CHAMPAGNE BLUES

by Nan

  “Oh, Dwight!” Lily called out. “Do hurry with the champagne. At last, there’s something to celebrate!”

  Clifford sat down on the floor and kept his ear at the keyhole. Dwight began filling their glasses.

  Emma hunched over the table as she began to write. “I, Emma Benjamin, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath one-half of my vast fortune to American Express and the other half of my vast fortune to the Diners Club, provided they grant Honorary Member status to the Pizzeria Nunzio in Florence.” Emma looked up at Clifford. Her eyes were moist. “Do you remember?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Emma turned back to the tablecloth. “I hereby establish the Emma Benjamin Memorial Pizza Fund for starving lovers.” She looked back at Clifford. “It was great pizza, wasn’t it, Cliffy?”

  “The best.”

  Tears began to stream down her cheeks. “I wonder if. . .”

  Clifford’s voice cracked. “Rudy.”

  “Yes, Rudy!” she sobbed. “I wonder if Rudy is still there.”

  Clifford began to cry. Emma laid her head down on the table.

  Lily whispered. “Good God, Dwight, they made love in a pizzeria!”

  They drank in silence. No one moved except Clifford, who, after emptying his glass in one gulp, stood up slowly. He reached for a chair, raised it over his head and smashed it against the door. Emma ran to put her arms around him.

  Lily shook her head. “You oaf, that’s usually done with the glass.”

  “Dear boy, that chair was worth more than you are,” Dwight said. “You’re sure to anger them.”

  “Anger them?” Clifford asked incredulously. “Are you afraid they might kidnap us?”

  “On second thought,” Lily mused, “they might put you in solitary.” There was a noise at the door. A key in the lock. “Now you’ve done it,” she said.

  All eyes were on the door as it opened. They drew back as they saw an enormous man wearing a brown leather aviator’s cap with the flaps hanging down on either side of his face. He put a finger to his lips cautioning them to keep quiet.

  “Good morning,” Petit Meurice whispered. “I am here to save you. Claude Picard sent me.”

  “Claude?”

  “The concierge?”

  “But how did he—”

  “There is no time now. Do not speak. Follow behind me. Do not make a sound. They will kill us if they catch me taking you out of here.”

  Petit Meurice looked out into the corridor. He motioned for them to follow. As Emma stepped through the doorway, she gasped at the sight of Antoine sprawled on the floor. “Is he . . .?”

  “Shhhhhh!”

  IT was eleven o’clock. In one hour, the President of France would announce that his nation, in view of its close ties to the United States of America, was prepared to yield. All tourists were to be evacuated from Paris in order to save the lives of the four Americans held hostage.

  In the basement of the Elysée Palace, the Emergency Preparedness Room had been activated. The noise was overpowering as personnel set about the administrative machinery required to move some twenty thousand people within a few hours. The room had already become thick with smoke.

  Etienne, in front of a wall map of the city, was speaking to the Mayor of Paris and the Chief of Police. He slapped the tip of his pointer against the map. “The infestations are greatest in the first and second arrondissements, the eighth, the ninth, the tenth, fourteenth and fifteenth.”

  The Chief of Police sipped cognac from a crystal snifter. “They have really ruined the fifteenth. I once lived there. It was at that time a very pleasant neighborhood. But today”—he held up his hand in despair—“you cannot walk safely at night for fear someone will grab you and ask ‘How do I get here?’ or ‘How do I get there?’ ”

  The Mayor of Paris sighed deeply. “I had no idea it was that bad in the fifteenth.”

  Etienne’s walkie-talkie signaled. “Yes?” he asked, pressing the button.

  “Telephone, Monsieur le Secrétaire. Line eleven. Murphy Norwalk.”

  Etienne pursed his lips. “I am too busy.” He switched off the unit.

  “Attention, s’il vous plaît,” boomed the voice on the public-address system. “The President has declared that all offices and schools will close today at noon.”

  The Director of Public Transportation ran over to the Mayor. “They are taking all my buses away from me!”

