by Nan
“He is very pleasant for a minor marchese,” Claude said.
“I had him the year he bought so heavily into soybean futures. He was with that flat-chested British princess.”
“She is here too. An unfortunate coincidence.”
“Mon Dieu! Why did you not send one of them to me?”
“I would have. But Pierre accepted the reservation without checking my notes.”
“How embarrassing for you. And now to be faced with this crisis. The Marchese will never accept any other table.”
“It is not for the Marchese,” Claude said simply.
“Always so discreet, Claude. I admire that. But I cannot help you tonight.”
“I understand. I will have to arrange it myself. Tell me where the Minister has been.”
“The embassies, mainly. The first night it was the Elysée, of course. Obviously, the Germans were eager, and for some reason the Swiss—”
“The devaluation.”
“Most likely. Then there was a reception at the EEC.”
“What kind of food does he like?”
“The Israeli Minister?” César laughed. “What do you think?”
Claude smiled. “Chinese?”
“Of course.”
“Merci, César. You have been very helpful.” As soon as Claude hung up, the other line rang. “Oui?”
It was Jules. “I can get you two seats downstairs and two seats upstairs.”
“I said a box.”
“It is not possible. It is Aida tonight. For God’s sake! It is Aida! All of the Middle East has taken the boxes. Tonight the Paris Opéra will have more camels in the audience than on stage!”
“A box, Jules.”
“I told you. It cannot be done. Even for you!” Jules hung up. Claude reached for his black notebook. He found the number.
“Ambassade Chinoise,” the voice said.
“The Ambassador’s secretary, please.”
“One moment.”
“Ho Ping. May I help, please?”
“Bonjour, Ho Ping. This is Claude Picard.”
“Ah, yes, the only man in Paris who can secure his laundry without the presentation of a ticket.”
“I have an equally diplomatic mission. I was wondering whether the Ambassador and Madame Sooching have plans for this evening.”
“Unhappily, the Ambassador and Madame Sooching wish to attend the opera. But it is impossible to obtain even two seats for tonight. I have been sitting here like a thousand-year-old egg.”
“Then I assume the Ambassador’s calendar is otherwise clear for this evening?”
“As clear as winter melon soup.”
“I will call you back, Ho Ping.”
Brring. An outside phone. Claude snatched the receiver from its perch on the first ring. “Oui?”
“All right! You win again! Four seats in the orchestra! Together!”
“I said a box, Jules.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” Jules screamed. “Why must you always do the impossible?”
“It is the only thing worth accomplishing.”
“Indeed. Accomplishing the impossible is worth a great deal. It is worth a big tip. A gift! A lady’s favors. Something! It is unnatural to accomplish the impossible for nothing!”
“I take only what is priceless,” Claude said.
“What is the use?” Jules hung up.
Claude dialed the Embassy. “I have a favor to ask of you, Ho Ping.”
“My fortune cookie says you have tickets for the opera.”
“If I had tickets for the opera, perhaps even a box, would the Ambassador invite the Israeli Minister of Defense—”
“To see Aida?” Ho Ping gasped.
“And then back to the Embassy for an intimate banquet?”
“Do you also wish us to hang a Star of David on the Great Wall?”
“Ho Ping, I wish you to consider the following. The boxes tonight will be overflowing with Arabs. All except one. In this one box will be the Chinese Ambassador and the Israeli Minister of Defense.”
Ho Ping paused. “I begin to see. One from Column A and one from Column B.”
“It occurred to me that the People’s Republic might wish to raise its profile with the OPEC nations.”
“In other words, you wish us to bring the Matzoh Ball to Mohammed.”
“And then home for a banquet.”
“How inscrutable you French are! I shall call the Israeli Minister within the half hour.”
“It has been a pleasure,” Claude said.
“Inscrutable,” Ho Ping murmured and hung up.
Claude reached for the outside phone just as it began to ring.
“If I could get you a box, what would you do for me?”
“I would save your life,” Claude said.
A pause. “What do you mean?” Jules asked. “There is no one trying to kill me.”
