Jörg adopted the appearance of Pierre Arche once more, changed his clothes, donned a tie, and headed to Paris through the usual door of Xandra’s inn. He didn’t need to disguise himself as a wounded soldier this time, so he could move unimpeded.
He passed through the portal and was greeted by the facade of the Comédie-Française. After hailing a taxi, he told the driver to take him to 12 Rue Drucker in the Second Arrondissement. The driver responded amiably, hopping down from his seat and opening the door to the passenger cabin.
When Jörg sat down inside, the driver asked him if he was returning from the war—the same question Nil had also asked him.
“Yeah. My body’s all beat up. I’m here to rest my bones.”
“How was Verdun? Is it true what they said in the newspapers?”
Jörg winced. “It was worse.”
“I thought as much.”
“If you don’t want to be conscripted by the army, you should leave and go to a neutral country as soon as possible,” he told the man. “You can drive a car, so you shouldn’t have any trouble finding work wherever you go.”
“Thank you, sir. You’ve given me something to think about.”
When the taxi pulled up to the brothel, Jörg paid his fare and a bit extra on top. The driver thanked him and gave him a smile that said he understood what Jörg was getting at and wouldn’t say a word to anyone.
Jörg watched the taxi drive away, then looked up at the building. The number twelve shone from a red lantern hanging from the upper part of the building, just as Bernadette had said. It was a plain brick building with dark curtains drawn over every window concealing what went on inside. The lighting restrictions meant that not even a sliver of light slipped outside, and no one stood in the street trying to lure in customers. The place was so quiet that anyone would simply pass by it if they didn’t know it was a brothel.
Jörg walked up to the door, rang the bell, and waited for an answer.
He heard the sound of a latch, and the door cracked open. A middle-aged woman appeared in the gap, no doubt the madame of the brothel.
Jörg spoke to her, feigning nervousness. “Someone at a bar on Rue de Rohan told me about your establishment. It’s my first time here. May I come in?”
When he mentioned the name of the bar and the owner, the madame smiled affectionately. “Please, come in,” she said, opening the door wide.
Thick, floor-length drapes created a screen on the other side of the door, and passing through them, Jörg emerged into a spacious reception room.
The lights were dim, so he couldn’t see anyone except the madame. She wore a purple jacket over a blouse covered with fabric embellishments on the collar, all complemented by a long skirt. The madame seemed both warm and rigidly stern, but her gracious manners would assuage the nerves of any first-time customer under her care.
The two of them climbed a staircase to a landing between the first and second floors. A hallway with doors running down both sides led away from the top of the stairs, and the madame guided Jörg to the closest room.
“Pick whichever girl you like,” she said. “And as many as you’d like.”
“As many—?”
“It’s free to look, so take your time.”
The door opened, and Jörg gawked at the sight unveiled to him. It appeared for all the world like the greenroom of a theater. The women looked like dancers getting dressed and waiting for their turn to appear onstage—or at least, that was Jörg’s impression of it.
There were only ten women in the room, all of them lounging about in lingerie. Their sheer gowns were open from their shoulders to their bosoms, tight bustiers highlighted their curves, and garter belts held up long stockings. They were wearing shoes that made their exposed waists look even more alluring. The scent of powder and perfume tickled his nose. A few women lounged on a sofa and one sat cross-legged in a chair, while others stood in the corner absorbed in conversation. One woman was nodding off peacefully. It seemed even in a profession like this, where work started at night, people got sleepy when the sun went down. So they napped until customers arrived.
The madame called out, and the women turned to look at Jörg. He felt as if a flock of colorful birds had all fixed their gazes on him.
“Come now, go in,” the madame told him cheerfully. “Don’t be shy.”
Jörg nodded and walked slowly down the carpet. He scanned the women as he passed them. Most were around twenty, but some clearly seemed younger than eighteen, while others looked closer to thirty. They had a wide array of hair colors and skin tones, with one woman even appearing to have come from India.
Some cast him disinterested looks, and some proudly stuck out their chests. One girl kept her mouth clamped shut, visibly shaking from fright.
