Montmartre

By John Christopher Tirebuck

Photographs chronicle our lives: I wish I had more of them.

The year is 1900. Paris is a city of beauty and culture, but every city has its underbelly: in Paris, it is Montmartre.

Two young lives converge here. They come with artistic aspirations: one to be a society portrait artist, the other, a classical dancer; but in Montmartre, dreams rarely get the better of grim reality.

We enter a world of pornography; of seedy, obscene music halls and erotic cabaret.

Money is to be made here: obscenity sells, and that can only lead to corruption. In this case, the Alpha Male even smells corrupt.

Add to the mix a lesbian lover, a blind girl, a hermaphrodite, the most beautiful orphan in the world, and a small, pink, bear with a limp; include gigantic sea cliffs where a whole race of people committed mass suicide, and you have a story; one that contains an unsolved mystery.

A broken, silver-topped swagger-stick bears the initials P.D. The owner is missing, presumed dead. If he still breathes, the police would dearly like to speak to him, but cannot piece together the clues.

The clues are all there. The astute will deduce what the police, thus far, have failed to see.

It is possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Apr 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463218938

John Christopher Tirebuck

John Christopher Tirebuck was educated in rural Cheshire, and is proud to call himself an ‘Old Sandbachian.’ He attended Lancaster University and, after living briefly in Cumbria, North Wales, and Oban, Argyllshire, he taught Science’s in Liverpool. After two long, happy marriages, he now lives alone on top of a hill from where he can see seven counties.

Book preview

About the author

John Christopher Tirebuck was educated in rural Cheshire, and is proud to call himself an ‘Old Sandbachian’. He attended Lancaster University and, after living briefly in Cumbria, North Wales, and Oban, Argyllshire, he taught Science’s in Liverpool. After two long, happy marriages, he now lives alone on top of a hill from where he can see seven counties.

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Dedication

Dedicated to my friends, Mike and Chris, Jack and Pauline, Tess, Richard and Sarah. They saved my life.

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Montmartre

Published by Austin Macauley at Smashwords

Copyright 2018 John Christopher Tirebuck

The right of John Christopher Tirebuck to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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A CIP catalogue record for this title is

Available from the British Library.

www.austinmacauley.com

Montmartre, .2018

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

ISBN 9781786933492 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781786933508 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781786933515 (E-Book)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

First Published in 2018

AustinMacauley

CGC-33-01, 25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf, London E14 5LQ

How do I know what I think, until I see what I have written?

Dr. Hugh M. Pollard.

"Now that I have seen what I have written, I am uncertain what to think.

Ask yourself, dear reader; would you like these thoughts inside your head?

I suspect some of you would. Then again…"

John Christopher Tirebuck.

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Introduction

This is how it starts: a pulse of yellow piss splashes against a pillar in the polluted streets of Pompeii. Except the pillar isn’t real. It is part of a pastiche. The creature perpetrating this obnoxious micturition is pissing against a painted portrait of a pillar: it puddles on the studio floor, permeating the architecture with its pervasive perfume.

A picture of Palladian splendour is permanently polluted. The artist – a pictorial poetess – who painted this apparition, is about to have personal problems of her own, but let us not pre-empt providence.

In a Paris studio, an interview is taking place. A ‘deal’ is being forced upon an amoral man – not a bad man – just amoral. A repulsive giant, who stinks of death and worse, bids this man, ‘Goodnight.,’ and retreats toward the street below, causing the stairs to creak under his bulk, and leaving his fetid scent hanging in the stale air.

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Captured in the insipid light of a street lamp, the giant stops to wave, looking upwards toward the window where our despairing hero waits, dejected. The devil dog squats, voids its bowels, fouling the footpath below the photographic studio. He, the photographer, Christophe, wonders if the faecal mess contains fingernails, and if the original owner of those nails was the one that chewed them so badly.

This is how the darkness begins!

