"Demon Partner" (1-28-07)
Sweeney Todd/Mrs. Lovett
Rated R
Warnings for disturbing themes – cannibalism, gore
The sun had only just dropped beneath the horizon, the heat of the day still trapped in every room of the city. Sweeney Todd sat waiting for the relief of night, hoping desperately for it to bring a favorable fresh breeze. He sullenly tore off another bite of bread, but the rest of his plate remained untouched - a practice which was rapidly becoming a habit. At this time of day, the fetid quality of the air was at its most sickening, and certainly not conducive to a healthy appetite. The stench of the rising smoke had a way of clinging in his parlor, his clothing, even his very nostrils. He'd already sworn off meat - for safety's sake - but his own flesh was suffering for it all the same. Even this drying chunk of cheese was pushing the limits of his tolerance.
Perhaps the most inescapable cruelty of the smoke was that he couldn't even complain about it; it was a by-product of his own industry. The smell of baking meat pies rose relentlessly from Mrs. Lovett's shop downstairs, and that was vile enough. He could blame her for the ovens, but the curling black plumes which burned out of the furnaces were just as much his contribution as hers. If he hadn't moved into this venture in the first place, she'd never need to run them.
Mrs. Lovett, on the other hand, seemed not to notice any odor at all. Whether her sense of smell had been obliterated by a lifetime of residence in London, dulled by decades of foul cooking, or diverted by her recent greed, Sweeney couldn't tell. In any case, it hardly seemed fair that the offending stench rose upwards, into his parlor. Escaping out into the streets wasn't always a safe bet either, for the wind changed unpredictably, chasing it back to Sweeney.
More than likely, Mrs. Lovett, if she noticed it at all, viewed the smoke as little more than advertising, luring customers to trace the source of this unusual aroma. Not so Sweeney, privately sharing the neighbors' opinion of the unholy smoke which swept along Fleet Street: it was a menace.
He had to hand it to Mrs. Lovett as a partner, though with a due sense of respect and a touch of apprehension. Even in his own contempt for humanity he'd never have concocted such an inspired business plan. It appealed to his sense of balanced retribution. Though the world suffered terminally from filth, it simplified things if they disposed of each other. But what Sweeney found unsettling was being unable to put a finger on the nature of the joy Mrs. Lovett took from it. Not once did she waver in her tireless drive, working far harder than Sweeney. Did she take motivation solely from an overdeveloped entrepreneurial spirit, or from desperation to prove her devotion to Sweeney himself? Or did it instead hint at a deeply unspeakable misanthropy, one more properly defined as insanity?
Did it even bear thinking about? The plan was working. Droves of customers were indeed being lured in like flies. They were reaping the rewards of Mrs. Lovett's scheme, be it insane or inspired. Even so, Sweeney grew impatient to end it…with the Judge - the one and only customer Sweeney sought. Shortly after noon today he'd closed his barbershop and spent the rest of the day brooding on it. Three razored customers a day more than met the demands of the pie shop, leaving Sweeney too much free time and free hate open to rumination. Slitting the throats of the nameless masses gave only nominal satisfaction, and he'd grown tired of them. Every upturned throat was the Judge, each slash a dress rehearsal for a performer who was already bored.
Whether he shaved or slew any surplus depended on the queue for the ovens -- and they were Mrs. Lovett's domain. Down in the sweltering basement amidst the flames and the heat, she seemed uniquely in her element. Accustomed to the darkness, she flitted about, expertly handling knives, toting gin jugs, and tending to the ovens.
He'd only gone down there once or twice in recent weeks, absently curious, but had been shortly ushered out. "You're too much of a distraction, dear," she said, uncommonly strong fingers tugging him along by the upper arm, pushing him brusquely through the door. Offering no objection, he allowed himself to be led. Sweeney marked the last visit as the start of his stomach's decline. His stomach had always been strong, and to an experienced barber the sight of blood has little effect. His affliction had nothing to do with the carnage. The customers who lay dead on the table were unimportant dregs of society, not worth wasting any conscience on. They didn't matter; only Judge Turpin mattered. The closer the day came to his arrival, the more fractious Sweeney became. He slept less, ate less, and hated more. None of which explained why watching Mrs. Lovett work would unnerve him. The way she laid her claim, he felt as an intruder in his own diabolical plan.
