'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.
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Captain Jack Sparrow makes his sauntering way through the twilight streets of Tortuga. He's alone, for his shipmates are headed for the area he most commonly frequents when the 'Black Pearl' docks here- the lively heart of town, with it's many taverns, brothels, and dusk-to-dawn brawling. But on this particular evening, Jack has a urge- even a need- which can only be met in the more genteel part of town.
So he transverses the quieter, graded roadways winding up to the hillside district. Jack takes a familiar left turn, looks for the hanging sign. He's glad to see it's still in place; painted silhouettes of an elegantly coffered man and woman, with a pair of black scissors between. Most importantly, the proprietress' gilded name is unchanged.
The reinforced entrance way is nearly flush with the street. Jack knocks firmly; seconds later the door is opened from within, by a man who nearly fills the frame himself. Tall, wide, dark of skin and expression. Unperturbed, Jack removes his hat and greets him politely. "Good evening, Roche'. Is Madame Genet available?"
The giant's stony visage softens, recognizing the voice of a preferred customer. "She is. Come in, Captain."
Roche' locks the door behind them, not bothering to direct Jack's attention to the multi-lingual notice on the wall, nor to recite it verbally. This facility provides nothing beyond the advertised services; anyone demanding more, or being overly insolent to the staff, is subject to prompt eviction. Providing feasible backup for that threat is one of Roche's functions, though he has others. Such as taking the preferred customer's hat and overcoat, and announcing his arrival. "Madame! Captain Sparrow is here!"
Quick steps from behind the faded burgundy curtain, which separates the antechamber from the facilities. Madame Genet, rather heavyset but light on her feet, emerges. Despite the usual fripperies- lace, rouge, tumbles of shining black curls- the woman's overall aspect is maternal. In his more honest moments Jack will admit he considers this a point in her favor.
"Bienvenu, Monsieur Sparrow!" Smiling delightedly, she takes Jack's face between her fingertips and plants a light kiss on each cheek. "It is always une grande joie to see you!" Her mature voice, in addition to being accented, has a definite warbling quality- another feature of hers which keeps him coming back.
"Bonsoir, Madame! You look 'plus beau' every time I see you." Jack bows elegantly, takes one of her hands and kisses the perfumed knuckles. Her fingers are long and well-shaped. They would look aristocratic if not for the close-cut nails; an unavoidable concession to her vocation.
"If you would be so kind, I am in need of the usual services, Madame."
"But of course!" She takes his arm to sweep him grandly into the back room, where she calls to her staff. "Marguerite, le grand bassin! Pierre, l'eau chaude!"
She leads him to the reclining salon chair. An unusual piece of furniture, that; manufactured only in France. One of the few items she managed to smuggle out with her. Jack sits as Madame adjusts the neck-rest to his height. Fingertips lightly skim his forehead as she removes the bandanna. She lifts each braid and dredlock for examination, tisking over the toil that sweat, sun, and ocean water have taken on their sheen.
"It has been too long, mon petite." Difficult to tell whether she is addressing the man or his locks.
Slim, dark-haired Marguerite appears with a large metal basin, positioning it on the rolling table behind the chair. When Jack first started coming here she was too young to consider flirting with. Though she is now of age, and pretty, he still restrains himself, out of consideration for her mother as well as the house rules.
Shorter, dull-faced Pierre lugs in the first bucket of heated water to begin filling the basin. Madame starts undoing Jack's braids, humming pleasantly as she carefully removes the ornaments. Hers are perhaps the only hands, other than his own, to which he would entrust that task. She has memorized the order of replacement, and she is properly respectful, placing each memory-weighed trinket onto a velvet lined tray. Marguerite assists, deftly unwinding the large unadorned braid at his back.
The basin has been filled. As Marguerite tucks a soft cloth around his neck, Madame brushes the freed locks behind Jack's shoulders. "Lean back, mon beau moineau," she trills, easing down the chair to let him do so. Jack's ears feel moist heat as rose-scented water envelops his mane.
Marguerite uses a dipped cup to soak the hair at the top his head, but it is Madame's job alone to apply the liquified soap. The customer smiles, feeling those long fingers working through his hair, tugging and kneading just enough to produce pleasurable tingles. The skillful hands make their way around his head, as Madame sings poetry to him, now in French, now German. He does not need to know the meaning of the words to enjoy the sound of them. His eyes close, and for a few minutes he considers nothing beyond the melodious voice, the floral scent, and the light, soothing touches on his scalp.
The sensation changes as she gathers his mane into one mass and gently wrings it out. "Pierre! Je suis pret pour plus d'eau!" It's time to rinse.
Knowing the routine, Pierre rolls in another prepared basin. As Marguerite wheels out the original, Jack, glancing at the discolored water, concedes that it probably has been too long between visits.
Madame's massage during the rinse is just as enjoyable. She has informed Jack- and it's one of the few Tortuga-told accounts he believes- that in her younger days she ran a hair salon in Paris, servicing highborn French ladies. Involvement in some scandal, which she does not wish to detail, has forced her into permanent exile from her country. Her very life could be endangered if she returned, she has claimed, very sadly. Jack has not questioned her since.
