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School for Seduction

  Jeffrey Solmundson

  Copyright 2014 by Jeffrey Solmundson

  Published by Nonsuch Press

  ISBN: 978-0-9937471-2-0

 

  “School for Seduction” also appears in the story collection “Long ago, far away.”

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of authors.

  Table of Contents

  School for Seduction

  About the Author

  Other works by Jeffrey Solmundson

  School for Seduction

  A policeman had come round looking for M. Alphonse ________ the previous Tuesday and so he didn’t have his pistol when he sat down at a window table in a small café on the rue de Lappe. Spring not quite here and the weather tinged brown, the windows and walls tinted in a tobacco-hued film formed before the current proprietor was born. Alphonse sipped coffee black as tar and silently cursed himself, his luck. A man in the back stared hard at him, intermittently tried hard not to stare. A jealous husband. He was well familiar with the type. Alphonse glanced around, his expression fixed, a little bored, a little amused. The café was full of men able, willing and equipped to do harm. Indeed, there was a surplus of such men in the 11th Arrondissement, in France, in all of Europe, in the years after the war. A little caution was always necessary. His problem in the back was not an imposing man. And he’d handled imposing men. Alphonse began the war with Havas doing his shooting with a camera, but it couldn’t last, trenches brimming over with ruined comrades, and by the end he was a real soldier, bullets and bayonets. Reluctant, but capable. And resourceful, of course. Now it was les années folles, and Alphonse, a lifelong Parisienne, had come home to live, to indulge. He would not apologize to God or man for smooth skin in his mouth, for half-removed clothes, for anything.

  Alphonse finished his coffee, ordered another. But what if? Perhaps the stranger was here on business. Alphonse derived his modest income from postcards. There were, like any business, competitors. Unhappy parties. He turned his shoulders towards the window, undid a button on his shirt, slid his brown envelope inside. Tugged at his coat, did up the button. He stood, went to the back alley to relieve himself. In passing the stranger he smiled and nodded.

  “Good afternoon, M’sieur.”

  “Good afternoon, M’sieur.”

  The stranger wore a shapeless cap and a worn coat. But it was – wrong. Something of Passy, the 16th Arrondissement, clung to him like perfume water. Wealth and privilege, it got in the pores, and the accent, it was there too. A man between fortunes, in reduced circumstances? No, thought Alphonse. He stepped out the back and moved along the alley. Disappeared around a corner. Down another alley, across a wide boulevard and to the next street, a side street. Through a hotel lobby, rooms by the hour, out the back. Alphonse considered the metro, decided against it, walked along the sidewalk, head down. He stepped into another alley and – the stranger, his arm raised.

  Alphonse fell, dazed. Something in the stranger’s hand. Another lighter tap, but still not pleasant. The stranger kicked him in the belly, putting creases in his postcards.

  “A misunderstanding, M’sieur.”

  The stranger pulled at Alphonse’s shirt, two buttons came away. He plucked up the envelope. “Oh, Alphonse.” He shook his head in mock disapproval. “Should I show these to the Sureté?”

  “A letter to my mother.”

  “You show your mother such things?”

  “A gift for you.”

  “I don’t want pictures.” He tossed them onto Alphonse’s chest. “I want us to be friends. I want us to have an interesting conversation. My name is Erich.” He kneeled, extended his hand. Alphonse, expecting to be kicked again, shook it.

  “A conversation?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about?”

  “I want you to tell me about the School for Seduction.”

  “I don’t know if I can help you,” said Alphonse. Back to the rue de Lappe, down a few steps to a bistro already becoming busy, pimps, Apaches, whores, the occasional poet. A private booth, poorly lit, but Erich caught the proprietor’s eye, ordered more wine with a mild gesture.

  “I know it exists. Don’t deny it.”

  “This school, it would be very discreet, very exclusive.”

  “I have friends. Money.”

  “It does not matter.” A lie. “How did you come to hear of it?”

