For The Night

How it started

It started with a literature student reading a difficult novel. Her
head had been made heavy by too many sugared teas, and the further she
tangled herself in the labyrinths on the pages, the more lost she found
she was. She wondered what she would say when it came to the class. And
then she put her head down and slept. Her name was Janette.

She took her head from the book as she woke, and turned the page as her
eyes were opening. As she read, she found something she wanted. The
novel took a twist for a moment, for just two pages. These pages said
things to her, and she read them several times. The book itself had
become unimportant to her. She had an idea now.

A secret

Nineteen girls met under a tree at dusk, sheltered from the plain by
thick undergrowth. They took it in turns to keep watch for people with
dogs. They sat in silence at first, on the floor, but Janette sat on a
log. This spoke volumes to them. Something flowed from her stature, and
they took it in, slightly anxious. Biting at lips, worrying at
bracelets, pushing at wet earth with broken sticks. When she was ready
to tell them, they almost already knew.
One girl turned and walked after only a moment. The others stayed,
thinking it over. Several were excited, instantly ready to commit. Two
girls on either side of the tree worried about their families. What if
it ever got out, someone said, would we be arrested? Janette looked at
her and said nothing. They all left shortly after this, went separately
in groups of two or three to different places. Already, at this early
stage, secrecy was of the utmost importance. They were forming an
understanding of what they would do, and secrecy was directly at the
centre of this.
Janette went alone to her room, unnoticed by all she passed. Secrecy
had been at the centre of her life for some time now. She had read
about a Native American tribe who could make themselves invisible. She
reasoned with her psychology and tried to make it happen. She practised
it often as she walked home; it seemed to be working. She slipped in
the door silently, and went to sit in the corner on the floor to watch
the sky above the lake grow dark. She thought about who she could
trust.

A Bible on the roof

The meeting was held illegally on the roof top of the old Health
Centre. Most people forgot it was still there, tucked away behind the
greenhouses, so to Janette it was perfect, for this one time. She wore
a sea captain's hat that she had borrowed, whilst invisible, from the
room of a floormate, who was in there playing his guitar. She had
slipped into the music and moved inside it, and so he had not noticed
her.
They sat in a tall triangle with Janette at the tip. They did not
speak until spoken to. Janette opened the book and cleared her
throat.
This, girls, is going to be our Bible. But just two pages. Madame
Caroline gives advice?
As she read many of them watched her, entranced - the others gazed at
the toes of their shoes and allowed themselves to be hypnotised by her
voice, with something of a mocking bird to it. When she was finished,
she gave them minutes to consider it all, as she daintily ate a sausage
roll.
They considered. Each of the girls gleaned something different from
the Bible, but they all did the same and made what they had heard into
a set of rules to abide by. A girl with a heart-shaped face was stuck
on the idea of worshipping the older ones, making them feel special and
young again; a girl with fat thighs made protection her priority.
Janette gave them all space for a time, and then said suddenly, now you
have heard the Bible and you have made up your code. You are all going
to do this, aren't you?
There was not really a question there at all. There was no need.
Something sparkled emerald in her dark eyes as she walked home that
night.

Brothel

She said the word in the open, standing in the middle of her room,
again at dusk. She had thought it would hurt somehow, that its dirty
associations would cloud everything, but it was fine. She was going to
reinvent it, anyway. Cheap and dirty was irrelevant to her plans, it
just - wasn't there. The brothel would be intellectual and mysterious.
Janette prized these qualities above any other.
I am reinventing, she said aloud, to herself. There will not be a given
place to call home. There will be no exchange of money. It will be a
new thing. Like the caf? culture in Paris.
She took off her trousers to sit under a blanket on the floor. To
read, but to plan. She was starting to see her project in every book
she had to read for class, in the daily news, in the dirty faces of the
city girls at night. She dropped the book and hugged herself under the
blanket. I am the beauty of this, she thought. I am the beauty, and no
one would ever think it. I will be a perfect Madame Janette. She slept
on the floor that night, with the rigid posture of a new Madame who has
everything to prove.

