The Heart of the Ritz

by Luke Devenish

  Suzette swatted her lips away. ‘When have I not been? And you look like a tart, Madame. Have you gone raving mad with the rest of the city?’

  Zita, at Alexandrine’s heels, barked out a laugh at this least servile of greetings.

  ‘You look no better,’ Suzette told Zita in turn, ‘but at least you’ve got the excuse for it.’

  ‘And what’s that, puss?’ asked Zita.

  ‘It’s your fucking vocation.’

  Zita only laughed louder. But there was anxiety in her eyes.

  Alexandrine gave Zita’s arm a little squeeze. ‘And so then, what of the Comte?’ she asked Suzette.

  Suzette threw out her hands. ‘Where else? At home with his nags. Said he wouldn’t leave ’em to the krauts, didn’t he?’

  Polly could see that the hurt this caused Alexandrine was real. She covered it with a wry look to Zita. ‘His thoroughbreds have always meant rather more than his wife.’

  ‘That’s not true and you know it, puss,’ Zita said, gently.

  ‘Ah, quit whining,’ Suzette dismissed Alexandrine. ‘He let you have the car, didn’t he? And me.’

  ‘Mixed blessings have always been my favourite kind, darling.’

  Suzette fixed a hard eye on her. ‘And what of you know who?’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Alexandrine.

  The old woman was angry. ‘Madame, please –’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Alexandrine again.

  ‘I won’t if you show some good grace about it,’ Suzette pleaded.

  ‘It’s taken care of. I’ve done my part, it’s enough,’ said Alexandrine.

  The old woman had tears in her eyes. ‘Have you taken care of it, Madame? Or have you just washed your hands of it?’

  ‘I have done exactly as my husband asked. Did he ask for more?’

  Suzette conceded. ‘He did not.’

  ‘Well then.’

  Suzette pulled a handkerchief from her blouse and wiped her eyes with it. ‘Heartless cow,’ she said under her breath. ‘You’ve got ice for feelings.’

  Alexandrine ignored this.

  Polly glanced to Zita, who would have had the world believe she was as in the dark about this coded conversation as Polly was.

  Suzette now took in the sight of Polly. ‘And who’s the tarts’ apprentice?’

  ‘Suzette, this is Mademoiselle Hartford,’ said Alexandrine, trying to brush the unpleasantness away.

  Polly, still in shock from the rapid escalation of events, had lost her anger in the wake of discovering Marjorie’s note. She was willing to leave with her guardians now, more so for knowing she had the means to defend them in the Hermès bag. She held out a hand, which Suzette glanced at suspiciously and then ignored. ‘English?’

  ‘I’m from Australia, Madame,’ said Polly.

  ‘Poor little bitch.’

  Polly would have been offended ordinarily, but she caught a twinkle in the old woman’s eye and guessed this abrasive manner was largely put on.

  ‘Polly is Marjorie Tighe’s niece,’ Alexandrine told the servant.

  Suzette’s face softened. ‘Ah. She was one of the good ones. I’m sorry for the loss of her, Mademoiselle,’ she said to Polly, and then to the others, hardening again: ‘She was better than you two tarts put together.’

  Alexandrine just smiled. ‘Suzette is quite a deplorable servant, as you can see, Polly. She’s scaldingly rude, completely offensive, and when I first married the Comte I could not begin to understand why he employed her.’

  Suzette cackled, showing smoke-blackened teeth.

  ‘But after a while I started to draw my conclusions.’

  ‘It’s because I know where the corpses are buried,’ Suzette said to Polly with a leer, tapping the side of her nose, and then to the others again: ‘Get your luggage in the car. Don’t you know Hitler’s coming?’

  ‘Maybe you could help us with it?’ Zita suggested. There were no footmen to be seen.

  ‘Not with my fucking back,’ said Suzette. ‘Do it yourself. It’ll be practice for when they throw you in the prison cell.’

  ‘They’ll throw you in long before me, puss. Open the trunk at least.’

  Suzette did so. Already inside the Mercedes’ capacious hold was a little crate of Dom Perignon champagne, plus a wicker food hamper.

  ‘Provisions!’ cried Alexandrine. ‘Darling, you always think of everything.’