  “It does not matter.”

  Alphonse appraised Erich. He was attractive, lively eyes, but had a slight frame, and his features were touched with a certain foppishness. His wealth would ease his way deep into feminine confidences, but still Alphonse could well imagine the man was ofttimes disappointed of a late hour.

  “I am a man who can put sugar on your tongue or lemon juice in your eye.” Erich smiled. Just friendly talk. He poured the wine. “I imagined we would be confidantes, like schoolmates.”

  Pleasure abounded, waiting to be had, to be plucked, brought rumbling to the surface by firm and supple flesh. Pliant under fingers, quivering under tongue, better than a feast.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “No. You.”

  Alphonse sighed. He knew nothing of the man, but he knew he came from money. Sometimes it’s enough. Most times.

  “It has been around a long time. They say the Middle Ages. I doubt that very much, but, I would say a hundred years at least. Its knowledge is sophisticated and extensive, gathered they say from the Near East, the Far East, Africa and other places, who knows where. There are some strange rituals.”

  Erich strained forward, sipped his wine without looking at it.

  “It’s survived by staying quiet and small. In Paris, two or three dozen men have been schooled in its arts. Elsewhere, I cannot say. Students are taken infrequently.”

  “There are instructors?”

  “Three or four, that I’ve met. But graduates help teach as well. Few graduates ever truly leave the school. They return for advanced studies. Students may pass in six months or a year, but some of the techniques take years to master. The theories, the catechisms, the practicum, none of it is easy.” Alphonse leaned back, ah the old student days, a teasing pause, let his glass be refilled. “You know of Roderick?”

  Erich shook his head.

  “A brilliant man. A little mad, but – “ Alphonse shrugged. “Came from Russia, years ago. His cousin was Rasputin, you’ve heard of him? Roderick, unusual talents like that. That family, I can only imagine. Roderick was a spiritualist, a lover of a countess, a pimp, and a world traveler, very necessarily in that order. He was a spy, on the wrong side somewhere, a marriage arranger, and back to St. Petersburg and arrested. He escaped by convincing the soldiers to shoot each other. That Russian at Le Bleu Fenêtre, with the missing leg, he swears Roderick had some of the soldiers slit open their own bellies looking for pieces of gold.”

  “An interesting man.”
>
  “Our headmaster.”

  Erich stared into Alphonse’s eyes. “Tell me how it works.”

  “A calming and pleasurable touch, a particular word or phrase, the careful crafting of expectations and responses. A battle waged on the subconscious plane.”

  Erich did not look convinced.

  “It’s mesmerism and suggestion, together with the manipulation of the senses, particularly of touch and hearing. With practice you master pressure points about the body, sequences of caresses, slight adjustments of the spine, the subtle repetition of certain words. A woman has more keys than a piano, but learn to play and the tune is better than wine. Believe me, I’ve seen it, done it.”

  “Mesmerism?”

  “And suggestion.”

  “Pressure points?”

  “Among other things.” Alphonse smiled. “She feels good. She wants. She responds.”

  Erich looked into space, back to Alphonse. “And does it never fail?”

  “Nearly never.”

  “Show me.”

  Alphonse looked round the bistro, a country gentleman surveying his estates. There, large hips, well-rounded bosom suspended in tight fabric. There, slender and lithe, dark hair cut so fashionably short. There, delicate features, eyes startling and blue and hurt. There, a barmaid. Light hair so slightly tousled. Pretty and graceful. Firm flesh under taut skin, a tight checkered skirt. A white blouse over softer, swelling flesh. Her body a morsel, tugged at by sinew, ready to ripple and writhe. A pinch on the cheeks, a few light bites on the lips, and her face would have a cherubic flush.

  Erich followed Alphonse’s eyes.

  “I’ll call her Vanessa,” said Alphonse.

