No Regrets - Carolyn Burke [20]
“There is nothing to see in Pigalle,” a contemporary novelist wrote. The area bounded by the Place Blanche to the west and the rue des Martyrs to the east had no historic landmarks. But for the cognoscenti there was another reality behind its undistinguished façades. Pigalle had a tawdry allure for partygoers and thrill-seekers—“dark nights lit by flickering electric signs, the sound of rain and piano rolls, a hubbub, silence, dance halls, shadowy corners, neon lights, hallways”—the décor we associate with the film noir classics that were often set there.
Those who lived year-round in Pigalle were attuned to its delights. The Cirque Medrano had its headquarters on the prolongation of Pigalle’s main axis, the Boulevard de Clichy. Picasso had often painted the Medrano’s clowns and acrobats; locals drank with them after performances. The neighborhood became particularly animated in December, when a street fair lined the Boulevard de Clichy with fortune-tellers, shooting galleries, sideshows, merry-go-rounds, and stands selling French fries or sugary waffles. Strong men and sword swallowers performed there all year round; musicians gathered on the weekends in hope of a night’s employment. One can imagine Edith greeting them on her way to Lulu’s, or when she worked the street on her days off.
As emancipated but unprotected women, she and Momone were an anomaly—much like the filles insoumises, the unregistered prostitutes who made Pigalle notorious. Residents recognized the different types of whores, from the lowly pierreuses, who took all comers, to the chandelles, who stood like candles under the lamplights, and the marcheuses, who walked up and down the boulevards—the trade’s aristocracy, because they had some freedom of choice. Working in Pigalle gave a woman cachet. Her pay was higher than elsewhere in Paris; compared with Belleville, Pigalle was a promotion.
Yet most of these women were controlled by pimps, many of whom came from the same poor neighborhoods. These men, known as julots, harengs, or maquereaux, affected a certain style. They strutted around Pigalle in the tight jackets and shiny leather pumps then in fashion in petit-bourgeois areas. Newcomers saw that to survive, they needed to distinguish among the local fauna and learn their codes. Edith’s odd status attracted attention. Was she a grenouille, one of the many young women calling themselves singers who took up with strangers, or a part-time michetonneuse, an easy lay?
For a time her domestic life—sharing a room with Momone and Cécelle—was a safeguard. But before the locals could decide what to make of her, an event occurred that drove Edith to accept a more traditional form of protection. P’tit Louis showed up now and then, attempting to lure her back to Belleville. One morning when she and Momone returned from Lulu’s, the hotel-keeper announced that her “husband” had come during the night and taken their baby. He left a message—if she wanted Cécelle, she must come home. She declined to do so but sent Louis money to pay for their daughter’s care. “Edith never spoke of him again,” Berteaut wrote. “We missed [Cécelle] at first. We didn’t say so to each other, but there was an emptiness”—an emptiness that would