Kill the sunshine.

This thread is closed for TheGrind and me.


Gros con.

She had whispered the words angrily, and released them into the cold air in a small cloud of breath. That idiot. Nora Lacanne walked briskly down the street, her small heels clattering over the wet pavement. The dark knee-long dress was almost too cold for October, but she looked stunning in it, and that was what she needed. Her dark hair, cut in a bob at chin-length, was hidden under a hat, but that did not keep off the drizzle that the wind blew in her face.

Off to work, she thought with a certain, bitter pride. I need nobody to sustain me, I pay my own bills. The fight with Mircea still lingered and in her mind, and still made her angry. Who did that little idiot think he was to talk to her like he had?

Mircea. They had met in one of the uncountable evenings in one of the uncountable cafés of Montparnasse, and ever since then, they were thought of as an item. Nora and Mircea. He was from Romania, a pale and romantically beautiful young painter, an artist. Peripherally, he was acquainted with Breton and his circle of surrealist revolutionaries that she had always found slightly misogynist. But maybe that opinion stemmed just from wounded pride. Both of them had arrived in Paris at the same age, at 20, and had been living there for three years, in their small and damp chambre de bonne in the 10th district, together, but not as a couple.

While Nora worked during the day, Mircea was often up whole nights in a row, sketching and painting. He was good. No, he was very good. But for him, it was never good enough. He was never content. After a while, he had stopped attending the courses at the Beaux Arts, complaining that he was utterly incapable of finding inspiration in the “confining and bourgeois prison that was the academic environment”. She did not agree with that. He mocked her painstaking preparation to apply for admission, but then again, he did not see anything interesting in photography altogether.

She dreamt of going to Germany, to attend the Bauhaus School, to take photography classes there, to sit at the feet of Laszlo Moholy-Nagy, to follow in the footsteps of women photographers like Ellen Auerbach and Grete Stern. Nora wanted to get a foot in the door with a big agency, she wanted to travel the world and capture its beauty in pictures. Mircea and her had gotten in countless fights over her “lack of integrity”, over her “commercial approach to art.” No matter. Nora knew what she wanted.

The constant problem however, and for both of them, was the dire lack of money. Neither came from a rich family, in Nora’s case, it would not even have made a huge difference. Her father had died when she was still a girl, and her mother, a devout Catholic, had never approved of her lifestyle and choices. So money was always, always an issue.

The last months had been especially hard on them; and since the weather had gotten colder, the decision had often been between a meal or coal for the stove or a certain new book – in the end they had often ended up shivering under several blankets, their stomachs growling, perched over a novel, or a collection of essays. Maybe that had been the very simple reason that they had ended up sleeping together every now and then, it was convenient, and kept them warm. Nora felt a strong connection to Mircea, and she knew that it was the same for him, but they were not in love, no. And Nora knew that one day he would leave her for true, heartfelt passion, and while she would miss him, she did not fear the arrival of that certain day.

Walking along Montparnasse Boulevard, she drew her coat tighter around her slender figure, and hid her delicate face behind her black scarf. October had been rainy and cold, the city had not seen any sun for days. But the rage that was still simmering inside her kept her warm enough. While Mircea claimed no ownership over her at all – and she knew that he slept with other women, too – he hated that she sold her body for money. “It pays your rent, too!” she had screamed at him. “It pays your oil paint, and your canvas!” He had called her a heartless whore, and a sell out. In the end, he had smashed his favourite cup and threatened to throw himself off a bridge. Always so dramatic, her Mircea. And she had left, boiling inside. If she ever wanted to get anywhere, she would need a decent portable camera. They were not cheap. It was that simple.

The first time she had done this had happened almost by accident. At a small bar she had talked to a man, told him about her need for equipment, more as a joke she had flirted with him. Then he had whispered: “If you want, I can help you out.” And then, to illustrate his intentions, his hand had slid from her back down to her ass, and possessively squeezed it. That night, she had earned a full month of rent.

Still lost in thought, she pushed open the door of La Rotonde, a place frequented by many painters and poets, but also often by those who simply wanted to bask in the intoxicating vapours of eccentricity and creativity, of breadless fame; it was mostly those men – or women, if they were willing to pay - that she was looking for tonight. Her still scarce experience had taught her that they were often flattered by her interest, and intrigued, or aroused even, when they found out that she offered them her body to be able to sustain her artistic work. And really, it was not that much of an unusual way to become a patron of the arts in this city.

Nora welcomed the warmth and the smoke that enveloped her as soon as she entered the café, and after she had been relieved of her coat, her hat and her gloves, she stood in the doorway for a few moments, her dark green eyes scanning the room for faces of friends, and possible customers. This time, she did not only want to go for the first guy that threw some money at her. This time, she wanted to find someone impressive, someone inspiring. She frowned. This time, she wanted to find someone that would make Mircea jealous.

François had come into this world so long ago that he no longer remembered the life he left behind. The language, culture and century he had first known when brought into the world had all changed for him. It was a gradual alteration of life as he caroused from principality to country, changing locations and names with the ebbing and flowing cultural tides. Tuscany, Rome, Ravenna were fun for a while until Venice attracted his eye. But Napoleon ended that dream in the early 19th century.

Vienna followed but was short lasting as the empire was showing off its last legs. Time was its enemy and François had no desire to stay in a crumbling society. The dull summers and biting winters of London had never attracted his eye, not even while Shakespeare ousted the Canterbury Tales from their elite stature. Madrid was a welcomed home for a while, but that too was falling and Bismark had made Berlin attractive. A few decades were spent in the wondrous city until paranoia and fear won out and a desire to militarize and colonize became an empirical dream for the country. A shame at the same Japan had just beaten Russia and the tides of colonialism was on the mend.

François had seen it all before and was prepared for yet another change. Aside from the Leaves of Grass there was nothing to attract his attention to the States, and after all, it looked as though the beacon of democracy would remain standing tall for years to come. Time, at least in that respect, was on his side. At last Paris beckoned him in 1910. It was four years shy of the Great War; the war that destroyed Monarchies that had lasted for centuries. Monarchies, names, and families he had known for so long. It was the only stagnant thing he’d come to admire. And it was all about to change.

The hustling of war permitted people to filter through Paris but not before they were either accepted or denied by François’ fangs. While the poor were busy eating cake, dying in the streets and for their country; he took advantage. There was no need to look a good disaster go to waste. The following four years was a feeding frenzy, the likes of which he hadn’t known since the middle ages. It was almost too easy. The casualness at which he devoured had almost numbed him to the dangers of being found out. Even though vampires had been declared a fairy tale, he had no need to remind people that they had indeed existed. These days only people in small villages believed in such things. It was one of the major reasons he opted for the major cities of his eras.

Americans and British soldiers went missing as they passed through. They were counted as deserters or having gone AWOL for fear of trading bullets with the Hun. However, his honeymoon with the war ended in 1918 and he had to rediscover the awareness he left behind. Within two years Paris had been declared the cultural capital of the world by bohemians passing through. The artists had become a wash of shit and elitism but at least the writers were there to pick them up. François wasn’t far behind either.

It didn’t take him long before he figured out a lot of the girls around there would put out just for a place to sleep. Or a little something on the side. But he didn’t trade sleeping for something; he found girls with tight lips who’d gladly trade their blood for a midnight fix or a morning meal. It was easy in a place like this, even after the war. And it was easier still to disappear within the eccentricities of the humans. He didn’t even have to pretend very often.