  He rose, walked past the tables to her. Erich watched him stand in her way, smile, say something. He moved closer, touched her elbow, she answered something, smiled. Alphonse gestured as he spoke, now his fingers on the line of her back. He leaned in, whispered in her ear. A minute or two, no more, and she moved away, a nod to the crowded tables, work to do. He let her go, called her back, whispered some more, and took a step back, turned his attention elsewhere.

  Alphonse found a spot against the wall, leaned. Erich watched, waited. At last, the barmaid was back before Alphonse. He kept talking, swept hair from her forehead, rested a hand on her hip. A longer conversation.

  It was like a play, thought Alphonse. There was a pause in their talk, he sensed she was ready. “My hotel…”

  Nothing. Then, a slight nod. Alphonse made his way out. The barmaid spoke to the bartender, looked apologetic, spread her arms palms upraised, and left.

  Outside, Alphonse embraced her, kissed her cheek, her ear. Hands clasped, they walked to a nearby hotel. Leaving her by the stairs, Alphonse spoke to the desk clerk, returned, and up they went. Pushing the door closed he kissed her hard, his fingers fluttering over her back, her shoulder. He rubbed the back of her neck, murmured into her ear. Their breaths quickened and they tugged at each other’s clothes. He yanked and blindly pushed at her skirt until she could step out of it. His trousers fell to the floor and they tightly embraced. She let out a little moan. A long kiss, then their lips broke apart. He placed her on the bed. She arranged herself most temptingly, fistfuls of garters in his hands…

  Afterwards, the lobby. Alphonse glanced around, no one there, stood still for a moment, content, and stepped into the side room. He walked to the front of the only sofa with anyone sitting on it. Erich looked up, folded closed the book in his lap.

  “Incredible.”

  Late fall in the 14th Arrondissement. The trees all were bare and an icy wind sliced through any coats still unbuttoned. An alley, away from the boulevard and all its lamps. Dark, the light failing early now. The alley showing a few lit windows, but mostly shutters and locked doors, shops closed for the day. Two men paced, not wanting the cold to settle in them.

  “Winter.” Renaldo reared his head in disgust. “Salope.”

  Alphonse took his hands out of his pockets, blew on them for warmth. Thought, for some reason, of the one-armed man who delivered coal in his neighbourhood. Did his hand, sent out of this world by a German shell, ever still feel cold? Does he pray with one hand? Does he still have both hands in his dreams? Use what God gives you, while you can.

  They’d had something to eat at a jazz club, killing time. Waiting. A few glasses of wine. Alphonse looked at Renaldo, who was beginning to sulk at the weather. In Paris most his life, winter always surprised him. Alphonse found him an entertaining companion, most of the time. Committed to his appetites. Unpredictable. Given to excesses in the extreme ever since the siege of Verdun.

  “Ah, here.” Renaldo’s expression brightened.

  Erich approached. He and Renaldo embraced, then he and Alphonse.

  “So?” said Alphonse.

  Erich smiled.

  “I knew it!” said Renaldo. “A star pupil, the headmaster himself said it. Soon he’ll put us two to shame.”

  “I’m sure I won’t.”

  Renaldo put his arm around Erich’s shoulder, looked at Alphonse. “Ha! It took me two years to graduate. Two years! That’s longer than it takes a Buddhist to reach nirvana.”

  “Well, let’s find you a lotus to pollinate then,” said Erich.

  Renaldo roared with laughter. “A drink! We must drink!”

  “Congratulations, Erich.”

  Erich clasped Alphonse’s shoulder. “If not for you. Alphonse. Thank you.”

  A touching moment, a little embarrassment. So, real friendship began. Alphonse and Erich became co-conspirators, carousers, fishers of flesh. Often found in dim lit places, taking their pleasure together.

  “The weather’s finally turned,” said Erich. No need to acknowledge the moment.

  “You’ll have no trouble keeping warm,” said Renaldo. He took one in each arm and walked them up the alley. “Where to go?”

  “Your choice,” said Alphonse to Erich.