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Interlude One

The scene is an asylum on the outskirts of Paris. It was once a fine palace before the fall of the aristocracy. It has been many things since its original owner lost his head: a barracks, a hospital; now it is a prison for dangerous lunatics, male and female.

Its grounds are patrolled by dogs. Not ordinary dogs. Even the guards don’t enter the grounds when the dogs are loose, and they are more dangerous than most of the lunatics in their charge.

The dogs are kept in buildings that were once piggeries. Their master has been called ‘a pig’ and much worse – but not to his face.

As we speak, this man is feeding the dogs. He carries two large buckets in his spade-like hands. They are filled to overflowing with chunks of raw meat. When the dogs are assembled in their compound, the bearded monster empties the first bucket of flesh over the low wall that contains them. They know never to attempt to cross it on pain of severe punishment. They know their place in the order of things.

Several, mainly bitches, are quite easily cowed. They are low down the pecking order and are there for breeding purposes. You can tell them easily: they grovel on their stomachs; they whimper as they shuffle forward for food; they cringe and roll over to appease the dominant ones; the more violent males.

There are three such beasts, and yet, each of these knows its place in the scheme of things. They are known as Beta, Gamma and Delta. The bearded monster is Alpha and he never lets any of them forget it. Sometimes, when the Alpha male is not watching – perhaps he has his back turned – the three of them look at each other furtively. It is as if they are weighing up their chances of bringing him down. Of course, to do such a thing, the dog, Beta, would have to give the signal and, as yet, he doesn’t have the nerve to do it. He is resigned to being first lieutenant; that is, second in command.

It is time to feed, and the man watches for signs of weakness in his pack, and for signs of strength. Beta’s position is not unassailable. As expected, he, Beta, does get first choice of meaty morsels. He chooses a particularly large, lean piece of flesh and tries to swallow it whole. Such teeth! One of the lesser pack creeps forward, tail between legs, waiting for a rebuke that does not come.

She grabs at an outlying piece of flesh and retreats with it in her massive jaws. The very observant of you might have noticed that this particular piece of flesh appears to have toes.

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Sometimes lunatics escape – or try to. Some, very stupid inmates attack guards, and, quite often, get a beating for their audacity. Sometimes, the lunatic doesn’t survive his beating. Some others die of natural causes – if starvation or repeated rape can be regarded as natural. This is not a nice place to be held ‘securely.’

Some of the ‘dog food’ does not originate from inside the asylum at all. Some comes in the form of ‘guests of the giant' – perhaps they too, are fond of dogs. One thing is for certain: the dogs like them very much. The ones they like best are the prostitutes that have withheld earnings from their protector: one can’t do a job like that for nothing.

So many dogs cost a fortune to keep. A percentage of ‘earnings’– quite a large percentage, in fact – has to be paid over. Then there is the cost of – what shall we call them – ‘medicines,’ to numb the pain of living or stimulate one to greater successes.

Some of the dog food is a little bit gristly and not quite as palatable. This often originates from others who supply ‘medicinal compounds’ in direct contravention of agreed boundaries. Of course boundaries change: sometimes at short notice and with very little warning. I think the dogs would be happier if this type of comestible was left in an alleyway to mark the new boundary. To be fair, it often is, if the river happens to be out of immediate reach. Fish, it would appear, are less discerning when it comes to carrion.

Just the name ‘Beta’ conjures up visions of ‘La Belle et La Bete.’ In reality, this is no fantasy and there is nothing remotely ‘Belle’ about the alpha male. The dog, Beta, on the other hand, fits the description, La Bete, very well. One could imagine that it was not a dog at all – a genuine figment of the imagination: a very hellish imagination.

The man, Alphonse – Alpha to his… to some people of his acquaintance, is unaware of how badly his piggery smells. Perhaps he has no sense of smell. Yes, that must be it. The not inconsiderable amount of excrement mixed with rotting flesh and general smells of death, combined with the foul breath of the monsters and the dog-sweat of communal sleeping: if you can imagine such things, you will have a fairly accurate impression of this place. It smells like one of the circles of Hell as described by the poet, Dante. Happily for him, Alphonse cannot smell it. If he could, he could not fail to smell his own unsavoury odour.

