'La Sirène'

by

Donna Scott

S

he is enchanting. Visitors crowd behind the ropes every day to look at her. Her beauty is simply haunting. Such sad eyes. For a moment they find themselves wondering what could have caused such pain, but then they shake their heads, after all she is only a statue. A quick glance at the placard next to "La Sirène" will tell you that Claude d'Auguste sculpted her at the turn of the last century, that he sold her at auction in the 1950's, and that she is his only known, surviving work. The artist had won the impressive Prix d'Angelo with this piece whilst he was a student at the Acadamie de Paris, but had mysteriously quit the Acadamie shortly after winning the prize, failing to complete the rest of his studies. Until "La Sirène" went to auction, Auguste had shut himself off from the world of art entirely, which was probably just as well seeing as his Academie contemporaries had remembered him as bitterly untalented. To them "La Sirène" had been a bit of a surprise. They reasoned Auguste must have put his soul into that piece, so much so that he could give no more.

Auguste turned up in the museum on the day they pulled off the dustsheets. There was none of the fuss there had been when she had won the prize for him, no advertisement, no press, just the old artist, the new acquisition and three or four half-interested onlookers. The gallery manager was chatting to a student-type about the piece, showing off his expertise. No one spoke to Auguste. The old man leaned on his cane, staring into her face as though he was staring at an old love, newly found again. He hobbled to the ropes, shakily held out his hand to brush her alabaster cheek. It was almost as though he was afraid to touch her. When he did, his hand dropped to his side and he smiled, relieved.

"Ma petite," he whispered. "Finally, you are out. So many years shut up in that dark crate. I was afraid to look at you, afraid to think of you, but I never forgot you." He paused to breathe a moment, his breath rasping in his throat. "Now I am old, so very old. I had to set you free!"

He stared into the statue's eyes, almost as though he was looking for something, his mouth opening and closing.

"Remember, I am very old, heh? I never forgot you. Remember."

Auguste had first met her when as a poor, young student he had scoured the dark back alleys behind the bright lights of the Moulin Rouge for a prostitute. Whores made good, cheap models and if his sketches were flattering he could invariably pay for the sitting and get fucked for free. It was there that he first saw her, when she had not meant to be seen.

She was a diminutive, tiny-waisted creature, full skirts hitched up to reveal a black-stockinged leg entwining the leg of another, held in her arms. "How bold," thought Auguste, believing he was witness to a brazen sex act. He decided to stay and watch, feeling his body react to the idea of pleasure. The girl's hair was shaking loose as the man grasped at it, making muffled, grunting noises. Her face was buried deep into his neck. "She is coiled around him like the very Serpent," Auguste thought, and he began thinking of ways he could work this into an artwork based on the idea of temptation, losing himself in the daydream. What if he invited the couple back to his room? They could share red wine with him as well as their 'free-love'. He imagined them kissing with purple-black tongues and teeth, whilst he watched from the corner, frantically sketching.

The girl began rocking her body against her client’s. Now she was the one moaning, whilst the man grew quiet. His hand, caught in her hair, dropped suddenly. Gasping, she pulled away, swaying slightly. The man fell against her bosom, then slid down her body, to the floor. Auguste came out of his trance just as the girl turned in sudden realisation to her witness. Her mouth was smeared bright red with blood.

The two figures stood there a few seconds, shocked and breathless. Auguste was puzzled. Had the man hurt her? Was he dead? What had she done? "I must help," he thought, and half-moved towards her. She stepped back herself, her eyes pleading. Her skirts brushed the man's head as Auguste neared the feet. Auguste looked down. The man was obviously dead. His skin was bluish-white and his eyes were open, his last moments captured in his expression, the shock of pleasure turning to pain and death. Then Auguste saw the mess she had made of his throat. He looked at the girl, beads of blood dripping from her lips, those lips that had promised that man sweet kisses. How could such a slip of a girl have done that? Despite the fact that the Dracula book was all the rage amongst the students it took a while for him to think of vampires, but even then, he did not run. Strangely, he did not feel afraid.