This made his visits within La Rotonde more pleasurable than evenings spent at the Moulin Rouge but then, the Belle Époque had long ago finished echoing its ring. This was a new age, a new time, and he was welcoming everything it brought. If it meant it was easier to mask what he really was, it was welcomed with a strong embrace and a blood-thirsty maw.

François snubbed out a cigarette while everyone else slew innocence. Or at least the appearance of it. Innocence was fantasy, a word conjured by the moralistic few to describe their safe, penned-in world. As a passing girl nearly walked by, he reached out an arm to stop her. Leaning forward he whispered something in her ear only to lean back with a slight grin. She returned with a drink that would probably loosen his mind, his tongue and probably his trousers before the night let out.

For the moment he took in his solitude. It was something he welcomed. It was a reason he had never married in spite of his several lifetimes and few loves. Those who had found love with him were written off. They could never understand, and even in his youngest years he believed marriage was an outmoded form of containment. Even the liberal western Russians, as early as forty years ago had recognized this believed fact. But François was a true philosopher; he practiced what he believed. So few others, even those sitting in the very room he had acquainted himself with, would ever do the same.

Standing halfway in the café, she saw him almost at once.

Graceful, somehow. And beautiful...she had never seen such a face. Such timeless features. Timeless, yes. She frowned, unsure why it had been that word that had sprung to her mind first. It was as if there was something about him that made him seem....what? Eternal? His gestures, his mimics, his movements – everything seemed to suggest that fleeting time was of no importance to him. He lacked the haste of the men and women that usually peopled Montparnasse: those that were always frantically, breathlessly looking for something. Inspiration. Fame. Sex.

Freeze-frame, she caught herself thinking. The beauty of photography, of captured time, it was as if he incorporated just that. What a lovely model he would make. The fine lines of his face, the curve of his lips, the way he carried himself in his chair. Perfect.

With a little shake of her head, she found herself staring, and when his gaze seemed to meet hers, she blushed and turned away. Damn this! What was it about him that turned her into a flustered little girl?

Looking into another direction, she caught sight of Guillaume, one of Mircea’s former classmates and sighed. Merde. He caught sight of her and signalled her to come over, no chance of pretending not to have seen him. The last thing she needed was yet another discussion about the vanity to try and catch reality with the help of lenses, mirrors, and light. Guillaume was an arrogant, but talented painter, and one of the rare artists who actually sold some of his work. Nora sighed, and decided that he would at least pay for a drink, and walked over to his table.

He stood up and dramatically pulled her into an embrace, and only with a turn of her head could Nora prevent a kiss. Since she had allowed him once to touch her naked breasts after a night of too much absinthe, he seemed to think that he had some kind of right over her. Guillaume claimed that the only muse that spoke to him was a well-fucked cunt, and he usually lived by his own counsel, leaving a trail of heartbroken girls on his constant search for inspiration. The fact that he had not yet succeeded to get Nora into his bed only urged him on.

Luckily, Guillaume was not alone tonight. He had his arm around a cute redhead, a freckled girl who seemed already a little tipsy and who giggled mindlessly at each of his witty remarks. One of his hands was absent-mindedly fondling her tits through her blouse, while his eyes were set on Nora, his lips curled into a lewd smile. “Where’s Mircea?”

He poured her a glass of absinthe that she thankfully brought to her lips. “What do I care”, Nora mumbled and Guillaume’s smile became a wide grin. “How heartless of him to leave his little princess out in the cold.” She could suddenly feel his hand on her thigh and jumped. Unfettered, he added: “Why don’t you come with us tonight? Aurélie here is a very...talented young woman.” Nora frowned. “No, thank you, Guillaume. There is only so much talent that I can handle.” He grinned again. “Maybe she would even agree to model for one of your little...images? I heard pictures like that even...sell.” His mocking tone got on her nerves. She knew that he thought of photography as something ridiculous and vulgar. For him, simply operating a shutter was not art, not even a craft. But she could not have one of these discussions again, not tonight. Aurélie giggled.

Nora turned her head, annoyed at herself for having sat down at their table. And then her eyes fell on him again, fading out everything else in the room.

He seemed lost in thought, content in his solitude, but not like the usual pretentious artists and philosophers that came here. The aura that surrounded him seemed ...real. Nora smirked. She did usually not care for such exaggerated vocabulary, but she could not help it and chase these thoughts away. The young woman saw how he leant forward to whisper something into the ear of a girl who smiled, and hurried away, only to fetch him a drink.

Nora sighed. Alas, he was not very likely willing to pay for her attentions; surely a man like him did not need to fall back on such tactics. His self-assurance, his beauty and his manners told her that he was one of those men that could walk into a room full of people and simply choose a companion for the night, male or female. Curiously, she seemed to be the only one in the room who was this smitten – the women in this part of Paris were all but coy and Nora would have expected some sort of fist fight over the right to sit in his lap. But no such thing transpired.

Guillaume was still talking, the redhead was still giggling, but Nora hardly noticed any of this. She downed another glass of absinthe, too hasty. Nora never drank much, and she could feel the warm sting spreading into a comforting blanket in her empty stomach, making her head turn slightly.

Reason told her to simply let it go and try to find a paying patron instead of silently adoring this stranger. Her stomach was growling and she had not one Franc left in her pockets. Was it artistic ambition that finally drove her to get up and direct her steps over to his table? The desire to prove herself to Mircea? To spite Guillaume and his idiot tart? She could hear them snicker behind her back, their stares following her trail between other chairs.

When Nora finally stood before him, she did not immediately speak. His eyes...her heart hammered in her chest. It really was as if the ages of men were captured in the shimmering dark pools of his pupils, never had she seen anything like this before.

With all the courage she could possibly muster, she finally whispered: “Will you allow me to take your picture, Monsieur?” What she would do if he agreed, Nora did not know. She had no camera. But instead of stammering an excuse, turning on her heel and spare herself further embarrassment, she added in an almost desperate tone: “Please.”

Solitude was his solace. With an eternity of time waiting for his arrival, people, relations, acceptance and denial, the best and worst parts of humanity could be accepted, ignored or feasted, ravaged upon.

François’ eyes became lost in the languid liquid until he reached for the stem of the chalice, his index and middle fingers wrapping around its vulnerability. With a slight tilt followed by a gentle sway of the contents, the drink seemed to come alive. His eyes blazed, forgetting the world around him, the moment rapturing, stealing his attentions. These people, their pedestrian discussions, egoism, pessimism and hopes for a positive future by whatever means necessary lacked effective luster. For that brief moment in time, nothing could compare, nothing could stand up to what the beauty of that personal epoch was providing him.

Not that he’d ignore an opportunity if one happened to approach him; or even if one happened to be trading unknown glances with him.

François casually reached into a pouch he’d been carrying through the years, pinning him to a probable peasant upbringing. Getting rid of that side purse was an undeniable habit he couldn’t resist fulfilling. It was practical, simple and seemed to add to the worldliness he absent-mindedly portrayed. Loosening the small, frayed rope he dipped his fingers into the soft animal skin bag, depositing a few coins on the table before stringing the skin to a close. He stared at the coins for a few seconds. If the world broke down today, those freckles of metal would be worthless and the poor, the practical poor would have the run of the roost. It was humorous irony.

His eyes disappeared into the bowl of the chalice once more as he raised it to his lips. The scent of the drink drifted against the ceiling of the glass, permitting only a narrow gap between the cup’s lip and his nose. The taste followed. He felt the wetness, the taste slip along his tongue as he held it in his mouth. Only blood really got him off but this always came close. Drunkenness didn’t have to be disorderly or violent, it could be a public, sexual experience. He held that drink, tasted it, smelled it and loved it as he had only a few women in his past. And those who glanced, those who saw him likely passed off the event as nothing more than a lonely man drowning himself in whatever world he’d left.