There was something disturbing in the way she cut up the bodies that embarrassed him to watch. Sweeney didn't deny his role as the one who dispatched them, but his part in the operation was clean and efficient, topped with fresh foamy lather or a mist of cologne. Mrs. Lovett's milieu was gore and heat and death. It disturbed him numbly that she should never display even a hint of disgust at her gruesome task. She never groaned for her aching back, the long hours spent at butchering and grinding meat, or the burns from the oven. She never spared a thought even for the human blood, dried and browning under her fingernails. Every night Sweeney watched them distantly as they clawed at his own body: the remains of some wretch better off dead, and the woman stained with the wretch's blood - neither of whom Sweeney particularly welcomed in his bed…but every person has his use to another.
The last man in the world to cast judgment against her, Sweeney Todd held no objection to her actions. In fact, he was grateful for her willingness to work so hard. Only, it seemed a rare quality to remain so collected when hunched elbow-deep over slaughtered neighbors. The calm she emitted hung on the verge of ecstatic. She was probably downstairs even now, bustling about finishing up the rest of today's harvest. Sweeney decided to go down to her rooms and wait in her parlor. She wouldn't be expecting him yet, but perhaps her floor of the building would be more livable.
As he passed through Mrs. Lovett's sitting room, Sweeney glanced through the open doorway leading to her storefront seating. Toby raced about serving the customers, in over his head keeping up with their demands. Permitting himself a small sneering smile, Sweeney paused. Clearly, not everyone abhorred the aroma of the meat pies.
A clang and a thump rang out from below, and Sweeney paced to the cellar door. The knob was hot to the touch, but he turned it anyway, releasing the stifling air. Sweeney stepped slowly down the stairs, the roar of the recently-stoked furnace masking the sound of his approach. Sweat-stained and rumpled, Mrs. Lovett threw something grisly into the flames and slammed shut the door of the furnace. Sweeney knew that the chimney now poured forth an even blacker smoke than before.
Wasting no time, Mrs. Lovett wiped her hands on her apron and turned to her next customer. Sweeney watched her lips move as she sang to herself, visions of a shop overflowing with clamoring customers blinding her to Sweeney's arrival. She worked quickly and efficiently, as if to the manner born. It wasn't the ease with which she rolled the corpses out of their clothes which impressed him numbly, but her unhurried rifle through their pockets. Most clothing went into the fire; townsfolk had so few and shabby belongings that such articles were easily identifiable.
This man had a pocket watch. It had no chain, but a working watch was a valuable find. She inspected the case for initials or other engravings. They would need to be erased if she tried to sell it, and undoubtedly she would sell it. He couldn't tell by her expression if she found any markings, but she snapped it shut and slid it to the back of a workbench drawer.
He turned his attention back to the body on the table. This man was a stranger to Sweeney -- most of them were -- but his identity was stripped as quickly as his work clothes and hurriedly tossed into the furnace. Surely Mrs. Lovett had been acquainted with many of the clientele, having lived all her life among them…but down here they had no names, and she never spoke of them when above. Under Mrs. Lovett's care, this man was rendered unrecognizable in a flash, reduced to his basest elements. She moved with vigor, slicing away all of the fleshy parts, slapping the meat into bowls, later to be fed into the grinder.
She collected the wasted parts, tossed them into a basket which she slung in to be incinerated. An orange glow burst from the open door of the furnace, illuminating the room. At that moment, Sweeney recognized her -- not as Mrs. Lovett, not a cook, not a woman, but as his true ally.
Silhouetted before the fiery furnace, hair all astray and thin arms upraised reaching for the door, she appeared as the very devil. With a movement distorted by the waving heat, the figure turned, at last having noticed that Sweeney stood watching. The moment dragged long. The figure cocked its head and stared back, projecting accusation and a reprimand for invading its lair. It was not angry, just startled at its exposure. As he stared back, Sweeney fell unexpectedly under its odd soothing influence.
Sweeney felt in its gaze the reassurance of the full circle -- the lesson which the carnivorous pie shop customers had already taught him. Humanity doesn't just breed ugliness; it needs it and encourages it to thrive. A great weight lifted from Sweeney's chest at the confirmation that the world really is as black as painted. He'd seen plenty of Hell in his time, but never imagined that he'd harness it so intimately. This time, he had its power on his side. He had nothing to fear from this monster; it would not come for him. He was providing it the same service that she did for her customers: he was keeping it fed.
It pulled the door shut, sealing their complicity and throwing the cellar into blackness again. Sweeney turned, concentrating his readjusting vision to the dark stairs, and climbed. Speaking of feeding…perhaps he could do with a meat pie after all.