#All brothels in Paris closed the day he died to mourn for him

[sirennamedkore]

Hi chat is this anything

[sebastianshaw]

“Come the fuck on!” [Oraia]

“I kid you not. Victor Hugo slept with so many prostitutes that on the day he died, all the brothels in Paris were closed, because so many of those dear working women took the day off the mourn him. . . . god, sometimes I really do love the French.”

[tatselk]

PSOH Passage Hen: Chapter 5 “Dissolution” (Pt 1)

This summary/ review would be divided into 2 parts because of how long the summary is. 

My summaries/reviews of the previous chapters can be found here: [1], [2], [3], [4].

SUMMARY

1. This chapter got off to an unusual start with what looked like a woman who had committed suicide by jumping off a ship and into the ocean. There were hints of her having been disappointed in love and how she wanted to forget everything.

2. We quickly cut to Victor who was working on a site in which animals were to be exhibited at the Paris Expo. His work was interrupted as he made the acquaintance of a young woman called Catherine Brandt (?) from New York, who was accompanied by her butler, Hans. She was looking for Alphonse (?) Dubois (from Chapter 4). Victor informed her that Dubois was away at the moment and had left Victor to do his work at the Paris Expo (ah, so that’s why for once, we don’t see Victor having tea with Sofu or otherwise having a good time haha).

3. We then come to why Catherine was looking for Dubois. Catherine’s Father, Brandt, had previously hired Dubois to help him obtain a creature called Fantome Noir. Dubois had acquired what he suspected to be Fantome Noir and asked Brandt to come to Paris and verify if that was the case. Brandt had left to do so about half a year ago and nothing has been heard of him since. Victor offered to bring Catherine to Dubois’s house in the countryside the next day to see if there was anything there that could help her out.

4. That evening, Catherine and Hans were back at their hotel. Catherine’s fangirling over the handsome and gentlemanly Victor was tersely interrupted by Hans who reminded her that they had to find Brandt ASAP and return to New York since they were living on credit which would dry up quickly if Brandt turned out to have died. If that happened, she would have to marry some steel magnate’s eldest son to keep things going. Frustrated, Catherine threw a pillow at Hans and said that she wanted to marry someone she chose for herself.

5. The next day, Victor, Catherine and Hans turned up at Dubois’s house in the countryside. From the correspondence they found there, they discovered that Fantome Noir seemed to be related to oysters and involves something valuable (“the world is my oyster” and all that). So they all went over to Sofu’s petshop to pick his brains on what Fantome Noir could be.

6. Of course, Sofu knew what Fantome Noir was but he demurred in showing them what she was since she was shy and required a special tank so it would be difficult for an ordinary household to raise such a pet. After much insistence from them, Sofu agreed to show them Fantome Noir. But he warned Catherine that he could not guarantee if Fantome Noir could be sold to them; it all depended on fate.

7. After leading them to the underground tunnels of the petshop, Sofu brought them over a round bridge and into a grand palace filled with beautiful people. Catherine was outraged as she thought that Sofu had brought them to a brothel. But Sofu explained that these were all mermaids. He then led them off to a more secluded part of the palace to see Fantome Noir, which was a nocturnal creature. In a darkened room, Sofu pulled back some curtains to reveal a veiled woman with closed eyes and who was dressed all in black.  

8. This woman was Fantome Noir. Catherine noted that she looked at though she was in mourning. Sofu noted that she had been in this state since she was separated from the only man she ever loved. Catherine was sympathetic to her plight whilst Victor just ruined the mood by saying, “Eh, widows are very attractive.” Haha. Catherine asked Fantome Noir if she had met her father before. Sofu had to write out the question for her on her palm. Catherine asked if she was deaf and Sofu explained that since she lost the man she loved, she had isolated herself from the world by closing her eyes, stopping up her ears and sealing her lips.

