Paris, Adrift Read online

  “That’s right.” I held the phone away from my ear, afraid her shouting was going to burst something. Be patient, I told myself, but it was getting hard.

  “Are you having a good time?” Mercy shouted again. “How was the ship?”

  “Nice, but you don’t need to shout. I can hear you fine. I need to talk to Shirl. It’s business.”

  “Oh, business.” She continued to shout. “Here’s Shirl back. Say hi to Juliana for me. And you have yourself a grand time.”

  “Shirl, have you ever—?”

  “Bring me some hotel soap with the hotel’s name on it,” Shirl said.

  “They don’t give you soap in French hotels. You have to buy your own.”

  “Well, that’s not convenient. Then bring me towels. Hotel towels are always the best.”

  “That’s stealing.”

  “Oh, pish posh.”

  “Shirl please, this is costing a fortune. Have you ever heard of Dan Schuyler?”

  “Hmm. I did know a Schuyler once, but not Dan. Tony. Tony Schuyler was his name. He was the lead producer on a few of my early ventures into Broadway investing, but that was years ago. Why?”

  “Did he have a son?”

  “Yes. Gave Tony a lot of trouble. A bad seed, the way I heard it. I never met him, but I seem to remember something about problems with the law. Oh, wait! I remember now. My memory’s slower than it used to be. Tony’s son worked with Martin Bilberbank on one of his shows.”

  “Co-producer?”

  “Hardly. More like a gofer. He was a kid. As I remember it, Martin was trying to help Tony straighten the kid out, so he gave him a job. This is going back ten, maybe fifteen years. The kid got into some kind of trouble. Something having to do with box office money. A good bit of it was missing. Nearly closed the show. Martin said Tony paid back the money out of his own funds to keep the story out of the papers and the kid out of jail. After that mess, Tony was broke; only had enough for a modest retirement. Sad. He was a good producer. The kid disappeared, and Tony spent what little he had left trying to find him.”

  “Did he ever find him?”

  “No. Broadway folks used to say he died trying. Why are you asking about such old news?”

  “I think I found Tony’s son.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Are you all right?” Scott asked.

  “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Sure. Fine.” I’d forgotten Scott was sitting across from me at the Paix de la Cafe. We sat at a small round table packed together with others sitting at their own small round tables under a green awning; patrons yelled in French at harried waiters—I mean garcons—who squished in and out of tables carrying trays of baguettes, cheese, and coffee. For a moment, I imagined seeing Emile Zola and Guy de Maupassant sitting across from us. I was here. For real. Paris. In this famous café. I wished there were more time to feel Paris, instead of having to prepare for Juliana’s opening and worrying about what to do about Schuyler.

  “Drink your café au lait,” Scott said. “It’s getting cold,”

  “I’ll never get used to drinking coffee out of a bowl. I feel like a horse at a trough.”

  Scott smiled and lifted his bowl between his two hands. He whinnied like a horse and drank.

  “And it tastes funny.” I squished up my face as Scott drank.

  “That’s because of the boiled milk.”

  “Boiled?”

  “Oh, yeah, I met this middle-aged American couple who’ve lived here for years. They said to be careful of the milk because the French don’t pasteurize or refrigerate it?”

  “Don’t refrigerate it?” I pushed the bowl away from me. “And don’t pasteurize it? That’s against the law.”

  “In the U.S. We’re in France.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

  “But it’s okay. This American couple said as long as it’s boiled, it’s safe, and quality places like this always boil their milk. I’m getting to like it. I can hardly believe I’m sitting in a café in Paris. Can’t wait to send Grandma a post card.”

  “It is fantastic,” I agreed, taking a moment to breathe in the French air before I went back to worrying.

  But the worrying did come back. I kept tossing around in my head how I might get more information on Dan Schuyler’s background. Given what Shirl told me about this guy’s youth, I was sure there had to be something I could use to put us in one of those Mexican stand-offs. But how would I research it in Paris? I’d have to get Max involved.