  “It is worse than the war,” the Mayor said.

  “It is war!” Etienne corrected.

  The Mayor smiled. “It will be a sight.”

  Etienne nodded. His pocket unit signaled. “Yes?”

  “Telephone. Line fourteen. Aldo Manello. Commercial Attaché. Italian Embassy.”

  Etienne shrugged. “Merci.” He picked up the phone. “Line fourteen, please. . . . Hello? Aldo?”

  “Attention, s’il vous plaît,” the voice came over the loudspeakers. “The President has ordered three reviewing stands. One at the Porte de la Chapelle to watch the tourists being taken to Le Bourget . . .”

  “Etienne, this is Aldo. I have come up with two more 747’s.”

  “But Aldo, the units are all allocated.”

  “Please, Etienne. It has not been a good season in Milan. The weather is terrible. The hotels are complaining! The restaurants are complaining! The merchants are complaining! They have even started being polite at Gucci! Two more planeloads is all I want.”

  “. . . another at the Porte d’Italie to watch those leaving via Orly . . .”

  “Aldo, I suggested you increase your order earlier. You could have had them before Luxembourg snapped them up.”

  “I didn’t know then. Etienne, I must have another shipment! They will spend enough during the forty-eight hours to keep everyone off my back. I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you ten percent above. Anyway, what the hell will they do with themselves in Luxembourg?”

  “Is ten your limit?”

  “Why?”

  “. . . and the third reviewing stand at the Porte de Bagnolet for those leaving from De Gaulle.”

  “I may be able to get you one 747 if you agree to pay Denmark a penalty of five percent and pay me ten.”

  “Agreed. But Etienne . . .” He hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “Is it possible to keep them longer than Friday night?”

  “Aldo!”

  “No, no, no. I meant only until the shops close on Saturday.”

  “Aldo, we have no control over the time period. We are merely following the demands.”

  There was a pause. “Of course you will let me know if there is a change.”

  Etienne hung up and then flashed the operator. “Get me the Danish Embassy.”

  The Chief of Police picked up a telephone and dialed Information. “At which stand will the President be?”

  “The motorcade will visit each site prior to the Presidential Ball,” the voice replied.

  “Lars, this is Etienne. I may have to short-ship you. But I’m willing to pay a penalty.”

  The Danish Commercial Attaché laughed. “You spoke to Aldo, eh? He has been calling frantically. What is he prepared to offer?”

  “Three percent.”

  “Is he crazy? Come now, Etienne. You know how much they will spend. I won’t sell at three.”

  “Four?”

  “How many does he want?”

  “Two 747’s.”

  “I’ll give him one 747 at five. Take it or leave it.”

  “But he needs two!”

  “To hell with him! We’ve already announced that Jensen will be open around the clock.”

  “All right, I’ll take one at five.” Etienne flashed for the operator. “Get me the German Embassy.”

  “Attention, s’il vous plaît,” the voice said. “The President has authorized live coverage of the evacuation on closed-circuit television for all those in military and civilian hospitals.”

  “Etienne, old chum, what can I do for you?”


  “Günter, I want some of the tourists back.”

  “You could have them all as far as I’m concerned. We are already having such a boom here we don’t know where to put them all. Everybody loves a loser! Still, it would look like hell if we didn’t take some. Especially after the whole World War Two thing.”

  Etienne consulted a list he took from his jacket. “I’ve got you down for fifteen planeloads. I must have ten back.”

  “Take them, old chum. With my compliments.”

  “Also, you’ve got to pay an additional twenty percent for the five loads you have.” There was a pause. “Otherwise you’ll be low bid, and that will really look like hell.” Another pause. “Especially after the World War Two thing.”

  “All right. But none of this thirty-day-payment schmutz.”

  “I’ll give you sixty.”

  “What are you talking about? This is Germany, old chum, not Albania. I can afford to pay on delivery. And I will pay top price! The world must know we paid more than everyone else, and we paid faster then everyone else, because we are better than everyone else!” There was a loud thump as Günter banged on his desk.

