Dane is a young man and Paris is an old place. It is a city built of skeletons and ghosts and memories, and so is Dane. He's come here to listen for the ghosts, to pace their haunts, to rattle their bones. A voyeuristic student, he's come to look behind the curtain, to catch a glimpse of the secret lessons that can only be taught here, and what a lot of wisdom there is to be found along the Boulevard De Rochechouart at four o'clock in the morning.
The whores are all out in force tonight and doing well at their trade. The unusually hot summer has everyone mad and restless. It is too hot to remain indoors. Paris is awake and wandering the streets, blowing off steam. They do it in the dark back streets of Montmartre, up the hill behind the Moulin Rogue. They do it on the benches lining the canal. They do it beneath the great, old bridges along the Seine at the Pont D'Austerlitz and the Pont Royal. The air is filled with smog and ecstasy.
Parisian whores are the most aggressive in the world, and the walk through Pigalle, then Blanche, then Anvers can be costly for a young man with nothing but time and money and a head full of booze. The setting is neon-electric sex, and one gets a sense of passing through the future of sleaze. The signs on all the buildings flash Nude Massage and Private Dances and the puzzlingly ill-punctuated Girl's Here! The Sex-o-drome towers above all advertising enough forms of debauchery to make the Marquis De Sade blush on his way through the doors. The heat-wave has all of the prostitutes wearing even less than usual. They approach in herds, throwing out cat-calls in a variety of languages. They all speak French, English, Spanish, Italian, Dutch, Russian, Czech. Language skills are a necessity in the international sex-trade. One would swear that the taxi-drivers and prostitutes are the most educated people in the city. Once you are surrounded they are irresistible. Their hands are on your crotch. They tug at your clothes. They lick and nip your earlobes and pinch at your nipples. They promise everything and more. They steal your wallet. They steal your watch. You might lose everything to them. You might fall in love with them.
By the time Dane reached the point where Rochechouart turns into the Boulevard De La Chapelle he is immersed in them, drowning in an ocean of easy sex. He pays attention to his pockets and smiles and repeats 'Desole' and 'No merci' over and over. Some of the girls know him and like him and they all giggle and make jokes and the mood is very light, very enjoyable. The moon is high and full, illuminating their pale skin, faces glowing like angels. The scent of pussy and semen hang around them like halos. One voice cuts through the others.
"Bon Soir Monsieur Dane." She steps forward through the general chaos and she is gorgeous, perfect, radiant. His eyes want to devour her. His hands weep for her skin. His passion begins to stir. "Ca va?"
"I am good. You look wonderful. I've told you not to call me Monsieur," he says, knowing he is about to spend a good deal of money. "How have you been Camille?"
"Cheri, then. I am good, Cheri."
Her dress covers more skin than most of the other girls, but she wears it with more allure and mystery. It is a tight, red number from the thirties, hugging at her hips and spilling out her breasts. She wears no scarf and no hat. Her deep chestnut colored hair is long and full and Dane can not wait to plunge his hands into it. Her legs are without stockings, long, deadly sexy in the tall, high-heeled boots she's wearing.
She takes his arm and the other girls clear away.
"You come from Clichy now?" She asks.
"I do. I go back to my hostel to sleep. Have to get up early," He lies, playing the game, "Have to go right to sleep when I get back. No more fun tonight."
"No more fun," She pouts and nods her head in the direction from which he had just come, back toward Clichy. "How is she?"
Camille knows what he'd been up to, knows all about the Dutch girl who had fled to Paris from Holland and had ended up, coincidentally, living in an apartment overlooking Rue Amsterdam. She knows about the girl's problems and her fancies. She knows how her cunt tastes. Knows how soft her lips are. She also knows that the Dutch girl is very jealous of Dane's love for whores, and that Dane can be convincing when he's got something sneaky going on in his head. Camille had loved watching him talk the Dutch out of her clothes and discomfort, easing her into the ménage a trois as if into a very hot bath.
"She is fine," Dane says, "She is all tired out."
"You stallion you."
"Merci beaucoup, mon Cheri," he says, then spins her with their joined hands above her head as if they were dancing. She giggles wildly and nestles in close to his side.
They walk on in this fashion for a while, Camille chattering on about this or that person's humorous existence, Dane listening and speaking little. It is always a thrill to encounter one another, but deep inside their hearts feel sick. They will go back to his room and have sex in that way two people do when they are in love, really, truly in love, then he will pay her and she will go and that will be that. That is always that. Love is glorious but doesn't pay the bills. C'est la vie...
On past La Chapelle, through the rough area near the Stalingrad metro stop, they walk following the train route toward his hostel at Jaures. They come to Rue La Fayette and stop overlooking the canal. Down below along the water's edge someone is playing 'Hey Jude' on a slightly out of tune guitar. Dane stands behind Camille and encompasses her in his embrace. She feels so soft, so fragile. But Dane knows she is strong.
