The Nightlife: Paris (The Nightlife Series) Page 5

  He pressured me constantly. “Ma chérie, you should not be alone, you are so beautiful. Ma belle, I wish you would marry.”

  “Oui, Père, someday. There is no hurry. When the time is right I will marry for love. I have not met a man I can imagine spending every day of my life with.” The excuse grew old, as did I.

  Jacques was not known for his patience. “You are not getting any younger. Soon you will be too old. No decent man will want you! And what of children? Your mother and I married when she was seventeen.”

  “Père! That is just like you. So bourgeois!”

  “Would you have me die of old age without knowing my grandchild? My health is not so good!” A blatant lie. The man was healthy as a horse, but he had no scruples about using emotional blackmail to get what he wanted. “I’ll not live forever, you know!”

  “And why have you never remarried Père?”

  “You know I am too old, too set in my ways. What woman would have me?” A half-truth. His beautiful blond hair, expressive green eyes, and strength acquired from long days working in sun made for a handsome man. But I didn’t envy the woman who might attempt it. My mother’s strength of character had been tested daily by his imposing nature.

  These conversations always left me torn. I wanted to please my father, yet I knew I would be far happier pursuing my dreams.

  Then he changed tactics. He found the Parisian hotel-mansion for sale, an obvious ploy to tempt a suitor. He showed it to me right away. I despised the opulent extravagance. It seemed such a colossal waste of space, squatting on most of a city block.

  “Père! I’ll not marry some connard you can bribe with this monstrosity! Do not expect me to live here. This is not a home, it’s an institution.”

  “Ma chérie, you are killing me! I die a little more each day you are alone. Look at all I do for you, my only child. Is it so horrible to marry a man who will take care of you in this wonderful home?”

  “I don’t want a man who wants your money. I will marry for love. I want nothing from a man whose affections are for sale.”

  “Fine! I’ll sell it! You can live in a shack! You can live with your Tante Agnes! A pair of old maids bickering at men walking by on the street!”

  I cried in frustration. I couldn’t make him understand how I felt without offending him. And though I would never admit it, I was quite spoiled. I spurned my father’s wealth and yet enjoyed a very sheltered, comfortable life with his money. I did not want my life to change.

  The seller of the mansion was a Jewish banker with the uncanny wisdom to smell the smoke of anti-Semitism before the fires of prejudice consumed Europe. He sold out his banking interests, all possessions, and his magnificent home he’d converted from a hotel. He made his timely escape to New York, and Jacques caught a very fair price, taking full advantage of the man’s desire to leave quickly.

  Upon closing the sale in February 1940, Jacques refurbished the entire house, sparing no expense. The few times I visited him at the mansion I simply sat and stared in awe at the lavishly flaunted decadence. It was a perfect home for a wealthy upper-class Parisian family, but I had other plans.

  I preferred to avoid arguments, so I stayed at the loft and buried my life in high fashion ball gowns. I was a modern woman, independent, motivated and goal-oriented. I had several wealthy clients who enjoyed my dresses and I planned to open my own storefront within a year. Père’s designs on my future had little bearing on my direction and dreams.

  In the early summer I met the man who would forever change the course of my life, Julian Gautier. Had Père encountered Julian first, he surely would have introduced him to me. Julian had a regal bearing. He fit right in with the gentry of Paris. His fashionable cut of suit spoke of money. At six foot one, pale and thin, he was not overtly attractive, but there was something about him, a je ne sais quoi. I didn’t understand at the time, but much of his attraction was due to the “Magnétisme Animal” of vampires.

  * * * *

  Chapter 7

  We met in the doorway to a local dress shop selling my latest designs. He walked in as I prepared to leave. Somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, he moved gracefully, with panache. A man comfortable in his own skin. Maître de tout ce qu'il contemple – the master of all he surveyed. He had a receding hairline and a rugged, hawkish nose to stare down as his boyish curls of dirty-blond hair cascaded off to the right. His gaze bored into my soul, sending a chill down my spine – a premonition, perhaps. He needed a haircut, a flaw that made him seem more approachable, and I hesitated, suddenly loathe to leave.

