to
trevor johns
{59}
there are only two people in this story: zuleika, a large, indeed massive, jewess from bucharest, and a rather elderly english diamond merchant with a slight body and a white moustache.
for some odd reason—largely, i think, because he was both infinitely courteous and gaily reckless—he attracted me, and, because i had been some considerable time in salonika and he had only just arrived, he requested me to “show him round.” before proceeding to do so, i asked him what were the three things in the world he loved most of all. he replied at once: “animation, colour, and women.”
“then,” said i, “my task is easy. come with me.”
so we stepped into a gharry (we were staying at a farm a little off the road to hortiach), and bumped down the lembet road, past the funny old cemetery on our right, and stopped importantly in the middle of that disastrously sordid square in which the rue egnatia and the road from lembet meet.
“and that’s that,” remarked twelves as, having stepped from the gharry, we watched it waggle away.
it was may 1913. the afternoon was late, and a cool breeze swept along the sun-strewn street. my friend had (which i have not) the carriage of a soldier, and, though i could give him at least three inches, i am confident that, in the eyes of the women we met, he appeared to tower above me. i think he was conscious of this, though he seemed to try to hide it. to him, fresh from a tedious voyage from bahia, venize{60}los street was paradise, and when we came to the place de la liberté, he stood and looked at the gay crowd outside floca’s with a slow, beguiling smile about his mouth.
“i am beginning to sit up and take notice,” he remarked; “this, if i am not mistaken, is indubitably it.”
if “it” meant laughter, light, and delicate linen discreetly displayed, he was right. people from all the countries of europe were there. the ladies, being large and languid, and the early afternoon having been insufferably hot, wore as little as possible. this, twelves pointed out with unnecessary particularity, was precisely as it should be.
but i am not going to tell you about floca’s, for the tragedy did not begin there; indeed, nothing really began until well on in the evening when, as we were starting dinner at the white tower, the sound of music came to us from the adjoining room.
“it is debussy’s ‘les poissons d’or,’” said twelves, swallowing whitebait, “and this is just the right atmosphere for it.”
then, placing his napkin upon the table, he rose from his seat.
“in a minute i shall return,” he said, excusing himself and hastening from the room. but ten minutes passed before he rejoined me, and a single glance at him revealed that something of importance had happened to him in the meantime.{61}
“i’ve just seen jezebel, or cleopatra, or zola’s nana in that room,” he said, excitedly, jerking his head in the direction from which the music was proceeding. “she’s stunning. the restaurant people tell me they have dancing in there after dinner—dancing and music. shall we go?”
a curious, half-insane gleam of desire was in his eyes; he looked as though he were on the point of attaining something for which he had been striving all his life. his hands shook a little and he moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue.
now salonika is the city of evil women, and not a few rapacious demireps prowl like sleek tigers, subtle and wise, through the garish rooms and prim gardens of the white tower. they are wonderful to look upon; their voices are like soft music; their hands are fluttering white moths; their mouths are innocently crooked. gorgeous works of art they are, and, as works of art, entirely commendable; but to speak to them is to be poisoned, and to embrace them is to place one’s arms around death. i said as much to twelves, but he did not appear to listen, and as he was at least fifteen years older than myself and a man of more worlds than one, i did not venture to make my words more insistent or pointed.
as we were eating ices and hot cherries, the music, which had hitherto been played by a master, became vulgar and tawdry. it was a vapid valse given with a lunging and immoderate accent on the first beat of every bar.{62}
“that’s the sort of thing that makes cities loathsome,” remarked twelves, referring to the music; “let’s go and stop it.”
we arose, and i looked regretfully at six fat red cherries which, against the yellow of my ice, appeared almost purple.
a minute later we had entered the great room with its stage, its smooth floor, its half-moon of boxes. as yet only a few people were there; they sat round small tables imbibing vicious drinks and gazing with half-contemptuous amusement at the pianiste. i saw at once that she was the woman who had so rapidly inflamed twelves’ passion, for even her back was voluptuous, and her neck reminded me of certain passages in the song of solomon. she was sensuality incarnate—sensuality brainless, horrific, devastating.
