by Ariel Lawhon
“I don’t understand.” I look at Frank, sitting beside me, and then back at Milo.
“I cannot submit your article,” he says again, but slower this time as though I am stupid.
“Why not? It is a great article.”
“Because I’ve got a man in Berlin right now. A man I sent on assignment to cover this story.”
“And you’ve got a woman in your office right now with a finished article!” I slam my fist down on the desk and instantly regret it because a bolt of pain shoots into the back of my elbow. Shit. I have got to work on my temper. I cradle my elbow in my other hand, rubbing the bone with my thumb.
“Hearst is an award-winning syndicate, not some tabloid like 7-Tage. This is an important story. I sent my best guy.”
“Guy?” I ask with enough fury in my voice that Frank shrinks back several inches. “Did your guy go to Vienna? Did he see whippings?”
Milo runs a thumb over his chin. Scratches the stubble. He doesn’t answer my question. “No one who reads our newspapers will take your article seriously.”
“Why not? They took you seriously when you published that photograph on the front page. That’s what sent us to Vienna. And then to Berlin. The entire world has now seen what the Brownshirts can do with a whip.”
“I published photographic evidence.”
“It’s the truth,” Frank says. “I saw every bit of it myself.”
“Which is why you took photographs, I presume? Photographs I can submit alongside it as proof.” He glares at each of us in turn.
“I took pictures and they were destroyed. Along with my camera. Smashed to bits in Vienna. Just like she said. In. Her. Article.”
Frank’s face is red and splotchy and I’m delighted to see that it is not embarrassment but anger that’s lit him up like a campfire. But I cut him off before he can continue. “If three eyewitness accounts aren’t enough for you, what is?”
“Do you need counting lessons? I see two people here.”
I brush a piece of lint from my skirt. “Me. Frank. And Janos Lieberman.”
Milo’s face pales a bit at the name. I’m not supposed to know it. Janos was never named by the paper.
“You may have published the photo, but I got the interview. Me. Not your guy in Berlin. It’s written and ready for publication as well.” I stand and prepare to leave. “But it’s become quite clear that you are not interested in my work. Which is a pity, because, as you well know, these articles are printed in a dozen cities throughout the U.S. I can only imagine what William Randolph Hearst would think if you lost this particular scoop. No matter, though. I’m sure there’s some other tabloid that would be willing to publish my interview.”
Milo’s voice takes on a conciliatory tone. “Where is Lieberman?”
“Gone.”
“Where?”
“Across an ocean, far away.”
“Which ocean?”
I feign stupidity. “How many of them are there again? I don’t know how to count.”
There is an art to French cursing that I’m nowhere near perfecting, but I’m once again inspired to apply myself when Milo explodes in the most impressive display, first excoriating me for insubordination and then for my actions themselves. “You let him leave the country?”
“No. I helped him. His story in exchange for a transit visa.”
“You know where he’s gone? How to reach him?”
“Of course.”
“Put me in contact.”
“Submit it,” I say, sliding my article back in front of him, “or I sell Janos’s interview to the highest bidder. I’m just a freelancer after all.”
Frank gallantly opens the door for me and I slam it on our way out.
* * *
—
“That was ballsy,” Frank says when we’re standing outside, looking up at Milo’s fifth-floor office window.
I rub my temples and close my eyes. My eyelids feel like they’re lined with sandpaper. I can’t decide whether I want to eat an entire loaf of bread smeared with butter or throw up on the sidewalk. “It was stupid.”
“Maybe. But at least he didn’t win. That’s something.”
“You’re a good egg, Frank; you know that, right?”
“By which you mean you’re awfully fond of me but not the least bit attracted.”
I give him a lopsided smile. “No hard feelings?”
“Nah. Just a bit of bruised pride. Nothing some good old French brandy won’t fix.”
“I’m really sorry about your camera.”
He chucks my chin with his knuckles. “Cameras can be replaced. People can’t.” And then Frank Gilmore plants a sloppy kiss on my forehead and turns to leave.
“Hey!”
He looks over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“You realize that all the articles and photographs in the world won’t be enough to stop what’s coming, right?”
A shadow crosses his face. “I know.”
“So what do we do?”
“When the time comes, we fight.”
* * *
—
I am weeping and puffy-eyed when Stephanie finds me. The only thing I hate more than crying is to be found crying. But here she is, waltzing into my bathroom with Picon under one arm and a towel under the other.
“Get up,” she says. “We’re leaving.”
“What are you doing here?” I drop lower into the tub. Thank God for bubbles.
“You did want the dog back, no? Because I’m not keeping him.”
“Of course. I mean, what are you doing in my bathroom? How did you get my key?”
“You gave it to me before you left.” She looks at the ceiling and sighs, as though I am an imbecile. “And I have come to collect you.”
“For what?”
“An excursion.”
“I don’t have the heart to go out tonight, Steph.”
Picon whimpers at the sound of my voice and Stephanie lowers him to the ground. He skitters across the floor, his little nails clicking against the tile, and rises up on his hind legs beside the tub, trying to see me.