“Not yet.”
“In whose name is the box?”
“I will send Jean-Paul for the tickets.” Claude smiled. “There is one more thing, Jules.”
“Let me guess. You wish to sing Radamès.”
“Even more difficult.”
“I feel the condition of my health suddenly worsening.”
“I am afraid, my friend, you are terminal again.” There was a pause. “Jules, we cannot play the game again today, as much as we both enjoy it. I need a second box.”
“Le Dom, so far you have accomplished the impossible. Do not ask me to perform the unreasonable.”
“I am asking you to save me time. You know I will get the second box.”
“I know only that I have solved the mystery of the Phantom of the Opera.”
“You are a good friend, I do not forget the help of a friend.”
“Unless you wish us both tied to camels and dragged through the Place de la Concorde, I suggest you forget my help immediately.” Jules hung up.
Claude paused and then dialed Jacques at Chez Gustave. “If the Israeli Minister were to cancel . . .”
Jacques laughed. “You must be my guest very soon and tell me how you arranged this one.”
“With pleasure.”
“Now, then, Claude. I can hardly wait. In whose name?”
“Simon.”
“Simon!” he exclaimed. Are they back already?”
“Yes.”
“But Claude, why did you not tell me? Of course I would have given you the table.”
“An oversight.” Claude smiled.
GASPAR stood in front of the hotel and watched them walk up the block. The tall, thin man had a duffel bag over one shoulder. Ten paces behind him, limping on one shoe, was a very beautiful woman in a tightly belted raincoat.
Emma Benjamin had boyishly short hair. Under her raincoat she wore an old army shirt with sergeant’s chevrons on the sleeve and tailored khaki pants. Her lack of makeup and jewelry gave her the air of a very rich woman. Emma was indeed a very rich woman. She kept reminding herself of that as she dragged her duffel bag along the pavement.
“Three buses, Clifford!” she yelled, oblivious to the stares of passersby. “That’s why my shoe broke. Shoes from Bergdorf Goodman are not meant to take three buses!”
He stopped and turned around to her. “Who the hell told you to buy shoes at Bergdorf’s?”
“What could I do? The Army-Navy Store was out of my size!” She lowered her voice ominously as she held up the broken shoe. “Three buses, Clifford. This is a three-bus crime!”
“The only crime is that you’ve become a traitor!”
Emma dropped the strings of her duffel. She walked to Clifford and looked up into his brown eyes. “Me?” she asked.
Clifford Benjamin had the open, friendly face one associates with Alpine shepherds. But he was a New Yorker, a street-wise city kid whose first view of a sheep had come when he was nearly twenty and was bicycling his way across Europe. Since then Clifford and Emma had amassed a fortune from the annual editions of The Penny Pincher’s Guide to Europ
e. Their best-selling book had become the young traveler’s bible. Clifford enthused over each new edition as a means of recapturing his dollar-a-day past, while Emma toiled in order to secure her million-dollar future.
Clifford still got haircuts that took weeks to grow out. He had the rumpled look expected of those who wore tweed jackets with suede elbow patches, chino pants and open plaid sport shirts. As Emma put it, Clifford looked better naked, because something was still left to the imagination.
They had met nearly twenty years before, when Emma, an aging nymphet, was abandoned by the sweater salesman who had taken her to Europe. He dropped her, and a dozen assorted cashmeres, onto a student ship that sped across the Atlantic in a mere ten days. Neither Emma nor Clifford had any money or prospects other than nine nights at sea and the Port of New York ahead. Clifford got a job as copy editor on the first edition of a luxury travel guide titled Simon Says. He was fired promptly after telling Simon exactly what he thought of what he said. In the heat of anger, Clifford and Emma wrote a budget travel article to purge themselves of the sybaritic Simons. After a series of such pieces, they were offered an advance with which to research their own travel guide.
As the world’s leading “Penny Pinchers,” they were North American Airlines’ obvious choice to counterpoint the affluent perspective of the Simons. Clifford accepted the offer with no less vigor than the Count of Monte Cristo planning his revenge on Morcerf, Danglars and Villefort.