Slowly, Auguste extended a hand. Like a doe, she started, tripping and falling back against the alley wall. She pressed herself there, as if she were trying to melt away into the bricks. Auguste could almost smell her fear. He bristled with the sense of power it gave him. She closed her eyes, turning her face against the wall. Her fear made her beautiful, like a wild animal when first subdued. He saw her as the butterfly on the end of his pin.

She sobbed as he grabbed her, pinning her arms against the wall. He studied her, kneading the soft, warm flesh of her arms though her sleeves with his fingers. What sort of nonsense creature was she? She may have been a vampire, but she had the body of a fourteen-year-old girl, and all the physical frailty that went with it. How could someone who had just slain a man seem so weak?

“Child, you make a feeble sort of monster. Look, you haven’t even the strength to push me away. How in God’s name did you manage to kill a grown man?” The girl looked down to the floor.

“Answer me!” Auguste slapped her face.

“Please, no!” she cried. She lifted her eyes up to him, pleading. “He came to me willingly.”

What astonishing eyes she had. The irises shimmered like shot silk, like oil on water. You could fall into those eyes. You could swim in their blue forever, and ever… Auguste blinked, and pulled his face away.

“Yes, you’re quite a bewitching creature, aren’t you? Quite the siren.”

The breeze tickled the back of his neck. He glanced about the alleyway. It would not be good idea to be seen here. Not only was there a corpse on the floor, but it would also look like he was intimidating a girl. And what if anyone should take offence to him threatening a vampire?

“Tell me,” he said. “Are there any more creatures like yourself around? Anyone looking for you?”

The girl shook her head. “I have been abandoned. My master is tired of me. I thought that man might help me, but that wasn’t what he wanted.” She lowered her eyes. “And I did need a little blood. Just a little. Only now, I feel I may have had too… much…”

She fell into a faint, against Auguste’s stomach. Auguste could feel her cold and clammy forehead through his shirt. Her skin was slimy with pale, pink sweat. Auguste’s reason was telling him to drop her and run, but he fought against it. She was very pretty, and she was weak, controllable. What would happen if he took her home? This ‘master’ didn’t want her and she was a vampire. Who would miss her?

He stroked her hair as she came round. “Ma petite. Do you see? I am still here. You can trust me. You said you wanted that man to help you. How?”

She gulped. “I need somewhere to stay, away from the sun. I don’t know where my master has brought me, I, I don’t know where to hide.”

“Right, it is decided. You can stay with me. I will look after you. Allez-hup!” He pulled her roughly to her feet, pulling at her hair.

“Aiee!” she squealed. Auguste slapped his arm round her shoulder, then grabbed her jaw and pinched her face towards his, grinning maniacally.

"Don't be afraid," he whispered. "I won't hurt you. Not unless you make me. Understand?"

The girl nodded. He marched her out of the alleyway, his fingers gripping her arms on both sides. To an onlooker they would have appeared to be lovers. Before they emerged onto the street, Auguste paused and took a handkerchief from his pocket. He wet it with spittle and dabbed the blood from the vampire's mouth.

"I will look after you," he repeated, and kissed her forehead before taking her in his arms again.

The crowds were just coming out of the theatres. Leery men jostled past, heading for the bars and brothels. Auguste and the girl were caught up in the melee of people and the stink of horses, beer and tobacco. The girl winced at the brightness of the lights and the noise, tucking her head against Auguste's shoulder. He hailed a cab, and they climbed in. He patted her head as she shrank into the seat beside him.

The cab halted outside the bakers in rue de la Gating. Auguste occupied the attic space in the same building. It was cheap, filthy accommodation, but ideal for this artist, a stone's throw away from the Moulin Rouge and the various cafés frequented by students.