“I have something a little grander than a night on the town in mind. And you need it. You look awful, ma petite.”
I lean my head back against the lip of the tub, close my eyes, and let my arm hang over the edge. Picon licks my puckered fingertips and I scratch him behind the ears. “I have always loved the way you encourage and nurture others. Especially while they are under duress.”
“It is true.”
“It is mean.”
“I am not known for being nice.”
“Well, I am not known for enjoying insults.”
There is a sound that only French women can make. It is one of impatience and exasperation and is spoken with breath, not words. I envy them this skill.
“Enough,” she says. “Get dressed. I’m taking you on holiday for a week.”
I open one eye. Lift a brow. “Holiday?”
“You need to get away, to take your mind off things.”
“A week? What about your husband? Besides, I have work to do. I…” I don’t know exactly what I want to say, so I lift one hand and wave it around, flinging water drops across her skirt.
“You submitted your article. Your work is done. And the Count is in Spain on business. He’s left me with nothing to do but spend his money, and I don’t want to do it here. Get up.”
“No.”
“Nancy, you’re being ridiculous—”
“I’m not getting up while you’re in this bathroom. I do have a little bit of dignity, you know.”
I’ve never seen the whites of Stephanie’s eyes before, but they are on full display when she rolls them. “Good grief. We have the same parts.”
So blunt. So French. Are th
ey embarrassed at nothing? Regardless, I cross my arms and sink even farther beneath the bubbles. We are not that close of friends.
She mutters something about prudish Australians as she drops the towel on the floor and retreats into my tiny living room. But now I’m intrigued.
“And just where exactly do you plan on taking me?” I shout after her.
“Marseille.”
MARSEILLE
It looks like a painting. Marseille is a city of hilltop villas and sleek yachts. Tile roofs. Beryl seas. Tanned legs. Twisting, narrow streets. Its central thoroughfare, the Canebière, leads from the glinting waters of the Mediterranean straight into hills that drip with grapevines. It smells of salt water, baking bread, and bouillabaisse. Of fresh basil and day lilies. There are fish markets and casinos. Hotels and dance halls. Bistros. Beaches. Cafés. Tiny little parks that are half the size of a city block. And flowers everywhere. It is a cascade of color. It is overwhelming in the most delicious way.
“I’m never leaving,” I tell Stephanie as I roll onto my side and rub Picon between his sweet, floppy ears. We lie beneath an umbrella on the beach as the sun begins its downward slide.
“I told you so,” she says, stretching out on her towel.
“You were right. I’m not afraid to say it. This was a brilliant idea.”
We arrived at eight this morning, having taken the night train. Stephanie booked us a private compartment and we arrived well rested and eager to see the city. The streets were empty, except for a few tradesmen and gardeners headed to work. On the Canebière, workmen were hosing down the sidewalks with perfumed water.
“That seems a bit excessive,” I said as we dodged a particularly aggressive spray on the way to our hotel. There were a few stragglers still out from the night before, dressed in their evening finery, and they walked through the water, filling the streets with laughter.
“It’s a port city, ma petite. Lots of fish. The smell is otherwise very”—she waved her hand around, searching for an English word—“aggressive.”
After chucking our suitcases into the room, she took me directly to the nearest shop and made me buy a new bathing suit. Now I feel as though I’m lying about in my underwear. I’ve never worn a two-piece bathing suit before. But Stephanie insists that since I possess a double portion of bosom I should wear a suit with double the pieces. I’ve given up arguing with her. Besides, compared to everyone else on this beach—Stephanie included—I look fully clothed.
We begin to gather our things when we can no longer feel the warm tingle of sun on our skin. All around us people are coming in from the water, stretching on their towels, and loading up what’s left of late-afternoon picnics.
“You’ll like this next part,” Stephanie says as she pulls a light sundress over her shoulders.
I push onto my elbows and squint up at her. She stands in front of me, blocking the sun, looking for all the world like an angel in some Renaissance painting. “What comes next?”
“We play.”
* * *
—
We spend every other day in Marseille much like the first, with one notable difference: we sleep until noon. I wake each morning to birdsong and bright light drifting through my open window. The sun is warm, the breeze is fresh, and I am pleasantly sore in new places from days spent walking through steep, narrow streets and up grassy hills. In the last six days I have learned to gamble—I prefer blackjack to craps—let out a mainsail, eat oysters on the half shell, buy lingerie, press grapes, and, most important, relax. Slowly all the knots in my shoulders have softened, my worries have faded.
On our last morning in Marseille we have mimosas for breakfast, scallops for lunch, and then we spend another long, lazy day on the beach. I am sun-soaked and waterlogged, and after a short midday nap beneath my umbrella, Stephanie convinces me to go exploring one last time.
We visit the Calanques, tall white cliffs that tower over the Mediterranean and span twenty kilometers between Marseille and Cassis. One section, near the city, is shorter than most, and we sit for an hour watching a group of young, handsome men swan-dive into the blue water below.
