Jasmine and close

Jasmine put the opium pipe on the glass table and closed her eyes.. “Just for a minute” she told herself . Any longer than that and she would risk going under and missing her act again. That wouldn't go down well. She would really like to re-load the pipe and smoke until she passed out, but for now, that would have to wait. She would finish putting on her fancy clothes, wig and headscarf, she would put on a full face of make up, put in her ridiculous earrings and wear her best smile, go out there and give them a show. She would gaze into their dewy eyes and read them like books. She took another puff on the glass pipe. The Ringmaster had told her that the Opium would kill her one day. Not that it mattered now. She was as good as dead already. Yes, she would look into their sad, pathetic eyes and she would see what they longed for the most. She would go through the old charade of looking into the mysterious crystal ball and she would make an open statement like “You have always thought that you are different from other people” or “You have lost someone very close to you”. Jasmine spoke with a Russian accent, though sometimes she forgot to. “You have been very lonely in recent years”. It was easy: The lonely wanted to be told they would find true love. The poor wanted to be told they’ll come into money. The rich wanted to be told they would find happiness. Everything else was just garnish. You will meet a stranger with the initial D. You will go on a journey. You will have a change in career. As long as it was served with good fortune they would swallow every last bite. She couldn't feel sorry for them. Sometimes she even stole their wallets, pocket watches and jewellery and sold them for Opium. Old habits die hard. 

She glanced in the mirror and saw the tattoo on her right arm. It reminded her of her fiance. It was fun at first but somehow it led her here. How did it all go so wrong? How ironic that she was The Fortune Teller, and yet she could have never foreseen her own misfortune. She had met The Magpie at The Ritz Hotel in London. Jasmine was the best pickpocket in the city and had dressed in an exquisite Chanel dress so that she could mingle with London's socialites. It was a high stakes gig, and if she played it right, she would walk away with a good bounty. The Magpie, as he was known, was a Sicilian jewel thief with ties to the Mafia. He was in London on business, dressed in an Italian cashmere suit with a silk tie and matching handkerchief. He always carried with him a handcrafted stiletto knife with an ivory handle. Their eyes met across the lobby and they made conversation over Gin cocktails before retiring to his suite for the night. From then on, they were inseparable. 

They would travel over Western Europe, working capers together, gatecrashing high class galas and soirees. Jasmine would work the floor, picking gentlemen's pockets and lady's handbags. The Magpie would work the safe and steal the jewels. They would fence the stolen goods through his Mafia connections and live like kings. They would wear the finest clothes and shoes that their ill gotten money could buy. They took holidays across Europe and America. It was during a weekend break in Czechoslovakia that she got the tattoo. They would eat at the best restaurants, drink Champagne and dance in lavish ballrooms and then fall into four poster beds in expensive hotels and make love until they fell asleep. It was a whirlwind romance full of danger and excitement, passion and lust. The Magpie asked Jasmine to marry her, and she had said yes. The Magpie’s large Sicilian family were not enamored with the idea of him marrying her. They were distrusting of those who were of a different heritage and wanted him to marry a good Italian girl. 

Jasmine took out a small jewel case and took out a pinch of Opium, placed it in her pipe and lit it with a match. She inhaled deeply and felt her head get heavy. It was the only thing that took the pain away these days. It was getting worse by the day.  

She thought back to the night it all changed. They were the guests of honour at a charity function at the city hall. They stood together in the entrance lobby, bedecked with fine art and chandeliers, and they greeted the guests together as they arrived. The guest list was made up of film stars and singers, dignitaries, business owners and associates, Mafia families, counsellors, politicians, the chief of police and the mayor. They ate a lavish three course meal, drank Champagne,  and danced to live music. Jasmine found it so exciting, yet also tiring and overwhelming. She had needed to step outside for some fresh air. It was a mid October evening and she knew it would be cold outside, but she needed to take a walk. She picked her Fiancé's coat from the hook in the lobby, draped it around her shoulders and stepped out into the cold. 

It was then she smelled the perfume. Not her perfume, and not familiar, but definitely ladies perfume. She looked down and saw a trace of make up on the shoulder. She shuddered against the cold and pulled the coat around her tighter, putting her hands deep in the pockets. In the left pocket was the ivory handled stiletto knife, in the right, a small cylindrical object and a piece of paper. She took out the contents of the right pocket for closer inspection. The small cylindrical object was a lipstick. Again, not hers. On the paper was a letter that read “My love, I have very much enjoyed our meetings of late. My bed seems so empty on the nights when you're not here. When are you going to tell her about us? I can't wait until we are together. I love you. Rosetta xx” 

Jasmine couldn't believe it. The engagement was a big lie. He was planning on leaving her. And of course for a fucking Italian woman. Oh how his family would just love that. She was never good enough for them. She felt so betrayed, so angry, so upset. So foolish. She stormed back inside to confront him. When she got back inside he wasn't in the ballroom. She asked around and was told that he'd been asking about her whereabouts, he had gone up to their room to look for her. She threw the door to the suite open, and there he was, by the window. She looked him square in the eyes and threw the lipstick and the note on the bed. She needed only one word. “Explain”.