“Show you a limousine and you go to pieces. Emma, you have the heart of a Czarist!”
Emma shut her eyes tight. Then she raised her arms to the skies and shouted, “Do you hear that, Citizens of Paris? The heart of a Czarist! Me! Emma Lenin! The kid who discovered the cheapest optician in Prague! The day-old pâtisserie in Brussels! The four-dinar bus from the airport to downtown Dubrovnik! Was it not I,” she challenged, meeting him nose to nose, “who found the free soup kitchen next to the employment office in Palermo?”
“Aha! That’s the point, you closet elitist. You found it, but would you eat there? No!”
“Only because I don’t happen to like spaghetti with eyes!”
“They were not serving spaghetti with eyes.”
“If it doesn’t move and it’s cheap, you’ll eat it.” Emma sighed. She reached out with both hands and held him by the shoulders. “Oh, Cliffy. If only you understood my shoes, we could be so happy together.”
“How much did those shoes cost?” he asked accusingly.
She stepped back and spoke loudly, enunciating every syllable. “Ten hundred and fifty thousand rubles!” Clifford turned away and continued walking. Emma picked up the strings of her duffel and began dragging it. “I can see it gnawing at the back of your mind. You could have saved ten hundred and fifty thousand rubles, Comrade, if you had but taken the filthy Imperialist Dog limousine.”
He stopped. “For the last time, if I had taken the limousine, I would have been the traitor. Just as if I had let NAA force us in First Class. I have a responsibility, Emma.”
“To whom?”
“To my readers!”
“Up the readers!” she yelled. “What about your responsibility to me? I already put my time in for the fucking readers this year. I did my six months checking out the homey fleabags and charming greasy-spoons of Europe. This was supposed to be time out for good behavior. I thought I was on parole, Cliffy. At last, a hotel where they have room service and give you free soap!” Clifford began walking again. Emma lifted the strings on her duffel and dragged it along. “Never forget what that great American, Patrick Henry said: ‘Give me a limousine or give me death’!”
“All this for one lousy limo, Emma?”
“One lousy limo could have quelled the Emma Revolution. You turnip! You should have suffered through First Class! When will you learn God did not make man to sit three abreast?” Emma sighed and dragged her duffel. They walked in silence toward the entrance of the Louis Q.
Gaspar rushed forward to help. “That’s okay,” Clifford said politely. “I can manage. Thanks.”
As he stepped into the revolving door, Emma called after him, “Be careful, Cliffy! You might turn into a prince.” Gaspar reached down to take the strings of Emma’s duffel. “Are you kidding? I’m almost at the finish line!”
An astonished Gaspar moved aside as Emma stepped into the revolving door and pulled the duffel to an upright position in front of her. Slowly she shuffled forward, lifting the bag with each labored step. A bellboy helped guide the doors. She refused to let him take the bag from her.
Clifford stood in the middle of the lobby, searching through his jacket. Emma dropped her duffel at his feet. “I will get you for this one,” she whispered. “Someday very soon. Sometime when you least expect it. Maybe during foreplay.”
“Bonjour, Madame et Monsieur.” It was Pierre.
“Good morning,” Clifford said, slapping his pockets. “I have a reservation here somewhere.”
“Please,” Pierre said. “It is not necessary. We have been expecting the Benjamins!”
Clifford nodded and smiled awkwardly as Emma whispered, “I might even train myself to reach climax before you!”
“Some light refreshment, perhaps.” Pierre snapped his fingers. “André, le champagne!”
“No, no,” Clifford said quickly. “Nothing to drink for us. We’re here to work.”
“But Monsieur, you will not be working at the Louis Quinze.” Pierre smiled as though sharing a confidence with Clifford. “Despite the harrowing nature of your occupation, now that you are within our discreet little family, you must accept our hospitality.” Clifford’s eyes began to narrow. Undaunted, Pierre continued, “Now you and Madame will join me in a glass of champagne.”