Then he heard the distinct sounds of footsteps coming his way but he didn’t give them the respect they deserved. People drifted in and out of the centuries, one made no difference than the other. They were all made up of the same thing. Blood, greed and sex.

When the woman whispered her words he felt compelled to look. It was the least he could do. After all, he wasn’t out to embarrass her and for her to speak so low in such a public place... it aroused his interest... and she aroused even more than that after he saw her. A slow smile drew across his face, his lips glistening with just having drunk from the chalice still in his hands, the liquid still swirling from the effects of his fingers. Showing some interest, he set his drink down, shifted silently in his chair, letting her know she had his attention.

François was silent when she finished speaking. But when she added ‘Please’ to the end of her request, he couldn’t very well deny her. She had a face, she had a body, both of which he wanted to consume in every way his need commanded.

His eyes set on her as he rested his back against the backrest of the chair, “Only if I am permitted to take yours. No restrictions. Although we will have to find another place. Do you live near? Or at the very least have a room?”

At first it looked like he would not reply at all. As if he would dismiss her embarrassing little scene with the bemused silence it probably deserved. Nora held her breath, feeling her blood colour her cheeks. Mon Dieu, she thought for the terrible length of one irrational split second. What if he would laugh at her, in front of the whole café? His beautiful lips curled into a smile, almost too faint to detect, and a shift in his posture seemed to pretend interest. But still he did not speak, even after she had added this whispered ‘Please’.

Ready to mutter an excuse and return to Guillaume and his ginger toy, Nora bit her lip and lowered her head. No more absinthe tonight, she decided. No more absinthe ever. She permitted herself one last glance and had to suppress a sigh. But then -

“Only if I am permitted to take yours. No restrictions. Although we will have to find another place. Do you live near? Or at the very least have a room?”

Putain.

Her eyes flew back to his face, with suddenness as if she had been slapped. Had he really just said that? This man - this man that she had seen for the very first time only an hour earlier and who had turned her into a stuttering idiot – had he really just agreed to her equally ridiculous and outraging request?

He looked at her, his silent smile still lingering between them like poisonous bait. Of course he had agreed. This was Montparnasse after all. Nora nodded, unsure at which part of his reply exactly. No, her place was not near. The 10th was all the way across the Seine – a long walk on a night as unfriendly as this. And what if Mircea was still at home, and still furious? What would happen if she would show up with another man after the violent fight they had had? And, not less important, what about a camera? The slender girl frowned as all these thoughts tumbled through her mind.

Tilting her head, Nora tried a smile. “Of course you may take my picture. It’s only fair.” She was surprised how enticing her voice sounded, and how confident. Tucking a dark strand of hair behind her ear, she added, in a husky whisper: “No restrictions.” As these words slipped from her lips, she felt her knees go weak. What was it about this man that made her lose any sense of self-control?

Not knowing what to suggest, she left the remainder of his questions unanswered. What was to be done? “I live at the banks of the Canal...” she started saying, hesitatingly, when a thought occurred to her: Guillaume.

She turned around to glance over her shoulder and sure enough, his dark gaze was fixed on her, obviously intrigued at what she was doing, curious at what she had planned. His companion planted kisses alongside his neck, one hand caressing his hair, but Nora was all he had eyes for at this moment. There was amusement in his eyes, and something else. Hunger maybe. Raw lust, yes.

Guillaume called a spacious apartment his own, and a large studio, only a few streets from La Rotonde. Enough space. More importantly, however, he owned a camera – the same camera he had offered her to use just moments earlier, even if only to piss her off. Nora smiled back at the young painter. Why not take him by his word?

“I live far from here, Monsieur, but my friend over there would love to leave his studio to me...to us. And he lives close by.”

Again, Nora held her breath. Would he agree to that?

François held his tongue while the girl began to uncoil hers. When she acquiesced to his own desires the small smile broadened briefly, shrinking back to displaying pleasantness of the girl’s face and figure. The way she carried herself was nearly as erotic as the way she was carrying herself. If he’d been of anyone else, made of his own flesh and blood she would’ve stole away his heart but would a man concerned with time be able to lure such a woman out of her little black hole of a world? Ironically, it was always sins of the flesh where he found most of his troubles. Humans were so damned territorial. And they wanted to call his kind a beast.

Watching her turn her head he didn’t say a word. It was almost as though he knew what were going on. A girl with a camera alone at night was usually out for one thing only and it wasn’t taking pictures. Perhaps she was a starving artist in the most literal sense of the word but a girl needed a place to live, especially in an inflationary-ridden country such as France. The war had not been kind to anyone but politicians, women and cowards.

Once the girl had returned her attention onto him, François thought about her proposition, seemingly letting the new idea romp back and forth in his mind. He knew what he was going to do the moment she begged ‘Please’ but there was no need to rush anything. At least as far as he was concerned.

Answering her in not so many words, François stood from his chair. Absentmindedly straightening out the clothes he was wearing, he looked down on her for the first time, “That will do. I’m sure you can lead the way.” There it was. The confirmation, the agreement that they were both going to go ahead with this strangest of meetings. Then he added, for the first time making a mention of the friends she had and her momentary preoccupation with them earlier, “I’ll be waiting for you outside.”

Leaning down he laid a small kiss on the side of her cheek as he rose up to full height once more, leaving the room behind. His lips refused to warm; the heat one would usually feel from the face of another’s so near was exempt. So many had written it off in the past or hadn’t even noticed the lack of warmth that he no longer thought about it. It was just something else to add to the character of him.

François left the place soon after fully expecting to see the girl outside within a few minutes. The air was cold and at times biting but he didn’t feel it, at least not like the others. Nothing felt the same.

Nora nodded at his reply, rooted to the spot, and followed his exit with her eyes.

His light kiss lingered on her cheek, no man had ever acted this way towards her, not in such a context at least. And how odd; despite the warmth of the bar and the drinks he had enjoyed, his lips had been cold, almost as if he had just walked in from outside. Unconsciously, her fingertips brushed over her own lips. Still slightly burning with absinthe, they radiated heat. How odd indeed.

A loud laugh and a high-pitched yelp from another table tore her from these thoughts, and she turned around. Guillaume had very obviously followed her exchange with the stranger with close interest, and now raised a mocking eyebrow, waiting for her explanation. Nora cursed the fact that she had to ask him of all people for a favour like this one, but knew that she had to swallow her pride. “I will take his picture”, she said matter-of-factly.

Guillaume raised his glass a few inches and let the emerald liquid swirl around slowly, his eyes fixed on the light caught within. “What did you promise him in return, chérie?” Nora bit her lip in annoyance, swallowing a snappy reply. Guillaume was a sleazy bastard, but she needed his place, his camera, and his keys.

“He will take mine.” The painter leant back in his chair and grinned, his eyes on her again. “Ah. A soul mate! A lover of the human form in its most faithful depiction!” He held up his glass in a mocking toast. “A fellow photographer! You are in luck tonight, dear Nora!” The young woman smiled coldly. Would Guillaume ever get over it?

Nora also thought of Mircea. He would hear about this. Guillaume would make it his personal mission to tell him, and she felt angry satisfaction. Good! This was exactly the type of man that she had hoped for. The gossipy painter would not omit a single detail of their encounter: not the fine features of the stranger’s face, his eyes, the way he carried himself and, most importantly, the impression he had so obviously made on Nora.

