The thumping sound of the soldiers marching boots reverberated down the avenue. A synchronized hammering that asked in a controlled and obliged diplomatic manner the time to stop as they strode by. People observed with resignation and so I did, while all of us made some sort of silent reverence to the men that, rifle on shoulder, patrolled the recently paved streets. It was a country in war and things would never be the same... hear the same or look the same, for war brings more than steel weapons or men in uniform. War carries with it desolation, starvation, blood and vices... those vices that run in the blood like water flows through streams, when streams are stained with blood itself.
Cringing and holding their breath, the passers hustled down the sidewalk. A strong hideous smell of urine, tobacco and vomit emanated from the narrow and dimly illuminated alleys edging by the transited street. There were making funny puke grimaces as they passed by, in special the ladies, all straightened up, dressed so elegantly in silk and organza and blinking with all that fine jewelry. Ostentatiously, they paraded the last fashion trends that dismissed a so gone old century and welcomed a new one, a less promising one for them... For me. There was when I pitifully looked at my self, broom in hand, wearing a faded hunter green dress and worn out boots. Well, at least I had something to put on. I cringed over that bitter paradox that claimed a huge difference between the rich laces on their evening gowns and the hemp sober trousers worn by those aligned on the road to kill and die for their nation... and the rags of the forgotten ones, those slowly dying on the ditches and sewers drowning in their own excrement.
Behind me, a dreadful choir of bellowing cries and mad songs emerged. The visceral symphony of insanity that brought war with it. And as the strutting crowd passed by, some of them preferring to ignore the ravaging hell in the scums while others, seduced by some oriental hallucinating chants ventured to glance over the darkness where another world lied, a place unknown by some of them. And out there, beyond the constraining corners of pauperism and insanity where white smoke demons were locked, humanity lived their perfect lives. For the more fortunate ones, the stomach twitching was worth it.
"The Nightingale" read the poster on the wall announcing the put-on-stage tonight's opera reminding me that it was time to go back to work. With acquiescence I shrugged and pushed myself through those narrow gaps between the buildings, stumbling upon a wretched soul dropped to dead over some disgusting fetid puddle on my way the opera house where I worked and lived. Making my way via the corridors backstage the floor below my feet vibrated to the crescendo chords played by the orchestra and the stretching high pitch vibrato in the soprano's voice. The play was about to meet its end.
The resounding clapping cacophony brought some kind of joy to my crestfallen spirits and I wished I was the recipient of such admiration. But it was only in my dreams... Far away dreams when I saw myself singing on stage, the astounded audience admiring an impeccable performance. Yet again it was only in my dreams.
I recalled better days, when I used to sing at the 'Le Nuit Bijour', a gentlemen's club down the 'Rue Oubli'. There, in pursuit of fame, my heart replenished with the few applause I received after each presentation. I had no formal preparation on music, but I sang my soul out and somehow I lived a happy life. And it was that vain and irrational longing the cause of my misfortune. Seduced by his foreign accent and promises of stardom and fortune I fell in his arms... And on his bed. Stupid enough to get pregnant.
"Vous êtes une prostituée!" He told me. "How could you possibly thought I would marry you? Really, you can't be such an imbecile woman!"
"But I'm carrying your child, Ambroise!" A heavy lump was choking me. My voice cracked and I cried.
"So? I have other three in my wife. You sold yourself so cheap Josephine. And a woman like you is worth nothing... Neither that bastard inside of you!"
Those last words echoed painfully in my ears, drilling my brain as I mopped the stage. The auditorium was empty now. A velvety burgundy sea of seats in front of me. A tear rolled down my cheek as I thought I once had that dream of singing, of being someone... of being loved.
It was about midnight when after finishing my chores I threw a bucketful of cold water over my weary body. I stole a piece of soap from the dressing rooms... Well, they always left over the dressers some goodies for me, mostly the female artists. They found their greenrooms neat and tidy, sometimes with flowers or a book I bargained on the streets for the same things they gave me.
I put my night shirt on and after turning on the bedside lamp, I tucked myself to the plain cot. The three meters squared room was a gloomy Bastille to my hopeless heart. A feeble beam of moonlight squeezed through the only window in the room and the dust particles danced in the air like fairies. Toss and turning I tried to sleep. Whimsical images began to form swirling and glistening inside my head, but there was no safe place in the mind of an addict.
There was a knock on the door. A smile drew on my face as it opened. Turning the lights on I sat up straight on the bunk. The satchel in his hand was like an epiphany to me. The tingling sensation in my body both for excitement and dependence was unbearable. By that time I could do anything to get it.
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I knew the rite well. He placed the satchel in my hands, but it wasn't time to open it yet. There wasn't even need of instructions, commands or talking. He unbuttoned his pants and I laid back on bed, my clothes off. It was a matter of a few minutes and he would be done with me. Feeling nothing, no pleasure nor regret, I let him do whatever he wanted with me, with my body. It was the price I had to pay to quench that soreness in my throat and the pain in my bones. Not even a goodbye kiss, or a love promise. He only put his trousers on and left. I quickly grabbed the bag in my trembling and sweaty hands and took out the glass vial and wooden pipe.
"The opium pipe calls to me, beckoning with wanton fingers. It needs me as much as I need it. Scents intoxicate me, a mixture of sweat, Oriental spices, and tobacco. Clouds of smoke hover overhead. I watch in mild interest as some ghost-like creature nestles up close and whispers a thousand little lies. Tendrils waft away creating a stairway to the sky. Yet who are those worthy enough to make that trip? We are certainly going the other way."
***This story responds to the fourth challenge on The Glamour of the Grotesque writing challenge hosted by Nyhterides . The setting Paris, 1914. The prompt is in bold. I hope you enjoy it.
