The Good Medicine
By Terry Allen
There was this little cafe in Paris. That is where he met her. Small and thin and so very pale, her lips were full and red and her bottomless eyes gleamed in the vesper light. She read the evening post, a small white cup of cafe au lait left untouched on the table. The steam that rose out of it beckoned him closer. He was entranced at the first sight of her. How she smiled at him over her newspaper sent a thrill down his spine. Her name was Contessa and he loved her.
“What brings you to Paris, Monsieur…?” she asked.
“Harry, Harry Ritter.”
“Ritter, that is German, no?”
“My grandfather. He emigrated to the States.”
“An American, then,” she clapped her hands together and giggled. “How delightful. So, why are you in Paris, Harry Ritter?”
“I’m a writer. I’m here sightseeing and looking for inspiration.”
“These are strange times to go sightseeing.” She pointed at the newspaper she had folded neatly between them on the table.
The headline proclaimed in large black letters, INVASION OF FRANCE IMMINENT! HITLER PRESSES THROUGH LUXEMBOURG!
“I thought I should see a little of the world before it all goes to hell.”
“You’re an interesting man, Monsieur Ritter.”
“Thank you, but it’s you I’m interested in, Contessa.”
“I’m hardly anything special.”
“You seem pretty damn special to me.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I’d sure like to.”
Contessa never gave him a straight answer as to where she was from or what she did to make ends meet. She was mysterious and he liked that. They met in the evenings at that little cafe, conversing for hours at a time. The nights were warm but her body was cool to the touch. When she took his arm, he could feel the icy chill of her even through the long coat she wore.
They took walks around the city and she revealed the nooks and crannies that only a local would know. Then they would go to Renoir’s and drink till dawn. He should have been long gone to someplace the war could not touch. But there was always a reason to stay. One more thing to see.
He stayed in a rundown apartment above a boulangerie. The landlady disapproved of foreigners but liked the money. She liked Contessa even less. She called her a dame de la nuit. He tried to explain in broken French that Contessa was not a prostitute but she threw her hands in the air and stormed off in a huff. His lady friend happened to be ascending the stairs at the same time.
“Sois maudit!” Madame hissed, jabbing two fingers in the air at her. Contessa nodded politely without stopping.
“Interesting Landlady you have there,” she said. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” he said. “Be my guest.”
“I brought your medicine,” she held out a bottle of Cabernet.
“Shall I open it?”
“Please do.”
He popped the cork and poured the dark red liquid into two long-stemmed glasses. They toasted each other, reclining on the sofa and gazing into each other’s eyes.
“I’m in love with you, I think,” he said.
“I know,” she sipped her wine, and behind the sanguine liquid, a small smile played on her lips. “You’re very cute, Harry.”
“You don’t feel the same,” he swirled the wine in my glass and watched it spin.
“Love is a difficult subject for me. I think I came to Paris to get away from love.”
“Contessa…are you married?”
“After a fashion.”
“I see,” he downed the rest of the glass in one gulp and poured another. “I’m sorry. I guess I don’t know anything about you.”
“Oh, Harry, don’t be like that,” she placed a hand on his thigh.
“What is this, really?”
“This is fun, Harry. Just fun,” She leaned over and her hand reached down to his crotch. “Let’s keep having fun.”
Her lips found his and she pressed her body up against him. She was soft and cold and the smell of her perfume was heavy in the air. The next thing he remembered was waking up in bed alone. The light streaming in through the open blinds made his head hurt. He reached for the bottle of Cabernet and downed the last drop. It was good medicine.
He sat at the typewriter for a few hours, staring at a blank page before giving up and heading out. It was always like that. The words did not flow anymore and when the words did not flow, he drank. When he drank, he could forget his mediocre, passionless prose and the bin full of crumpled pages. The only things that brought him solace were Contessa and the medicine.
He did not see Contessa again for several weeks. The days were warming as summer approached but the nights were still cool and a fine mist spread through the streets of Paris like a river of regret. His body ached and his mind felt feverish. The sun hurt his eyes so he started sleeping during the daylight hours. He spent his nights at Renoir’s. Madame’s son tended the bar. He was a good man but he talked too much. Harry was not in the mood for conversation.
“Monsieur Ritter, you are by yourself?” Emil smiled at him as wiped down the counter. “Where is your lady friend?”