  “Bonjour, Madam, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  His smooth voice caressed me, silk sliding over my body. I flushed in embarrassment. I had been staring.

  “We cannot be acquainted, Monsieur. I have not told you my name.” I tried to regain my composure.

  “Oh but you will.”

  His smile, so arrogant and assured, made me giggle like a little girl. What was wrong with me? He glanced at me repeatedly as he addressed Noelle, the shop owner. I stood there, an imbécile staring at him.

  He inspired a confusing blend of fear, attraction, repulsion, and embarrassment. I simply couldn’t pull my eyes away from the man. Noelle obviously worshipped the ground he walked on – she flirted shamelessly. He let up on me and focused the power of his gaze on Noelle as they transacted business.

  Julian had apparently ordered a dress for a ‘lady-friend’ and was there to take delivery.

  Noelle noticed my interest. “Come meet Julian Gautier, he buys many dresses. I am beginning to wonder at his business.” She pawed at him, holding his hand. “You can trust him, Michelle. He always pays his accounts on time.”

  She gave me the perfect opening. “Would you like to order one of my special creations, Monsieur Gautier?”

  “Oui, Madam, I would like that very much.” His eyes said so much more than words.

  I discussed his requirements for a dress and took measurements from Noelle’s records, trying my best not to stare. We exchanged calling cards as he paid a generous deposit.

  “I knew you would tell me your name. It was fate that we met.” He pecked my cheek and whispered. “Au revoir, chérie.” He not only had my full name, he had my home address on the calling card.

  The following night, Agnes and I received a surprise visit from Julian at the loft. A little strange, perhaps, but I invited him in.

  He got down to business quickly. “I came to verify you have everything you need for my order.”

  “Yes, of course. And was that all?” I decided I liked him. I didn’t want him to leave.

  “I must go, but I will see you soon, chérie. Very soon.”

  In and out the door so fast, he left me a confused mess of arousal and curiosity.

  “How handsome!” Agnes wiggled her eyebrows. “The tall ones always have more to offer.”

  “Any man with a full set of teeth is handsome to you.”

  “Oh, but I saw you watching him. There is something different about him, and you noticed.” She had that knowing smile.

  “Yes, I noticed.” I could not deny it. The first man to seriously catch my eye, he set my pulse racing.

  I completed his order, ready to deliver several days later. I passed by the address on his calling card, a two story townhouse painted in dark ochre, windows heavily shaded. It looked to be his residence. No one answered, so I left a friendly note at the door.

  The next day the radio brought news the German Blitzkrieg had passed the famed Maginot Line on the eastern border of France. Complete pandemonium broke out city-wide. Noelle and I watched from her store window as her resident neighbors crammed their cars with suitcases and scampered like rats before a flood. I could hardly cross the street on my way home without cars overcrowded with people and their belongings threatening to run me down in their frenzy. A mass exodus of Parisians clogged every road leaving the city. They fled by cars, buses, trains, motorbikes, bicycles, and even on foot. Sheer i
nsanity. Like locusts devouring everything in their path, all forms of transportation, fuel, foods, and consumables ran out within hours. The veneer of civilization fell away to reveal desperate animals, humanity at their worst.

  I returned to the loft to find Agnes hysterical, her face pale and sweaty, hands shaking. She begged me to leave with her immediately and bawled in relief when I agreed we would go together to the Château in Bordeaux, far to the south.

  I tried to reassure her. “Surely we will be safe there, what would the Germans want with rural wine country?”

  We raced off to flee like all the others. We went to the home of Tante’s cousin, Jean-Luc Tremaine, the only family member who owned a private car. He was packed and heading out the door. Perfect timing, with the exception of one small detail. He had room for only one more passenger, and this by removing two suitcases filled with non-essentials. Agnes was beside herself with anxiety. Her eyes held the wild look of a deer in a forest fire, flames nipping at its tail. I calmed her with promises that I would take the train and meet them at Orléans. Agnes finally agreed to the plan. I stood in the street and waved goodbye as they drove off.