One would not care to share a theatre box with him, assuming that is, one could find a theatre box that would accommodate his massive bulk. And then there is the dog: he goes nowhere without it. Hope you never meet them, not even in your dreams, or nightmares.

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1

Christophe: Paris Circa 1900

Some would describe me as one who will readily exploit life’s most unfortunate people; others, as a vile pornographer. I would simply describe myself as a collector of images; and a purveyor of images; all of which, I believe to be beautiful. Some are very erotic. Each one contains a history. My hope is that each picture illuminates the canvas of an individual life with the highest degree of honesty and sincerity. I cannot, in most cases, allow them dignity. Dignity is more than they could ever really hope for.

Where the girl’s eyes are saying, I cannot feed my baby. This is what I have to do to put bread on the table. I hope that that is what you see. I am an historian, not a moralist.

Some of my sitters are, without doubt, exploited. They are the ‘Pinheads,’ ‘Bearded Ladies,’ ‘Dwarves,’ ‘Two Headed Monsters’ and ‘Hermaphrodites.’ I record them all, dispassionately, but try to give each one a voice by capturing the exact moment when they are steeled and ready to reveal themselves to me.

There are some who are arrogant and think themselves courtesans: those who believe themselves to be superior in some way, to others, and to me. They are certain that some prince (or ageing roué) will come along, see their image, and bring them the glass slipper. I have little sympathy with this class of person. They hide their true story because they live a lie. This shows too, in what I purvey.

Some are simply ‘artistes,’ down on their luck, and they will pose quite willingly to make ends meet; just until their boat comes in. Distasteful, yes, but a job is a job. I like them the most.

Then there are the prostitutes who think, This is better than being beaten for a few coins. At least it is warm in here. But others are simply ‘jobbers’ who look at me as if to say, Get on with it! Don’t you know that I have another appointment at noon?

Some of my sitters really do believe that they are taking part in ‘medical research,’ or, are ‘furthering the sexual happiness of the uneducated masses.’ There are only so many ways of justifying one’s existence, or deluding oneself.

I dislike working with those who make me uncomfortable, because they are, in their many differing ways, judgmental of me.

One evening about a year ago, a poor creature was brought to me by a modern, psychiatric doctor. I forget the name of the syndrome that the unfortunate person was suffering from – Klinefelter’s, was it? – but it was clear that the creature was now acutely aware that it was not like others. The psychiatrist had the individual strip naked. It was immediately clear that the subject was hermaphrodite. The left cheek showed signs of down, thickening to beard, the left side of the chest, flat. A tiny, left testicle existed, but the penis was very immature and had no erectile function. In contrast, the right cheek was as smooth as a girl’s, the right breast, delicately rounded and quite beautiful.

The eyes said it all, and I captured that look of terror, abandonment, realisation of the situation it was in, and finally, a degree of madness; all in the blink of a lens. He, or she, was aware of having to spend the rest of an unnatural life in an institution, hidden from the eyes of the world, without ever knowing love.

Before we leave this subject, I have one more case study for you to consider: that of the ‘Two Headed Girl,’ also described on carnival posters as, ‘The Two-Headed Monster.’

I soon discovered that she was neither. As is usual, the unfortunate was brought to me to be photographed, and, as is also usual – in fact, obligatory – this entailed a nude study. The ‘doctor’ in this case was preparing a paper on this rare phenomenon for his learned colleagues, before the valuable, twin entity was sent back to be gawped at for money. Once naked and posed, I noticed that one of the heads was glaring at me; actually showing disgust at what I did. Such defiance in her eyes.

In contrast, the other head looked at me with a shy smile. She – and now she had become, ‘she,’ – obviously found me handsome, and was flirting!