“Give me a Death in the Afternoon,” he said in way of reply.
“That is the decadent drink of man with a broken heart.”
“Just pour the damned liquor, Emil. I don’t want to feel my toes by the time I’m done.”
“It’s good you got rid of that one, Monsieur Ritter.” Emil took a jigger of absinthe and poured it into a champagne glass. Over that, he poured iced champagne and handed Harry the concoction. “I would never say anything mind you, but I have seen her with many men. Always someone new. She is no good for you. Even Mama says so.”
Harry sipped on the cocktail. So that is how it was. He was just a game to her. Another poor sap in a long line of poor saps. But goddamn he still wanted her. He longed for her company and the taste of her lips.
“Did you hear the news?” Emil asked a little later.
“What news?” He was good angry then.
“The Germans have broken our lines. Lebrun says we should evacuate but I think we will stop them before they reach Paris. Don’t you?”
“Who knows? Maybe a little mayhem would make this city bearable.”
“You don’t mean that, Monsieur Ritter.”
“I mean what I mean.”
“You are drunk, Monsieur Ritter. You don’t mean that. You should go back to America. This city is no good for you. It is like your lady friend. It will use you up if you are not careful.”
“Give me another.”
“You should not have any more, Monsieur Ritter.”
“Give me another, I said.”
“I cannot, Monsieur Ritter.”
Harry threw the glass across the bar. It shattered when it hit the wall. The din of conversation stopped. Everyone was watching him. He smoothed his hair back and placed twenty francs on the counter. “I’m sorry, Emil. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Go home, Monsieur. Go back to America before the Germans come. There is a boat leaving tomorrow, you know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Emil.”
He gathered himself together and stepped out into the night. He lit a cigarette on the corner of Boulevard St. Germain and Rue de Seine, watching the smoke drift into the mists. Maybe Emil was right. This city was draining him dry. The States seemed more attractive than it had in some time. But he could not shake his desire for Contessa. He had to see her again. He had to know.
He tossed the cigarette into a sewer grate and worked his way back to the boulangerie. Stray dogs roamed strangely quiet, empty streets. He could feel their eyes on him and hear their panting echo in the darkness. Ahead of him, in an alleyway, he heard a feminine moan as two lovers embraced in the gloom. Harry grinned sheepishly and hurried on, not wanting to disturb their trist when something caught his eye. The woman was watching him as her partner pressed against her. Her eyes luminesced in the dim light of the street lamps, glittering like a cat focused on its prey. She was small and pale and her lips were full and red.
“Contessa?” he whispered hoarsely.
She smiled at him and then grabbed her partner’s hair. She forced his head back and, sinking her teeth into the man’s neck, tore his throat out in a single bite. Blood gushed from the gaping hole. She spit out the flesh and placed her mouth over the wound, sucking out the blood.
Harry’s mind went blank, unable to process what he had just witnessed. He stumbled backward and ran. His drunken legs moved of their own accord, taking him to the boulangerie. When he reached the flat, he slammed the door and sank to his knees. He placed his shaking hands over his mouth in an attempt to stop himself from vomiting.
The room was lit by a single lamp and in the deep impenetrable shadows, something moved. Contessa stepped into view with a grace unbefitting a murderer. She gazed down at him with a bright smile. Red liquid dribbled down her soft cheek. She held an open bottle of Cabernet and, wiping the blood from her mouth, let it drip down her finger into the wine.
“It’s time for your medicine, Harry,” she held out the bottle to him.
“What are you?” His voice shook. “Why are you doing this?”
“Oh, Harry,” she kneeled down and smoothed back his hair, “didn’t I tell you? It’s all just fun. Come have fun with me, Harry.”
He was in too deep now, he knew. There was no escape. He would drink or he would die. Either way, his life was over. And still, he loved her. God, how he loved her. He took the bottle and drank.
“Harry, my darling Harry,” she leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “I want you to take me to America.”
He booked passage on the ship Emil told him about the next day. The Germans invaded that afternoon. Even as they boarded the ship and the gunfire echoed in the distance and the screams of men and women dying filled his ears, still, he loved her. And when passengers began silently disappearing, still, he loved her. Contessa brought him bottle after bottle and he drank it down to the last drop.
It was good medicine.
The End
(C) 2024 Terry Allen
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