Hold the lantern high, for I have lost my way.

Disclaimer:
While this tale has been inspired by the ‘Red Lantern’ creation of Beth Moriarty and the good people of Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab, it is in no way officially affiliated with either the master perfumer or her business entity. This is divine inspiration, courtesy of their artisan efforts, and I hope that you, Constant Reader, find yourself equally inspired.


Pleasure only starts once the worm has got into the fruit, to become delightful happiness must be tainted with poison.
- Georges Bataille


When she wanted to remember him best - beyond the images committed to the memory of silver nitrate and her mind of a gaunt-faced man, with razor-sharp patrician cheekbones, limpid brown eyes, whose smile was always sad whenever he could be bothered to disclose a moment of mirth – all she had to do was take her favorite black velvet jacket out of its’ silk wrappings and press it to her face, inhaling not only mingled scents, but a world she could no longer inhabit.


It could be interpreted as misfortune by some that certain women of these environs were considered too well-mannered and well-educated to be of any use save either as schoolteachers or courtesans. Lilia was one of the latter. She had been trained by Claudine, the strictest madam in the city, her brothel more boarding school than bawdy house. Those who visited Claudine’s establishment were expected to sit down to tea and polite conversation before retiring to a private room to indulge their perversions.

Claudine had taken a specific liking to Lilia, to the extent of offering her an apprenticeship in managing the household. But Claudine was also honorable, she held her girls to their three-year contract - one year to learn the particulars of the profession, two to work off their debt – and no more. They were free to find another establishment to work out of, or to stay, unless she had no need of a girl’s specific charms. So when it was Lilia’s time to choose her destiny, she decided to take her chances in the city, as she had already encountered the specific instrument of her own desire.

Gaien.

Her days were markedly the same, she retired late and rose early, the habit one she had never been able to shed from her schooldays. Her apartment possessed a fairly clear view of the harbor, although walking up eight flights of stairs to reach it (as the elevator was frequently capricious) was not always an adequate tradeoff. But Lilia enjoyed looking at the sky as she nibbled on day-old pastry or a piece of fruit accompanied by her true daily luxury: café au lait made with rare coffee from somewhere in the Caribbean. Every morning when she opened the container she kept it in, a gift from the Madame, she swore she could smell the steamy, flowery breeze from a distant port, full of exotic thrall.

As mid-day approached, Lilia would shed her dressing gown and run a bath, pouring a copious amount of amber oil into the steaming water. Immersing herself, she would then wash with a bar of delphinium soap, dyed a bright violet blue from the petals of the flower itself. The scent was not too strong, and her generous use of amber oil tended to subdue any other toiletry she utilized. Lilia realized that to most people her personal scent was overpowering, but her clients, both present and former, had desired that sweet and alluring fragrance; as they were frequently rendered insensate by their vices of choice, and therefore subtlety was lost on their libidos.

And in the parts of the city she visited, she was only one note among many, one glittering fragment in a jewel box of temptations deep and wide.

Lilia could easily be mistaken for a male when she dressed in slacks and a tunic – the typical garb of workers. Gaien did not demand she look the part of a wench, only act accordingly at his request. After drying herself off by the open bathroom window, hoping to feel any breeze from the sea, she lightly oiled her skin and slid on pale silk undergarments, then the dark cotton clothes. She carefully distributed more oil through her long hair with a wide wooden comb, then braided it tightly, winding the end with a black velvet ribbon. Before slipping on thin silk socks and flat canvas shoes, she dabbed at her face with a bit of rose oil, then gave it a light dusting of rice powder, her only concession to cosmetics.

If Madame Claudine could see me. . .how she would scold!

But Lilia knew Claudine had far more reason to lecture than merely the circumstances of her appearance. She knew of Gaien and forbid him to avail himself of the services she offered, considering him a degenerate rotter whose only real pleasure was to corrupt those he considered innocents, enticing them into his hothouse way of life.

