Two Hot Chicks

‘Is it a girl? Is it a ghost? Is it a glamour puss?

Is it a grand dame? No, it’s me mate, Zuky-dot!

How’ve you been, darlin’?’ Venus’s droll

contralto floated over the empty wooden tables

in her twilight bar Mount Venus, at the junction

of Ludgate Hill and St Paul’s Churchyard.

It was late, not quite the done thing for a lady

to be ordering a pint just up from the docks,

in fact to be out alone at all. But Venus and me

went way back to when I was a mite

of seven, scavenging for leftovers at the market

of a Saturday evening in the years

before Dad became a ‘man successfully made’.

Venus showed me how to tell the difference

between an overripe apple and a maggoty one,

helped me carry my assortment of cabbages,

turnips, radishes and wotnots home

much to the snooty disdain of Dad,

waiting in the road for supper to arrive,

for Venus was a sight to behold, and some.

‘It’s a long story,’ I called back, all gung-ho,

braving a room acrid with stale beer and vino,

trying to step daintily in my posh new sandals

on a sawdust floor covered with broken glass,

testament to the previous night’s round

of ribaldry, rivalry and lewd rhetoric.

We embraced, tears came into my eyes,

partly because she’d just come from the baths

and had overdone it with a mixed potion

of lavender, rose and honeysuckle perfumes

and partly because it had been so long

since I’d been held without it being a precursor

to a demand for sex – non-negotiable.

She fingered my gold dolphin earrings,

her dark blue eyes sparkling with amusement.

‘Upmarket tomfoolery, eh. The real thing, luv?’

I had left home that afternoon with wings

on my heels, ordered the sedan-bearers,

bodyguard and train of status symbols

to trot ten paces behind, made a dash for it,

up Bucklersbury and out of sight, headed

for Gracechurch Street, popped in to see Alba,

who was chasing headless chickens in the yard,

before plucking them for display outside.

She couldn’t believe it was me.

She moaned she had no time to herself now.

I moaned that was all I had. She asked

why I hadn’t come out to play,

but I couldn’t explain.

I knew she wouldn’t understand.

I could tell she was angry. She was catching

chickens, then letting them go.

‘Stop and talk to me,’ I begged. ‘Please.’

‘I said it would change, Zee. Look at you,

all poshed up, I went to your house twice

but the guards told me to scarper.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ I replied. ‘It’s him, it’s my …

I’ve missed you so much. It’s been awful.’

She stopped running, came over,

awkwardly, not knowing what to do

with her hands, whether to hug me.

‘Me too. Look at all that make-up, Zee,

and that dress, you look so grown up.

So when do I get to go to your manor?’

‘When I can fix it. Tranio’s the head honcho

when he’s away, so it won’t be easy.’

‘I feel sorry for you, Zee.’

‘Thanks!’

‘No, I’m not being bitchy. I’m just glad

I’m still free. Come and see me soon.’

She disappeared inside the house.

Two doors up, Mater and Pater

were serving a queue of bemused customers.

Dad was chatting his usual bollocks,

about really being the exiled King of Meroe,

the last of the great pharaohs.

‘My palace bigger than governor’s. Yes. No lie.

I made good, see. Look Zuleika here,

married to Roman nobilitas. Veritas princess?

Clothes so fine? My blood, see.’

Blah, blah, bloody-blah. Mum glared at him,

as usual, whispered loudly he’d taken

to gambling, wanted a villa like Mr Felix.

‘Nothing good enough now.

Him want quick-come money.’

She’d found a backgammon board

with rolling dice in the yard, confronted him,

but did he listen to her? She moaned

he spent most evenings in a seedy den

by the river front with a bunch of low-lifes.

I tried to furrow my brow with concern

but felt I was watching a B-rate play

with C-rate actors, sitting in a D-rate seat

at the amphitheatre.

I asked after Little Bro Catullus

(aka He Who Can Do No Wrong), was told

he was at Maestro Caesar’s over the way.

Took this as my cue to leave, though I just

studied him from a distance while Caesar,

bald as a pumpkin, cut his locks in the middle

of the thoroughfare, waved his knives

at passers-by who got too vocal

with their complaints, had slashed a face

or two in his time, you see.

There the Little Usurper sat, fat brown

cheeks gleaming, full petulant lips,

wearing the smug demeanor of one

so dearly loved he’d been bought a dog,

a parrot and a blooming nightingale.

Then Caesar’s knife plunged suddenly

into his neck, blood spurted out, Catullus

released a spine-chilling scream, his eyes

rolled back, he fell off his stool

on to the ground, writhing. Yeah, right. I think not.

I took to my old stomping ground,

the narrow backstreets, hawkers poked sulphur

matches in my face, or lamps for sale

or bread or second-hand shoes.

‘Oh, come on, miss, be a benefactor

to a poor beggar, why don’t you?’

