CHAMPAGNE BLUES

by Nan

“It is true, Murphy. It is a fact.”

  Murphy stopped. “Listen, you want to know what a fact is? A fact is that I did it for the first time when I was ten. You got that? Ten years old.” Etienne sighed as Murphy’s voice became softer and more confidential. “And you know who I did it to?” Etienne did not know. “The sommelier at Le Pavillon.” Murphy’s eyes glazed over as the recollection made him smile. “You should have seen that big, fat son of a bitch. You know, real snotty, the way the French are.” Etienne nodded. “My dad had taken me out for lunch before the chauffeur drove up to Yankee Stadium. I ordered a ’34 Haut Brion to have with my hamburger. When we were all finished, my dad hands me three bucks and says, ‘Go get him.’ You should have seen it. Two bucks turned that punk into putty.”

  “You said your father gave you three dollars.”

  “I pocketed a buck. Truth is, dad was a sap.” Murphy turned and looked across the lobby at Claude. “Is that him?”

  “Yes.”

  Murphy shrugged his shoulders and winked. “Haut Brion ’34!” Etienne walked quickly ahead, leading Murphy across the lobby.

  Claude watched them approach. Murphy was smiling, and Etienne rolled his eyes. “Bonjour, Monsieur le Secrétaire,” Claude said, stepping out from behind the desk.

  Etienne shook hands with him and came right to the point. “I would like to introduce Mr. Murphy Norwalk.”

  Claude nodded. “Of course. The gentlemen with North American Airlines.”

  Murphy smiled. “And you, I hear, are the man who can do anything.”

  “I fear the Secretary has exaggerated somewhat.”

  “I hope not,” Murphy said, handing the bouquets to Claude. “I could sure as hell use some water for these.”

  “Of course,” Claude said coldly. He snapped his fingers for a page and instructed him about the flowers.

  “You’re too modest,” Murphy said, reaching into his pocket. “You can do anything.” Etienne shrugged, trying to exonerate himself from what was about to happen. “Seriously, I want you to know how much I appreciate the fine service you’ve given my dear friends, the Simons and the Benjamins.” Murphy reached across the desk and shook Claude’s hand.

  As Claude withdrew his hand, he allowed the folded five-hundred-franc note to drop onto the desk. Murphy watched with surprise, Etienne with terror. Claude carefully unfolded the note and then held it out in his palm. He looked at Murphy and asked, “What is this for, Monsieur?”

  “For taking care of the Simons and the Benjamins.”

  “I see.” Claude looked down at the note and then at Murphy. “I am afraid it is not enough for taking care of the Simons and the Benjamins.”

  Murphy glanced nervously at Etienne. He narrowed his eyes as his hand went back into his pocket. “A man after my own heart,” Murphy said with forced good spirits.

  “Yes.”

  “Suppose you tell me how much. Another five hundred?”

  “No. That is still not enough for taking care of the Simons and the Benjamins.”

  “You’re a pretty pricey guy.” Murphy’s voice became tense. “I like that. How much?”

  “How much do you have?” Claude asked.

  Murphy laughed nervously. “A lot.”

  “A lot is not enough, Monsieur.”

  As though preparing to arm-wrestle, Murphy leaned on the desk. “What is enough?” He took out a money clip holding thousands of francs. “Is everything enough?”

  “Everything is merely the beginning.”

  Murphy glared at Claude, while Etienne put a hand to his forehead. Gratefully, they all turned as they heard Lily’s voice.

  “Mon Dieu! If it isn’t The Three Musketeers. Athos, Morose and Grandiose.” Her laughter filled the lobby.

  Pierre followed behind, snapping at the bellboy to be careful with her bags. He rushed over to shake hands with Etienne and Murphy. “Monsieur le Secrétaire, Monsieur Norwalk, what a pleasure!”

  Lily’s eyes were on Claude. They stared at one another until he turned away. “Claude,” she called, challenging him.

  “Madame.” He looked back at her, afraid she was about to make a scene.

  “Lily, my love,” Murphy said, coming to her with open arms. “Lovely, lovely Lily.”

  She was indeed about to make a scene. Lily held up her arm and stopped Murphy from coming closer. “Claude!”

  “Madame?”

