Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (30 page)

And that was the last thing I knew for certain for a very long time.

I became aware of something passing back and forth in front of my closed eyes, but at first no part of what I had become knew how to open those eyes, nor what to make of the sounds that were flowing around me. The body that had once been mine was shuddering slightly, with sudden shock-like pains searing up and down my arms and legs; my face and jaw felt as if they were being squeezed in a vice.
Were
they being squeezed? By what,
nom de Dieu
—and where was I? I summoned up all the strength I had left, and my eyes opened.

A dark room, flickering light as if from a fire. I was lying flat on something, I couldn’t tell what, and I couldn’t feel anything underneath or around me, just the slight shuddering moving through me like an electrical current. Then something visible passed over me again—a pair of hands on short arms, the fingers pointing down towards me and almost touching my bodice, my skirt. A mumbling voice and other voices chiming in—but what they were saying, or in what language, I had no idea.

Holy Mary, Mother of God… I remembered where I was, and (most of) what had happened. Was this Dr. Koreff’s wicked secret? Was I in the clutches of a mad dwarf physician, and what was he going to do to me? I closed my eyes quickly and concentrated all of my energies inward. He was standing right there. I couldn’t let him know that I had any awareness, for he obviously believed I was quite, quite asleep… Could I summon up more, could I summon up strength and even—please, when I need it the most?—the reckless courage that has sometimes saved me? But how could I be reckless or courageous when I couldn’t even move?

Breathe, I told myself. Listen and think.

He was speaking in German, I finally realized—and also, if the words he uses are complicated, I’ll be lost. But then a questioning murmur came from a voice in French.
¡Jesús!
I thought, and: who else is here?

Koreff switched languages. “
Alors
, though my esteemed colleague’s patience is stretched very thin,” he was saying, “I believe we can learn a great deal tonight before taking it further. And perhaps, when you understand my excitement about this subject’s magnetic capabilities, we will not need to proceed—”

“We will!” another male voice snarled, a different one.

“Please explain your excitement, doctor,” said the Frenchman’s voice.

“As you know,” Koreff began, “the experimental trials eventually failed; this was ten years ago. The third commission was abandoned, and since then, many of us have laboured in secret, continuing our investigations into the medical worthiness of the field: animal magnetism, mesmerism, etherology, or any number of other names which continue to be touted and quarrelled over. The point is, the state of artificial somnambulism—or magnetic sleep—holds deeply exciting possibilities: in my case, as physician, for surgical anaesthesia. Deeply asleep, yet profoundly aware—imagine the possibilities under the knife! Pain relief while employing the scalpel, and throughout operations—or for uses in obstetrics! Magnetic sleep, as we know, promotes enhanced awareness, also called magnetic lucidity. Some of us believe this may also be a passage through which we could access the nocturnal world, or what we magnetists call the ‘nightside,’ meaning the inner truths and intuitions that our rational minds block in the ‘daylight’ world of cerebral knowledge.”

“What has this foolishness to do with
her
?” snarled the other voice. There was something about this other voice that led my heart—my racing heart, trapped in my shuddering but otherwise motionless body—to blench. Something familiar.

“This subject before us,” answered Koreff, “is possessed of the strongest form of animal magnetism that I have ever encountered. We know that the seat of the life spirit—the life energy or fluid, the fire and air of the animate being—is located in the hearth cavity, just below the rib cage, the source from whence our breath and our strength originates. Usually, in an ill patient, this hearth cavity must be reawakened and re-energized, for it is expiring. But within
this
subject—well, she has several times shaken off the effects—remarkably.” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Despite relatively high doses. Unlike some of the other test cases.”

Did I just hear…? Wait, what…?

“All of them, unworthy of study. All of them taking too long!” The shrill voice again, like fingernails on a slate; at the sound, my body shuddered, sharp pain shot through me.

What did I—?
Jesús
, what could this mean?

“My new colleague’s enthusiasm is great,” Koreff said by way of explanation, and there was a murmur of approbation from numerous throats: dear God, how many others were in the room? “But as I’ve been trying to explain, the Seraphin Brethren are quite dissimilar to the society. In
our
order, we prefer to discuss, to analyse, and to experiment over long periods of time.”

