The Demi-Monde: Winter (47 page)

‘You a dancer, honey?’ Josephine Baker asked. ‘You sure got the chassis for it.’

‘I was a dancer when I was younger, Miss Baker, now I sing.’

‘No kidding?’ Josephine Baker raised her left eyebrow in surprise. ‘You looking for a job, honey?’

‘Miss Baker, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to sing in a show in which you were starring. And hopefully, if the business proposition Monsieur Louverture and I have been discussing comes to fruition, then I will be able to do just that.’

‘Business proposition? What kind of business proposition, Louffie baby?’

Ella answered the question for Louverture. ‘I’m in the market to buy blood.’

‘A lot of blood,’ added Louverture quickly. ‘Mademoiselle Thomas wants me to ship sixty thousand litres of blood to Warsaw.’

Josephine Baker eyed Ella shrewdly. ‘And what’s a Shade like you getting so het up about all those Blank cats holed up in the Ghetto?’

‘Because, Miss Baker, if we don’t help the Poles today, then they won’t be around tomorrow to help us. One day everybody, black and white, is going to have to help defeat Heydrich.’

Josephine Baker smiled and then raised her glass in acknowledgement of Ella’s reply. ‘Good answer, Miss Thomas, good answer. You know, I pulled outta the Rookeries two years ago when Heydrich started to get hot and heavy with those cats who weren’t of the pale persuasion. This UnFunDaMentalist jive ain’t warm and welcoming to us Shades so I hauled ass to Paris where no one gives a rat’s fart whether I’m black, white, green or blue … well, they didn’t use to until that piece of shit Robespierre started mouthing off. That cat and the rest of the Gang of Three are really screwing the Quartier up. Bastard Dark Charismatics: I hate them all.’ She took another long pull of her champagne. ‘This is the first time I’ve been back to the ForthRight since then and I can tell you, Miss Thomas, it’s gonna be the last time. To me what colour your skin is don’t matter a fig, what matters is the colour of your soul and Heydrich’s soul is blacker than my skin will ever be.’

Ella nodded her agreement. ‘I hope the day will come when skin colour just means nothing more the tone of your skin, when your religion is just seen as the way your soul speaks, when the place where a person is born has no more weight than the throw of a dice and when we are all born free, when understanding breeds love and brotherhood.’

‘That’s a big piece of mouth for a girl as young as you, Miss Thomas,’ said Josephine Baker quietly. ‘Did you write that?’

‘No, Miss Baker, you did. It’s one of the most important things I ever learnt.’

Josephine Baker stared at her. ‘I don’t remember …’

Ella moved swiftly on. ‘The problem, Miss Baker, is that Heydrich is making war to ensure the racial purity of the DemiMonde. Conquest will give him the opportunity to erase all those he perceives to be UnderMentionables – subhumans. And
both of us, Miss Baker, and you too, Monsieur Louverture, are included in that category.’

That had a salutary impact on the mood around the table.

‘So do the cats in Warsaw have a chance?’ asked Josephine Baker.

‘It all depends on how you define having a chance,’ said Ella. ‘The Poles will never be able to defeat the Anglos but the longer they can keep fighting, the more people will come to realise that the ForthRight can be beaten. And that, I think, will be the greatest gift the Poles can give the people of the DemiMonde: belief that fighting the ForthRight isn’t just an exercise in futility.’

‘Is such a thing possible?’ asked Louverture. ‘Are the Poles really willing to fight on despite the odds?’

‘Only if the other Sectors help: the Varsovians can’t survive and fight without ammunition, without food and without blood.’

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a waiter who handed Louverture a note. He unfolded it and read the message. ‘Ma cherie, your no-account Count over there on Table Twenty-Five’ – he nodded across the floor of the nightclub – ‘has invited us to join his party.’

He gave Ella and Vanka a smile of apology. ‘Monsieur … Mademoiselle … you must excuse us, but unfortunately Miss Baker has her duties as the foremost star of musical theatre in the whole of the Demi-Monde to attend to. If you will excuse us.’ Both he and Josephine Baker rose from the table, but then Louverture paused. ‘I will consider your proposal, Mademoiselle. Perhaps it might be possible for you to attend me again, say at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon? We are rehearsing a new routine …’ He left the sentence unfinished as he bowed his au revoir.

