Paris, Adrift Read online

  “. . . the car will take you over to . . . to what do they call it? You know, the TV studio for the interview.” I lifted my bowl of coffee with one hand. “Do you really think that?”

  She winked and a surge of hormones shot up through the center of my body.

  “Then you come home and rest,” I continued. “It’s practically a day off and there won’t be many of them.”

  “You’ll still meet me at three for lunch, won’t you?” Juliana asked. “I want to take you shopping along the Rue de Faubourg St. Honore, so you can see where the real French shop. Here, take this. It’s a plan, or map in English. It’s quite helpful for showing you how to get around the city by subway, bus, whichever you prefer.”

  “Can we make it two, so you can get an extra hour of sleep?”

  “Nothing will be open at two, remember?”

  I sighed. “Oh, yes, that siesta thing. How do the French get anything done if they stop working every day from twelve to two-thirty?”

  “It’s not a siesta,” she laughed. “That’s Spain. It’s just a midday rest. Good for the mind and body. You’re too much of an American. Work, work, work.”

  “I’ll meet you at three, but I want you in bed by six.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “I’m serious, Jule. You need lots of rest to keep up with this schedule.” I looked down at my notepad. “Tomorrow at nine you have a dance lesson. Right after that is your private exercise class. I’ve arranged for the new vocal coach to work with you at the hotel. He said the piano in the basement will be fine. The guy comes highly recommended by Monsieur Guerin, at the Lido, so he should be good. Still, I’m doing all of this through a translator, so if anything turns out not to be to your liking, tell me right away. Here. I’ve written your appointments on this.”

  She took the list. “You certainly are thorough.”

  “That’s what I do.”

  “But there’s one thing . . .”

  “Yes?” I asked, panicked that I could have forgotten anything she needed.

  “My opera coach. No one’s listed here.”

  “But you don’t sing opera in the show.”

  “I sing opera for my life. I must have it. I’ll call my teacher in New York; he can recommend someone.”

  “You still study opera in New York?”

  “Of course.”

  “How come I don’t know this? Oh well, give me your teacher’s number. I’ll contact him for a referral.”

  A shadow crossed our table. “Julien, como c’est va?” Margarite spoke in a slow lilting voice, obviously flirting with Juliana.

  “Margarite. English, please. For Al.”

  “Yes. English for the American child.”

  Margarite sat herself down at our table, her back turned toward me as if I weren’t there. Did she follow Juliana wherever she went? She pulled at each finger of her beige gloves, slowly removing them. “Oh, Julien, I must look a fright,” she said, puffing her lips out at Juliana, knowing she looked absolutely gorgeous. She wore an obviously costly multi-colored silk dress and a maroon hat with bird feathers all around the brim. “I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night,” she continued. “All I could think of, well . . .I was dreaming. Of you. And I—I couldn’t help touching myself you know where.”

  “Margarite,” Juliana admonished, “a café is hardly the proper place to speak of such a thing.”

  “Oh, pu, pu, where is the proper place, ma cherie . . .?” She ran an index finger up Juliana’s bare arm, “. . . when you burn, you know where?”

  “You know, that could be bugs,” I offered. “French drug stores take turns staying open all night so . . .”

  “I do not have bugs,” Margarite said, indignant.

  Juliana held her napkin to her lips and swallowed down her laughter. “I’ll speak to you later, Margarite. Al and I have—have business. Excuse us.”

  Margarite stood with an indignant “humpf” directed at me and swished out of the café just as Juliana broke into peals of laughter. I loved making her laugh.

  “You have a devil in you, Al, and I love it.”

  “Why do you let that silly woman come around you?”

  “Margarite isn’t a bad sort once you know her. And I’ve known her a long time. Since we were both nine. Well, at least, I was nine. She was eleven, but even then, she was lying about her age. We studied music and dance at the same school. But she graduated from the Conservertoire instead of dropping out like I did. That’s quite something.” She had that faraway look of regret she sometimes got. “She heard I was appearing at the Lido, so she quite naturally wanted to be at the opening.”

