The Curse of the Grand Guignol (18 page)

“Do you think the Paris Fair is
a Potemkin village?”

“It is being built for show but
at least the buildings are real. It is being built to bring nations
together, not simply to impress one person. There are more
differences than similarities.”

“Do you think it will bankrupt
France?”

“Nations are financing their own
displays but there is always the possibility of over-reaching
oneself.”

“There was a lot of violent
debate going on at the café about the cost to the nation. A lot of
the anger seemed justified.”

“The poor and oppressed have
always had a valid grievance. But when the lunatics take over, the
madness begins, and the suffering is universal.”

“So we limit the suffering to
the poor and oppressed? Is that the best we can do? ”

“If I give all my wealth away,
if all the wealth in the world is shared equally among everyone,
what sort of world will we have after ten or twenty or thirty
years? Will we have equality and harmony and universal happiness,
or will we back to where we are now? I don’t have an answer.”

“We work to change laws. We work
towards better education, jobs, housing, fair wages, and we do it
without violent revolution.”

“I know you’re right, but a part
of me believes that sometimes violent revolution is the only way to
bring about change.”

Gunpowder. Salt-peter.
Salpetre. Salpetriere.

Who could have imagined that a
gunpowder factory would one day become a hospital? The inmates did.
They imagined it self-destructing inside their heads every night.
They pictured it blowing sky-high, raining fire and brimstone on
the heads of the doctors and nurses, the sick and the mad, the
doomed and the damned. They pictured it burning hotter than the
fires of Hades. They pictured it destroying Pain. And that bane of
all existence - Hope.

They danced on its grave. And
they sang.

“It has colour and movement,”
pronounced Monsignor Delgardo when the Countess presented him with
the painting. “Where did you say you purchased it?”

“Galerie soixante-six.”

He recognized the name. “Ah, the
Splattereurs.”

“I thought you might find a home
for it in the hospital to cheer the patients up.”

“I thought the asylum might be
the best place for it,” said Dr Watson dryly.

Monsignor Delgardo placed the
large canvas vertically on a table where it leaned against the wall
of his office. He stood back to study it in more detail. “I detect
a sardonic note, doctor?”

“I cannot pretend to like
it.”

“The formless splatters are not
too unpleasing,” offered the Countess, trying to say something
positive. “You can make of them whatever you want.”

“Now! There you have it!” said
the Monsignor enthusiastically. “I have been thinking of using
splatters in my assessment of megalomania. Da Vinci and Botticelli
thought that ink blots spoke volumes about creativity and
imagination. Dr Binet has been experimenting with ink blots for
some time, using them to assess thought disorder and mental
illness. Some people who find it difficult to express how they are
feeling will reveal a lot about their innermost emotions when
describing ink blots because they regard them as removed from
themselves. It is a fascinating area of study. Dr Kerner even
published a book of poems related to ink blots which stirred quite
a lot of interest among doctors of psychology. It reminded me of
that party game Gobolinks.”

“Gobolinks?” said Dr Watson
dubiously, wondering if these so-called psychologists weren’t
madder than the patients they professed to treat. “Never heard of
it.”

“It was popular in my country
when I was a young man. Everyone was mad for it. A month would not
pass that I did not receive an invitation to a Gobolinks party.
Eventually, like all those things, it fell victim to its own
popularity.”

“Oh, yes, I remember it now,”
said the Countess. “We played it at finishing school in
Switzerland. We had a Gobolinks Day where everyone dressed up in
symmetrical costumes which they cobbled together on the day from a
costume box. We all made symmetrical ink blot patterns on paper and
had to write a short poem about one of our creations. Prizes were
awarded for best blot, best poem, best costume, and there was a
booby prize that made everyone laugh.”

“Yes, that’s it,” smiled
Monsignor Delgardo. “The costumes had to be symmetrical and the
more macabre the better. That was another reason Gobolinks parties
eventually lost favour. It became too hard to think up new costumes
all the time. I might hang the painting in my office, exactly where
it is now, just above that table. Yes, I will use it in my
research.” He turned to the doctor. “What do you think your
colleague, Sherlock Holmes, would have made of it?”

