Paris, Adrift Read online

  “Is he all right? What’s the matter? Is he going to be at the party tonight?”

  “Uh, no—no.”

  What a stupid question. Who has their brother come to a sex party? I wished I were back in my room, so I could kick myself.

  Scott approached our table, pulling out a chair. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Excuse me a moment?” Juliana said. “He wants to meet me downstairs in the Musée. I told him I’d have a quick drink with him.”

  “Where’s she going?” Scott asked, lighting a cigarette.

  “To talk to her brother.”

  “She has a brother?”

  “I guess so. Did you get your letter?”

  “No. Nothing. It’s been over two weeks, Al. Do you think he’s sick or . . . found someone else?”

  “No. I think the mail is slow. Give him a call tonight.”

  “It’s awkward trying to talk to him by the desk. I have to be so careful about what I say. And if I call and can’t find him at the club or at home, I’m going to have awful thoughts.”

  The garçon returned to our table. “Another call for Mademoiselle Juliana. From the United States.”

  “Richard Styles?” I asked. “I’ll take it.”

  “Oui,” the garçon nodded. “Follow me.”

  “Excuse me, Scott. I won’t be long.”

  I followed the waiter to the desk where the international phone was kept. He handed me the receiver. “Richard, hi. No. Juliana stepped away for a bit. Yes, the Ladies. How are you? And your mother? Oh, that’s good. You’ve been talking to Jules Podell? Good. Yes, we’re almost finished knocking out a few kinks from here, but doing it by mail and cablegram makes it slow. No messengers to run changes back and forth. Once we have it, I’ll have Jules send a messenger to you with a copy. It’ll take a couple more weeks so don’t get impatient. Let Ben read it too. Both of you should sign it. It’s going to be a good contract. No, not good; it’ll be great. Don’t muck it up.”

  “What? He contacted you? Don’t sign anything with him and do not, you hear me, do not speak to Juliana about this. She has to concentrate on what she’s doing here. Yes, I’ll take care of it. Promise me, no swear, swear Richard on one of those statues you pray to that you will not mention this to Juliana. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just— Yes, the play is good, a musical; it’s perfect for her. That’s why I don’t want you to mention it. If she digs her heels in against it, we’ll never get her to do it. Yes, Richard, this time you and I are on the same side.”

  I hung up the phone, my heart pounding. I couldn’t believe Schuyler would stoop so low as to contact her husband. How could I not believe it? Expect the unexpected. That’s what Max taught me. I was no babe at this. Schuyler knew Richard would tell me. That’s why he did it. To tighten the screws.

  “What was that about?” Scott asked when I sat back down at the table. “You have no blood left in your face.”

  “Nothing.”

  “That call was not nothing.”

  “I can’t talk about it now. Please don’t push me on it.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “Of course, I trust you. It’s just . . . Scott, for now, trust me.”

  “All right. I suppose.”

  “Now that you’re here they’ll give us menus. Could you see about that, please? I’d like to eat.”

  Juliana rejoined us just as the waiters were taking our orders. Throughout dinner, all I thought about was Richard coming to Paris to meet Dan Schuyler. I think I convinced him not to, but still I worried. The thought ruined the taste of the special champagne Claude Terrell had arranged for us, and it ruined the taste of the duck that La Tour d’Argent was known for that they prepared right at your table and cost more than my father made in a month. I put a goofy smile on my face as I imagined Schuyler sitting down in a café with Richard having one of those “man-to-man” talks that men had, telling Richard the truth about Juliana and me. I saw the headline in Variety. “Juliana, Nightclub Headliner: Her Secret Life as a Pervert,” and the article in Confidential Magazine: “The truth behind Juliana’s singing success—Alice Huffman, her very own baritone babe.” I cringed while I saw our careers crumbling into dust and our strange relationship turning into an embittered war between us, first hot, then cold. A jumble of feelings rose up in me, all the while I sat there smiling and nodding in polite conversation.