“I told him we could use your atelier.” She had to clear her throat. The amusement in Guillaume’s eyes clearly showed how much he enjoyed this. For a split second, Nora had the impression that he would ask her to beg, could almost see the word forming on his lips. A little too hastily, she added: “Since you offered me the use of it earlier; I did not think it would be a problem.” He nodded, the mocking smile still playing around the corners of his mouth. “Of course you can dear. Why should I not help you out wherever I can?” Nora felt that her smile froze uncomfortably. Patronising son of a whore. “Thank you”, she said.

Taking the ring of keys from his pocket, he shoved them over the table, but did not take his hand away when Nora reached out to take them. “Don’t close up behind you, dear”, he whispered suggestively. “We’ll join you in a little while.” The redhead looked from her companion to Nora, then giggled again. The young woman took the keys from the table, maybe with a little too much fervour. “Yes, whatever”, she whispered, hurriedly gathering her coat and hat. With a bit of luck, that silly cow on Guillaume’s side would be too drunk to follow him home. The last thing she wanted was to share the beautiful stranger’s company with the arrogant painter and his latest toy.

When she stepped out of the bar into the chilly night, gushes of wind sent shivers over her skin, despite her coat, her hat and her scarf. He was waiting for her, seemingly unfazed by the cold and the rain. The yellow light of the gas lanterns dripped in puddles onto the pavement, and the street ahead was only dimly lit, with a few bars and bistros scattered in between.

Nora did not dare to slip his arm into his. “It is not far”, she said almost apologetically. With that, she simply started to walk, hoping that he would follow, and not take her shy silence as an offence.

Hands in his pockets, François remained quiet and silent on the outside as the weather slammed against the hard walls of the buildings and the few people who were rushing by. Everyone had perched themselves on the tip of timers and it was continuously ticking. No longer could he remember those days he was suffering through their grind but rather than fighting against specific hours, all he could remember was how much light was left in the day. Now all he worried about was how much longer the sun would hide.

Nora hardly surprised him when she escaped the little hole they’d found one another. Although he wouldn’t have wanted to admit it, he was appreciative of the momentary break. Even a golem grows tired of staring at the same scene. When speaking those simple words François didn’t press her. There was no need for him to say anything. Francois was already going to get what he wanted and he wasn’t particularly interested in muddled, forgettable conversation. Speak only when there was a need; silence was golden to few, copper to many.

After permitting her to take the lead so he could get a better perspective on his prospective subject, François remained a few steps behind, letting her guide their path toward her temporary studio. In silence, except for the constant pattering of rain splashing into puddles created by negligence and the everlasting corrupt politicians.

The chilled air swept seamlessly through his body as though he had not a nerve in it to feel the harsh biting climate sweeping through the streets. However his hands remained in his pockets, a habit he developed to keep his coat from flowing behind him in the wind. It wasn’t that he cared so much about sticking out in any particular place but a stake through the heart could be considered catastrophic in his case.

Before long he stopped, feeling as though enough time had passed, that they were near. Walking through these streets so many times he knew them well, and knew where many had housed themselves. While not knowing precisely the location, there was the simple matter of intellectual guessing.

Guillaume’s place was not far away. When they stepped into the chilly hallway of the apartment building, dark and deserted at this time of the night, Nora felt a sting of fear. It was a faint emotion, and she was immediately annoyed at herself for admitting to it, but caught herself feeling for the light switch a little too hastily.

Luckily, the concierge was already asleep, but Nora signalled the young man not to make a sound anyway. On tiptoes she walked past the wooden door right next to the entrance of the apartment building, knowing that the lady guarded the passage like an angry hound, with hearing skills to match.

The wooden steps of the stairs creaked softly under her steps. When she threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure that her new acquaintance was following her, she gasped when she found that he was right behind her. How odd – he moved with the grace and agility of a cat, the used wood did not issue even the faintest sound under his feet, and yet he was taller and surely heavier than herself. Nora smiled, embarrassed about her startled expression, and turned around quickly to climb up the remaining stairs.

Guillaume’s apartment was right underneath the roof of this beautiful, if somewhat run-down neo-classical building. Nora pulled the ring of keys from her pocket, and dropped them to the floor with a loud clatter, her fingers still stiff with cold. “Oh dear, how clumsy of me”, she mumbled, before bending down to pick them up. Biting her lip, the young woman cursed her nervousness. He must think that I am a hysteric nutcase, she thought to herself.

After having successfully opened the door – she avoided his glance in the process – Nora stepped inside. The moonlight fell through the windows in the roof, illuminating a few objects scattered around the floor – mostly tubes of oil paint, brushes, a porcelain cup, a couple of wine bottles and the edge of what looked like a low table. The rest of the apartment lay shrouded in darkness.

“This is it”, Nora said. “You can come in, we are alone.”

François let the wind whisper through the darkened streets and barren alleys. The silence was a welcomed change. Usually when he found a woman he stole for the night their mouths had never quieted and their excitement had never dimmed. This Nora had a few endearing qualities already, and he’d search for a few more when it was time for their photo session swap.

Following Nora’s footsteps, he stayed close, permitting himself momentary glances to take in the new scene. The wind had stopped blowing and the light was shallow but he was able to steer his way as they neared the flat. As they came near the room he heard the keys clatter to the hardwood floor. Humans never were the quiet kind.

When the door had finally given way to their entrance he moved in behind her. Getting used to the new room he slowly began to remove his long black coat. Without speaking he moved beyond her in search of a place for it but not finding one satisfactory he instead laid it over a clean edge of the table. Artists… they’d die for their work that nobody would ever see. They were often a creative, bohemian bunch and even more often, led short, brutal lives. Knowing this he knew that saving anyone who lived here, worked here wasn’t of vital importance. All he needed tonight was to satisfy himself in hunger and lust.

François looked back to Nora after standing upright again, “Where would you like to take your photos?” He questioned her with a slightly raised brow as he considered the room. Without a little more light he doubted one corner would be different from any other. Although he wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that she wasn’t a photographer at all.

Watching him move around to look for a place where he could put his coat, she smirked. “It is a bit messy here, but I hope it’ll do.” Without voicing her thoughts out loud, she added that it was a true palace compared to the place she shared with Mircea. Nora wondered if this stranger was appalled by what he saw here, but then again, they had met at La Rotonde.

She took off her coat and her hat, and put both on a chair that stood next to the door. Several of Guillaume’s clothes were already spread over it, and, to Nora’s embarrassment, a bra and silken stockings that she quickly shoved underneath the rest of the pile.

“Where would you like to take your photos?”

The undertone in his voice made it clear that he did not expect her to actually know anything about photography. She did not blame him. “Wait, I need to set it up.”

Walking past him, she lit two floor lamps that shed their diffuse, warm light over the wooden floor. It became clear that the room was much bigger than it had seemed at first. In the far end of the room, an unmade bed came into view, more paint, and stacks of finished and half-finished paintings were leaning against the wall. A few ordinary household items dangled from strings on the ceiling, and Nora guessed that they were the result of Guillaume’s brush with André Breton and his bunch.

The room was almost warm, Guillaume had obviously lit the oven before he had gone out – maybe to give giggling Aurélie an incentive to take off her clothes upon their return, even though Nora thought that any additional incentive was surely unnecessary – but she was grateful for the warmth that had started to return to her limbs.

“There probably won’t be any coffee, but if you would like some tea?” Without waiting for his answer, Nora went into the corner that served as the kitchen, and it was obvious that she felt quite at home in this place.

