day.’
Jesus, it turned out, was actually the name of a Brazilian boy they were both in love with.
They had then talked about their intention of joining a sect known as Lykaion, whose members seemed to believe in ‘unleashing erotic energy’ and achieving unparalleled pleasure through pain and violence – self-mutilation came into it – some such pernicious nonsense. At one point Owen had smilingly started to twist Griff’s little finger – slowly, backwards. Eleanor had feared it might snap and had nearly shouted to him to stop, but Griff seemed to enjoy the experience. Griff had made a little moaning sound and tilted back his head. Eleanor had always considered herself a woman of the world and yet she had felt shocked and sickened by the spectacle. That kind of thing, she had reflected, has little to do with love. Griff and Owen had been very drunk by then. They had started arguing about the ingredients that went into the making of a drink called kyon. They seemed entirely oblivious of her presence.
Griff had mentioned a Paris club called Le Chevalier d’Eon situated on the Rue des Anglais. It was one of his haunts. He had boasted of meeting an English composer there, someone who had been so taken with him that he had made him the central character of his next, so far unperformed, opera. Buenas Dias, Bello Diablo . Eleanor had found the libretto as she had been sorting through Griff’s possessions, among the silk dressing gowns, Chervet ties, the Max Factor make-up, Maria Callas CDs, Pierre and Gille posters, black-and-white photos of the improbably named Lya de Putti. (A silent movie actress of the demented diva type, as she had discovered.)
Eleanor had gone to take a look at Le Chevalier d’Eon on her first evening in Paris; it had been a pilgrimage of sorts. She had discovered the place swarming with gendarmes. It had looked like a raid. She had stood not far from the club’s garish façade, listening to some of the conversations. There had been a partouze – an all-male orgy. Well, it was that sort of place.
She glanced out of the train window once more. The contrast couldn’t have been greater. Green meadows, cows and sheep, neat farmhouses, red post boxes, a pub called the Severed Head, overcast skies, a steady drizzle . . . A pastoral picture. Not cheerful exactly, but it had a reassuring effect on her. ‘England, England,’ Eleanor sang out. ‘Green and pleasant land!’
People’s eyes fixed on her curiously as they passed her table. Even when silent, she attracted attention. Her face was over-made-up. Her lipstick was the brightest of cyclamen and every couple of minutes she reapplied it to her lips. There were lipstick smudges on her nose and chin. She was wearing a beige picture hat in the mid-1930s fashion, set at a slant to cover one side of her face. Her wispy hair showed from underneath the hat. She had had her hair dyed strawberry blonde the day before, at the hairdresser’s at her hotel. She was wearing a pair of egg-yolk yellow gloves. She had a white fur stole draped round her shoulders. It was rather grubby after the fall she had had outside the Gare du Nord. Eleanor had suddenly felt light-headed. Those pills, she supposed.
(Le Chevalier d’Eon, she now remembered reading somewhere, was a historical figure – an eighteenth-century French nobleman who sometimes wore a dress and a cap as a challenge to ‘traditional gender roles’. He had given the name to the condition known as ‘eonism’.)
The table in front of her was covered with a great number of objects, the whole contents of her handbag, in fact. There were the letters, her lipstick, her passport, receipts from her hotel, wads and wads of dollar banknotes held together by rubber bands, two handkerchiefs, her psychic journal, two unlabelled jars full of various multi-coloured pills and capsules, a paperback of Henry James’s ghost stories, her purse containing euros as well as silver dollars and a book of
Jesus, it turned out, was actually the name of a Brazilian boy they were both in love with.
They had then talked about their intention of joining a sect known as Lykaion, whose members seemed to believe in ‘unleashing erotic energy’ and achieving unparalleled pleasure through pain and violence – self-mutilation came into it – some such pernicious nonsense. At one point Owen had smilingly started to twist Griff’s little finger – slowly, backwards. Eleanor had feared it might snap and had nearly shouted to him to stop, but Griff seemed to enjoy the experience. Griff had made a little moaning sound and tilted back his head. Eleanor had always considered herself a woman of the world and yet she had felt shocked and sickened by the spectacle. That kind of thing, she had reflected, has little to do with love. Griff and Owen had been very drunk by then. They had started arguing about the ingredients that went into the making of a drink called kyon. They seemed entirely oblivious of her presence.
Griff had mentioned a Paris club called Le Chevalier d’Eon situated on the Rue des Anglais. It was one of his haunts. He had boasted of meeting an English composer there, someone who had been so taken with him that he had made him the central character of his next, so far unperformed, opera. Buenas Dias, Bello Diablo . Eleanor had found the libretto as she had been sorting through Griff’s possessions, among the silk dressing gowns, Chervet ties, the Max Factor make-up, Maria Callas CDs, Pierre and Gille posters, black-and-white photos of the improbably named Lya de Putti. (A silent movie actress of the demented diva type, as she had discovered.)
Eleanor had gone to take a look at Le Chevalier d’Eon on her first evening in Paris; it had been a pilgrimage of sorts. She had discovered the place swarming with gendarmes. It had looked like a raid. She had stood not far from the club’s garish façade, listening to some of the conversations. There had been a partouze – an all-male orgy. Well, it was that sort of place.
She glanced out of the train window once more. The contrast couldn’t have been greater. Green meadows, cows and sheep, neat farmhouses, red post boxes, a pub called the Severed Head, overcast skies, a steady drizzle . . . A pastoral picture. Not cheerful exactly, but it had a reassuring effect on her. ‘England, England,’ Eleanor sang out. ‘Green and pleasant land!’
People’s eyes fixed on her curiously as they passed her table. Even when silent, she attracted attention. Her face was over-made-up. Her lipstick was the brightest of cyclamen and every couple of minutes she reapplied it to her lips. There were lipstick smudges on her nose and chin. She was wearing a beige picture hat in the mid-1930s fashion, set at a slant to cover one side of her face. Her wispy hair showed from underneath the hat. She had had her hair dyed strawberry blonde the day before, at the hairdresser’s at her hotel. She was wearing a pair of egg-yolk yellow gloves. She had a white fur stole draped round her shoulders. It was rather grubby after the fall she had had outside the Gare du Nord. Eleanor had suddenly felt light-headed. Those pills, she supposed.
(Le Chevalier d’Eon, she now remembered reading somewhere, was a historical figure – an eighteenth-century French nobleman who sometimes wore a dress and a cap as a challenge to ‘traditional gender roles’. He had given the name to the condition known as ‘eonism’.)
The table in front of her was covered with a great number of objects, the whole contents of her handbag, in fact. There were the letters, her lipstick, her passport, receipts from her hotel, wads and wads of dollar banknotes held together by rubber bands, two handkerchiefs, her psychic journal, two unlabelled jars full of various multi-coloured pills and capsules, a paperback of Henry James’s ghost stories, her purse containing euros as well as silver dollars and a book of
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