[2018] Paris, Adrift

by Vanda Writer

  There were French uncles, aunts, and cousins too, some who weren’t exactly blood and others who may have been. They swarmed around Juliana excitedly babbling in French. I imagined bemoaning the hot weather as all conversations in English, French, and probably Swahili seemed to begin by talking about the dog days of summer. I didn’t mind not understanding, because Juliana sparkled with joy and that was enough for me.

  I looked over the heads of the throng to see a large man—not fat, just big, with squared off shoulders—standing at the top of the steps waiting to enter the room. He held his top hat in his white-gloved hands. His stance was as imposing as his size. He wore an exquisite tuxedo, the front of which was covered with a gold medallion held on by gold chains draped across his chest. Most of the dukes and viscounts appeared to have thought it best to leave their insignia—symbols of their specialness—home, but not this man. As annoyingly ostentatious as he appeared to be, he commanded everyone’s attention, even mine, as he took firm, deliberate steps down the staircase to walk among us mere mortals.

  Juliana had been deflecting the advances of the young, pimply-faced, and slightly awkward Earl of Whatever. He looked like someone who, if it hadn’t been for the accident of his birth, would have been the kid the other kids would’ve stuffed into a locker. She slowly turned to face the approaching man with the large medal on his chest. The man nodded at her and managed a half smile. “Father,” I heard Juliana say.

  You’re kidding.

  “Yes,” he said. “Juliana, I was quite impressed.” There was no emotion in his voice, and his body remained frozen in an impossibly straight posture. “Your mother would have been proud.” He spoke mechanically, as if saying something Aunt Sally had told him he should say.

  “You were there, Father? You saw the whole thing?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you think Mother would’ve liked it?”

  “I do,” he said to the ceiling, still not giving any hint of what he might be feeling. Or if he were feeling.

  “Because it’s so important that she be proud,” Juliana went on. “Do you think she knows? I want her to know, Father. I want her to—”

  “That is quite enough. You are becoming overwrought.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right.” Juliana said, reigning in her natural passion. “You’ll stay for the supper?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Drinks. You’ll have a drink, Father. Please say you’ll have a drink with me. “Garçon! Garçon!” In a panic, she signaled to one of the men walking by. She took a glass of champagne from the tray. “Here, Father, it’s the best.” She held it out for him.

  “Champagne,” he scowled. “You know I don’t drink champagne.”

  “I can get you something else. What would you like, Father?”

  “I’m fine with this.” He took a sip and screwed up his lips into a corkscrew as if it were the worst thing he had ever tasted. That look of displeasure reminded me of my mother, minus the medals on his chest, of course.

  “Waiter! Waiter!” Juliana called, desperately. “Bring my father, Lord Ruthersby. . . What, Father? Whatever you want.”

  “I told you I am fine with this.” He spoke firmly, as if chastening a child. “I did not expect to have to repeat myself.”

  “No. I’m sorry, Father.” She was beginning to sound like a penitent in the court of Henry VIII before he said, “Off with her head.”

  “Hey, Juliana, aren’t you going to introduce me?” I marched right up to this Lord Ruthersby with the gold all over his too-puffed-up chest, my hand extended. I was an American. I didn’t have to fall for this bull caca.

  “Oh, Al.” She sounded relieved to see me. “Father, this is my friend, Alice Huffman. Alice, this is my father, Lord Ruthersby.”

  “Howdy, partner,” I said, taking the American motif perhaps a little too far. I’d felt awkward all night, sometimes doing a clumsy curtsy or bow because I didn’t know what the hell to do around these people. Aunt Sally whispered to me, “Oh, dear, please do relax. No one expects very much from Americans.” But I think turning into a cowboy was probably a little too relaxed.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Huffman,” he said to the ceiling in his formal British accent, taking three of my fingers into his huge hand and awkwardly shaking them around.

  “Help me take Father around to meet my other guests.” I was honored that Juliana wanted my help, but I had no idea what exactly she wanted my help with. I didn’t know these people.

  As we walked about the room, Lord Ruthersby said, continuing to talk to the ceiling, “Yes, an entertaining show.”

  “Then you do think Mother would’ve liked it? Do you think she knows? I like to think that she knows and maybe approves. Daddy, do you think she—”

  “Daughter! Control yourself.”

  “Yes, Father, I’m sorry.”

  I was starting to hate this guy.

  “Yes, the program was quite entertaining, but dear, don’t you think that some of it was—”

  “Was what? You didn’t like it?” Juliana asked, anxiously.

  “Perhaps, a little risqué. I’m not criticizing, but . . .”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed.

  “You know your mother always hoped you’d sing opera.”

  Juliana stood frozen, her head bowed like a needy child.

  “Lord Ruthersby,” I said, “I hate to steal your extremely talented daughter away from you, but there are some foreign dignitaries who have only arrived, and they are demanding to see her.”

  “Al?” Juliana looked at me, questioning.

  “I understand,” Lord Ruthersby said, sounding relieved. “You must attend to your business as I must attend to mine.” He turned to Juliana. “I said I couldn’t stay long.”

