The Ludovica Wing- Chapter 3

Abbesses. Abbesses. 

As he stepped unto the platform, that sentiment once more returned to him. A sentiment of true feeling returned to him. At that moment, sensing the night’s cold air, he wished he could return to the museum at once and set himself upon investigating in order to make something of himself. Upon this point there had been nothing he had verily contributed other than meagre remarks and few complaints. 

To my mediocrity I have lost mother, for she wept when law school was an attempt forlorn. To my mediocrity I too have abandoned Carrie Anne. Not that I ever cared much. Why is it that when I feel this air unto my countenance, I have a feeling to do something for myself? Why then, when I shall step into that stifling apartment of mine, I shall wish to die and lounge upon the couch, nausea overcoming me?

And it was true, for at that very moment the perpetual nausea had subsided and he across the streets hasted. The empty sleeve fluttered, his trousers trailed neath’ his feet and for once, Cesar Jowitt felt. 

“Oh Gosh, but how beautiful it is to feel,” he whispered to himself, drawing his key from the depths of that abyss which was his pocket. 

“Isn’t it so, Cesar?” a little girl inquired, hastening from atop the winding stair. At the topmost step stood a figure, upon his foot a leather shoe glimmering and unto his neck a bowtie strapped. “Oh, Herr Abeln, come. You must meet Herr Abeln, Cesar. He showed me the nicest of moves. Truly, I have never witnessed a man performing the can-can. 

“Well that’s lovely then. Maybe Herr Abeln should take his talent to the Moulin Rouge if he’s so high and mighty,” Cesar spoke in a tone so sour that Carl blanched and his gaze averted. At once, he turned his back and the door atop the staircase gently closed. 

“Why so rude, Cesar?”, the little girl inquired. 

“I’m not rude to you, am I now, Cressente?”he spoke, drawing from the abyssal pocket a pack of biscuits. As he drew them forth, they crinkled neath the tips of his fingers, so aged were they. “Why must I engage with him, a lowly man of cabarets and brothels who is no better than some harlot who sells herself?” 

“O but Cesar, he is so much more than that. He is a veritable artist! If you would see the way he could raise his leg,” she smiled. 

“I can imagine. God alone knows what repulsive acts he has performed in those cabarets.” His sayings were said with such contempt that Cressente, though a little girl, could not bear but to object. 

“No, Cesar. You know nothing about him. He’s called Carl.” 

“Well, I already knew that, Cressente.” 

“How did you know that?” 

Caught in his lie and inquiry, Cesar’s visage reddened.

“But you yourself called him Carl upon the steps.” 

“Anyway, hélas, who cares. He's so old, Cesar. 1895, that is the year of his birth.”

“And mine is 1889, what do you mean to say, Cressente? It is not our bearing that you are so young and by you anything starting with a ten and eight is processed as ancient reliquary.” 

“Hélas, hélas. He is from the Weimar Republic.”

“Why’d he leave then? Should have stayed in his libertine country.” Cesar at once realised that such conversation had been occurring in the corridors, so the key he turned in the lock and the girl pushed inside. 

The grime upon the floor glimmered in the light of the moon. An air so stuffy and a reeking aroma the room bore that little Cressente, reaching but scant the window, drew it with such force that the glass neath’ her hand shivered.

“I should say the same for you Cesar, the way you are behaving towards this poor man. He seemed to know you, did he not? He told me to give you this,” she spoke and from her apron withdrew a neat package, stained in oil. As Cesar opened it he found a collection of rings, some corroded by age and some as if not worn a singular time. Upon the hind of the packaging, stood engraved a message. 

Tu es le seul homme que je connais qui porte des bagues. Voici ma collection. Je le donne à toi.  

“Oh, but what a wretch! He hands me his effeminate givings and writes with tu in place of vous,” Cesar spoke, his manner apoplectic. Yet, he believed not what he said. He only too deeply feared admitting how such a gesture had truly set something in motion in his apathetic mind. 

What a beautiful citrine ring. 

That was what he thought of the jewel which now adorned his finger. 

“What an abhorrent shade of piss yellow!” was what he said in truth. 

“You are so ungrateful, Cesar. Hélas, hélas, I swore to tell you his tale. He fled his cabaret.” 

“Why so? I presume he got entangled in some misery scandal which tore his last shred of dignity.” 

“Non, Cesar, he fled the country. He was such a famous man, truly. A dancer so talented and a dadaïste, whatever that is. He could perform any routine and dance, have you seen him dance the shimmy? It’s so amusing, Cesar. He has a funny look too, with his bulbous eyes. Hélas, hélas. That was all before the Weimar Republic came to be. When that happened, everything turned rough for him for some reason, who knows really. To me it sounded like the dream you know, with the war over and all that but who knows, he’s a funny man. He didn’t really tell me much as to why he left the cabaret. He said it’s not fit for a little girl like me to know and then showed me how he can stand on his arms,” she explained, her head upon Cesar’s pillows. 