“We are, essentially, literary,” came a new voice, a soft one with a German accent.

“True, true,” said Koreff.

“Too late now, gentlemen.” The terrible voice. “There’s no going back once you’ve taken the oath.”

“True, true,” said Koreff again, sounding very uneasy. “Now we are working to a higher purpose, and for a higher goal; this is true.”

Shuffling, some clearing of throats. I couldn’t comprehend what on earth they were talking about.

“However,” Koreff resumed, “what I propose tonight, gentlemen… As we can see, our subject is falling deeply into the somnambulistic state, which can result in strange phenomena: a trance without convulsions, in which the patient can be possessed of her senses, yet cease to be an accountable creature.”

There were murmurs of astonishment and one of disgust.

“To aid my research, I propose to make an attempt to access some deeper secrets of ‘nightside’ nature. I have waited a long time to find a subject capable of such dynamic magnetism. The understanding between a magnetizing therapist and a magnetized patient can be so intimate as to turn the two individuals into a single, expanded personality.”

The snarling voice hissed, “What, and you wish us to
watch
this lewd display? Or take part? Or—no, I have it—you wish to
become
a female? Like
that
one?”

Nervous male laughter rippled around the room. I had to risk it; I had to try to see my enemies. Cautiously, I opened one eye a slit—and nearly cried out in alarm. My field of vision seemed to have expanded exponentially! Despite looking cautiously through my lashes, everything was leaping and hopping into crystal clear focus, and strangely, the colour blue popped out at me as if appearing in pure daylight: a blue vase, a slash of blue on a man’s chest, the dark blue of my bodice. And—shit and double gobshite!—there were eight or ten men standing around, some of them close and some farther away. As I registered the many bodies in the room, I also suddenly became aware of the smells: candle wax, sweat, smoke from the fire, as well as a deeper, potent stench which exploded into my consciousness like a locomotive engine from a dark tunnel: ganga! No, oh, God, no. If only I could think… It meant something—something more than the memory of natives, smoking quietly in the evenings, as I grew up in India… Cannabis sativa… Ganga.

“Gentlemen,” Koreff urged, as if finishing up a troublesome lecture, “let us adjourn for some minutes to be sure that the subject is deeply under. Port and figs and other delicacies await.” He turned his face towards the corner from which the stench seemed to emanate. “With all due respect, brother, you are difficult to keep in check.” His voice dropped to a whisper again. “An innocent bystander paid the ultimate price. That is not the way of the Seraphin Brethren.”

“You are no longer the Seraphin Brethren,” the dark voice hissed. “You have sworn yourselves in blood to a higher agency.”

At this, I almost passed out with fear. The familiarity of the voice was becoming more acute in my desperately addled brain, and only through my strong will was I able to remain mentally present.

“The one idea you’ve proposed tonight with which I
am
in agreement,” the voice continued, “is that the hearth cavity sounds like a promising… opening.”

“Come, gentlemen,” Koreff insisted, now sounding profoundly agitated. “We must rest before proceeding with our investigations.”

“But, doctor, I cannot see—” came the soft German voice.

Again Koreff’s: “Let me assure you, and my impatient colleague. If you all will allow me to conduct my experiment, and to witness it, I will accede to the majority vote, whatever it turns out to be.”

With a few further grunts, bangs, and muted protests, the group was shuffling to the door, opening it and moving into an adjoining room. I chanced another look, a longer one, and willed my head to turn towards them. Millimetre by millimetre, it obeyed. And that is when my poor body and battered mind put all of the ingredients together: first voice, then smell, and now sight. A tall, thin, bald-headed man with two crutches—at the banquet hall… This same man. Wait now, what’s that? I blinked and focused hard: one leg? The other, empty trouser flap was pinned up high: one leg, all the way to the groin. And a clear glimpse—thanks to the increased light from the other room—as the figure turned slightly to close the door behind him.

Jesus, Mary, and all the flaming saints—it was the skull-like head and face of the Spanish Jesuit, Father Miguel de la Vega, acolyte of the Society of the Exterminating Angel!

The door closed behind him.