Auguste bustled the girl up the rickety staircase, noticing Madame Marin, the baker's wife, eyeing them through a crack in her door on the first floor landing as they went past. "Interfering busybody," he thought. "No doubt she will moan to me about this in the morning."

They entered his room, and Auguste locked the door behind them, hooking the keys onto his waistband. The girl blinked as she looked around her. A mess of papers littered the floor. The ceiling sloped down to an unmade bed with huge, yellow stains on the pillow. Packing cases served as impromptu desks and tables, strewn with pipe tobacco and empty glasses. Finally she saw that someone had managed to lug a block of white stone, as tall as her shoulders, up to the attic and this dominated the room along with the awful, acrid smell, a mixture of stale tobacco, mildew, sweat and the vinegary ghost of old wine. Auguste lit a candle and stepped towards her. "Now let me look at you."

"No," she sobbed, flinching. "It hurts."

"All right, all right." Auguste lowered the candle and placed it on a table behind him. "Tell me your name." The girl just blinked at him. "Your name," he repeated. "What do they call you?"

She was silent. Auguste sighed, and shrugged his shoulders. He had brought nameless girls to his room before. He quite liked them like that. They were blank pages for his fantasies. This girl may have been a vampire, but she was still only a girl. You had to remind these creatures how weak they were. Without warning, he tore at her dress, pulling down her sleeves. The girl gasped. Her arms were trapped in the fabric. "Be quiet," Auguste warned, holding his hand up to her face. Her sleeves hung limply about her waist. "That's enough, I think," he said, standing back to view his model. Her hair was as red as fox fur, her skin the texture and colour of first-fired bisque china. She was so very doll-like, so still. Subtleties of movement, such as trembling, were missing. "Stay exactly as you are," he instructed and took up some paper and charcoal. Throughout the night, Auguste made sketch after sketch of her in her chemise and petticoats. Unsatisfied, he then stripped her of further layers, exposing her bud nipples. He paid attention to details, the line of her arms, her collarbone. However, none of the sketches had captured what he wanted, and he threw them to the floor. It had been a long night, and he was tired. The sun would be rising soon. He knew what this would mean.

"Ma petite, it is late, or rather early. I must sleep now, and so must you, but I fear you cannot share my bed, more's the pity. Now let's see. Where can I put you?"

He put her to rest in one of the packing cases. It did not look as comfortable as a satin-lined coffin, but it would do. The girl had to half lie on her side, with her legs tucked under her, but there was room for a bed sheet, all that Auguste was willing to sacrifice from his own bed. Auguste pushed the lid-end against the wall, so that it would not fall open and expose the girl to what sunlight could force its way though the window shutters. It would also stop her from getting out.

Auguste woke up only a few hours later. He still felt tired, but he knew from the stinging behind his eyes that he would not be able to fall back to sleep comfortably. The morning sunlight had filtered into the room through the battered shutters, illuminating the red lettering on the side of the box. "Of course," he thought. "She is still in there. And there she can stay."

He pulled a chair up to the case, and used it like a table to sort through the previous evening's sketches. "I have been too hard on myself," he thought. "I can easily work from these sketches. Ah, but if only I had done more work on the face. Oh well, never mind. I can concentrate on that tonight."

They missed him in the café that day. Auguste felt inspired. He worked through his fatigue. As dusk fell, the square block that stood in his room was beginning to look more like a sculpture in progress. Auguste had been working on it all day, forgoing food, drink and fresh air, but this meant nothing to him. He didn't even realise how late he had worked until he heard the girl tapping on the inside of the packing case. She was awake.

He bent to pull the box from the wall. Scratch, scratch, scratch. He paused. Scratch, scratch. Was she trying to claw her way out? A fearful thought trickled into his mind. She was a vampire, a killer. What would she do when he let her out? What if she felt stronger today?