‘Abi!’ I said, telling them I never walked

with cash and that the jewels were fake,

then pushed them roughly aside,

as they had done me, oh not

so many moons ago. A flower-seller

sold vibrant bouquets, an ivory-vendor

sold tusks from Kenya, mirrors hung

from shop doorways, the scent of oils

from Arabia and Ethiopia floated

out of perfumeries, others sold spices

and cotton, there were pearl-sellers,

goldsmiths, robe-makers, cloak-makers,

cabinet-makers, embroiderers, dyers,

tanners, workers sitting on stools outside,

or doors wide open to shops;

money-changers lurked in doorways

like dirty old men, luring me

to make my fortune; I heard horn-tuners,

horses’ hoofs, barrels on gravel, chisels

on stone, saws on logs, knives

scraping leather, coppersmiths’ tapping,

children’s laughter, grunting pigs, sausages

frying in saucepans, chanting schoolboys

sitting under trees, I heard shouts,

bells, gongs, chimes,

how I loved and missed it all.

Outside the Forum, Dinesh the bow-legged

mystic was still doing his old

cobra-in-a-basket act with a reed whistle,

though the viper was geriatric,

could no longer writhe its alluring,

double-jointed body in a dance

that would feed Dinesh’s family daily.

He stood alongside the local loonies

on wooden crates who predicted

the destruction of empire or that Christianity

would soon come west, cracking jokes

about virgins giving birth or how

to walk on water without getting your feet wet

or the ten best ways to rise from the dead

or declaring Jupiter is really a woman

or that raw eggs give you a longer hard-on

or parading in a papyrus placard announcing

that the world will end in the year 300 –

to a crowd of onlookers who kept up a steady

supply of rotten fish and pigs’ entrails.

Inside the orators were out in full force, juicing

every syllable for its music, competing

to speak the most passionalissima Latin

to a lively audience. I slid in at the back,

desperate to know about the world I lived in.

They spoke of the great Septimius Severus,

who had gone from African boy

to Roman emperor, had spent many years

travelling the empire from Germania

to Syria, back to his hometown in Libya,

who would surely one day visit Britannia,

this far-flung northern outpost of empire,

defeat the fucking Scots, Pict and Saxon

bastards who made a steady onslaught

on our cities and towns, spear every last man

of them, burn their villages, castrate

their infant sons, occupy their women,

colonize their terra firma, make them speak

our lingo, impose taxes, yay! and thus

bring Pax Romana to this our blessed island.

Vivat Emperor Sevva!

Vivat Emperor Sevva!

* * *

‘The first time is always the worst, Zuky-doo.’

Venus had listened to each scene in my drama

Girl Weds Rich Old Man Who Locks Her Up.

‘I know, believe you me, I couldn’t sit for days.’

She crossed her eyes, sucked in her cheeks,

affected a shrug and we burst out laughing,

though mine came with a few tears, unwittingly.

I saw Venus afresh, noticed that under the slap

her features were drawn, her bright-red

lips were miserable when immobile.

‘Wassup?’ I ventured quietly.

Her staff were drifting in, sweeping the floor,

fetching water, lighting lanterns.

Outside the street was coated with black.

‘Nuffink to speak of.’

Her face suddenly crumpled into her right hand.

‘Show must go on an’ all that.’

‘No, really, tell me,’ I insisted, realizing

for the first time that Venus was my alma mater,

but that I knew Sweet FA about the desires

beneath the glamorous alter ego of glitz and wit,

had never really cared before.

I sat up, astonished at the revelation

that this was probably My First Adult Thought.

She looked me straight in the eyes,

not one ounce of glitter. ‘It’s like this.’

She slumped forward on the table,

both hands now cradling her face, pushing

her chalky white flesh into high cheekbones.

‘You’re either a figure for fucking or a fucking freak.

Everyone needs a one-and-only after a while.

I’m twenty-two, Zuky-do. Middle aged!

A Venus must ’ave an Adonis.

Even if it’s just for a while. Bronzed, rippling,

adoring, preferably, compliant, essentially.

Someone to come home to, to cook

a pease pudding for of a winter’s night.

Look at the facts.

Thousands of bloody years ago

the Ægyptians believed in a sparring partner,

a Mr and Mrs scenario, I’ll stand by you,

mi’ amore, if you stand by me.

Why can’t I have it too? I’ll never have children.

No Cupid to match-make us mere humans.

You and Alba are my sprogs,

but I need a husband! Not a touch-your-toes-

and-it’ll-be-ten-bucks-more number.

Flippen ’eck! I need a bona fide husband!

I need a C-O-N-I-U-N-X!

Whadoesthatspell? Husband!’

She jumped up from her seat, began shouting

at her staff, ‘Get a move on, you bunch

of loafers, no-hopers, trollops and has-beens.

The punters’ll be here soon. Get your glad rags,

falsies and wigs on. You look a state!

I’m going out for a bit and if this taverna

ain’t spick and span by the time

I get back, you’ll be joining the paupers

queuing for handouts outside the mansions

of Cheapside on the morrow!’

She turned back to me.

‘Let me ball-of-chalk you home, darlin’.

You’re a woman of means now.