  Etienne held his breath for a moment and then asked nervously, “Günter, you do understand, don’t you? You know you have to give them back on Friday?”

  “I know, I know,” Günter sighed. “Life is not a picnic, old chum.”

  “Wiedersehen.” Etienne hung up. He walked to another desk, where one by one he picked up four phones. “Get me the Belgian Embassy. Get me the Dutch Embassy. Get me the Swiss Embassy. Get me the British Embassy.” Holding two phones in each hand, Etienne turned his back on the dozens of people running into and out of the room. Once the commercial attachés were on the line, Etienne grouped the phones around his mouth and said precisely, “I have ten additional planeloads. The bidding will open at thirty percent above the previous figure. Gentlemen, you may begin.”

  AT twelve o’clock, they were in Pierre’s office listening to the radio. Marie-Thérèse had a hand over her open mouth. Alphonse chewed noisily on a Life Saver. Pierre stared wide-eyed while Claude looked over the balcony into the lobby. Jean and the others from Reception were gathered around Sylvie’s cage. Gaspar stood inside the revolving door, the bellboys gathered around him as they listened to his pocket radio.

  “ ‘. . . they have invaded our national heritage,’ ” pronounced the President of France. He paused as though to allow both Alphonse and Gaspar the time to nod in agreement. “ ‘Unless every foreign tourist has left Paris . . .’ ” The President continued reading the letter.

  Le Dom had won. Yet Claude Picard had lost. A vulnerable piece of machinery, this Claude Picard, this wounded shell. It was not strange that he should wonder about her.

  “ ‘Otherwise, the four will die,’ ” the President read.

  How ironic to hide behind the wooden face of the concierge. Le Dom had won! The Republic had won! Where were the drums? Perhaps it was time to leave this Picard person. Surely, by now the defender of Champagne had earned his freedom.

  “ ‘We did not allow Paris to burn. We must not allow her to smother,’ ” the President read with great feeling. “ ‘Vive la France!’ ” After a moment he cleared his throat. “Citizens of France, we cannot allow the Americans to die. However we despise this shameful threat, we cannot, in view of our long friendship and deep love for the American people, risk the safety of their countrymen.”

  Marie-Thérèse cried out. “Dwight! I know they will kill him!” She ran to Claude.

  He put his arms around her. “They will not kill him.”

  The President continued. “. . . And so I ask the people of all nations to join with the citizens of France, their dear allies, not in a forced evacuation, but in a celebration. A celebration of humanity, to which the nations of the world have opened their doors.”

  Alphonse shook his head. “The pity is they are doing all of this for Dwight Simon.”

  Claude looked up with more anger than he wanted to show. “They are doing all of this because of Dwight Simon!”

  “I suppose. But the Simons bring business. And they are more boring than harmful.” Alphonse snickered. “And now, I think they will bring even more business than before. Money could not buy such publicity.”

  Pierre had not taken his eyes from Claude. “If that is true, and I believe it is, what do you think they will accomplish by all of this?”

  “It has already been accomplished,” Claude said.

  “And if the demands had not been met?” Pierre asked.

  “They were met,” Claude said flatly. “I must go down and help our guests to leave.” Marie-Thérèse ran out crying.

  Alphonse walked to the door. “A pity there will be no one to eat the prawns.” He shrugged. “Perhaps a curry tomorrow.”

  “Concierge,” Pierre said. “I would like you to remain.” Once they were alone, Pierre offered him a cigarette. “I thought I recognized Antoine this morning. I think now the other driver was Nicolas. Yes?”

  “I do not know what you are talking about.”

  “I suppose everyone was involved. Isabelle, Edouard, Le Comte, Joseph . . .”

  “I must go. The guests will need my help.”

  Pierre slammed his fist on the desk. “Why did you not tell me what you were planning?”

  “You are no longer one of us, Pierre.” Claude smiled. “I am surprised you would take offense at not being included. But of course, how foolish of me. You could have taken Marcel’s place.”

