it is of course, the first cliche: he lights a cigarette….
“we were in paris. it was night and we were pretty drunk.” he inhales, lets the smoke drift out of his mouth like slow serpents seducing their way to heaven. “she wasn’t much older than seventeen.” he looks at us, smiles, “but she told me she was twenty three.”
and he knows that we know that we’ve heard this all before.
“oh, if you could only have seen her!” he leans back, eyes wistful, “she loved the meringue, even danced to it when it wasn’t playing.” snaps the ash off to the side. he leans forward suddenly, “even shopping along the champs-élysées, in and out of every store, with her hips, magnifique!”
he leans back again, not breaking eye contact this time. his smile does not reach his eyes. we know what’s coming, we’ve read the reports.
“but,” he held the cigarette just before his lips, humming the tune before he actually says the words to match them. “…’she was just seventeen, if you know what i mean’…” he pulls the last drag particularly hard, as if he is remembering something vivid and even perhaps something painful. we know he had bitten off her ear and one nipple. we also know she managed to give him a good scratch down his neck that required stitches.
we don’t exactly know, yet, if he bit her before, after or during her dismemberment.
“the tragic thing is,” he says, carefully putting out the cigarette in the ashtray he had been ignoring so far, “the tragic thing is that i had to pollute the seine with her.” he points a finger as if he is imparting a lesson, “the same sacred river that our victor hugo has the ‘valiant’ inspector javert throw himself into.”
he laughs, looks at all of us in turn, “do you not love it? only in the sewers does a coward and whore meet! it is quite beautiful, no?”