A Trim at M. Corbello's
Rob Francis
Rob Francis (he/him) is an academic and writer based in London. He writes short fantasy and horror, and his stories have appeared in magazines including The Arcanist, Apparition Lit, Metaphorosis, Tales to Terrify and Weird Horror Magazine. Rob lurks on X (formerly Twitter) @RAFurbaneco
All gentlemen of means must, sooner or later, stop for a haircut at Corbello’s.
M. Mandeville was no exception and, although he had resisted for the first twenty-two years of life, his securing of a dinner engagement with Mlle Escaveda for the following week gave him the impetus to seek out the tiny barbershop beneath the Aveline Bridge.
The shop was little more than an alcove recessed in the bridge abutment on the east bank of the river, composed of slick black stones and fronted with a limescale-encrusted door of old, warped wood. A tiny lantern, comprising only a nub of tallow candle in a glass case, hung above the lintel. This was the only indication that the shop even existed, there being no other sign or legend to advertise the shop’s purpose.
As the sun withdrew from the world and the shadows lengthened across the river, Mandeville rapped his knuckles against the door.
A small boy opened it. Mandeville knew little of children but guessed the boy to be perhaps ten or eleven years of age. His hair was pale as limestone, his skin and eyes light brown. The boy said nothing and simply regarded Mandeville for a few moments before standing back to make way.
“Thank you, young man,” said Mandeville, passing into the little shop. He was surprised to see only one chair, set before a modest silver mirror mounted on the wall. The tiled floor was clean, and even before Mandeville could take in the details of the room, poorly lit as it was by a half dozen candles set on shelves, the boy had picked up a broom and was sweeping around. Though there was, as far as Mandeville could tell, nothing to be swept up.
Corbello himself stood behind the chair. There could be no mistaking the man. He was as beautiful as any courtesan in the city, his hair a long plume of silver, his oval face so bright and ivory-smooth it appeared almost blue in its translucency. He wore no barber’s smock but instead a fine-cut purple and gold suit that accentuated his figure and made him seem taller than he could be given the limited dimensions of the shop.
Mandeville felt quite envious.
“Sir requires a haircut?” Corbello motioned to the chair. “Please, sit.”
Mandeville perched on the seat as Corbello threw a fine black cape around his shoulders, the swirl raising a scent of lavender. The barber drew a long pair of scissors from his belt and waved them with a flourish, the blades snapping at the air.
“What does sir desire?”
“A trim and styling, if you would be so kind. Perhaps a little pomade to finish.”
“Excellent, sir.” Corbello fished a comb from a jar of green liquid and ran it through Mandeville’s fine hair, dampening it for the cut. He tilted Mandeville’s head just so and went to work. As the scissors clacked, the sound sharp and clean in the small room, the young boy swept around the chair, harvesting each hair and adding it to a small pile in the corner.
Mandeville sat, wondering whether to speak or not. His old family barber never spoke, and so possibly none of them did. Perhaps absolute concentration was needed to cut hair. And Corbello was, by all accounts, a genius.
The blades danced. Mandeville noted with a shiver of distaste that Corbello’s right hand, the one that held the scissors and flashed back and forth before Mandeville’s face, was missing the end of its little finger. He pushed it out of his mind. It wouldn’t do to mention it.
“Sir must look his best, yes?”
The question took Mandeville by surprise.
“Yes, my friend. I have a… well, a forthcoming liaison that I must make the most of. It took me a great deal of effort to arrange.”
“Sir has seduction in mind?”
Mandeville reddened. But he must get used to such bonhomie at all levels of society, after all, and so gave a slight nod.
“I have an engagement with Mlle Escaveda for the coming Tuesday, at The Tatterdemalion Queen.”
“Ah. The lovely Mlle Escaveda. A prize indeed. Sir is a very lucky man. And twice as lucky, for coming to Corbello. The hair maketh the man, this is the truth.”
“She’s perfect, the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen. The date simply must go well. That was why I came, M. Corbello. I’m told your hairstyling can work wonders.”
The scissors stopped their swirling. The boy stopped sweeping. As Mandeville glanced sidelong at the boy standing motionless, the broom clenched in his hands, he noticed that the youth, too, was missing the tip of one little finger.
“M. Corbello?”
The scissors resumed and Mandeville’s hair continued its piecemeal journey to the floor.
“I am a master of my trade. Unparalleled, it’s true. Unequalled. My profession and hard work have been most rewarding. Such success requires dedication, and sacrifice.”
The barber dipped his comb into the jar again, stirring it around for a moment. Some small objects, perhaps pebbles, swirled in the liquid. He combed Mandeville’s hair once more before snipping carefully, tiny fragments of hair falling from the blades. Mandeville was impressed. It was indeed a masterpiece. Mandeville looked more impressive, more himself, than ever before. How could Mlle Escaveda not fall for him, like this? Whatever Corbello might charge, it would not be enough.
