Élixir d’immortalité
 
Jean-Paul D’Armon’s was a small sliver of a bistro by all accounts when Damon Presque walked in off the busy bustle of Parisian boulevard.  Living the life of the stereotypical starving artist, Damon felt claustrophobic in his small flat in Greenwich Village Flat in New York where his perspective saw the American Art movement stuck in a rut.  Scrounging up enough for a ticket across the Atlantic, Damon was eager to find his way to the City of Lights.  He had heard this is where some of the boldest dynamic art movements were being incubated in Post-War Paris.  The Great War had ended four years before, but as he was walking the streets of Paris, he could not get over the prevalent feeling of death.  The stench of decay hung heavy in the air.

“Bonjour monsieur.” The portly waiter with a poor comb-over his bald spot greeted Damon as he walked into Jean-Paul D’Armon’s. “Table right over here.”
He bowed his head slightly as he led Damon to the table by the window with a view of the busy boulevard, “My name is Maurice and I will be your server.”
“What is good here?” Damon sat as Maurice handed him a glossy menu.

“Ah, all of our dishes are the best.” He smiled as he put his fingers to his lips and kissed them.

“Wine?”

“Only the best vintage.” He chuckled and bowed.

“How about Crocque Monsieur?” Damon shakes his head as he hands Maurice the menu, “And a glass of Bordeaux Blanc.”

“Excellent choice, monsieur.” Maurice nods, “I could recommend that you try the lotion in our men’s restroom.”

This made Damon stare at Maurice with an odd grin on his face.

“You will not be disappointed.” Maurice said as he walked away from Damon’s table.  Intrigued by Maurice’s odd claim, Damon decided to check out the restroom. He knew his order would take about twenty minutes, he estimated. 

Walking down the narrow hallway to the restroom tucked just off to the right of the kitchen.  Opening the door, he saw a single stall with a porcelain toilet set into a highly polished wooden floor.  Such elegance had become rare in the city after the war. 

Erik, Damon’s older brother, had enlisted in the army, but became a casualty at the Belleau Woods in June 1918.  Damon was enrolled in Art School at Columbia University when he got the news. His parents were so bereaved that they didn’t even come to his graduation the following year.  This had left a sour taste in his mouth.  He packed his bags and left to live the Bohemian life in Greenwich.  Even the village could not inspire him to the excellence he ascribed to.

He picked up the glass bottle on the counter labeled Élixir d’immortalité. There was a rough sketch of the devil sitting on the letters on the label. He had not been sleeping well.  His drinking and his fondness for cocaine had put deep dark circles under his eyes.  During a visit to a doctor, Damon was told that he was anemic and appeared to be much older than his twenty-six years.  He ran his hand over his face in the mirror. It was true, his paisley complexion was that of a much older man.  His father was always being mistaken for a much older man.

As these thoughts ran through his mind, he held out his palm and squirted the clear liquid into it. He applied the liquid to his jaw and worked his way up until he reached his hairline with his eyes closed.  When he opened his eyes, he looked at his reflection.  What he saw made him gasp. Staring back at him was his  reflection of a much younger man.  His usual sallow glossy sheen his skin had evaporated into a more robust, hardy luster that he always envied in other men.  He read over the label on the smoky glass bottle before taking one more admiring gaze into the mirror.

Could this mirror be like the ones he had seen at carnivals when he was young that would distort the image through bending the glass.  When he was a boy, he was fat.  Erik would tease him like all the others, but when the insults became mean spirited, Erik would play big brother and chase all of the other kids away.

“When I’m gone, I want you to take care of yourself.” Erik told him as he caught the taxi to the train station in his soldier uniform.  He had no way of knowing that this would be the last time he’d see his older brother in one piece. Erik’s flag draped closed casket funeral hinted that what was under the flag and shiny oak enclosure was not fit to be seen.  Still he longed to fling open the coffin and gaze at his brother’s remains.  He told his father of his obscene desire to see Erik one last time.  His father slapped him in the face with his open palm.  The pain he was from his father’s slap did not hurt as much as the grieving he was feeling for his brother.

“There are some things God does not wish us to see.” His father wiped his hands together as Damon got to his feet, his cheek red and stinging from the blow. 

There are some things God does not wish us to see. His inspiration grew from that.  His sketch pad was filled with obscenities and degradation of the human form both from birth defects and those maimed by warfare.  Closing his eyes, he saw the imperfections. 

He put his hand to his cheek and let his fingers travel over the familiar terrain of chin, mouth, nose, eyes and forehead. Once his fingers find the cracks and crevasses of his own imperfections and flaws.

This, however, was a miracle.  From the unremarkable facial features, his fingers now felt perfection he craved. His smile became as perfect as di Vinci’s masterpiece.

“Your food is on the table.” Maurice greeted him when Damon walked out the door of the restroom. “Monsieur, you have used the lotion I see.”

“Yes.” He smiled.

“You look magnificent.” Maurice’s grin covered his round face.