I saw it immediately. I was dealing with two girls, with only one body between them. ‘One bodied twins,’ does not have the same theatrical ring to it. Personality, therefore, in my opinion, rests in the head, and the body is only a useful, or, in some cases, useless, bag of tools. But that is another story.

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The more beautiful a girl is – and a higher percentage of my models are girls – the greater the sum of money they think they are entitled to be paid, and the less they have to do to earn it. To a degree, it is true, as men always get paid less. A truly beautiful girl can simulate a pose from a great ‘work of art’ by a famous artist of the day, and get paid handsomely for enduring not-too much discomfort. A plainer girl will only command the same sort of money if she allows some simian to introduce a foreign body into her anus, and then smile as if she were enjoying it. I tend to leave those ‘smiles’ in, as they leave the viewers in no doubt as to what they are actually seeing. Some, no doubt, enjoy the girl’s discomfort. Many do, and will pay extra for it.

We live in an age where there is no such thing as ‘social care.’ Nobody really gives a damn about the exploited masses. One is expected, these days, to exploit one’s own ‘bounteous gifts’ that God has seen fit to bestow upon us, so as to enable us to make our living.

As a sad apostrophe to this set of observations, may I say that some girls actually do this work as a form of chastisement, for some failing they perceive in themselves, or in their own lives. I see it through my lens. Eyes that say, Beat me, ill-use me. It’s all that I deserve. I sometimes wish that I was a psychiatrist with answers for them all.

I think God was the ‘Original Pornographer.’ Why do you look at me that way?

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Christophe in His Colonial Days

I have always had the ability to hold an image in my head. It is a gift. In my case, it is perhaps, a punishment. Leonardo had it, and people would say that he was gifted. I vacillate between the two. Sometimes I can bring her to mind and it is rapturous: I see her kneeling by the edge of the lawn, the wooden basket at her side filled with pastel coloured blooms, leaning forward with her sharp shears poised to deflower another incongruous rose. I see her hair tumbling from beneath her sun-hat, a red ribbon tied across her pale throat. The perfect angle of her collar bones, upswept from that cleft of luminous skin. Sometimes, it is for me, exquisite torture.

Her breasts. But, I go too far. You will hate me and I would so like to be liked. Sadly, I fear that you will not, when you know me better.

Watching her filled my boyhood. Even now, she fills my dreams, and every image that I create is inspired by her: some artistic, some lyrical, some classically beautiful, and some dark; unsettling.

I have very few artifacts from the days of my unrequited love; days of torture: a pressed flower that she once placed in my hair, a poem, in her own hand, that she wrote seated on that same lawn whilst I watched her from my high window. She knew I was watching, of course. I think that is why she crushed the scented sheet of lilac paper and discarded it in such an obvious way. It was her favourite game to tease me; lead me on.

I will recount it for you: I know it by heart, and you will understand something of the power she had – has still – over me; and over the wild, native twins, of course. Sultry, shameless creatures, those two. But I digress. The discarded verses read thus: A Reverie.

‘Flowers of the walled garden make up the undertones in my scented boudoir,

Pungent spices of the market place, wrapped in coloured silks,

Enrich the air with Eastern overtones.’

‘Our perfumes clash, our body emanations mingle, sweet and spicy.

Like ravens in the corn, our colours clash, our sweat commingles, droplet into rivulet.

On skin of gold, and skin of cinnamon.’

‘You taste of milk and yield to me, resistance only token, and based on something in your past.

You know this is your only place of safety.’

‘You used my hairbrush, the first time,

And I let you take it home with you,

Its hammered silver back, cool beneath your pillow.

At night, you brush your hair with it, and I am in your reverie.

Golden eels among your fronds of kelp.’

‘Tomorrow and tomorrow, I will lick sweet honey from your lips

And you will sip my fragrant, Jasmine tea.’

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Those twins. I don’t know why their master let them stay. But yes, of course I do. They may have been wild, and very poor servants, but they had animal magnetism, and both the lady of the house, and the master, loved to look at them. The master saw most things, but then, so did, I.