“We would like to register and go immediately to our room,” Clifford said firmly.
“Your future,” Emma hissed, “holds nothing but night after night of coitus interruptus!”
“As you wish,” Pierre said resignedly. “I only thought that while the maids unpacked for you . . .”
Emma began to laugh. She looked at the duffels and thought of musical-comedy French maids with little white caps delicately hanging up her preshrunk jeans. She imagined their shock at finding a black crepe Givenchy at the bottom of her bag. It was the one dress she packed for every trip. It was still unopened in its original wrapping.
Pierre followed as Clifford stalked over to the reception desk. “Yes, of course, you may go directly to your rooms . . .”
“Rooms?” Clifford smelled danger.
“We have reserved for you the former Ambassador’s Suite,” Pierre announced proudly.
Clifford held up his hand. “All we want is a double room with private bath.”
“But Monsieur,” Pierre whispered. “You will not be billed. The airline—”
“I don’t care who’s being billed,” Clifford said loudly. “I don’t want the Ambassador’s Suite!”
Pierre smiled patiently. “I have explained, Monsieur, that our staff is quite discreet. Indeed, our clientele returns year after year because they depend upon—”
“I just want a double room with bath!” he repeated.
“Je regrette, Monsieur. But we are fully booked,” Pierre lied emphatically. “The only accommodation we can offer is the suite.”
Emma smiled and put her arm through Clifford’s. “Just imagine, Cliffy. If I were pregnant and this were Bethlehem . . .”
Clifford pulled away from her. “Emma, watch it!”
“My dearest darling,” she lavished sarcastically. “What does it matter where we are? As long as we’re together!”
“I want to know the minute you have a cancellation!” Clifford demanded.
Pierre felt his flesh crawl. He drew himself up and exclaimed, “We have not had a cancellation since the Archduke Ferdinand in 1914!”
Emma turned away. She walked barefoot across the lobby. It didn’t matter where she was going as long as it was away from Clifford. Away from another scene. There
had been no letup since the airport. Surely he’d already racked up enough points to be anointed patron saint of the Penny Pinchers. Emma sighed. She looked up to see where she was. Someone was staring at her. The concierge.
“You are far more beautiful than your picture, Madame Benjamin.”
Emma was caught off guard. Who was he? His eyes. Incredibly bright blue. Much too blue for a concierge. She picked up the brass sign on his desk. “You don’t look much like yours either.”
“Then perhaps you and I are not what we appear to be.”
“That’s the first encouraging thing I’ve heard all day.” She held up her shoe. “Look at this!”
“I will have it repaired at once.”
Emma leaned across the desk. He had that wonderful olive complexion. Such thick black hair. “No. They’re just a cheap pair. Two or three hundred dollars. It’s hardly worth having them fixed.”
“Perhaps you would prefer I had them copied for you?”
“Are you kidding? That would cost a fortune!”
“I know an excellent shoemaker.”
She began to laugh. “Well, unless you know Dr. Manette himself, I don’t think there is anybody who remembers this style.”
“Pardon?”
“Dr. Manette!” she repeated. “Oh, I haven’t thought of him in years. You remember poor Lucie’s father? Sitting at his shoemaker’s bench?”
“I am afraid Dr. Manette is no longer in business.” Claude stared at her. She had surprised him. He had not expected her to open fire with A Tale of Two Cities.
“Who was your favorite character? That is, aside from Sidney Carton.”
“Madame Defarge,” he said coldly.
Emma laughed. He did not. She wanted to see him smile. His lips looked as though they had been sculpted. They were perfect, but immobile. “They’re my sensible shoes, too,” she said uncomfortably. “You’d think they wouldn’t go crazy the minute they walked into Paris.” Emma paused. “I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if my evening sandals broke. What the hell do they know?”
She was tense, he thought. As though she were already afraid of him. “Do you wish to leave them with me?”
“I really love these shoes.”
“Then we must try to save them. I believe we must save the things we love—no matter what the cost.”