1001 Nights Cast

Lucille checked her hair again in the hotel staff bathroom mirror. Having achieved a state of studied casualness, she then applied a subtle shade of pink lipstick and changed her earrings to the longer multi-coloured pair. And with that she was no longer Lucille the chambermaid, but Lucille, the up and coming performance artist.

She stepped out into the mid-morning pedestrian traffic of the Boulevard and headed down to her regular café on the corner of rue du Montparnasse. She was meeting her friend Simone there, another artist, who was already well-established on the international art circuit.

It was Simone who had given Lucille the idea of working as a chambermaid to support her art practice. She said it was the perfect job for an artist—not bad money, particularly if you were pretty and could flirt some tips out of the wealthier, egotistical guests. Although you had to start early in the morning, you were all done by midday, a civilized hour for a second start to the day. And best yet, it helped your art practice in numerous practical and intellectual ways. Lucille’s studio was now well-stocked with found objects and all the cleaning and personal hygiene products she was ever likely to need. Simone was famous for the photographs she had produced in her days as a chambermaid.

Lucille was already half way through her first café au lait when Simone turned up. Although there was no such thing as ‘late’, Lucille was always there before her friend.

‘Salut!’ ‘Ça va?’ ‘Oui’. Kisses left, right, left and right again. For these two, excess was their own personal theatre.

Lucille was aching to tell Simone about this morning’s encounter with the obviously important hotel guest whose name she hadn’t bothered to enquire but who in her mind, she’d ascribed a sort of stage name: ‘le docteur’. First, however, she had to listen to Simone’s progress report on the castle purchase, a sort of boasting which was becoming tiresome now. Finally, Lucille brought Simone back to real art matters with the digital photographs she’d taken while le docteur had been attending to his lengthy toilette this morning.

She scrolled through images of his expensive wardrobe, which she’d arranged like a forensic report on the bed: the YSL tie, the Amies shirt with gold and onyx cufflinks, the Zegna suit and the bespoke shoes. She had close-ups of all the labels and the linings. She liked the inside of things, the hidden parts. Working quickly, now that she was experienced, she’d had just enough time to dress in these clothes, set up her miniature tripod and pose on the bed. The speed and the frisson of this illicit activity made her sweat a little into le docteur’s pale blue shirt but she figured it would soon be masked by his Gucci cologne.

She’d only just managed to step out of his clothes and was once again in her underwear when he emerged from the bathroom and stood there, casually observing her like a lion might assess his prey. She didn’t mind; she was a performance artist after all. He was both her audience and her material. He could sense the former but had no knowledge of the latter. Not even Anna, her supervisor, knew of Lucille’s art exploits.

The digital images were more for Simone than her and she handed herself the SD card to do with what she wanted. Lucille’s creation would emerge later that night at sunset. Her own specialty, signature if you like, was a series of exclusive performances for one. She had an arrangement with a commercial gallery in the treiziéme who had access to a supply of wealthy collectors willing to pay top dollar for a private audience with Lucille. Naturally, the gallery took 50 per cent but she thought this a fair exchange. She would tell each of them a story based on what had happened to her that day. They were told in the first person so it was easy to believe it was all true. Sometimes it was, sometimes it wasn’t. The truth was in the telling.

She only knew a day in advance who that night’s audience of one would be. The gallery would email her a short biographical description and photograph along with a completed questionnaire in which each was asked, ‘Why do you want to be at tonight’s performance by Lucille?’ If she didn’t like their answer she had the power of veto and there was always a waiting list. The applicants knew this, so went to extraordinary lengths to impress her. She spoke French, German and English fluently which meant her audiences were often out-of-town collectors.

She took out the print-outs of tonight’s audience member to show Simone. He was a visiting professor from an Australian university. He wore glasses, had mousy-brown hair, not particularly stylish, she thought. She would have said he was comfortable with himself, not out to prove anything. He’d flattered her with his enthusiasm and commitment to her project, saying he was coming for ‘professional reasons’ but not going further than that. More than anything she liked him because he was from Australia and she hadn’t yet performed for anyone from there. She was mildly curious about this one.

Simone asked, ‘Alors, pour ce soir, qu’est ce que tu vas raconter?’

‘Hmmm’, thought Lucille, ‘tonight, I think I’ll tell of the death of a successful man.’