But where the Madame and others saw only degradation and a languid death wish, Lilia spied a sharp wit, a sweet regret, a selfish felicity. And that was all she had ever wanted, truly, was for someone to say you are mine, and I will pay for the privilege.

Her years under the tutelage of the Madame meant she would never be fit for proper marriage, unless she left the city, started anew under a mantle of subterfuge.

Lilia preferred an uncomplicated existence, and yet within her soul ambiguity reigned.


A storm was moving in from the sea, clouds the color of pewter crowded the sky. The press of bodies and buildings was thoroughly humid, the air thick not only with moisture, but the sounds and smells of raucous industry. As she walked towards the transit station, Lilia caught a whiff of tikka from a nearby cart and her mouth instinctively watered, despite the fact that her appetite was essentially nonexistent. The atmospheric torpor made it difficult to walk, and to wait in line with so many others for the train. Then huddled together with the masses in the metallic box, she noticed a few inquiring glances. They probably wondered why she smelled so sweet yet dressed so plain. To pass the time until the train reached the appropriate stop, Lilia thought about Gaien’s scent, the complex mix of odors which reminded her of him, and only him.

Whenever she passed a tobacconist, even the slightest whiff of Dunhill recalled Gaien in a lazy pose, propped up on red velvet pillows, cigarette or cigar burning between his fingers as he would ask her to relate the world outside. While she talked, describing whatever she had seen or heard that day, he would lean back and inhale, eyes closed, the motion bringing the planes of his face into sharp relief, shaded by the shadows. His mouth would form a perfect ‘O’ when he exhaled, slowly. Though a more predominant scent masked the often-acrid tobacco which other men smoked in the place where they met, there was always a faint sweetness in Gaien’s choices. Lilia had taken to insisting that her other exclusive client avail himself of the same brand or risk her censure.

She wondered if it was love, when she found herself standing in the Rejhn Tabac one day, leaning her head against the Dunhill display, dizzy with longing. The clerk had watched her from behind the main counter, curious but unmoving. Perhaps it was something which women did, upon occasion, when separated from the source of their desire.

The soap Gaien used, he claimed he had it shipped to him, and his assertion was likely true because Lilia had failed to find it though she had scoured the city. It made his skin smell like baked or toasted coconut, like a particular dessert she had once eaten as a child, when the nomads came into the city for the yearly festival and sold their wares; camped on the meeting grounds, wide grassy fields just beyond the landing strips for the cargo planes. Lilia had been given a pastry: buttery, flakey, and filled with toasted coconut mixed into a sugary paste. She couldn’t quite decide if the power of the scent was more a point of nostalgia or exotica, as the nomads had always fascinated her with their culture, at a remove from that of the city dwellers.

And always, the scent that clung to every inch of him, seemingly, was the overly-sweet aroma of opium. It was an odor she had vaguely recalled at parties, or in establishments much like her ultimate destination, which served the purpose of a haven for the slow seductive embrace of opiate intoxication. It wasn’t until Lilia met Gaien, smelled it almost before she saw his face, that she realized how pervasive it was within the culture of the city, but especially the subculture of which she was now a member. A shadow realm of sanctioned dereliction.


Climbing to street level, the weather assaulted Lilia like the overly-affectionate kiss of a wet dog that has just come in from rooting around in garbage: fetid and dank.

Fortunately, she could see her goal at the other end of the block: a single scarlet paper lantern hung above the heads of the passersby, twisting lazily in the eddies of their passage, and a vertical sign lettered in a kind of Art Deco motif identified the old brick building as The Red Lantern.

It was all she could do not to run up the street, heart hammering in anticipation of seeing her desired one again. She controlled her impulse and fell in with the crowd, eyes focused on the middle distance, striding along, but not too fast. She was certain not to make any eye contact with the crowd of stragglers near the entrance, directing sarcastic and obscene remarks at those on the street; thugs either awaiting their master’s command or their own chance to be granted entrance to bartered bliss.