  They walked in silence a few steps before Erich said, “The Cairo.”

  “Bravo!” Renaldo turned his steps into an exaggerated march, kept it up almost to the door of the club.

  Inside, a raucous crowd, an accordion playing, wine spilling. The three settled along a long bar. Renaldo searched, found something.

  “A redhead! There. Erich, you must!”

  “Time enough for that later.”

  “Don’t disappoint us. My heart can’t take disappointment.” Renaldo slapped Erich on the back, a slight push forward. “Show us a star pupil! For me!”

  “We promise not to judge your technique too harshly,” said Alphonse.

  Erich considered refusing the challenge, but found the girl in the crowd, crept towards her. Decided on a showy gambit. Approached the girl slowly, took her glass from her, took a sip. Renaldo roared from across the room.

  The redhead stared, surprised. Erich leaned in, whispered, put the glass back in her hand.

  “If she doesn’t wave him away in the next few moments she’s a pinned butterfly, a buttered bun,” said Renaldo.

  Erich nodded, saw them move closer, the snare closing. Erich’s lips glistened, his eyes sparkled. His frailty was lost under expansive gestures, wide stance, full laugh. But something about him stayed intense, vulnerable.

  Erich passed his fingers over the girl’s back, found his touch warmly received. He suppressed a sigh, whispered in her ear instead. He glanced over, saw them being watched by his friends, thought, oh well.

  Later, Erich waved to Alphonse and Renaldo as he left, the redhead on his arm. They went to his room in the 11th, staying away from his comfortable quarters in the 16th for very good reason. On the bed they caressed each other and started to remove clothes. Erich’s companion was soon exceedingly surprised, but in the end quite satisfied.

  Alphonse was thinking about how to get his camera back when he realized the man was following him. From the café to here, coincidence? No. He glanced behind him. The man wore a hat with a brim, pulled down low. A jealous husband. Alphonse curs
ed himself, his luck. His pistol at his mother’s. He slowly walked, turned a corner, quickened his pace. Another turn at the next intersection, then on to a busy boulevard. A pleasant afternoon. Alphonse slid into the thick of the crowd, slouched. He ducked down an alley to the next boulevard, less crowded, walked past the metro, made a few more random turns, risked a look behind him. Satisfied, he rounded a corner into another alley and – Renaldo. A little smile, his hat now pushed back on his head. Sweet Renaldo. A good beast. Alphonse relaxed.

  Renaldo punched him hard in the belly. Out of air, Alphonse collapsed. Renaldo glanced left and right with only casual concern, then dragged Alphonse by the heels along the ground. He stopped at a door, knocked. It opened, and he pulled, with some difficulty, a gasping Alphonse inside.

  The room, empty. No table, no chairs, a window blocked out with paper. Alphonse’s eyes adjusted to the dimness. He sat on the ground. A man stood before him in some kind of robe. Rich leather shoes, but no socks. A wild mane of dark hair, full unkempt beard with some gray, a large nose, thick eyebrows, eyes like a Greek monk gone mad with loneliness.

  “Hello, Roderick.”

  “Fool!” He whacked Alphonse in the ear with a cane.

  “Ow!” Alphonse covered his ear, elbow raised.

  Roderick advanced on him, forcing him back. “I have been on mountain tops no white man has heard of, I have crossed deserts of burning sands that could cook you alive, I have been underground in caves built by forgotten kingdoms, and you risk what I have gained? You little gnat! I could make you fish out your testicles and stuff them in your eye sockets!” He nodded to Renaldo.

  Renaldo kicked Alphonse. Alphonse sprawled.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We have been breached. We have been compromised,” said Roderick.

  “What?”

  “The School for Seduction has been betrayed. Imperiled. Its secrets have been let out.”

  “No.”

  “Yes!”

  Renaldo kicked Alphonse again.

  “Our powers lie in discretion. In small numbers,” said Roderick. “If the world learns of our arts their potency is lost.”