“The guy who actually lives and works here might come back. He’s an arrogant cock.” She filled water in the enamel teapot and lit the stove. “So I apologise in advance for the things that he will say.” Checking the collection of jars and tin boxes for tea, Nora only found a handful dry sage leaves. With a shrug, she lifted the lid of the teapot and tossed them in. “There is no black tea”, she said half over her shoulder. “I hope that sage is okay?”

Turning around to her guest, she said: “Why don’t you have a seat…somewhere? I will set up the camera.” Nora knew exactly where Guillaume kept his camera, and despite the apparent chaos in his apartment, he was a pedant when it came to his working material. Everything had to be in its place.

She carefully took the small Leica out of its leather case and checked that there was a film inside. Her fingers brushed over the cool metal. It was not the best camera for her purpose tonight, but it would do nicely once mounted on a tripod. How unfair that Guillaume was able to afford all this equipment without any real appreciation. With a few routine movements, she set up the camera, and moved the tripod to where she wanted it.

If he would sit on that chair over there...perfect. First she wanted to try with the indirect light of the lamps, and after that maybe add some candles...? Now, that the camera was set up her initial shyness was forgotten. She took off the lens cap and peeked though the view-finder, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear absent-mindedly.

Suddenly struck by a thought, she looked up from the camera and stared at him. He was so beautiful it made her ache inside, and for a second, Nora was unable to tear her gaze from his features. Then, with a small shake of her head, she smiled, and found her voice again. “I am so sorry, how rude of me”, she said. “I haven’t even introduced myself yet. My name is Nora.” Her eyes sparkled in the diffuse light of the lamps. “And how do I address you?”

It looked like a storm had swept through the place, discarding everything wherever it happened to land. But François was hardly surprised. She was supposed to be an artist, well, a photographer and he knew the kind well enough. Always starving for cash and a good fuck… or at least an adequate fuck. The city was full of those.

François let her go as he watched her set up the room to her liking. It was a surprise to him that she seemed to have some clue about what she was doing but he didn’t let it show as his eyes watched her cross the room but all he could think about was what kinds of positions he could put her in. Which lewd poses she could perform just to take a few snapshots of him. The idea was briefly broken when she spoke up, offering tea.

“I don’t need anything,” he spoke, rejecting the tea. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust how clean the dishes were, although if he were human that would give him pause, but some things just didn’t give him the kind of jolt of life he needed. There was nothing on this side of the world that could give him the familiar taste he needed outside of human blood. Usually unwilling.

After Nora asked to sit somewhere he looked around but there weren’t too many options he considered. There was a chair that was free and looked more aesthetic than the couch he had seen upon entering the apartment. As he turned to sit down he watched her as she fixed the camera upon its tripod while he waited for his turn behind the lens. The thought made him raise his chin just slightly and cause a smile to run across his face just as she bent down behind the camera.

He laughed at her stumbling, forgetting her introductions. He had hardly expected such a thing, believing that this would just be something to pass a few hours with and then be forgotten to an old relic memory. “ François. You can call me François.”

“François. You can call me François.”

His laughter was welcome, and Nora’s face lit up with her own smile. “Well, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, François.”

She bent down to her camera again, hesitated while she adjusted the lens, and pressed the release. The faint metallic click that announced the capture of his beauty on camera seemed strangely inadequate. Nora’s heartbeat quickened as she looked at him through the viewfinder. His eyes seemed to pierce the metal of the Leica, her clothes, and her skin.

Another picture. “Can you sit back a little?” she asked, her voice slightly hoarse. “And look a bit to the left?” Yes, perfect. Another click.

“You know, I have never met anyone...like you.” Nora bit her lip, obviously struggling to find the words that would communicate what she meant. “Someone so...so oblivious to...to time.”

It was true. People in Paris were always in a hurry, always afraid to miss out on something, always chasing after lost minutes. The war had driven the message home with a cruelty that nobody could have expected: life could be wiped out at the flick of a finger. Man was mortal. It had made everyone realise that time was a luxury that needed to be spent frantically, and that one could be robbed of at any second.

Nora frowned. “I am sorry, I don’t make much sense, I suppose.” Bending down to look through the viewfinder again, she concentrated on the task at hand: to capture what she was unable to express in words with her camera. Her fingers adjusted the shutter speed, the aperture with the concentration of an expert. She held her breath, and pressed the release. Without any doubt these pictures of François would be the best portrait photographs she had ever taken. “It was very kind of you to agree to this”, she said softly, looking at him from behind the camera. “I usually don’t ask men for this kind of favour, you know...” To her surprise, she blushed deeply at her own remark.

Hastily trying to change the subject, she asked: “Are you sure you don’t want any tea?” Despite the relative warmth of the room, she longed for something that would warm her insides, and she remembered how cold his lips had been earlier. Unconsciously, her fingers brushed over her cheek, as if his kiss still lingered there.

Without waiting for his answer she walked over to the kitchen corner, and poured the sage tea into a cup. There was a loaf of fresh brioche on the counter as well, and the faint whiff of vanilla and yeast reminded her of just how hungry she was. “You must be appalled by what a terrible hostess I am”, she said half over her shoulder. “I wish I could offer you something a bit more adequate.” He had said that he did not want anything, but Nora chose to ignore that. Everybody needed to eat. She picked up the knife that was lying next to it, and cut a couple of thick slices from the brioche.

A small drop of blood welled up from the cut. Putain! Why was she such a klutz? Two droplets rolled down the length of her stretched out finger, and fell to the floor. “Just a second”, she said, turning, bringing the finger to her lips with an apologetic smile. “But I don’t want to get blood over the camera, no matter how much I hate Guillaume.”

“What kind of favour do you usually ask of men?” François steered his question, finding ever more interested in this talkative photographer who seemed bent on revealing everything about her. It was usually true, he found, that the more silent a man was, the more talkative the girl became. Silence seemed to be the death of most people. It was easy for François to ignore Nora’s comment about how he seemed oblivious to time. There were so few who could claim to hop into the body of Dorian Gray… with a few twists.

As Nora went away from the camera and prattled on about something François had already rejected and was no more than a yard away from where she was cutting her slices. He added nonchalantly, as if the fact had already passed, “Oh, but Nora. You are offering me something. Now that I’ve sat for you in front of the camera it is now your turn to do the same for me. And the director’s orders must be followed,” he threatened with a growing smile.

Then he heard her cry as she cut her finger. François moved closer to her as he spoke, “Then perhaps it is time you put down the knife, and your tea.” She seemed like she was in such a hurry, or maybe she was just that clumsy. Looking around it was easy to see how she had maintained that trait. She couldn’t have been more than a few months away from a full body cast. “I can’t guarantee it’ll be safer, but it will be more fun,” he smiled at her again.

Without another word about it he gently grabbed hold of her wrist, withdrawing her finger away from her lips. Smoothly his hand slid along hers in a confident glide until it separated her pierced finger from the others. Then he softly brought it to his lips where he tasted the fresh wound. Instantly his tongue lapped it at but only for a moment to get a taste for the girl before his lips fell against her sensitive finger.

“Go and sit in front of the camera,” he spoke, his lips brushing against her finger as he spoke. Then he released her wrist from his hold, “You won’t need clothing for these following minutes. Trust me, you’ll be fine and you’ll look great.”

François left her there to contend with her own thoughts while he returned to the area she had set up for the camera. He wasn’t much of a photographer but he’d been around long enough to understand at least a little about everything. There wasn’t anything to it. And if he made a mistake he was sure Nora would be far too concerned with other things and wouldn’t correct him.