The Coming of the Duende

A scruffy blonde girl with perfect ears came to visit Janette in the
morning. She found Madame curled around a book on the floor. Janette
looked like a child, until she sat up, and then she was brisk,
efficient and beautiful again. The blonde girl was direct and did not
bother with greetings.
I had a thought in the middle of the night, and so I thought I'd
better come and see you. If this is really happening, we might need to
think about it. What do we call them? Clients?
Janette shook her head. She had not considered this, but it was
important all the same, and that word was very wrong. She motioned for
the girl to leave.
That night, in a stranger's room (borrowed by Janette, who had used
her sweetness), she announced the initiation of the word duende.
It means a kind of spirit, a passion. That was all she said. The girls
nodded, and trusted her, their tongues forming the word behind closed
lips.

Some whispers in the wind

Janette sat in a parked car to think about where the brothel would be.
A room in the accommodation would too boring, too cheap, and too
traceable. And entirely without mystery. She stretched up her knees to
the dashboard and tapped her fingernails against her teeth. A series of
locations. This was really her only choice.
The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced. Why should
a brothel have to exist in a certain place, a particular building? Why
not make it fluid and changing, the way things actually are?
Janette closed her eyes against the sunlight and just let the ideas
in. She left the car as the driver approached: of course, he did not
see her.
News of the opening night was circulated by whisper. Twice, she heard
people talking about the brothel in low voices on the street, but she
let them talk. She was confident that the right people would find the
brothel at its naissance.
And the right people did, because they heard of it in the rain, or
they found a note on the floor, dragged towards them by the wind. One
boy came because he'd decoded a personal ad in the local newspaper.
Whether that was Janette's doing or somehow his own was known to
no-one: she kept her business dangerously secret. Nobody ever saw the
notes delivered; saw Janette speak to a stranger; heard a girl tell her
friends. Janette kept it all together.

First times

On the opening night, the brothel was located in the shell of a
half-built house. Nobody arrived early, because Janette had planned it
this way. She climbed a ladder to the rafters of the first floor and
sat, swinging her legs in the dark, wondering which room would
eventually be where she sat now. Wondering who would move into the home
that had been a brothel before it was a house.
The girls climbed through the black windowless squares as instructed.
They came through on all sides, filling the half-built house with
perfume and promises.
Janette watched, unseen, as they began to ready themselves, first
removing their clothing and half-masking their faces. Some of the girls
spread blankets, others poured wine and lit candles. One girl placed
cones of incense in each corner of the house. They suspected Janette
was invisible and somewhere in the brothel, but none of them would
raise their heads to the rafters. After a while, Janette followed the
midnight darkness to the peripheral safety of the roof, where she would
stay until dawn.
Meanwhile, the first duende began to enter, nervous and afraid,
already aroused by the secrecy and the velvet night. As they stumbled
over the bricks and breezeblocks through the front doorway, a masked
girl would peel herself from the shadows of the walls and come silently
to the duende, moving as if caught in a charm. The girls forgot their
identities as they prowled around the duende, drawing them in, touching
them only to remove clothing with a lightness that was
spectacular.
Time played tricks with the duende and hid from them. The night women
with their dusky caresses, the eerie gloominess, and the raw brick
against their naked backs all combined to create a new mystical
pleasure. They were overcome and powerless. They drowned in the humid
night air, moaning like wolves.

The gifts they brought

At first, the duende were apprehensive and confused by Janette's
imposed system of payment. It caused a delay - either they couldn't
start until they were clear in their heads what was what; or else they
started without a thought, and then came a lull as they remembered they
couldn't pay in cash, but must pay with a gift. Even some of the girls
were dismissive at first. But, Madame, they said, we don't want
flowers, or chocolates. We could do with the cash.
Janette was impervious. All she would ever say, was to wait.
The duende started off traditionally - some, as the girls had feared,
brought flowers and chocolates because they were nervous or had no
imagination. Others forgot about getting a gift, or couldn't think of
anything, so when the time came to pay they picked up a wild flower, or
a handful of earth, and tried to make it look serious and planned by
launching into long, poetic speeches. That kind of duende was never
seen more than once.
Some duende though, seemed instinctively to know what was required of
them, and brought unusual, useful and beautiful things. Often these
were the women. Not all of the girls would sleep with the women - there
were some who refused and some who preferred it, and others who agreed
with gusto because to them, it was just part of the whole idea.
The women brought books and wine, clothes and songs. One brought a bag
she'd sewn herself, another brought a puppy as a gift. And then,
gradually, the gifts from the men increased in worth. One night a
French picnic, another night a piece of the Berlin wall. A lover of
Lorca brought a basket of oranges lined with handmade lace. Henceforth
he was Janette's favourite customer. She decided that he recognised the
intellect in what they were doing.

