by Nan
“What are you talking about, Joseph?”
“I’m talking about money. Hundreds of thousands of francs. Maybe millions. Don’t you realize what a great story this is?” Joseph stretched his arms in the air as though framing headlines. “CHAMPAGNE HEROES DEFEND FRANCE FOR SECOND TIME.”
Claude got up from his chair. “To whom have you told this, Joseph?”
“Aside from your penis,” Isabelle added.
“No one!” Joseph was suddenly frightened.
“Who?” Claude demanded. “You were to talk to no one outside the group. Joseph, you are a fool!”
“I could be ruined,” Robert said. “What have you done to me?” he yelled. “I was only ten years old in 1943!”
“Stop reminding me!” Le Comte said.
“Le Dom was my hero. He saved my life,” Robert said. “I swore there was nothing I would not do for him.”
Nicolas leaned across the table. “But now you are sorry you made your vow? You are perhaps doing too well, Robert?”
“I make a living,” he said defensively.
“It must be a very good living to give you second thoughts on such a vow.”
“Yes! It is a good living. I have a good life.”
“So do I,” Antoine said. “But we are not talking about money. We are talking about the honor of our country.”
“Save that bullshit for your sister-in-law,” Isabelle said.
Antoine pointed his finger at Joseph. “I warn you. If the police start coming around—”
“You are worried about the stolen cars you sell!” Joseph shouted. “That is all you care about!”
“The authorities will have no leads,” Claude said. “We have dealt with these problems before.”
Joseph sat down. “You don’t understand. There is money to be made if we succeed.”
“I do not wish to make money from this success.”
“But Le Dom, you never wish to make money! You are the only concierge in the world who does not wish to make money. But I am not an idealist like you. Or a criminal like Antoine. Or a bored old woman. There is a fortune to be made here!”
“To whom have you spoken?” Claude asked.
“You are all so wound up in your petty little lives you do not see what is happening. We have planned an incredible event. It is breathtaking! Unique in the history of the world! There is a story behind it that can be sold without threatening our anonymity.”
“I want the name.”
“Trust me,” Joseph pleaded. “I too risked my life in 1943. I am one of you.”
“You never risked your life, Joseph.” Isabelle blew a long string of smoke. “And certainly not for France. You were hungry. The Maquis had food. You joined the Maquis.”
Joseph pushed out his stomach. “Tell me, am I here today because I am in need of food?” He laughed angrily as he patted his belly. “You think I am still hungry?”
“Yes, you are still hungry, Joseph. But this time for money.”
Claude reached across the table and picked up one of the guns. Without hesitating, he placed the muzzle against Joseph’s head. Everyone stood up. Joseph looked helplessly around the room. “Louise Vigran,” he said flatly.
Claude walked back to the head of the table. He put down the gun. “Please be seated. It appears we have some new business.” He put his hand on Petit Meurice’s shoulder. “Do not return to Epernay. Stay in Paris. Tomorrow you will meet with Mademoiselle Vigran.”
“My God, no! Don’t send him!” Joseph pleaded, pointing at Petit Meurice. “She has done nothing!”
“Meurice will not harm her. He will merely persuade her to remain silent.”
“I beg of you, Meurice. Do not hurt her. It is not her fault!”
“I will not hurt her,” Petit Meurice said. “I will merely persuade her to remain silent.”
“How?” Joseph screamed. “How will you do that?”
Petit Meurice stood up. “I will bid her a very proper Bonjour. And then . . .” he widened his eyes, broke into an enormous grin and said, “I will tell her, ‘Oh, sweet and lovely lady, be good. Oh, lady, be good to me’!”
“What have I done?” Joseph cried.
“Nicolas, you will drive the car instead of Joseph.”
“Yes, Le Dom.”
“What will I do, then?”
“Nothing. You will go nowhere. You will see no one,” Claude said.
“Do you intend to make me a prisoner in my own home?”
“You are not going home. You will remain here, Joseph.”
“Where?”
“Here. In the basement.”
