The Mountain of Simeli

Chapter 1: Behind the Velvet Curtain

"'There is a private entrance into the garden...into the worshipful Doctor's garden, where you may see all his fine shrubbery. Many a young man in Padua would give gold to be admitted among those flowers.'"

-Nathaniel Hawthorne, "Rappaccini's Daughter"

It was a place easy enough to overlook if one didn't know how to interpret the signs. Downtown Moscow was never a place one wished to walk alone at night, and even in pairs, steps were brisk and businesslike, never lingering in the rubbish-filled gutters, the wavering shadows cast by browned-out streetlights, the alleys strewn with empty syringes and crumpled, grunting bodies.

It was down one of those alleys, past the boarded-up windows of the quarantined buildings, past the buzzing, half-lit neon signs of convenience stores, past the shadow-swathed street deals and the sudden, sporadic, kamikaze-like explosions of car mufflers backfiring - or a gun going off, but they were almost one and the same, here - that one found what one was looking for.

It was a street like any other street in any other downtown in any other city.

Almost.

During the day it functioned in the same fashion of any other substandard sub-street, with the drugs and the booze and the bums, but when darkness fell, they would come. Well-dressed men of high station, some cloaked and slinking, some bare-headed and striding; they all oozed through the alley, carefully side-stepping the refuse and refugees that still littered the gutters, picking their way through the stinking muck to stand before the rickety door of one of the boarded-up buildings. It was no different than the other doors of the other buildings surrounding it, save that the grimy doorknob was of bronze, not brass, and across the splintering, peeling door marched the words, painted in red:

RAPPACCINI'S GARDEN

Then the well-dressed men would cautiously look around, as if afraid that they would somehow discover a social counterpart had been following them. They would crane their heads from left to right and sigh, relieved that they had not been seen walking through such a filthy part of town. Then they would straighten their shoulders, take a deep breath - possibly of fear, certainly of anticipation - and knock.

And the door would open, and they would disappear inside.

And, on the off chance that the well-dressed men were wrong, and they had been followed, their pursuers would know where they had gone. Even the crumpled bodies on the street knew where they had gone, knew what secrets lay behind the splintering door.

Rappaccini's Garden. The most famous - and infamous - nightclub of the underworld. The garden of pleasures, where the rich and powerful came to sate their desires with the beautiful and deadly creatures within.

This evening, the alley was even more busy than usual, as figure after figure knocked and slipped through the splintered door.

But it always was busy when the Lily-of-the-Valley danced.

Behind the splintered door, behind the three hundred pound bouncer who waited to receive the knock and a handful of money from the well-dressed men, gaped the entrance to a staircase, from which radiated a faint glow and the rhythmic, heartbeat-like throb of percussion. As the stairway twined down it widened, and glowing globes appeared on the walls until one could clearly see the thick pile of the forest-green carpet, the elaborate patterns of the hangings on the walls, the ivory inlay of the mahogany handrail. And above, when one looked up, the vaulted ceiling depicted life-sized representations of men and women frozen in the different poses of erotic pleasure, their painted faces twisted in the throes of ecstasy.

At the end of the stairway hung a thick curtain of what appeared to be leafy vines, but upon closer inspection was revealed to be an intricately embroidered green velvet curtain. The gentlemen who came down the staircase were then stopped by another giant bouncer, who patted them down. Another handful of money changed hands; then, when he had received a satisfactory amount of money and was assured of the lack of dangerous objects, the bouncer stationed himself before the green curtain.

"Welcome," he boomed, "to the garden of poisonous pleasures."

The curtain drew away, and the gentleman would slip inside and become immersed in the dazzling delights of Rappaccini's Garden.

It was as if they had stepped into the ruins of the hanging gardens of Babylon. Creeping vines dotted with large, exotic flowers spidered up the walls. Ancient-looking pillars swathed in ropes of ivy rose to the ceiling, which was painted the color of the evening sky. Above, thousands of small electric lights changed in intensity to the beat of the music. Deep within the foliage were set box seats, which surrounded a dance floor of gold-veined marble tile that could easily hold three hundred couples. But at the moment the men merely watched, gazing from their box seats or the tables and chairs stationed around the edge of the stage

The long wall stretching across the back of the dance floor was as intricate as the palace of Versailles; mirrors framed by wreathed pillars constructed the bottom half, while the top half was another dance floor. Beneath the box seats on one side wall were crimson doors with positions taken from the Kama Sutra painted on them, all positions that showed the male member of the depiction in the transports of release. The wall opposite that had a large, lit opening, flanked by statues of the god Pan, which leered down at the dance floor in the center of the enormous room. One might well expect great things to emerge from either the doors or the opening; their magnificence called for a grand entry to be made through them.

But no movement came from the doors or the opening, for all was focused on the dance floor. All light, all attention, all eyes were fixed on the center of the dance floor, on the stage that had risen out of the tile, hovering over the floor like a plateau.

