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31_days2006-04-20 11:59 pm
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-04-20 11:59 pm
[20 April] [James Bond] Solange
Title: Solange
Day/Theme: April 20th - Into every young man's bedroom you gave it up
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Hrm...
Rating: PG-13
NOTE: This is based on a throwaway line from Ian Fleming's short story, "From a View to a Kill": If he wanted a solid drink he had it at Harry's Bar, both because of the solidity of the of the drinks and because, on his first ignorant visit to Paris at the age of sixteen, he had done what Harry's advertisement in the Continental Daily Mail had told him to do and he said to his taxi-driver, "Sank Roo Doe Noo." That had started one of the memorable evenings of his life, culminating in the loss, almost simultaneously, of his virginity and his note-case.
Of the hundreds, thousands, maybe tens of thousands of men and boys, he's the only one I really remember.
It might have just been that my life was falling in around my ears. A week earlier Uncle Jean had dropped by for some evening entertainment, and had caught sight of me in the hallway. Filled with righteous indignation, he threatened to tell Mother - God, what would she think! - until I offered to pay Cécile's fee for as long as he'd like her. Just to spite me, he stayed half the night. Then I went out to meet Marius again and he was in trouble, so of course I let him borrow something, just a bit to tide him over until he finds a job.
"Solange, you're an angel," he said, and I almost had to laugh. If he only knew.
Then the letter from Jean today, the old bastard, making it clear that one bribe was not enough. He demanded a sum that he knew was beyond my means, then went on to hint - ever so subtly - that there was more than one way of paying.
If I refused, of course, then Mother would know the ugly truth.
Faced with this disturbing proposition, and with barely enough pocket-change to clink together, I formed a desperate plan. In my room there was a connecting vent to Cécile's - the things I heard! - that was just big enough to fit my hand through, if I kept it flat. It would fit a wallet...wouldn't it?
I planned the whole thing. The chair beside my pillow, on which the gentleman could lay his clothes - I would see to it that his pockets remained accessible. The vent, just within arm's reach. Depending on the gentleman I'd have perhaps an entire minute when he would be lost to the world, and if I performed the critical manouver at just the right moment, he would never know. All I had to do was slip the money out of the wallet, tuck it under the mattress, then dispose of the wallet itself before anything was noticed.
Towards Cécile I had no pity. She would undoubtedly pay the price for thievery once the wallet was found in her room; even if Madame suspected, I had always been her favourite and she'd been looking for an excuse to dismiss Cécile. I just had to make sure that the gentleman rubbed shoulders with enough girls on his way up that he'd forget which faces he'd seen.
For this reason I waited until a slow night, so lots of girls would be free. I loitered in the recieving-room, waiting for my ideal target - then suddenly I saw him.
He spoke French well, but his accent was pure Etonian English. A tourist, and by the way he was dressed, he had some money to spare. Young and inexperienced. It was clear he'd never been to such a house before. It was also clear that he shouldn't have been in one at all; if he was old enough to enlist in the army then I'm the Queen. He was clearly nervous and plainly drunk, but he carried himself with dignity and a certain fierceness. I began to reconsider my choice - he was clearly not a boy to be crossed.
But then he looked at me, and I knew he wouldn't have any other woman in the place.
I couldn't have been much older than he, but he seemed so much fresher, despite being just a bit sloppy with liquor. As we walked up the stairs I called out, coquettishly, "girls, sisters, come and see the handsome Englishman who's visiting us!" Ten or so of them crowded around him, cooing. He seemed pleased, but not overly flattered. Within a few minutes we had retreated to the sanctuary of my room.
Everything went as planned. I could see from the trembling of his hands that he was a virgin, which meant I would have to act quicker. I laid his clothes on the chair for him, as if I cared that they not be wrinkled. And for a boy his age - well, I have seen many men in a state of undress, and he was one of the finer specimens.
My apprehensions were in vain; I had plenty of time to locate his wallet, wrest it free, and slip it between the slats that led to Cécile's room before it was over. The result was predictable; the fuss, the ranting, the search, the turning-out of Cécile onto the streets. The repayment of the young man from Madame's personal funds.
Cécile died later, the victim of a maniac who idolised Jack the Ripper. Sometimes I wonder if I'm really the one who killed her. Sometimes I wonder if I ought to have heeded the warning in the English boy's eyes - someone not to be trifled with.