Nora stared at him, stared at his fingers gently wrapped around her delicate wrist, then stared up at his beautiful face again. Did he just taste her blood? For a moment, it felt as if her brain and her senses were disquietingly out of sync. Had he really looked like he had savoured it, the glint in his eyes not unlike that of an appreciative gourmet sampling a delicacy? Nora felt her whole body stiffen. Then the thought was swept away by the sensation of his lips pressed against her finger. She suppressed a nervous laugh. “Yes, let me offer you something you will accept. I promised, didn’t I?”

“Go and sit in front of the camera.” Still transfixed by his touch, she nodded. How was it possible that his touch had such an effect on her? “You won’t need clothing for these following minutes. Trust me, you’ll be fine and you’ll look great.”

Finally, she snapped out of her reverie. This was going to be easy. Nora was not shy about undressing in front of others. She had modelled for fellow artists countless times.

With a swift movement, she pulled the dress over her head, leaving her in black stockings held up by garters and black lace underwear. She hesitated. Would he want her to take off the rest? François seemed to be busy adjusting the camera – for a split second, Nora wondered if he actually knew what he was doing – but had he not said that ‘she didn’t need clothing’? Yes, he had been quite clear about that.

So, with a slight shrug, she reached for the clasp of her bra and undid it, freeing a pair of small white breasts. The lace bra joined the black silk dress on the floor. Nora shivered. It was quite cold in the apartment now, and she started to rub her arms a little, trying to bring some warmth back to her skin.

Her eyes fell on François again. How cold his hands had been! How icy his lips...and yet he seemed comfortable, at ease, and not at all on the point of freezing. Standing there in the middle of the room, watching him fiddle with Guillaume’s Leica, she finally answered the question he had asked earlier and that she had ignored: “I usually ask men to pay me in exchange for sex.” There was no reason to dress it up as anything else. “I prostitute myself to be able to get into the Beaux Arts.” This time, the smile on her lips did not reach her eyes. “I don’t particularly like doing it, but there simply aren’t that many options, if I want to achieve my dream and become a professional photographer.”

She was not ashamed to tell him this, and of course he had known the answer before he had asked. After all, here he was, demanding her, a complete stranger, to take off her clothes in front of a camera. Putting first one leg up on the sofa, she detached the garters and rolled down one stocking, then repeated the same with the other. The garter belt, too, was cast aside.

Please, she begged silently, please don’t let Guillaume come home just now. I would never live this one down. For a moment, she also thought of Mircea, knowing just how much he would hate her for doing this. Scoffing inwardly, she stepped out of her panties. Screw you, Mircea. Screw you and your skewed sensitivities. “I am ready when you are”, Nora announced, standing upright, and completely naked, in the middle of the room.

Seating herself on the chair he had previously sat on, she smiled into the camera. “There are about ten photographs left on this roll”, she said. “I am not sure if Guillaume has more empty film around his place, but otherwise you will just have to make these ones count.”

François didn’t touch the camera too much beyond minor working with the minor adjustments he understood. The point of the scene wasn’t to take pictures; it was to get a girl naked. And to take a little more later on. Without her clothes to lead a trail or a mess, she’d be a simple captive for as long as he needed her, desired her.

Since there wasn’t much work for him to follow up on he was able to turn and face the rest of the room, watching his subject disrobing piece by piece, baring herself for him. When she told him that she prostituted herself to get by that was just one more added highlight to his night. Not only would it be easy to steal her away it would be doubly simple to conceal her. Who, but those circle of men around the table, would care about a whore’s disappearance? The reason why she laid herself on her back didn’t matter. Even her friends may believe she’d just got up and left. There were so many ghosts in the city just passing through, or people betting all they had on just one chance to be somewhere else, to achieve a dream.

François easily shook himself from his thoughts as she approached the chair on the other side of the camera, now completely naked. He grinned at her briefly as he slowly paced himself toward her chair, “You seem a little nervous tonight, considering what you do with your body on other nights.” The allusion was made from the many observations of her clumsiness, nervous giggling, and standard schoolgirl giddiness. It was a trait he found endearing.

He moved casually closer until he stood in front of her, looking down over her body. It was almost as if he were judging her as the lights and his position made her seem even smaller. Then he knelt down in front of her, placing either of his hands on her knees. Slowly he drew them apart from one another as he spoke, “Hook your ankles together underneath the chair.” Then his hands gently drew against her skin, casting his cool temperature along the length of her leg before he pulled away as he reached her inner thigh.

Standing, he then moved around behind her. “And your hands,” he spoke as he took each of her wrists into his possession, “lock them behind your back.” As he spoke he steered her arms behind the chair, leaving her entire naked body exposed to the camera. Reluctantly he released his hold on her wrists and brought his hands to her hair where he pulled it back, bringing a little more life into the room.

Then without a word requesting permission he rested his hands over her naked breasts. The point wasn’t just to touch her but to use his cold chill to harden her nipples, preparing her for that one picture just a few moments away.

As he held himself there he looked down at her, into her eyes, “How much are you charging me tonight?” Then he removed his hands from her body as he gently adjusted her head for the camera, “Since your bed isn’t free.”

It was nothing more than a request. A means for him to get her alone long enough so he could get from her what he needed. Nora had already admitted to him that she slept with men for money; she had a price and he had the coin. They both would end up getting what they wanted, the difference was François would be able to walk away from the scene afterward as he had done so many times before. It was a pity such a girl would have to lose her vitality.

As he let his question sink in, François made his way back on the other side of the camera where he hid himself away. After a short time he’d taken the first picture and he rose from behind the lens.

“You seem a little nervous tonight, considering what you do with your body on other nights.”

Nora looked at him. Sitting back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, she nodded slowly, giving his obviously flirty comment much more thought than it deserved. “It’s not about what I do with my body tonight, I don’t think.” She could feel a blush creep up her cheeks again. “It’s you.” Another thoughtful pause. “It’s the effect you have on me.”

She was not sure what exactly she meant by that, but when he stood over her, almost looming over her petite form, her heartbeat definitely accelerated. Slowly, sensing that it was what he wanted, she put both of her feet on the floor. When he touched her knees, she had to hold on to the edge of the chair in order not to put her hands on his, not sure if she wanted to hold them there or push them away. Again, she shivered. How could his skin be so cold, and he be so comfortable? “You are freezing”, Nora whispered. “We should put some more coal in the stove...” But her voice trailed off as he slowly pushed her knees apart, revealing all of her to his gaze. When his fingers reached the soft skin of her inner thigh, she stopped breathing altogether. “François...”

Then he was gone, and a light chill was all that lingered. Nora laughed softly. “Yes, it is definitely you. I wish I would know how to capture this...this effect on film.” Mircea would know how, she added in her mind. He would know how to give shape to François, and do him justice. Her thoughts were again interrupted by his fingers closing around her wrists. “And your hands, lock them behind your back.” It was an unnerving feeling, almost a bit scary. It made her feel helpless, submissive, somehow vulgar, and not in a sensual way. She had to arch her back slightly, well aware how this posture accentuated her breasts. It was an unusual pose, almost aggressive in its indecency, and Nora wondered if he had done this before. Again she hoped – no, prayed – that Guillaume would not come home just yet.

His hands cupping her breasts made her jump. He took liberties that she did not allow any of the artists who wanted to paint her, but then again, yes, she did agree to pose naked. He would not expect her to be modest, or prude, or a decent girl. For a split second, Nora was upset that he so obviously thought of her as, well...useable. A commodity. She almost wished that she had not told him about her scheme, about her manner of making a bit of money.