She let me look at her: seemed to enjoy my adulation. That was her power. And I was powerless to look away. She held me in perfect sway and that besotted boy would have killed for her: would do it still, probably.

She had a way of wearing a sun dress that made her look naked. The materials were selected, ostensibly, to suit the climate, but, in every true sense, were chosen to cling to her magical form like a gossamer second skin; the colours, chosen to enhance her own colouring, which really did not need to be enhanced.

What nature had given her was warmed and enriched by the dappled light through a pink and cream parasol that burnished her to the tinted picture of health. The dress enhanced her every movement so that one could almost hear music in the very harmony of her.

I can see her, kneeling on the lawn, the concave curve at the base of her spine, the flare of her skirts, the arched ivory of her neck, the throat I dreamed of kissing, and her first smile. She would lure me exactly into the correct position with a request for this, or that implement and then, would dip her head, just fractionally, so that eye contact was momentarily broken. In that moment, she would move in such a precise way that the neckline of her dress would leave her skin; would open up to me, like Pandora’s box.

Did I say that I have the uncanny ability to capture moments in my mind’s eye? First the swell of her breasts, then the delirious descent between them, the perfect under-curve of her right breast, the erect nipple, backlit against the glowing material, and, finally, the rose-pinkness of her perfectly delineated areola. In little longer than it took me to draw in a breath, the vision was gone and her gaze would meet my eye once again. Was there something more knowing in that second smile?

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Camile: A Reminiscence of Village Life

Even as a very young girl, I always had very long and shapely legs. We were taught at school by the village pastor. He was very kind to me. I owe him a lot. Estelle and I did not have very much spare time, but he gave of his time generously, to foster our dreams and ambitions. Our rural economy meant that from a very early age, we were expected to feed the animals, plant and harvest. I was expected to milk the cow. I adored her for her gentleness and I think she liked me too, in her hay-breath, wet, doe-eyed way.

After school, two evenings each week, if our families could spare us, the pastor taught Estelle and me the joys of music and dance.

On what had been quite a fine piano in its day, he would play wistful country songs collected by some fine composer, and selections from the great ballets. He introduced us to dance, showed us illustrated journals and programmes for grand productions. He kept them in an old trunk along with souvenirs: ballet shoes; second skin; silk costumes and diaphanous chiffon. We were allowed to dress up in them and he offered to teach us the steps and how to stand on point. Even though Estelle did not have the willowy shape necessary, she was still elegant in her way, moved with a subtle poise, and her timing was impeccable. He still nurtured her in a kindly way, and showed her great affection. He said that she was to be my chaperone, and was to keep me safe at all times.

In the corner of the hall was a small cubicle with a large, curiously angled mirror at the back, and a heavily embroidered curtain that always stuck on its rail, three quarters closed. There was still enough of it drawn across to change behind. It was like a ceremony.

I would slip my dress off over my head and push off my farmyard boots. Standing quite naked, I would first put my hair up into a chignon. Then, bending from the waist to touch my toes, I put on the pale blue silk slippers, and ribboned them around my calf muscles. Finally, I would step into my leotard, on point, slide it over my slender form, and loop the straps over my shoulders Pinching my cheeks to produce the roses, I would strike my most elegant pose and step from behind the curtain to face the music, and my music master, who always sat upon his piano stool, expectantly. I think my dramatic entrance quite took his breath away. He always insisted that I was not to rush, and that the ceremony involved in preparation was as important as the practice itself. He loved to sit and gaze toward that gap in the curtain, waiting to see my famous entrance. It made me feel so special.

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Christophe: Paris

I am established, in a quiet sort of way, with the ones who are ‘in the know’ one of the best photographers in this city, but not ‘in’ with the best people. To the ones who use my services, I am the best. The others, my ‘betters,' call me immoral. Maybe I am, just a little. I prefer amoral. Not naturally judgmental, I create what my clients want, and what they know they can sell. And sell it they do, to the anthropologist, the art lover, all manner of medics and surgeons; even to my ‘betters.’ There is the irony. I am working in black, white, sepia and shades of grey, and yet I can produce an image that is so three dimensional that it fair takes the breath away.

