Black, White and Blues (story by Vanna Vechian)

The city: Paris

The time: Circa 1930s

Please enjoy this erotic tale by my long-time partner-in-crime, Vanna Vechian.

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It still feels like a forbidden act. Jean-Pierre, the man I live with, is out and I know he is not coming back tonight. He has his secrets and is open about it. I was once a good Catholic girl and still feel guilty when I steal away from our empty apartment, empty of him, and come here. As if it were the only thing I do that a Catholic girl would not! The little club in this side street of a wet and dreary alley is warm, full and filled with chatter. Delightful! And smoke, of every substance one can light, burn and inhale. The piano desperately plays 'Wolverine Blues'. After the dozen or so visits I have made here, I am greeted and cheered by crowds of men and women alike who are not terribly discriminate. I love them!

I have done well in dolling myself up. Not like the lady I should be, nor like the whore I am not. Imagine something in between. Purple stockings, garter belt and brassière - the best, the finest from Mme. Fauxprince in a positively naughty colour! Heavenly blue chemise, and hard blue silky dress and ankle boots. Pearl necklace and earrings. Lush purple flower in my hair and I am done. No, I practically submerge myself into my perfume, enough to make a rock fall for me.

I find a seat at the front of the stage. Ah, they know my credit and I have to only to wink. On comes a bottle of cheap and cheerful champagne and a smoking pipe with the haze of opium. A bit of both and I hardly notice the charming no-good with the look of a god in decline that sits beside me. He holds my hand. I ignore him.

"Someday he'll come along, the man I love!" Oh, that voice is so seductive! It is so strong and tender, and so relentlessly softly draws me in. Drawn into the world of love, of loves past, present and future. My man! I am oblivious when I press my hand into my lap, crushing the dress, and close my thighs. Yet it is a woman that sings. She is the subject of my desire. Back home they would despise her, that black thing like chocolate. All I know is that she is one woman, with the voice of a sweet world-wise angel.

I have sat with her before, after her performance. She spoke French with an accent, slowly, languidly and, anyway, she said little in that wondrous low and high woman's voice. The other times she just lazily smiled at me, before being taken away by other admirers. Tonight she will sit with me again, if my stars are right, and I shall surely help them.

For the moment her singing and the understated, but theatrical style of delivery spellbind me. Her dress is simple, silver and skin-tight, following, accentuating her detailed movements. Ah! Glitter, song and feminine appeal, all in the haze of champagne and opium.

When silence falls after the closing notes from the piano, I hardly notice when she descends from the stage, stands there for a moment and decides to approach my table. She waves the punk next to me away and sits down in his place.

"Bonsoir, ma belle." Without asking she takes my bottle of champagne and pours her mouth full, not caring about the inevitable spill. I should compliment her on her ravishing performance, but it seems inappropriate. Instead I offer her my pipe. She inhales deeply. "Merci." It is she that now takes my hand. "Let's not talk, shall we? Let's just sit for now." And we sit. Alone together, but for her warm hand, a lifeline.

Another bottle and another pipe.

Then she whispers, "choisissez un homme." I hear, but do not understand. "Pick a man, pick one you like. We'll need one." We'll need a man. Yes. One. Of course. We would need one, wouldn't we? Now, which one? The punk who held my hand? No, sir. There are limits. Not many are alone, whether in the company of wives or hookers. The fat, sad man over there? He is well dressed, but too fat and old for my taste. Then I look at her and say, 'The pianist. Let’s have him.' If she is surprised, she does not show it. She laughs. 'My, can't you see he is busy? Not only that, but I have him every night. He is my husband. But I am not mean. Let’s have him. He is very good with his hands! A little more patience, though. Two or three more tunes and he will be done." We wait at the table and watch him play. I don't know why I picked him. Nor why she picked him, when she did. The reason may be the same. He is as pale as she is dark, his face is a mask, as expressionless as hers is expressive. Tragedy and comedy, these two. His hands are expressive, yes, cavorting along the keys like young animals. The music they make is spirited, so the man himself will have a spirit. Let the masked man surprise me. The finale he plays is understated, subtle and then he makes to get up. My accomplice hisses, "Go on then, why don't you arrest him before he finds other company."