Her nipples hardened under his cold fingers, and her skin broke out in goosebumps. She wanted his hands to wander as desperately as she wanted them off her body. And then, the question:

“How much are you charging me tonight?”

Suddenly, her mouth went dry. There it was. None of the men she had slept with for money had ever asked her that, never as bluntly at least. Hearing these words from him upset her more than she would have thought. “Charge you?” Her voice sounded hurt, but there was anger, too. She stared at him while he moved behind the camera. So yes, she was nothing more than a prostitute in his eyes, and he had no interest in photography at all. All he wanted in the end was to fuck her. He could not know that only moments earlier she would have gladly heeded his wish, but Nora wanted to be seduced, not purchased. Even if it was only an illusion, it was an illusion that she needed desperately.

“This is an exchange of favours, isn’t it?” The question, directed back at him, had a sharp edge to it. “I take your picture, and you take mine. That was the agreement.” After that first picture she placed her hands in her lap, and her knees fell back together. “And that is all I intend to trade tonight.”

François easily deflected every question or comment she made with his simple silence. While he positioned her the way he wanted, there was nothing he needed to say to her. There truly was no difference between one human or the next aside from the fight, if there happened to be one. As he hid his way behind the camera and took the photograph he heard her direct reply.

As he rose above the view from the lens he looked on toward Nora as she began to cover herself up, proclaiming that a trade in favor was all that the invitation had implied. François easily understood this was doubtful. He equally doubted that he’d be able to throw gold coins upon her floor to change her mind. Not that he would ever subject himself to such extremes.

“Very well,” François commented with a half smile as he was sure to secure his belongings. “Then perhaps we shall meet in the night under different circumstances,” he held his smile as he ended, “Adieu.”

It would be a simple night for him and what had occurred would be nothing more than a footnote in the night, forgotten by the next. Plenty of victims could be found and used at La Rotonde thus François was hardly worried about where his next meal would come, confident that his appetite could be satiated with no more trouble than it took to find this girl’s apartment. He could’ve forced his way but discovered early on that it was best to avoid such situations. Besides, the moon still hung high in the night sky and there were plenty of drunk girls and prostitutes with which to take advantage.

With little more effort François neared the door, opened it for himself and easily disappeared behind it. He exuded silence except for the whining door that came to a close behind him. However he was neither hurried nor slow in his escape as there was always plenty of time.

“Very well, adieu.”

Nora watched him gather his belongings and move for the door. She felt so unhappy she wanted to cry. Why this sudden, silly pretension? François was beautiful, pleasant, and willing to pay. Why then these second thoughts? Because he had refused to enter in the hypocritical game she was used to playing with her, yes, her customers?

It was that cursed fight she had had with Mircea. His accusatory look, his rage at her indifference. And yet Nora stayed glued to her chair, silent, still naked and increasingly cold.

And then he was gone. The room felt as if all air had been sucked from it, and this time, Nora could feel tears of anger well up in her eyes. No, she would not cry over him! What an arrogant idiot! What arrogant idiots, all of them! Nora jumped up, looking for something she could smash. Who did this guy think he was?

She ran for the door and ripped it open. The light was off in the staircase, and there was no sound. How odd. It was impossible that he could have made it down the flights of stairs this quickly, and yet there was no trace of him. Nora felt her heart beat violently in her chest. “François?” she whispered.

Then, to her horror, she heard voices from downstairs. A woman, giggling and…moaning? A young man. Guillaume and his tart. Nora had almost forgotten about them over her spat with François, but of course, yes, of course it was now that they had to come home. “Merde”, she whispered, unsure if she should call out for François or get dressed as quickly as she could.

“Are you there?” Nora spoke softly, feeling slightly silly that she called for a man who was likely long gone and who had obviously not wasted another thought on her and her misplaced doubts. “I wish someone would spare me the embarrassment of having to face Guillaume now” she said to herself, turning away from the door. “I wish they would just drop dead.” With that, she closed the door softly and turned to get dressed.

It didn’t take more than a few steps before François felt the wind from the door rush up the stairs. Those two creatures who followed the opening of the door instantly flushed his mind with the memory of Nora’s companions at that table she left behind. No doubt that interaction could be interesting to see up close but alas the door had closed, she made up her mind and he was on his way out. As François took another step he could see the two at the bottom coming into view. They were in such a hurry. So many were. Perhaps it was the end of the Great War and they wanted to live before the world blew itself up again.

Then he heard the door behind him fly open followed by Nora’s whispering words. The girl had changed her mind so soon? Humans were such fickle creatures. None of them knew what they wanted; not even the ones who thought they did. Rather than push his way past the lust in the stairs below and spend a night with his own thoughts he decided that there might be something to gain if he reversed course and met Nora at the top the stairs. But this time he would not leave until he took what he had intended to receive.

François heard her calling out for him a second time but remained silent but he had managed to spin his step, climbing the stairs once more. Her flesh had best taste like Haitian sugar. Then he heard the door shut above as she shut the door, cursing the pair below. As he rode the stairs toward the top he considered making her wish a reality, to eliminate the pair below but fighting was such a foul thing. There were plenty of other more enjoyable entertainments. Perhaps there was more film to be used through the night.

At the top of the stairs he stood silent for a few moments, listening to the banging below of a set of humans trying to climb the stairs. The night had just happened to right itself. Perhaps God was on his side after all. And with that he laid his hand upon the door knob and twisted gently, feeling it give. Again the lock had been forgotten but she had invited him and that was more than enough allowance for him to push against the wooden barrier, ushering his way inside.

After he entered he didn’t call out for the girl. Instead he crept in far enough to close the door behind him, placing a lock against it just in case the pair behind him managed to burst their way through before he had found the girl. Not to mention he was sure she wanted to find her clothes before her friends came into the door. But then again, they did seem to be a raucous bunch.

Then, through little looking on his part, he spied her, “You called for me?”

Nora scrambled for her black lace underwear and when she finally found it she stepped first into her panties before adjusting her bra again. If Guillaume and his latest conquest were fucking their way up the staircase as she hoped they would, she could get dressed in time. Her icy cold fingers did not obey immediately, and Nora needed several attempts until the bra was in place. Covered in goosebumps and shivering, Nora dreaded having to go back out in the cold, but no force on earth would make her stay in this place to suffer the humiliations and mockery that Guillaume would be unable to keep to himself. “Merde”, she whispered again, thinking of François. At least she had taken the pictures she wanted.

She had to blow warm air into her cold hands before being able to close the garter belt around her small waist. This would be a long winter. Her thoughts wandered to the sun and the warmth of her Southern hometown, to the olive trees and the scent of orange blossoms and thyme. Nora sighed. The yearning for home always got worse during the long, rainy Parisian winters, but lately there was a strange sort of nostalgia that tugged at her heart. She knew that she was not welcome at home anymore, that her mother had long made peace with losing one daughter to the vices of this new, violent century. And yet. Sometimes she wondered if she had failed, if Paris had simply emerged the winner in this unequal match of wills. She should have fucked the beautiful stranger, taken his money, and get on a train, maybe try her luck in Marseille.

Reaching for one of her stockings, she put one foot on a chair to roll it up her leg. It was when she reached for the second that a sound made her skin crawl with fear. The door? No, it couldn’t have been. Still as a statue, Nora listened. Nothing. She could hear muffled laughter drifting up from the staircase, from a seemingly safe distance.

She refocused on the second stocking again, and pulled it up her slender leg. Just when she fixed it to the garter, a soft voice made her gasp in surprise.

“You called for me?”