Ain’t no scamp no more.

Prime target for muggers and ne’er-do-wells.’

‘Yeah, right,’ I replied. ‘What does Juvenal say?

Never go out to supper without

having first made your will.’

‘My dee-yah! You’ll be quoting Plato next!’

‘Actually, I’ve been studying poetry

with my professor, Theodorous.

I’m going to become a great poet.

I’d love to be famous for something.

Felix wants me educated, so how can he object?’

I pulled my brown woollen shawl over my head,

‘Good,’ she said, putting an arm around me.

‘Keep you out of trouble.

Just make sure you write witty ditties about me.

I wanna be immortalized, dontchaknowit,

and ain’t no one never gonna write

about your life but you. Once you’re dead,

you never existed, baby, so get to it.’

Two heads taller than me, she steered me past

the brothel at the corner, its owner a man

from Gaul with a wet donkey’s tail

of a moustache, who used to call out:

‘I ’ave a Woppy, a Chinky, a Honky, a Paki,

a Gingery, an Araby, now all I need is a Blackie.

‘Ow’s about it, leetle girlie?’

In the old days Venus slapped his face

if he propositioned me, though

tonight his jaw dropped when I passed by,

transformed into a real uptown chick, I was.

Venus and I chuckled as we navigated

the dockland streets, slipping

on the slimy contents of chamber pots

thrown from the tenements.

She had long been a fantastic sight

in our town, originally from Camulodunum

on the east coast, she had acquired

an affected mockney accent,

part of me re-invention package, my dee-yah!

Fair hair was dyed black, piled with curly

hairpieces, wooden pattens raised

her sandals an unheard-of three inches

off the ground, and her feet were as large

as any man’s. In her off-the-shoulder gowns

and dolled-up face, hair showed

where breasts usually sprouted. She used

to be followed by hordes, pelted with stones,

but folks got used to her,

most didn’t give a damn and those who

did found their faces re-structured,

for it was not wise to bring out the man

in Venus, née Rufus.

Mount Venus was a haven for her kind,

men who loaned themselves out for cabarets

or private parties for rich married men

who liked the best of both sexes, disappeared

into the back room for anonymous antics.

Others just liked to parade in chic gowns.

The sassiest called out to soldiers from the bar,

‘Ditch the beard for the lipstick, bay-bee!

and life’ll never be the same again!’

to hoots of laughter. Alba and me were their pets,

allowed to watch and giggle, promising

not to tell a soul when a famous lawyer

or butch centurion emerged

from the back room unsteady on his legs,

in a wig, torn gown and smudged lipstick.

The first time we met, me and Alba

had joined in with a crowd throwing stones

at her as she sashayed up Newgate Street,

cream veil swept over her shoulder,

and a shopping basket swinging at her side.

She chased and easily caught us,

and was about to land us one

when she clocked we were ‘stinkin’ little raggas’

and released us with an earful of expletives.

Fascinated, we followed her every time

we saw her after that, stood outside her club

until she invited us in on condition

we sat quietly in the corner.

She once confided to us that at our age

she loved to rub the soft fabrics

of her sister’s dresses against her cheeks

and prance around in them to much laughter

from her parents; but many years later,

when they discovered her doing the same

and sneaking out to date a local shepherd boy

at night, they kicked her out.

She’d not seen them since, and felt brutally

severed from her past, blanking

it all out to survive.

She came to Londinium, aged fourteen,

feeling like an orphan who quickly

became an urchin, a rent boy in fact, working

in the shadows of Spitalfields Cemetery after hours.

But she’d inherited her father’s ambition

and business acumen. The result?

Spank (saucy panties and nookie kit),

a shop for the lady with a prick and no tits,

but the clientele was pathetically small,

so after much market research Mount Venus

was created to fill the gap in the club market,

and was making a pile.

‘The thing is,’ she’d say, ‘a life without a past

is a life without roots. As there’s no one

holding on to me ankles I can fly anywhere,

I became the woman you see before you.’

We didn’t understand much of it then,

but whatever Venus said was memorabile

and over the years her words sailed

back into mind and made sense.

* * *

I was glad of the escort home.

Felt vulnerable, never had before,

when I was nil, when I was one of us.

Tranio was waiting at the porticus for me,

a veritable Vesuvius eruptus bursting

in his neat little grey tunic, black hair

coming out of nostrils, ears, neck

and so thick on his legs no skin showed.

A torch was shaking in his hairy hand.

He opened his gob: ‘The master ordered me

to keep an eye on you, missy ma’am.

It is my duty to inform you –’

I swept past him, I was the madam, after all.

He was my slave, after all.

Venus rolled her eyes at me, I whispered

she’d get an invite to a private do chez moi

next time Felix exited-off on

one of his long-distance gallivants,

and I’d tested the boundaries

enough to do what I liked when he was gone.

I blew a kiss from the doorway, watched

her hobble back into the night, raising her skirts

over the open drains, exposing

discus-thrower’s calves (thankfully waxed).

I would have more days out on the town.