9. Upon hearing this, Victor burst out in excitement that Fantome Noir is the mermaid from Hans Christian Andersen’s “Little Mermaid”. Catherine and Victor then bonded over their shared dislike of the prince in the fairy tale. Sofu looked So Done with them and related the message from Fantome Noir that there is no need to worry about her. Victor and Catherine protested that she shouldn’t hold herself up; she was still young and beautiful and could start over again in a new relationship etc. Fantome Noir “said” that she did not wish to love anymore and wanted to forget everything. Sofu then related Fantome Noir’s message that a man had come to see her half a year ago but he wasn’t sure if this was Catherine’s father. Sofu then cut off further questions by saying that Fantome Noir was tired and wished to rest. Catherine tried to press the issue but Victor stopped her from doing so and said that they should leave.

10. That evening, Victor, Catherine and Hans had tea together. Catherine was furious that Sofu was running a brothel or trafficking people behind the front of selling pets whilst Hans was concerned that they had been drugged and had hallucinations. Victor smilingly said that they had indeed seen mermaids and that there were many mysterious and unknown creatures that existed in this world. He also noted that at least now they knew that Catherine’s father seemed to have been looking for a mermaid. Catherine asked if Dubois knew of Fantome Noir’s true identity and wondered if the man whom Fantome Noir saw was Dubois. Victor didn’t think that was the case as Dubois and Sofu did not look as though they knew each other when they first met (Chapter 4) and that Sofu should have been around and recognised Dubois if he was the man whom Fantome Noir met. They then moved onto wondering how to convince Sofu to sell Fantome Noir to them. Victor noted that this depended on whether a customer and a pet were fated to be together and on Sofu’s mood, not on the amount of money offered.

11. The next morning, Catherine and Hans turned up at the petshop to find an annoyed Sofu who said that the shop only opened after afternoon tea. Catherine said that they knew that and had brought a huge spread of desserts for him. Sofu got all excited and quickly invited them in. Catherine turned to flash a V-sign at Victor who was standing outside the shop; it seems that he had been the one who taught them how to get into Sofu’s good books.

12. Sofu brought Catherine and Hans to the palace to see Fantome Noir. He tried to get Fantome Noir to open up on the man whom she met half a year ago. Fantome Noir “replied”, “As you know, I’m deaf and blind. I don’t know anything about the other party.” Catherine unloaded a whole barrage of questions which Sofu passed onto Fantome Noir but she simply “said” that she doesn’t remember and asked them to leave. Again, Catherine tried to press the issue but Hans shook his head and they took their leave. After leaving the palace, Hans noted that Victor had told them it was an East Asian custom for one to only be able to get a favourable response from esteemed persons on one’s third visit to them.

13. Sofu peeked out from behind the door of the shop as he watched Catherine and Hans walk down the covered passageway where his shop was located. He turned to find Lena (the petshop trainer mentioned in Chapters 3 and 4) and her younger brother, Lou, in the shop. Lou sounded like he was interested in Catherine; Lena scolded him and reminded him that she was Sofu’s customer. They then mentioned that she must be quite capable to have crossed that bridge to the palace, which was difficult for them to cross, and Sofu said, “I suppose so.”

14. Victor then popped up out of nowhere in the shop holding a teapot and tray of desserts. “Oh? That round bridge? Is it that difficult to cross?” Sofu got mad at Victor and demanded to know if he was the one who taught Catherine how to get into his good books. Victor tried to soothe him, “Don’t be angry. I really want to see a real-life mermaid~” He added, “Besides, I’m already on this ship; I can’t back out now. I’m interested in knowing her father’s whereabouts too.” This got Sofu musing as to where that “foolish prince’s” ship went (unclear if he was referring to the prince in the fairy tale or the “prince” whom Fantome Noir was parted from). Anyway, we cut to an old-timey ship with sails that was tossed about by waves in a storm and a prince being swept overboard. He seemed to have been dragged down by a few sinister-looking mermaids into the depths of the ocean.

