Mistress of the Ritz

by Melanie Benjamin

  Claude has forbidden her to come here, explaining that despite the ever-present Germans, it was still safer for them at the Ritz, where they could not be taken in the middle of the night without anyone knowing, and where they would always be assured of food and electricity.

  But now, Blanche knows better; she knows exactly why Claude has tried to keep her away. It’s not as if she thinks she’s going to catch him in flagrante delicto; Claude is too Catholic to have an affair during the day, when it would interfere with work. But even if she knows she’s not going to see anything she shouldn’t, she still had to come. The need to punish, to defy something, someone—because good God, Blanche is damn sick and tired of not doing anything, simply watching and accepting and crying into her pillow at night about Nazis, Jews, Claude, all the people gone, Lily, Pearl—is too strong to ignore. She has to do this, this insignificant gesture, but still it is an act of rebellion. Because if she doesn’t, she knows that one of these days she will do something more foolish—perhaps even kick a Nazi right in the balls—and then Claude will really have something to worry about.

  So will she.

  Elise dashes out from the kitchen, pale, clad in a plain black dress. She looks as startled as the concierge did; she gapes at Blanche. And she does not, Blanche notes sourly, appear as relieved as she should, to see Blanche alive and well after all this time.

  “Madame Auzello,” she finally manages, her voice hoarse.

  “I thought I’d—I thought I’d see if everything was intact. And I wanted to thank you for taking care of the place, of course.” Blanche stiffens and tries to sound imperious, because at the moment she feels like an unwelcome guest in her own damn house.

  “Oh, madame, it is nothing. It is my pleasure!” Elise curtseys, nervously; she’s never curtseyed before.

  Blanche smiles, puzzled—what does Elise want her to do, give her a knighthood?—and looks around; the furniture in the sitting room is draped in the same dust covers she draped them in before they left for Nîmes, the chandelier is encased in a sheet, too. The fireplace mantel is bare, as they’d packed away the trinkets, the candlesticks and mantel clock, objects from Claude’s childhood home that he’d inherited after his father passed away before the war. Their few paintings—a small Picasso that he gave them a deal on, one of those odd Cubist paintings from Gerald Murphy, the usual watercolors of flowers that are in every single Paris home—are stored away in the attic, so the walls are bare. But negatives of the paintings remain; the paint is slightly darker where they used to hang.

  Behind her, Blanche is aware that Elise has scurried away and she hears heavy footsteps, a thud or two, coming from the bedroom. Elise is probably removing any evidence of a “she” that is not Blanche, and Blanche allows her; it’s not Elise’s fault that Claude is a pig, so there’s no reason to involve her in this little escapade. And that’s all it really is; it’s not as if Blanche is searching for physical evidence, a tube of lipstick that isn’t her shade, a negligee in a size either too small or too large for her. She doesn’t need to see, to touch; objects won’t make her any angrier than she already is.

  Besides, if she knows anything about Claude, it’s that he’s meticulous to a fault.

  Still, to allow Elise her little adventure, Blanche takes her time inspecting the dining room—the china is still in the buffet; they hadn’t had time to pack it all away—and the compact, tidy kitchen that remains the lone cheerful place in the house, as it’s warm from the oven and smells of garlic and rosemary.

  Finally Blanche makes her way back to the bedroom; everything appears undisturbed. The bedspread is smooth, the night tables empty except for a few personal photographs, including one of Claude and her on their wedding day, and she can only hope Claude has the decency to turn the photo away when he makes love to—her.

  Blanche picks up the photograph and stares at it; she wore a smart dress in the twenties fashion—oh, Lord, that dropped waist looks so old-fashioned now! Claude wore a pinstriped double-breasted suit. They looked happy. Gobsmacked, actually—as if they couldn’t believe their good fortune in finding each other, as if the world was too much for them in that moment, and all they could do was grin like idiots, so stunned were they.

  With the photograph still in her hand, Blanche rummages through her wardrobe, retrieving a couple of dresses, placing them and the photograph in a small hatbox she finds on the bottom, and prepares to leave. She has no idea what else to do; at least, tonight at the Ritz, Claude will see the photo and know that she defied him and went to the apartment, and that will have to be enough. For now.