  I attempted to hail a city taxi. Vehicle after vehicle passed by, horns blaring. When I stepped into the road, frantic to stop someone, anyone, a driver swore at me, “Get out of the way, putaine de merde! Get out of the way!” With tires screeching he swerved, barely avoiding me. The rear bumper caught my skirts and I fell sprawling in a rending tear of material. My luggage strewed over the street.

  “Mon Dieu! Will no one help me!”

  No one helped me. I gathered my soiled clothing and wiped my tears. After an hour of walking, legs aching and hands bloody from my fall in the street, I tied a length of material around my case and dragged it to the train station cursing my stylish half boots. Hundreds milled around the entrance gate to the trains. I struggled through the shouting masses to arrive at the barred, locked gate and the sight of an empty, deserted platform.

  I turned to the young man next to me, “Monsieur, I don’t understand? Where are the trains? Why is the gate locked?”

  “Those canards! The soldiers, they take everything, all the trains, and condemn us to death at the hands of the Germans.”

  “But we can take the next one? Oui? There will be another.”

  “You foolish girl. There will be no more trains!”

  With that devastating news ringing in my ears, I dragged my case through the dangerous crowd rioting in front of the station house and out to the street. Sliding down the brick wall of a building, I sat on the cobblestone and sobbed.

  My long trek home took me past closed, shuttered shops and deserted streets. Ghostly silence descended on my vibrant, gay Paris, and then I heard the rattle-grind of the mechanized tanks – German tanks. Strange sounds of distant booms, machinery, and the occasional shout echoed in the vacant streets. Terror lent wings to my feet despite my exhaustion.

  At home, I locked the door and shoved the rosewood china cabinet up against it. Barricaded in, I headed to the bath. Oh the wonders of a hot bath. I soaked away the aches from my long walk. The useless radio broadcast nothing but crackling static.

  “I have no food.” How long before I am forced out onto the street to search for food? What will happen if the Germans find me?

  We had all been so foolishly overconfident, deluded. Only days before the men on the streets bragged of the impenetrable French military defenses in WWI. The fools. The world had changed much in two decades. New military technology, mechanized weaponry, and massive machines of iron were near unstoppable. The German engineers are so much better at manufacturing killing machines.

  A loud knock on my door aroused me from a nap. I sat bolt upright. My heart pounded in my chest like a little rabbit. Mon Dieu! The Germans! Reluctant to open the door, I called out, “Who is there?”

  “It’s me, Julian.” I slumped in relief at his familiar voice, I badly needed a friend.

  “Come in.” I shoved aside the cabinet and ushered him in the door. “Do you not fear the Germans? I heard them on the street not long ago.” As he entered, a rat-tat-tat sound of machine gunfire echoed in the distance.

  “Oui. Everyone has left the city. I was concerned about you.” I looked in his hypnotic eyes as he moved in close, pinning me against the counter. “I am so very delighted to see you. Are you here alone?”

  His weight pressed me into the table. He should not be this close. This is wrong! His eyes bored into my soul demanding a truthful answer.

  “The trains … I couldn’t leave …”

  “How unfortunate.” He smiled. Oversized canine teeth flashed either side of his mouth. I gasped. He looked like an animal.

  * * * *

  Chapter 8

  Heart racing, my palms sweaty with unease, I tried to slide away.

  He followed. “I, too, cannot leave the city. It seems we are trapped together.”

  “What of your lady-friend? I have her dresses ready.”

  “Ah ma chérie, a very sad thing. She is gone.”

  He did not look sad. His eyes held a deep hunger, a need. I knew what the rabbit felt like in the jaws of the wolf. His fingertips stroked across my cheek delicately.

  “I would have liked to know you. I do love your eyes. Such a wonderful color.” His thumb rubbed over the edge of my brow.

  “Excusez-moi Monsieur, I will return your deposit, one moment.” I shied away from all the aggression I sensed just under the surface of his seemingly gentle manner. I had never been afraid of a man, not the way I feared this man. My fingers shook as I tried to pull his hand away from my face.