*

My soul swooned… I don’t know how else to put it. I have no idea how much time elapsed, but it can’t have been long. Some part of me knew that I had to forget what I had just seen or I would never be able to do what I must do and live.

I heaved myself upright, swaying dangerously, then swung my legs to the side and stayed like that for a moment, legs dangling from whatever I’d been placed upon: don’t fall, don’t crash! Then onto my feet—somehow, somehow—jerking along, clutching at every wall and surface as I scuttled crab-wise across the room away from the direction in which the men had disappeared. There was a door in the wall in front of me—pray God it’s not locked. I wrestled with the handle, turned it finally, pushed and found a bedroom. I staggered across this to the window, which was covered by long dark curtains. I parted them, slipped through and peeked out. I was on the second floor. Would I break my legs or something even worse, trying to get down? But what choice did I have? Fingers trembling, incapable of dexterity, I finally got the catch open and pushed the right side of the floor-to-ceiling window, stumbling out onto a tiny balcony protruding over the street. The heat of the night air was shocking—I felt as if I’d died a hundred deaths, and it must be at least mid-winter in the next century. But no. How would I get myself over the balcony railing? What would I land on? Never mind, never mind, there’s a demented assassin two rooms away, and it doesn’t matter, as long as you go now!

I half-tossed my body across the railing, kicked my legs into the air, and felt the pendulum of myself swaying forwards and back, stuck in place. Another little jerk and gravity began to take over; I started to roll and then swiftly to fall. I heard a terrible sound and thought, oh my God, it’s all over, he’s shot me or bayoneted me, and it’s myself that is screaming! But neither of those things had happened, and I didn’t even smash to the pavement—it was unbelievable, but the hem of my dark blue skirt must have caught on one of the pointed bits of ironwork on the railing, and the sound was the beautiful silk fabric ripping, though not tearing swiftly, because it was fortified and ruched with the grosgrain ribbon marching round it in waves. In fact—miraculously!—as the skirt tore and unwound, thanks to the sturdy grosgrain, I just had the wit to raise my arms over my head—upside down!—to break my spinning fall and cushion the impact somewhat with my arms, followed by my falling torso and hips, then legs and feet. I was in the street.

Once my equilibrium had steadied somewhat, I checked myself as well as I could: bruised but not bleeding, it seemed. The petticoat was still intact, if not the skirt. I looked up at the river of ripped fabric and gave a feeble tug—like Rapunzel’s prince, letting her know he was at the foot of the tower by tugging on her hair—and again, who would believe, the fabric came free of the ironwork above and fell with a soft, slippery thud on top of me. At this, I tottered to my feet, bundled the torn silk into my arms, and staggered away. If they’d heard the tearing sounds, both my skirt and I needed to be out of sight so they wouldn’t know what had caused the commotion.

But they
would
know that I was gone. Oh fuckity
fuck
! Move, Lola—run!

But how, and where to go? Careening along, body like a stiff, wooden, jointed toy slightly out of alignment, my eyesight was ferociously clear, still with that astonishingly wide field of vision. My ears, too, felt as if they might be on furry stalks, like those of a horse—able to swivel in every direction, so magnified was all sound. I paused in the night shadows, then fled in spurts, galumphing chaotically from one building’s doorway to another. Nobody was about, from which I guessed the time to be in the very early hours, maybe two or three o’clock. What in hell had Koreff given me? Some powerful drug—for I couldn’t believe that his fat little fingers alone had been able to stun me into that catatonic state, much as he seemed to wish to believe it. The bitter taste of the flat champagne… I had looked away for a moment, hadn’t I?—oh,
boba
!—and he’d popped it in. Was he drugging people—women—on a regular basis? Was he killing Merci, slowly and deliberately, and others, too?—is that what I could deduce from what I’d heard? For his sick experiments, with his equally sick brethren, or whatever they were?

Lurching and stopping, flitting and hiding, I was making my way towards what I hoped was my tiny hotel. But then I froze, paralyzed with fear again. Of course that’s where they would expect me to go. And with no one else about on the streets… I’d be picked up, or picked off, like a summer-stunned fly. One way or another, I’d be dead as a doornail if the Jesuit had anything to do with it—though only after some hideous torment or other had been administered first.