  “Au revoir, Elise. I can’t say when I’ll return, so until happier times.” Blanche embraces the tense woman, and to her surprise, Elise returns the gesture fiercely, kissing her on both cheeks.

  “Au revoir, madame. I will remain here until—until I no longer have to.” She has tears in her eyes, and her gray hair, scraped back into its usual severe knot, has come undone a bit.

  After one last wave, Blanche descends the stairs, emerging onto the avenue once more. Strolling slowly, she dangles the hatbox from her finger; while she wasn’t eager to remain in the apartment, she’s in no hurry to get back to the Ritz, either. And Blanche has lost any delight in simply wandering the streets as she used to—as Claude taught her to do when he was wooing her. Back in 1923.

  Back when she was the only woman he could even see, in a city full of them.

  “Paris is not to be hurried through,” he’d said, holding Blanche’s hand when she let him. “Paris is like a beautiful woman—like you, Blanchette. She must be savored. Like you.” And then he’d nibbled her neck, and her stomach dropped, and suddenly she was dizzy—the man and the city, in that moment, became so mixed up in Blanche’s mind, so entwined, that she wasn’t sure which one she was falling for.

  Sometimes she’s still not sure, if she’s telling the truth.

  But J’Ali—he knew. Oh, boy, did he know.

  * * *

  —

  “THAT MAN!” J’ALI PACED up and down his room in the Hôtel Claridge, his face ugly with rage. Blanche had an arm full of clothing; they were leaving the next day for Egypt, and he’d told her to start packing.

  J’Ali—impossibly handsome Prince J’Ali Ledene, who had picked her up off the floor of a film studio in Fort Lee, New Jersey, and promised her a star-studded, Arabian-Nights-filled future—had arrived the week before, and Blanche had immediately forgotten all about the dapper, lecturing little Frenchman. Or so she’d thought, while J’Ali and she had a fabulous time driving all over the city in his Stutz Bearcat, going to the races at Longchamp, dancing until four A.M. in clubs in Montmartre, screaming in delight at the Moulin Rouge. Quivering with delight in bed.

  But the week was over, and Blanche was packing to go to Egypt. To be a film star. To be a—

  Well.

  “What man?” Blanche dropped the clothing on a chair.

  “That Frenchman. That desk clerk.” This last, dripping with disdain.

  “Claude—my—Claude?”

  “Yes, Claude. Your Claude. What did you do before I arrived, Blanche?” J’Ali gripped her arm, hard; she cried out but he didn’t release it. “What happened between the two of you?”

  “Nothing! I mean, he simply showed me Paris, that’s all. You were gone, remember? You left me here alone.”

  “That’s all—he was only a tour guide? Why did he come up here a moment ago? Why did he threaten me, as if he had a right?”

  “What do you mean Claude came up here?” Now Blanche was panicking; after all, she barely knew this Claude Auzello. Was he one of those Frenchmen you read about in novels, going about threatening duels? She couldn’t imagine Claude—priggish little Claude—doing so, but what did Blanche know? He was rather passionate, at surprising times; she blushed, remembering his touches, his kisses, his whispers.

  J’Ali, g
lowering at her—noticing her blush—was more obvious. He definitely was the kind of man capable of a duel.

  “That little man. He came here and said he would not allow me to take you to Egypt.”

  “He—what? How did he even know our plans?”

  “I told him, when I was arranging our transportation. So he came up here and threatened me—me! Prince J’Ali Ledene! That little frog!”

  J’Ali had dropped her arm, but she didn’t care to placate him. She was too angry; angry at J’Ali, angry at Claude. Furious at these ridiculous men, each claiming to own her in some way. Didn’t she have a say in anything?

  “Excuse me.” Blanche spun around and marched out of the room, J’Ali shouting after her, “Where on earth do you think you’re going, woman?”

  “Wherever the hell I want!” She jabbed at the button for the elevator, rode it down to the lobby and strode right into Claude Auzello’s office.