“Merci.” Damon blushed a bit.

“Sit with the artists along the Seine, non?” He tilted his head.

“Maybe I will.” Damon nodded. “But first I will eat the feast you have set before me.”

“Enjoy, mon amie.”  Maurice bowed his head as Damon sat in the chair at his table.  The croque monsieur was still steaming and the aroma was intoxicating. The wine complemented the meal.

 
When he got back to the flat he was renting, he got his palette and easel feeling inspired by the early spring day.  Before departing his flat, Damon could not help but glance at himself in the mirror as he passed.  With a quick inspection, Damon noticed that his ashen skin began to reappear on his face.  While he was still satisfied with the results, he could see that the lotion was not a permanent fix. 

Feeling that his time on the Seine was limited by the sunset, he rushed out the door.  After a twenty minute trek, he seated himself on one of the unoccupied benches where he unfolded his easel and dabbed some paint on his paillette. Most of the artists were conversing in French, a language he was incomprehensible, but their facial expressions convey a cordial communication between the other artists.

Peering at the other artists’ canvases, Damon saw what his instructor at Columbia had called surrealism that used abstract and confusing symbols to rectify the images of suffering and death brought on by the Great War. 

“You are American?” A man with a pipe hanging out of the side of his mouth.

“Yes, I am.” Damon answered as he mixed his paints on his paillette.

“I’m British.” He added a stroke to his canvas.  When Damon glanced over at someone who spoke his language, he saw a number of cows grazing in a field.

“Interesting piece.” Damon tilted his head trying to get an angle that would answer the definitive question he could not seem to answer.  Why cows?
“Thank you, I’m sure.” He chuckled as he puffed on his pipe. “My name is Willoughby, Clive Willoughby.”

“Damon Presque.” Damon tipped his Peaky Blinders cap.  

“Pleasure.” He shook Damon’s hand.  Dressed in a tweed suit and fedora, Clive was the epitome of an English gentleman. “May I be so bold as to inquire if you served in the war?”

“No, but my brother was killed in Belleau Woods.” Damon drew his brush across the white canvas. 

Clive grimaced, “Frightful affair.

“It was for my brother.” Damon rolled his eyes.

“I was a field officer.” Clive grimaced. “So many lads went over the top. So many of them never returned.”

Damon just gave a one shoulder shrug as he affixed the mirror to his easel.

“Ah, self portrait.” Clive nodded approvingly, “So many young artists wish only to use subjects that are meaningless these days.  After the war, a lot of the artists became disillusioned.  The reality of the trenches brought back too many awful memories.”

“Mr. Willoughby, I do not wish to share these memories with you.” He sighed applying another brushstroke to the snow white canvas in front of him.
“I do beg your pardon, Mr. Presque.” He raised an eyebrow in his apology to the young upstart.

“I just don’t want to live in the shattered memories of old soldiers.” He let his exhale escape from between his teeth. “I arrived by train that wove its way through the fractured landscape.  I found it to be a dreadful memory of the slaughter the Great War brought to us.”

“I understand.” Clive swallowed.  He took his easel under his arm along with his materials.  He walked to a vacant space where he would not be tempted to disrupt the serious artists along the river bank. 

Damon watched him leave and felt no sense of responsibility for Clive Willoughby’s departure.

He looked into the mirror and noticed that his face was deteriorating.  He put his hand to his cheek feeling the rugged texture of his face.  The mask provided by the application of the lotion was fading.  He felt the need to go back to Jean-Paul D’Armon’s not for an entree, but for the lotion that wiped away his premature aging. The reflection he saw in the mirror was that of a much older man.  His bad habits were aging him faster than he intended, his bad habits were not conducive to his health or his vitality.  He had seen his father age rapidly and wondered if this was a family trait passed down from father to son.

Clive watched Damon hustle from his spot on the riverbank.  He tossed a pebble into the river.  Cows were what he grew up with, but the young people would never understand the rigors and toils of everyday life.  The Guernsey cows that occupied his father’s barn were the subjects of his painting.  Glancing at his painting pleased him even if the young bloke did not appreciate his rustic perspective.

“Bonjour.” Maurice greeted Damon at the door, “So glad you have returned.”

“I need to get some more of that lotion.” Damon smiled.

“Oh I see.” Maurice winked as he showed Damon to a vacant table. “I recommend the Jambon Beurre.”

“What is that?” Damon shook his head.

“It is an egg dish.” Maurice said with pride, “It used to be the supreme French lunch.”

“Sounds good.” Damon looked up into Maurice’s sad brown eyes.

“Bon. Bon.” His face was lightened by his smile.

Damon sat at the table peering mindlessly out of the window. Women passed the small place dressed in black.  It really agitated Damon seeing the women mourning almost five years after the war.  Could grieving occupy such a substantial part of your life?  He missed Erik, but by now the grieving had simply become no more than the background incidentals of a portrait.