  “She was at the opening? I didn’t see her.”

  “She didn’t come to the reception. Too many people. She hates crowds. They make her nervous. I spoke to her the next day.”

  “Did she like the show?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, she did. Oh, Al, don’t look like that. I know she puts on airs, but there’s more to her under the surface; you have to take the time to see. Life hasn’t been easy for her.”

  “Hah! She struts around like a dancing peacock in her fine feathers, making me look like a pigeon.”

  “A pigeon?” she laughed. “You don’t look like a pigeon. It’s an act, Al. Margarite is acting. I just can’t tell you her private business. I hope you can understand that. It wouldn’t be right. But. . . she has suffered and I feel some responsibility.”

  “But why?”

  “That’s all I can say. So—tell me about the rest of my day.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  After the cab dropped me off in front of the hill, I started the climb upward toward the old church Juliana had told me about. It was once used as an opera house because the acoustics were so good. She had sung there as a girl. She said the acoustics were better in that old building than in any other she had ever sung in since. Later, it was converted into a church for the local residents. Now it was rarely used; it lay in disrepair on the top of a long zigzag line of craggy stone steps in the shadow of Sacre Coeur. Few people knew about it, especially not tourists.

  All morning I had run from office to office, first stopping at American Express to pick up the mail and send an update wire to Richard, then running to the post office to mail Scott’s and my letters to Max and Juliana’s letter to Richard and my post cards to Shirl and Mercy. I set up key appointments for Juliana while opening up possible doors for Lili Donovan and Patsy LaRue. The French weren’t so put off by Patsy’s name. To them she sounded French, not like a stripper. Of course, they weren’t so put off by strippers, either. I thought I might call Patsy to come over and introduce her around. Marty was too distinctly American to fit into a Paris nightclub; Parisians were cautious around anything “too American.” They pretty much considered all of us a bunch of clumsy gangsters who had no appreciation for the finer things of life, even those things that came from our own country like the works of Steinbeck and Faulkner. I was following Broadway closely from my faraway perch, certain I’d find something for Marty soon.

  It was a hard climb up those steps with a rickety handrail that was difficult to grip without getting splinters. By the time I reached the top, my legs ached, and my clothes were wet with sweat. I limped to the single step in front of the door and sat to take off my shoe. I shook out the pebbles that had collected there and tried to fan myself with my hand. It wasn’t terribly effective.

  With the door slightly ajar, I could hear the dramatic sounds of two women’s voices blending as they sang an aria. My shoe still in my hand, I leaned back against the outer wall, listening to the sounds and drinking in the afternoon breeze that drifted over me. I could see the whole town of Montmartre, including Sacre Coeur, spreading out before me. I felt I could have spent all afternoon there, not moving, only breathing and feeling ge
ntly alive.

  As I listened more closely to the singing, I heard the sound of a piano accompanying the voices. I put my shoe back on, stood, and went into the foyer of the building. The music swelled around me and in me, and I breathed deeper to take more in. I tiptoed toward a torn red-velvet curtain that separated me from the singers. I pushed it out of my way and saw that I was at the top level of a rather large raked auditorium. Far below me on a wide but shallow stage was Juliana in her Jacques Fath wide-brimmed navy-blue hat, her long dark hair tucked into the hat, because of the heat. Margarite, wearing a small hat that hugged the back of her head, stood next to her. They sang together. To the right of them was a heavy man with a goatee. He wore a well-made gray suit and played the piano; a large wooden crucifix hung crookedly on the back wall behind them.

  I took a seat in the top row so that Juliana wouldn’t see me right off. I hardly ever got to hear her sing opera, so now was my chance, even if it was with Margarite. As they sang, I kept wishing Margarite would sing off key, but she didn’t. Her voice blended and intermingled perfectly with Juliana’s. Maybe this was what Juliana meant by looking under Margarite’s surface. When they’d finished, the man at the piano stood clapping. “Bravas! Bravas! Bravisimas.” He spoke with an Italian accent.