A heavy thud on the door interrupted his thoughts. A voice shrieked"Auguste!" It was Madame Marin from the bakery downstairs, his landlady. "What are you doing in there Auguste? Let me in!"

"What on Earth do you want?" Auguste opened the door.

Madame Marin stood with her hands on her ample hips. She pushed her face into the room, trying to peer past Auguste, then elbowing him out of the way. Her face was screwed up.

"How did she get out? Through the window? Or is she still here, hiding under the bed perhaps?"

She rushed to the bed and threw it up, but there was nothing there except for grime, at which she tut-tutted before wiping her hands on her skirt. "Madame, what are you doing?"

Auguste feigned puzzlement, scratching his head. "I saw you. You brought a girl up here last night, and I have not seen her leave. I don't approve of the whores you bring back, Monsieur, especially if they are getting a free roof over their heads."

Auguste laughed. "Surely you haven't been watching my door? What of your work in the bakery?"

"It is a Sunday, Monsieur, not that I expect a godforsaken, worthless piece of, you know, like you to notice. We only open for an hour on Sundays. I have been at home, all day, by myself, with nothing to listen to but your relentless banging."

Auguste smirked. "You mean the noise of my work, of course. I am working on a new sculpture you know."

"I don't care what it is you were doing. All day it's all I hear. Bang, bang, bang! And I have not seen that girl leave either."

She folded her arms across her massive bosom. "So where is she?"

Auguste was halfway through saying "I haven't got the faintest idea what you are talking about," when he saw Madame Marin's expression change form anger to concern. She had heard the scratching noises.

"What was that?"

"Sounds to me like mice. Probably after the bread from your bakery. They are not so fussy, mice."

"I heard it in this room," she said, puzzled. "It seemed to come from over here." She pointed at the wall behind the case. She went over and pressed her ear against the wall. She was too close now. If the girl scratched again, she would know where the sound had come from, but to Auguste's relief she came away.

"I tell you, Auguste, you are very lucky to have such a fine room for the poor money you give me. No doubt your family is rich, but they must be disappointed in you for being an..." she made a dismissive gesture towards the unfinished sculpture and hissed the word "artist."

"And you are a wonderful landlady, Madame Marin." Auguste could barely hide his sarcasm.

"I am indeed grateful to you for your many acts of kindness." Madame Marin narrowed her eyes.

"Why are you being so civil all of a sudden? Aha! The girl! She is still in here somewhere isn't she?"

"Do you really have nothing else with which to occupy your time. Where is Monsieur Marin? Why don't you go and chew his ear off for a change?"

"She exhaled slowly. "Monsieur Marin is out. It is a Sunday and God help him he is out drinking and gambling. I shan't see hide nor hair of the fool until his money runs out. He is my husband and I answer to him. But you, young man, are my lodger, and you must answer to me. Now where is she?"

It was not going to be easy to get rid of her. Auguste could tell that she was looking around the room to see where else a girl might hide. It would not be long before she approached the case. Her eyes rested there now. "Alas, you have me, Madame. The girl is here."

"I knew it, I knew it! Where is she? Hang on, where are you going?"

"I am making my escape, Madame." Auguste picked up a chisel from the floor. "You will soon make your discovery and call the Gendarmes, so I am going now."

"The Gendarmes? What for?"

"The banging noises you have heard all day were made as I dismembered the poor girl's body, with this."

Madame Marin gasped as Auguste held the chisel up to her face. "Don't look so amazed, Madame. I did it for Art. Her bloody remains are in that case, if you care to look. But don't think of following me, or else you will share the same fate. Adieu."

He closed the door behind him, and leaped down the stairwell, crouching at the bottom. He made a poor actor, but Madame Marin would still not be able to resist taking a peek inside the case. If all she found was what she thought to be a half-naked whore, he would still have to deal with her wrath later.