“That,” Stephanie says, pointing to a crumbling stone fortress on an island far out in the bay, “is the Château d’If. It was once a great fortress. Then it became a prison. Now it is a tourist attraction. Perhaps one day we will come back, and we can rent a boat and take a closer look. I have never been inside.”
I like the idea of traipsing along the high walls and through the towers and I tell her as much. Picon lies on my lap, spread out flat on his back, exposing himself shamelessly. I rub his little pink belly and giggle when his tongue lolls out the side of his mouth.
“And that,” Stephanie says, after a while, turning to point up the mountain where a basilica sits at the highest point overlooking the city, “is the Notre-Dame de la Garde. It is Marseille’s best-known symbol. You will not find a more beautiful building in this entire city. Perhaps in all of France. I am told that merely stepping inside will make you religious.”
“Then I will appreciate it from here,” I say, and she laughs.
On our way back into the city, we walk by the Marseille Cathédral de la Major and the Vieux Port. Everywhere I look there are brightly painted buildings and flower boxes bursting with blooms. Cafés. Yachts. Vendors. Shops filled with more little luxuries than I could ever afford in ten lifetimes. Our time here is like being in a dream and slowly, one hour at a time, I forget the horrors that I witnessed in Vienna and Berlin.
“Do you think Milo will submit your article?” Stephanie asks as we walk back to our hotel.
Her question yanks me out of the dream I’ve been floating in. “I don’t know.”
“If he doesn’t, I will have the Count speak with him.”
“Your husband knows Milo?”
“He knows everyone, ma petite. How do you think he was able to get Janos that transit visa?”
“I have long since stopped wondering about such things. You work miracles. I just take it as fact at this point.”
We continue down the Canebière for some time in silence. Picon sits in the crook of my arm yapping at every dog, cat, and bird he sees. “What are we doing tonight?” I ask.
Stephanie throws her arms into the air and spins in a circle. “Tonight, we dance!”
“You can’t be serious?”
“What is life for, ma petite, if not for dancing?”
* * *
—
“Welcome to the playground of Coco Chanel and Somerset Maugham,” Stephanie says, waving one long, elegant arm as we stand before Le Bar de la Marine.
The bar faces the Vieux Port, Marseille’s natural harbor. It is three stories tall, has stuccoed walls, a huge courtyard filled with wrought-iron tables, and flower boxes that spill over with twisty vines and fragrant pink blossoms. Snippets of unfamiliar music drift from the open windows. Somewhere, inside, a band is warming up.
“What are those instruments?”
Stephanie tilts her head to the side, listening. “Strings. Tambourine. And an accordion.” She dismisses my groan with the wave of a hand. “There would be no tango without the accordion. You will learn to love it in the end.”
Oh, surely not. “Stephanie. I don’t know how to tango.”
My wicked little friend grins. “Yet.”
* * *
—
As it turns out, learning the tango is a bit like learning French itself: I do much better when I ignore the rules. Not to say that I don’t move properly, but rather that I go by instinct. Yes, the dance fails if I don’t point my toe at my partner’s spine on an outside step. But if I stand there thinking about how I’m not properly pointing my toe, then the whole thing really does go tits up. So I feel my way through. Thankfully, Stephanie had us arrive at Le Bar de la Marine an hour before most of the other patrons. I have the o
pportunity for a basic lesson before I’m thrust into the fray. And, as with the language, I find the learning process far more enjoyable when I am cheek to cheek with a handsome Frenchman.
We discover in short order that this particular establishment has no lack of willing dance partners and, before long, I’ve had enough brandy and turns around the dance floor to feel comfortable with the basics. Stephanie, damn her, was right again. We dance and drink and laugh the night away, hardly speaking five words to each other all the while.
I cannot actually remember the last time I laughed this hard. My partners are good-humored when I step on their toes and when I miss the count. They tease me, gently, in French. And I laugh. Soul-filling, heart-lifting laughter. I feel as though I’m floating, as though my bones have gone soft, like I don’t have a care in the world and yes, I’m aware that likely has as much to do with the brandy as it does with dancing, but I don’t care. This is my last night in Marseille and I mean to enjoy it.
Before this trip I did not own a single evening gown, but I now have one and it is perfect. The dress is satin, floor-length, purple, and looks fabulous with my borrowed pearls. It is open in the back, all the way to my waist, and my dance partner finds this feature a little too fascinating. He keeps trying to slide his hand beneath the fabric, and I keep having to warn him about a knee to the groin.
“Did you know,” I say casually, at the end of a lazy twirl, “that scar tissue forms inside a man’s testicles every time he gets hit in the groin? It just stays there, building up over time, clogging up the knackers.”
It’s somewhat dim in the dance hall so I can’t be sure, but I think his face pales a bit at this. If nothing else, his hand stays where it’s supposed to from then on. We are on our second tango together—my ninth of the evening—and I am pulled against his lean chest when a little prickling begins along the back of my neck, as though I am being watched.
I count off the steps in my head, trying not to break our rhythm as I look around the room. Slow. Slow. Quick, quick. Slow. Whirl.