  Between each bite, Scott twitched his eyebrows at me. He knew how to read me. He could see that I was tormented, and I knew when he and I were alone he was going to pump me, but I couldn’t tell him this. I couldn’t tell him before I told Juliana, and I couldn’t tell Juliana because the terror of it would render her unable to function and all that we had accomplished in Paris would crumble into ashes. I had to avoid Scott as much as possible.

  * * *

  Four hours later, we finally finished our dinner and all the extras that went with it. We watched the sun slowly set as it spread out pastel pinks and yellows across a fading blue sky. The restaurant was now romantically lit with candles on the tables and perched in holders on the walls. From where we sat finishing up our dessert, we could see the Paris street lamps popping on one-by-one, with Notre Dame still the biggest and proudest presence. We went back to our hotel, so I could change.

  As I changed into a pair of pants and a shirt, I fumbled through my desk drawer digging out the envelope Schuyler had given me on the ship. I kept eyeing the door behind me, hoping Juliana didn’t pop in. She was in there freshening up her makeup and fluffing her hair. I pulled the papers out. On top were Schuyler’s two Paris phone numbers. On the wall, hanging from a hook, the telephone for local calls. I’d never used it before. Who did I know in Paris to call? But now I had to. I sat at the desk, taking out some paper and my new French phrase book. I wrote out a sentence that might help to get me to the right person. I stood and went to the wall where the telephone hung on a wiggly hook. I picked up the receiver, praying that an English-speaking operator was working the desk down in the lobby. “Hello, monsieur? Bonjour, no Bonsoir! English? Girard! I mean Monsieur Fourier. You’re working late tonight. Thank God, thank God! Thank God!” I breathed out, relieved. I was about to give Girard the number when Juliana poked her head in. I hid the phone in my unzipped pants.

  “They’re bringing the car around in a few minutes,” she said. “You ready?”

  “Sure. Almost done. Thought I’d put on a pair of suspenders.”

  “Cute.” Juliana winked, going back into her room and closing the door.

  My heart thudded against my chest. “Girard. I mean monsieur. Sorry. Bonsoir. Gosh, there’s so much to say before you can even get started. Are you still there? Good. Could you please get me, INV-02-93?” I waited, listening to the sound of static. Finally, an old woman’s voice said, “Allo.”

  I read the sentence I’d written down on a pad into the phone, painfully trying to pronounce it correctly through a racket of static screaming at me. “Vou—drais—par—ler a Monsieur Schuyler, s’l vous plait.”

  She said, “Comment?”

  Comment? You mean I have to say it all over again. I shortened it to “Schuyler?” with hope.

  “Oh! Monsieur Schuyler. Oui, oui.”

  “Yes! I mean oui. Speak, uh, parle him?”

  “Monsieur Schuyler n’est pas la . . . ’E’s outside les houses. She rentre demain.” I think she was trying to speak English. Thoughtful, but…

  “What?”

  “Demain, demain. Monsieur Schuyler demain.”

  “Friday? He’ll be there Friday?”

  “Non. Demain.”

  “What, uh, quelle est, est l’adresse?”

  It took a little while to decipher the address she was giving me, but I finally got it and wrote it down. I thumbed through my French-English diction
ary looking for “demain” before I forgot it. My finger stopped on the word and slid across to “tomorrow.” Okay, Mr. Schyuler, I’ll see you tomorrow, I said to myself. I tried the second number, but there was no answer.

  The car we rented, a Citroen DS blue and white two-door convertible, was waiting for us in front of the hotel. It had a long sleek body and according to the French, it was something from the future with a lot of special just-invented new features that I didn’t understand. All I knew when I asked Juliana to translate a magazine article about it was that it was one expensive car.

  Despite the warmth of the evening, I wrapped myself in a long cloth coat to cover up my suit and tie. As Juliana, Scott, and I entered the foyer of the lobby heading for the front door, Juliana’s fans surrounded us, waving their autograph books in her face. Juliana graciously signed them all and spoke their language, and I could see the oohs and ahs in their eyes. I was proud; it was because of me that these people pressed close wanting to touch her. Then I saw Schuyler’s face in my mind and got an image of these same people throwing tomatoes at her. Or perhaps rocks.