He stepped into the restroom.  The lotion was in the exact place it was the day before.  He did not hesitate to splash some lotion in his hand.  With his eyes fixed on the reflection in the mirror, he generously applied the liquid to his face.

He ate his lunch, put a few extra francs on the table for Maurice and left.  He spent the afternoon gazing into the rivers at his choppy reflection, but it was clear enough for him to see the improvements that mirrored the day before. He decided to go to a Can-Can club to watch the scantily attired dancers.  He joined the rest of the clientele in enticing the girls with raunchy cheers and catcalls.

The next morning when he awoke in his hostel, he felt as if his mouth was filled with cotton and his head had been struck with a blunt object.  Walking into the community bathroom, he vomited into one of the toilets.  Staggering to a mirror, he saw his face had returned to the condition it had the previous afternoon.

“Oh my God.” He moaned in agony. “If I continue this life of a scoundrel and a rogue, I will be dead by forty.” 

“Hey, Damon.” Charles R. Benton, the only other American at the hostel, walked in and patted Damon on the back. “You sure were live wire at the club last night.

Damon swished his tongue around his dry mouth and nodded, “It sure was fun.”

“Up until the police showed up.” Charles chuckled.  Charles Benton was everything the French disliked about American tourists from his straw hat to his wing-tipped shoes and superior attitude.

“Yeah.” Damon nodded until the pain throbbed between his eyes.

“You are looking rather weather-worn.” Charles added as he sauntered to his room with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, “Au revoir.” . 
Damon just waved as Charles disappeared into his room. Damon had just one destination in mind.  He splashed some water on his face.  With his face rapidly deteriorating, he began hotfooting towards Jean-Paul D’Armon’s.

“Bonjour.”  Maurice greeted him at the door.

“Maurice, I’ve got to know the truth about the lotion in the restroom.” Damon was determined to find out the secret to the lotion.

“Simple.” Maurice shrugged as a grin covered his wide face. “We opened Jean-Paul D’Armon’s over a hundred years ago.”

“And?” Damon asked impatiently.

“One day an old woman began begging in front of the establishment.” Maurice continued, “This was in the second year.  Andre D’Armon’s, the son of Jean-Pierre, shooed her away.  She asked for the scraps from the table, but was refused.  According to the story, as the police took her away, the toothless hag put a curse on Jean-Paul D’Armon’s.  While behind bars, she spoke a curse that is still with us to this day.”

“Sounds like a fairy tale.” Damon scoffed. “This place does not seem haunted.”

“I can assure you, Jean-Paul D’Armon’s is indeed haunted.” Maurice’s laughter came from deep inside as his round belly shook. 

“What makes this place haunted?” Damon found himself laughing along with Maurice, but his laughter was mocking the idea that the bistro was haunted.
“What if I was to tell you that I am over one hundred years old?”

Damon ceased his laughter. “What are you talking about?”

“I have been working at Jean-Paul D’Armon’s since it opened in 1824.” His brown eyes sparkled as he revealed the deep dark secret, “We found out when Jean-Pierre applied the lotion he carried with him.  Nearly sixty years old at the time, his face lost all deep wrinkles.  He stood before the mirror that you used and saw the face of a much younger man.  He even looked younger than his own son, Andre.”

“But how is this a curse or haunting?  You seem to have benefited from this lotion.” Damon exhaled.

“But immortality is not natural and anyone experiencing immortality can only tell you of its curse.” He shook his head mournfully. “I watched all my friends and family be interred in the cemetery.  My children.  My grandchildren and so on.  I watched the war rip apart this country. I learned much too late that time is the real enemy.  All the beauty fades while you do not.”

“Men dream of living forever.” Damon shook his head.

“When time rushes by you, it is then you will realize what I am telling you is true.” He bowed his head.

“When I rub the lotion into my skin, my face becomes that of a young man.  How can that be a curse?”  Damon tilted his head. “I am here for lunch.”
“Very well.” Maurice sighed, “Follow me.”

Damon walked behind Maurice like his private shadow until he was seated at the table he had the day before and the day before that.
“If you restrain from using the Élixir d’immortalité, you may be able to escape the curse.” Maurice put a menu in front of Damon.

“I will not settle for wearing the mask of an aging has-been.” Damon snarled.  Maurice’s expression changed into a man who had been verbally slapped in the face.

“Very well.” He bowed half way and turned on his heel, “Your server will be with you shortly.”

Damon wasted no time upon Maurice’s departure.  He left the table and briskly walked into the restroom.  The lotion was right where it had been.  He picked it up and smeared some on his face, but no matter how hard he rubbed, his face remained the same, a sallow leathery complexion.  He whined and tried to rub some more in, but it did not change his appearance.

“It doesn’t work.” He mumbled to himself as he sat at his table. “It did not work.”

“Good afternoon, I am your server, Andre D’Armon.” He smiled through his thick handlebar mustache.
​
It was at that moment, Maurice's words came crashing down on him. 

Picture Credit 
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