hagiography

Madame Regenbogen hid in the restroom, dabbing, powdering and patting her nose, waiting until Monsieur Noir had vacated the premises. She wiped away a tell tale dribble of clear mucus with a fine, cotton handkerchief. Borne up by the wings of new found confidence she stepped out of the cubicle and then retrieved her coat from the cloakroom. She hoped she was not too late, that Monsieur would not have disappeared into the night already, but the restaurant sat squat in the middle of a long, straight road so she believed she would have no difficulty in seeing where he had gone.

He, in the meantime, had hidden his annoyance well when presented with the bill. 'Why didn't she go the whole hog and order lobster,' he thought, emptying first his wallet and then his pockets to pay. “Merci,” the waiter said with a sarcasm only the French can muster. Monsieur frowned, stood quickly and then strode out of the restaurant, omitting to leave a tip. Gallic nostrils flared. Tight smiles danced around thin lips. 'What can you expect from a man who doesn't even wear a tie?'

'Fuck 'em. Fuck her.' “FUCK OFF!” he shouted at a taxi driver, who slowed to a crawl in order to ask Monsieur … “Are you fucking deaf? Fuck off.” The taxi driver shook his head and accelerated away. Monsieur stamped through puddles.

She saw him in the distance, coat open into the wind. 'Silly man, he'll get wet,' but then she remembered she was not his mother. His mother, as he never tired of telling her, “Was a beauty queen, once,” small, delicate, immaculate.

Madame Regenbogen followed, her heels click-clacking on the pavement. Monsieur's purposeful stride ensured she had to almost run in order to keep up with him, which meant she also had to hold her hat on her head with one arm while attempting to tame her rebellious handbag with the other. She began to sweat.

He paused. She shrank into a shop doorway. He lit a cigarette. The sudden spark illuminated an area around him. She saw him exhale before he cut the flame short. Turning up the collar of his coat, Monsieur set off again, walking a few yards before turning a corner. She would turn the same corner some minutes later.

Her fingers shook as she pressed the bell. A loud ringing emanated from inside the guest house. Madame fidgeted, wiped her nose again and ran her tongue over her teeth to make sure no lipstick had stained her winsome “Surprise!” smile. 'He'll be mad,' she thought, 'I'll apologise, for the meal, for everything. I'll apologise and then he'll relent'. She smoothed her skirt but was frightened to touch her hair. Rain did not suit her.

Inside, old Madame Blumenthal stirred. Callers at this time of night, while not unknown, were rarely welcomed. She knocked a sleeping cat off her knees and brushed its hairs from her black bouclé lap. In his room Monsieur Noir poured himself a whiskey. 'Three fingers. Fuckit.' He filled the glass almost to the top. 'Damn woman. Damn women.' He flicked on the radio. Jazz crackled into the room.

'Come on, come on.' Madame Regenbogen pushed the bell again, this time harder and for longer. She examined the door. There was a large gap between it and the frame. Two plates of dimpled glass set into green, peeling wood. Through the dimples she saw an old lady approaching, grossly malformed, fractured and bobbled. She heard the sagging flip, flop, flap of slippers against the floor. Vague mumblings drifted out to Madame Regenbogen's ears. She arranged her face into a cordial greeting. “Bon soir, I know it's late, but Monsieur Noir left something,” she hurtled around her mind looking for the appropriate words, “at my …”, the landlady blinked, “my hotel,” the landlady's eyes widened, “this afternoon,” Madame Regenbogen put in quickly, “and I think he might …” her voice trailed off.
“Wait there.” The door threatened to shut unceremoniously.
“If I could just come in out of the rain?”
Apparently not.

Monsieur Noir appeared some moments later, shirtless, hair ruffled and with a cigarette hanging from his lips. “Yes?”
It was Madame Regenbogen's turn to blink.
“Oh what the hell,” he said, holding open the door, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and gesturing that she could enter. “How did you find me?”
“I followed you.”
“Of course you did.”
“I wanted to know where you live.”
“Did it occur to you that if I wanted you to know I'd have given you the address?”
She brushed past him. “It was rude for you only to give me a postal box.”
“Look around you,” he said. She did, at the stained wallpaper, dirty floor and chipped paintwork, “If you weren't so self obsessed you'd fucking get it”. He slammed the door and sloped off down the hallway. “Are you coming then?” She fell in behind him.

Beige, brown and green pervaded the whole building. His room was painted the colour of pale leaves. A red leather armchair sulked in the corner, its horsehair stuffing hanging out. A small rug, with tattered fringes, lay on the floor. Under the window a modest desk, perhaps oak, supported an old manual typewriter and a confused sheaf of papers. A cast iron bed filled the rest of the room. Books were piled everywhere, spines facing outwards. She bent to pick one up. “Heart of Darkness, I don't believe I've read it.”
He raised an eyebrow, “Now why doesn't that surprise me?” and took the thin novel out of her hand. “He was obeyed, yet he inspired neither love nor fear, nor even respect. He inspired uneasiness. That was it.” He slammed the book shut. “What do you want, and if you say 'to talk' I swear you're leaving immediately.”
“Have you got anything to drink?”
“Whiskey, straight up.”
“That will do nicely.”

“So?” he said, his back to her as he poured.
“Can I sit here?”
Looking over his shoulder he noticed she didn't indicate the bed. “Sure.”
She took out her compact. “Do you want some?”
“How much you got?”
“Enough for tonight.”
“Right.”
She passed him the flat, oval accessory. “Careful, the lock's a bit stiff.”
He went to his bedside table and took out a razor and unframed mirror. Gripping the head of the razor he unscrewed the handle and released the blade.

