My lucky charm was gone, and with it, it seemed, my luck. I survived the first week and was allowed to stay.
If I had felt, back with my widower farmer, like the victor in a battle, here I came to feel like a fighter, a soldier even. Euphrosyne taught me everything she knew I could not learn through a peephole: that a man could be fooled into thinking he’d entered you; that the finger, well placed, could hasten his release; that if you learned to know when he was to release, you could slip him free and guide his emission onto the floor, sparing both bedding and clothes.
All of this, then, as well the names for whatever a customer might request, the etiquettes as well. All of the words for cunt, for example, and in several languages. There was only one I liked, minou—to me it sounded like something innocent, though this was not the connotation in French.
Euphrosyne taught me a great deal in the care and use of it. The method of a douche, for example, very important, as if it was to be sold, it had to be clean and beautiful. And if it was clean and beautiful, business was good. But here there were also salves for making it easier for the man to enter you, to help you heal after he was done. One to make him hard, and one to make him soft, if that was needed. And if you became with child, you were to speak to Odile, and there were her tisanes, and if that did not work, her doctor.
To keep the child, well, this was expensive. But this, I eventually understood, was how Euphrosyne had come to be here. Her mother was Odile.
This was why everything here was funny to her; it was her childhood home.
There was even a method for rouging your cunt, though you never did that if you knew the client wanted to put his face down there, Euphrosyne explained.
I asked why.
I did once, and he surprised me and went down there, she said. When he left, he said he didn’t want to wash his face, but his whole face had all the color. It was terrible! And I could not stop laughing! Now I charge for it in advance, and then I know.
§
Each night there was like a long, strange dream of many parts, different each night and also the same. You washed once before the evening began and then after each client, usually a splash of cologne between the thighs, which sometimes stung, a wet cloth to the rest of you, a cold glass held to the face to reduce any redness before you fixed your makeup—to do more was to have to redo the face. Between men, I ran the back stairs to clean myself and return, sometimes two stairs at a time. I returned via the front stairs, stately, renewed, descending again to the salon.
My uniform: fine leather riding boots, stockings held up with leather garters, a man’s riding jacket, and, at times, a top hat. I was a horse act with no horse now, dressing each night as a hippodrome rider, satisfying the fantasies of usually three gentlemen, often with a cropping and beginning first in the actual stables and then soon in a room outfitted as a stable stall, much as the other fantasy rooms were.
There was a Moorish palace room, a Tuileries bedroom, a peasant’s room, a formal dining room, even a train car.
A prix d’amour was agreed on beforehand, but men always tried to have more than what they had agreed to, especially if you were new. It was best if you knew how to do sums in your head. Odile watched over us via her trick mirrors and peepholes, though such surveillance was mostly done on new girls like me, to criticize them, and then on troubling clients and, of course, any important visitors.
Afterward, you returned to the salon, where you were to display yourself at leisure to the men gathered there. But as I had a specialty, I was never much there—the men who sought what I offered soon knew of me, and I was busy at once.
I discovered this specialty quite by accident—the new boots made my feet sore, and so I took them off in front of a client, who then stared as if I had presented him with feet made of gold.
And I suppose I had. This is why those carriages stopped, I thought.
Soon, I knew to do it at once, and it relieved me of my other tasks, much to my delight.
§
This long dream ended just before sleep as Odile sat in her chair and ran the numbers in her ledger.
I was making handsome sums, but my debts were also considerable. As Odile had paid my fines, I owed her for that. Also for the clothes she’d sent to me, and though she did not charge me for that sausage and bread, she did charge for each bar of soap, each meal, even a glass of champagne I might enjoy with a guest, and all came at a cost that soon overwhelmed my earnings. When I complained of it to Euphrosyne, she said only, It is like this for all of us, any house in the city. I checked myself, convinced it could be better elsewhere. At least here the food is not bad, and Odile, she likes her pipe, she does not beat us, only fines us. Her prices are only unreasonable, not absurdly so.