twelves walked up to her and, placing his hand firmly on one of her white shoulders, said:
“stop playing! you are making yourself ridiculous. listening to you is worse—infinitely worse—than being in clapham. come over here with my friend and me and tell us of some of the wicked things you have done.”
her eyes swooped into his. they were large and lustrous, but, as they sank into his, they decreased until the pupils became mere points of light. then her lips parted and she showed her little teeth in a broad smile. i noticed that her skin appeared as firm and healthy as that of a plum not wholly ripe. she ceased playing and, with a sharp gesture, banged her fist upon the {63}treble notes of the piano, placed one hand upon twelves’ arm and the other on mine, and walked between us to an unoccupied table in the far corner of the room. as she did so she turned and smiled triumphantly at the other ladies of her profession, and her smile said: “see how easily i secure my prey! you, poor things, will have to scheme and ogle till midnight.”
even before she was seated she clapped her hands to summon a waiter, and presently ordered a bottle of champagne.
“i always drink champagne with englishmen,” she observed, “beaume with the french, and with the germans—beer!”
she looked at twelves for his approval, and the smile he had ready for her was ample assurance that she had said a very witty thing.
“i come from bucharest and my name is zuleika,” she announced, inconsequently. her self-satisfaction was that of a deliciously vain child. then, with strange disconnectedness: “would you like to see my coins?” she asked.
we expressed the greatest interest.
“from cairo,” she said, as she patted her satchel of beads the colour of pigeons’ blood. she took therefrom a number of bright foreign coins and held them in the cup made by her hollowed hands.
but twelves did not even glance at them.
his strong, lithe fingers were embedded in the white flesh of her arm, like manacles, and his eyes held hers.{64}
“well, well, well,” she laughed, “but you must be good and patient.”
she released her arm and touched him lightly on the cheek with the tips of her fingers, smiling at him all the time.
and then the waiter placed a silver bucket of ice on the table; in the middle of the ice wobbled a bottle of moet and chandon. zuleika showed her teeth in a broad smile, and turned swiftly round to examine the faces of those who, in the meantime, had sat down at neighbouring tables. her eyes gave a rapid signal to a silly-looking creature immediately behind her; he had a face of lard, a drooping moustache, and googly eyes.
“ah, maestro!” she exclaimed, clasping his hands with gipsy ardour.
she turned round to us just as twelves was taking a 25-drachma note from his pocket-book. her face immediately assumed a cunning expression, and she stretched out a plump arm, gripped the bottle by the neck, and poured out the wine.
“another five drachmas,” she said softly, “that is the price in this room.” then, without a second’s pause, and holding her glass within an inch of her ear in order to listen to the icy hiss: “i have been in salonika three weeks,” she announced, “and i think it is very nice. and you?”
“we both leave to-morrow,” he said.
we clicked glasses and drank. the room was rapidly filling, and an orchestra of scarlet-coated musicians played the latest austrian waltz. we talked about nothing, yet we were not bored by zuleika’s brainlessness, for twelves {65}was aflame with desire, and to me she was a new type of huntress. full-bosomed ladies, absurdly conscious of the number and whiteness of their teeth, have always seemed to me much too grotesque to love.
it was not long before i began to perceive that zuleika had no intention of succumbing either to twelves’ masterfulness or his money. she knew i knew this, and was particularly charming to me in consequence. she desired neither him nor me: her mind was in twelves’ pocket-book, counting his money: but she sought to make me her accomplice by securing my silence. her design was the design of all hunters—to fasten her teeth on her prey and not lose hold while there was blood left to suck.
a watery-eyed waiter hovered near, like a bat. she plucked his sleeve.
“another bottle!” she commanded imperiously, and, magically, it was on the table in twenty seconds, but this time the neck of the bottle emerged from a silver bucket filled with white roses. evidently we were now customers worthy of special attention.