  Scott opened his copy of Le Figaro. “Wish I could read this thing.”

  I’d been talking through a translator to the French press for the last few days, following up on what I had started in the States. I made sure things like photos from the Copa were in their papers, as well as stories of her being raised in France, and of her coming to France’s aid during the war. Every French paper would be at her opening, along with other foreign language papers. The only press that wouldn’t be there was US.

  I’d gone to the Times Paris office and gotten nowhere. I’d made calls to the New York papers to get them to run something about her opening at the Lido, but they wouldn’t budge. Richard was bothering them from his mother’s bedside in Omaha, but still, nothing. Juliana was old news. If we didn’t make a big showing at the Lido, Juliana’s career could be over. Richard went every night to church to light a candle for her. I supposed that’s about all he could do from Omaha. And who knows—maybe it would make more of a difference than what I was doing.

  Scott asked, “Is thirty degrees Celsius hot? It sounds cold, but it’s been plenty hot the past few days.”

  “I’ll pick you up a Times at the American Express office,” I told him. “Do you need any francs? I’m going to cash in some traveler’s checks when I’m there.”

  “Yeah,” he said, pulling his wallet from his back pants pocket. He handed me a couple of traveler’s checks. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  The arguments that had begun in the states with Billy Preston, Juliana’s director, continued, but now the fights were with me, not Juliana. I absolutely forbid him to fight with her. Juliana must not have any additional stress. My first big fight with Billy was in New York before we even left. I was furious he insisted on flying instead of coming with us on the ship. The cost of flying was double the cost of sailing on the SS United States. But he said he had some “life-changing meetings” with Broadway people and he couldn’t waste five days on a ship when TWA could get him to Paris in only fourteen hours. We should be overjoyed to spend more money on him; after all, he was the star. I wanted to kill him.

  When Billy started rehearsals at the Lido, he immediately crossed out most of the new songs we’d agreed upon in New York. He wanted most of the French ones off the bill and he started crossing out the ones in English that were new and had been especially written for her. He wanted to stick her with a lineup of old ones, “standards,” he said, hers and others. “That isn’t what Juliana does,” I told him. “She doesn’t sing other singers’ hits.”

  “Everyone sings everyone else’s songs,” Billy shot back. “Especially if they’re trying to claw themselves back up to the top.”

  “Juliana is not everyone. Juliana is Juliana. She sings mostly her own material, with only a few ‘old standards’ from other singers.” I looked down at the list of songs I’d clipped to my clipboard. “What’s this? ‘Aba Daba Honeymoon’? That’s that song about the talking chimpanzee. No! Definitely not.”

  “It’s a good song. Debbie Reynolds had a hit with it.”

  “It’s silly. Juliana and Debbie Reynolds have nothing in common.”

  “I know. Debbie has a career.”

  I took in a deep breath. “Juliana will not sing that song.”

  “But I love Debbie Reynolds. Everybody does. What�
��s wrong with you?”

  “Then do ‘I Like the Likes of You,’ but let Juliana do it her way. It’ll be a good flirting song if we play with the beat. And work in a fun, sexy dance routine for her and have the boys dance around her.”

  “Hmm, that’s not bad.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re pretty smart for a girl.”

  “Am I supposed to say thank you for that?”

  “Well, it was a compliment.”

  “Was it?” I went back to looking over the list.

  “No, Billy, she will not sing ‘La Vie En Rose.’”

  “Why? It’s French. She wants to sing in French. You want her to sing in French. That’s in French, but it’s familiar. People like familiar.”

  “It sure is familiar. Piaf made a hit with it in ‘47. You will not put Juliana in the position of competing with the French people’s beloved Little Sparrow.”

  “It’ll work. They’ll connect Juliana with Piaf and—”

  “Forget it, Billy. I won’t compromise on this one. Juliana will not sing that song or any Piaf song.”