Corbello pursed his lips. “If I may ask, sir, how important is this engagement to you? How much do you wish it to go well? What would a perfect evening be worth?”
Mandeville sighed. “Anything,” he said. “My heart is lost.”
Corbello nodded and made a few final, delicate cuts. He held up a silver hand mirror so that Mandeville could see the back of his head and the wonderful work the barber had done.
Tears sprung to Mandeville’s eyes. He was beautiful, now. So beautiful.
“And there, M. Mandeville. The perfect hair, for the perfect evening. Just one final cut is needed.”
The boy stepped forward, eyes bright.
Corbello opened the scissors once more.
*
Maria Escaveda waited at her usual table at The Tatterdemalion Queen, a little bored and a little apprehensive. She had only agreed to the dinner engagement with M. Mandeville because he’d been so persistent, and she’d exhausted all her polite excuses. And because her father expected her to at least pretend an interest in finding a suitor, the old bore. Tonight, she intended to make it clear that she and Mandeville were just not suited. And hopefully, to save both their faces, he would be able to come to that realisation by himself.
The chandelier above her table bathed the restaurant in a syrupy light. All around, couples dined and laughed, waiters bustled to and fro, and a lone violinist played the opening movement from Barbier’s Assignation. The scent of fine liquors and sauces was heavy in the air. A small boy with hair pale as bone collected dishes onto a silver tray that shone like a mirror. As he swept past her table he flashed a smile. She looked away.
“Mademoiselle Escaveda. Maria, if I may?”
Escaveda looked up in surprise. Mandeville was different. His hair had been shaped and pomaded, making his features more striking, more handsome. But it was more than that. He moved with mesmerising grace, and when he spoke, his voice sent Escaveda’s skin prickling all over. It was an unexpectedly pleasant sensation.
She stood and held out one lace-gloved hand for him to kiss.
“Please,” said Mandeville, motioning for her to sit. “What would you care for, this evening? Your satisfaction is my only concern.”
She sat, and so did he. They ordered, Mandeville insisting that she choose the wine. Instead, she chose jenever and lime-water. He didn’t demur. They talked about subjects he should have been entirely ignorant of, but about which he demonstrated impressive insight: Flaubert’s Memoirs of a Madman; the demolition of the ancient Palais; the philosophy of the feral young men and women who roamed the streets at night; the activities of the crows that infested the city like living shadows. Against all expectation, she felt herself relax, as if she had slipped into a warm bath. Mandeville talked, and he was fascinating. He listened, like his sanity depended upon it. He made jokes, and she found herself laughing like she never had before. When she quipped a bon mot, he came alive with mirth. Mandeville was beautiful, his pale skin shining so bright in the candlelight that it seemed almost blue.
They ate, and drank a little more jenever, and towards the end of the evening Escaveda was sure, to the very core of her being, that she had fallen in love. She couldn’t believe it.
They were the last to leave the Queen, wending their way from the almost silent restaurant onto the river embankment and along the balustrade, where only half-dreaming couples and the occasional nocturnal flâneur broke the night-time stillness.
As they stopped to gaze at the depthless water, Mandeville abruptly seized her hand and knelt before her.
“Maria Escaveda, believe me when I say that it was not my intention to propose so precipitately, but I am convinced: we are meant for each other.” He held up a delicate silver ring with a small but perfect ruby atop it, its surface flashing darkly in the lamplight. “If you agree, I will ask your father’s permission in the morning.”
She laughed and reached for the ring, but stopped when she saw Mandeville’s hand.
The tip of his little finger was missing.
The night turned cold, despite the jenever. The street was deserted.
“You’ve been to Corbello’s?”
Mandeville’s smile froze.
“I… that is, well, yes. I visited the barber. To look my best for this evening. You know of him?”
Escaveda tugged off one of her lace gloves and held her hand up to show her own missing fingertip.
“Yes,” she said. “I know Corbello.”
Mandeville stared, open-mouthed.
Escaveda shook her head. “My love, did you think only men can shape their destiny as they see fit?”
Mandeville stood uncertainly, and she moved forward to embrace him, holding him close to whisper in his ear.
“What did you ask for?”
He blinked. “To win your heart.”
“Well, you have done that. Whether I would have wanted it or not.”
“I am sorry. I only thought…” Some fierce emotion caught at his voice, so that he had to pause before continuing. “And what did you ask Corbello?”
“To be free of the machinations of men.” Her eyes filled with tears as Mandeville gasped, clutching at her even tighter before sagging and slipping to the street.
The pale-haired boy from the restaurant — the boy from Corbello’s, she remembered, though he had remained in the shadows and never said a word — stood over Mandeville, the blade in his hand glimmering dark as the ruby on Mandeville’s ring, now lying forlorn on the paving stones.