  “Oh, Margarite! Such fun!” Juliana said.

  I could hear everything perfectly from where I sat. Juliana had been right about the acoustics in this building. And as long as I stayed quiet and squished down in my seat, I was the proverbial fly on the wall.

  “It’s been so long since we’ve sung together, dear Juliana,” Margarite said in her too-fancy French accent, threading her fingers through Juliana’s. “Time does keep flying away, does it not? Oh, did I tell you I have a new husband?”

  “No, Margarite,” Juliana laughed. “Not another one? What number does this one make? Six?”

  “I think he might be number seven, but who’s counting? He’s only a man. And you know how men are.”

  The Italian man cleared his throat and said, “No, I do not know how men are. Please do tell, Margarite.”

  “Armando,” Margarite giggled, throwing her arms around his neck. “I did not mean you. You are a special man.”

  “I should think so,” Armando said.

  “And so is my new husband.” She took Juliana’s and Armando’s hands in hers, drawing them close. “He’s an Italian like you, Armando. And so handsome. Also like you. And he’s royalty. A duke from the House of Savoy.”

  “A duke? Of which province? What is his name?” Armando asked. “A duke? But, alas, these days the Savoys have no—”

  “Let’s have another song,” Juliana hurriedly interrupted, as if trying to save Margarite from some truth that Armando might discover.

  “Juliana, a solo,” Margarite suggested.

  “But we said Armando would be next,” Juliana said.

  “Oh, but Juliana, I bow to your greater gift,” Armando said, bowing. “Please, dear, you must sing.”

  “Yes, do, Julien,” Margarite said. “I will keep my mouth closed up tight all the time.” She planted a quick kiss on the back of Juliana’s hand. “As a matter of fact, I shall sit in the audience.”

  She scurried down the proscenium steps and sat in one of the theater seats in the front row. “Now you may begin,” she called to Juliana and Armando.

  Juliana looked over at Armando, who’d seated himself behind the piano. “Ebben? Ne Andro Lontano,” she said, taking off her hat and throwing it to Margarite.

  Her hair! Short. I told her not to . . . I almost jumped out of my seat and ran down there. I’ll kill her!

  “An excellent choice,” Armando said, playing a few notes.

  And yet, the style looked good on her. Maybe even more alluring. The way Ava Gardner’s been looking these days. Still . . . she’s supposed to listen to me. That’s the deal.

  Juliana took a stance, opening her mouth, and the most otherworldly sounds came out of her. I forgot about her hair. The sounds poured forth softly at first, like wisps of clouds, then stronger, deeper, heavy with pain; they swirled around the auditorium and pierced my body. I swore that those sounds shook the crucifix behind her. Or perhaps the Christ was showing his pleasure at being bathed in Juliana’s holy vibrations. This was a sacred place. Her voice made it so. As the song drew toward its end, I saw droplets of tears roll down her cheeks as well as mine.

  For a long moment, there was only silence, and no one moved. I thought soon I would show myself, once I could breathe again, and walk down the steps to her. Oh, how I wanted to throw my arms around her, kiss her, worship her, make love to her. As I slowly pushed myself from my seat, Margarite dashed back up the steps, crying out, “Darling, oh, darling, c’est magnifique.”

  Armando left his piano bench to come forward and bowed, “I kiss your feet, dear Julien. We must serve you. You are the grand dame of all musique.”

  Margarite grabbed Juliana’s arms and the two women fell into an embrace. I sat back down to wait for a better time to present myself. Margarite placed her lips upon Juliana’s lips and Juliana did nothing to stop her. Instead, she put her arms around Margarite’s back and pressed their bodies together; breast to breast, stomach to stomach, their satin dresses melting into each other as she returned the kiss. Anger welled up in me as their tongues danced in each other’s mouths. I slipped out the back before the kiss had ended.