  “When will I see you again?”

  She wants to see him again?

  “Well, we shall see,” Lord Ruthersby said. “It was a pleasure, Miss Huffman.” He did an about face and marched from the room.

  “Okay?” I asked.

  “Why did you do that? Chase him away. I hardly ever see him.”

  “He was hurting you. I can’t stand it when someone, even your father, hurts you.”

  “He doesn’t mean it.”

  “Maybe not, but the results are the same. You have a show to do tomorrow and I won’t have anyone undermining your confidence.”

  From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Dan Schuyler by the bar.

  “I guess I should say thank you,” she said.

  “No. Just enjoy your night. Oh, Scott! Scott, we’re over here.”

  Scott made his way over to us and Juliana gave him a hug. “You were stupendous tonight.”

  “Who cares about me?” Scott said. “You were a walking dream.”

  A few of the guests came over and whisked Juliana away from us while I watched Schuyler; I was careful not to let him see that I was watching him, but I was sure he was watching me. Who let him in? This party was by invitation only. I turned to Scott and laughed loud and high.

  “I’m glad you think it’s funny,” Scott said. “I don’t.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought of something funny. What were you saying?”

  “I still haven’t gotten a letter from Max.”

  “You spoke to him on Wednesday. I’m sure . . .” Schuyler was still at the bar, but I could see that now he was speaking to Lady Philomena Quakenbush.

  “You’re sure of what?” Scott asked.

  “Huh? Oh, Max. He’ll write soon.”

  “Maybe not,” Scott whispered. “And then it all would’ve been for nothing.”

  “What?” I asked.

  A bell chimed, and we walked toward the dining room for the late-night supper, which was really
the early morning supper. Schuyler had Lady Quakenbush, a stout woman in her thirties, on his arm a few steps away from me.

  At the head of the line was Billy Preston, dressed to attract autograph seekers in his one-of-a-kind, navy-blue tux with satin lapels. Everyone wanted to know the “famous” American director who they had read about in France Soir. I was sure it never occurred to Billy that those articles were the result of my hard work. He had a few Duchesses and Viscountesses hanging from his arms, and I had no doubt that before the night was over, he’d have a couple in his bed, too.

  “Well, well, Miss Huffman. How nice to see you again.” A chill went up my back as I turned to see Schuyler smiling at me.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I imagine for the same reason you are. To celebrate Juliana’s great triumph. There’ll be nothing to stop her when she gets home to the states. Will there? Hello.” He looked at Scott and put out his hand. “We met on the ship.”

  “Yes. I remember,” Scott said. “You beat me at shuffle board.”

  “No hard feelings, I hope.”

  “Of course not. It’s good to see you again.”

  “And you, too. Allow me to introduce you to Lady Philomena Quakenbush. She’s investing in the new musical I’m bringing to Broadway in the spring.”

  “I’ve never invested in a show before,” she giggled. A woman with an upper-crust English accent shouldn’t giggle; it sounded all wrong. “It’s risky,” Lady Quakenbush went on. “But since I met Denny, I’ve learned to throw caution to the wind and live, live, live.” She threw her arms about and smiled up at her ‘Denny.’ “He’s convinced me that investing in this show will be stimulating. And,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “he won’t tell me who the star is to be. It’s a secret. Isn’t that thrilling? He says when he announces the name, it is sure to cause a great stir on the great white way.” She giggled again. She really needed to stop doing that. “Maybe you should consider investing in it, Miss Huffman.”

  “Yes, Miss Huffman,” Schuyler said. “Maybe you should. Give me a call. Soon. It could be dangerous to wait too long.”

  “Oh, isn’t he simply adorably mysterious?” Lady Quakenbush enthused.

  “Ta-ta,” Schuyler said, giving Lady Quakenbush a shove. “I must get my hungry investor to the trough.”

  “Uh, Al?” Scott leaned toward me, whispering. “Did he just call Lady Quakenbush a pig?”

  “I think so.”

  Scott and I took our places at the elaborately adorned table with gold settings and all manner of sparkling things, but I barely noticed them. All my joy at Juliana’s opening had been squashed by Dan Schuyler.

  * * *

  As soon as the car left us off at the hotel, I said a quick good night to Juliana and Scott—we were all bleary-eyed anyway—and hurried to my room. I threw the early newspapers we’d read at the party onto my bed. The reviews were glowing. Juliana was headed back to the top. At least in Paris. I tossed my satin wrap across a chair. I peered out my door into the hallway to be sure no one I knew was out there, then I ran like hell down the stairs to the desk.

  Monsieur Blanc sat behind the desk in his blue uniform, wearing his usual stern expression; he was proud that he spoke no English. I cleared my throat and with my heart pounding, I approached him. I slid out a folded piece of paper from my purse that Juliana had prepared for me and read, “Bonsoir or —is it bonjour—oh, well, one of them—M. White c’est une belle soirée aujourd’hui, n’est-ce pas?”

  He grunted without looking up. He didn’t even take a moment to agree with me that it was a lovely evening. If it was evening and not morning. I didn’t have time for this. I was exhausted. “‘Téléphone?’” I said abruptly, forgetting Juliana’s lessons in French politeness.

