Who: OPEN When: Evening, 4th May 1941 Where: le Moulin Noir Summary: Anouk hits the Moulin. Incomplete
She hadn't been here in weeks. Since the war had kicked off the artistes had moved onto greener pastures, leaving the real enigmas to their turf.
Normally she preferred to frequent le Chat, a hipper and considerably more convenient venue, though they traded exclusively in poetry readings and juices. Poetry had fallen out of her somewhat fickle favour, and what she really needed was money.
Food was never a problem. There was always some pretty, faux-brooding boy hosting a party in his Montmartre squat where she could always sweet talk her way into a meal. But Samson and Emile? How do you sweet talk when all you can do is mew?
The Moulin's manager was always generous to her. She knew she could turn up and get a slot ad libbing on the club's piano for an hour or more. Sure, he'd tease and complain, but it was easy money.
Still, she had to get in first. It was the ritual her and the doormen shared that often got in the way.
"Swordfish!" she declared proudly to the slat in the door.
"Anouk, must you always do this?" the door replied despairingly, "the password isn't, nor has it ever been Swordfish."
She ummed, biting coyly on her fingernail as she pondered.