*
When the curtain rose on the second half, Cyril indulged in a single, relieved sigh. Watching Müller flirt with Cordelia at the interval was equal parts gratifying and embarrassing. Müller was clearly smitten with her, and she clearly knew it. He’d take them both out after the show. He needed Müller feeling catered-to, expansive. There were a few things Cordelia could contribute that Cyril, though he was willing if it would get him what he wanted, couldn’t quite. And they were all on display in the penultimate number of the cabaret’s second half.
The show would end with an extravaganza: all the members of the cast onstage, confetti, streamers, swelling orchestra. But the eleven o’clock number was a sultry partner striptease: Cordelia and Ari, sliding around each other like oil and paraffin, just as slippery and just as volatile.
They started on opposite sides of the stage, alone in dramatic spotlights that hit the boards with a crisp beat from the orchestra. Aristide was wrapped to the neck in white fox fur. He had abandoned the powdered wig in favor of his natural curls, gathered in an elaborate coif pierced with two long, gold pins. His hands, clutching the fox at his throat, were gloved in black satin.
Cordelia contrasted in every way. Where Ari was dark, the spotlight turned her fair skin ghostly pale. Her brilliant hair was tucked beneath a silk top hat. Against Aristide’s white fox, she wore a black tailcoat, nipped in tight beneath her ribs. High-cut dress trousers made her legs look impossibly long for her short stature, and her spats were blinding. She struck an arrogant pose with a gold-topped cane, smirking over one shoulder at the audience.
There was no introduction. The emcee was otherwise occupied, and really, they didn’t need one. The audience sucked in its breath. In the orchestra pit, a slinky vamp skipped between the snare and the cymbal and a soulful clarinetist coaxed an aching note from somewhere below her waist. As the moan of the reed reached its climax, the timpani growled to the brass and Cordelia and Aristide rolled their shoulders in perfect unison. Another growl, another roll. And then the drummer struck a fast one-two and they each turned their heads on a separate beat, skewering the other with a glare.
It should have been slightly farcical, mildly absurd. The emcee dressed like the mistress of a magnate, the sultry stripper done up in glad rags like a concert tenor. But the personalities under the clothes burned through. And soon enough, the clothes started coming off.
Ari dropped the fox fur in one heavy shrug, and it fell like a diva dying on the opera stage. He spun out of the coat’s radius in a swirl of red feathers and kicked Cordelia’s cane out from under her. Rather than staggering, she swept it in a circle, executing a crisp barrel roll straight out of her jacket. It slid down the cane, hanging inside-out from the trapped sleeve to reveal a red lining that matched her waistcoat. Her skin was bare beneath the brocade.
With a flick of her wrist, she flung the jacket offstage. Aristide grabbed the cane and strutted away, dragging her with him. She pouted spectacularly, appealing to house left as he hauled her along.
Appealing, Cyril realized, straight to him. Or rather, Müller. Under the guise of reaching for his glass, Cyril snuck a glance at his companion. The deputy commissioner had half his mouth tucked up in a secret, satisfied smile, and he stared unwaveringly at the stage. The lights glanced off his spectacles, turning his gaze blank and gleaming.
As if she had seen the white flash of shining glass, Cordelia flung out one beseeching arm toward their table, chasing it with a blown kiss. Müller chuckled and swept a hand over his close-clipped hair.
Cyril sipped his drink, satisfied.
On the far side of the stage, Cordelia pulled the pins from Aristide’s hair and dipped him over one knee, hard and fast. His neck snapped back and his curls tumbled free from their knot. Cordelia lowered her head and bit his outstretched fingers with delicate teeth, dragging her mouth down until she caught the tip of his glove.
The slip of satin against his skin played against a raunchy brass arpeggio, a muted trumpet caterwauling over a pulsing backbeat. As soon as the glove came free, Cordelia yanked Aristide up and nearly sent him flying. He took the momentum and slid back, out of his second glove, pulling her into a tight spin so she ended up against him. He swept the top hat from her head and brought it across her breasts, pulling her close so their hips aligned. The trombone howled and they ground down, Cordelia sliding her hands along her thighs to press her knees wider and wider apart. Ari stared over her head with hooded eyes, showing one dogtooth in a foxy smile.