The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [15]
The audience encouraged every move with a cheer. Although the dancers exhibited scant artistry in their gyrations, there was an odd allure in the way these women flew about the stage; leaping and prancing, robust and ungainly. Finally, they formed a line, each dancer draping an arm over the woman to either side of her, and then kicked their legs in unison to the rhythmic clapping of the crowd below. The scene was at once repellent and fascinating.
The show lasted little more than an hour. The dancers were superseded by a female singer, and then a number of brief scenarios, each featuring a woman and sometimes a man in abbreviated garb, and each with a prurient theme. When the dancers returned to the stage, my eyes were drawn immediately to a tall woman with red hair and long, lean legs, who moved with a lithe grace absent in her peers. I was surprised that someone of such beauty and distinction was forced to work in Bonhomme’s Paris Revue. Once or twice, she glanced up at our box and flashed a small smile.
“Well, Carroll,” said Turk, after the show had ended and the gaslights had come up. He was forced to lean close to me and raise his voice to be heard over the raucous applause and wild yells for “encore” from the crowd. “What did you think?”
“It was very … lively.”
“Tell me,” he asked, “did you like the dancers?”
“Quite talented, I thought,” I said. There was no harm in being polite.
“They are talented, to be sure,” Turk replied. “Do you remember the tall one with red hair? We’re having drinks with her. You are, I mean. She’s best friends with my date.”
I tried to stifle a grin. My experience with women might be woefully inadequate, but it was certainly serendipity to be thrown together by circumstance with the very woman one had been admiring in secret.
When we arrived at the stage door, ten or fifteen men were already waiting. A few appeared disreputable, but most seemed reasonably well-off. Many were older, in their fifties at least.
After about ten minutes, the cast began to emerge. The one with red hair was named Monique, Turk informed me, while he awaited Suzette. I spotted Monique immediately, walking with a dark-haired woman at least six inches shorter than she. Both waved excitedly when they spotted Turk and hurried in our direction.
“Hi, Georgie,” cooed Suzette, who could only have been French if Ireland had been shifted to the continent. She took Turk by the arm. “Let’s go. I’m parched.” She squinted up at me. “Ooh. This must be your good-looking friend. Lucky Monique.”
Monique sidled up and took my arm. She had full lips, a small, turned-up nose, and emerald eyes, an odd assortment of parts that went together well as a whole. “I am a lucky Monique,” she confirmed. “And what might your name be, good-looking friend?” Her voice was husky and sensual. She was apparently from the same part of France as Suzette.
“Ephraim,” I said, taking a hint from Turk and giving as little information as possible.
“Well, Ephie,” trilled Monique, “let’s be going then.”
Turk led us to the ever-faithful liveryman and gave him directions to someplace called “The Fatted Calf.” The ride was brief, but we were four in a seat meant to accommodate three. To the giggles of the women, we squeezed together, Monique’s arm thrown over my shoulder. She was uncorseted and I could feel the supple line of her breast against my chest.
Even from the street, The Fatted Calf emitted a din. The man at the entrance, an enormous, pink-faced ruffian with thick muttonchops, smiled at Turk convivially and swung open the door. As soon as we stepped inside, what had been a muddled roar became more distinct as loud conversation and hoarse laughter.
There was another man at the entrance to the large room, similar in look and bearing to the giant outside, only half his size. He yelled hello to “George” and led him through the packed tables. A film of dust hung in the air, diffusing