Lilia pulled open the heavy ornate door and was greeted by a burst of laughter and a veil of sickly-sweet smoke. Entering the foyer, she heard sharp splinters of conversation; the house staff was arguing over something, as usual. The family which owned The Red Lantern was originally from Shanghai, and although Lilia knew a few words here and there, the dialect did not flow as easily into her ears as Cantonese. The head daughter, Li Wei, shouted down one of her younger brothers and turned to greet Lilia.

“Your man, he say wait in bar.”

She nodded, and as she walked through the lobby towards the wide doorway which linked the entrance to the bar-cum-restaurant-cum-theatre, a voice sounded out of the shadows.

“Have a drink with me, sanam.”

The use of that Hindi endearment told Lilia that the speaker was Darshan, her other client. He sat in one of the lobby’s high-backed leather chairs, more appropriate for a gentleman’s club than a den of iniquity. His posture was distinctly formal, an ankle resting on the opposite knee, fingers steepled in his lap. Despite his concessions to civilized behavior, however, Darshan’s overall appearance belied the attempt. As befitting the members of his opium-trafficking caste, he had long hair and a full beard, and carried a bright red handkerchief in his breast pocket to signify his rank. Lilia turned and looked down her nose at him, having the advantage of standing.

“It’s not a request,” he said, quietly.

“This is not your week,” she reminded him, primly.

“Gaien is otherwise occupied at the moment,” Darshan informed her, rising to put his hand on her arm. He steered her towards a booth in the near-dusk of the bar. “A meeting with someone from his father’s estate, inquiring as to why he chooses to smoke his inheritance away in an opium den I’m sure.”

“He didn’t send you to tell me that.”

“No, but unlike the Golden Boy I know better than to keep you waiting.”

Lilia grimaced, but knew not to retort, as Darshan had concocted a rivalry between himself and Gaien which she could never quite concede was wholly imaginary.

And she did owe a great deal to Darshan’s indulgence. He was the one who paid the rent on her apartment, who had bought her a closet full of beautifully-made clothes which he insisted she wear when he took her out to the theatre and fine restaurants. The one who took care of all the financial obligations so the paltry amount Gaien set aside for her every year was not so much a pittance as much as a seemingly generous tip. Darshan was the one who had offered the haven of marriage, and ever awaited her answer. But Lilia’s innate prejudice could not stomach the thought of marrying a criminal, even one who was perversely considered a pillar of the community, at this juncture.

She took care to seat herself at the end of their booth, her eyes on the doorway, while he moved towards the center, smirking at her.

“It’s going to be awhile, he’d only got here about ten minutes before you did. Came blustering into the back like he owned the place, right in the middle of our monthly transaction.”

“I’m surprised the mama-san let him get that far.”

“I imagine he informed them if they wanted their money they’d let him in unannounced.”

Their drinks were served: bourbon on the rocks for Darshan, and a crème de cassis for Lilia. As was his odd habit, he took a small sip of her drink before his own.

“Gah, that is sweet,” he exclaimed, grimacing.

“Why would it be any less sweet than the last time you tried it?”

“Well it has been a while since we’ve done something so simple as to have a drink together.”

He paused to light a cigarette and she reflexively checked the contents of the case to ensure it was the correct brand. He rolled his eyes at her, then smiled. The smile appeared slightly forced.

“Why do you have to come? To sell, I mean. You have an army of flunkies to do the dirty work.” Lilia’s inquiry was slightly rhetorical, but she was thrown off-guard by Darshan’s appearance, so set was she on seeing Gaien after what she considered to be a lengthy absence.

“It’s my never-ending quest to fathom why you consider him worth the trouble. But you know this. Can’t we be pleasant out of bed, for once? You’re always so contentious, my lovely one.”

“You’ve bought me, but you don’t own me, ladka.”

“Gaien is lucky I’m the one protecting you; someone else might not be so. . .civilized.”

“Even so you possess the manners of a jackal,” Lilia noted, her voice tight with anger at Darshan’s gibe.

