Bonnie Macbird - Art in the Blood

I took a deep breath and willed myself to be on the alert. As we stepped down from our cab, I glanced up and down the street, but no one stood out in the milling masses.

Inside, after depositing our capes, hats and sticks with a blonde coquette who flashed me a wink and a smile, I reluctantly felt myself swept forward by the arriving crowd down a narrow hallway and up a steep stairway lined with French political cartoons. While the French sense of humour, I’ll admit, is not my own, I was struck by the bitter undertones, the funereal slant of the subject matter, the scorn and the anger beneath the humorous caricatures.

The contrast between the hostess’s inviting smile and the sarcastic political commentary was as unsettling as the tendency of the remarkably varied crowds to, well, push.

And then I got a glimpse of the main room.

My first impression was of utter chaos – the noise, the smoke, a hodgepodge crowd of Parisians of all classes, jammed in like sardines; the walls covered with paintings, posters, ornate cornices, lanterns, bizarre sculptures. An enormous stuffed aquatic creature hung from the ceiling. A porpoise? A giant catfish? I could not be sure.

The crowd was a milling, laughing mass. The noise was oppressive. In one corner were several Swiss Guards. I later learned Le Chat Noir was a social mecca for these odd mercenaries in their startling blue-and-yellow striped Renaissance clothing and white ruffs. A rowdy burst of laughter came from a cluster of them at a far table.

I’d heard of Le Chat Noir of course, but never imagined it would be a place that I would visit. It seemed a madhouse.

Holmes and I pushed our way through the dense crowd towards a couple of empty seats. A bearded ruffian in corduroy abruptly rammed into me, splashing his glass of wine on my waistcoat.

‘I beg your pardon!’ I said. The man stopped in his tracks and turned penetrating dark eyes to my face.

‘ Anglais! ’ he literally spat, the viscous wad narrowly missing my polished boots. ‘ Va te faire foutre, espèce de salaud! On ne veut pas de toi ici! ’ He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

I shot Holmes a questioning look, and he took my arm, guiding me to our seats. I blotted at the wine with my handkerchief, feeling my face turning red from the insult.

‘Sit,’ said Holmes, as we squeezed into two empty seats at the end of a long banquette against a back wall. ‘I see this is your first encounter with the virulent form of anti-English sentiment which has grown over the past years here.’

‘Still angry over Agincourt, I suppose,’ I replied, my dignity ruffled.

‘You do not understand the French,’ he said.

‘No one understands the French!’ I replied. Holmes grinned.

But it was true that there was a flavour to the crowd and the place itself that was impenetrable to my sensibilities. Looking around me, I sensed we were at the epicentre of some cultural movement, but I could not grasp its significance … or its meaning. I felt a bit like the stuffed creature hanging above us – an observer – separate, and quite out of place.

My attention was next drawn to a decorative circular frame enclosing a large translucent screen of some sort on the wall behind the stage. Noticing my puzzlement, Holmes explained. ‘That is the screen of the famous Théâtre d’Ombres , the Shadow Theatre,’ he said. ‘Shadow puppets, figures cut out of zinc, are projected there nightly. The writing is quite amusing. Very popular now.’

‘You’ve seen it, then?’ I wondered.

‘Several times. But, aha! There is the man of the hour.’ He indicated with a nod a tall, handsome fellow in a well-cut suit of European style, sporting a jaunty moustache and gliding effortlessly through the crowd. He was French, from his elegant dress and dark good looks. ‘Exactly whom I expected,’ said Holmes.

The gentleman looked our way, and Holmes nodded in greeting. I thought I detected a flash of annoyance from the man but his face then broke into a charming smile. He bowed mockingly in our direction before taking his seat.

‘Old friend?’ I asked.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ replied Holmes. ‘Is he familiar to you, by chance?’

I studied the man, recognizing nothing. ‘Who is he?’

Before Holmes could answer, a server placed before us two carafes of water, and two curved glasses with a strange green liquid nestled in the lower part of each. A perforated kind of knife balanced across each, with a lump of sugar on top. Holmes paid her and turned to me with a smile, indicating I should pour the water over the sugar. ‘We’ll discuss it later. Now, do give this a taste; it is quite unique. But no more than a single sip, Watson; I need you sharp tonight.’

Absinthe! Was he mad? I watched Holmes add water, and with a stir, the liquid took on an eerie glow. It looked like something one might imagine oozing from under the sea in a Jules Verne novel. Of course I had read of the stuff. The famed concoction was an extreme depressant renowned for its hallucinogenic effects.

‘No thank you, Holmes.’ I pushed my glass away.

He took one sip and did the same. ‘Wise choice,’ he said. ‘I once spent an afternoon at a nearby establishment, working off an absinthe-induced reverie.’ He shrugged. ‘It is worth trying once – in the name of science, of course.’

My attention returned to Holmes’s ‘old friend’. He was seated near the door, engrossed in conversation with a young couple, the girl staring at him in frank admiration. I could see from his gestures and her enraptured expression that he possessed that very particular Gallic charm which was easy to spot and impossible to emulate. What was Holmes’s interest in this man?

I noticed another small group, off to the side, also regarding the Frenchman. There were four men, three very tall and muscular, and a smaller, almost delicate man. There was something quite odd about them. In addition to being clad entirely in black, almost like a group of clerics, they somehow conveyed an air of menace. While the crowds around them laughed and gestured, they remained preternaturally still, their drinks untouched. The smallest man, whose manner subtly commanded the others, made me think of a cat, coiled and waiting at a mouse hole.

I started to point them out to Holmes, but he’d risen and, taking our drinks, crossed the room towards the bar. I observed that the Frenchman kept a careful eye on Holmes while remaining in conversation. His regard caused the group of four to follow his gaze to Holmes. I did not like the look that passed over the small man’s face. It seemed to be recognition, and something more. A chill came over me in the crowded, warm room.

Holmes returned with a carafe of red wine and two fresh glasses.

‘Holmes,’ I began. ‘There are four men over there who seemed very interested to find you here.’

‘The Americans. Yes, I noticed.’

This should not have startled me, but it did.

‘You are referring to the oddly dressed gentlemen in black?’ he smiled. ‘Not exactly your Grand Tour types. They are more interested in our French friend, not me.’

‘And yet they seemed to recognize you,’ I pointed out. ‘Or the small one did.’

‘That is unfortunate,’ said Holmes. ‘It may change our plans slightly.’ He thought for a moment. ‘If there is any trouble, or if I so signal you, escort our client safely away from here and to some place other than her home. Do you understand me?’

‘Of course I understand you,’ I replied peevishly. ‘What is it that you expect to happen?’

But before he could answer, we were drowned out by a loud musical flourish from the small band.

There was an audible murmur of anticipation as our client took the stage.