Dance of Time

I had forgotten about this lithe body of mine whilst I was lost in my mind, but needs must, and my body has needs. Personally speaking I could have slept for another fifty more years – albeit in a secure unit provided by my good friend Jamieson, who is a respected professor in a certain ‘under the radar’ interest – but the time has come to rise.

Let me introduce myself.  I am Alain.  Well, that is the name you shall know me as, an alias if you will.   I believe names have power hence my alias.  No one has power over me any more, and that is the way I like it.   Are you curious yet, I mean about me?   I have yet to meet a person that is not enthralled by my wit, charm and presence.   If truth be known I would rejoice in meeting such a person.   Maybe this time.   If you have not noticed by now I do like to chatter on.   I learned that little trick many moons ago and it has stood me in good stead for getting what I want.

The fresh night air, the sensation of coldness caressing the flesh, I had almost forgotten how good it is.   I revel in the senses, it means I have life.   You know, that commodity we all have that some don’t make the most of?   The moon is staring down at me, she knows.   Secrets.   Well my lunar Goddess bathe me in your golden rays…bliss.   She will never tell.
I am not a complete stranger.   Some of you already know me, we have danced once upon a dream and perhaps we shall dance again soon.   Do not fret, your secret is safe with me.    I have such adventures to tell if you will lend me your ear?

As I sit here in the moonlight reminiscing of times gone by I am reading one of my old journals.   The cover is battered with time but the leather still holds my words safe within.   It is time to tell my story to the world, I have a desire to open your eyes.

Sit yourself down and open that beautiful mind.   Let us begin with a particular moment in time.   A moment in time shared with Patience…

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The year was 1783 and after a very busy time amongst the hustle and bustle of London I decided to take a sabbatical in the quaint seaside town called Brighton in good old Blighty.   Early Autumn was my favourite time of year, the changing of the seasons.   England had endured a very wet summer, more so than usual and it was good to get away from the Capital city.   I had taken to sitting by the seafront on the promenade watching the sun set over the sea.   Moments like these lifted my spirit.   In modern parlance I was partaking of ‘me time’.   The sea was glistening as it swallowed up the sun on the horizon and I was lost in the effect.   Mother Nature, as always, had captured my awe.

As I sat pondering to myself the lamp lighter was going about his business, lighting the street lamps that lined the promenade, each lamp casting a flickering glow breaking up the descending darkness.   It seemed the little seaside town took on another character once the sun set.   I watched as Hansom cabs passed by on King’s Road full of gentry on their way to the theatre, or perhaps to a well known restaurant.   Brighton had become a fashionable resort and the Prince Regent (who later became King George IV) spent much of his leisure time in this town.   Now, it was graced with the patronage of well to do folk.   I still remember when this town was burnt to the ground by French raiders during a war between England and France in 1514.   It was a very different place back then.

I took a walk along the promenade, taking in the fashions of the day.   Looking at the ladies in all their finery with their gentlemen by their side.   Oh, what beautiful creatures in their silk taffeta and other luxurious materials, outshining their male counterparts.   Like wonderful walking works of art.
Did I envy these people?   These couples?   In a way, yes.   They had something I could never have.   At the very least they had companionship.   On the other hand, they were so moralistic that they conformed to the ‘norm’, albeit in public.   I was privy to many a tale of debauchery and decadence.   For the most part my lips are sealed as regards such things.

I stopped for a while leaning against the iron railings looking out to sea.   I heard a shrill laugh behind me quickly followed by a male voice telling the laugh to ‘shush’.   I looked around and stood behind me was a husband, wife and daughter.   The daughter was a teenager who appeared to be quite wilful and her laugh had turned into a giggle.   Her father apologised to me for the invasion of my privacy, but I assured him no harm had been done.   He gathered his daughter and wife and walked away.   To my surprise the wife looked back at me and smiled.   Well, her lips smiled but her eyes did not.   I watched them walk into the distance, she did not look back again.

Something inside me stirred, something that I needed to act upon.   I followed them making sure not to be noticed. They made their way to the Old Ship Hotel and entered the building as I watched from across the road before making my way back to the pier where I sat for a long while, my thoughts on the woman with the sad eyes.   There was something about her that had awoken my interest.   I made my mind up there and then that I would seek her out one way or another.

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It was 4am before I returned to my lodgings.   Luckily Mrs Jenson, the guesthouse owner had no strict rules about what time of night (or morning) her guests came back to the house.   This was one of the reasons I decided to stay in this quaint abode.   She issued each of us with our own keys to the front door so we were free to come and go as we pleased.   My room was cosy and inviting, although I wasn’t too keen on the decor.   It was obvious that the choice of wallpaper (even though barely lit by the glow of the gas lamp) was chosen by a female.   Pink, white and flowery.   But the bed was nice and comfortable which made for a good sleep.   My head sunk into the pillow with thoughts of the woman with sad eyes as I fell into slumber.