Five minutes later Monsieur Noir was licking the mirror. He rubbed his hand over his jaw line, up his cheek and then propped the mirror against the typewriter. “I hope you're not doing that on my account,” she said.
He didn't reply, instead he angled the desk lamp, reassembled the razor and stretched the skin over his bones, remolding his face.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Madame flicked the heel of her shoe on and off her foot.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Monsieur passed his palm over his chin.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
“Is there any more whiskey?”
“Over there,” he said, jerking his head towards the bedside table.

Madame refilled her glass and then walked toward the desk. She reached out her hand to pick up one of the sheets of paper. Before her fingers made contact Monsieur snatched out. “Don't touch,” he said, “Don't fucking touch my shit”.
“I was just going to read.”
“It's mine.”
“I know it's yours, that's why I want to read it.”
“Can't you leave anything alone?”
She pursed her lips. “What's the matter with you?”
“Look lady, I didn't invite you here.”
“Lady?” she laughed.
“I'm trying to be polite,” he spat back.
“Well fucking try harder.”
“Right, so that's why you're here. You wanted to shout at me in the restaurant but you couldn't.”
Madame put her glass down deliberately and made to turn away. Monsieur grabbed her wrist. She balled her hand into a fist and attempted to shake her arm free. He held her fast, his flashing eyes meeting her angry glare.
“Let go of me,” she said quietly, jaw clenched. He squeezed, imperceptibly at first but then tighter and tighter. “Let go of me,” her voice had risen an octave. “Let go of me or I'll scream.”
Monsieur swung her round, pulled her arm up behind her back, slapped his hand over her mouth and said “Go on then”.
She breathed furiously through her nose, nostrils flaring, working her lips back to expose her teeth. And then she bit him.

Everything was released all at once. He stepped back involuntarily. She sagged instantly, hair falling into her face. Her half empty glass was knocked from the desk. Papers took flight and scattered themselves at their feet. Whiskey splashed with wings. She turned to face him only to find herself looking in another direction when his hand landed, open palmed, on her cheek. She gripped the edge of the desk to prevent herself from falling. Monsieur had re-covered himself. He stood next to her clothed in naked aggression. His muscles twitched. His face was hot. His breath came in wordless snatches.

Without ceremony he lifted Madame's skirt. She struggled against him but he pinned her to the edge of the desk, his hips and hands forcing her into the wood. He wound his fingers into her hair, at the base of her scalp, and pulled. At first she resisted, but he bent her forwards, until her head hit the keys of his typewriter. fhgityellgihsifdlh fgdmncnvbbnfic ibhths vnhdighg. “You're hurting me.”
“I know.”
fdklsadhfibin;a t ksdigh siagasdkdfgi.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Madame Regenbogen didn't reply.
“Usual rules,” he said.

There was a soft hiss as his belt slid through the carriers of his trousers. Madame put her elbows on the desk and squeezed her eyes tight shut. Monsieur pushed the typewriter back and repositioned the mirror. “Open your eyes.” As she did so a car passed in the street outside and splashed its headlights all over the walls. “Look.” She glanced into the mirror. It was too close to her face. She could see skin blemishes, open pores, crow's feet. Madame turned away. Monsieur, gripping her hair, pulled her head back round. “Look!” This time she focused on him bent behind her. His eyes, dark, incohate, staring right into the mirror, a mild projection reflected in his irises. He flicked his tongue quickly over his lips. Perfectly even teeth.
“I can see you,” she said, carefully, deliberately.
“Watch me.” He stood, his face disappearing from her view. Swinging his arm back the belt slithered against thin air noiselessly. He stopped. The leather dangled like a held breath. He stroked her exposed buttocks. His hand was warm. He lent forwards again, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “OK?” he asked. She nodded her assent.

The first lick landed. Madame sucked in, pushed out her ribs, thrust back her shoulders. Monsieur hardened. The second lick left a straight red mark, although not immediately. She bit down but raised her head to look at her own reflection dead on. The third lick sounded loudly and mixed with Monsieur's grunted appreciation. It was a short, sharp grunt. Unconscious. It had left his mouth before the form of tongue and words could discipline it. He ran his fingers through his hair. A single bead of sweat trickled from his brow, down past his eye socket and onto his cheek. It looked like a wayward tear.

He bent again, the skin of his belly passing over her buttocks. Kissing the nape of her neck, where her hair met her skin. She relaxed. Someone upstairs clattered across their bare floorboards in heeled shoes. A moth buzzed against the desk lamp. He flicked it away. On its return he caught it in his hand and held it briefly before slamming it against the wood. “Don't move.” She could hear his steps change as he proceeded across the room. “Read it.” The book was placed in front of her, open. He squashed down the spine to preserve the chosen page.

“I….”
“Read it,” he growled.

“A kind of joy descends from the physical world.”
Whumpf.
“I am attached to the earth.”
Whumpf.
A minor squeal escaped Madame's mouth, but she swallowed it. “The rocks.”
Whumpf.
“Completely black.”
Whumpf
“Ah.”
Monsieur paused and took a swig from his glass, bending his lips inwards, sucking on the liquor.
“Today plunge through vertical stages to a depth of three thousand metres.” Madame's buttocks reddened. “This vision, which terrifies the savages, inspires no terror in me. I know that there is no monster hidden in the abyss; there is only fire, the original fire.”

“You can go now.”