The future of UnFunDaMentalism is inextricably linked with the success of the ForthRight. If and when the ForthRight expands politically and/or geographically so UnFunDaMentalism will expand in lock-step. The decision of the Medi city-states (Paris, Rome and Barcelona) in the Quartier Chaud to make a Unilateral Declaration of Independence from Venice and to reject ImPuritanism in favour of UnFunDaMentalism indicates the attraction of UnFunDaMentalism (and Biological Essentialism) to certain of the more perceptive Leaders active in the DemiMonde, within whose ranks Senior CitiZen Robespierre is most certainly numbered.

– Editorial Comment: The Stormer,
82nd day of Winter, 1004

‘I can have fifty thousand litres of blood on a barge by the second day of Spring … in ten days,’ Louverture confirmed offhandedly, reluctant to take his attention away from the girls rehearsing their routine on the Resi’s dance floor. ‘We can have it shipped up the Rhine accompanied by paperwork that says it’s a delivery of palm oil for a broker in Berlin. At the last minute we’ll redirect it to the Warsaw docks. And as for your other request: the Revue will be departing for Paris tomorrow
and you are welcome to accompany us, Mademoiselle Thomas.’

‘How much?’ asked Vanka.

‘The price is the one agreed with Mademoiselle Thomas. Two hundred guineas a litre, ten million guineas in total, payable upfront.’

‘Half now and half on delivery,’ countered Vanka.

Louverture nodded. ‘Very well, but the second half is payable as soon as the barges are alongside Gdańsk docks. It’s your responsibility to unload the blood.’

‘Do you have the bank account where the funds are to be transferred?’

Louverture pushed a tightly folded piece of paper across the table which Ella placed securely in her purse. Then they shook on the deal.

Ella looked at Louverture sternly. ‘Monsieur, you are unaware that I am a clairvoyant. Just one touch of another person’s hand and I know all their secrets. And now, having shaken your hand, I know that you intend to renege on the deal we have just made. When the two barges are at the mouth of the Rhine, it is your plan to demand a further two hundred guineas a litre or you will have the barges turn around and return to NoirVille.’

Louverture frowned. ‘Mademoiselle … you are mistaken … I would never …’

‘Monsieur Louverture, I would strenuously advise you against this sort of duplicity. If you attempt to cheat me I will have no hesitation in advising Lord Shaka of the side-deals you have been doing with Victor Lustig that have deprived him of almost a million guineas of profit. I don’t think I need to remind you of how unforgiving Lord Shaka and his Blood Brothers are of those who cheat them.’

The frown deepened. ‘How …’

‘As she says, Ella is the most proficient clairvoyant in the
whole of the Demi-Monde,’ explained Vanka airily. ‘She knows everything.’

‘So? Do we have a deal then, Monsieur?’ asked Ella. ‘A deal we are both intent on honouring?’

‘You have, Mademoiselle,’ said Louverture unhappily.

‘We’ve done it, Vanka, we’ve done it!’ exclaimed ajubilant Ella as she skipped out of the Resi. ‘We’ve organised the blood for the Ghetto and by tomorrow we’ll be on our way to NoirVille.’

‘Not “we”, Ella: it’s you who will be on your way to NoirVille.’

Ella stopped dead. ‘What … what do you mean?’

‘Oh come on, Ella. You can’t really imagine that I’ll be able to hide myself away in a troupe of Shade singers and dancers. I’ll stick out like a … well, like a Blank in a troupe of Shade singers and dancers. No, it’s best that you travel to NoirVille alone: it’s safer that way.’

‘Vanka …’ Up until that moment she had been very happy: she was, after all, a girl in love, a girl who had steadfastly refused to think about leaving him and going back to the Real World. But now the unpleasant reality of how different they were came sweeping over her.

Vanka gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘It’s for the best. Ella, I have to know you’re safe. So let’s just concentrate on getting to a Blood Bank and sending the money to Louverture. The quicker we’re back at my lodgings the better.’

The Berlin Blood Bank was just around the corner from the Resi. It was a spectacularly big building, a vast stone temple that dwarfed anything Ella had seen in either the Demi-Monde or the Real World. The white stone it had been constructed from shone bright and pure in the sharp Winter sunlight. Looking at the Bank she thought the Demi-Monde’s programmers must have modelled it after one of the great central banks of the
Real World: it was all huge columns, magnificent stone steps that climbed up to enormous doors and the whole lot decorated with a confection of majestic sculptures of forgotten dignitaries. Remarkably the stonework and the carved columns were perfect: there was not a crack or a scratch to be seen anywhere. It was so perfect as to be unnatural.