A knock on my door woke me up, followed by Mrs Jenson’s shrill voice informing me that dinner was being served.   I mumbled an acknowledgement and went about refreshing myself.   I thought of last night.   It was no wonder the young girl on the pier couldn’t stifle her sniggering.   The mirror reflected back to me an image that even now did not fit in with this modern era.   For all my confidence and presence my skin was still very pale and people noticed this. From this white mask of a face shone eyes the brightest of blue and the whole vision was crowned with long, straight white hair.   Yegads! Many a time I had been called a freak, which had become rather tedious to me.   There were times where people were repulsed by my appearance, but my charisma always won them over.    No ugliness to me, just a ‘difference’.

The old dark wood encased clock on the sideboard chimed with the melody of tiny bells, signifying it was now five p.m.   A quick check of my outfit and down to the dining room I went.   The aroma played with my senses and my mouth watered.

“Lamb stew Mr Ziane…” shrilled Mrs Jenson “I hope you like it”.

I took my seat by the table next to an elderly chap whose name I found out later was Edward.   He was a longstanding tenant at the guesthouse.   Edward was a widower, his wife died some twenty years ago and now he was living out the rest of his days by the seaside for the fresh air.   Opposite me at the table sat Mr Broome, who worked in one of the hotels on the promenade.   Thirty-five years old yet looked ten years older.   I could tell he was a worrier.   Next to him sat Mr Steel, a timid looking creature if ever I saw one.   He avoided eye contact and was very pensive.   We sat in relative silence as we ate our stew.   One thing I can say for Mrs Jensen, she was a great cook and liked to look after her gentlemen guests.   Her being a widow I suppose it helped keep the loneliness away.

I walked out onto the street and felt the crisp cold air of an Autumn evening greet me.   I made my way to the promenade for a leisurely stroll by the sea front.   People sauntered by me, some not hiding the fact that they were staring but I was used to this and as was usual I tilted my head, touching the rim of my hat to them in a friendly gesture.   Ten minutes later I found myself across the road from the Hotel where the family from the previous night were staying.   With hindsight I should have booked myself a room there but I was keeping a low profile on this visit. I concentrated on the sad eyed woman, attempting to ascertain her whereabouts.   My senses informed me they were nearby (yes, this is a personal talent of mine).   I walked by the side of the Hotel onto the main street and came to a rather audacious restaurant.   I glanced through the windows then made my way to the entrance.   I was greeted by the doorman asking if I had a reservation, as he looked me up and down.   A quick glance in his eyes, a large monetary tip and he was showing me to a table by the front of the restaurant.   A waiter offered me a menu, bowed and then left me to my own company.

Ah, there it was again, that laughter.   My eyes followed the sound and settled on a couple of tables down to the right of me where sat the family with the teenage daughter.   Her father was becoming a little irate and the woman was holding her silk handkerchief to her mouth doing her best not to blush with embarrassment.   Suddenly there was a flurry of skirt as the daughter got to her feet and ran towards the entrance, almost knocking her chair over as she did so.   The father stood up, told his wife to stay seated.   He then made his apologies to the other diners before chasing after his wayward child.   The woman looked distraught and her face was flushed deeply.   She nervously touched the silver cutlery in front of her, as though arranging it neatly.   She must have wanted the ground to swallow her up, poor thing.   For a brief moment she looked up and I caught her gaze, which caused her to drop the knife she was fiddling with onto the floor.   I dashed to her side, picking the knife up and called the waiter to the table to replace it. The poor woman looked as if she was about to weep uncontrollably.   I assured her that everything would be okay and although it was the height of bad manners I sat down at the table telling her I would stay with her until her husband came back.   Some of the other patrons of the restaurant stared at us, tutting loudly.   Yet again the woman was mortified, but this time at such a lack of manners from the other diners and, if truth be known, she worried about her reputation.   I shrugged it off and trying to lighten the mood made a joke about people being uptight and too judgemental.