  * * *

  It was as if I’d been skinned of my outer layer and nothing was left but raw organs and blood about to splatter upon the pavement. Hours or minutes went by. What difference did it make? I walked by artists sitting at easels; a woman in high heels and a party dress—or was that a cartoon for my mind—carrying a long loaf of unwrapped bread. Like a drunkard, I stumbled over rough cobblestone streets. I walked along the Seine past the used bookseller stalls. A fat woman sold ice cream from a cart and a song sheet vendor sold sheet music while his wife played the violin. I didn’t stop. I was in Paris with sights so strange to my eyes I should have wanted to stop and see everything, but I didn’t. There may have been a bus or two along the way. I couldn’t be certain. Blind, I headed in no direction; I only moved without plan or thought. My body wanted to flail, lash out, hit someone. Finally, I ended up back at the hotel. I went in because there was no other place to go, but I didn’t want to be there either. I had no place I wanted to be; I wanted to be no place.

  I heard myself slam my door. That momentarily roused me from my stupor. I stared at the closed door, then down at my hands, saying, “I did that. Who was it that slammed that door? That was me. I think it was me. I think I slammed that door. I think I did that.”

  Beyond my open curtains, the day was turning gray. How gray the day, I thought. That rhymes. I laughed to myself. What should I do now? Sleep. Sleep would be good. Heavenly unconsciousness. I yanked the bedspread off the bed and squeezed under the tightly tucked blankets, still in my day dress, nylons, and shoes. I would sleep and when I awoke, none of it would be real. But hadn’t I known all along?

  “Al!” A voice very much like Juliana’s broke into the room. “Where have you been?”

  I turned, groggy, toward the voice. I didn’t know if I’d been sleeping or not, but the afternoon’s daylight was gone and beyond my curtains there was only black. I saw a shadowy outline of her standing in the doorway of our two rooms.

  “What?” I said.

  Juliana switched on the lamp beside my bed and I squinted at her, hardly able to make her out. “What?” she asked. “Is that all you have say to me? Where have you been? I’ve been going out of my mind with worry.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Have you been drinking? We were supposed to meet at the church in Monmartre, go to lunch and shopping. When you didn’t show up, I didn’t know what to think. Were you lost? Were you kidnapped?”

 
“Sorry I upset your lunch plans.” I pulled the cover over my head.

  “No. You will not do this.” She yanked down the cover. “You’re not even dressed for bed. Get up. Tell me what happened. Scott is out looking all over Paris for you right now, and it’s pouring out.”

  “He is?” I threw my legs over the side. “Gee, I didn’t mean to worry him.”

  “But me you did?”

  “I see I didn’t worry you too much. You’re in your nightclothes. But gosh, I hate that cold cream all over your face.”

  “It’s not cold cream. It’s egg white and sweet cream. An old Parisian beauty treatment.”

  “And that rag around your head. You look awful.” I picked up the phone. “Hello, room service? Bring me up a bottle of gin and some ice. Well, get me someone who does speak English!” I yelled into the phone.

  Juliana took the phone out of my hand. “Bon soir, monsieur—je suis deisolée pour toute confusion. Mon amie ne parle pas Français. Je voudrais commander un verre de lait, et s’il vous plait annuler la commande pour le gin. Merci beaucoup.”

  As she hung up the phone, I yelled, “Hey! I understood some of that. You cancelled my gin. And I won’t drink milk in this place. You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “They don’t pasteurize it or refrigerate it or anything. Their milk will kill me, and you know it. And you can’t go around cancelling what I want.” I picked up the phone.

  “Yes, I can. Because it appears that at this hour, only the French speaking help are available.” She took the phone from me and hung it up. “Now, what’s the matter?”

  “Take that gunk off your face, whatever it is. I can’t talk to you when you look like that. It makes me want to laugh, and I don’t feel like laughing.”

  Juliana heaved a sigh and went into her room. I flipped off my shoes and stood at the doorway while she sat at her vanity, taking out little jars, white cloth squares, and powder puffs. “I only went to bed because you told me to. I didn’t sleep at all, you know. I’ve been pacing this room . . .”