers somewhere across the Alps.  She remembered the first time, when in Signora Mortanti’s garden, with her skirts flipped over his kneeling form before her.  She caught the eye of her husband and had the presence of mind to flutter her fan at him.  He barely acknowledged his wife so intent was he in arguing the latest political scandal.  Leaning upon a tree, she inched her was around it, better to obscure her lover’s behavior.   He obediently followed on his knees.  There would have been two scandals discussed that soft, spring night, and this one ending in bloodshed.  

Ah, she missed her Alfredo!  He was bold, but perhaps all Romans were so.  There was a difference between the men of Venice and Roma.  In Venice they talked of commerce, but the men of Roma talked of love, and made exciting scandal. 

Venice was still a wicked city.  There were plenty of places to indulge in passionate embraces.  Her husband’s gondola was a cozy place, with the canopy making them a snug nest inside if a bit too warm.  A few extra lira to their boatman, and she was assured of her secrets.  Of course, they could never be completely unclothed, but the necessary parts ‘d’amour’ were available.  They tried numerous positions, but the best for her was to bounce upon him.  Then the boatman did not have to compensate for the thrusts of her lover.  Her hands strayed downward to that secret place, not so secret anymore to Alfredo.  Ah, Alfredo! I miss your long sword.   Not the insignificant dagger of her husband.  No, a real sword, one that pierced to her empty womb and she could take in her mouth like a regular puttana.  The weight of his balls in her hands were like the golden—— 

“Signora?”  A maid knocked upon her door, interrupting her thoughts. 

“Signor Balsamo has arrived.” 

“Well, let him in.”  Signora Faini’s tone expressed her annoyance at the stupid maid. 

Signor Balsamo entered and made his best leg.  His wig was freshly curled and his waistcoat beautifully embroidered.  He was a small, stout man, and still there was a certain charm about him. 

Signora barely nodded her head.  She continued to fan herself with her limp lace handkerchief. 

“So, Allesandro, my love, you dare to show up late….Again?” 

“Forgive me, my dearest Maria, there was a large puppet show at San Marco.  I thought of you and your love of puppets and perhaps we could walk down and see.  They are quite remarkable, almost life sized.  The staging is well done.” 

Ah, thought Signora Faini.  Puppets!  I am in the mood for such entertainment. I won’t have to wear out another pair of slippers.  I must remind myself to either hide the shoemaker’s bill or lie to my husband.  He will start yelling again, and there goes my fun. 

The signora rang a small porcelain hand bell and called for her personal maid.

Signor Balsamo did not remove himself, for he had been present many times when she was at her toilette.  He had little interest in a woman’s charms, with one exception.  He sat, leaning his chin on his cane and watched her being undressed by her maid. 

She shed the morning dress, a confection of muslin and ruffles.  Then, stepping out of two petticoats, she stood in a chemise.  Already corseted, the maid went behind the Signora and tightened her laces.  Sitting, she lifted a slim leg to her maid, not caring that she exposed her fregna to the eyes of her ciscebo.  He blinked, knowing she did it to humiliate him.  It was an old and cruel game she played. 

Today, she was even crueler. Lifting both breasts from her corset, she examined the nipples.  She knew her ciscebo had an attachment to women’s breasts, probably something from his childhood.  She twisted each nipple, making the small dark pink flesh stand at attention. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the Signor.  She knew he wanted a suck, something she rarely rewarded him with. She could see the hunger, his mouth open like a fish and his eyes droopy with sadness.   She found a perverse thrill in hurting him. He was such a child, so malleable, so predictable. 

Rolling up each silk stocking, the maid tied garters around the Signora’s knees.  Then she hurried to a large armoire.  Opening it, she awaited her mistress’ decision. 

“No, not anything heavy this morning, it grows too hot and already the morning breezes are gone.  Perhaps a silk.  What do you think, Alessandro?  Perhaps this watered blue with the ecru lace?  Does it look cool to you?” 

Signor Balsamo had been present for this game many times.  If he said ‘yes’ to her selection, she would discard it.  If he said “no” she would consider it, but there would be layers of clothes spread on the floor and sofas before Signora made up her mind.  She was woman!  What could one expect? 

Sitting at the vanity while completing her toilette, she suffered her maid to pin her hair high on her head. Dark, chestnut curls tumbled to her shoulders.  At least they would not create heat on the back of her neck.  She was a small woman, like a china doll, all curves and bright eyes and rose tinted lips.  She rose and turned to her ciscebo. 

“Ah, Signora!  A vision of radiant beauty, a cornucopia of delights, a —-“ 

“Enough, Allessandro.”  She turned to the window overlooking the canal, dismissing him unkindly.  

“You weary me with the same chants.  Let us leave, though the hour not fashionable.  Come Alessandro, you have promised me a puppet show and perhaps a glace?” 

“Ah, something sweet would be very nice!  The ice from the Alps is packed in straw.  Last time I got a bit of chaff in my ice, this time I will run the vendor through with my sword.” 

Signora Faini laughed, her tones like a tinkling bell.  “Ah, Alessandro, you are such a man, so bold and advancing.  Too bad about the missing parts.”  

With that she grabbed up her parasol and took his arm, not caring for the pain in his eyes.  He was to pay, and pay dearly for making her wait this morning.

To be continued…..

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2013