We conversed for a while and she told me her name was Patience, Mrs Patience Evans.   Married to Mr Randolph Evans.   Their daughter’s name was Elizabeth.   Twenty years married and Mr Evans had his own haberdashery business.   The town of Appleton in Berkshire was their home and they were on a month’s vacation to catch the sea air.   As we chatted Patience became more relaxed and even let out an occasional giggle when I told her an amusing anecdote or two.   Twenty minutes had gone by before her husband returned.   In a gentlemanly manner I stood to greet him explaining how fraught Mrs Evans had become and thought it wise to accompany her until his return.   We shook hands in a cordial way and I made my excuses to take my leave.   He kept hold of my hand insisting I join them for something to eat as a form of apology for his daughter’s behaviour the night before.   After much beckoning to sit down I hesitantly agreed to his request.   I asked where their daughter was.   Apparently Mr Evans had taken her back to the hotel leaving her in the capable hands of her tutor Mrs Blainthropp.   A pleasant couple of hours we spent, with good food (even though I had already feasted on Mrs Jensen’s lamb stew) and partaking of the finest brandy.   By the end of the evening Mr Evans insisted I call him Randolph and it would seem we were on the way to becoming good friends.

Later that evening standing by the restaurant entrance we bid each other goodnight before I turned to walk in the opposite direction to them.   I stopped in my tracks when Randolph shouted to me.   He asked me if I would mind taking his wife sight-seeing the following day as he had some business to attend to.   I acted as if I didn’t think it proper but he kept insisting he thought it was a good idea.   I mentioned his daughter might not like it but he assured me that she would not be joining us as she was with her tutor.   After much consideration I agreed to chaperone his wife and would meet her in the hotel reception at two p.m.   A shake of the hands and Randolph and Patience began their short walk back to the hotel.

I continued on my journey down a side street away from the promenade.   This part of Brighton wasn’t known to the majority of holiday makers, but it was well-known to the residents.   Number 516, big dark wood door with an ornate golden doorknocker in the shape of a lion’s head.   I knocked on the door and could hear the footsteps of someone approaching.   Locks rattled and the door opened with a whine.   Before me stood a giant of a man, dark-skinned and rugged looking, the type you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alleyway.

“Mr Ziane!  Nice to see you.   Business trip?   Please…come in” the rugged man husked.

The warmth from the hallway warmed my bones and I made my way into the lobby of the building.   The rugged man gestured for me to take a seat on the purple chaise longue by the wood panelled wall and asked if I would like a drink while I waited.   I opted for a brandy.   Undoing my jacket and removing my hat I looked around.   Nothing had changed since my last visit here over a year ago.   The same black and white tiled floor with the dark red Persian rug in the middle of it, the fanciful paintings of girls in various stages of undress.   The potted weeping figs in the alcoves, which had grown quite large.   Obviously they were being well-tended and watered.   Lighting not too bright, which is what I preferred and such a feeling of homeliness here.   Smiling I took a cigarette from the silver case in my jacket pocket and absent mindedly lit it while I reminisced of my last visit here.

“Oh, oh, oh!   Monsieur Ziane… such a pleasant surprise!”  exclaimed a deep sensual voice.

“Ah…Monique!   How are you ma chere?   Looking as delightful as ever” I replied.
Monique embraced me, kissing me on my lips.   Holding me at arm’s length she looked me up and down and nodded approvingly, before kissing me again.   The rugged man apologised for interrupting then handed me a crystal cut glass filled with the finest brandy.

“Come, come, sit down next to me, tell me what you have been up to.    We have missed you!”  Monique cooed.

We sat on the chaise longue, next to each other.   I offered Monique a cigarette, she didn’t decline.   After taking a long drag of it she hugged me tightly.   There were no airs and graces here.

“Well then sir, what has brought you to our part of the world this time?   Tell me, are you on the trail of some wayward politician?”  She winked at me as she stifled a giggle.

A certain look of mine and she abruptly changed the subject of conversation.

After a while Monique went over to the rugged man and whispered in his ear.   He duly departed leaving us alone once again.   She promised me I would have an enjoyable evening and not to stay away so long in future.   The door which Monique had entered from earlier now opened and one by one there came a bevy of beautiful women.

I sighed at their beauty.   Only the best in this establishment.   I recognised five of them, amongst them was Elena, a tall raven haired beauty who had made my last visit here one to be remembered.   She winked at me seductively.   I walked towards the girls, taking in their heavenly scents, feasting on their scantily clad bodies.   My lips curled up into a hungry smile.   They stood there as if soldiers waiting the scrutinisation of their general.   Eight of them, so Monique had three new girls, business must be good.   One by one I introduced myself to the new girls, who in turn gave me their names.   Patricia, Cora and Lydia.   Cora and Lydia were twins, identical twins.   I motioned to Monique who asked me which one was the lucky one.   She laughed when I said I would take the three new girls. Choice made, the rugged man ushered the remainder of the beauties back into the other room.   I took Monique to one side.   Reaching into my jacket pocket I retrieved my wallet.   She tutted and told me to put my money away.   The girls would be her treat for me and again she hugged me.

“Ladies, be prepared for some serious fun, I’m ravenous tonight!”   I jovially informed the girls as Patricia led me up the stairs, closely followed by the sweet blonde twins…