There, on the platform, under the adulation of a thousand lights and several hundred pairs of eyes, danced a small woman, naked save for a pair of stiletto heels. Her skin was an unearthly white, pale as bone, and as she danced, golden patterns flickered across her skin and disappeared, almost too fast for the eye to follow. Her long, wavy hair fell down almost to her knees and formed a diaphanous cloud around her lithe, voluptuous body. When she tossed her head, the stage light caught glints of gold through the swirling, electrum-pale strands.

No one moved, no one breathed as she whirled and writhed, the movements so fluid and smooth that one would swear that it was unreal, that she was defying gravity. As she curled her limbs around the pole rising from the center of the stage, the atmosphere of heightened anticipation grew, and one could hear the sudden, steadily quickening breaths of the men who formed the audience, feel the collective sweat forming on their brows, see their glazed eyes following every movement of her body.

There was something about her dance, her bone-white hair, her glowing skin, her sensuous movements, that made every man feel that they were not just watching her...they were dancing with her, pressing up against her, tasting her...and when she laughed, or her sparking blue eyes turned to the boxes, or a slow smile crossed her features, each man saw it directed to him, addressed to him, meant for him alone to see....

The music rose to a frenzied peak as the woman gyrated and twirled, and the men leaned forward, the sweat glistening from their faces, their hands clenching in the mossy fabric of the tablecloths, hearts pounding until they were short of breath again. Feverishly the music played, faster and faster, and then, just as it seemed that the men would burst, as if she could not possibly dance any faster, the music exploded cacophonously, the lights flared, and the woman sunk gracefully to the floor of the platform.

A heartbeat passed. Then the audience rose to their feet, screaming, clapping, whistling, their pulses still racing in their ears and the memory of her taste lingering in the back of their throats.

The woman stood, and the applause grew even wilder as she bowed.

"Lily-of-the-Valley!"

The plateaued stage slowly sunk to rejoin the marble tile of the floor, and as Lily stood, keeping her head lowered demurely, a heavyset man appeared, holding his arms out to the crowd like a circus barker, as if he had just performed a magic trick. His red waistcoat sparkled in the brilliant spotlights.

"I seek a man," he cried, his black mustache bristling with the movement of his lips.

"That's what we've heard, Brodman," yelled a sudden voice from a shadowy box.

Rappaccini's Garden was flooded with throaty laughter.

Brodman shot a warning glance in the direction of the box from which the voice had come and held his arms up again.

"I seek a man," he repeated, his strong voice carrying over the noise of the audience. "A strong man, a man who lives for the thrill of danger -"

"Get on with it, Brodman!" shouted the voice again.

"A man," Brodman boomed, "who would risk all, would taste the forbidden fruit, would sip from the poisoned cup, for one perfect, passionate embrace from the Lady Lily -"

He flung his arm towards the small woman, who lifted her head for the first time since her dance had ended and raised her arms in a sensual pose. The audience roared. Hands began to wave violently in the air from the shadows of the boxes; looking closely, one could see the well-dressed gentlemen waving money, flowers, even glittering handfuls of precious jewelry.

Brodman's eyes flickered to the shadowy box from where the heckler's voice had emerged. He crooked one large finger. "You!" he cried as two assistants dressed like satyrs threaded their way towards the person he had indicated. "You sir, would you risk your life for -"

"Aw, stow it," the man yelled as he was led out onto the marble tile. The surrounding audience jeered, but the man merely flashed a grin and waved the satyrs away. His dress was nonchalant but expensive, and the half-open shirt he wore was of the finest Egyptian cotton. Unlike many of the other men present, his face was young and unlined, but his eyes revealed him to be a man who had seen and done too much.

"I've heard your rubbish before," he said in an undertone to the circus barker, then turned his attention to the woman. He grinned, a gesture made lewd by mocking curl of his lip. "But I've never seen anything like her before tonight. She had better be worth it."

Turning back to the crowded audience, he reached deep into his trouser pocket and slowly pulled out a thin strand of diamond fire. With a roguish wink, he tossed it to the pale woman, who caught it in a graceful motion. Brodman stepped forward, but the young gentleman merely put one hand on Brodman's waistcoat, stopping him in his tracks.

"It's the lady I'm here to see," he scoffed, giving the red-coated man a mock shove.

As the crowd booed, the young man planted himself in front of the pale woman and leered down at her. She was a full head shorter than him, and had to tilt her face fully back to look into his features. Her face, glowing unearthly in the twinkling lights of the stage, was expressionless.

"Okay, Lady Lily," he sneered into her half-lidded eyes. "Give us a kiss."

His hands shot out, clamped onto her bare hips, and jerked her roughly to him. Silence descended upon the crowd. Despite the fact that he, being the lucky one, was universally hated by every member of the audience, they all leaned forward as his head dipped down, voyeuristically participating in what he had just paid for.

The instant her lips touched his, the audience heard a muffled, agonized scream, like the sound of a mortally wounded bird of prey. The young man tore his lips from the woman's and backed away from her. He stood for a moment, an arm's length away from her, weaving where he stood. Then he twitched violently, once, twice, and finally crumpled in a heap at the Lady Lily's feet. The Lily-of-the-Valley looked down at him calmly, and then turned her pale face to the audience and smiled slowly.