  “Get me an eleven-foot pole!”

  Murphy scowled and took a step back. “I was hoping we could let bygones be bygones.”

  “You are not yet a bygone, Murphy. You are a here and a now. Unless you’ve come to fire me or pay me, I have nothing more to say to you.”

  “Lily, let’s have truce. All I’m trying to do is make this experience as pleasant for you as possible. That’s the truth of it.”

  She stared at Murphy for a long moment and then said, “Veritas Vos Vomitabit, darling. The truth shall make us vomit.”

  Murphy turned to Etienne in a rage. “Where the hell are the Benjamins?” he asked, as though Etienne were responsible.

  Lily turned to Pierre. “I suspect they are still filling their pockets with free Kleenex.”

  Pierre cleared his throat. “Madame, I hope your stay was a pleasant one.”

  “I know you do, darling. It was, at least, terribly clean. That girl of yours is an absolute gem of a housekeeper. You must swear to me you’ll never let her go.”

  “But of course. It is good to know you were pleased with your accommodation.”

  “Who ever said that, darling? I said it was clean. I most assuredly was not pleased with my accommodation.”

  “I do not understand,” Pierre stammered.

  “You gave us an intolerable location.”

  “But what was wrong?”

  “The sun, Pierre.” Lily looked over at Claude and spoke directly to him. “The sunset nearly blinded me.”

  “The sunset?” Pierre repeated blankly.

  “I don’t know what I would have done without Claude. Mon Dieu, if he had not been there to help me . . .”

  “What happened?” Pierre asked.

  “I was blinded,” Lily said dramatically. She then added, “For the moment.”

  Claude smiled at her daring. “And now, Madame?”

  She turned to him and spoke with great warmth. “And now, Concierge, I see things quite clearly.”

  Pierre stepped forward. He looked at Lily and said with great intensity, “Madame, I apologize for the sunlight.”

  No one noticed that Dwight had walked down from the second-floor offices. He stood behind Lily. “I must speak to you,” he said urgently.

  Lily sighed coquettishly as she put her arm in Dwight’s and began leading him away. “Of course, my love,” she said for all to hear. “Have you forgotten to pack your jammies again?”

  Dwight spoke softly. “Lily, I meant every word.”

  “Darling, you’ve simply no sense of timing. Never had.”

  “Lily! You don’t understand.”

  “Oh, Dwight,” she pouted. “Of course I understand.” She began to enumerate as matter-of-factly as reading a shopping list. “You’ve had it with me and you’ve had it with Simon Says. You are in love with the cleaning lady and will run off with her to Wash-and-Wax Heaven as soon as we return from our farewell performance of Goodbye Mr. Trips.”

  “I swear it!”

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I know. But darling, I’ve a thousand other things on my mind right now. Most of all, I want to get out of this hellhole. Darling,” she said, putting her hand on his arm, “the faster we get out of here, the faster you can come back to Our Lady of the Laundry.”

  Dwight took a deep breath. He and Lily walked directly to Murphy. “Is the car here?” Dwight demanded. “Are we ready to leave?”

  “The car is here,” Murphy said.

  “Good!” Dwight snapped. “Then we are ready to leave!”

  “Have a wonderful time!” Murphy shouted angrily a
s he watched them walk out the front door. He turned back to Etienne, shaking his head as he saw the elevator doors open and Clifford come out carrying his duffel bag. An empty-handed bellboy shrugged his shoulders at Pierre.

  Clifford strode over to Murphy and asked brusquely, “Is the damn bus here?”

  “Yeah!” Clifford walked past him, hardly missing a beat. Murphy called out, “Where the hell is Emma?”

  “Emma who?” Clifford muttered as he left the lobby.

  Murphy turned to Pierre. “What is wrong with these people? What kind of a way is this to start off? I know they’re mad at me, but what the hell are they mad at each other for?”

  Pierre cleared his throat and leaned toward Murphy. He spoke with great confidentiality. “The Benjamins did not leave their rooms at all last night. Mrs. Benjamin called for room service at eight. Mr. Benjamin, who slept on the sofa, called for room service at nine. Mrs. Simon called for room service at nine-thirty. Mr. Simon was in the bar from nine until one in the morning.” He raised his eyebrows to underscore the significance of his report.

