“I’ve just seen Jezebel, or Cleopatra, or Zola’s Nana in that room,” he said, excitedly, jerking his head in the direction from which the music was proceeding. “She’s stunning. The restaurant people tell me they have dancing in there after dinner—dancing and music. Shall we go?”
A curious, half-insane gleam of desire was in his eyes; he looked as though he were on the point of attaining something for which he had been striving all his life. His hands shook a little and he moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue.
Now Salonika is the City of Evil Women, and not a few rapacious demireps prowl like sleek tigers, subtle and wise, through the garish rooms and prim gardens of the White Tower. They are wonderful to look upon; their voices are like soft music; their hands are fluttering white moths; their mouths are innocently crooked. Gorgeous works of art they are, and, as works of art, entirely commendable; but to speak to them is to be poisoned, and to embrace them is to place one’s arms around Death. I said as much to Twelves, but he did not appear to listen, and as he was at least fifteen years older than myself and a man of more worlds than one, I did not venture to make my words more insistent or pointed.
As we were eating ices and hot cherries, the music, which had hitherto been played by a master, became vulgar and tawdry. It was a vapid valse given with a lunging and immoderate accent on the first beat of every bar.
“That’s the sort of thing that makes cities loathsome,” remarked Twelves, referring to the music; “let’s go and stop it.”
We arose, and I looked regretfully at six fat red cherries which, against the yellow of my ice, appeared almost purple.
A minute later we had entered the great room with its stage, its smooth floor, its half-moon of boxes. As yet only a few people were there; they sat round small tables imbibing vicious drinks and gazing with half-contemptuous amusement at the pianiste. I saw at once that she was the woman who had so rapidly inflamed Twelves’ passion, for even her back was voluptuous, and her neck reminded me of certain passages in the Song of Solomon. She was sensuality incarnate—sensuality brainless, horrific, devastating.
Twelves walked up to her and, placing his hand firmly on one of her white shoulders, said:
“Stop playing! You are making yourself ridiculous. Listening to you is worse—infinitely worse—than being in Clapham. Come over here with my friend and me and tell us of some of the wicked things you have done.”
Her eyes swooped into his. They were large and lustrous, but, as they sank into his, they decreased until the pupils became mere points of light. Then her lips parted and she showed her little teeth in a broad smile. I noticed that her skin appeared as firm and healthy as that of a plum not wholly ripe. She ceased playing and, with a sharp gesture, banged her fist upon the treble notes of the piano, placed one hand upon Twelves’ arm and the other on mine, and walked between us to an unoccupied table in the far corner of the room. As she did so she turned and smiled triumphantly at the other ladies of her profession, and her smile said: “See how easily I secure my prey! You, poor things, will have to scheme and ogle till midnight.”