Paris, Adrift Page 17

  “I guess. She wasn’t that specific.”

  “Wait. She can’t grow a—a . . . I mean with Christine Jorgensen, they must’ve cut it off, but how is Andy going to get a—you know?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But they can do this? I thought only men could—”

  “No. According to Andy, there’s been at least one woman-to-man change. In Great Britain. It was before Jorgensen’s change. Andy heard about it when she was traveling through Europe. She’s going to Great Britain to consult with a doctor who’s been doing this kind of work. She’s excited about it. She was hoping that if she does make this change, that afterwards there might be a chance for her and I to be together, only she’d be a man.”

  “That’s disgusting. It sounds like a creepy science fiction experiment. Like the monster in Frankenstein.”

  “I know. I wish I didn’t feel that way, but . . . I want Andy to be happy and she’s suffered for a long time because she hasn’t feel right in her own skin. I don’t understand it and . . . Oh, Al, it gives me the shivers. I would never want Andy to know that. I mean, she and I were once lovers.”

  “You think they’ll sew on a phony penis? A rubber one like a dildo?”

  We both cringed at the thought but when we pictured it we broke into wild laughter. Jule got serious again. “I don’t want to laugh at Andy. But how can she do this? It seems so—so against God and nature. I’m nobody’s saint, but . . .”

  “You know that’s what they say about people like us—that our love is against nature.”

  “I know.”

  All the time I was laughing and being disgusted by Andy, I wondered if somewhere inside me there was a man. I remembered that dream I used to have all the time. The one where I grew a beard. I hadn’t had that dream in a long while, but still I wondered. Juliana would be disgusted by me if she knew about that dream. I shook the thought from my mind and wrapped my arms around her. “Let’s forget about all this creepy stuff and call room service. We’ll have breakfast in bed. Then I’ll make love to you again. Or I’ll make love to you first and then we’ll have breakfast in bed.”

  “We can’t call room service. Not like this. Or even with robes on. Two women ordering breakfast in bed? It’d be safer if we got washed and dressed first, but after we did all that . . .”

  “The mood would be killed,” I said. “Do you think there’ll ever be a time when we’ll be treated like everybody else?”

  “Oh, there have been a few women like us who lived in Paris somewhat openly; women artists who were already considered odd like Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. They weren’t really accepted by most, merely tolerated. Many others who came here to write or be artists kept their relationships secret. No. I don’t think we’ll ever be treated like everyone else.”

  “Then let’s stay here all day and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

  She kissed me, and we made love again. Everything would have been perfect if I didn’t have to keep shooing away Schuyler’s face when it popped up in my mind.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “What do you have planned for today?” Jule asked later as we sat down at a table at Le Chapeau, a rustic little bistro down a side street not far from the hotel. She took off the scarf she’d wrapped around her head, shook out her hair, and slipped the sunglasses into her purse. These were all part of her disguise. As a nightclub singer in the US, she didn’t often get recognized, but in Paris there were times when she did, and it could cause an annoying ruckus and interfere with our time together. No one was likely to bother us here in this little out-of-the-way place frequented mostly by workers.

  It was closer to lunch than breakfast by the time we left the room. The rows of tables were filling up fast with workers on their lunch break, dressed not unlike the men we saw when we took the wrong turn on our way to the party. But these men looked a lot less intimidating. There were a few women who probably worked in offices and another group of men in suits and ties. A young woman in a plain gray dress leaned against one of the poles that held the building up, playing the accordion and singing in French.

  I remembered my father escaping to the cellar to play his accordion. I could hear the sounds coming up through the coal grate in the hallway. He wasn’t good, all the songs sounded the same, but I think it made him happy and it got him away from Mom for a little while.

  The garçon brought us a basket of French rolls, two baguettes, and two glasses of wine, which we knew he would refill frequently throughout our meal. It was a lovely Paris afternoon. Perfect, actually, except for . . .

  “Well, I’ve got an appointment with some magazines to get you an interview or two. Then, I’m going to check the American Express office for our mail,” I told Juliana, “and wire Max to tell him to get off his rear end and write to Scott. I have to follow through on some gigs I set up for my clients back in the States. Later tonight, I’m going to meet Scott for an early dinner and talk him into coming with me to hear a new French singer who’s appearing in one of those little cellar clubs in the Latin Quarter. Maybe there’s some possibility for me to expand into the French market, take on a French client or two.” I tore off a piece from the baguette.

  “You’re forever the businesswoman, aren’t you? Why don’t you take a walk around Paris? See something. I wish I could take you, but with the radio interview and the extra rehearsal later . . .”

  “No. You work. That’s what I want you doing. That’s why we’re here. I’ll be fine.” I couldn’t tell her that after our lunch I would be seeing a bit of Paris. Before any of my other tasks, I’d be taking the bus to see Schuyler.

  Le garçon set a bowl of cassoulet, or bean stew, in front of us, the specialty dish of the house. Well, it was the only dish of the house. As we put our forks into the stew, a gruff French voice shouted, “Juliana!”