He chuckled, raising his glass, perhaps ruminating on an occasion in which he had to be feral. Lilia assumed there were many to choose from, he was the son of a druglord after all, and in his case the inherent threat of menace in his personage was definitely more of a promise.

“No doubt,” he replied, then sipped at his bourbon.

She signaled for one of the waiters and requested a crème brulee. She received it within minutes, as Darshan’s presence guaranteed she would receive excellent service from the staff of The Red Lantern.

“You know it pains me to see you dressed so plebian,” he remarked, watching her crack the caramelized crust with the side of her spoon. “I don’t begrudge you the opportunity to wear the clothes I buy you for other men, let alone for Gaien.”

“I choose to dress this way, and he does not demand I conform to an arbitrary feminine ideal as you do.”

“But you’re a beautiful woman, Lilia, there’s no sense in denying that.”

“Then it shouldn’t matter, Darshan.”

He took the spoon out of her hand and helped himself to a bite of the dessert. “Mmm.”

“Not too sweet?”

“Not overly sweet.” He leaned towards her and pulled her to him before she had a chance to move away. He put his mouth against her ear, his moustache brushing against her earlobe. “But not as sweet as what lies between your thighs, Mademoiselle Lilia. And tomorrow I will taste it yet again.”

Were she not acutely aware of her place in society, and the hierarchy of the realm in which she dwelled, she would have slapped him at that moment. But knowing Darshan as she did, Lilia imagined he would have enjoyed the rebellion and encouraged it further.

One of the younger brothers, the very same who always delivered Gaien’s messages to her, approached the table and motioned to Lilia with a nod of his head.

“You can go,” he announced, then scampered back to the lobby.

She rose gratefully, only pausing because Darshan had closed his hand over her wrist.

“You’re going to leave me without a kiss?”

She sneered: part tease, part insult. “This is not your week.”

“So I’ve been informed,” he quipped.

Lilia wrenched her arm away and assumed the posture of dismissal, a gesture she had learned from the Madame.

“Good night, Darshan.”

“Good night, Lilia. I’ll send a car for you at three o’clock tomorrow.”

She nodded, then departed the room, walking in a manner which Darshan perceived as achingly rigid. As he watched her walk away, one of the mama-san’s girls, Evangeline, leaned over the top of the booth and began talking to him from his right side, running her fingers through his thick black hair.

“Oi Dar, let’s take a tumble then. No sense in letting that lovely cock go to waste.”

“Not tonight, Vangie.”

“C’mon now, have a pipe and let go of your misery! It’s unhealthy to brood so much.”

Darshan reached into his pants pocket and extracted a wad of bills, his payment from Gaien. He reached behind him and handed her the entire amount.

“No.”

Evangeline deftly plucked the bundle from his fingers and tucked it deep within her bodice.

“Suit yourself then, Mister Martyr.” She walked back towards the bar, hips swinging. But Darshan remained staring at the doorway, smoking and recalling how he had allowed himself to become the primary witness to a particularly futile romance, and knew that even should his patience win out, the victory was merely a technicality.