"He didn't ask politely!" Brodman shouted as a swell of derisive laughter bubbled through the hall.

As the satyrs rushed forward to pull the unconscious man from the floor, there was a sudden crackle like thunder, and a huge puff of colored smoke roiled out over the stage from the opening flanked by the statues of Pan. A blinding light flashed on the dance floor, and as the audience looked away, shielding their eyes, no one noticed the small, long-haired figure scampering away through an exit hidden behind a statue of Aphrodite.

The darkness of the backstage wing was a sudden contrast to the brilliant lights of the stage, and the small figure thrust her arms out before her, blinking furiously to clear her vision as she stepped carefully around the milling figures and over the cords winding across the floor.

"Nice going," called a low, teasing voice. A rustle of fabric echoed through the air, and a wadded-up dressing gown suddenly struck the dancer on the side of her face.

"You've frightened her away!" boomed Brodman's voice from the stage, which was answered by a discontented groan from the audience.

She grinned, catching the gown and shaking it open. "That's the best part of this job," she exclaimed, shrugging her shoulders into the robe and belting it at the front. She drew close to the wall as two scantily dressed women and a half-naked man pattered past her towards the stage door. "Giving those smug bastards a taste of what they paid for."

Laughter answered her as she slipped past the immediate backstage and over through a door at the end of one wall. She entered a room where rows of brightly lit makeup tables lined the walls. With a sigh, she threw herself into the seat of one whose mirror read "LILY-OF-THE-VALLEY" and dropped the diamond thread onto the countertop. The unearthly paleness of her skin had fled and left a natural peachy-rose hue, shadowed only by the thick stage paint layered over her features. Her hands went up to her hair and, hooking her thumbs in the band of her wig, she pulled the electrum-pale hair off her head and plopped it on the waiting dummy with the same smooth motion. The wig cap still covering her head made her look startlingly bald.

A tall, slender woman plopped down on the corner of the table. Her rust-red hair was piled atop her head, and the pink silk robe she wore hung open to reveal a silver-studded corset.

"Got another set tonight?" the other woman asked, lifting one long leg to check the zipper of her thigh-high boot.

"Nope." The Lily-of-the-Valley flicked the wig cap off her head, and a thick fall of reddish-brown curls bounced down about her face. She dug her fingers into the chin-length coif and massaged her scalp. "Since Larkspur twisted her ankle and I did the set with Delphinium last night, I get off the floor early."

"Lucky," the redhead snorted, leaning over to check her lipstick in the mirror.

"Nuh-uh," the Lily-of-the-Valley countered, rolling her eyes. "Charlie put me on first call for the private rooms, so it'll still be a late evening." She wagged a finger at her friend. "So there's no point in envying me."

The other woman groaned. "That's all yours, girl. You can have that thankless job."

The woman called Lady Lily raised an eyebrow at the redhead through the mirror. "The prostitute is telling me that I have a thankless job?"

The other woman grinned, her beautiful features becoming sly. "Hey, I work once an hour. You work twice as hard, if you'll excuse the pun, in the same amount of time." She tapped one red-varnished nail against the thread of diamonds atop the counter. "And I get twice as many pretty baubles as you do."

The Lady Lily laughed and rolled her eyes. "Thanks for reminding me, Flann," she retorted, picking up the string of jewels and depositing it into a small jewelry box. Her slate-blue eyes flickered to the mirror and, sighing, she twisted a curl of red-brown hair between her fingers. "Look, I'd love to chat, but you've got to get to your room and I've got to get dressed and get this hair of mine finished. I'll talk to you tomorrow morning - have good luck tonight, okay?"

As Lady Lily turned back to the mirror, a hand caught hers, and a cold stream of silvery coils slithered into her palm.

"Not so fast, pretty," the redhead whispered into her ear, hugging her arms around the smaller dancer's neck. "Each night you give me this to hold, and each night you forget it. You should make an effort to remember, because someday I might just decide to walk off with it. It's lovely enough to tempt a saint, and you know none of us here are quite of that caliber."

Before the Lily-of-the-Valley could respond, the other woman planted a quick kiss on her cheek and was off in a flurry of silk.

"Good show tonight," she called over her shoulder before disappearing down the lit hallway.

The small woman pulled her hand before her and uncurled her fingers. The bright light from the makeup tables glistened off the setting of intricate silver filigree. Blue fire glowed from the embedded sapphire, as big as her fingernail. The dancer threaded her fingers through the delicate silver chain, letting the pendant drop towards the floor. Then, with a smooth motion, she swept it around her neck and fastened the clasp. The deep V of her dressing gown framed the pendant perfectly against her skin.

And although she knew that the tall redhead had already disappeared down the hallway and could no longer hear her, the small woman whispered to her anyway as she gazed into her reflection in the mirror.

"Thanks, Flann," murmured Aeryn Blake.