“c’est a vous,” she said, nodding and smiling in my direction, and evidently it was, for the bat, with folded wings, stood by my side.
it was while i was paying him in ten-drachma notes that an acquaintance squeezed his way past our table, stooped and murmured in my ear:
“do you know how much she gets for each bottle you pay for?”{66}
“haven’t the remotest,” said i, “about how much?”
“just a matter of ten drachmas. i hope she’ll prove worth it. but that, i suppose, remains to be seen.”
he went, and, turning round to the table, i saw much to my astonishment that there were now four clean glasses on the tray the waiter had brought. zuleika was filling them all to the brim.
“maestro! maestro!” she called, without turning her head. from the table behind came the man with the googly eyes. he smiled familiarly yet guardedly at us as he took the glass of champagne which zuleika handed him. he would have spoken to us if he had not seen the hostility in twelves’ and my eyes; but, without the slightest indication of embarrassment, our uninvited guest tossed the contents of the glass into his mouth, let them dwell there a moment, and then swallowed them with an audible gulp.
“he is my brother,” explained zuleika, enthusiastically.
“that may be so,” said twelves, “nevertheless, he is an extremely disagreeable person.”
and his long hand darted out like a hawk and again plunged into the flesh of her arm. he looked at her meaningly; indeed, his gaze was like a shout saying, “i want you! i want you! i want you!” she turned away from him impatiently.{67}
“very well, then,” she said, “but you must wait a little. when the green roses come. these are white, but round the fifth bottle there will be green.” and she spread her hands over the white roses surrounding the champagne bottle.
“oh, damn the green roses!” growled twelves. “here, waiter, another bottle, quick!”
she glanced at him from the tail of her eye, and then immediately became absorbed in the performance of a tall angular girl who, with exquisite art, was singing a rapid french song full of diablerie. she had no looks, no voice, and no figure; but she had personality, genius. silence had fallen upon the drinkers, and every one listened and watched; only the waiters, more than ever like bats, moved swiftly about, bearing absinthe and vermouth on purple trays. the singer exhaled a charm that diffused itself about the room; suddenly, she ceased singing, made a faint gesture, threw a kiss to the audience, and vanished. immediately there was a great shouting and a stamping of feet.
“it is always like that,” complained zuleika, pouting. “the men love her. why? she is ugly and she is all bones and skin: ugh! it makes me sick to see so ugly a woman driving the men mad.”
but the third bottle of champagne caught her eye, and she burst into a laugh.
“see,”{68} she said, pointing to the roses, now pink, that surrounded the bottle, “see my passion is—what do you call it?—rising—yes, rising!”
in proof thereof, she threw her arm lightly round twelves’ neck and kissed him behind the ear. he paled with desire. as for me, i turned a little to one side and made a pretence of studying the audience. the next thing i was aware of, they were both leaning over the table, their heads together, whispering. she was smiling, cunning and triumphant, whilst his face wore an expression of irritation and baffled desire.
“come on, waiter, damn you!” he called, “another bottle and another. yes—two! blood-roses round the first, and round the second green. and that,” he added, “makes five.”
“yes, five. one, two, three, four, five,” she counted on her fingers. “it is enough.”
and in due course the two fresh bottles appeared. the bucket containing the blood-red roses was placed in front of zuleika: that containing the green before twelves. when the waiter had opened both bottles, zuleika ordered him to take one to the neighbouring table for “the maestro.”
“you seem to be very fond of your brother,” observed twelves, “but it is strange he should be willing to drink a whole bottle of wine paid for by a complete stranger.”
she looked at him darkly.
“you wish to quarrel with me,” she said, “very well then, i am quite content.”
“so t{69}hat’s your game, is it?” exclaimed twelves, with unexpected ferocity. “you drink champagne with me for a couple of hours and then think you can do what you like. the green roses have come and you must pay for them.”
he pulled out his pocket-book in order to pay for the wine, but before he had handed the waiter the money, she held out her hand, palm upwards, and placed it on the table.