  The elevator door opened and the bellboy walked out carrying a duffel bag. He held the door for Emma. She stood in the back of the elevator, leaning against the wall. Finally, the bellboy looked at her and asked, “Madame?”

  Emma nodded. She walked slowly, her eyes fixed in Claude’s direction. He saw her the moment she stepped out of the elevator and watched as she came directly to his desk. Her voice cracked and her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I want my shoes back!” Claude reached beneath the desk and took out a package. He said nothing as he handed her the bag. “You might have called me. I was really waiting for a call . . . about my shoes. I didn’t know if you’d even be on duty, and then what would I do . . . if I had to leave without seeing . . . if my shoes weren’t here.” She emptied the bag and, without looking at the shoes, put them on.

  “I am sorry, Madame.” He spoke softly. “I thought today you would be wearing another pair of shoes.”

  Emma sniffed and stood up straight. “No, I don’t change shoes that easily. I told you these were my sensible shoes. I need them. Especially now. I want to leave here with exactly the same shoes I had when I came in.”

  “I expected that you would.” Emma started to leave and then turned back. “Yes, Madame?”

  Emma couldn’t hold back the tears. “The shoes feel just great!” She walked to Murphy, sobbing loudly. “Where’s the goddamn bus?”

  Murphy swallowed hard and pointed outside. They all stood in stunned silence listening to her cry as she went through the revolving door. “Jesus.” Murphy took Etienne by the arm and led him through the door.

  A chauffeur walked into the lobby and came over to Claude. “They are in the car. We are ready to leave.” It was Nicolas Planchet. Vol. 4, G–I.

  Antoine Baudin, Vol. 6, M–N, wore a short gray jacket and cap. He leaned over Claude’s desk. “The bus is loaded. Everything is ready.”

  Claude reached for the flowers Murphy had forgotten. He removed the cards and handed one bouquet to Nicolas and one to Antoine. “Tell them these are from the concierge.” He clasped their hands and whispered, “Vive la France!”

  Nicolas and Antoine turned and left. The lobby was quiet. It was not yet eight-thirty, and the Simons and the Benjamins were his. It would be ten-thirty before their capture would be made public. Claude unlocked his drawer and took out the letter.

  The letter was addressed to the President of France.

  DWIGHT and Lily sat in the back seat of the limousine. Nicolas drove smoothly along the rue La Fayette and onto the avenue Jean Jaurès, which would lead into the N3 to Epernay. He glanced in the rearview mirror at his prey. They had been silent ever since leaving the hotel.

  Lily made fastidious notes on her copy of the itinerary while Dwight merely stared blankly at his. Finally, he turned to her and said, “Lily, I want you to have the house in London.”

  Without taking her eyes from the page, or missing a stroke of her pencil, she informed him casually, “The house is already mine.”

  Dwight mumbled, “Yes.” He looked out the window, unseeing. “What about the . . . no, that’s yours too, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  “And . . .” he began haltingly.

  “Mine.” Lily put down her pencil and patted Dwight’s arm. “It is so very comforting, my darling, to know that you don’t not love me for my money.”

  He pulled away. “I suppose you think this is Düsseldorf all over again.”

  She smiled. “Good God, Düsseldorf! I’d forgotten all about Düsseldorf. No, actually I thought it more like Trieste. Or Geneva. Or even Madrid.”

  “Well, it’s not. It’s different this time.”

  “It’s always different, darling.”

  Lily picked up the bouquet of roses. “ ‘From the concierge’! Dear Claude. Such elegant manners always. She inhaled deeply. “Have you noticed, darling, they’re not making roses the way they used to.”

  “Really?”

  “They’re not. For one thing, they aren’t nearly red enough.”

  Dwight smiled. “Dear Lily, for whom every cloud has a pewter lining.”

  “That sounds suspiciously like a eulogy.”

  “It’s not. I expect you’ll always search for redder roses.”

  Something in his voice frightened her. She turned and covered her eyes. “Then that, I take it, is the kiss-off.”

  Dwight reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief. “Here.”

  She reached out, then hesitated. “Is this part of the settlement?”

  “No.”