Nora whirled around and there he stood, calm and real as if he had never left. The young woman stepped her foot from the chair and stared at him. How did he manage to enter without making a sound? Not even the faintest creak of the used wooden floor planks had announced his presence and now, wrapped in the complete silence of the room, he did not even seem to breathe. “François.” It was a whisper, not more. He had come back!

“I called for you, but I thought you had left.” She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “You must think me a naïve, silly girl.” Nora made a step in his direction, realising how happy she was that he had returned. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, all she wanted was to kiss him. But to what use? “I am afraid that the owner of the flat is on his way up”, Nora sighed and reached for her dress.

Oh to hell with Guillaume. To hell with missed opportunities. With another step she was next to François and kissed him softly, tentatively, on the lips.

François stared down at her as she approached him. Now that she had returned to him she seemed nothing more than a needy little creature. Whatever plots she held in her mind about the future with her silly little camera he had immediately forgotten after Nora had flung her whims to the side and welcomed him again with open arms. The respect he held for her as an artist had immediately dissipated after her subconscious response. The girl had seemed as silly as one of the females on Dostoyevsky’s novels. What a silly fool.

He took in her words easily, warning him of the pair that was rising through the stairs until they would eventually reach her flat. Suddenly death had become second rate to what he would bear witness to tonight. Nora seemed so frantic, worried and dare he think, needy? that he withheld some amusement within himself as he watched her reaction to what was expected to come in the passing moments. He was sure that it would come in second only to the pontiff’s death after the suffering the Knight’s Templar were put through upon September 13th.

As she came toward him with the dress François grabbed her hand, releasing it from her grip before she could come closer. His hand held hers instead as she approached him, gracing him with the softness within her kiss. If he were a mortal man he would’ve wondered where she had been but since such afflictions seemed to be beneath him he embraced the girl, as he saw her nothing more than such a thing. As his hand held hers his free arm wrapped around her body, bringing her nearly bare form to confront his as he held her close, the exchange of a kiss keeping them together.

When that had also fallen away to time François relaxed his hold over the girl and let her gather her bearings just as the door was tried. However, it had been locked which resulted for the two in the flat to hear the banging of a fist against the heavy door.

And then he dared to ask her a second time as he still held her hand with his own, “How much are you charging me tonight?”

His kiss was deep, and commanding. He did not seem surprised that she threw herself back in his arms, all regret and remorse for her earlier outburst, and claimed her lips with an almost blasé air of a gambler who had been sure to win his bet. Nora did not blame him.

Moreover, his kiss was perfect. Still locked in his embrace, it was this word that occurred to the young photographer, and, with her knees going weak and her heart beating wildly in her chest from nothing else than a bit of tongue acrobatics, she also realised that she did not mean ‘perfect’ in a gushy, love-struck sort of way. No, he kissed as if he had done it for centuries, perfected the art over years of experience. How odd. But since this was without any doubt the most expert kiss she had ever received she could do nothing but cling to him helplessly, softly moaning against his lips.

However, his kiss seemed void of any emotion. Nora felt another chill crawl down her spine, a chill that was not caused by his cold hands resting against her naked back. François kissed her with mechanical perfection that lacked not hunger, no, but something else. Warmth? His question, after he broke the kiss and released Nora, drove the point home.

“How much are you charging me tonight?”

This time, Nora managed a cold smile. Of course. Whatever silly thoughts she had nurtured when he had so magically reappeared popped like a soap bubble. At least he was consistent. The banging on the door grew louder, and there was another moan and giggling. If it would not have been so damn cold, Guillaume would have doubtlessly fucked the girl against the door there and then.

Nora looked at François, anger, arousal and spite so clearly written all over her features. “It depends.” She pulled the dress over her head, and turned to open the door. “One hundred normally, but double that if you want them to watch.” This was spite talking. She was hurt, but in a way she was also glad. It made it so much easier to concentrate on the essentials.

François enveloped her as naturally as he understood and embraced her. Holding her as close as he had seemed to stir something in him, perhaps something more than natural prey should have. But as their embrace broke he easily reminded himself that she was nothing more than flesh and blood, desire and food wrapped all in one. Something that he must both possess and steal.

As they briefly separated he looked down to her changed smile. He asked that question for a reason and that smile was it. François wanted her to know, in his indirect way, that there were no qualms about the reason why he was there. It was clearly more about the taking of a picture, that was obvious the moment he had sent the question if not known from the moment when they left the liquor behind them.

When she pulled on the dress and proposed him her new proposition something glinted in his eye. It seemed the girl wanted to play. And considering the observations he took from where she had found him he decided it was best to challenge her. After all, it was she who had called out to him. It was she who had approached him. Who did she think she was in attempting to challenge him? The one who had asked nothing at all? François decided it was time for another challenge.

With Nora so near the door François turned, placing his hands on either side of her face to hold her still and to keep her from immediately answering the door. Then he placed his lips against hers again, without as much passion or desire as he had instilled upon his return. But it was enough to let her know that he was still in the apartment with more than a few coins in his pocket.

As his hands slid from her face, the cold tingle no doubt left behind, he nodded slightly, “Double if they watch. Triple if you answer the door without a stitch of clothing. Naturally if you reject this offer I must be forced to leave you here alone with your friends.”

François smiled. It was something he couldn’t have helped even with the years of training. There was more than a little enjoyment he was taking from the girl. It was the one thing he couldn’t help. The one thing he desired more than life itself.

When he suddenly trapped her against the door, Nora thought that François had taken his clue from the couple on the other side of the wood. But no, he kissed her again. What was he playing at?

Through the wood of the door, she could hear Guillaume and the girl laugh, then another impatient knock.“Nora, allez, take your hands off your model for a moment and open the door. It’s freezing out here.” There was more giggling, and a moaned whisper. The redhead was obviously in a hurry.

“Double if they watch. Triple if you answer the door without a stitch of clothing. Naturally if you reject this offer I must be forced to leave you here alone with your friends.”

At that, Nora almost pushed him away, furious. Did he want to know how much the penniless, naïve artist would let him humiliate her? She was tired of being the plaything for bored, blasé men who toyed with their conquests as a cat would with prey – Guillaume was the same, and other men she had met on nights like this had been like that, too. She hated being this desperate, this cold, and this defenseless.

Both of his hands still beside her face, his smile taunting her, she whispered: “Fuck you.”

And besides: Open the door naked? He thought that was a challenge for her? Nora stared at him with stubborn fury. She had modelled nude for painters – and Guillaume – countless times, she did not mind being naked in front of him. Did he think her a prude because she had shown the weakness of affection? Nora had a good idea of what Guillaume’s reaction would be like if she did what François asked, but now, spiteful and humiliated, she was almost looking forward to it. Let François deal with the arrogant painter that had been trying to fuck me for months, she thought. Good luck.

But she was afraid that François had indeed guessed her fears, that this was just the beginning of a game for him. That it was not Guillaume’s hungry gaze she feared, but the being exposed, utterly vulnerable, to his – to men’s – cruel taste for games and humiliation.

However, her pride did not allow her to give in now, and for three hundred francs Mircea and her would not have to worry about rent all winter.

“Putain!” She had made up her mind. “You want to play like that? Fine. Let’s play like that.” With one graceful movement, she pulled the dress over her head again and tossed it aside, her green eyes locked to his. Her garter belt followed, then her bra. She almost ripped her stockings as she half tore them off her legs. Her lace panties were the last thing to go. “Now let me open the door.”

Pushing his arm aside she turned the key one final time and opened the door, standing naked in the frame, one hand against the wood. “Welcome home”, she said, with one gaze over her shoulder at François. “You came just in time.”