#TimeTravelingGhost Part 16: Names

#TimeTravelAuthors 06/29

Once out in the hall, Countess turned to me. “You have been a delightful companion. Thank you ever so much…” She paused. “Mademoiselle Bijou.”

Was there a hint of mockery there? I was unsure.

“But now, we must part ways,” she continued. “These days, I dine alone. I do hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”

Not at all. I welcomed the parting. That was when I decided: I didn’t like this woman. Not that I regretted meeting her. After all, she had introduced me to Mademoiselle Baker, but I could do without her future company.

“Comtesse? May I know your full name?” Parting made the question feel safe.

“But of course. I am presently la princesse Ghika. Here at the Folies, I am la comtesse de Pougy—or simply Pougy, to friends.”

She laid her ungloved hand on my arm; it was soft and warm—unexpectedly human. With her other hand, she drew back her veil, revealing a matronly face: no longer young, but not yet old.

“Until we meet again, Mademoiselle Luminelle Bijou.” And this time, the mockery was unmistakable.

Her veil dropped. I thought I heard, “or even Elizabeth.” But perhaps I imagined it.

So—where next?

#MicroFiction #NMPrompts #NMTTA #NMMP #CountessElizabethBáthory #Roaring20s

#TimeTravelingGhost Part 15B: Luminelle Bijou

#TimeTravelAuthors 06/27 #WSS366 #MastoPrompt 06/28

“Mademoiselle, she is asking your name,” Countess said.

“Who was she, Countess Elizabeth Báthory? Countess Mircalla Karnstein? Marguerite Chopin? Countess? Comtesse de Pougy turned? All, some?” The names tumbled through my head.

Still puzzling over her identity, I began, “My name, I—I don’t know what…” I caught myself. I had meant to say, “I don’t know what your real name is, Countess?” But that wouldn’t do. How could I #trust that some evil might not befall me if she sensed I suspected?

My tone turned #querulous. “My name? I don’t think I have one. Mademoiselle Baker, you would honor me if you gave me one. I’d always remember your dance—and your face—whenever someone called it.”

The Countess clapped silently, fingers fluttering like moths, and exclaimed, “Charming. Quite charming. So romantic.”

Josephine touched a finger to her chin, as if pointing to the dimple in her cheek. She tilted her head, thoughtful, then smiled. “Luminelle Bijou,” she said. “Mademoiselle Luminelle Bijou. My radiant jewel. A fan I shall always remember.”

At that moment, there was a light knock at the door, followed by the doorman’s voice. “Mademoiselle Baker, a Monsieur La Rothchild is here to see you. He has some magnificent flowers.”

Josephine brought her palms together with a theatrical sigh. “Please excuse me. I must see this important person. But I am happy you came, Comtesse, and I was delighted to meet you, Mademoiselle Bijou.”

#MicroFiction #NMPrompts #NMTTA #NMV366 #NMMP #JosephineBaker #CountessElizabethBáthory #Roaring20s

#TimeTravelingGhost Part 15A: Luminelle Bijou

#TimeTravelAuthors 06/27 #WSS366 #MastoPrompt 06/28

Countess—Comtesse? Duchesse?—waved for me to open Josephine Baker’s dressing room. Her gloved hand moved with languid grace, a silent reminder of who held the upper hand.

I glanced at her other hand to reassure myself of my memory. Indeed, oddly, a pale hand showed below the red sleeve of her dress. The absence of a glove could hardly be accidental, but I was unsure of the meaning.

My knock was greeted with, “Entrée.” We entered, finding Mademoiselle Baker #fanning herself before a large mirror. Cosmetics fanned across the vanity in a delta of disorder.

“Comtesse de Pougy, I was expecting you.” Mademoiselle Baker’s French had a heavy American accent. She then gave me a quizzical look. “Your friend’s a vampire, no?”

Countess replied, “A ghost. I didn’t get her name. She is a big fan. She was delightful to watch as you performed. Eyes so big, mouth so wide. Ah, to be young again.”

I was unsure about her comment. “Mouth so wide” didn’t sound like a compliment. And now that she brought it up, I wondered what my name was. “Time Traveling Ghost” and “Ghost” weren’t real names but descriptions. Instead of asking either of those, I asked a third question. “Mademoiselle Baker, how did you know I was dead?”

She tapped the mirror with the fan she had been using. “Your reflection, Mademoiselle Ghost—what may I call you?”