“Here? Until when? For how long?”
“Until tomorrow. You will then be put on a plane. And God help you if you ever speak of this or if you ever set foot in France again.”
The others sat frozen as Joseph pleaded. “Le Dom, you cannot do this to me! You must not send me away!”
“You dishonor your country, Joseph. You dishonor our dead. You are a disgrace to all of us.”
“But I am one of you! You cannot forget I am one of you!”
“I have not forgotten. That is why I did not kill you.”
All eyes were on Joseph as he ran to the stairs. No one moved to stop him. He had gone up only a few steps when he realized there was no place to run. He sat down and sobbed.
Claude leaned forward across the table. He raised his glass. “A toast before I read the letter.” All rose. They lifted their glasses. “This time there is no Vichy to tell us not to fight. We will fight! We must fight! We did not save France from the Germans to give her to the Simons and the Benjamins! The France of Pasteur and Curie, of Lautrec and Cézanne will defeat Emma and Clifford Benjamin! The France of Rousseau and Voltaire, of Proust and Balzac will defeat Lily and Dwight Simon! Mes amis, enfants de la Patrie!” he shouted thrusting his glass forward. “Vive la France!”
As one, they echoed, “Vive la France!”
And then Isabelle added, “Kill the fuckers!”
Tuesday
CLAUDE threw down the morning telegrams impatiently. Henri held out the phone, rolled his eyes in despair, and said, “She wants my boss.”
“Madame Johnson. Bonjour.”
“Who’s this?”
“I am the chef concierge.”
“I don’t want the chef!” she interrupted. “I want the head concierge!”
“Madame, I am the head concierge.” Claude sighed and shook his head. As he looked up, he saw Emma. She was smiling at him. “Chef in French also means head.” He put his hand over the receiver. “Bonjour, Madame,” he said quickly. “Your shoes will be ready this afternoon.”
Emma wondered whether he was married. “What time this afternoon?”
Claude covered the mouthpiece again. “Late.” Had she made love with her husband last night?
Emma pointed to his lapel and whispered, “How is your flower?”
“I have a very dear friend in New York who told me I dasn’t leave Paris without eating a duck at the Tower of Silver.”
“The name is La Tour d’Argent. That is what we call it here.” He motioned to Emma that he didn’t understand her question.
“La Tour . . . what? Anything to make it more difficult!”
“Your flower,” she whispered. “How is it?”
Claude thought Emma was asking him how his flower was.
“Listen, do you know how to say ‘duck’ in French?”
“ ‘Duck’ is c-a-n-a-r-d. However, ‘duckling’ is ‘caneton.’ C-a—”
“My friend said duck. She didn’t say duckling. You don’t think I’ll wind up with a Long Island duckling after all this?”
“No, Madame.” Claude raised his eyebrows for Emma’s benefit. “There is no Long Island in Paris.” Emma leaned on the desk and smiled as she shared his exasperation. Claude never took his eyes from her as he spoke into the receiver. “It is a very fine restaurant. I know you will enjoy dining there. Do you wish me to reserve a table? Perhaps for eight?”
“Eight? No. Two! Just the two of us. I hope this isn’t another one of those charmers where everybody sits at a long table and passes the salt all night.”
“No, Madame. It is a very elegant and very romantic restaurant.” He was still staring at Emma. “It is very beautiful.”
Emma looked away. How embarrassing! How wonderful!
He knew he had gone too far. “At what time, Madame?” Claude asked, turning from Emma.
“Better make it late. I’ll be shopping all afternoon. Better make it six-thirty.”
“Merci, Madame.” Claude hung up the receiver and cleared his throat. “Madame Benjamin?”
Emma was defensive. “I just stopped by to tell you that my flowers are still in the pink.”
He smiled uneasily. “Merci, Madame.” He wished she would go away.
“Usually all I get are terminal tulips.” She shrugged. Trying to fix her eyes anywhere but on him, she looked down at her watch. “Say, do you know of anyone who fixes watches?”
“Certainly. What is the problem?”