Darshan entertained a great many people at The Red Lantern, in a special suite of rooms on the top floor, designed for favored clients and influential rogues. The walls were covered in pale lavender silk, intricately embroidered with exotic landscapes of mountains, flora and fauna. The rosewood furniture was hundreds of years old, the brass hardware bearing a mellow gleam from decades of polish. Footfalls were hushed by thick ornate rugs. Everything and anything was available to those invited. Gaien, already on the downward slide of the gentile addict, attended one such fete as the guest of one of Darshan’s associates. Lilia was his escort. Gaien had been trying to purchase admittance as a Red Lantern regular for months, but the mama-san was suspicious of his polished exterior.
“Why high society boy want to bunk here?” she asked Darshan querulously. “Why not Jade Dragon or White Lotus?”
“He has a nose for a bargain the Golden Boy does,” he told her, “death on a very lengthy installment plan.”
He had known plenty of dissipates throughout his life with prodigious appetites and even greater stamina. Regardless of whatever vice they wished to indulge or over-indulge, they were unmovable and indomitable, able to shoulder their responsibilities as required. Darshan had little patience for wastrels, but made a rather superficial exception for Gaien, who had initially recognized him with eagerness at the gathering, almost tripping over his own feet to make his acquaintance.
“Could we. . .negotiate a separate transaction?” he had asked. “I’ve cash with me.”
The other frowned, finding it very bad form to pester the host with business during the pursuit of pleasure. But realizing he was in a very unique position to obtain that which he had been coveting for the last hour, Darshan recovered momentarily, and led Gaien into the drawing room, the walls of which were lined with shelves of dusty books no one had bothered to read. Mama-san bought them by the box at the flea market.
“I would like –“ Gaien began, but Darshan stopped the inquiry with a motion of his right hand.
“I’m not particularly concerned with what you want. However, I will propose what you’ve been attempting to obtain; that is, a permanent position as a regular client here. Furthermore, I can guarantee this offer at a reduced rate. But the price is not any particular sum of legal tender.”
“Well whatever it is –“ Darshan cut Gaien off again.
“What I want, is Lilia.”
Gaien blushed, and Darshan was amused to see he had retained at least a slight sense of propriety. “Lilia is her own woman, sir. I’ve no influence over whom she chooses to associate with.”
Darshan acknowledged the fact of her autonomy. In the amount of time he had to observe her, she of the deep umbre hair and glittering hazel eyes, he had immediately ascertained that she was concurrently a product of Madame Claudine’s training and had chosen not to renew her employ. The Madame would have never allowed her charges to enter the neighborhood where The Red Lantern was located, let alone set foot in this house of earthly delights. He also knew that she was in love with Gaien, who considered Lilia a lovely accessory, a charming companion and a delightful paramour, but he was already devoted to a particularly demanding mistress, and this beautiful girl was doomed to the status of the also-ran.
“Believe me when I tell you that she will do anything you ask of her, no matter how demeaning or distasteful. Though I can promise that my attentions will be no more or less perverse than your own, in their way.”
“But –“
Darshan put his hand on Gaien’s shoulder and leaned in close, lowering his voice to the purr of menace he often used with those individuals he considered especially obstinate.
“I want her. You want this,” he then stood back and spread his hands out to indicate their surroundings and the implied components of the enterprise. “If you refuse this offer, then know that I will obtain her services eventually. You, on the other hand. will never be allowed in here again. So I propose that we take the most direct route to mutual satisfaction. I will take care of her, ensure she is available upon your whim. But otherwise she will be mine, and you will have a place here until you’ve chased the dragon all the way to Hell.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, and his brown eyes bore into Gaien’s own with an aggressive assurance. As he expected, there was no real argument to be had, and after a few guilty thoughts passed through his mind and across his facial expressions, finally this haughty scion let out an exasperated sigh and declared, “Fine.”
“Bring her in here. I will explain everything. Enjoy the party.”
Darshan could have sworn Gaien looked slightly defeated as he left the room, but imagined that once he tasted the particular variety of the flower of joy which The Red Lantern had to offer, any other twinges of conscience would be soothed, and eventually buried under the bedrock of his ever-flourishing addiction.

A figure materialized before him, as he took a final drag off his cigarette and reached for the all-but-empty glass, a tiny puddle of amber liquid rolling around on the bottom.

“It’s a disgrace what’s happened to him. And you’re encouraging it.”

“I don’t recall your name, barrister, but I’d suggest you refrain from harassing me for safety’s sake.”

“If this whole damn city wasn’t so thoroughly corrupt I’d be happy to see you swinging from a rope in front of the courthouse.”

“No doubt there’s many who would take pleasure at that sight. Why don’t you have a drink before you rally the masses, hmm?”

“Nothing could ever tempt me to tarry in such a place. It stinks in here, it literally reeks of sin.”

At his retreating back Darshan couldn’t resist a retort.

