A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…" (Part One)

1990: To live large or to live simply. Do I start at the beginning, or at the end? I had finally moved out of my parents' basement in Ohio, and I suppose you could say I was whisked away to Never-Never Land when I stumbled upon what was reported to be one of Napoleon's many “stays” in Paris. With broad winks and sweaty giggles, Mme. Painne-d'épice, the plump landlady, pressed her great squishy bulk against me as she confided that one or two of the little corporal’s several mistresses might have lived in this very building… perhaps even in the attic which had been converted into the garret I was to rent. And while her cheerful chattering and chuckling faded into a soft jumble, I imagined that during his rise to power, Napoleon, “Le Petit Caporal” himself might have beheld much the same view of the enchanting, mesmerizing, fantasy world of Montmartre. … “You zee dat leetle house over dare?”, Mme. Painne-d'épice whispered as she nudged me... and she began the tale, the first of several about that little rooftop maisonette with the garden that I beheld just outside and below my window… the one with the door… slightly ajar.

1891: “The Cottage on Top” as it was then called appeared to be a peaceful haven in the city but actually was haunted by the soul of a wronged lover who committed suicide 100 years earlier… His name was Signor Claronce Bemmaliono, and he was a clown of great repute in the Garibaldi & Fritzheimer Circus Of Astral Wonders & Earthly Delights that toured most of Europe in the 1880s. His professional stage name was Bomba-Lino, and children adored him in over 14 languages. It was said that he was better known to the populaces of some countries than their own prime ministers were… and it was true. People passing by him in cities and villages alike would recognize him, even without his clown make-up, and rush up to shake his hand or even hug him, showering him with chocolates, cheeses, loaves of fresh bread, flowers, and love… oh, so much love.

And yet here he was, on that December evening in 1891 in his own little maisonette that once held such joy for him, reading her note for the umpteenth time. He still didn’t know why she left. He had given her everything! EVERYTHING!... and that everything was not paltry. As a star of the touring circus, he made a considerable salary. Certainly much more than a shoemaker, a blacksmith, a tailor, or a tavern owner would be able to give her. Many people actually thought that silly, jolly, roly-poly Bomba-Lino might be making as much as a lawyer or even a doctor… and his wife’s jewelry and clothes certainly looked like it.

He crumpled her note and let it drop, and looked down at his hands, his open palms seeming to plead for understanding, for solace, and then he stared at the floor beyond them… his focus going far away... and deep inside at the same time. There was no solace. No one came to comfort him. There was no loving whisper from inside… or from above. Nothing. And so he made his plan. He wanted Melba to be publicly embarrassed by the terrible torment she inflicted on him. For years afterwards, the neighbors would point down to the very spot on the terrace from where they said he had jumped to his fate… well, "jumped" might not be quite the right word. Not with all the damage to everyone’s windows and masonry.

You see he had shot himself out of a cannon in his dining room. The only witness was a neighbor who happened to be looking down from the garret just above. He told the gendarmes who rushed to investigate immediately after that he heard a tremendous explosion and saw the roof of the maisonette burst open with a flash of flames and projectiles! Then the golden glow dimmed, morphed into a blood smokiness, and vanished in a final platinum flash… The deafening roar echoed once, twice, three times off the surrounding blocks and alleyways, then vanished as well in the distance. A moment of stunned silence, and then the barking, yelling, screaming of all of those below and beyond… who only moments before neither cared nor even knew of the anguish that one solitary soul had decided he needed to escape from. And leave it to Bomba-Lino to have made his exit like a showman! A comedic showman worthy of the great Vaudeville houses or the Moulin Rouge itself; with an implausible flourish of theatrical flash and absurdity. No one had realized that the huge crate the workers had lifted to the rooftop maisonette was not a new piano for Madame Melba… NO! It was Bomba-Lino’s own circus cannon, painted with bright decorations of garlanded Greek gods and goddesses, stars and planets, and a full smiling moon peeking through clouds… presumably to indicate where the occupant would soon be visiting. Yes, Bomba-Lino. The Great & Belovéd Bomba-Lino had shot himself out of his own circus cannon! And the landlord decided that was a perfect time to install the skylight.

(End of Part One. Stay tuned for Part Two of A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…")

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