“Well, you see, it’s Mickey’s little hand. It doesn’t glow in the dark anymore. You know Mickey Mouse?”
Claude tried not to smile, but his face broke into a broad grin. “Not personally. He was used as an insignia during the war.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories.”
“The memories are not all unpleasant.” He stopped smiling, wishing he could explain. “I will be happy to have the watch repaired, Madame.”
“But I need it back today.”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Because we leave in the morning.”
“I know.”
She paused. “I like to see his little hands at night.”
“Of course.”
“But now I never know if it’s a quarter past three or four or five.” Emma shrugged. “Sometimes I wake up and don’t even know where I am. I mean because of all the traveling. Do you travel very much?”
“No.”
“You and your wife?”
“I am not married.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Of course, Madame.” They stared at each other for a moment. “You are much more beautiful than your picture.”
“You said that to me yesterday.”
“I know. But I have since seen another picture.”
“Oh, well, everyone looks better than their passport pictures.” She began to undo her watchband. “I know it seems silly, but Mickey means a lot to me.” She handed it to him. “It’s my engagement watch from Clifford.”
“Then we must protect it at all cost.” He smiled as he stepped from behind the partition.
It was as though Emma had never seen him in person. He was much more attractive with legs. Taller. Whole. A man. She felt an excitement merely walking across the lobby with him. “Please follow me, Madame.”
Claude led the way to a small room off the reception area. Emma began to laugh as he slowly pushed aside the heavy steel door concealing rows of safety-deposit boxes. He opened box number 4. “Luckily, the Baroness left early this morning.”
“The Baroness? You want me to put my Mickey in there? Where once a Baroness kept her tiara?”
Claude smiled. “Is Mickey any less important than her tiara?” He took out the box and opened it. “We will take no chances. I shall accompany Mickey to the jeweler myself.”
“Oh, no. I didn’t mean for you to do it personally.”
“It is no trouble. The jeweler is across the street from where I lunch.”
“Where’s that?” Emma asked.
“The Café Zola.” Claude’s voice tightened. “But I do not recommend . . .”
“It sounds wonderful.” He held out the key to box number 4. As she reached for it, her hand touched his. “No. I trust you,” she said, suddenly pulling back. “You keep the key.” Emma turned her back to Claude. Over her shoulder she asked, “Who’s in the box next door?”
“No one of interest. Credit cards. Traveler’s checks.”
“Number 6?”
“The Shah.”
“The Shah!” Emma rubbed her hand on the door. “Must be lots of oil in there.”
“No. That is where he keeps the caviar. The oil is in 7, 8, 9, 10, and 11.”
“He has six safety-deposit boxes?” she asked, shaking her head. “What do you think he really has in there?”
Claude pointed from door to door. “In this one the United States, in this one Europe, in this one China . . .”
Emma began to laugh. She pointed as if putting a pin in a map. “Who’s in 24?”
Claude shut his eyes for a moment. “The Marchese.”
She was giggling. “Then it must be filled with fettuccine.”
Claude sniffed the door. “No. Too much garlic.”
“And 25?”
“A princess.”
“That’s easy. A glass slipper. Twenty-six?”
“The head of the Soviet Academy of Sciences.”
She knocked on the door. “What could he possibly have in there?”
“Shhh! The head of the Polish Academy of Sciences.”
Emma traced the outline of the door as though measuring it. “He must have a very small head.” They were both laughing. “Where is your Café Zola?” she asked suddenly.
“I do not think you would enjoy it.”
“Why? If you eat there—”
“Madame, it is not a place for—”
“Oh, c’mon,” she prodded, looking for a pencil in her purse.
“It is difficult to find without a taxi.”
Emma sighed. “Damn! I’m not allowed to take taxis.”
“Or limousines,” Clifford said, standing in the doorway.
Emma laughed nervously. If only it could have gone on a little longer. “On my deathbed, Cliffy, then, and only then, will I scream out, ‘Taxi!’ But I promise to die before one comes.”
“We’re going to be late.”