  He was seated behind his desk, pouring himself a glass of wine. He looked brooding, angry—until he saw her. Then he bolted up, knocking over the glass of wine, which spilled all over the papers on his desk, and Blanche saw that he was desperate to mop it up and save what he could, but instead, he chose to rush to her.

  “Blanche…”

  “No.” She held out her hand. “No. What right did you have to talk to J’Ali? What right did you have to tell him I couldn’t go with him?”

  “The right of a man of honor. A man in love.”

  “Honor? Love?” Blanche laughed. “You pompous little ass! What do you know of J’Ali? What do you know of me? Nothing. Maybe J’Ali’s a saint. Maybe I’m not deserving of any man’s honor—or his love.”

  “You don’t believe that,” Claude said, his dark blue eyes piercing through her armor.

  “No,” Blanche admitted. “But I’m still angry with you.”

  “You will never be honored as long as you’re with that man. You will be dragged all over Europe just as you’ve been dragged all over Paris to those clubs he likes, those absurd jazz joints—”

  “How did you know where we went this week?”

  “I—” Claude adjusted his collar, as if it had suddenly become too tight. “I—”

  “You were following us, weren’t you? I knew it!” Blanche would have laughed had she not been so furious—it was ridiculous, like one of those Keystone Kops movies. Dignified Claude, skulking behind trees.

  “I did, yes. Because you needed me to—you needed someone to look out for you.”

  “You have no idea what I need. I’m not some innocent little lamb being seduced by the big bad wolf. I know exactly what I’m doing. You men! You think you own us!”

  “I don’t think that, Blanche, but I hope—I hope you will see that you belong here, with me. I hope you will see that I will treat you like a goddess, a wife—not like a whore, which is the only kind of woman that man understands. Which is what you’ll be, if you stay with him. The whore of Europe.”

  Crack!

  The sound shot through the room like gunfire; she heard it before she knew what she was doing, before she saw her hand drop back to her side, before she felt the sting.

  “Oh, Claude, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

  For Blanche had slapped him across the cheek, and his eyes had tears in them. Tears, and disappointment. Disillusion.

  “Oh, Claude!” Blanche started sobbing, torn in two—how could she have hurt him so? It killed her to think that she had—and this realization stunned her, caused her to look at Claude as if he’d only now come into sharp focus; as if the entire week they’d spent together, he’d merely been an idea, not a person. Because she knew she would not feel sorry if she’d slapped J’Ali; in fact, she had, more than once. But she’d only felt that the bastard had deserved it.

  But Claude—he did not. Claude was noble, dignified—honorable.

  And he saw her as the same.

  Blanche’s shoulders shook with sobs and shame, and somehow Claude’s arms were around her and she was resting her head on his chest, surprisingly broad and stronger than it looked beneath the stiffly proper attire. Her eyes were closed and he was cooing soothing words in French that she didn’t understand, but yet—she did.

  Of course she understood. That this man, in this moment, loved her. That he wanted to rescue her from something she hadn’t understood she needed rescuing from. That he saw something in her of much more value, worth, than did the prince upstairs—

  “Blanche!”

  They sprang apart; J’Ali was in the doorway of Claude’s office, and someone was behind him—the director of the Hôtel Claridge. Claude’s superior, Monsieur Renaudin.

  “J’Ali! What are you doing here?” Blanche felt her face; it was blazing. She was a boiling pot of unexpected emotions.

  She was also more than a little thrilled by it all.

  “I’m making sure this little frog is sacked. For fraternizing with the guests.”

  “I did not fraternize. I am in love. I am honorable.” Claude addressed Renaudin instead of J’Ali. “I love this woman, and I want her to marry me. This man has no honor. He treats her like a concubine.”

  “Claude—” Renaudin began to speak, but Blanche had had enough.

  “For God’s sake!”

  The men stopped their glowering and their grunts, and all three looked at her.

  “I’m nobody’s woman, I’m my own self, and I will not be discussed this way. Claude, I’m sorry I got you involved in this but you’re at fault, too. Monsieur Renaudin, please don’t sack Claude, though.”