  On the outer steps beyond the doorway, the young valet who had driven the car over to the front of the building greeted us. His face was slightly pimpled and he’d tried to cover it up with some pink gunk. He hurried to hold open the driver’s side door for Scott, then ran around the car to open the passenger side for Juliana. The doorman bowed as Juliana bounced down the steps with Scott and me following behind. The doorman and Juliana exchanged a few words in French and he kissed her gloved hand. As she was about to get into the front passenger seat, the valet put his hand over his heart and spoke softly. I, of course, couldn’t understand the words, but one look at his beaming face, pink gunk and all, gave away what he felt for her. I remembered myself plastered against her dressing room wall, afraid to speak or even breath. I was about the same age as this boy. She slid into the passenger’s side, while Scott sat behind the wheel. The boy hurried to open the back door for me. He was pleasant enough, but he sure didn’t look at me the way he looked at her. I felt terrific about that. Until, of course, Schuyler’s face popped into view.

  Scott drove the car around the corner, stopped in a secluded parking lot, and got out. Juliana slid behind the wheel and I got into the front seat. Scott was our ruse. He knew we wanted to spend some time alone together. Of course, he didn’t know where we wanted to spend that time. Still, two women leaving a hotel together at night in a rented car could be seen as strange, and we couldn’t have Juliana’s fans suspecting the truth.

  Scott planned an evening of walking along the Seine and stopping at various cafes to write a page here and there to Max about what he was experiencing.

  I’d never seen Juliana drive before. I didn’t even know she knew how. She said it had been years, but she hadn’t wanted to take a cab or hire a driver for this particular sojourn. She wanted to be assured of complete secrecy.

  We drove along the Champs-Elysees, guided by its bright lights on both sides. It was crowded with cars cutting in and out, horns blaring. Juliana seemed to be managing it, but I found myself digging my fingers into the seat cushion. “How do you feel about going to this party tonight?” Juliana asked as she jerked the car out of one lane into the next, passing the Renault in front of us.

  “Uh, me? Well, it’ll be fun. Won’t it?”

  “I think that’s why we’re going but remember you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “Sure, sure.” My heartbeat sped up. “This doesn’t bother me. In my line of work, I’ve seen all sorts of bizarre things.” I stared out the window, watching the trees and lights whiz by in one big blur. I had seen so much since Huntington. Bart having sex with a customer in the alley outside the club, Virginia being forced to orally copulate that creep, Moose, Jimmy the Crusher chopping off the creep’s hand. There was no reason this party should rattle me at all. My work had made me tough. So why was I rattled? My breath was coming too fast; I made a conscious effort to slow it down. My mother whispered. . . I couldn’t quite. . . Something. . . something. . . sex. “I want to do whatever you and Margarite do,” I said with force.

  She didn’t say anything, and we drove a long while in silence. She made a turn off the Champs-Elysees, down a dark side street, and suddenly, right in front of us was another car speeding toward us, its headlights streaming into the windshield and our eyes, blinding us. I gripped the dashboard, ready for the crash.

  We came to a rocking screeching halt, dust flying all around the windows. But we were in one piece. A Frenchman jumped out of his car and stormed over to us. Juliana lowered the window and let the man scream at her for a while. When he seemed to run out of steam, she said something apologetic to him. The man walked back to his car grumbling.

  “What was that about?” I demanded as Juliana backed up the car.

  “I forgot that after the war they made quite a few of these side streets into one-way roads to control traffic.”

  “You forgot? You forgot?” I shouted at her. “Juliana, you can’t forget a thing like that. We could’ve been killed.”

  “But we weren’t, were we? Do you even have a bump?”

  “No.” I wished I could say yes.

  “Well, then? I’ve got this car under control and you have nothing to worry about. I’ll be more attentive to the signs.”

  “Please do.”