The boy nodded once and walked away, into the darkness between the streetlamps. And Escaveda turned to the river to weep.
M. Mandeville was no exception and, although he had resisted for the first twenty-two years of life, his securing of a dinner engagement with Mlle Escaveda for the following week gave him the impetus to seek out the tiny barbershop beneath the Aveline Bridge.
The shop was little more than an alcove recessed in the bridge abutment on the east bank of the river, composed of slick black stones and fronted with a limescale-encrusted door of old, warped wood. A tiny lantern, comprising only a nub of tallow candle in a glass case, hung above the lintel. This was the only indication that the shop even existed, there being no other sign or legend to advertise the shop’s purpose.
As the sun withdrew from the world and the shadows lengthened across the river, Mandeville rapped his knuckles against the door.
A small boy opened it. Mandeville knew little of children but guessed the boy to be perhaps ten or eleven years of age. His hair was pale as limestone, his skin and eyes light brown. The boy said nothing and simply regarded Mandeville for a few moments before standing back to make way.
“Thank you, young man,” said Mandeville, passing into the little shop. He was surprised to see only one chair, set before a modest silver mirror mounted on the wall. The tiled floor was clean, and even before Mandeville could take in the details of the room, poorly lit as it was by a half dozen candles set on shelves, the boy had picked up a broom and was sweeping around. Though there was, as far as Mandeville could tell, nothing to be swept up.
Corbello himself stood behind the chair. There could be no mistaking the man. He was as beautiful as any courtesan in the city, his hair a long plume of silver, his oval face so bright and ivory-smooth it appeared almost blue in its translucency. He wore no barber’s smock but instead a fine-cut purple and gold suit that accentuated his figure and made him seem taller than he could be given the limited dimensions of the shop.
Mandeville felt quite envious.
“Sir requires a haircut?” Corbello motioned to the chair. “Please, sit.”
Mandeville perched on the seat as Corbello threw a fine black cape around his shoulders, the swirl raising a scent of lavender. The barber drew a long pair of scissors from his belt and waved them with a flourish, the blades snapping at the air.
“What does sir desire?”
“A trim and styling, if you would be so kind. Perhaps a little pomade to finish.”
“Excellent, sir.” Corbello fished a comb from a jar of green liquid and ran it through Mandeville’s fine hair, dampening it for the cut. He tilted Mandeville’s head just so and went to work. As the scissors clacked, the sound sharp and clean in the small room, the young boy swept around the chair, harvesting each hair and adding it to a small pile in the corner.
Mandeville sat, wondering whether to speak or not. His old family barber never spoke, and so possibly none of them did. Perhaps absolute concentration was needed to cut hair. And Corbello was, by all accounts, a genius.
The blades danced. Mandeville noted with a shiver of distaste that Corbello’s right hand, the one that held the scissors and flashed back and forth before Mandeville’s face, was missing the end of its little finger. He pushed it out of his mind. It wouldn’t do to mention it.
“Sir must look his best, yes?”
The question took Mandeville by surprise.
“Yes, my friend. I have a… well, a forthcoming liaison that I must make the most of. It took me a great deal of effort to arrange.”
“Sir has seduction in mind?”
Mandeville reddened. But he must get used to such bonhomie at all levels of society, after all, and so gave a slight nod.
“I have an engagement with Mlle Escaveda for the coming Tuesday, at The Tatterdemalion Queen.”
“Ah. The lovely Mlle Escaveda. A prize indeed. Sir is a very lucky man. And twice as lucky, for coming to Corbello. The hair maketh the man, this is the truth.”
“She’s perfect, the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen. The date simply must go well. That was why I came, M. Corbello. I’m told your hairstyling can work wonders.”
The scissors stopped their swirling. The boy stopped sweeping. As Mandeville glanced sidelong at the boy standing motionless, the broom clenched in his hands, he noticed that the youth, too, was missing the tip of one little finger.
“M. Corbello?”
The scissors resumed and Mandeville’s hair continued its piecemeal journey to the floor.
“I am a master of my trade. Unparalleled, it’s true. Unequalled. My profession and hard work have been most rewarding. Such success requires dedication, and sacrifice.”
The barber dipped his comb into the jar again, stirring it around for a moment. Some small objects, perhaps pebbles, swirled in the liquid. He combed Mandeville’s hair once more before snipping carefully, tiny fragments of hair falling from the blades. Mandeville was impressed. It was indeed a masterpiece. Mandeville looked more impressive, more himself, than ever before. How could Mlle Escaveda not fall for him, like this? Whatever Corbello might charge, it would not be enough.
Corbello pursed his lips. “If I may ask, sir, how important is this engagement to you? How much do you wish it to go well? What would a perfect evening be worth?”