Won't you Charleston?

Since at the beginning heart-shaped face had seemed delighted with the
idea of renewing the sexuality of the older men, Janette gave her the
clients that might have otherwise been problematic. It was an
unexpected and easy solution to an issue that Janette had anticipated
might arise. The girl with the heart-shaped face settled comfortably
into her unique role. Some of the other girls called her Granny behind
her back - if she had known, it would not have troubled her. After the
initial nervousness with her first duende, she was pleased. It helped
that she was attracted to her first anyway. And then she grew to love
their wrinkled bodies, the sagging buttocks she smoothed out with a
milkmaid's grip. The way they occasionally cried like babies into her
lap. The way she sometimes got to play the virgin, sometimes the
dominatrix. She went to get away for a week in the sun and she felt
like a spy, watching the old men with their socks pulled right up,
wondering if she would see the face of a duende by the pool, sultanaed
in the sun.
For her, it was simply a transfer of energy. Afterwards, she would
keep them there for as long as possible, until the rumble of a stomach,
a soft snore or the breaking of wind meant it was time for them to part
company. She enjoyed the feeling of a penis growing limp and small
inside her. It made her feel big and powerful. Best of all, because
they were old, they were grateful. And so they brought her exquisite
gifts in payment.

A field trip study

It was the fortune of the girl with a purple fringe to get a man named
Stewart. The brothel was to be in a caravan park. The girls had
travelled together, first by train, where they innocently talked about
the field trip ahead studying moths, and then by foot to the site,
where their liberated expletives filled the golden late-afternoon air
of the meadows around, and they talked style, technique, size. They
were excited about having their own space for the first time - Janette
had hired a caravan for each of the eight of them. It was a beautiful
evening.
The girl with the purple fringe was impressed with her caravan. It was
small and cramped, but the space was hers, purely for her and the
duende. There's plenty of room for fucking here, she thought. She noted
the features around her, and idly planned ahead.
She was doing the yoga that she always did beforehand - plenty of the
Bridge and the Dolphin, to be limber in the right places - in the dark
when there was a confident knock at the door. She stood up slowly,
feeling her muscles stretch, and took a long, deep breath. She smoothed
her hands over herself, running them from shoulders to pubic hair,
sucking in her stomach and smiling at the miracle that was herself.
Then she hid in the corner, behind the small kitchen unit, and
whispered, come in, knowing that the duende would somehow hear her. It
was a pure hex of her own spinning, from the moment she whispered and
then heard the door open, to the light tappings of his feet on the lino
as he sought to find her in the semi-darkness, aware she was there. To
the warm rough graze of his hands across her ribcage as he pulled her
fast to her feet and kissed her hard. It was a hex and a spell right up
until the moment when he murmured in her ear.
Hey, little bird, I bring you the gift of an audience.
Her arms fell to her sides and she looked over his shoulder to a dark
haired, intense looking young woman, sitting cross-legged on the
caravan sofa bed.
Amaia, my wife.