“Listen, I have got the name of one terrific place for us to have lunch!”
Claude’s eyes narrowed. He was outraged at his own stupidity. But Clifford shook his head before Emma could betray him. “Not one of your places, kiddo.” He pointed a finger at Claude. “I want to know where he eats.”
Claude looked directly at Emma. “As I just told Madame, I eat here.”
“No,” Clifford said, “I mean when you’re off duty. There must be some place you drop into on your way home.”
“This is my home. I live here.”
“You live here?” they asked at the same time.
“No kidding?” Clifford said. “That’s terrific. I bet they don’t even charge you rent.”
“Cliffy!” Emma sensed that Claude was offended. “Why don’t we go? You’re right. We’re going to be late.” She looked at Claude and put away the notebook in which she had written Café Zola.
“Hold on a minute. If anybody has inside information, it’s got to be him.” He turned back to Claude. “Look, you don’t have to worry. Our readers aren’t the Hawaiian-shirt type of tourist. They’re working-class people like you and me. You must have some pretty interesting places up your sleeve.
Claude smiled. As though preparing to share his innermost secrets, he leaned toward Clifford. “You are right. I do. For example, in the morning I sometimes walk over to Maxim’s, where the chef prepares for me Oeufs en Cocotte with a dash of Madeira. Or I may have breakfast at the Plaza, the Crillon or the Bristol. They are all superb. All of them. Lunch?” He shrugged his shoulders. “If I do not grab a quick piece of quiche, or a slice of trout pâté here, I may wander over to Lasserre or the George V, depending on whether they are serving a billi-bi or a bouillabaisse.”
Emma took Clifford by the arm. “I found a really easy way to get to the convent. All we do is walk to the rue du Louvre and wait for the number 21 bus to the Gare St.-Lazare. Then we transfer to the number 53. And voilà! That puts us only t
en blocks away!” As she and Clifford left the room, Emma turned back. “Thank you,” she said.
“No, Madame.” Claude smiled. “Thank you.”
EMMA and Clifford walked silently through the drafty stone corridor as Sister Gabrielle led them to the Mother Superior’s office. Emma put her arm through Clifford’s and huddled close to him.
“It would be most importunate to complain of the cold,” cautioned Sister Gabrielle, looking at Emma. “And you must not call her Mother Superior. She is still Sister Marcella.” Clifford nodded. “In the event she offers you something warm to drink, please bear in mind that we have hardly enough to go around as it is.”
Sister Gabrielle brought them to the door. She took one final look at Emma and Clifford. With a sigh of resignation, she knocked on the door and opened it.
Sister Marcella sat imperiously behind on old bridge table in the corner of an otherwise empty room. She was dressed in white. Her wire-framed glasses were tinted dark blue and lightened gently as they reached her very cold red nose. “You must not call me Mother Superior,” she cautioned, rising. “I am still Sister Marcella, although we all know it is a year since I was appointed Acting Mother. No matter. It is part of the harassment which we have learned to bear.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Sister Marcella,” Clifford said.
“How do you do, Sister Marcella?” Emma echoed.
“Just call me Sister. Now that we’re over the formalities, I suggest we go into the corridor, where there is a bench on which we may all sit.” She led the way and pointed to a stone bench. “Make yourselves comfortable.” As Emma and Clifford sat down, the cold raced through their clothes. “Would you like something warm to drink?”
“Oh, no,” Emma said quickly. “We’re fine.”
Sister Marcella smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Sister Gabrielle, I gather, has told you of our plight. She did not mean to be ungracious. Merely protective of those who are left.” She smiled. “Actually, she has a heart as big as the Ritz.”
“In your letter . . .” Clifford began eagerly.
“The problem we have here, young man, is the very same problem faced by the major film studios. We have been caught in the midst of a spiraling inflation. We are unable to meet our overhead. Else why do you think in the year since Mother passed on, the Bishop has not seen fit to make my appointment formal? You see,” she said, as Emma huddled closer to Clifford, “they are trying to freeze us out.”