The commissions I take are without doubt, ecumenical. As stated, I sometimes photograph freaks of nature – in the interests of science, of course – and children, for people with an interest in children; and circus artistes, for people who have an interest in both freaks and children.

I make them for, and sell them to, people who love beauty, and to the beasts, who hate it.

What I have, is a particular interest. You may hate me for it, but I am only interested in capturing fleeting beauty. I am not a pederast or paedophile, or a rapist. I would say that I am not some sad, perverted creature who preys on the unhappy circumstances of others. At least, I do not think I am. Some, no doubt will disagree, but that is a moral problem, and I am the one who will have to worry about the fate of my immortal soul when the time comes to meet my maker. I am a producer of images, both beautiful and outrageous.

Many of the artists who come here to Montmartre – Baronets, Pre-Raphaelites, Classicists – all come looking for the same thing: beauty. They may have the luxury of money and influence: they may have the greater luxury of time, in which to create their images, and in colour. I have none of these advantages and yet, there are many collectors of what I produce.

Beauty is pure.

The first prerequisite of beauty is ‘youth.’ The second is ‘symmetry.’

I know! You hate me for it already. I am telling you something that you do not wish to acknowledge. The silky quality of natural hair; the firm, elasticity of young skin. Yes, I have seen it all, and I am expected to magically freeze that quality in time. And I do. Often with a certain air that says, Don’t be offended. I don’t really look.

I say to myself, This is your attic and they will soon be gone. Unhurt, in body, at least. You will make the prints: silver salts or albumin; emulsions, and solutions; dim, red light; and that will be it. You do not have to see these people again. They just pay your fees. They pay the rent. Why should you overly care about the daughters, prostitutes, dancers, freaks, beautiful children? They simply pay the rent.

I am not really a bad man. Please do not judge me too harshly. I am not quite right, I know. You will come to realise that. But, it is not my fault. I blame another. She had both beauty and symmetry. Still has no doubt, but back then she had youth too. Just, not as much as me.

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Christophe: A Colonial Mansion House. 1890s

I have learned my colour palate from the hues of her body. I am learning the boundaries of beauty; partly from intimate observation of that perfect body; partly from the studied measurements of Leonardo Da Vinci, gleaned from my father’s books.

If you were to add white to red, and then infiltrate the slightest hint of cobalt blue, you would produce a colour which is not quite lavender, and is not quite pink. It is the damask blue, pink, observed in the erect extremity of my beloved’s breast. I see it infrequently, and then for only the most fleeting of moments, but, what a colour! I doubt that the most cunning classicist could come up with a smidge of paint that could approximate the areola of the nipple of my beloved.

Heaven! Love! These are paltry words indeed, when it comes to what I feel inside when I think of my heart‘s desire, and the exquisite form of her classical contours.

After I saw her that first time, in her garden, cutting roses, I went out into the native ‘forest.’ It is stranger than a European can imagine. The trees are elephantine and their leaves are fat and waxy. All I can say, in our inadequate language, is that they are vegetable in nature.

After being seduced and humiliated in equal parts, I hurried away to where I could, in all hopefulness, be alone. My libido was so fiery and unquenchable, that I stopped in a clearing, and pulled my breeches down to my knees. I bared my buttocks, pulled up my shirt – up to my chest – and stood there, hoping, dreading to be seen, exposing myself! I counted to thirty, daring someone to come and catch me: hoping that they would either come to me, and gently caress my painfully engorged penis, or scream and flee. Either way, it would be an event; a sexual first.

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Camile: In A Degree of Discomfort

I can stand on point now. Estelle and I can perform all of the basic ballet steps, and our tableaux are exquisite. The only problem, that we are at present experiencing, is the size of our leotards. No, not quite the only problem, but the subject of the second, is … delicate.

