"Each Parisian Woman Is A Whore"

All I may receive from life, I have and carry with me now.”1

“And in death? What may one receive from that?”2

“Frustration. Idleness. Tedium. A longing for something more, for something beyond what I now have. Something less than eternity. Whose grave may I visit to pay my dues? Who loved me enough in life to love me now in death? And whom did I love but wives and whores?”3

“Whores?” Her voice caught at this, a strange betrayal. 4

“Every woman in Paris who was not married- and some who were- was a whore of some degree. There were those in brothels or who walked the streets: they were merely common prostitutes and, for them, I held some kind of respect, albeit a man’s respect. They were honest: money was exchanged for sex and they spoke the truth of that. The others, those who had society’s respect, did not have mine. They were whores, just as the streetwalkers were but hid it beneath a veil of pretence of propriety. They would sell themselves also. A lavish home, a rich husband, a good name: these were their values, the money stuffed into their petticoats. Parisian women did not love for loving’s sake. They love for the price tag.”5

“So which of the whores did you love?”6

“The former. When first I visited Montmartre: the very core of wild, romantic Paris. I’d heard stories; tales of such beauty, of such exuberance that spirits danced the streets with angels. Love and freedom seemed to know no boundaries and common laws were contravened, without malice but with passion and merriment that surged through every street. Such monstrosities that a feeble world knew were dismissed and flung up high to the heavy-laden clouds.7

“Or so told the tales.8

“It terrified me. It clawed at my soul. On every step of the mound lay beggar women, clutching tiny, bawling infants and clamouring with gnarled, soiled hands in their strange, foreign tongues.  Blood spilt from street brawls, in deep and persistent puddles. Musicians and street performers, artists with charcoal smeared fingers, they all gathered to mock and taunt; no beauty in their art, just ugliness and greed and corruption. The very heart and soul of Paris seemed to beat sheer darkness, hiding men in shadows, kidnapped by sullen, grasping fingers of evil. The very surface of the pathways seemed haggard and deceitful, even the youngest of faces in the seething crowds seeming worn and old. The poverty rose up around me and bile clumped in my throat, my head swimming and legs threatening to buckle from underneath me. I tore away from the screaming, the thrusting hands that lurched unashamedly at me, smearing my pale clothes, pulling on my velvet money pouch. I tore away from it all and ran, stumbling down alleyways, through mud puddles and grime, no longer caring about my appearance. Here, like no other place I had encountered, it was the rich that were the vulnerable, the clean and silken lamb amongst pack of hungered, menacing wolves. I ran and ran and ran, stopping only when my feet were sore and bleeding, my hair and face dishevelled and the crowds left far behind, on the monstrous main square of Montmartre.9

“I sat a while in a tiny inn, down yet another gloomy passageway; frittering my money away on poor wine and tasteless food, fearfully listening to the crowds outside. Mummers in grotesque inelegance flooded the streets, accompanied by drunken musicians, who played savage notes on ill-kept instruments. 10

“What was this town, this Hell grown strong and risen up? Where was the joy, the decadent laughter spoken of in new-age fairytales? Spun gold to lay before my feet, to kiss the paths with diamond drops of dew? It was dirty, grimy, a town of horrors that I had never before seen. It spat at me. It hissed and arched its back, sweet sin of Lucifer alive and built with devils’ bricks. 11

“Never before had I been so afraid. As a child, I had been fascinated by such things, forbidden fruits to bloom into the world. But snakes now choked me and I cried for God, tears streaming down my face. Once more, I turned and fled, too fearful to wait for the next goblet of wine to come, my change of coins with it. I split my lips as I wept, not knowing where I fled. Smooth curves rose up ahead of me, gleaming white amongst the grey misery. Sacre Coeur. You know what that means, of course?”12

A nod, so slight it was unfelt. “Sacred Heart.” 13

“Oui. The smooth dome beckoned, calling to me from beyond the shabby rooftops, glowing incessantly, roaring with rich sunbeams, engulfed in vivid reds and golds, the colours of kings. How could this be, when I walked amongst such darkness, such poverty and distress? How could I walk amongst peasants and still see kings?14

“The church reeked of death, the stale odour of blood and decay plugging into my nostrils, overwhelming me. I would have wept or cried out had I been able to do so. Several candles flickered at me, yet offered no comfort. Instead, they seemed to be the tongues of devils, licking the air, tasting the pungent stench of malevolence. I felt I had entered my own tomb.”15

“How can you talk this way when you talk of love?”16

“Love often comes from tombs. It is its nature.17

“I was dead, yet never more alive. Each hair stood up on end, each nerve exploded anew. It was here that I met her.”18

“In a church?”19

“Sacre Coeur did not feel a church and, I suppose, whether it did or not holds no consequence to prostitutes. She preyed upon me, knew her victim and when to strike. She wooed me for a day, until I tried to kiss her. Only then would she tell me her true nature.”20

“And you loved this woman?”21

“As all young men love the whores who bed them.”22

“Why did it end?”23

“I was a writer: no good name and little fortune. And that kind of whore only marries to become the other.”24

“How is that love?”25

“How is this?”26

“This isn’t love!”27

“Then you know not love. No longer may I write poems with ink; but I am a poet, yet a poet is only so when he loves. Adieu, ma chere, I give leave awhile.” He took her hand in his own, fingers curled to cup hers. A fleeting kiss, lips as fragile and as sensual as a butterfly, then flight, leaving her with fitful dreams of gleaming domes and hissing devils’ tongues and whores.28