15. Catherine and Hans have arrived back at their hotel. Hans received a telegram; he seemed to have gotten upset at it and crumpled the telegram up. Catherine asked what it was about and he answered that it was nothing. Just before she went to sleep that night, Catherine vaguely noted that Hans seemed to really like Fantome Noir when he first saw her and wondered if mature women were more attractive. We then cut to Hans stalking about furtively in a poverty-stricken district. He noted that it smelled familiar and was just like the place which he had grown up in.

[bbclesmis]

THE SUN: Randy life of Les Miserables author who bedded over 200 women in TWO years and seduced his son’s lover

It took Victor Hugo more than 20 years to finish Les Mis, which is hailed as one of the greatest works of literature - but he overcame writer's block by working naked

By Kate Jackson     

LOCKED in a room, hunched over his goose-quill pen and paper, author Victor Hugo poured out the words that would move the world for centuries to come.

It took him 20 years to finish Les Miserables but it might have taken longer had he not hit upon a unique way to overcome writer’s block — by bashing it out naked.

“Les Mis” is now hailed as one of the greatest works of literature. The stage musical based on the novel has been seen by more than 70million people in 51 countries — and now its latest  incarnation is set to be a TV hit.

The six-part BBC adaptation, which starts on Sunday, stars Broadchurch actress Olivia Colman, The Affair actor Dominic West and Lily Collins, actress daughter of musician Phil Collins.

But the life of writer, politician and human rights activist Victor, who also wrote The Hunchback Of Notre Dame, was far from miserable.

Possessing a voracious sexual ­appetite with a taste for whores, the randy Frenchman was a foot fetishist, a voyeur and even seduced the girlfriend of his own son.

In a two-year period he bedded more than 200 women — which can’t have been easy for his loyal wife Adele, mother of his five children and his childhood sweetheart.

Adele was his neighbour’s daughter, and they fell for each other as teens.

But as one of three sons of ­Napoleonic wars general Joseph ­Leopold Sigisbert Hugo, Victor was urged not to marry Adele.

His mother Sophie Trebuchet thought her boy should aim higher in society.

The pair initially conducted their romance via secret letters.

Even on the first one, Hugo signed off with, “Your husband.”

In another, he wrote: “Whenever I see anyone even approach you, I shudder with envy and exasperation. My muscles contract, my chest swells up and it takes all my force and circumspection to contain myself.”

They could only marry when Hugo’s mother died. He later bragged of making love to Adele nine times on their wedding night in 1822.

Biographer Edward Behr believes Adele never felt the same tender adoration towards her husband again.

But they did stay ­married for 48 years until her death in 1868.

The couple had five children — Leopold, who died in infancy, daughter Leopoldine, Charles, ­Francois-Victor and Adele.

Hugo and Adele were unfaithful to each other throughout the marriage.

She had a brief affair with her husband’s friend and literary critic Charles Sainte-Beuve — even as he championed the young writer’s poetry.

At around the same time Hugo seduced his first and all-time favourite ­mistress, Juliette Drouet.

He appointed her his unpaid “secretary” and she travelled with him for the next 50 years.

There were many others, but ­Victor always went back to Juliette.

Describing a typical day in Hugo’s life, one ­biographer wrote: “It was not unusual for him to make love to a young prostitute in the morning, an actress before lunch, a courtesan as an aperitif, and then join the also ­indefatigable Juliette for a night of sex.”

He would rate conquests in his bulging diary or an address book.

For example, according to biographer Graham Robb, Hugo wrote that ­Helena Gaussin was “beautiful but very thin,” while Mademoiselle Plessy was “pretty but with a poor ­figure, not much bust and long legs.” He hired ­prostitutes to put on strip shows for him and would pick up women on Paris buses. One of his mistresses, the married Leonie Biard, was discovered naked and “in criminal conversation” with Hugo.

She got sent to prison — while he got off scot-free.

But the most shocking was a liaison with actress Alice Ozy, the girlfriend of Hugo’s son Charles.

Charles thought Alice was being unfaithful and asked his dad for help. Immediately, Hugo wrote a series of filthy letters to Alice, possibly with the intention of exposing her as a cheat.