“one hundred and twenty-five drachm? for me,” she whispered; and, without a moment’s hesitation, he handed her five 25-drachm? notes.
then an amazing thing happened. quite openly, she swung round in her chair and handed the five notes to the man she called “the maestro.” he took them and placed them carefully in his pocket; but, as he did so, he kept his eyes fixed on twelves. twelves returned his gaze steadily. in the eyes of the stranger i saw a look of amusement and half-veiled contempt. and certainly twelves was appearing in a contemptible light. even physically he was contemptible, for he looked very diminutive by zuleika’s side, and it was only his firm jaws and clear eyes that redeemed him from futility.
“before we go we will drink this last bottle,” she said.
they sat side by side without a word, drinking their champagne. as i was, so to speak, out of it, i turned my head and gazed at the scene of mad revelry that met my eyes, wondering and trying to discover precisely what it was that made the frantic abandonment of the night different from similar evenings i had spent in paris, marseilles, cairo, and athens. i came t{70}o the conclusion that the difference was chiefly in the women. they had no tenderness, no passion, no sense of adventure, no enjoyment. they were simply rapacious. they did not walk: they prowled. they did not sit: they couched....
during the last half-hour the chairs and tables in the middle of the room had been removed and a few couples had started a bizarre form of tango. a woman with bared breasts and arms, a broad crimson sash wound three times round her body her only clothing, focused the onlookers’ attention. she was tall and graceful, and her body imitated the movements of a snake. it was horrible, but it was fascinating, and the beast that is in most of us leapt to the faces of the men who looked on and made them seem inhuman. here was another huntress, but i felt that her potential victims were as rapacious as she, and that soon she would be their prey.
from the tail of my eye i saw twelves and zuleika rise and move from our table. it was as i had guessed. she would not repulse him here, but in the spacious hall outside, for even in the white tower “scenes” are not tolerated.
i followed at a discreet distance, feeling a sudden nausea at the vice around me and longing for the northern mountains of greece where i had spent the winter. there was a sickly smell of heliotrope, and the air was misty with tobacco smoke.{71}
when they had reached the hall, twelves and zuleika stopped in earnest conversation, but i moved on to the cloakroom to get our hats and sticks. this occupied me for only a minute, but when i had returned i found my companions in the midst of a furious, though subdued, quarrel.
twelves hardly spoke, but when he did so, he jerked out a sentence in a whisper so passionate that it sounded more urgent than a scream. fragments of the conversation reached me.
“but it’s impossible,” exclaimed zuleika, “to-morrow. not now.... my husband is here. yes, yes, yes! i have told you already. the maestro is my husband. he would kill me.... how dare you! but you englishmen are all pigs. i go back to the room. and you ... you clear out!”
she stretched out her arm with a superb gesture and pointed to the door. but twelves stood resolute.
“you red fiend!” he whispered, “but i will have you yet.”
two waiters had stopped to watch. one of them, a lascivious greek, broke into a giggle.
“you are coming with me and you are coming now,” said twelves, “if you don’t, i shall have no mercy on you.”
then she laughed and threw her beaded satchel over twelves’ head to one of the waiter’s behind her. he caught it, and she folded her arms.
“i could laugh at you,” she said, “but if i once began i should never stop. what is it you say in england—‘no fool like an old fool,’ isn’t it? and a fool always threatens what he can{72}’t do. you will have no mercy on me! boo!”
and, swift as lightning, she thrust out her arms and caught him by the shoulders. for a few seconds her massive frame towered above him and she shook him violently. the waiter renewed his high falsetto giggling. then, placing one foot behind her, she lunged her body forward, and her muscular arms shot out like two piston-rods. twelves fell backwards, his head striking a heavy chair four paces behind him. as he did not move, i rushed forward to his help, but, as i rushed, the waiters ran also, and we arrived at twelves’ prone body at the same moment.
twelves, though badly injured, was perfectly conscious.
“take me out,” he said, “i feel bloody sick.”
and that is all that happened.
at the beginning of this story i called it a tragedy, but perhaps you think that “comedy” describes it better. well, on the whole, so do i.
i only hope twelves does too.
