Red Rainbow by G Johanson (best e reader for academics txt) 📕

“Your chances to renege are slipping away. I’m doing this. You open the doors to them and you’re dooming yourself.”

“My body doomed me. They’d torture me for this. I don’t find that appealing. Feast, Florence, feast.”

“I don’t need to be directed for that,” she said wryly. She meant it too. Deveral had a vision for the performance that entailed invoking a sense of ceremony. The magic circle, strapping an athame to her garter. She shot this down upon hearing it, reiterating that she was in control of this. All she needed was the meal placed in front of her, none of this smoke and mirrors bullshit. She was above such trickery; she was the real deal.

Deveral took her outright rejection of his attempts at creating a grand ceremony positively. He had been relegated from mastermind to mere waiter. Such ruthlessness was essential for his plan. She would not back out with a change of heart. He wanted a meaningful ritual, she wanted a shallow cabaret. He had invited a black widow into his nest – a shallow cabaret it would be.

Both Florence and Deveral dressed up for the occasion. An off the shoulder daring navy taffeta dress for her, black suit and black shirt and tie for him along with a cape (he wanted her all in black too, another suggestion she shot down – she was not in mourning). Deveral manned the door, greeting their doomed audience cordially as he saw them up close and personal. They were mostly young men, the lower ranks. Oh well. He kept the doors open hoping for triple figures, forced to settle for – was it 85 had gone past or 87? He locked the doors just after 8. He wanted more than that but couldn’t wait for fear of losing some that were already in the net. These shows were always later, the Germans overlooking the curfew for the performers and offering to take them home afterwards (some did accept previously, Deveral fancying that one of his young actresses had enjoyed very friendly relations with her chauffeur). He walked past the audience, all of which had picked the stalls, and climbed up onto the stage.

Deveral walked to the piano when the lights went out, a sudden blackout throwing a spanner in the works. It wouldn’t stop Florence, it just wasn’t how they’d planned it. Multiple torches illuminated the auditorium, many trained on Deveral and the stage. Whether they were trying to help him or keep an eye on him, who knew? He told them he would look into the problem, which seemed to pacify them. A couple of the flashlights on the ceiling sported bunny ears, a phallus on another. Deveral didn’t like to see this playful side to them and stopped looking at the shadow play as some shadows interacted with each other. The condemned were not allowed to show human traits, to even be endearing.

One of the younger soldiers vaulted onto the stage before Deveral had the chance to leave it. The soldier butchered the French language but just about managed to get his message across, inviting Deveral to sit with him and his buddies. He seemed to be suggesting he was too exposed up here in case anything was afoot, whereas there was some cover in the stalls where they could also defend him. The compassionate, stupid, doomed boy had no idea that nowhere in here was safe for the penile appendaged amongst them, the metal trap about to spring back on his neck.

Deveral graciously declined his offer of protection, insisting he had to go and investigate what the problem was. He accepted his torch – it wasn’t as if the soldier would be needing it. He felt sorry for the Good Samaritan but had no urge to save him were that still possible – which it absolutely was not. This suited his purposes for he wanted this to have a significant impact. The loss would sting more if good men went down with the bad, which suited his purposes. That was the nature of war, and plenty of good Frenchmen had good down over the years. And he wouldn’t be around long himself to be consumed by guilt.

The lights came back on as Deveral stumbled around backstage. He returned to the stage, apologised and took his seat at the piano. He turned to face the audience and informed them this was to be a musical evening, a mix of German, French and English songs. He began to play when Florence came out and introduced herself.

“Mr Meyer understates the importance of this evening. Song one,” she ordered.

Deveral broke off from the sonata he was playing to go into I’ve Got the World on a String. Florence spoke to the audience before she got to her lines, telling them in German that she was opening in English, showcasing a little number she heard in America. It was not the way to endear herself to them. This first song earned her a polite if unenthusiastic round of applause. Her voice was nothing special; this much was clear into the first verse, which made the prospect of an evening of her singing unappealing. Several planned to leave as she began the second, though a sudden wave of tiredness made them decide to wait, all bar one man, who nudged his comrade and muttered, “Let’s go.”

“Give me a minute. I’m tired out.”

“Me too, completely exhausted.”

It was just as well this was a free performance and that there could be no reviews of this show. She requested each of these songs, Deveral learning the first by ear from a record, and she didn’t know all of the words. Her timing was also hit and miss. There were good spells, there were bad spells, Deveral playing to try and match her. She’d dismissed the idea of a dress rehearsal. When it came to the important part, she didn’t require any practice. Deveral could