‘How old is the Bank?’ she asked, preferring to hear the answer from Vanka than PINC.

‘We don’t know exactly,’ answered Vanka, as he looked anxiously around for Checkya agents. ‘The Blood Banks are classified as Wonders of the Ancient Demi-Monde. They’re built from Mantle-ite, the same stuff the sewers are made out of, hence the green sheen.’

‘Is that why the building is in such mint condition?’

‘Yes, Mantle-ite is impervious to wear or corrosion and invulnerable to attack. They hose the Banks down once a week and, hey presto, they’re as good as new. So believe it or not, this building’ – Vanka waved towards the Bank – ‘is – depending on which learned professor of preHistory you’re inclined to believe – somewhere between ten thousand and a hundred thousand years old.’

‘But who do these historians think built them?’

‘Here, in the ForthRight, UnFunDaMentalist dogma has it that Heydrich’s super-Aryans, the Pre-Folk, were responsible.’ Vanka gave Ella a crooked smile. ‘Apparently we Anglo-Slavs could build edifices like this before we were seduced by people like you.’

Ella laughed. ‘I apologise.’

‘Don’t,’ said Vanka. ‘Having seen you in that dress last night I forgive my ancestors all their indiscretions. They would have needed a will of steel to resist women as beautiful as you.’ He gave her arm another squeeze and Ella almost cried as an odd
feeling of both sadness and happiness washed over her.

As they climbed the steps two Checkya officers emerged from the Bank: Vanka immediately pulled Ella to one side. ‘If you keep your veil tight, Ella, I think it will help avoid any unpleasantness. If you’re challenged just tell them you’re one of Josephine Baker’s troupe.’

More than a little worried by how edgy Vanka seemed, Ella did as she was asked. And then she froze. Over at the other side of the steps lounging nonchalantly against the wall of the Bank was Professor Septimus Bole. She was sure it was him. She recognised the long skinny body, the great rudder of a nose and the small shaded spectacles. Instinctively she made to move towards him, but the crowds jostling around the Bank’s entrance stopped her and when they cleared the Professor had vanished.

She frowned: why was the Dupe of Professor Bole haunting her? She was sure she had seen him when the Checkya had raided her apartment and now he was here. But why didn’t he speak to her?

She didn’t have a chance to ponder. With another nervous look over his shoulder, Vanka led her through the great doors and into the vastness beyond.

The Banking Hall was enormous, so enormous that though there were thousands of people milling around it still felt empty. The ceiling stretched a good two hundred feet over Ella’s head and the hall must have been at least four or five hundred feet wide. How deep it was she couldn’t even guess; it just seemed to disappear into the distance.

It was also incredibly noisy, resonating with a strange clacking sound, as though a million rattles were being played simultaneously.

Vanka noticed her confusion. ‘The noise is coming from the screens in the Transfusion Booths. That’s where customers can
move both the money and the blood they’ve got in the bank.’ He pointed to the stone walkways that coiled up the walls winding from floor to ceiling and along which niches – the Transfusion Booths – were set at ten-foot intervals. ‘The screens are what you use to view your Accounts and to make Infusions and Transfers. They reckon there are half a million Transfer Screens in every single Bank – one for every four people in a District – and that’s why Banks are always so noisy.’

Taking Ella by the arm, Vanka led her up along one of the walkways until they came to an unoccupied booth set about twenty feet or so up from the floor of the Bank. Here she found herself staring at what seemed to be a bizarre, clockwork interpretation of an ATM. There was a viewing port which looked not unlike those employed on old-fashioned mutoscopes – the ‘What the Butler Saw’ machines – that had been the staple of fair-grounds and amusement arcades a hundred years ago, and above this was a large screen similar to the moving-type message boards that she had seen in movies featuring airports of yesteryear. The booth was equipped with a clunky-looking keyboard – an image of a handprint to its left – set on a shelf positioned below the mutoscope viewer. Finally there was a faucet to the right of the keyboard from where she presumed blood was dispensed.

‘Let’s get going, Ella,’ urged Vanka. ‘I hate Banks, they’re always crawling with Checkya. You begin by placing your hand on the red handprint. That allows the Bank to identify you.’

‘How?’

‘The Spirits only know,’ said Vanka impatiently.