“You’d be surprised how it grows on you, barrister.”


“There you are. It seems an eternity since I’ve seen you.”

Lilia attempted to keep her expression neutral. “A Turkish poet once wrote ‘The poppy has no sense of time.’”

Gaien looked towards the ceiling, his reflexive regret causing him to look wistful. “’Tis true, I’m sure.”

She sat down beside him, tucking her feet beneath her. “Gaien, the week is nearly over.”

“I’m sorry, love. I wanted to be alone.”

This time she did frown, she was unable to keep the mask of propriety in place. But she noticed he wasn’t looking her way. He was looking instead at the wooden box which housed his opium. Pieces of the processed cakes were rolled into balls, the source of the term pearl of euphoria, which was also sexual slang for the clitoris, though not as popular in the vernacular. The pearls were then inserted into the reservoir of a pipe and smoked. They burned very slowly that way, lasting for hours. It was the most popular form of ingestion. Lilia knew Gaien was playing a game with himself, holding out for as long as he could stand to – insistent upon his delusion that he did not need the drug, he only wanted the drug – and his attention would continue to waver until he finally surrendered. She ran a hand through his lank shoulder-length hair.

“Let me give you a bath, Gaien. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“That would be lovely. I’m all out of sorts.”

Lilia called for one of the sisters to ascertain if the bathroom which held the large claw-foot tub was available. Upon learning it was and securing it by invoking Darshan’s name, she gathered up her charge: pulling a silk dressing gown over his thin frame, slippers upon his feet, and led him down the hall and up the stairs to the floor of luxurious rooms reserved for the high rollers who wanted more than just an opiate fix. Several of the working girls waiting in the parlor for their summons glanced curiously at Lilia, wondering why Darshan’s chosen one would waste her time playing nursemaid to a junkie.

The water was running, a good head of steam collecting in the air like rainy drizzle. She took a bar of the coveted soap out of her pocket and set it in the wire soap dish attached to the side of the tub. Lilia then collected a stack of towels from a nearby cabinet and set them on a chair. She helped Gaien to undress, gently removing each item and draping it over the chair. Once he was naked, she ran her fingertips over skin and bones until the tub was full. During that time he stood with his eyes closed, unmoving. The sound of running water always lulled him into sleep, the nursery he slept in as a child looked out over a courtyard with a large fountain, ever-cascading.

Gaien climbed in the tub first, not seeming to notice the temperature of the water. He leaned back and kept one arm dry, fingers touching the floor.

He did not watch Lilia as she shed her plain clothes, and the exquisite lingerie, to join him.

She soaped him from head to toe, beginning with his hair. His hair was never clean unless she washed it, and she loved its’ soft feel, the way it curled up at the ends, the subtle glints of gold among the russet.

She loved how he moaned appreciatively when she ran her fingers through his hair and over his scalp, lathering front-to-back in a repetitive motion. It was a sound of unabashed animal pleasure, unlike the glacial remove of his other articulations of ecstasy. Gaien was not like Darshan - noisily proclaiming the strength of an orgasm or the perfection of her abilities to accomplish the feat – in the throes of sex he was precious, quietly murmuring and sighing as she sucked his cock, mounted him and guided him into the liquid embrace of her cunt. All the effort was hers and her only reward that fleeting moment of an ecstatic open-mouthed gaze as she milked him expertly, her vaginal muscles fluttering over him, a dance of push and pull. And then, his smile once the tremor had passed. He had the most beautiful face, the most exquisite geometry of bone structure, the most delicious mouth, and his lips were as sensuous as a woman’s when he smiled.

The smell of the soap, intensified by the ambient temperature of the room and attendant humidity, made Lilia hungry, and she always hoped it might finally wash away that other smell, the heady stench of self-destruction.


