Thierry appeared in the door and opened the vault gate with his key. They followed him upstairs to the main floor. They thanked him and he bowed. He was happy to be of service to them, he said, opening the door for them.
They stepped out into the street. The sleet slammed into them. Janette threw her hood over her head. A taxi came crawling by and Johann stopped it. He opened the cab door and let Janette climb in.
She looked up out of cab up at him. “I’m sorry, Johann,” she said. “But—thanks.”
He gestured with his hand. “I’m sorry too. Goodbye, Janette.” Then he closed the door and straightened up. For a moment he watched the taxi go down the road. Then he turned and resolutely began to walk to his hotel. He didn’t know whether the blurring in his eyes came from the tears or the sleeting rain. But all he kept seeing in front of him was that sleeping infant nestled in her mother’s arms the first time they entered the general’s house in Warsaw.
It was raining when she arrived in Paris. But at least it wasn’t sleet, as it had been in Geneva, and not as cold. René was waiting as she came out the airport door and held the door of the Rolls for her. He closed the door and got into the driver’s seat. The big car moved quietly away from the curb. “Where to, Madame?”
She glanced at the clock. It was just past four. “The office, René,” she said.
“Oui, Madame,” he said. His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. “Was it a good flight, Madame?” he asked politely.
“It was, thank you.” She nodded. Then she pressed the button and the partition window rolled up. She didn’t feel like speaking and leaned back against the seat, closing her eyes. God, she was tired. It was beginning to seem as if she was always tired, always suffering from jet lag, always getting off one plane and on another.
It used to be that she would have some time for herself. But not anymore. For the first time she began to understand how much of the day-to-day routine Jacques had spared her. The new man was brilliant, the office and the plants seemed to operate more efficiently under him, but there was only one thing wrong. The people she dealt with, the important buyers and executives who used to be willing to talk with Jacques, all now wanted to talk to her. And the days were never long enough for her to fit them all in.
“We’re here, Madame.” The chauffeur’s voice coming from the open door startled her. She had fallen asleep. She smiled, getting out of the car.
“Thank you, René. You can pick up me at seven.” She stepped under the umbrella the doorman held for her and walked up the few steps that led to the office door. He opened the door to let her pass, then followed her inside and pressed the elevator button for her.
Robert followed her into her office and took her coat. “Was it a good flight, Madame?”
“Very good, thank you,” she said, walking behind her desk. “Have the final sketches come up from design yet?”
“They should be on their way up now, Madame,” he said. “I’ll check on them right away.”
“Thank you,” she said. She sank into her chair.
“The telephone messages are on your desk, Madame,” Robert said.
She glanced at the desk. The messages were there all right—laid out neatly, one overlapping the other in rows of five. This way she didn’t have to pick them up to see who had called. A quick glance would give her the name. She grimaced. There had to be at least twenty of them. She made no move to look at them. Instead she looked up at her secretary. “Anything important, Bobby?” she asked.
“Not really, Madame,” he said. “They can probably hold until morning.”
“Good,” she said. “I really need the time to go over the sketches.”
As soon as he closed the door behind him, she opened a drawer and took out a vial of cocaine. She did two snorts in each nostril and leaned back waiting for it to kick in. She felt her head begin to clear. It helped but it wasn’t enough. She took a Dexamyl from the pillbox in the drawer and swallowed it with some water from the carafe on her desk. The combination did the trick. By the time the artists came in with their final sketches, her eyes were bright and she really was going. She worked with them until six o’clock without a stop.
When the last of the artists had filed from her office, she leaned her head back against the chair. Jacques was right. It wasn’t fun anymore. Now she was beginning to feel better about not getting enough money to buy out Kensington. As bad as this was, she could imagine how much tougher it would be if she did go through with it.
Robert came into the office. “Monsieur le Marquis is outside.”
She looked down at the messages, then at her appointment calendar. His name wasn’t on them. “Did he call?”
“No, Madame,” Robert said. “But he said that he had to see you. It was very important.”
She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Show him in.”
Maurice was smiling as he entered. She didn’t rise and he came around the desk and kissed her upturned cheek. “Bon jour, Janette.”
She gestured to the seat in front of the desk. “Bon jour,” she said wearily.
He sat down and looked at her, still smiling. He nodded his head for a moment before he spoke. “Well?” he asked.
She stared at him. “Well, what?”
His smile grew even broader. “Don’t play games with your dear Papa,” he said. “The suspense is killing me. I know you met Johann at the bank in Geneva at eleven o’clock this morning and that you both came out at one o’clock and he put you in a taxi to take you to the airport.”
Her voice was incredulous. “You’ve been having me followed!”
“Of course,” he smiled. “Wouldn’t you do the same thing if you were in my circumstances? After all, you did come back from California early this week and you never called me. And I know that you saw Johann and Lauren on the Thursday before. Come now, the suspense is killing me. Tell your partner how many millions we have to share.”