“A crime against art,” the
doctor replied, tongue-in-cheek.

“Ah, see, now, that off-hand
response speaks volumes about Mr Holmes’s megalomania.”

“Megalomania?” said the
Countess. “Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes,” said the doctor, shifting
his gaze from the ridiculous canvas to his sometimes megalomaniac
but never ridiculous female counterpart. “Monsignor Delgardo
believes my old colleague, Sherlock Holmes, may suffer from
megalomania.”

“Well, I have never met the
man,” she said truthfully, “but if by megalomania you mean an
unnatural passion for dominance driven by an inflated sense of
self-esteem then quite so, quite so, and quite rightly we could add
any great man. History honours the megalomaniacs. What do you see
in the splatter, Monsignor Delgardo?”

“I see a butterfly,” he said,
smiling. “However, I notice it is titled: Hurt Singer. What is it
meant to represent, by the way?”

“Madame Hertzinger lying dead on
the pavement.”

“One of the victims of the
Marionette Murders?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, dear, - what do
you
see Countess Volodymyrovna?”

“I see a murderer.”

“Hmm, and what do you see, Dr
Watson?”

“I see a mess. Is it possible to
have a look around the hospital?”

“Certainly, let me give you a
guided tour of
mente capti
French style first. The hospital
per se is in the other wing. Here, because of my special study, we
have the asylum. You will not be in any danger but I recommend you
don’t wander off on your own.”

They walked along a wide clean
gallery either side of which ran cells for the mentally ill. There
were small windows set into the doors for ease of viewing the
inmates, both male and female, although many of the doors stood
open and some of the less dangerous patients who had been at the
asylum for a decade or more roamed the corridors at will and others
even had the freedom of the grounds.

“Do you get many visitors?”
enquired Dr Watson, thinking that Salpetriere was no house of
horror, and a far cry from Bethlem Hospital in London, more
famously known as Bedlam, a byword for insanity and chaos.

“Oh, yes, the spectacle of
madness is eternally fascinating to those who see themselves as
sane and the trade in lunacy has always been lucrative. Asylums are
funded largely by visitors. How did Mr Porter put it: ‘The frisson
of the freak show’? However, here, you will not see any chains,
stocks and manacles, no patients routinely bled, blistered and
bruised for the sake of curing them. They may be restrained but
only if they are a danger to themselves and others. We prefer to
study mania rather than punish it. There are great leaps being made
in the study of the human mind. Ah, here comes Little Marianne.
Guard your reticule, la comtesse.”

Little Marianne hung back shyly,
her eyes downcast. She approached sideways like a crab, scuttling
quickly, pausing in her tracks, then moving off again. Like a child
she closed her eyes to avoid being seen. If I cannot see you, you
cannot see me! She might have had the mind of a child but when she
scuttled into an arc of light it was plain to see she was an old
woman. Her small delicate hands were wrinkled and covered with
liver spots; her neck wrinkled.

“Have you had your bath today,
Little Marianne?” Monsignor Delgardo’s voice was surprisingly
paternalistic.

The old woman dropped her gaze
and nodded shyly.

“Was it nice and warm?” he
teased.

Little Marianne gave a
shudder.

Monsignor Delgardo laughed and
walked on. “We believe in cold-bathing. All the inmates take a cold
bath once a day.”

“Even in winter?” The Countess
noted how Little Marianne’s downcast beady eyes were riveted to her
reticule.

“Yes. I highly recommend it. I
take a cold bath every day too. It stimulates the senses. Those who
are out of their wits benefit from the curative shock to the
nervous system even more. We have no miasmatic vapours or effluvial
elements here. We lead by example. Windows open for fresh air,
clean living. Dr Sigmund Freud, the controversial German doctor,
studied here under the late Dr Charcot. We are making great strides
in the treatment of mental illness.”