  “Mon Dieu, I should unmask all of you! Do you know how much this will cost me?”

  “The cost to you, Pierre, is silence. Not money. Silence is the price you have to pay.” Claude got up and walked to the door.

  “Tell me, Concierge. Since we are so frank with each other, would you really have killed them?”

  He held tightly to the doorknob. Claude refrained from answering as long as he could. “Yes.” He slammed the door.

  IT was not until Claude was back in his room, with the door locked, that he dared unclench his teeth. “No,” he said, leaning his head against the mantelpiece. “No,” he said, reaching up to touch the frame on the Fragonard. “No,” he said, running his fingers across the leather bindings on the Proust. “No,” he said, as his hand brushed the keys of the harpsichord.

  Claude sat in the Pathier chair and picked up his Eiffel Tower. “Remember, Emma Benjamin.” The words he had spoken to her echoed all around him. “Remember this room.” He closed his eyes. He had not expected that this room, this incredible room as she had called it, could be so empty without her. “Tell me, Concierge, would you really have killed them?” He shook his head. No. It would have been impossible.

  WHEN Claude walked down the flight of stairs to the lobby, he saw the British couple arguing at Reception.

  “But we’re not tourists!” the young man shouted.

  Jean shrugged. “Then, of course, the orders do not apply to you. I shall have to notify the police, however. Can you tell me the nature of your business?”

  Claude watched as the man reached into his wallet and then shook hands with Jean. “You see, we are here,” he began haltingly, “to, uh, purchase samples of haute couture for a boutique we are opening in Kent. Our trip is totally business.”

  Jean smiled as he put the money into his jacket pocket. “Of course. I shall note that on my records.”

  As Claude walked over, Jean winked at him. Without saying a word, Claude put his hand on the flap of Jean’s pocket and, in a single motion, ripped the pocket from his jacket. The British couple stood frozen as Claude methodically reached into the dismembered pocket and handed the money back to them. “You cannot be too careful in these dangerous times. There are spies everywhere.”

  Claude went back to his desk. Henri was shaking his head. “I have been deluged ever since the announcement!”

  “I am sorry. I did not realize how late it was.”

  “The Baroness Settanni wishes a table at Lasserre
,” Henri said, rifling through his notes.

  “Tell her it is impossible.”

  “Mr. Jackson wishes a table at Régine’s.”

  “It is impossible.”

  Henri felt himself become nervous. “The Michaelsons wish to go to the Folies.”

  “It is impossible.”

  “The Colemans—”

  “It is impossible.”

  Henri put down his notes. He stared at Claude, who sat expressionless. The telephone rang. “It is for you.” Henri handed him the phone and left.

  “Oui?”

  “Le Dom?”

  “Yes.”

  “They are gone,” Isabelle said.

  Claude was suddenly out of breath. “Gone?”

  “Antoine is dead. The room is empty.”

  “Where is Meurice?”

  “We cannot find him. Le Dom, I have not seen those finger marks on anyone’s neck in thirty-five years.”

  “There is one chance. Go to the trunk room. You may still be able to stop him.”

  “Mon Dieu! I forgot!”

  Claude held on to the receiver after she hung up. It was impossible.

  THEY followed Petit Meurice without a word. He led them along a dim wainscoted corridor. They felt their way down dark, narrow stone steps. Unable to see, they shuffled slowly until they heard the angry squeal of rusted hinges. He led them into a very cold room. Once the door closed behind them, he lit a candle. Eight fearful eyes winced at the sudden light.

  “Where the hell are we?” Clifford asked. They stared at the piles of old trunks, suitcases and cartons.

  “And who are you, dear boy?”

  “Oh, Dwight, I fear we’re in the fire for sure.”

  “Did Claude say anything?” Emma began. “I mean, did he give you any messages?”

  “How the hell did he know where we were?”

  “Shhhhh!” Petit Meurice warned. “We have no time now. We are only halfway there.”

  “Halfway where?”