  Everyone turned to look, including Juliana and me. A twentyish to thirtyish-year-old man in a cap with straggly hair peeking out marched toward us. He wore a filthy bandana around his neck and a black T-shirt with only a stump of an arm sticking out of one sleeve. He had a few days growth of beard and his blue jeans were streaked in dirt. Not the sort of person I’d expect to be calling for Juliana.

  “Juliana,” he repeated more softly as he leaned the knuckles of his existent hand on our table. He spoke to her in French, and she responded in French. The stump arm was facing me, and I didn’t like watching it wiggle up and down as he talked. They had a few more words back and forth, and each time the sound of the words became more heated and the stump arm wiggled more viciously. Juliana was holding in her anger, but I could tell she was close to boiling over. Finally, she broke off the conversation, picked up her fork, and dug it into to her cassoulet as if the man wasn’t still standing there. The man grabbed her arm and pulled the fork out of her hand.

  I jumped up, “Hey! Leave her alone.”

  “No business to you,” he growled and grabbed Juliana by the elbow. “Allez vous-en-bougez!” he said and pulled her across the room.

  I ran after them. “Uh, uh, homme,” I yelled at the men sitting at the tables as I searched for words. “Stop him.” No one moved. I jumped up and down, pointing. “Uh, uh, arretez le.”

  A couple of Frenchmen stood and spoke to the man and to Juliana, then sat back down.

  “What are you doing? Stop him. Arretez le!”

  They kept eating their cassoulet. I punched the guy on the arm above his stump. “Leave her alone, goddammit.”

  “Go or I tell all which you are.” He spat out in a harsh whisper, “Dyke!”

  I backed away as if he was pointing a gun at me. No one had ever called me that filthy word before.

  “It’s okay, Al,” Juliana said. “I’ll be back. Wait for me. This is my brother.”

  I stepped aside as this bully, still holding her elbow
, took her out of the room. When they’d gone, I scanned the place, suddenly feeling naked; had anyone heard him? Did that word in French sound the same as in English? I slunk back to our table.

  I couldn’t eat my cassoulet. I drank the wine and alternated between watching my watch and watching the door. Where was she? Where did that guy take her? I berated myself for not following them. What if she came back bloody? The accordion lady played something slow and easy, which helped a little.

  After twenty minutes, Juliana came back—no blood—and sat down opposite me. Without explanation, she took her fork, speared some beans, and put them in her mouth. She took another bite of cassoulet, and another.

  “Jule?”

  She kept eating her cassoulet.

  “Jule, what happened?”

  “Sorry. I’m starved. You haven’t touched yours.”

  “You think I could eat after some monster dragged you off to who knows where?”

  “I told you. He’s my brother. He’s a little volatile, but—”

  “A little?”

  “I don’t think he would hurt me.”

  “You don’t think so, but you don’t know? He’s dangerous Jule, and you need to stay away from him. And how is it I’ve known you for fourteen years and you’ve never told me you even had a brother?”

  “He’s not easy to talk about.”

  “He’s your brother. How hard can it be to tell me about him? At least that he exists.”

  “My family life is private.”

  “Oh?” She was putting another one of her knives into my heart.

  “Or used to be. I don’t want you getting the wrong idea about him. He wasn’t always like you saw him today. He was such a sweet little boy, but life has been hard on him. Here, I think I have a picture.” She reached inside her purse and took a wallet from a zippered compartment. She opened it to a picture— “Look.”—and held it out to me.

  I looked down at a little brown-haired boy about five years old with one tooth missing in the front. He could have been anybody’s American kid. It was hard to believe this little boy was the same man who had just yanked Juliana out of the bistro. “Yeah? So?”

  She took back the photo, admiring it. “Such a dear. Around the time of this picture, my cat ran away. I was about fifteen, before my adventures in Harlem. I loved that cat. It was the first pet I’d ever had because my mother was allergic. She finally let me get the cat if I promised to keep him in my room. I was a wreck when that cat ran away. Without saying anything, Christophe went out looking for him with his wagon. He was gone for hours. Much longer than any little boy should be out by himself. My mother was crazed with worry. She almost called the police. He didn’t come home until after dark. He knocked on my door. When I opened it, he wasn’t there, but I found his wagon with my cat sleeping inside. He never said a thing about it, never expected a reward or even a thank you. He did it out of love. That’s how he does everything.”

  “Dragging you out of here was love?”

  “I didn’t say he was always wise in his approach to love. Only that he acts out of love.”

  “So, if he’s so special how come you never told me about him?”

  “Mother and Father made us both feel like he was a terrible black sheep. I loved him, but I was also ashamed of him because . . .” She looked down at her cassoulet, poking at it with her fork. “He was born out of wedlock. While my mother was married to my father.”

  “Oh.” A shiver ran through me.

  “When I was ten, my mother had one of her affairs and got caught—with my brother. She had had many affairs before but being pregnant with someone else’s child was more than my father could bear. They separated as soon as my brother was born. My brother has had a difficult life as a result, and he isn’t always the nicest person. The inscription on the rosary box. He thinks ‘John’ may be his father.”