Instead, Alice fell for the erotic outpourings. Even poor Charles admitted he could see the attraction.

He wrote to Alice: “You choose the father and glory. I cannot blame you. Any woman would.”

If he wasn’t having sex, Hugo was a big fan of watching others do it. From 1832 to 1848, he lived on the second floor of a hotel in Paris, where he would entertain notable writers and artists. He installed peepholes in the guest rooms so he could watch them when they went to bed.

It was also in this hotel that he notched up 200 conquests in two years.

Biographer Robb noted that during the years 1847 to 1851, Hugo “had sex with more women than he wrote poems.”

At this point, the writer was already a big success, having published The Hunchback Of Notre Dame as well as other plays, poems and stories.

Rather than churning out Hunchback while in the nude, he beat his writer’s block that time by wearing a scratchy woollen body stocking day and night. This hot and itchy onesie is said to have cooled his sexual urges, allowing him to do some work instead.

After King Louis-Philippe gave him a peerage in 1845, Hugo campaigned against the death penalty and the vast gap between the rich and poor, as well as for freedom of the Press.

But Louis Napoleon seized power in 1851 — and Hugo’s vocal opposition put his life at risk. So he and his family went to live in exile in Guernsey, where he finished Les Miserables.

He secured a huge publishing deal for the novel, worth around £3million in today’s money, and the book sold out when it hit the shelves in 1862.

Today it is the longest-running ­musical in London’s West End while the novel has been translated into 21 languages. In 2012, Hugh Jackman and Anne Hathaway took on the story’s iconic roles of Jean Valjean and ­Fantine in a blockbuster film musical.

When Hugo died in 1885, French newspaper Le Figaro declared on its front page: ­“Neither in this century, nor in any of the centuries that preceded it, has France possessed a poet of that height, abundance and scope.”

His body lay in state under the Arc de Triomphe, draped in black and ­protected by guards on horseback.

Pedlars hawked souvenirs, from photos of artificial flowers with a picture of the writer’s face in the centre, to even pairs of trousers he once wore.

Diarist Edmond Goncourt claimed Hugo was so popular with prostitutes that the brothels in Paris closed for his funeral out of respect — and hundreds of whores mourned by draping their private parts with black material as they lined the Champs-Élysées.

Around 2million people turned out to watch the hearse travel from the Arc de Triomphe to the Pantheon, where Hugo is buried.

Savvy entrepreneurs charged ­mourners for a leg-up to watch from the branches of trees, while a woman fell off a parapet by the River Seine and drowned — as did the man who tried to save her.

Five others who sat on a branch were injured when it broke.

“Despite the unseemly squabbling, the injuries and deaths, there was a general feeling of satisfaction,” wrote Robb. For years afterwards, the funeral was one of the commonest shared memories of people all over France.”

And his masterpiece — as well as the details of his extraordinary private life — lives on to this day.

 Les Miserables begins on Sunday on BBC1 at 9pm.

EPIC STORY OF BRUTAL STRUGGLE

LIVING up to the glumness of its title, Les Miserables is a ground-breaking tale of poverty and misery. The action in Victor Hugo’s classic novel begins in 1815 when convict Jean Valjean is let out on parole after serving 19 years for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his sister’s starving child.

He robs a bishop who lies to the police to keep Valjean from going back to jail. Grateful Valjean vows to start a new life and goes on to become a wealthy factory owner who cares deeply for the poor.

But an unforgiving police inspector called Javert tracks Valjean down, forcing him to flee to Paris where he gets caught up in the bloody 1832 Paris uprising.

Seeing Valjean go to extreme lengths to save one of the student revolutionaries, Javert realises he was wrong about the thief and takes his own life.