However, if she found a hungry vampire, well, he didn’t like her very much anyway. The sound of dragging furniture ensued, then voices, followed by muffled cries. Auguste waited until the noise had abated before returning to his room. He opened the door, and saw the girl sitting on the floor in distress, clutching Madame Marin's body.

"I have killed her," she cried "I have killed her!"

"And this surprises you?" Auguste looked baffled. "You killed the man last night. You are a vampire. They die. That's what happens isn't it?"

"No, you don't understand. She pulled the crate away from the wall and set me free. Her face went all red and she clutched at her chest. Then she just fell over. Now she's dead."

"Oh," said Auguste. "It must have been her heart. In that case I'm still not surprised. She was quite fat, as you can see."

The girl started rocking the body like a baby, red tears rolling down her cheeks. "Oh, the poor lady." A thought re-occurred to Auguste.

"Petite, are you hungry? Do you need blood?" The girl shook her head, still rocking the body.

"Do you know when you will be?" Again she shook her head. "Poor lady," she repeated.

"Oh, never mind the poor lady. I can't say that I will miss that awful Picardy accent," he grimaced.

"And I doubt if Monsieur Marin will be heartbroken either. Come on, let's get her out of here." He helped the girl to her feet, and together they hauled up the fat corpse. They moved Madame Marin to her own apartment downstairs and left her in a chair. Monsieur Marin could deal with all that.

Auguste continued to keep the girl in his room, using her as a model for his sketches. She was an ideal pet really, didn't seem to need feeding, did exactly as she was told, never whined to be set free, and unlike most mortal women, she kept her tongue still. Auguste did not bother to ask her name again. She was "Ma petite" when he felt affectionate, "Salope" when he took out his frustrations on her. When he felt amorous, she was "Ma petite" again, but sometimes "Ma putain", my whore. She was deliciously silent when he fucked her. It was almost as though she had been made for his pleasure. Eventually, Auguste got to thinking of her as his slave, and although he wondered for a time what sort of vampire she would have made if he did not keep her, he never bothered to find out. She was a weak thing who seemed to need a man to rule her. At the end of every night, he put her away in her box and she stayed there all day while he went out to drink with his student friends. He had t! orn up her clothes and burned them in his little stove one cold night. “You shall need them no more,” he had said. He liked to keep her naked. Her beautiful hair never once saw a brush, and grew into wild, matted clumps. In time he did regard her as a human, let alone a vampire.

However, despite the fact that he had captured his own little muse, Auguste's work was not going so well. He found that he was having great trouble trying to emulate her unearthly beauty. Even the statue, for which he had initially held such great hopes, was beginning to look like a grotesque parody of the female form. His hands were failing him, and worse, his problems were not going unnoticed at the Academie.

"Did you hear? Old Gascon has nominated Maubois here for the Angelo prize." This was the first thing he heard on entering the café one day. Maubois was a fellow student, unmistakably brilliant, and damn it, popular too. That is, popular with everyone except Auguste, who had hoped to be up for the prize himself. He could certainly have done with the money. Everyone was going up to Maubois in the café and patting him on the back, but Auguste wished he had a knife in his fist as he offered weak congratulations.

"Please don't jump the gun. I haven't won anything yet," smiled the blushing nominee. If there was one thing Auguste hated more than a popular, brilliant, rival artist, it was one who was modest with it. He left the café in disgust. Back at his lodgings, Auguste opened the door and was greeted by the sickly features of the statue. If he had time, he could improve it, but Maubois's statue was ready now. He had probably already won, unless... The Prix d'Angelo could not be awarded posthumously.

Maubois was a real innocent, and didn't seem to have any feelings of rivalry towards his fellow students. So, when Auguste asked him for help and advice, he readily accompanied him back to his room. The sun was just setting and the gaudy, orange light picked out all the faults on the statue's quirky face. Maubois laughed and shook his golden-curled head. He looked like an Angelo sculpture himself. Auguste wished he could believe the cynical thought that occurred to him that Gascon might have nominated him because he fancied him. "Is this the sculpture you intend to submit? I can see it needs a lot of work, but I think you can save it."