  “I gave you a French song. Don’t forget that.” He grabbed his hat and stomped out. He came back again in a few hours while I was scrambling around trying to find another director while keeping the news from Juliana. He finished directing the show and never mentioned that song again.

  Billy and I continued to fight over almost every song through to opening night. I got most of the French songs put back. He won on a number of those old standards he was so fond of, but not all. All the while, I kept reminding him that he had to keep smiling for Juliana. She could not know there was any controversy between us. It was exhausting.

  “Scott, you’ve been such a doll through this whole thing. Listening to me growl and moan,” I said, pushing my bowl of coffee further away from me. “My nerves have been pretty frazzled, and you’ve been so calm. How are you doing today? This is your big opening too.”

  He took a bite from his croissant. “I like this flaky roll. What is it called again?”

  “A croissant.”

  “Did you know you can get them with chocolate on the inside, too?”

  “Yes, and you’re not saying how you are.”

  “I’m going to get one of those chocolate ones next time.” He lit a cigarette.

  “Are you avoiding my question on purpose?”

  “No.”

  “Well? How are you, dammit?”

  “Don’t curse.”

  “Don’t smoke. What’s the matter?”

  “I’m scared to death. I’ve never played for an audience as large as the one that’s going to be at the Lido tonight and this kind of music . . . What if I ruin it for her?”

  “You won’t. I have faith in you, and so does Mattie. You be sure to wire her today and tell her this is your big day. Save the postcard for later. It’ll take too long to get to her.” He still looked anxious. “Look, Scott, opening night jitters are normal. Do the topless dancers bother you? Is that what it is?”

  He grinned, “They don’t bother me as much as they bother you.”

  “They don’t bother me. I’m as sophisticated as, uh, uh . . . Does it show that much?”

  “Yes. But I know you. I don’t think anyone else notices you squirming.”

  “The worst is watching Juliana having casual conversations with them during a break as if it were nothing. Like yesterday, this girl stood yammering away in French with Juliana, smoking a cigarette without a stitch on top. I can’t imagine what they could’ve been saying while the girl is standing there like that. How does Juliana do it? When the girls come up to me to ask something, I don’t know where to put my eyes.”

  “How about back in their sockets,” Scott laughed.

  “Yesterday I asked Juliana how she did it and you know what she said? She said, ‘You are so American.’ What does that mean?”

  Scott shrugged his shoulders.

  “Of course, I’m an American. What else would I be? Sometimes I don’t understand Juliana at all. And I suppose you haven’t noticed any of those cute boy dancers in the tight pants.”

  “I try not to. I have a lonely gentleman at home who needs taking care of and I feel bad if I. . . I don’t want to lose him, Al.”

  “You won’t.”

  “I worry sometimes. I put him through a lot.”

  “Are you recovered from your fear of the hell fires?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Oh, gosh, the time.” I threw my napkin on the table and jumped up. “We’ve got to get over there. Jiminy, I’ve got so much to do before tonight.”

  “Jiminy?”

  “I didn’t curse, but you’re still smoking.”

  He threw his cigarette on the ground with a scowl and shook some bills at the waiter.

  Chapter Twelve

  Despite the problems between Billy and me and Scott’s nerves, Juliana was a smash. I thought I’d go mad waiting for her to make her entrance. She was scheduled to be in both acts, but first we had to wait for the ice skaters and the comic, George Matson and the Oriental Dancers. Finally, Les Bluebell Girls created a beautiful entourage of bright colors and bare breasts around her as she entered through an opening in the ceiling. The boy dancers pushed a spiral staircase to meet her, and Juliana, singing her hit song, “Johnny, I’ll Never Forget,” floated down the steps toward the stage, her white and blue gown flowing around her body, her long blue gloves lightly touching the banister. I heard the audience emit a collective “oh” as she appeared, and who could blame them? She was glowing and self-possessed, so in charge of us all. Sexual sparks sizzled through the audience and no one was ordering more wine; all eyes and hearts and probably genitals too were on her.