In a heartbreaking end, Valjean dies after confessing his past to his adopted daughter Cosette. (x)

[voulezvous-rpg]

DANCER: THE LOVER

artemy “tocka” amelin 25 years old dancer & courtesan played by em. 21+. she/her. est.

love was unyielding. artemy learned this first. it served no one, as any feral thing wouldn’t, only yielding to instinct and will.

he had loved his mother in the only way a young child could, wholly and without rhyme, and she him. he could only remember she was a woman of frost, silken ink hair whipping in the winds as they traveled from wagon to train, crossing mountains and dirt and fields with nothing but a handful of clothes to their name. she was an earthen goddess paving paths where there were none, a sprite shining a light through dense snow-covered forests with only an oil lantern. she was only comfortable when the cold froze her tears before they could fall, so she took them past mongolia, to lands of old lifting up byzantine cathedrals and umber palaces.

when she became ill, betrayed by her beloved chill, she left him in st petersburg. he’d wailed and wailed, but her figure only kept fading in the snow, into the forest; she was intent on dying alone. now, he understood.

he was taken in by a brothel of blood mothers, warm and unapologetic and cutting with their tongues, lithe, older women who swept by in silk robes but ate stew at the same table, elbows resting on knees, taking bites straight from the bread loaf and talking loudly and crudely. they’d all learned to survive long ago, orphans in some shape or another, be it countries or mothers who had abandoned them to the cold.

they all raised him in fractions, forming something of a whole. one mother would bring home an apple for him for dinner. another brought home a couple of dumplings. another brought home a cup of cabbage soup. it was all the effort they could put in individually, but together it was enough.

he was tasked with changing and washing the sheets each night and sweeping the leaves around the building. ‘you would be useless here otherwise. the men who come want something in between a mother and a fuck. they want you to drain them and then sing them a lullaby.”

officials, they meant. men with badges and ribbons, men with wives and children who demanded as much as their duties did. men who slinked in like shadows, their illegalities written like scars on their faces. they eyed artemy strangely as they brushed past, pale boy sweeping leaves to the light of a cheshire moon. he listened to their noises, guttural first, and then childish - asking for a nursery song, for a kiss, for ‘i love you’. the mothers always obliged, their voices the softest he’d ever heard when they were muffled by thin wood. but after the men were gone, they emerged, cigarette smoke filling the cobalt night, cackling about what their patron asked them to do, relaying stories over the last bit of vodka in chipped glasses as he gathered their sheets together. he learned love smelled like cigarettes and used blankets. he learned love was humiliating.

even as he grew, as he became tall and lithe like his new mothers but windswept and lovely like his true mother, lovely like a crane floating in winter winds, he did not desire to follow them in their line of work. not that he looked down upon their work at all, but he found he hardly had the stomach to even imagine it, being underneath a ruddy old man. even as the patrons’ gazes lingered for too long, even when he began to see himself beautiful, as they did, with doe eyes and sweet lips and a faraway look, he wanted none of it. what he did want were the lullabies and the nursery rhymes - the power in that moment, singing to ministers and diplomats as if they were children with their thumb in their mouth, looking into their eyes and knowing they’d give anything to you if asked.

he first realized this when an ambassador’s wife came by asking for her husband, suspecting him of having grown restless. artemy had been instructed to protect each patron’s confidentiality (‘we would not survive if we could not keep secrets’), and he told her he did not know. rather than leave, the woman took a seat beside him in the courtyard, her face sinking with exhaustion, her pearls and diamonds weighing down her thin shoulders. ‘can’t say I’d blame him if he wanted to,’ she sighed. ‘this city is too somber, too cold. what else can you do but find warmth when one is not enough?’

she was speaking freely, perhaps assumed a slight orphan in a brothel was the very same as speaking to the wind. artemy tucked his legs under himself, brushed a strand of hair behind his ear, his smile inviting. he held himself like a muse. made himself a blank slate, invited her to pour herself onto him, her worn and weary ash violets and greys. ‘do you find yourself cold often?’ he asked, slender fingers toying with the tassels of his newly gifted silk robe. a hand me down. it slid along his skin with every movement, like fire licking snow. ‘sometimes I think we’re too much for ourselves. one body isn’t enough, so we try to try and split ourselves, parcel bits of us into our lovers and children.’

she sighed, looking guilty. ‘i try not to. but one of his colleagues, he understands. his wife is always late coming home. he has no children, doesn’t know how to cope. he’s kind to me.’

