A Note from the Author: After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!
Chapter 2: The Carousel
(Armin Arlert)
"Blimey," said Springer. He hung onto Arlert's shoulder as though he'd lost the strength in his legs, and craned his neck to look over his shoulder.
Arlert had to blink a few times to make sure he wasn't seeing things. The space before him was much larger than he could have possibly anticipated, and dimly lit. But it was the fact that several parts of the great circular hall were moving that bewildered him the most: the outside of the room, divided into several colorfully-lit individual boudoirs divided by darkness like the spokes of a wheel, rotated slowly one way and gradually passed beneath them – it was then that he realized their entry landing was much deeper than he had first thought – while the middle of the room held what appeared to be an eponymous gilded carousel rotating the opposite direction. Arrangements of tables and booths between the two cogs remained still and he was thankful for that.
"My good fellows, let's not stand here all night. Come," Smith was saying. A couple of waitstaff were collecting their hats and Arlert distractedly handed his over too.
"What in God's name is this place?" Kirstein asked.
"Are you sure this is quite proper?" Hoover added nervously. Arlert wasn't surprised – of all of them, with the exception of Smith, as an Earl's son he stood the most to lose should this place yield unsavory characters that liked talking on the streets.
"Fear not, every guest here is chosen and trusted. A gentlemen's code, if you will," Smith called back as he descended a coil of stairs to their left. They followed him down into the lively modern jazz music swirling below like a fast-moving current.
Arlert cast his eyes about again. Many of the red-clothed tables and velvet-upholstered booths were occupied by well-dressed men like themselves, of varying ages, and they didn't seem to pay the newcomers any mind. Scantily-clad women walked among them or sat beside them, handing out drinks or sweet treats or passing an opium pipe. There were even a couple dancing on a table. As they descended through a cloud of smoke – both incense and opium – he could see colors more vividly: jewel tones and gold gilding on the furniture and stemware, glittering brass and copper of the light fixtures. Along with the peppery, sweet spice of the smoke was that of liquor, and it grew stronger as the stairs curved right, back into the room, to deposit them almost immediately alongside a well-stocked bar on the stationary portion of the floor.
The hardwood floor underfoot was overlaid with well-worn Persian rugs that softened their steps, along with the seating areas forming little private islands of indulgence. The free space in front of the dark, polished wood of the bar branched out into winding pathways leading to and around the opulent, full-sized carousel in the center. Only – Arlert peered closer, letting the others pass him – instead of horses and fantastical creatures, there were…performers. He didn't know what else to call them. They hung from thick ribbons suspended from the carousel's roof or lounged on chaises, spun around poles and stretched around and over each other, decorated as if they were little more than objects in an amusement park. Mirrors behind them ensured that very little was left unseen. He watched one patron waddle up and beckon at one of the girls, who smiled coyly and sidled off her portion of the platform, looping her arm through his.
Arlert didn't know whether to feel horror or embarrassment, but was disappointed to find that a small part of him was unfortunately intrigued. A glance at his companions showed their eyes already wandering, smiling at the women who passed and starting to posture themselves like roosters or peacocks.
"Smith, my good chap! Welcome back!" came a booming, friendly voice. Arlert turned back to the bar and saw a heavy-set man with rosy cheeks and a matching dinner jacket speeding toward Smith, his arms as outstretched from his body as his graying beard was from his chin. Arlert was as alarmed by this as he was by the fact that the man had neglected to address Smith with a title - exactly how well did they know each other? "Congratulations on your engagement," he said as he jovially shook his hand.
"Master Cyrus, good to see you," Smith smiled widely. When his hand was released he gestured behind him at his guests, "Friends of mine from the War. We're here for one last hurrah. Gentlemen, this is Master Philip Cyrus, the owner of this fine establishment and our host."
"No doubt you'll be wanting your garden, eh, Smith?" Cyrus nudged Smith with his elbow a couple of times.
A garden? Surely he doesn't mean an actual garden, Arlert rationalized.
"That does sound quite nice," Smith agreed.
"Good, it's settled. I'll take you to your usual booth." He turned his head to call over his shoulder, "Annie – a bottle of the plum wine and eight glasses, if you would."
Arlert's gaze followed their host's voice to behind the bar, where a petite young woman with her blonde hair tucked up or cut – he couldn't quite tell from this distance – into one of those short styles women seemed to be getting nowadays cast a disinterested glance their way. When she turned around from whatever she was doing, he could see that alarmingly, she seemed to be wearing a dark tie and tailored waistcoat over her white button-down, but he didn't linger to see any more. They were being led through the room.
"Of course I can round up your usual fare," he could make out Cyrus continuing, "and you'll be happy to know that we have a new item on the menu!"
"Oh?"
"Yes, a recently-imported exotic that I'm sure will add to your collection nicely. We're contemplating her for the revival of the Salome act."
"I'm sure that pleases you greatly, Master Cyrus."
He's referring to a woman, Arlert realized, and couldn't help but feel a little sickened. He remembered his late father's words – progressive at the time but nowadays not so unusual – to the contrary: that a woman wasn't another kind of property. He had thought better of Smith.
Cyrus led them past other, smaller groups of gentlemen, none of whom Arlert recognized. Admittedly that wasn't hard to do; he was by far the least connected of his companions, to the point that sometimes he was sure he was only included by virtue of being Yeager's close childhood friend. The tinkling laughter of a passing pair of corseted women with feathered headdresses drew him back into the present before he could bump into them.