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We make our way out of the bar, into the fresh air outside. Fresh alright, but spoilt city air in quality. Sobering in two ways, if not for the strength of our affliction. We walk hand in hand, she in the middle. What will he be thinking? Is he, are they used to this? And what is 'this'? Am I used to it? Of course. We all are. These are the times and this is us.

Their habitat is just a few turns away in another alley. A slum outside, she ushers us into some version of heaven. He, the pianist, holds my hand now. The room is warm. She lights a few candles and releases the exotic palette of their abode. An opulent blue dominates, but there are blood reds, sandy yellows, airy silvers reflecting the flames and more. Before we know it, he and I are seated on the edge of the bed under its canopy. She rummages around for a moment and then joins us, the man with the fingers in the middle now, and hands me a pipe.

One breath and I taste the most potent dope my experienced lips have ever drawn in. Dear me! My way with dope is not to part with consciousness, but in a way that is exactly what happens. I remain conscious, sober almost, but my consciousness is remote and passive and my body independent.

My trance fixes on a set of three masks on the wall opposite us, three of a kind. They are like African masks, but not traditional, rather according to the current modernist style. Yellow and blue, blue and red, silver and blue. I register that my body, on impulse, gets up and takes the red for her and the yellow for him, returning for the silver for myself. They have put them on and I follow suit. As if needed, the masks are the catalysts for our play.

Mr.Yellow serves this game adeptly. He unveils his dark angel first, as I look on, that is: my detached consciousness does. I have not been with a dark woman before. She appears otherworldly strong and statuesque, with her almost glossy dark skin and toned muscles, yet extremely feminine, with narrow waist and taut, yet full, breasts. Her strange, impassive mask makes her living body all the more vibrant.

Then he undresses me. My blissful state renders the word 'shame' meaningless. And his touch is feather light. It is titillating, in spite of the fog between my mind and my body. My body swarms, while he undresses me and follows all my curves in passing, lightly, without emphasis. My eyes look at him and my mind takes it all in. When he is done he guides me towards his warm mistress, who embraces me. Whether he undresses I do not know. My consciousness narrows. All I am is a sensory instrument to the skin along all of her moving body and to the touch of their hands - there are too many of those to just be hers. We do not kiss, but do I sense her lips here on my body, or there, and there? Or are they his? Do I feel male lips and rough cheeks? My mask is on, or is it? - I have my eyes closed. Do sense my own lips kiss her smooth resilient skin, her nipples, her upper and nether lips? And his male skin, quite soft for a man, with patches of fine hair here and there? I must be in pure ecstasy, a worshipper in the original religion, that, where all words fail, where the sword is mightier than the pen, where wars have started, which has forced others to become hermits, not able to handle it - oh, I am the worshipper, but also the altar, the deity, the holy spirit, the devil and the virgin all in one. I remember my climax, or climaxes - I have no way to tell, I recollect no details. I think I remember convulsions of hers. I have seen and tasted her most intimate areas and juices, and his.

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I remember waking up in the early morning to the sound of his playing Debussy on the old upright piano squashed into their humble space, she next to me in the bed, both of us naked still. She smiles at my opening eyes and hands me a mug of coffee. I am drowsy still and a little embarrassed. Hers is such a strong presence. I sit and drink the coffee curved in on myself, before I regain my confidence.

I then dress and prepare to leave. I cannot stay. Not now. I want to remain in that unfathomable night. We have not spoken and I will not. She understands, I sense. I kiss her on the lips and blow him one. Before I leave, she silently hands me my mask and points at the other two that are back on the wall.

I know what she means.


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Acrylic on paper, silk and velvet with 22k gold leaf. 33 x 50 cm. Click on painting to enlarge.