‘it would be wrong of us to neglect the good that is offered.’ he spoke sagely, mimicking the softness of his mothers when they sang  their lullabies. he allowed her to stare, her gaze curious and shy. ‘the world is already cruel enough.’

she left not long after, stopping to kiss him long on the lips and to tuck a pearl earring into his hand. ‘for listening.’

his first treasure. he did not tell his mothers, they would want him to split the cut. he sold it and bought pastila, the first dessert he’d ever had.

his second treasure was given by a minister, forced to wait by his favorite being otherwise occupied by a particularly vigorous patron. he had no illusions of his own exclusivity, and artemy liked him for it. he waited in the courtyard where artemy arranged dried leaves and wilted petals into pictures and shapes, skin fair and soft against cracked pavement. the minister watched for a while, artemy could feel his eyes on every part of him he chose to expose.

‘what’re you making?’

‘a picture. my mother was murdered by her country, pistol to the back - i’m trying to remember what it looked like. the leaves aren’t red enough.’ he liked to lie. next time he would say he was abandoned by a traveling theater troupe, that he’d once been an aerialist before he sprained his ankle. but this minister looked like he’d watched many families suffer at the hands of their country, all lined face and hands scarred from war and tobacco scented even in his mid-forties, and artemy chose his lies and stories accordingly. ‘i think it will be a blue twilight tonight.’

(his mothers had unknowingly taught him how to glean people like art. ‘look at the red of his cheeks. he indulges in sirloin and whiskey a little too often, no?’ ‘a foreign watch, tailored pants, alligator wallet, walking around these parts? an heir turned oligarch, sheltered, soft as a baby. hope he doesn’t get mugged.’ the world was a gallery, each person a moving exhibit.)

perhaps it was guilt. perhaps it was sympathy. the minister knelt down beside artemy on the ground, rough fingers arranging the leaves like oils on a canvas. ‘blood turns dark, brown and black. battlefields look like oil had been spilled. i hated the smell. my best friend died and i didn’t have the heart to tell his wife he’d begged for his mother in his last moments. the minister of internal affairs’s son.’

artemy shuddered a little, as if the sight was too much for his delicacy, his robe shrugging off a shoulder, exposing a long expanse, and the minister continued, voice faltering.

‘his father is already mad enough, his aides just hide it well. i couldn’t bear to make it worse. i’m not usually known for being merciful’

the minister was only with his mother for five minutes, but there were no noises. couldn’t get it up, artemy realized with a faint smile. when the minister left, he pressed a worn and tattered medal into artemy’s hand. artemy kissed his cheek goodbye, left traces of moondust on his skin.  

he never hung on to his treasures for long, he knew they were liable to be stolen, forgotten, and he sold them quickly for desserts, bought himself english books to teach himself the language and discarded them before he got home. the real prize, he would realize, was the intangible. it was learning a noble ambassador frequented brothels, it was learning his wife was having an affair. that the minister of internal affairs was more vulnerable than the public imagined.

then came the day a traveler arrived, english and french spilling from his lips in an attempt to communicate. the mothers made artemy greet him - they knew how adept at conversation he’d become. english speakers rarely found their way to the brothel, and they treated it as an omen.

artemy draped himself over his stone bench, tassels spilling over the side. years of spoiling himself in secret had made him a stark image of rosy health and luxurious beauty amid a landscape of gritty survival. his accent colored his voice - he liked sounding far away to someone. ‘can i get you a drink, mr. suit?’

‘i suppose. and another to pour on the street.’ the stranger’s smile was friendly, melancholy. ‘i’m here to mourn.’

‘and what headstones do you see here, mr. suit? listen closely and you’ll hear the sounds of the living, inflamed and guttural.’ he poured the stranger and himself a glass of vodka. ‘or are you here to pour someone’s ashes into our vases?’