  In the second act, Les Bluebell Girls—dressed elegantly in black gowns, breasts bare, white mink stoles wrapped around their shoulders—danced onto the stage in high heels; they were surrounded by tuxedoed gentlemen. Water fountains illuminated in pink and yellow jumped up from the center of the stage. They sang a bouncy French tune as they danced around the fountain and through it.

  Out of the fountain came women dressed in prison uniforms. Edouard Fleming, the man who had danced practically naked right after Juliana’s number in the first act, came onto the stage, dressed in tights with a bare chest. He dragged one of the women out of the fountain by the hair and threw her onto the floor, stepping on her. The woman pushed him off, got up, and with a dramatic dance movement, threw him down, but before she could step on him he had knocked her to the floor again. After a few more dancing fight bouts, the man subdued the woman under his foot.

  The lights came down on that act. When they came back up, Juliana was standing center stage in a black leotard with dark stockings, high heels, a tuxedo shirt, and black tie; a top hat, cocked to one side, sat on her head and her hair was pinned up into a feminine boyish look. Rhinestones dotted the lapel of her tuxedo jacket. Accompanied by an accordion, she sang of the sexy sights of “Pigalle.” The Bluebell Girls slowly danced onto the stage with seductive looks. They were all naked legs, arms, and breasts. Playing prostitutes, they ran their hands over Juliana’s shoulders as if she were a man. She undid her tie and whisked it from her neck, as she opened her shirt buttons to just above her breasts; the audience cheered, hoping for more. There would be no more. Instead, she winked to keep them on edge.

  The audience loved her; she was one of them. More than half the songs were in French. She spoke to them in French, she flirted with the men in French, she nodded at the women in French. She knew all they had suffered and now she’d come home to them. Anyway, that’s what the newspaper ads I’d run had said. At the end of the show, the applause went on and on like it would never end. She did eight encores before they finally let her leave the stage. This audience was far more express
ive than the ones in New York. It was almost scary. We had to sneak her out the back door onto a cobblestone side street where the driver met us with the car so she wouldn’t be mobbed.

  The opening night party at Le Crillon, the elegant five-star hotel on Place de la Concorde, beat anything Juliana had ever had before, even at Sardis. She was the Queen of the Ball. She wore a simple black dress that hugged her waist. The V-neck gave a subtle indication of the full breasts that lay beneath. Around her neck was a simple strand of pearls that matched the earrings that dangled, one pearl on either side. Her dress was the least ostentatious of all the women clustering about her, and yet she naturally stood apart from them all. Her classic beauty was perfectly suited for simple. For me, Juliana chose the white chiffon with a daisy pattern from all the dresses Max had selected for me to pack. She thought I looked best in flowers.

  As she entered, the orchestra played a medley of her songs, while stiff-legged young men marched among us with serving trays filled with glasses of champagne.

  The people I met had titles like Duke and Duchess Whachamacallit and Lord and Lady Whoknewwhat. This I gathered was the British side of Juliana’s family who had made their way across the Channel to hear their darling sing at the world-renowned Lido. Juliana, herself, introduced me to her beloved Great Aunt, Lady Florence Viola Dankell-Smythie. They both said I could call her Aunt Sally. I wasn’t sure where they got Sally from the long list of her names, but it sure helped. This charming grande dame in her mid-eighties—who expected the world to do a little bowing in her direction but wasn’t overly obnoxious about it—had a deliciously snooty British accent. She wore her thick white hair piled on top of her head, gold-rimmed spectacles that kept sliding down her nose, and she obviously adored Juliana. That instantly won her over with me. She was Juliana’s father’s mother’s sister or somebody like that. Coming from a tiny family with only a very few relations like I did made keeping track of all those apostrophes difficult. I did pick up that Juliana’s visits as a child to Aunt Sally’s summer home on Juliana’s father’s estate was a special time for her.