"Well, it was," began Auguste. "But I did start another, which is inside this case. I wanted your opinion as to which I should submit."

"Right, let's take a look at it."

"No, not just yet." Auguste wanted to stall the moment until the sun had completely set. Twenty minutes would suffice.

"Glass of wine?"

The wine was a Châteauneuf-du-pape, bloody and sweet, almost black in colour. Its velvet tongue lulled Maubois, while Auguste talked of the pretty girls in his hometown of Pau in the south. Maubois hardly noticed the darkness in the room.

"Help me with this case then," said Auguste. Maubois put his glass down on the floor, and helped to pull the box, which was lighter than he thought. He overbalanced, knocking over the glass, spilling a thick pool of red-black wine. Muttering apologies, he turned round to Auguste. There she was.

She had emerged from the box naked. Her skin was so pale and luminescent, that Maubois would have believed she was a statue if it were not for the wild, glassy eyes and the shock of auburn hair, matted like snakes. Still, she was beautiful, and Maubois couldn't help but reach out and touch her. She gazed into his eyes as he smoothed her skin. She put her bare arms around his rough coat, pulling him closer.

"Good girl, ma petite. You want him, he wants you. But you want him more. Go on, bite him. Drink his blood. He is yours." The girl turned her face and looked at Auguste imploringly, shaking her head.

"Yes, you will!" Auguste held up his hand. "Remember what you are."

"What the?" Maubois began, but it was too late. The girl sank her teeth into his throat, and he let out a moan. He did not resist. He pulled her body closer. She was gentle with him, like a suckling lamb.

Auguste became annoyed. "Finish him! Drain him!" he cried, as the girl pulled away from his neck. Maubois was blissfully unaware of the blood pouring form his throat. His head lolled back as though he had been drugged.

"Please, no. You promised you would look after me."

"And I will if you don't swallow every last drop of his blood. I'll look after you all right. I'll stick you out in the sun. Your choice. Blood or the sun."

A crimson tear fell down her cheek. "So now you are tired of me and want me no more. Very well. If I must choose, then I choose blood." She took the beautiful boy in her arms once more and drank. As his heart slowed to almost nothing, she withdrew her fangs, and he slipped to the floor, dead. His death had been quick, but the girl's suffering was just beginning.

All that mortal blood inside her began a battle, erupting like fire in her stomach. She crouched in pain. Then, she sobbed as the blood began to seep from her pores. It dripped from her nails, ran in streams from her eyes and nose. Her hair was soon soaked through, lying flat against her neck. She tried to speak, but her throat was filled with blood and emitted a horrible, gargling noise. Auguste looked on in horror as the blood swirled and seeped into the floorboards, mixing with the wine already spilled there. The girl made a few, pitiful steps towards Auguste, her hands outstretched, her eyes full of anguish, but then she ceased. She would move no more. She was as stone.

The old man sighed, leaning heavily on his cane. “No, I never forgot you,” he said. “Sometimes, I have thought about you, wondered if you are still alive, in there. But now after all this time, I think not. No, you are not alive, are you? Wouldn’t be much of a life, would it? Trapped inside that box for decades. Still, my Sirène is free now. I can’t keep you to myself any longer. I needed the money anyway. Oh well, I will leave you in peace now, ma petite. Adieu.” Auguste slowly turned his back and hobbled out of the gallery. As he walked out of the room, the statue’s eyes watched his back. Then they stared at the empty doorway.

If you wish to see her, then you must leave France and travel to Wolverhampton. "La Sirène" is in the gallery there on loan from the Musée de Pau, who first bought her back in the fifties. Go and look. You will wonder at her beauty, how the artist could have achieved such rare perfection, but she will give away nothing. She is only a statue.

 


******* (c) Donna Scott, All Rights Reserved

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