“Do you adhere to the humoral
theory?” asked Dr Watson knowledgably, watching as the queer little
woman scuttled around the corner yet continued to keep an eye on
them. She was like a baby playing hide and seek. She covered her
eyes with her hands whenever she thought anyone might be looking at
her, yet there was method in her madness. It was an effective way
of avoiding eye contact with those she might not wish to see.

“As far as diet is concerned -
yes? We do not advocate starvation, as was once the accepted norm,
but the avoidance of rich food is essential.”

“You do not practice
deprivation?”

“We do have solitary confinement
for those who are a danger to others.”

“What about drugs? Are drugs
routinely administered?”

“Those with no control over
their bowels, and those who are incontinent, are routinely given
emetics and purgatives, but generally we do not keep our patients
sedated. Shall we cross over to the hospital section now?”

As they passed through a door at
the end of the gallery the Countess thought she spotted a petite,
pretty, blonde woman, as agile as an acrobat, whom she had never
actually met but still easily recognised – ducking through a side
door, disappearing into the wing they had just exited.

“Oh, dear, I think I must have
left my gloves in your office, Monsignor Delgardo.”

“Are you sure? I thought you
were wearing them when we left.”

“As you can see, I definitely do
not have them on.”

He checked her bare hands and,
after apologizing, volunteered to retrieve them.

“Nonsense,” she said with
determined insistence. “I shall go back for them myself. I know Dr
Watson is very keen to see your surgical ward. He has been talking
of nothing else all morning. I shall meet you in the front garden
by the statue when you are done. I’m afraid surgical wards always
make me queasy – all that blood.” She pulled a distressing
face.

He reached into the side pocket
of his long black robe. “Here is my key. Just make sure to lock the
door when you come away.”

“Of course,” she assured.

She re-entered the gallery in
time to see Kiki darting down some stairs. After retrieving the
gloves hidden in her coat pocket, she hurried to the same
staircase, pulling the grey suede gloves on as she went. They had
not been given a guided tour of the lower level, only the ground
floor and the one above. She assumed it housed the coal cellar and
various storerooms.

There were fewer gas lamps at
the bottom of the stairs and the scarcity of windows made it even
darker. Where previously the walls had been like a blank white
canvas which bounced the light back and forth, these walls were
smudged grey. The feeble light that percolated thus far seemed to
have the life sucked out of it. It was rabbit warren of tight
corridors with low ceilings, damp floors, and fetid vapours.
Silence reigned except for the plink-plink-plink of droplets of
water. The Countess soon lost sight of Kiki.

She was about to concede defeat
when a queer voice startled her.

“Cigarette?” The voice was low
and strained, as if the speaker was being throttled and fighting
for breath. “Spare a cigarette, madame?”

It was Little Marianne, more
shrunken and more wizened in the grungy grey light.

The Countess steadied before
lighting a cigarette, hoping the offering would not be used to set
fire to the asylum.

The mad old loon puffed on the
gasper as if her life depended on it. “This way,” she whispered
after the third ferocious inhalation.

The Countess was tossing up
whether it was wise to follow a mad woman down a dark labyrinth to
God Knows where when the old woman croaked, “Kiki.”

“You know where Kiki went?”

The other nodded, and for a
moment the Countess felt unnerved and frightened. Her queer guide
looked like a life-size marionette whose bobbing head was about to
fall off.

The old woman led her down a
short maze of tight corridors then stopped suddenly and indicated a
door before scuttling off sideways in the opposite direction to the
one they had come.

It was with trepidation that the
Countess pushed open the door, holding onto her last indrawn
breath. She couldn’t say who was more startled. Though on
reflection, it was probably Kiki.

“Close the door,” Kiki hissed.
“Before the matron comes past. Who are you?”

“Countess Volodymyrovna.”

“Oh, I recognise the name. No
one in France has a name like that. Raoul told me you are
investigating the Marionette Murders along with your lover.”

“Travelling companion,” she
corrected.

“Really? You were at the
salonniere the other night?”

“Yes, you didn’t go?”