  “And your mother’s . . . murderer?”

  “He didn’t say that. I did.”

  “What did he want today?”

  “Money.”

  “Doesn’t he have any?”

  “No. You saw the way he was dressed. My father, as you know, gave me the house and a handsome trust fund. Christophe didn’t have a father to do that for him. Mother wouldn’t say who Christophe’s father was. And Mother, well, she left me most of what she had. Only a very little was left for him. That little bit I think he may have given to the French Resistance during the occupation. He’s a passionate man with strict ideas about right and wrong. He fought with the Free French Army in North Africa. You saw his arm.”

  “He lost it in the war?”

  “Yes. And what have I ever done for France except live here? And live here exceptionally well.”

  “But Jule, you’re an American.”

  “So is he, technically, but he has no feeling for it. Well, you saw, he can barely speak his own language, which he doesn’t claim as his own. French is the only language he wants to know, but he can never be a French citizen.”

  “But he was born here, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, but to an American mother. The rules are different here. He needed a French father to come forward before he was eighteen to claim paternity. That didn’t happen, so he must always remain a foreigner in his own country while being a citizen of a country he despises. Now, he’s joined some group to support the French workers. He calls me a sycophant and I think he may be right. His friends fought and died for France, they stood up against tyranny. What did I do? I hid out in the United States safe and warm, worrying about my career. My career, Al. People were being crushed over here. How empty my dreams seem compared to his.”

  “You came over here to entertain the troops on the front lines. That was not an ‘empty’ thing to do. It was courageous.”

  “For a few weeks, and then I was evacuated when it got too hot. What is that?”

  “Why are you belittling something you did that most people would not have even considered doing?”

  “Because I was not a heroine, but all the PR about that time portrays me as if I had been. But these friends of Christophe—these heroes who saved France—Christophe tells me they now suffer in poverty; they are given starvation wages as they strive to rebuild France, while the people of my class benefit from their labor and contribute little. My friends congratulate themselves for the unity of France they have created, how they are all one, the rich, the workers, the poor. You heard Armando at the party. Blind to the workers’ plight, and it was people like my friends, like Armando, who would have sold France to the Nazis for a few pieces of silver.”

  “He—he collaborated? But I—I like Armando.”

  “So do I. But I’m sure he made little compromises with the devil during that time. Compromises that my brother would not make. Look at all the fine things he still has, the antiques, the tapestries.”

  “No, that isn’t possible. Armando is a kind, warmhearted man.”

  “Yes, he is. He truly is. That’s not a ruse. But my brother, he is not kind, not warmhearted, but he quite literally gave an arm to free France from tyranny.”

  A sound deep inside me rose up, and I said softly, more to myself than Jule, “A certain man had two sons and he came to the first and said, ‘Son, go work in the vineyard today.’ The son answered, ‘No, I won’t,’ but afterward he thought better of it and went. And the father came to his second son and said likewise, and this son answered, ‘I go, sir,’ but he didn’t. Which of these two did the will of the father?”

  “Exactly.”

  We were silent a moment, probably contemplating the meaning of right, wrong, good, bad. “And still,” Jule said, “we don’t know what Armando did or didn’t do or if he did anything. I can’t judge. I wasn’t here. What would I have done if I’d been here? Do I know? I’d like to say I do, but . . . I guess I
try to assuage my own conscience by sending Christophe money regularly, but he gives it away to the workers.”

  “If you already give him money, why is he coming around with all that desperation?”

  “He wants more. A lot more. The reason I’m hesitating is because—because this new group he’s involved with . . .” She took a sip of her wine, looking around, and whispered, “I think these workers may belong to the Communist Party.”

  “Then you can’t give him the money.” I felt myself go pale.

  “If only it were that simple. He’s my brother.”

  “Half-brother.”

  “Yes. And no one ever lets him forget that. He has so much less than me.”

  “And he’s playing on your guilt to get what he wants.”

  “I know. But you should have known him as a little boy.”

  “Juliana, listen to me. He’s not that little boy who found your cat anymore. He’s a grown man, a dangerous man. You can’t give him that money. First, it would be immoral to give money to communists and I’m sure your church would not approve.”

  She nodded.

  “Second. The HUAC hearings would be down on your head so fast you wouldn’t have time take a breath before they threw you in jail as a traitor to your country. And they would also find out about . . . you know and tie them both together into a nice, tidy, little package. There’s nothing more they’d like better than to publicly prove that we’re all nothing but a bunch of commie traitors. They’ll have you hanging in effigy as their poster child. You want that?”

  “No!” Juliana said horrified. “Of course not, but—”

  “And what about Christophe and that . . .” I whispered, “what he said about us. He knows. Would he use that against you?”

  “I don’t think so. He doesn’t approve of it, but I don’t think he’d make some public announcement. He doesn’t want to destroy me. He simply wants to help his friends and his country. My mother couldn’t give him comfort or look in his face without seeing the man who caused the breakup of her marriage. I want him to feel like he still has a sister, so that’s why I thought—”