We have grown. If we two are to continue our lessons, we must have bigger costumes, and we do not have the funds to buy our own. I am sure the school could apply for some sort of grant. We are only two, after all. Other girls have applied to join our class, but have been rejected as being, too stout, less flexible, not having the aesthetic lines of a ballerina, or, sometimes, simply the wrong disposition. But we have grown to the point where our simple costumes no longer cover our growing bodies, and we must plead with our master.

The pastor is nurturing another junior ballet school below us, and we could hand our costumes down.

We know in our heart of hearts, that we are the elite, and deserve better. We have tried to fit our original costumes to our present dimensions, but in vain. The pastor lifted my foot above his shoulder, to ease the cramps in my inner thigh with his soft and gentle hands. Although he caressed me in the gentlest of ways, I could see that he was disapproving of the stray hairs that were protruding from the area best described as my Delta of Venus. Estelle does not suffer so, as her hair is intrinsically fair, and therefore not so obvious in a ballerina.

I’ve grown so tall that the straps slip from my shoulders, the gusset rides up between my buttocks, and the straps are constantly falling to my elbows, leaving much of my flanks and décolletage, uncovered.

The sides of my breasts are not unattractive, and my collar bones are exquisite, but I do not look elegant when the straps fall from me.

Estelle, who is not so tall, does not suffer in the same way as I, but being fuller breasted, she regards herself as somewhat compromised when seen from the side. We are decided. It is today that we make our plea.

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7

Christophe: A Treatise on Light

She comes! I freeze her movements into infinitesimally small, still images, so that I can replay them in my mind’s eye at a later date. She crosses the immaculately manicured lawn with its incongruous fringe of European colour. Passing beneath the shadow of a pendulous and weeping tree, she becomes back-lit against blue, no yellow, no – both! The hair, beneath her bonnet, is a mass of incandescent golden curls that cascade over her shoulders to surround her perfect face with a halo of heavenly light. Her eyes, perfectly spaced, and set facing forward in the most direct gaze, have a slight elevation at the outermost extremities, giving them a slightly feline look. The eyes themselves, look unnaturally large, with the blue-white sclera, surrounding a clear and watery, aquamarine iris.

They have a disconcerting effect. Even when I am prepared for anything, and well rehearsed, as soon as their gaze falls upon me, my mouth gapes; I try to speak, but words evaporate, and I become as malleable as a piece of modelling clay; she, the consummate artist, can then make of me what she will.

I digress. Her forehead is high, near vertical, and free of blemishes. The occasional wispy, sun-lightened curl graces it. The symmetry of her! The nose is small and refined; nothing terribly fleshy about it, but its tip turns up, just slightly, in the most endearing way.

Now – and for me, this is the most fascinating thing about her – her cheekbones, exactly mirror the angle of her clavicles! Imagine that, if you can: the pronounced sweep of her cheekbones; which, incidentally, give her eyes extra depth; producing echoes, and harmony, to further enhance this exquisite visual portrait.

Careful. I am getting ahead of myself again.

The cheeks are apple-like, and very slightly rosy over the cheekbones. Her skin, for the most part, is creamy, pale as almond milk, highlighted with hints of peach and damask rose overtones. These are only the parts of it that I have seen, you understand. I do know that she has an aura of ultraviolet which sometimes creates a sensation of lavender on the retina: subtle, exquisite. How I know this, I cannot say. Perhaps I am destined for greater things, but when I look, – I mean really look, – it is as if I can see the very essence of perfection.

To continue: beneath the slender, tear-shaped nostrils, her upper lip is like no other. At least, if this phenomenon is repeated somewhere in this vast world, then I would like to see it. The filtrum is distinctly concave, and where the creamy skin meets the deeper damask of the lip proper, it forms two tiny points, which are perfect in their symmetry, and look as if they are pulling the lip upwards.

The effect is to turn the delicate rose of the lip to the fore, and to bring the top lip out beyond the lower lip. Seen in profile, this is most enchanting; almost juvenile.