Mandeville sighed. “Anything,” he said. “My heart is lost.”
Corbello nodded and made a few final, delicate cuts. He held up a silver hand mirror so that Mandeville could see the back of his head and the wonderful work the barber had done.
Tears sprung to Mandeville’s eyes. He was beautiful, now. So beautiful.
“And there, M. Mandeville. The perfect hair, for the perfect evening. Just one final cut is needed.”
The boy stepped forward, eyes bright.
Corbello opened the scissors once more.
*
Maria Escaveda waited at her usual table at The Tatterdemalion Queen, a little bored and a little apprehensive. She had only agreed to the dinner engagement with M. Mandeville because he’d been so persistent, and she’d exhausted all her polite excuses. And because her father expected her to at least pretend an interest in finding a suitor, the old bore. Tonight, she intended to make it clear that she and Mandeville were just not suited. And hopefully, to save both their faces, he would be able to come to that realisation by himself.
The chandelier above her table bathed the restaurant in a syrupy light. All around, couples dined and laughed, waiters bustled to and fro, and a lone violinist played the opening movement from Barbier’s Assignation. The scent of fine liquors and sauces was heavy in the air. A small boy with hair pale as bone collected dishes onto a silver tray that shone like a mirror. As he swept past her table he flashed a smile. She looked away.
“Mademoiselle Escaveda. Maria, if I may?”
Escaveda looked up in surprise. Mandeville was different. His hair had been shaped and pomaded, making his features more striking, more handsome. But it was more than that. He moved with mesmerising grace, and when he spoke, his voice sent Escaveda’s skin prickling all over. It was an unexpectedly pleasant sensation.
She stood and held out one lace-gloved hand for him to kiss.
“Please,” said Mandeville, motioning for her to sit. “What would you care for, this evening? Your satisfaction is my only concern.”
She sat, and so did he. They ordered, Mandeville insisting that she choose the wine. Instead, she chose jenever and lime-water. He didn’t demur. They talked about subjects he should have been entirely ignorant of, but about which he demonstrated impressive insight: Flaubert’s Memoirs of a Madman; the demolition of the ancient Palais; the philosophy of the feral young men and women who roamed the streets at night; the activities of the crows that infested the city like living shadows. Against all expectation, she felt herself relax, as if she had slipped into a warm bath. Mandeville talked, and he was fascinating. He listened, like his sanity depended upon it. He made jokes, and she found herself laughing like she never had before. When she quipped a bon mot, he came alive with mirth. Mandeville was beautiful, his pale skin shining so bright in the candlelight that it seemed almost blue.
They ate, and drank a little more jenever, and towards the end of the evening Escaveda was sure, to the very core of her being, that she had fallen in love. She couldn’t believe it.
They were the last to leave the Queen, wending their way from the almost silent restaurant onto the river embankment and along the balustrade, where only half-dreaming couples and the occasional nocturnal flâneur broke the night-time stillness.
As they stopped to gaze at the depthless water, Mandeville abruptly seized her hand and knelt before her.
“Maria Escaveda, believe me when I say that it was not my intention to propose so precipitately, but I am convinced: we are meant for each other.” He held up a delicate silver ring with a small but perfect ruby atop it, its surface flashing darkly in the lamplight. “If you agree, I will ask your father’s permission in the morning.”
She laughed and reached for the ring, but stopped when she saw Mandeville’s hand.
The tip of his little finger was missing.
The night turned cold, despite the jenever. The street was deserted.
“You’ve been to Corbello’s?”
Mandeville’s smile froze.
“I… that is, well, yes. I visited the barber. To look my best for this evening. You know of him?”
Escaveda tugged off one of her lace gloves and held her hand up to show her own missing fingertip.
“Yes,” she said. “I know Corbello.”
Mandeville stared, open-mouthed.
Escaveda shook her head. “My love, did you think only men can shape their destiny as they see fit?”
Mandeville stood uncertainly, and she moved forward to embrace him, holding him close to whisper in his ear.
“What did you ask for?”
He blinked. “To win your heart.”
“Well, you have done that. Whether I would have wanted it or not.”
“I am sorry. I only thought…” Some fierce emotion caught at his voice, so that he had to pause before continuing. “And what did you ask Corbello?”
“To be free of the machinations of men.” Her eyes filled with tears as Mandeville gasped, clutching at her even tighter before sagging and slipping to the street.
The pale-haired boy from the restaurant — the boy from Corbello’s, she remembered, though he had remained in the shadows and never said a word — stood over Mandeville, the blade in his hand glimmering dark as the ruby on Mandeville’s ring, now lying forlorn on the paving stones.
The boy nodded once and walked away, into the darkness between the streetlamps. And Escaveda turned to the river to weep.