The raw

It was just after seven a.m. Janette was sitting underneath her window,
and she couldn't stop crying. Something had happened that she didn't
have control over. She hadn't been there when one of her girls needed
her. She suddenly felt very young, and she was scared.
The brothel had been in the woods that night. She had chosen it for
the all-encompassing darkness, the cover of the trees, hoping it would
unleash some primeval force in the girls and the duende. Bring them
back to the raw power of man and woman. She had been right, of course.
There was much evidence of this in the couples she saw rolling around
in the earthy mulch, in the animal grunts and screams she had heard.
But she had not accounted for the strength of this power. Or perhaps
the wood was cursed. Or it was simply that a bad duende had somehow
slipped through her net.
It was a fairly new girl too. The wood had no walls or fences to
enclose her girls and keep them safe. And so the duende was able to
entice the girl, the fairly new girl, away from the others, with
promises of gifts, and pleasure for her. And able to keep her mostly
silent, quiet enough to force himself on her, to steal from her and
bruise her.
They realised she was missing as the night was winding down, as they
peeled off sticky masks and tried to brush the mud and leaves off their
skin. They searched until they found her, quiet and on the floor. The
girls surrounded her like children, warming her and whimpering to her.
Janette sat in a tree, digging her fists into her mouth. I'm fine, the
new girl said, really, it's okay. And, it was dark.
She had let them go. She had waited until the sun was fully risen and
then climbed down from the tree, her trousers torn, aching and hurting.
And she couldn't cry until she had reached her room, where she could
fall to the floor and press her cheek against the carpet to smell how
comforting it was, where she could plan his punishment.

Gone

It was a holiday break, so it was to be a smaller gathering. Janette
intended to use this to her advantage. It would be intimate and unique,
and local too. They went down to the lake on campus, and walked round
it noiselessly to get to the far side where nobody went. The brothel
would be dangerous that night. Janette was sure that even a lecturer
would turn up, although nobody from her own faculty - she had put a
stop to that.
As the girls planted their joss sticks and hid their clothes in trees,
Janette slipped away, down into the water, where she sat amid the
reeds, bending them down to tickle her face. She listened to her girls
chattering and she whistled out for ducks. A bit of company in the
freezing water, and perhaps she could learn to swim from them.
The duende were not so quiet in their approach. The girls could hear
crashing footsteps coming on either side, and they swore a little,
under their breath.
Janette didn't hear anything, but she saw pale gleaming skin glide
past the reeds. She was surprised and pleased at the innovation of the
duende, making an entrance. She had not expected anyone to arrive by
water.
He was the first to arrive, standing near the bank with water up to
his bare waist. He had a thick wet crest of hair and a beautiful face.
The girl with a shaven head went down on tiptoe to meet him, and
together they swam away along the bank.
The rest of the duende came, one by one, to pair up with the girls.
Because it was a smaller gathering the pressure was lessened; it was
relaxing. The girls enjoyed themselves, even took extra time, and when
the evening was over, the gifts they received were the best they'd ever
had, as if the duende had known in advance that the atmosphere in the
brothel would be so very different that night. The blonde with perfect
ears received a coincidence - a plane ticket to Egypt.
The girls sat cross-legged in a close huddle, talking softly and
laughing, then falling into an easy silence, not wanting the night to
be over. After a while, the girl with the shaven head suddenly
spoke.
I slept with a ghost.
The three girls, shocked only momentarily, teased her and said she was
drunk, high, crazy. She shook her head, and whispered.
He suddenly disappeared. I felt him come inside me and then - he just
wasn't there anymore.
Something in her tone of voice and her lowered, naked head made the
girls start to take her seriously. She continued.
And I suddenly thought. There was a boy, wasn't there? Who drowned?
Only - we were in the water.
One of them asked, in a low voice, what was the gift he gave you? What
could a ghost give?
The girl dumbly shook her head and brought forward her hand. There was
a gold wedding ring on her palm.