She stared at him for a long moment. The vision of the gold coins gleaming in the lights of the bank vault ran through her mind. That was where the freedom lay, not with Kensington. And there was no reason for her to share it with him for a lousy million francs, not after all he had done to her from childhood on. Perhaps if it hadn’t been for him, she could have been like Lauren, happy and with a child of her own. A sudden wave of hatred for him steeled her resolve. “Nothing.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “Nothing?”
“That’s what I said. There was nothing,” she said coldly. “I don’t know from where you got your information. But it was wrong. There’s no Kensington there for me. It was a beautiful dream while it lasted but now it’s over.”
“I don’t believe you!” His voice began to rise. “There had to be something there. You’re lying!”
“There was something there,” she said. “Papers that the general gave my mother to keep for him. Papers showing the things he had bought and given to her. Including your title, which he bought in order for you to marry my mother.”
“It’s not true!” His voice grew even more shrill. “Everything was cash.”
She laughed, knowing that the information she got from Johann was verified. “But the general was German. And you know how they are. They keep detailed records. Even of information that might be detrimental to them. We found that out at the war criminal trials.”
“You’re lying!” he screamed. “You’re trying to throw dirt in my eyes. There was money and now you want to keep it all for yourself!”
Suddenly all the hatred of him inside her came out. Whatever agony she could cause him would be as nothing compared to what he had caused her. Her voice went cold. “Maybe I am,” she said, enjoying seeing him squirm. “But you’ll never know, will you? And there’s nothing you can do about it.” She rose from her chair. “Now, get out!”
“Nothing?” he screamed, suddenly leaping from his chair at her, his hands grabbing at her.
She was too quick for him. She stepped back, her hand picking up
the razor-sharp, stiletto-shaped letter opener from her desk. He stopped suddenly in front of her, its needlepoint at his throat just over his collar between his Adam’s apple and his chin. Their eyes burned into each other’s in mutual hatred. Her lips were drawn back over her teeth in an animal-like snarl. Her voice was an animal’s growl. “Don’t stop now, Maurice! Give me a chance to finish what my mother began!”
He took a deep breath and stepped back just as the office door behind him opened and people began to crowd into the doorway, staring into the room. “You won’t get away with it!” he said shrilly, trying to control his voice. “The general tried to screw me and he’s dead, your mother too. And she’s dead. You won’t get away with it.”
She looked up and saw the people in the doorway staring at them. Suddenly she was exhausted. “Get out, Maurice,” she said in a weary voice. “Before I have you thrown out.”
Then he became aware of the people behind him. He glanced back at them, then at her. “This is not the end of it,” he said, his voice quiet once again. “Someday when you least expect it, you will pay. Just remember that!” Then he turned and walked out with as much dignity as he could muster. The people stepped aside silently to let him pass, then filled the doorway again.
Robert came to her as she sank into her chair. “Are you all right, Madame?”
“I’m fine,” she said. She looked at the people in the doorway, their white, frightened faces staring at her. “Go back to your desks!” she snapped. “It’s not seven o’clock yet.”
The faces disappeared from the doorway quickly. She looked up at Robert. “Close the door,” she said. “Then I’ll have a cognac.”
“Yes, Madame,” Robert said. He was back in a moment, the brandy snifter in his hand. He watched her swallow half the drink in one gulp. “Is there anything more I can do for you, Madame?”
She felt the liquor burning its way down her throat. “No, thank you, Bobby,” she said. “Just leave me alone for a while. I’ll be all right.”
She watched him close the door behind him, then put her head on her hands on the desk. She still felt the trembling inside her and knew if she hadn’t sat down when she did, her legs would have gone out from under her.
Nothing had changed since she was a child. The moment he started violently for her, she was at the point of orgasm and her legs grew weak. The terror she felt was the pleasure she felt. Her hatred of him could only be measured by the desire she had for him to punish her. Her thighs were soaking wet from the juices that had poured from her.
She opened a drawer and took a handful of Kleenex from the box inside, then raised her skirt and began to wipe the moisture from her. Her dress was stained and she would have to change it. Slowly she got up and went to the bathroom. She would take a quick shower. She smelled of her own sex.
For the second time that year she was the topic of conversation at the cocktail parties of Paris. First it had been the Greek. This time it was her stepfather.
As unbearable as the cold had been that winter, the heat of the summer during the collection in Paris at the end of July and the beginning of August was equally unbearable. And in the large reception room of the Hotel de Ville it was even more so. Air conditioning hadn’t been invented as yet for French government buildings.
More than two hundred people had been packed into the room whose capacity was less than half that number. The champagne wasn’t even cold and the hors d’oeuvres were limp with the heat. The photographers and reporters crowded their way to the small platform at the end of the room. A collective sigh rose from the crowd as a man perspiring in a heavy black suit climbed up on the platform. The ceremony was about to begin. Soon they would all be able to leave.
He spoke into the microphone. “Messieurs et Mesdames.” No sound came from the public-address system. He tapped the microphone. No sound. He tapped again. Still nothing. He shrugged his shoulders and gave up. This time he almost shouted. “Messieurs et Mesdames, the Mayor of Paris.”