I looked in the mirror. Indeed, the mirror didn’t reflect me. But what caught my eye was Countess' ungloved hand. Not the ungloved hand itself, but its absence. There were red velvet sleeves, one with a gloved hand and one empty. I glanced back at her, and there was a pale hand where the mirror showed a void.

#MicroFiction #NMPrompts #NMTTA #NMV366 #NMMP #JosephineBaker #CountessElizabethBáthory #Roaring20s

#TimeTravelAuthors 06/28 Balance
#TimeTravelingGhost Part 14

Fallen Angel

Josephine’s act ended, and Ghost sat there, stunned. More than the godlike dancing, it was the joy on Mademoiselle Baker’s face—mischievous, radiant, pure puckish abandon—that stayed with Ghost.

“Would you like to meet the goddess in person?” Countess’s voice broke the spell.

A juggler had taken the stage, balancing a plate on their nose while juggling three balls. The shift was as jarring as vaudeville following Shakespeare at the Globe. Ghost nodded, still too dazzled to trust her voice.

Countess drained her Champagne and snubbed her cigarette in the empty glass, where it briefly sizzled. “Shall we go?” she said softly. The veil had fallen again; red gems sparkled where once were crimson lips and pale skin.

She threaded unsteadily through the tables where tipsy revelers sat, pieces of costume strewn around them. Tinsel clung to her like cosmic threads, a fallen star personified, cast down but radiant still. Voices called out her name: La Comtesse de Pougy, La Duchesse de Gramont, even Madame la Comtesse. She nodded to each with gracious indifference, letting every title stand.

“Who was this woman?” Ghost wondered. The veil was only the beginning—a symbol of an identity woven from shadow. Not even her familiars agreed on her name. The dark hints she dropped made her think perhaps she was someone even older and more sinister than any of them realized. Or perhaps they ignored her subtle hints.

“Madame la Comtesse,” the stage doorman greeted us. “Here to see Mademoiselle Baker? This way, she is expecting you.”

“How are the kids, Louis?” Countess’s voice shifted; no trace of Hungarian remained. It rang with the false warmth of a politician: hearty, too familiar.

“Well, Madame. They were grateful for the gifts.”

“Good. Here is the door we can see ourselves in. Tell the wife I say hi.”

The man hurried back to his station, a smile on his face.

The Countess looked after him, and then in her Hungarian-heavy French asked me, “Do you hate kids too?”

She lit one of her black cigarettes, waiting for an answer that never came, and finally added, “Loathsome creatures. On God’s great balance wheel, less than rats.”

#LesbianHistory

Liane de Pougy: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liane_de_Pougy
Élisabeth de Gramont: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89lisabeth_de_Gramont

#MicroFiction #NMPrompts #NMTTA #JosephineBaker #CountessElizabethBáthory #Roaring20s #Lesbian #Sapphic

#TimeTravelAuthors 06/15 Do your characters ever use/encounter #AI.
#TimeTravelingGhost Part 13
#WSS366 #Toast

The Folies Bergère exploded with cheers as Sidney Bechet wrapped up his set. Partygoers toasted him, setting off poppers that laced the air with tinsel streamers. On the floor, dancers finished with a final Black Bottom grind, or maybe a Snakehips slide.

The Countess raised a glass. “Isten, bor, és vér—három, ami sosem hazudik.” (God, wine, and blood—three things that never lie.) “Bechet stirs the room, but she’ll set it alight.” She barely finished her toast when a slender, mocha-skinned woman glided onto the stage. Her banana skirt was as intriguing as her face.

I sat in rapt attention. Her voice, sometimes a lilting siren song, sometimes a wild, savage beat, held the room in spellbound silence. What could one say? This was a dusky goddess descended to earth.

Josephine Baker.

I would never forget that wild, tumultuous dance, the shimmying bananas, the sway, her face alight with divine pleasure and mischief.

When she finished, the room erupted. If I had thought the applause for Sidney Bechet was overwhelming, this was a tempest. Tinsel streamers flew, settling like multicolored cobwebs across the crowd.

“A toast,” the countess said, pouring from a magnum of Champagne now resting on the table.

“To the talk of Paris. Egészségedre! Egészségére!” (To your health! To her health!)

“She has fire, such spirit. I could drink of her essence all night. Just sitting here, I feel years younger. You are an American, yes? Is America not a land of machines and industry? Do you think a soulless machine could match such majesty? It could jiggle on stage; spout clever words; parrot wisdom and nonsense, maybe. But never this. God made man, the Devil, but copies it.”