A meeting with Vaughn

Janette was impatient, feeling harassed. She had been waiting outside
his door for almost half an hour. She didn't like to hang around any
more, or stay in the same place for a long time. There was too much air
and too many people. She didn't want to start panicking.
The door opened and Vaughn showed a girl out. The girl winked at
Janette, who stared back at her until she turned and left. Vaughn
grinned, showing white teeth.
Come in, Janette.
As she walked into his office she wanted to leave. There were too many
books, the width of the walls and right up to the ceiling. Vaughn
started talking to her about Rivas but Janette could not concentrate.
She was thinking about the books, imagining how they would one day suck
all the air from the room to turn their pages yellow. How they would
still be there, in the same place, long after Vaughn died. He leaned
toward her.
?to Tristram Shandy. Okay?
She nodded, holding her breath and keeping back the nausea. She stood
up to leave.
Oh, and Janette? Be careful with this. Sex is dangerous.
He smiled and turned his attention to some papers on his desk. Janette
backed out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her, and then ran
down the corridor. Nobody saw her go.
At home again, lying on her bed, she thought about Vaughn. With safe
distance between them she could allow herself to think about him. The
contours of his face. What he had said.
What was that? she thought. He knows. And if he doesn't know, he gets
me. He knows how I feel about ambiguity.
She slept without dreams that night.

Trouble hips

It was a Tuesday, and the brothel was that night to be in a house that
belonged to a retired Colonel. The slim girl with crooked teeth was
looking after it while he went to speak at a military convention. The
Colonel lived alone, and the house was large and dusty. As the girls
ran over it, staking their claims, they shouted to each other to make a
song, a web of echoes. Janette raised her eyes to a dirty stuffed
greyhound on display in the study, but said nothing. She had informed
the girls that the study was hers for the night. On a table-top bound
in brown leather, she sat, on guard. The girls were charged, sparky,
wanting to impress her, wanting a reaction. They were all planning to
do their best work that night, were putting an extra swerve into their
hips even as they rushed around with their routine preparations. Every
girl was thinking ultimately of pleasing Janette that evening, every
girl except one.
Enjoying her position on the table, and in silent conversation with
the greyhound, Janette was serene. She heard the song of echoes cut
short, and raised voices broke out. She apologised to the dog. Staying
exactly where she was, her face expressionless, she waited for them to
come to her. They came like children.
Madame, it's her.
They pushed her forward. It was the girl with fat thighs. The girl with
childbearing hips.
Madame, she's pregnant.
Janette looked at the girl. Her eyes were red. The girls around her all
had sullen, pouting faces. Janette raised her head to speak loudly and
clearly.
Then, girls, we are having a baby.

How it ended

Janette watched them impassively. It was very cramped, and there was
something sharp digging into her leg, but she blocked the pain out. She
needed all her concentration to listen to these strange people. She
could se a boy in the centre of the room, fielding questions and
demands.
So what do we do now, James? What can we possibly do?
Look James, we promised an expose. You don't come across something
like this every day you know!
An older boy with a wide mouth stood up and yelled. People quietened
and looked at him, respecting his authority. Janette observed intently.
He spoke calmly and clearly, with no trace of anger in his voice.
There's no point in shouting about it guys. James, why don't you just
explain it? And everyone, why don't you just listen?
He sat down. James sighed.
There's not much to explain. I got it from a reliable source - it
didn't seem like just a rumour. But there's absolutely no trace of
anything like that going on here, at all.
Janette smiled grimly. They had got what they needed.
That evening, for the first time, the girls all met in Janette's room.
They were all hushed and withdrawn as they entered, knowing something
important was happening. She explained to them what she had witnessed,
and as she finished speaking, their voices swelled together. They
couldn't understand it.
This is mental-
But, Madame-
We can't stop now-
Janette was fierce. She climbed on a chair and they all fell silent
again.
I'm dissolving it, girls. It's ending.

2 am

The girls had gone.
Some had cried. Some had avoided Janette's eyes, trying to forget her
face, to forget they ever knew her. Janette had remained the
impenetrable Madame until the door shut, and then she sat down on the
bed, and she was just Janette. She felt odd - her hearing wasn't quite
right, it was like she was underwater. She lay down on the floor, on
her back, stroking the carpet, for a long time. The girl with her head
shaved, the last to leave, had kissed Janette on the mouth.
There were no tears; she was drained. She thought of the sounds she
would never hear again. Pure, new pleasure. She thought, to lose
something you have made is the worst thing that can happen to
you.
Finally she sat up, numb, because there was nothing left that
mattered. She spoke aloud, somehow comforted by the presence of her
voice in the still of the night.
It's my fault.