Based on the attention paid to their skin and hair, how plump their bodies were, the quality of their perfume, and the design of the lingerie among other things, this place seemed to be doing good business. After a long while, Jörg finally recognized Bernadette. He hadn’t noticed her at first under her thick makeup.
Bernadette was sitting on one side of a love seat, using rollers secured in place with hairpins to curl her hair in cute ringlets—a common style among the women. When Jörg asked her name, she coquettishly replied “Bernadette.” She sounded so incredibly different from the impassioned woman he’d heard speak at the Eiffel Tower.
Jörg took Bernadette’s hand and turned to the madame. “I’ll take her.”
She nodded and escorted the pair out of the room.
From there, Bernadette took Jörg to a different room on the same floor.
When the door opened, he saw a salon far larger than the one he’d previously seen. The brightly lit space held sofas and tables populated by men and women. They chatted and drank, and a number of people seemed to be absorbed in some sort of game using tarot cards. Half of the room was partitioned off into smaller areas by curtains, behind which men and women carried out more private engagements. However, the most intimate acts were forbidden here.
Jörg scanned the room, but he didn’t see any young men like him—just affluent-looking middle-aged men or older gentlemen with gray hair. They had their arms draped around the women, who pressed their chests up against the men and whispered softly in their ears.
Based on the quality of the customers and the women, it might almost be called a normal salon gathering—so long as you didn’t imagine the events to come. Here, men and women could enjoy each other’s company, work up their excitement, then retire to the second floor if they came to a mutual understanding. Bernadette told him it was perfectly fine to end things here if he didn’t feel like taking things any further. Judging by the bottles of liquor lined up on the tables, the salon seemed to bring in very good money for the brothel.
They settled into a sofa, and Bernadette ordered mint liqueur and champagne from the waitress. The madame came up to the pair, chatted briefly with Jörg, and sat in a nearby seat.
They didn’t have to wait long before the waitress returned with the glasses and bottle. Bernadette took her glass of mint liqueur, and Jörg, a flute of champagne. The waitress poured another glass for the madame, then one for herself, and the four of them formed a circle, clinking their glasses to the madame’s cheer of “Santé!”
The madame and the waitress departed after that, leaving Jörg and Bernadette alone.
Jörg leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “After we have a bit to drink, I’d like to head straight upstairs. The rooms there are private, right?”
“But I’ve only just started on my first drink,” Bernadette said with a smile. “The night is long; there’s no need to rush.”
“I’ll have them bring up as many drinks as you want. You can even fill the bath with champagne.”
“Really?”
“Order two more bottles.”
The private rooms on the second floor were crimson, decorated in patterns that evoked an earlier time. Beneath the dim lighting, the red color appeared deeper, almost maroon.
The canopied bed was so gaudy Jörg could only imagine it was a joke. Thick curtains hung over the windows, closed tight to prevent any light from leaking outside, and a porcelain-lined bathtub sat in the room, wide enough to easily hold two adults.
The brothels in the busier areas of Jörg’s hometown and the cities he’d frequented during his leave from the front line had all had much smaller, plainer rooms. He usually had sex soon after choosing a girl, as places like this had strict time limits. The women went from one man to the next in quick succession, giving Jörg and the other patrons a fleeting taste of pleasure like leaving a cheap bar after just one drink.
Bernadette set the bottles of champagne down on the table. “You must have been quite surprised downstairs. Places like this have their own specific way of doing things.”
“Isn’t every brothel in Paris like this? Or is this one unique?”
“People have recently been favoring places where they can get a quick lay, then leave. It takes more time and costs more here, and we’re required to learn about our customers so we can accommodate their tastes. It’s a fair amount of work.”
“It is a lot nicer than the brothels that just throw you out as soon as you’re done. This is the first time I’ve been in a place like this.”
“You mean the first time you’ve been to a brothel? Or are you comparing it with the other places you’ve been to?”
“The latter.”
“I see. Well, then you’ll fit in perfectly in a place like this. The men who visit here are searching for a woman who doesn’t exist in the real world. There’s no need to feel embarrassed, and with enough time and money, we can make any of our customers’ dreams and fantasies come true in exactly the way they imagine them. Anything, that is, as long as it’s not violent.”