Applause rose through the room as the mayor entered through a door from his office. He looked cool and comfortable, as he should—his office was air conditioned. He held up his hand to still the crowd and smiled.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice carrying through the room even without the microphone. He knew how to project. He was a professional. “I know you are all anxious to leave and go on about your business. Many of you have dinners and other important affairs to go to, so we will be as brief as possible. First, I would like to thank all of you for taking the time to be here and do honor to this woman who has done so much to keep the name Paris as the most important city in the world of fashion. A young woman, born and raised in this city, who has risen to the top of her profession as one of the great couturiers of the world. A woman in the grand tradition of Coco Chanel and Elsa Schiaparelli who will leave her mark in the fashion world for many years to come.
“So I would like you to join me in welcome and applause to this year’s recipient of the Médaille d’Honneur of the City of Paris, to a woman who has contributed so much to the culture and dress of the world and has been one of the greatest exponents of Parisian industry and charm ever known. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you Madame Janette Marie de la Beauville!”
The door to the private office opened again and Janette came out on the platform. She too was cool and smiling. She, too, had been in the mayor’s air-conditioned office. She crossed the platform and stood next to the mayor.
An usher appeared with the medal attached to the traditional red, white and blue ribbon, lying on a velvet cushion. The mayor picked it up and held it over her head, pausing to let the photographers get their fill; then, finally, he placed it carefully over her shoulders without disturbing a single hair of her coiffure. He was a professional.
“Madame Janette,” he said, turning his face to the audience so that the photographers could get the pictures. “I call you Madame Janette because I know that is how all your friends and colleagues address you. It is with great honor that I present to you this medal in appreciation of all you have done for Paris, and for France. Your name will grace our history with the beauty you have created for all of us.” He bent over her, kissing her on both cheeks. “Keep it brief,” he whispered in her ear. “They’re sweating like pigs and the room stinks.”
Janette smiled at him. “Monsieur le Maire.” She turned to the room and smiled again. “Mesdames et Messieurs.” She paused for a long moment, then laughed aloud. “I, too, will be brief.” Another pause. She raised both hands to her lips and threw them a kiss, her arms opening wide. “Thank you. I love all of you. Thank you.”
The photographers kept shooting pictures of Janette, of Janette and the mayor, but the people were already leaving. It was over. And when the photographers stopped taking pictures, the mayor kissed Janette’s hand and left. It was over for him too.
Janette sank into the back seat of the Rolls. René looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Congratulations, Madame,” he said. “It is a beautiful medal.”
Suddenly she remembered she was still wearing it on the sash the mayor had placed around her shoulders. Quickly she took it off and looked at it. It was gold plate over copper. “Yes, it is,” she said thoughtfully. “Thank you.”
“Where to now, Madame?” he asked.
She looked up in surprise. How stupid. Her publicity department should have arranged for a dinner to follow the presentation. They really blew it. Another free one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of press had been lost. If she didn’t think of it herself, nothing happened. That never would have happened if Jacques had been here. “Home,” she said in an annoyed voice. “Home, of course.”
She undressed and had dinner in her robe in front of the television set. She caught the late news on all three channels. There was nothing about the presentation on any of them. That was the end of it. Tomorrow she would have a new publicity director. This one didn’t know which end was up.
She switched off the se
t a few minutes after eleven o’clock when the last channel went off the air. She was so angry she couldn’t sleep. Restlessly she paced up and down the bedroom. No way she could go to sleep.
Finally she picked up the phone and called René. “Bring the mini around, René,” she said. “I’m going out.”
“Would you like me to drive you, Madame?”
“No,” she said. “I’ll drive myself.”
She slipped into a cotton shirt and a pair of jeans, then tied a cashmere sweater over her shoulders. She pulled on a pair of boots and tucked the jeans into their tops, then took several thousand francs from the dresser and stuck it in her jeans pocket. At the last moment, she took a small vial of coke with the spoon attached to its top and put that in her blouse pocket. She glanced at herself in the mirror before she went out. She smiled. No one could possibly guess that she had done so much for haute couture if they saw her now. Then she went downstairs. René had the car in front of the door. She got into it and tore out into the street.
Two hours later, she was sitting alone at a table in a lesbian bar on the Left Bank, sipping a brandy. Two bull-dikes were sitting at the bar nursing their drinks, another was dancing with the waitress, who was so tired she could hardly lift her feet.
Janette gestured to the bartender, who came over to her on heavy, slippered feet. “Yes, Janette?” she asked.
“What’s happening in this town?” Janette asked. “This is the third place I’ve been to in two hours and they’re all alike this. Zero.”
“It’s August and it’s too hot,” the bartender said wearily. “All the talent’s gone south.”
“Shit,” Janette said. “I might as well go home.”
“Might as well,” the bartender agreed. She smiled, showing two gold teeth. “I’m going to close up anyway. It doesn’t pay to keep the place open just for the beer drinkers.”
Janette took a hundred francs and dropped it on the table. “Good night,” she said.
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