The corners of her mouth hold a permanent smile, like a dolphin. The lower lip is less prominent, and forms a heart shape when the mouth is closed. When it is open, her teeth are small pearls, and her smile, which can light a room, is accompanied, on either side, by tiny indentations, like the dimples of a baby.

Her chin is quite small, and quickly comes to a rounded point, slightly fleshier at the tip, and with the tiniest hint of a convexity. Beneath that chin there is no hint of sagging flesh. Quite the reverse: from the point of her chin, the pale and delicate, sometimes undulating floor of the buccal cavity rises quite steeply to meet her swan’s neck; especially, when she casts her eyes downward, in coquettish mode.

Her ears take on the colour of the inside of a conch shell, as the sunlight passes through them. They follow the line of her chin; their lobes, perfectly matched.

Whichever profile she chooses to show to me, I cannot find a flaw. Her frontal gaze bedazzles.

Her throat and décolletage, are parasol pale. Imagine if you will, the shape of the diamond in a pack of playing cards: squeeze that diamond with the weight of gravity, and then visualise that shape, superimposed over the lower angles formed by her collar bones, the upper part passing behind her slender neck, and you have it.

Where her pale throat, emerges from that perfect rhombus, two pools of shadow form, behind the clavicles. These rise and fall with her breathing, filling all with light, and then emptying to penumbral shadow.

Her breasts are matched orbs of perfect weight. They bounce slightly when she walks but spring immediately to attention when she stands before you. If those breasts were to have an horizon, then her areolas would be as twin, perfect suns, setting over a calm sea.

Her waist is tiny, her hips curvaceous, her legs, long, and thighs slender. Her calves seem a little too long, and the muscles behind them are pronounced, tapering to the ankle.

I do not know which of her charms pleases me best. From the front, it is her collar bones, without a doubt; from behind, the shallow hollows behind her knees, which, surrounded by strong sinews, sit between her creamy thighs and the perfect convex curves of her calf muscles.

She walks toward me still. A smile is about to break out, and yet I cannot meet her eyes. The skirt of her dress is backlit, and I can see her in perfect silhouette.

My eye is drawn to the inner lines of her thighs, which do not quite meet.

At the apex of her inner thighs, there is a slight divergence, culminating in a tiny heart-shaped space, seeming not unlike a keyhole. If only I could obtain that key.

***

8

Camile: The Evening after the Confrontation

We have discussed the problem with our pastor. He has accepted that we must have new costumes, paid for from the school budget, but we, in return, must do something to reduce the visible hairs that protrude, so that we appear more youthful, as is befitting for principal ballerinas.

The removal of this unwanted hair has proved to be more difficult, and, to some extent, far more amusing than we had imagined.

Estelle is an orphan who lives with her aunt. This aunt is not a bad person; God-fearing, in fact, but she resents having to share her comfortable home with another’s child, even if that other was her own sister, now, sadly deceased. On the evening we chose, the house was empty. The aunt had been invited to spend the weekend with another spinster lady of similar interests and intellect, and we were alone.

The menfolk of my family were engaged in taking much of the village livestock to the high pasture, and so, with no demands on our time, we lit a great fire and ran a hot bath, Estelle and I.

Many is the time that I have shared a bath with my siblings, but this was the first time that Estelle and I have shared the luxury of warm, soapy water. I sat to the rear, and Estelle sat between my legs, her back against my chest. We relaxed like that for a while, and I began to pour the warm suds over her shoulders and breasts, from a cream jug. She seemed to relax completely, smiled, and turned her head to rest her left cheek against my breast, the firelight highlighting her gentle profile in its rosy glow. I let go of the small jug that I was using, and slipped my arm over her shoulder to comfortably cup her breast. The softness of her flesh amazed me. I felt her heart beating against the pulse in my wrist.

With a sigh, she turned over onto her knees and helped me to stand. Warm water cascaded down my body, glistening as the orange light from crackling logs flickered over my contours. She had me stand with legs slightly parted,