He reached down and picked up the note from the bed. The enormity of the situation hit him before he'd finished reading the first line. He knew there was no way he could explain his way out of this one. In a way it was a relief, he was trying to work out the best way to tell her. But still, he had meant to let her down gently. He never meant to hurt her, and he never expected it to feel as bad as it did. He felt an enormous wave of guilt wash over him in an instant. He saw the pain in her eyes. He wanted to explain but like she had, he could only muster one word “Sorry”. He wanted to console her, to hold her and tell her that everything would work out for the best. She stepped towards her with his arms open. He saw a flash of steel as she plunged the ivory handled stiletto knife into his heart. 

The pain was bad today. Worse than usual. Jasmine lit the glass pipe again and filled her lungs with the sweet, intoxicating smoke. 

Jasmine had spent enough time on the streets of London to know it well - every back street, short cut and bolt hole. When she left City Hall she had run to a little known Speakeasy where she spent the night drinking Gin amongst old friends. She hid out there until the early hours then paid for a room in a cheap hotel where they didn't ask too many questions. The Times front page the following day told the story of a ‘Murder at City Hall Charity Ball'. As Jasmine read the full article she wasn't surprised to read that an eyewitness, the Hotel Concierge, had seen a woman in a man's dinner jacket with blonde hair fleeing the scene. She had blood all over her dress and was still holding the knife as she ran out of the door. 

One more pinch of Opium, to help with the pain, then she would have to get ready for her act…

The Chief of Police had been at the ball and would no doubt have the full Metropolitan police force out looking for her. They would stop at nothing to find her and bring her in. They would want to make an example of her and hand out a lengthy prison sentence. The Mafia would be hoping to get to her before the police did - they would want to handle this themselves and dish out their own version of justice for killing one of their own. There would be a contract out for her murder. An eye for an eye. 

Jasmine had been on the run for about a year before she got sick. Travelling from place to place, using false names and disguises. Life on the run had been tiring and expensive. Jasmine could never put down roots or make any real friends. She felt like The Police and Mafia were closing in on her. 

Another match, another puff on the glass pipe…

The circus has been the perfect cover. A life that paid her to hide in plain sight. To drape herself in outrageous dresses and jewellery, to wear a wig and a headscarf, to cover her face with make up. To use this ridiculous name - Jasmine. She no longer had to travel on public omnibuses and trams. She no longer had to check in to hotels and inns, where spying eyes may be watching. She no longer had to worry about running out of money. She was never in one place for longer than a few days and nobody outside of the circus would ever know their next move. It wasn't a glamorous life, but it was easy enough as long as she played her part, and what choice did she have? There was no way out for her. No escaping the merry-go-round. No happily ever after. 

She took one more hit from her Opium pipe, closed her eyes, and her world went black. 

***

“This is your ten minute warning, you lazy bastards” The Ringmaster barked as he walked through the cluster of caravans and trailers banging his stick on each as he went. “Curtain’s up in ten minutes and you lot better be fucking ready!” The Midget's Jack Russel crossed his path and he gave it a swift kick in the side. “Get out of my fucking way you flea bitten bag of bones.” The little dog gave a yelp and scurried back to it's owner's trailer. “Keep that bloody dog out from under my feet” said The Ringmaster “I nearly broke my bastard neck. And you better be ready!”

Inside the Big Top seats were filling up fast. Villagers of all ages had come to see the show, excited that a travelling Circus had come to the quiet village. Children, parents, grandparents and young couples were all waiting with great anticipation, ready to marvel at the wonders of the Circus. The air was thick with excited chatter and childlike giggles. 

 The Ringmaster continued walking through the field of trailers. He banged with his stick on the Magician’s quarters where he was just going through his final checks, hiding white doves in boxes and hats. “You better magic your arse into that Big Top. You're on first.” He strode over to Jasmine's caravan. “Come on lazybones, you better not be late again.” He banged in the door with his stick. When there was no response, he shouted her name as he walked around the side of the caravan and banged on the rickety window. Again, he got no response. “You've got to be fucking kidding me…” he said rhetorically as he walked back around to the door. He climbed the three wooden steps and tried the door. It was unlocked. As he stepped inside, he saw Jasmine at her dresser, face down in a pool of frothy vomit. Her skin was as white as chalk and her lips were tinged with blue. Dark circles around her lifeless glassy, open eyes. On the dresser in front of her was a black wig on a mannequin head, a glass pipe, a small empty jewel case and a stiletto knife with an ivory handle. Her arms were sprawled across the sticky, foamy dresser. A tattoo of a magpie visible on her right arm. 

The Ringmaster muttered “Shit” under his breath, stepped over and drew the curtains. He tiptoed back across the small living space and took the key from the inside of the lock. He glanced around carefully as he left the caravan, locked the door and put the key in the pocket of his red Ringmaster's coat. He took a swig of Whiskey from his flask and descended the three wooden stairs. He carried on walking through the cluster of caravans towards the Big Top, stopping to knock on the Clown’s caravan as he passed. “Come on you, you won't be fucking laughing if you're late for curtain's up!”

The Ringmaster took a minute backstage to compose himself. As he took a few deep breaths and another swig of Whiskey, the other acts started to file in. He did a quick headcount in his head. ‘One short, but who the hell cares?’ he thought. He turned around to face the stage. Another deep breath and the curtains came up. The Ringmaster took a few steps forward, smiled and removed his top hat. “Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls…” he bellowed, “IT’S SHOWTIME!”