“Get off my pillows, you wretched time squanderer. You told me nothing of use. Go now at once, your mother must be worried dead.” 

And with that the girl rose and down the staircase scurried. 

How horrid I am to that poor wretch. He’s offered me nothing but adoration. O, but that is what I despise most, for how could I possibly accept the favours of another man? It is not normal, I must keep away or he shall corrupt me. Do I… no, I mustn't speak of it, for they shall know. I loved a woman afore, why should I ever doubt that is beyond my capability of processing. I am a man after all. I must stay true to myself, to my normalcy. 

Thus he rose from the mattress upon which he lay, a mattress so holed and aged that neath’ his body it crinkled as a chocolate’s wrapper, the fine folds not letting go of his being. The rings in their casket he fondled just as the mourner would the hair of the departed. Upon each ring a message so finely engraved and in their midst a gold ehering. As he took it up, from his hands it evaded as from pestilence the healthy flees and, through a narrow crevice, slid into the depths of the parquet. Upon this sight, the nausea returned and unto the bathroom tile Cesar lay, imbrued in guilt. 

• 
  

 The subsequent morn, from his illness Cesar rose and presented himself upon the museum’s marbled floor once again. Upon the walk- for he chose pedestrian means in attempts to rid himself of the pervading malaise- he pondered and dwelled upon thoughts of others. 

That Clement, always so finely dressed with maman’s money.  How I wish that I, a man who works for his money, could dress so too. Oh and those women, clad but so gaudy, so repulsive, markedly the African one. And Carl, who dresses so whorish that it makes me weep for so fine a countenance he has, yet so abhorrently he dresses. How I wish I too had the money to dress well. If given the chance I would outshine them in dress, yet I am in dire straits at such times and succumb to tans and maroons. 

Upon entering the museum, by Clement he was met, who, upon sighting the mire and patched coat, took up his hand. 

“Cesar, Cesar, could I possibly aid you?”he uttered softly. His glasses he pushed back and his hand he once more seized. 

“How do you wish to aid me Clement? I hold strong belief that, en fait, there is nothing which I lack,” Cesar responded, letting go of the scampering fish in his palm. 

“O, Cesar, but your clothes, they’re ever so long for you. Pray, permit me to do something.” 

“I’ll grow into them just fine. Give it a couple years.” 

“Cesar, but you are so old, joke not, you shan’t grow. Do you like these trousers I have upon me? I shall give them to you, pray,” he uttered, and in speaking undid the belt.  

“Nay, undo them not. You are much smaller of stature than I, you shan’t do such things, Clement. Keep your trousers, I shall live even in bearing a couple centimeters of fabric upon my ankles.” 

“How true that is. Permit me then to inquire for a pair of trousers from my tailor, he shall make them for you. The morrow I shall bring you to the shop and get them done for you, I promise,” Clement spoke. His countenance shone, not yet darkened by that sombreness which clouded his eyne.  

‘What a mercy act,’ Cesar thought. “That shan’t be necessary, Clement. I have enough money to purchase such trousers myself. You need not aid me. Direct your money to a charity or some organisation if you are filled with that infernal need of feeling good about yourself.”

“Yes yes, Cesar, I deeply agree with you. It is so deeply capitalist to purchase a new trouser for each patch upon your knee. For what duration shall we permit the bourgeoisie to pump their wallets with our toil and blood. We grind away like cogs do, exsanguinating unto alleys tucked away and they, O they who profit from our labouring live in comfort while we scamper as rats and barely scrape by. They who are in the ruling class sip from flutes and let us die in revolution, slaving away in factories and bureaus. Our system has been forever rigged. We are at a breaking point. They profit from us. We toil for the materials and they bring about trousers. You, mon chou, are nothing but an innocent soul falling, entrapped in the entangled net which capitalism is. Embrace socialism, embrace the soul of Marx and his being. How can one purchase trousers when the old ones can yet be put to use? Are trousers not meant to cover bits and pieces? If so, why must one acquire another pair if that which is required to be covered is veiled, be it by pulled tweed or jacquard,” Tanza at once vociferated, so viciously that her diamond carcanet from her neck flung and her step neath her heel trembled. 

“Dear me, such vigour in your speech. Constance, I might be a man but I am not uneducated on the matters of la mode. I see so clearly that gorgeous Lucian Lelong full-length mink coat upon you. It’s just wonderful, the way your waist looks in it stuns me. O, and that Madeleine Vionnet dress, how divine- though dated, might I add- unto your figure. Upon your bosom a glimmering Cartier brooch. How I see in its éclat the light of the dying bourgeoisie! That Van Cleef & Arpels diamond carcanet you smashed neath’ your heel, what was it, a hundred thirty thousand francs? Pas cher, pas cher, a symbol of the working class,” Cesar scoffed, in his derision rising and upon her mink collar a hand placing. His nose upon her neck, his hand about her collar, he inhaled. 

“Chanel No.5, a mark of true poverty.”