‘my friend, he was in love with one of the women here. or maybe you, he didn’t say.’ he lifted his eyes, perhaps expecting artemy to be flattered. artemy smiled, sipped his glass as nonchalantly as he would if the man had said the weather was pleasant. ‘he died not even a month ago, in a fire in paris. in his favorite cabaret. his love was here, though, even if they didn’t love him back.’

‘a cabaret? how glamorous.’ it was in artemy’s nature to skip over tragedy in his mind, to ignore sentiment. grief, mourning, love, they all served to make one soft and slow for the wolves. he leaned in closer, tried to imagine jewels and velvet and lights and costumes, tried to place himself in a distant painting resplendent with reds and golds. ‘was it beautiful?’

‘it was the center of the universe. it will be again soon, i’m sure - they’re reopening it after they’ve cleaned up all the ashes. you should go see it, write your name on their walls.’

‘how sweet.’ he tilted his head, dark hair falling in front of dark eyes. ‘but it’s a cruel world out there, mr. suit. we are happy being impartial, the moirai. we have our treasure, our drink, and our men and women would do anything for us. their secrets. i’m afraid if i leave i’ll never come back and this place will forget me.’

the stranger almost looked impressed, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. ‘you are happy simply using your charm to collect trinkets and secrets? what do you even do with what you know? you tuck them away to rot?’ he leaned forward, placed a course hand over artemy’s. ‘what a waste.’

‘there’s nothing wrong with rot.’ he could not help his intrigue, how he leaned closer, the elegant curve of his smile. ‘you may tell me more about this club, mr. suit. but get your hand off me. i will be the one to seduce.’

the wild thing was lured back into civilization with the promise of better food, something succulent to sink his teeth into, and it offended his pride far less than he thought it would. he was less like his blood mothers, who were staunchly in one spot until the sand wore them down, and more like his true mother - moving, swaying, leaving one land for another when opportunity presented itself before her roots could take hold. she had known complacency was the most dangerous thing of all, that to depend on one thing was worse. it was why she wanted to die alone rather than watch her child grieve, to remember her as immobile and pale and decrepit.

‘what if it happens again? the fire?’ his mothers. ‘say you rub someone the wrong way? say they drop another match?’

he hears the whispers, can feel the apprehension at his decision, but there was not even a shadow of a doubt. new life was born from the ashes, and so he sprinkled cinder into his hair, planted what treasures he had left in soot, a gold button, a cufflink, an ancient coin, a hair clip, and prayed to his dead mother that from the ashes  wealth and wonder would sprout.

he wanted to find his lullabies and nursery rhymes here, in this viper’s nest teeming with glitter and venom. he wanted to leave his signature with a neat flourish and move on as soon as he was bored again, before the past caught up with him again.  the stranger had been right. he was wasted with his mothers, keeping secrets with him until he died, spending all his treasures on desserts because he was afraid anything with more permanence would be stolen.

now, he spoke in half truths and spun tales like silk through a loom. there was no use in dwelling in his past, no matter how unusual it was - told more than once, it would become boring to him. one night he was the bastard of royalty, cast aside like a mutt. another night he was born of sea foam, wandering, and had stumbled upon the moulin rouge during a storm. ‘i would be swept away with the rain, you see,’ he’d said once to a crowd of mr. suits. ‘ it’s why i bathe in rosewater. nothing bad can happen to you in the bath.’

he was a fine dancer, not as skillful as those who had been classically trained, but he was more method than skill, more sensuality than precision. but a lover he was, and potential customers had a taste when they caught him alone by the bar in a generous mood, generous enough to sit by them, to conversate and ruminate, perhaps a kiss if he was especially merciful. anything more was as good as myth, and he made it a point to paint his exclusivity in mist and shrouds, made what few who had taken him to bed speak nothing of their night to anyone else with a promise that it would be even better the next time.

mystery. intrigue. it built value, made him expensive, made him beyond mortal.

could anyone blame him for enjoying it?

FC: Kim Jinwoo