The rinsing completed, Madame raises the salon chair and gives the long locks another thorough, painless wringing. Pierre again approaches, with the brazier of hot coals connected to bellows. Marguerite lifts Jack's hair in clumps as Pierre pumps in spurts of heated air, drying the dark mass in surprisingly short order. These two assistants may be on opposite ends of the intelligence scale but they both know their business.
Madame brings forth a tray of glass bottles, multicolored as garden petals. "Which oil would you prefer this time, homme bel?"
"Orange rind and coconut, merci," Jack answers lazily. It's less exertion to go with old favorites.
Soft-bristled brushes are produced; three sets of hands get to work on his hair- combing out sections, anointing them with fragrant dabs from the bottles, briskly rolling or braiding. Marguerite has the latter task. Jack watches as she works on a strand beside his face, her slender fingers producing a smooth even plait. Noticing his scrutiny, the girl smiles, shy and friendly as she has always been. She lifts the completed braid for his inspection. "Est-ce bon, Monsieur Sparrow?"
"Est tres bon, luv." Marguerite is that rarest of Tortuga residents; a genuinely innocent young woman. Though it seems unlikely she can remain so, living among the squalor and hazards of this pirate port. She is now old enough to catch the eyes of harsh men who have not known her since she was a dimpled, giggling little girl, as Captain Sparrow has. Not even the formidable Roche' can protect her indefinitely.
It is Madame Genet's hope, Jack knows, to send her daughter to France as soon as she can accumulate sufficient funds to pay for safe passage. Though Madame herself cannot return to the refined life of a Parisian lady's hairdresser, she has acquaintances there who can offer it to Marguerite. Serving demanding noblewomen is not a perfect existence, but Jack agrees it would suit the reticent Marguerite better than any option Tortuga offers.
Madame begins fastening the beads and trinkets into Jack's hair, stringing them in place with a sure hand, singing softly all the while. Lastly, Marguerite painstakingly ties the freshly laundered bandanna over his forehead, giving a final light tug to tell him she's done.
Jack rises from the chair, takes several steps to the large gilt-framed mirror beside the curtain, smiles broadly at the dashing reflection. He makes some quick turns of the head, dramatically splaying out the shining ebon strands.
"Perfectionnez entant que toujours, Madame!" he exclaims, plucking a purse with the pre-counted fee from his sash, handing it to her with a bow. Among the chorus of "Merci"s, Roche' approaches, bearing Jack's coat and hat. Jack dons the former, but only grasps the latter- it's too soon to cover up his splendid coiffure.
He leans close to the mirror, the better to admire the sleek plaits. Thinking a gratuity is in order, his hand slips to an inner coat pocket, where several gold coins clink. "Marguerite has done your training proud, Madame. I shall regret losing her services when she leaves for France."
As she fingers a fragrant braid approvingly, a twinge of regret crosses Madame's eyes. "Pour dire la verie, she may be here for some time yet, Monsieur. Business for these months has been, not very good."
He doesn't need to ask why. He's heard reports about the British Navy catching up with several of her other preferred customers. Jack continues to finger the coins. He had specific plans in mind when he pocketed those.
"But do not worry for her, mon cher," Madame brightly adds. Her dark-fringed, matronly gaze moves to where Marguerite is dutifully sponging off the precious salon chair. "I shall find some way to earn the money. Je vous assure, I have come through more difficult times."
Jack tells himself, he does not really need a wench tonight- she'd probably mess up his beautiful hair. He tells himself, there's already a plentiful supply of good rum aboard the Pearl.
He tells himself, he'd better just do it while he's still of a mind to.
Jack scoops the entire stash of coins from his pocket and presses them into Madame's palm. "Remind Marguerite to have a look at the Notre Dame Cathedral when she gets to Paris."
And before anyone can say another word- thanks or refusal- he's out the door.
It is now very dark, but Jack takes the same roundabout route back to the docks. The night wind plays with his clean dreadlocks, whipping them lightly about his shoulders- he fancies it's meaning to pay him a complement. Perhaps it shall be worth the extra cost, knowing his hair will certainly be treated this well whenever he visits Madame Genet.
He reflects that there's no need for him to skirt the center of town, just because he's now without money. Odds are he can find someone willing to buy him drinks, in exchange for his relating a few yarns. Or even a member of his crew who'll lend him coinage.
But he decides against it. At the moment he's not fully in the mood for the proliferous bouquet which is Tortuga. His memory has been tweaked; in his mind he's wandering quite different streets, in a faraway city. Music-filled lanes where the conversations and invitations are all in French. Where the air smells of cheeses, olive oil, excellent bread, and ... so help him ... red wine. He even misses that, just a little.
"I really must visit Paris again someday. 'Specially since it'll be one of the few places I can get me hair properly done."
The first view of the sea appears as he turns a corner. Smiling at his own whimsey, he pauses and squints to reduce the expanse of moonlit ocean to a narrow band. Just this once- probably for the only time- he wants to pretend those shimmering winks are reflected from a mere river.
Specifically, from the Seine.
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FINIS
I, alas, can not speak Francais. Any mistakes in this text are entirely the fault of my auto-translator.