I remember the way he looked at me when he walked out of our house. He knew that it was me.
And yet, somehow, he never told.
Day/Theme: April 20th - Into every young man's bedroom you gave it up
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Hrm...
Rating: PG-13
NOTE: This is based on a throwaway line from Ian Fleming's short story, "From a View to a Kill": If he wanted a solid drink he had it at Harry's Bar, both because of the solidity of the of the drinks and because, on his first ignorant visit to Paris at the age of sixteen, he had done what Harry's advertisement in the Continental Daily Mail had told him to do and he said to his taxi-driver, "Sank Roo Doe Noo." That had started one of the memorable evenings of his life, culminating in the loss, almost simultaneously, of his virginity and his note-case.
Of the hundreds, thousands, maybe tens of thousands of men and boys, he's the only one I really remember.
It might have just been that my life was falling in around my ears. A week earlier Uncle Jean had dropped by for some evening entertainment, and had caught sight of me in the hallway. Filled with righteous indignation, he threatened to tell Mother - God, what would she think! - until I offered to pay Cécile's fee for as long as he'd like her. Just to spite me, he stayed half the night. Then I went out to meet Marius again and he was in trouble, so of course I let him borrow something, just a bit to tide him over until he finds a job.
"Solange, you're an angel," he said, and I almost had to laugh. If he only knew.
Then the letter from Jean today, the old bastard, making it clear that one bribe was not enough. He demanded a sum that he knew was beyond my means, then went on to hint - ever so subtly - that there was more than one way of paying.
If I refused, of course, then Mother would know the ugly truth.
Faced with this disturbing proposition, and with barely enough pocket-change to clink together, I formed a desperate plan. In my room there was a connecting vent to Cécile's - the things I heard! - that was just big enough to fit my hand through, if I kept it flat. It would fit a wallet...wouldn't it?
I planned the whole thing. The chair beside my pillow, on which the gentleman could lay his clothes - I would see to it that his pockets remained accessible. The vent, just within arm's reach. Depending on the gentleman I'd have perhaps an entire minute when he would be lost to the world, and if I performed the critical manouver at just the right moment, he would never know. All I had to do was slip the money out of the wallet, tuck it under the mattress, then dispose of the wallet itself before anything was noticed.
Towards Cécile I had no pity. She would undoubtedly pay the price for thievery once the wallet was found in her room; even if Madame suspected, I had always been her favourite and she'd been looking for an excuse to dismiss Cécile. I just had to make sure that the gentleman rubbed shoulders with enough girls on his way up that he'd forget which faces he'd seen.
For this reason I waited until a slow night, so lots of girls would be free. I loitered in the recieving-room, waiting for my ideal target - then suddenly I saw him.
He spoke French well, but his accent was pure Etonian English. A tourist, and by the way he was dressed, he had some money to spare. Young and inexperienced. It was clear he'd never been to such a house before. It was also clear that he shouldn't have been in one at all; if he was old enough to enlist in the army then I'm the Queen. He was clearly nervous and plainly drunk, but he carried himself with dignity and a certain fierceness. I began to reconsider my choice - he was clearly not a boy to be crossed.
But then he looked at me, and I knew he wouldn't have any other woman in the place.
I couldn't have been much older than he, but he seemed so much fresher, despite being just a bit sloppy with liquor. As we walked up the stairs I called out, coquettishly, "girls, sisters, come and see the handsome Englishman who's visiting us!" Ten or so of them crowded around him, cooing. He seemed pleased, but not overly flattered. Within a few minutes we had retreated to the sanctuary of my room.
Everything went as planned. I could see from the trembling of his hands that he was a virgin, which meant I would have to act quicker. I laid his clothes on the chair for him, as if I cared that they not be wrinkled. And for a boy his age - well, I have seen many men in a state of undress, and he was one of the finer specimens.
My apprehensions were in vain; I had plenty of time to locate his wallet, wrest it free, and slip it between the slats that led to Cécile's room before it was over. The result was predictable; the fuss, the ranting, the search, the turning-out of Cécile onto the streets. The repayment of the young man from Madame's personal funds.
Cécile died later, the victim of a maniac who idolised Jack the Ripper. Sometimes I wonder if I'm really the one who killed her. Sometimes I wonder if I ought to have heeded the warning in the English boy's eyes - someone not to be trifled with.
I remember the way he looked at me when he walked out of our house. He knew that it was me.
And yet, somehow, he never told.