  “Blanche—” Claude began to speak, but she shook her head and marched over to J’Ali.

  “Blanche, I swear, if you slept with this man, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?”

  “I’ll murder you, then him.”

  Renaudin gasped, but Claude only paled. Slightly.

  “Oh, J’Ali.” Blanche had to laugh; he looked like an actor in a bad drawing room comedy, glowering, pacing, turning to look at her with such theatrical gestures. He should be the film star, she thought. His entire life was like a melodramatic costume picture, what with his talk of camels in the desert, moonlight filtered through palm trees.

  And harems.

  “Swear it, Blanche, as if I had the Koran with me. Swear you’ll never see this man again.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  J’Ali looked at her in astonishment; so did Claude. And even gripped in this undertow of swirling emotions, Blanche couldn’t help but register the differences between the two. J’Ali was so handsome—the strong eyebrows, mesmerizing brown eyes, chiseled chin. Claude was not so handsome—he didn’t really have much of a chin at all, to tell the truth—yet he was very attractive, radiating such quiet authority.

  Such—honor. Integrity.

  “What? You refuse me—me, J’Ali Ledene?”

  “Yes. Furthermore, I have something to ask of you. Forget about the contract, forget about making me a film star. Tell me the truth. Will you ever marry me? I need to know. I need to understand what you have planned for us. For the future.”

  “Blanche.” J’Ali’s voice—that rich, plummy voice, Arabian Nights with an Oxford education—dropped low. Oh, Blanche knew that voice; she fell asleep dreaming of that voice when he wasn’t with her. She also knew its intent—seduction. Lies. Pretty, pretty lies. “Blanche, my angel of angels. Let’s not worry about the future. We have each other now. And tomorrow, you will be on your way to Egypt, and you will have your own barge on the Nile just like Cleopatra, as befits the most popular movie actress in the world.”

  “Oh, J’Ali.” Blanche let out a deep, tired sigh. She was weary; weary of the fantasies, the “pretties,” as her mother used to call elaborate fabrication, intended to soothe. Blanche had fallen in love with someone who told her beautiful bedtime stories. But it
was time to wake up. “No, J’Ali. Tell me the truth. Now. Will you ever marry me?”

  “Blanche, it’s not that simple. My father, my religion, yours—it’s impossible. You know that, Blanche—don’t pretend that you don’t, that you haven’t all along. I’ve never made a false promise about that.”

  “No, you haven’t.” Blanche admitted it to herself, finally. “So what will I be to you in Egypt? What will I be in the eyes of—well, everyone?”

  “My lover. My angel of angels.”

  “Your mistress. Your whore.”

  “Those are your words, not mine.”

  “But you don’t dispute them.”

  J’Ali looked pained; he shook his head.

  “Then I’m not going with you. I should have decided this long ago.” Blanche stood on her tiptoes, kissed his cheek. “Goodbye, my love.”

  Slowly, she turned to Claude.

  Who looked—stunned. Stunned by joy or terror, Blanche wasn’t exactly sure and for a moment, she was frozen with the fear that she had chosen very, very badly. Until Claude Auzello held out his arms, and she walked right into his embrace, put her arms around his neck, pulling him close, kissing him passionately, feeling him melt into her as she did into him.

  When at last she came up for air, J’Ali was gone. But the hot little office was suddenly filled with bellhops and chambermaids who were all clapping and cheering and toasting to true love, while Renaudin stood beaming like a proud father.

  Claude pulled her to him, his arm strong, possessive about her waist as she buried her head in his chest, embarrassed but content—and oh-so-dazzled by the sheer romantic theatricality of what had just transpired. So dazzled, her vision wasn’t quite to be trusted—she realized that, later.

  But at the time, she saw only where her future lay.

  In Paris, this magical city she never wanted to leave, this city that had cast a spell upon her. In Paris, with Claude, her Claude, she’d called him that without knowing exactly why. Her knight in shining armor, her Don Quixote, tilting at windmills—and princes—for her.