  The mechanical clang-rumble of a motorized tank thundered past from the street below. Julian watched the framed black and white picture of Père vibrate on the kitchen wall.

  “We have no more time for pleasantries.” He turned to me, his hand fisting my hair until I whimpered in pain.

  Dropping all pretense of civility, he gripped me tight as his teeth latched onto my neck in a snake-like strike. The banding of his arms encased me like the squeeze of an iron cage.

  I yanked his hair to try to pull him away from me. It only hurt more, like he would tear my throat out rather than release his wicked deep bite. I fought valiantly, hitting, thrashing and flailing, but my efforts were like the beating of a butterfly’s wings against his immense strength. I fought until my arms grew heavy and vision faded to black.

  Awareness of cold in an unaccustomed place roused me to wakefulness. Naked! I am naked! The rough wooden surface of the kitchen table flattened my breasts painfully, the edge of the table cut into my thighs. Kicking, twisting, screaming, I tried to escape the iron clasp of Julian’s cold hands pinning me down. I tried to get up, to kick, twist, turn, something, anything, but his grip tightened, pressing me cruelly against the table. Searing agony made me scream when he rammed his cock into me, heedless of my struggles, cries, and pain. He growled like an animal, a rabid beast in a frenzy of lust.

  As I fought for my life, he twisted my arm back hard. My shoulder tore, an excruciating pop-snap sound. In my desperation I seized on a kitchen knife with my free hand. I twisted back around, further straining my torn shoulder to stab at his throat. Missing my target, the tip of the knife carved a two inch gash across his jawline.

  With a roar, his sledgehammer fist smashed into the side of my head.

  I awoke on my back. His weight ground me into the floor as a horrid pain dug between my legs. He was ripping me apart from the inside out. I could not breathe. My fingers clawed at his back, raking any exposed skin. My teeth sank into his arm until my front teeth met. It mattered not. He seemed to like it more. He bit my neck on both sides, then my breasts, shoulders, everywhere he could reach while he impaled me over and over. I clawed his eye. I never saw the blow that returned me to oblivion.

  I woke again to the pounding punishment of his hard flesh inside me. Hazy fog clouded my vision. Icy cold wrapped my world. My body lurched up and down with his grunting thru
sts, but pain and sensation drifted away into welcome numbness.

  Death had cast its grey pallor over my world. Finally.

  I ceased struggling and waited for death to take me far away from this hellish torment. My bloody, broken lips smiled at the thought my death would rob him of further pleasure.

  He stilled. “Non! You cannot die! Stay with me!”

  I drifted down into unconsciousness.

  I opened my eyes to find him over me, shouting. “I won’t let you die. I demand you stay with me.” He bored into me with that unnervingly intense gaze. His wicked eyes compelled me. I could not deny him.

  I felt myself nodding yes. But I knew I would die.

  “Here, drink this.”

  I choked on the salty-sweet coppery tang of the dark liquid dribbling into my mouth. “You must drink.” He forced me to swallow, to drink more and more.

  He stroked my hair away from my face, soft and affectionate. How could someone so monstrous be so gentle? He stayed with me, talking quietly as I drifted off, expecting to be released from the burdens of this life.

  I floated through hazy visions of rapid flight through the night, down dark, cobblestoned alleys and creepy basements, seeking something, someone. I searched the gloomy recesses of Paris and often found what I sought, food. I dreamt of the heavenly flavor of blood as it pumped and pulsed into my mouth from the neck of my prey. I exalted in the fantastic speed and strength of my limbs, racing through the darkness of night.

  * * * *

  I awoke in a strange bed, wrapped in white linens on a comfortable mattress. I sat in sheer darkness, a total absence of light. Yet I could see the only window was completely obscured by heavy black wool. Outside, the telltale sounds of chirping crickets spoke of the night. How strange. I lay in the darkness, but it seemed the room was dimly lit. The aftertaste of those shadowy dark dreams hovered on the edge of recollection. Am I still dreaming?