  She turned the car onto a street with a sign pointing in the direction she wanted to go. I had a passing fantasy that I was seriously injured in the car accident that didn’t happen. So seriously injured that Juliana would feel bad for me and not get mad when she found out about Schuyler. She’d forgive me and even say she loved me.

  Juliana wrapped her hand around mine as it lay on the seat. “Don’t worry. These are my streets. I know them.”

  She let go of my hand when we started to bounce over cobblestone side streets and around sharp curves. We drove into an area that was near Montmartre on the Right Bank. In the faraway distance, I could see Sacre Coeur all ablaze with light on its hilltop.

  “Did you go to church at Sacred Core when you lived here?”

  “Sacre Coeur,” she corrected. “Sometimes. But I often preferred the simpler, less showy churches. There’s a little chapel not far from Notre Dame that I liked to go to. It has the most beautiful stained-glass windows.”

  “You think a church with stained glass windows is simpler and less showy? The church I grew up in had only one real decoration and that was the wooden cross behind the altar. We were lucky if we could keep the paint job looking fresh. One time, one of the teenagers in the Sunday school got mad and punched a hole in the wall by the stairs going up to the sanctuary. It took two years for them to get it fixed, because that’s how long it took for them to raise the money.”

  “I’m sorry,” Juliana said with real sincerity. “I’m sorry your childhood was so hard.”

  Tears came into my eyes, so I couldn’t say anything back. My tears didn’t have anything to do with a two-year hole in my crummy church or my crummy childhood. They had to do with Schuyler, but I couldn’t tell her, so I felt like I was building a wall between us at a time when she was opening.

  She stopped the car. “Is this it?” I asked.

  “No. I need to look around a bit to see which way I have to go.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Everything looks different. I haven’t been here in more than ten years.”

  I rolled down the window as she turned off the ignition. A man and a woman sat on the curb in torn clothes. They stared at me with not very pleasant expressions.

  Juliana opened her door.

  “Uh, Jule, I don’t think you should get out here. It doesn’t look safe.”

  “Nonsense,” she said, getting out. “This is my home. Maybe we can find someone to direct me back to the main
road. All those one-ways have me confused.”

  I made sure my coat was buttoned all the way from top to bottom before climbing out. It was dark, not at all like the bright city lights of Paris that the guidebooks always spoke about. As far as I could see, there were makeshift shacks and people occupying apartment buildings with no stairs, walls that were half there, no doors. Laundry hung over balcony railings. I saw one woman on a balcony peeking out of a torn curtain. Near one of the shacks was a homemade wooden sign with French words written in what looked like charcoal: “Defense de passer.” I reached into my pocket and slid out my phrase book, but it was too dark to read so I put it back.

  As I walked next to Juliana, I could hear the broken cobblestone crunch under my feet. Only the moon and a few streetlights with their glass globes smashed in lit our way. Scrawled across one building were the words “Yanky Go Home” and “Americains and dogs no enter.” On an opposite wall, painted in a shaky hand, was the word “Communiste.” A baby carriage with three wheels lay deserted in the gutter. Lining the broken sidewalks and hollowed out buildings were a few men hidden in shadows smoking and watching. No one ran to greet us. No one was impressed with who Juliana was. I doubt they knew. They only stared. And they spoke to each other in hushed tones, watching every step we took.

  “Juliana, I think we’re trespassing on something we don’t understand. We should go.”

  “Yes, well, let me try asking this gentleman.”

  This “gentleman” was slouched against the side of a wall wearing a pair of loose fitting coveralls heavily smeared with dirt and mud. His shirt, hair, face, the fingers he smoked with, were all painted in grime.”

  “Monsieur,” Juliana said stepping toward him. “Bonsoir. Excusez-moi, ne vous . . .”

  The man straightened up to his full height and grinning, let his eyes run up and down her body slowly as she stood there in her slinky, form-fitting black dress, only a light shawl covering her shoulders. He stuck his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and focused his entire gaze on her breasts. She pulled her shawl down over her chest, but didn’t move.