They enjoyed a post-coital soak, the water cooling slowly. When they finally climbed out and dried off, Lilia took the same care to oil Gaien’s skin as she did her own, and dressed him in the clean clothes she had made certain to bring. After donning the undergarments once again, she wrapped his dressing gown around her, adding another layer of olfactory deception to her own personage. Perhaps if she smelled just like him she would not despair so intensely when they were apart. She followed him back to his cubby, to his nest of velvet pillows and the all-pervasive scent of the poppy. He sat obediently still as she rubbed a small amount of amber oil on her palms, then ran them over his hair, moaning again as she caressed his scalp. She carefully pulled a wide-toothed comb through the loose curls. As he extracted a cigar from the humidor next to the precious wooden box and lit up, she looked through the small pile of books he kept in one of the drawers, knowing what he wanted now was to be read to while he enjoyed his cigar, and some brandy, then he would finally allow himself to succumb to the need that doubtless was making him vaguely ill even now, the pain of denial as much physical as emotional. And when he did, that was when he would display the most obvious affection for her, inviting her to lie down beside him, kissing and caressing her as an expression of his euphoria. He knew better than to encourage her towards similar excess, but she secretly enjoyed the taste of his kisses whatever the particular vice. It was a way to skirt sin, to glance the poisonous sting without true injury.


They would eventually fall asleep - even with the accompaniment of the chorus girls singing bawdy songs and performing ribald dances in the theatre, as well as the drunken laughter of customers in the bar - curling into one another, and she would murmur that she loved him and he would reply in turn, his mumbled whisper sounding so detached that Lilia often wondered who Gaien was truly addressing.


Not long after dawn, where outside The Red Lantern the clouds had flushed to nearly the same shade of crimson that the establishment used to wordlessly advertise their wares to those who sought them out, one of the sisters entered Gaien’s cubby and gently woke Lilia, whispering into her ear.

“Miss Lil, time to go.”

Prostitutes were not allowed in the cubby area during the day, unless they themselves were using. The management insisted on drawing a very clear distinction between the activities of vice during diurnal hours.

After carefully stretching and rising from the bed, Lilia dressed quietly and accepted a tray from the girl, a croissant with butter and black currant jam upon a thick porcelain plate, and café au lait.

“Your man say you want food,” she murmured.

They went through this ritual every time, in the hopes that Lilia would mention to Darshan that they were doing their job efficiently. She never tipped any of the staff out of her own money, knowing they all received more than enough from their patron. As she ate the pastry and sipped the coffee, she watched Gaien sleep. This was all she could do, as he would likely sleep all day and it would have never occurred to her to purposely rouse him merely for the formalities of farewell.

Eventually, as she could hear others stirring, she reluctantly composed herself for departure, combing out her hair with his comb and braiding it again, but instead of the ribbon she had used the day before, she took one from a stack of letters he kept in a nearby drawer, exchanging it for her own. Gaien would probably never notice, except that the fragrance of amber might hopefully remind him of her, and cause him to smile.

Leaning over him, taking a moment to listen to his breathing which seemed to her as beautiful a sound as any, she kissed his cheek, her lips running along the cheekbone.

“I love you, Gaien,” she said, closing her eyes.


The train was full of sleepy-eyed cross commuters and Lilia spent most of the journey back to her neighborhood with the end of her braid under her nose, sniffing the last vestiges of her beloved, indulging a particularly laughable daydream: a quiet life in which he cared only for her, and engaged in those civilized bourgeois pursuits that were the normal hallmark of a man of his breeding and station. A businessman standing next to her crinkled his nose and shifted as much as space would allow, bringing her back to the realization that she exuded licentiousness, no matter how she might happen to appear. In fact, well-scrubbed and modestly attired, her reflection in the carriage window reminded Lilia of one of her school pictures. Only the expression of tired resignation and the shadows beneath her eyes belied any corruption over the resultant passage of time.


Lilia’s routine for the day remained unchanged, save that she went back to sleep upon arriving at the summit of her apartment after the rugged assent of the main staircase. She slept in her clothes and dreamt of Gaien: variations on their first meeting, wherein he was charming and self-consciously humorous, and his eyes were focused solely upon her face.