  M. Blanc nodded at the phone sitting at the edge of the desk. I guess that was my signal to make the call myself. I picked up the heavy receiver, and the French operator rattled off something in my ear. “English?” I pleaded.

  She rattled off another string of words and I hoped in there somewhere was ‘I’ll get you an English Operator.’

  After a few moments of silence, an English operator did come on and told me she would place the call to New York. M. Blanc kept grumbling behind his desk while I paced in the lobby waiting for my call to go through. Finally, the phone rang, and I grabbed it.

  “Max! Max!” I said as soon as the English operator connected us.

  “Who is this?” Max yawned into the phone.

  “It’s Al.”

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “Yes, it’s ten thirty there and you should be up. You have two clubs to run. Max, have you ever heard of Dan Schuyler?”

  “Who is this?

  “Al.”

  “Who?” he yawned.

  “Al, dammit.”

  “Don’t curse. It’s not ladylike. Al! It’s really you? How’d she do?”

  “Fantastic, but that’s not why I called you.”

  “I knew Paris would come through. How are the reviews?”

  “The morning reviews are gifts from the gods. We’re still waiting for the evening. Please Max—Dan Schuyler?”

  “Who?”

  “Schuyler. Have you ever heard of him?”

  “I’ve heard of a Tony Schuyler. Never met him, though.”

  “No. Dan. Do you know anything about a Dan Schuyler?”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “You have connections all over the place, the cops, the mob.”

  “What kind of guy do you think I am?”

  “I know what kind. Ask around for me. Try to find out anything you can about him and let me know pronto.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “I can’t talk about it now.”

  “Are you all right, kid? You in some sort of trouble?”

  “Uh, no, no, I’m fine.” Part of me wanted to tell him, wanted him to be outraged at Schuyler, wanted his comfort and advice, but the other part of me felt responsible. Like I had done something to cause this. Like I’d been less than discreet at some time that I couldn’t remember or had been too honest with some friend who wasn’t a friend. Or a colleague or . . . I didn’t want Max to hate me like he would if Schuyler followed through with his plan.

  “And how’s my Scott?”

  “He’s fine, but you need to write to him. He’s beginning to think you don’t care about him.”

  “We kind of had a thing on Wednesday.”

  “What thing?”

  “A thing. It’ll pass.”

  “On an international phone? That’s crazy. Fix it. You can’t have a thing with him while he’s here. He has to concentrate on his work. We need him. Juliana needs him.”

  “I think about him every day.”

  “Yeah, well, he doesn’t know that unless you tell him. In a letter. Better yet, send him a cablegram. It’s faster.”

  “You want me to say romantic things to him in a cablegram while the cablegram guy takes down every word? And when it gets to Paris the next cablegram guy—”

  “No. Bad idea. A letter then. But send it today.”

  “All right, all right. I am running two businesses practically by myself while my manager and accountant are off vacationing in Paris.”

  “Vacationing? Are you certifiable?”

  “I thought that’d get you. It’s hard, isn’t it?”

  “Damn hard.”

  “Good. You’ll come back better than when you left. Then I’ll get something out of this too.”

  “I’ve got to go. It’s four thirty here. That’s a.m., and I’m about to collapse. And this call is costing me a damn fortune.”

  “Give my boy a kiss for me.”

  “Cable me back if y
ou find out anything. Anything about Schuyler. And please, please find something.”

  I fell onto my bed without pulling down the bedspread. As I drifted off—faces, names—Bertha . . . Lucille . . . maybe . . . Who betrayed . . . ?

  Chapter Thirteen

  “The car will pick you up at the hotel at ten this morning and take you over to the salon, nails first,” I said. I wiped the sweat from my eyes with a handkerchief, so I could see my list.

  Des Magots was my favorite cafe and I went there most mornings. I went alone so I could eavesdrop. I loved listening to the fascinating people who gathered to argue politics and philosophy. The air was hot with their passion. I struggled to understand the words that flew around me. No one seemed to notice me sweating over my used French phrase book that I got from one of the booksellers on the quay near the hotel. I soon realized phrases like “Puis-je atterrir?” (Am I clear to land?) or “Quel est l’etat de piste?” (How is the surface of the runway?) were not going to help me a great deal. The book was left over from the war. I’d have to find something more contemporary. Every once in a while, though, I detected a few English words. Juliana told me that they were yelling about that philosophy, existentialism, that I’d heard bandied about at the Jumble Shop on Eighth Street in the US.

  “My hair,” Juliana said. “Did you get me an appointment with Rene?”

  “He’ll be waiting for you.” I was pleased I could please her.

  “I think I’m going to get it cut short in that new Parisian style.”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “This shoulder-length style is out of date and I’m bored with it.”

  “Your hair is perfect the way it is. We can make different looks from it: piled on your head, down, whatever. You’re a success in that hair. We can’t risk changing it. After you’re finished with Rene—wash and set—that’s it, Jule . . .”

  She leaned across the table and whispered, “You’re so sexy when you’re bossy.”