  Lily was crying. “Good. Then I’ll take it.” She blew her nose. “Here.” She handed the handkerchief to him. “Give it to what’s-her-name. Tell her to have it back in time for the final decree.”

  “Lily!”

  Lily took a deep breath. “Mon Dieu,” she said with forced gaiety, “will you just listen to me? I’m actually taking you seriously.” She looked into his eyes and put her hand on his arm. “Do forgive me, darling. You know that’s something I try never to do.”

  “Lily, I’ve put up the closing notice. This is our farewell tour.”

  She clutched his arm and leaned toward him. “Then by God, Dwight, by all that’s deluxe and delightful, by all that’s delicious and luxurious, let’s go out in style!” He raised an eyebrow. “I know what you’re thinking, but do trust me, darling. Let’s go out with a bang! Oh, Dwight, let’s make this a tour to remember!”

  “Our tour de force!”

  “Oh, yes, my witty darling.” She held up the itinerary. “It’s so perfect! We’re starting out in Champagne!”

  “Lily, how splendid of you to take it this way. I never dreamed you’d be such a sport.”

  “Dwight. Please! You’re hurting my feelings. I admit I lost my head for a moment, but that’s all behind us now.” She put her arm in his and leaned on his shoulder. “Don’t you see, my dearest? We’re on the road to Epernay!”

  Dwight sang out, “Where the flyin’-fishes play!”

  ACCORDING to the plan, Antoine kept the bus a few hundred feet behind the limousine. Clifford had insisted they ride to Epernay in one of the buses NAA was to use for the tour. Emma sat in the first row. Clifford sat in the next-to-last row.

  He had not spoken to Emma since she slapped him at the convent. She tried talking to him, but he wouldn’t answer. He was angry. He was angry with her. He was angry with himself for having gone to Chez Gustave. He was angry at Murphy. He was angry at the Simons. But most of all, Clifford was angry because he didn’t know what to say to Emma.

  ‘From the concierge,’ Emma thought as she stared at the bouquet of red roses. How awful. Surely it was not her own vanity that convinced her the liaison with Claude had been more than casual. The man was not a casual man. He had a sweep, a certain epic grandeur about him. No. The message for which she had been waiting was not ‘From the concierge.’

  Emma walked up the aisle to Cli
fford. He pretended to be reading. She sat down in the seat across from him and held up the itinerary. “You know, Clifford, the Hôtel Hartenstein doesn’t sound half bad.” She flipped through the background notes. “Centrally located two hundred feet from the railway station. Two baths and two w.c.’s on each floor. Home cooking by Mama Hartenstein herself. And, a radio in the lobby!” She looked over at him, but he continued staring at the papers in his lap. “The Coeur d’Epernay sounds pretty good. They’ve got a sink in every room and, aha, they’re right across the street from, of all places, Ma Mère Mathilde.” She turned the page. “Which, luckily, is open every night during the harvest. Otherwise, only on weekends and Tuesdays.”

  “What are you up to, Emma?”

  “Garbo talks!”

  “Emma!”

  “I am up to page one. And that’s all I’m up to.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Clifford, I tell you what. Why don’t you take out a subpoena on my heart and make it talk? Or else just listen to what I’m saying.”

  “That’s called lip service.”

  She sighed and held up the itinerary. “Cliffy, you kiwi! Here is where I’m gonna be for the next three weeks. Right next to you. Snug as a bug at the Hôtel Hartenstein. Let’s try. It could be like a first honeymoon.” He turned away. “I promise I’ll be good. No complaints. I swear I won’t even read my bankbook until after you’re asleep!” Emma got out of her seat and stood in the aisle. She leaned over to him and spoke softly. “I need you now, Cliffy. I need you to hold me. Even if you don’t mean it. I need you.”

  He stared up at her for a moment and then put his papers down on the seat next to him. He held out his hands, helping her to sit in his lap. She nestled close, her head resting on his shoulder. He put his arm around her.

  After a moment, she asked, “Do you mean it, Cliffy?”

  He said, “No.”

  She shrugged. ‘From the husband.’

  “MUST be something wrong with the car,” Dwight said as Nicolas pulled off the N3. He brought them to a short stop alongside a brown delivery van. Dwight rapped on the glass. “Driver, what’s wrong?”

  “Drat!” Lily humphed.