Even the guaranteed largesse of a courtesan required cultivation during the initial negotiations. She slept not so much out of fatigue, but because she knew Darshan would most likely keep her awake all the night with his carnal demands.

I’m addicted to you, Lilia, not some damned drug. You may not kill me, but I’ll likely die of heartbreak all the same.

There was no difficulty involved with being Darshan’s mistress. He never asked her to do anything of a sexual nature which the Madame had not taught her to do, and especially nothing degrading. He was openhanded, indulgent, and even though he took pleasure in gentle mockery during social situations, when he was between her legs she owned his soul.

“Imagine if the lords could hear me now,” he would pant, thrusting away as he held her legs up, his long fingers grasping her thighs, “to know that I was the whore, and you my absolute authority.”

“They would kill me to exploit your weakness,” she responded, gasping in kind.

It was a fallacy, Claudine informed her girls, to believe that women were not capable of pleasure, or that should they decline to seek it. In point of fact, women were superior to men in that their pleasure was neither fleeting nor superficial. The female orgasm was on a par with religious epiphany. Many of the girls would titter scandalously at this observation, but she would smile thinly at their giggles.
“Just wait until you have one, my lovelies.”

“I would slaughter anyone who even thought of causing you harm. I would burn their hovels to the ground and drink the blood they shed.”

She closed her eyes at all his declarations of devotion: how he would kill for her, die protecting her, do anything she asked, even if she could not do the one thing he truly desired. All the words ran together, dotting the string of the usual my love, my queen, my goddess, do I please you, does my cock please you darling Lilia?

And it did, of course. Darshan had quite the reputation for sexual generosity among the girls of The Red Lantern. He could coax ecstasy out of even the most jaded doxy. Any method, any position she requested, he would comply; and during those most perverse of instances he would hiss at her silent composure, as he rocked her upon his lap, tottering on the fulcrum of his cock. “Call me by his name, you damned bitch. Pretend he’s the one who fucks you so well.”

Equally perverse, she would do so, and explode from the inside out with the joy of finally releasing the burden of suppressed unrequited adoration.

“Has he ever done that?”

Always the interrogation. And if she left the bed where he laid beside her, splayed indolently, smoking and eying her with ever-evolving cupidity, he would only follow her through all the rooms of his enormous stronghold, cornering her eventually.

“No Darshan, you are the only one.”

This made him chuckle, which progressed to full-blown laughter.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what’s so funny?”

Humor him, that is your responsibility.

“What do you find so funny?”

“You’re wrong, my love. I’m not the only one who’s a fool.”

Silence.

“I swear to God I will find a way to make you love me.”

“I belong to you, and that will have to suffice.”


There were moments, spinning in the concentric circles of amplified bliss, when Lilia knew she could erase the bitter from the sweet by telling a lie. The Madame called it one of the most powerful lies in the world, and thus should be used sparingly. But she convinced herself that her aloof facade was for Darshan’s own good: a druglord heir could not afford to be defanged by considerations of true love. And he could fuck her endlessly for days, until she begged for sleep and for peace, but even so the lie would not be pried out of her ambivalent soul.


Ambivalent because it might not be a lie after all.


It could be said that there was no true love to be discovered within the walls of The Red Lantern, only obsession, which burned with an altogether enticing light; and it called to martyrs and madmen alike, the pain of colliding with the flame transformed to pleasure with dogged repetition.


Darshan had absorbed nearly all the same scents as Gaien, moths fluttering around The Red Lantern, and yet they were not the same at all. To imbibe the memory of either man brought tears to her eyes - tears of regret - but the character of that regret was as distinct as the day to the night.

And in the remaining hours between, existing as she had once so fervently imagined she might - ensconced in a gilded cage of lovely home, enchanting offspring, doting husband – Lilia was certain to ensure she was completely alone in those moments when she found herself crying over the scent of an empty wooden box she would pull out of the bottom of her armoire and cradle lovingly in her arms.