The booth Cyrus had referred to was somewhat opposite the bar, arranged as a long, thin horseshoe pointing toward the carousel with an oval table in its middle. Above it hung a mismatched collection of Arabian pierced lanterns with colored glass for their windows that dappled the rich, dark wood and emerald velvet with rainbows. The group filed into the collar-high seats, Smith at their center like the presiding lord he was.
"Make yourself comfortable, my good Sirs," Cyrus said. "Some plum wine – a specialty of ours imported from Japan – will be arriving shortly, compliments of the house, but of course your server will be happy to take your individual preferences. If you'll excuse me, I must ensure the night's acts are in order."
After Cyrus had left, Smith said, "In answer to your earlier question, Kirstein," he leaned forward so he could be better heard, "This is an exclusive gentlemen's club, styled on the cabarets in Paris. I don't believe it to be the only one of its kind in London but it is the one I like the best. There's more variety. Here, we can drink superb vintages, gamble a little without fear of being sullied, enjoy a good show, and if we so wish, revel in the company of beautiful women. It is an enclave of catered desires."
"And err, exactly how long have you been catered to?" Braun, opposite Armin on one end of the booth, asked. His eyebrows waggled suggestively.
Smith kept his composed smile, "Since we got back from France. So nearly a year now, I suppose."
Arlert was startled by the arrival of an average-height young woman in structured folds of vivid magenta and gold. The equally folded nature of her lacquered ebony hair and her face, painted to look like porcelain, led to his quick assessment that she'd been styled to look like one of the geisha women he'd read about. However, on closer inspection of her bowed head and lowered eyes, he was shocked to find that this wasn't just a trick of powder and rouge – she truly was an Asian woman.
The others seemed just as stunned by this rarity; they said nothing, only stared, as she silently set down a tray of short stemmed glasses and, holding back one of her sweeping layered sleeves with an elegant hand, began to pour the contents of the equally squat bottle. Attracted by a slight glimmer on his periphery, he saw a fringed gold comb among the coils of her hair and another, slimmer one – with a surprisingly large pearl on its end – securing two deep red peonies there.
"Thank you, my Peony," Smith called from the other end of the table.
Arlert noted how she glanced up only briefly with a ghost of a smile, but did not look anywhere else. She left them the bottle and turned to go; Arlert noticed how her confident walk seemed at odds with the demeanor she'd just exhibited, suggesting to him that it had been an act for their benefit no matter how tetchy relations with the Chinese could be.
He looked back at the sound of the tray sliding over the table; Braun was taking a glass of the amber spirit and was about to make another smiling comment as he passed the tray down when a woman's hand fell on his arm. The amusement on his face was at a direct contrast with the exasperation Arlert felt – he'd much rather they just be left alone – but despite himself, he looked too.
"Allow me," came a purr from a surprisingly tall, slim, bronze-skinned woman with mahogany hair and a scattering of freckles under her eyes and across the bridge of her nose. Arlert was mortified to discover that she wore little other than a cut-away bejeweled brassiere and a pair of loose silken pants gathered at her ankles. He sat as far back in his seat as possible as she lifted herself onto her knees on the table, deftly taking the tray. She smelt intoxicatingly of jasmine.
"Well I'll say," Yeager, beside him, began, but didn't seem to know how to finish.
"My Iris," Smith said welcomingly. "You'll be tending to us tonight?"
"If you'd like," she shrugged with a coy smile. "I'm glad you decided to bring friends." The men watched, mesmerized, as she managed to artfully stretch, slide and coil her way down the length of the table, "You know what I say," she deposited glasses in front of them as she went and somehow managing to not knock them over, despite a long limb trailing out here or there enticingly close, "the more the merrier." Once she'd reached the end she laid on her back and, stretched out to her full length, was almost as long as the table. One of her hands played with Smith's tie as she looked at him upside-down. "What'll you be having?"
Arlert was just wondering how impressive it'd be if she could remember eight different drink orders when he caught sight of another pearl – two in a line, in fact; the lower one larger than the one atop it – this time as a piercing through the woman's navel. It sat there on her flat stomach like, he blushed to admit, an obscenely large bead of spent seed – no doubt the desired effect.
"Several things," Smith answered. "But how about we start with a claret for me."
The Iris made a noise deep in her throat, her hands continuing to busy themselves with his tie. Arlert watched in half-wonder, half-alarm as one of her green-satin-covered legs bent at the knee and arched up, then down, crooking her bare foot to direct Hoover's face in her direction. "And you?"
Hoover stammered, turning red.
The Iris looked back at Smith. "They know they're allowed to touch, right?"
Smith reached out and brushed stray strands of her hair out of her freckled face. "It's their first time. Play nice."
She sat up, then, growling in appreciation, "Oh, they'll need some breaking-in, then. How fun."
A(nother) Note from the Author: A couple of things - first, big shout out to Wings of Wax and the mysterious Guest for my first reviews of this piece! Thank you muchly! In response to your query, Guest, I've decided to keep potential or actual pairings a mystery on this one - after all, don't want to spoil the surprise(s)!
Second, though - regarding the brief narrative concerning 'the Peony', Mikasa. I'm very aware that geisha are from Japanese culture rather than Chinese - and likewise that her name is of Japanese influence - the mishmash above is designed to reflect misnomers and scattered education and rumor of the time. The Chinese population was quite low in London around 1919 and due to various media released at that time, equated to a certain sinister nature and an association with seedy activities. Anything Asian was kinda smashed together into a titillating hodgepodge of 'the Orient', regardless of country.
Anyhow, thank you for reading! Hope you're enjoying!