I feared the Countess had drunk too much.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmw5eGh888Y

#MicroFiction #NMPrompts #NMTTA #JosephineBaker #CountessElizabethBáthory #Jazz #Roaring20s #jazzhistory #Dance #NMV366

#TimeTravelAuthors 06/11 #Harmony
#TimeTravelingGhost Part 12

Once inside, we were surrounded by partygoers in costumes that would have put modern cosplayers to shame: tigers in rich yellow and black outfits, a peacock woman with a full peacock’s tail, pirates flashing gold teeth, and costumes that would get you canceled today. The whole thing moved in a Folies Bergère harmony of silk and chaos.

“We are fashionably late,” my mystery date said. Her Hungarian accent made it hard to understand her. My French was already weak; add a dash of Eastern Europe and full comprehension was dicey.

The woman continued, “But we are in time for Sidney Bechet’s sweet harmonies. Shall we sit and have a cocktail or dance?”

“Sit. I don’t seem hip to any of that jive rug cutting,” I said, immediately unsure if I’d used that right.
Indeed, the dancers dansaient comme des diables, cutting loose with spins, flips, Charleston shakes, and Black Bottom hip grinds.

“Dancing is for the young, is it not? There was nothing like this when I grew up,” the Countess said. (For want of another name, I shall call her that.)

“Has Bechet shot that woman yet?” I asked.

“Oh, will he shoot someone? Divine. I must try to be there. No one tells you how dull life is if you live too long.”

A server in a risqué sequined dress arrived, and we promptly had Champagne cocktails, along with a tin of black Russian cigarettes for the Countess. She removed her mask, but I only got a hint of her appearance. The veil, appropriate for her costume, was fine black lace studded with red droplet stones; blood and shadow in perfect harmony. I could just make out her face, pale, almost as pale as the mask.

“Order what you like. I meet so few ghosts, and believe me, you are more intriguing than most. Dreadfully dull, always bent on revenge or hanging on to what they had in life. They should have worried about that when they were alive.”

She waved for two more cocktails and continued, “Mademoiselle Baker is best appreciated after a few cocktails.”

(To be continued)

#MicroFiction #NMPrompts #NMTTA #SidneyBechet #JosephineBaker #CountessElizabethBáthory #Jazz #roaring20s

#TimeTravelingGhost Episode 1: 1926: The Folies Bergère Part 1

#TimeTravelAuthors #MastoPrompt

A brightly lit street replaced the scene of grime and despair. Before me stretched an avenue thronged with people in search of tonight’s delights. Neon signs blazed above doorways, proudly naming the city’s temples of amusement. Down the boulevard, the Moulin Rouge flaunted its red windmill, turning lazily in a bath of neon. Not far from it, a grand neoclassical façade flashed a marquee in red, white, and blue:
“Casino de Paris — Maurice Chevalier — To-Night!” On a lamppost was a sketch of a woman in a skirt of bananas.

And directly before me, under the glow of neon lights, the Folies Bergère shimmered. Its sign read:

“Josephine Baker — Masquerade (Private)”

A red carpet lay unfurled across the sidewalk, cordoned off with velvet ropes. Burly attendants held back curious onlookers as men and women in fantastical costumes stepped gracefully from chauffeur-driven touring cars. Somewhere close by, I heard a pair whisper:

“Is that Hemingway?”
“No costume. So gauche.”

I stood mesmerized. So many lights! So many people! How could such opulence exist along with the squalor I had just seen?

A red-gloved hand tugged at my sleeve, and a woman’s voice, heavy with a Hungarian accent, said, “Charming a ghost. I needed a companion tonight.”

She was wearing a 17th-century-style dress of deep crimson satin, but with décolletage that was totally 1920s. It was further accented by black lace and tiny rubies or, more likely, red glass that could have been mistaken for droplets of blood in this light. Her mask was delicate, enameled porcelain, shaped like a weeping face from a church tomb.

She linked arms with me. Unlike the hand that had tugged my sleeve, it had no glove, displaying long, talon-like scarlet nails. They were hands that never worked beyond claiming what she thought was hers by right.

Having secured me, she gently took me in tow and entered the theater. The crowds parted for her with a small murmur, “The Countess.” Just as she had claimed me without regard to my wishes, she entered the building, brooking no interference.

#MicroFiction #NMPrompts #NMTTA #JosephineBaker #CountessElizabethBáthory