  ‘Bribes for the Boches to stop them raping me,’ said Suzette, sourly. ‘And you’re right, I always do.’

  The three of them started squeezing their cases inside, which is when they saw the other item that had been placed in the trunk. Wrapped in a quilt for protection, it had the size and shape of a painting.

  Alexandrine gave a little cry. ‘Suzette?’

  ‘Yes, it’s your precious Renoir. Don’t turn on the waterworks.’

  But Alexandrine’s eyes were already wet. ‘Thank you, darling.’

  ‘It wasn’t me wants thanking,’ Suzette said. ‘If I’d had my way, I’d have chucked it in the Seine.’

  ‘Eduarde put it there?’

  Suzette shrugged. ‘Still blubbing that he never loved you?’

  Alexandrine frowned and brushed a tear from her cheek. She loosened the quilt so that Polly could see. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s my beautiful mother.’

  Polly saw the innocent face of a ten-year-old girl, dressed in the fussy clothes of the 1880s. Her hair was a halo of golden ringlets. What little remained of Polly’s ill-feeling towards Alexandrine now fell away completely. ‘It’s lovely,’ she whispered.

  Alexandrine brusquely nodded, covering the canvas with the quilt again.

  ‘What if we can’t fit our cases in?’ said Zita.

  ‘See these two titties of mine, tart?’ Suzette responded, puffing out her scrawny chest. ‘They’re tough.’

  ‘The champagne’s going in the back with us then,’ said Zita, flatly. Polly helped her pull out the little crate.

  ‘You mustn’t mind the crone’s tone,’ said Alexandrine to Polly. ‘While it’s heartening she’s retained her ability to drive the car at her age, rather more of her faculties have fallen to dust.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Suzette, ‘I shouldn’t be allowed out in public. I took a piss in the back seat before you got here.’

  Zita barked with laughter again.

  Assaulted by the clamour of the street, Claude Auzello slipped out through the Cambon doors. ‘Ladies, ladies, before you leave –’

  ‘Claude, darling, we’ve already said goodbye,’ said Alexandrine. ‘And it was not goodbye, remember, but adieu.’

  There was an unspoken steeliness to her manner with him now, Polly saw. It suggested yet another tacit understanding. So much was said while staying unsaid between the Ritz people. It was as if the entire hotel was constructed entirely of secrets. Would it take her a thousand and one nights to discover them all?

  ‘But of course, it was adieu, dear Comtesse. You will return to the Ritz in no time,’ said Claude, with his polished professionalism, ‘but this has come for Mademoiselle Zita.’

  There was another little envelope containing a telegram in his hand.

  Zita’s jaw clenched. She cast a glance at Alexandrine. ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It’s another one of those stupid jokes. I don’t want it,’ said Zita. ‘Throw it in the street.’

  Claude was lost. ‘But Mademoiselle, that is irregular?’

  ‘Or give it to Blanche to read. She enjoyed the rest.’

  Claude was horrified.

  ‘Zita, please.’ Alexandrine looked severe. Yet she didn’t contradict her friend. ‘You heard what she said, darling,’ she told Claude.

  Zita snatched the envelope from his hand and tossed it high in the air and into the traffic. Polly saw it vanish under car tyres in dust.

  ‘You’ve done your duty now,’ said Zita. She embraced Claude, kissing him on the moustache. ‘You’re a good one, puss.’ She kissed him again.
‘I didn’t get to see Odile before I had to go, so tell her she’s a good one, too. And tell her I’ll take her along to my next film set just as soon as we’re back again and all this has died down. Then she can meet all the lesser stars.’

  ‘I will. Take care, Mademoiselle.’ Claude pulled the handkerchief from his pocket. He turned to Polly and at first had no words for her. Then he said, ‘You are properly packed, Mademoiselle?’

  Polly held his look, more confident than the gun alone could have made her feel, now that she had Aunt Marjorie’s words. ‘Yes, Monsieur. I have forgotten nothing.’

  With a pat to her cheek, he returned inside.

  Polly kept looking about her, half-hoping she might see Tommy among the hurrying pedestrians. The image of him in his tweeds and flyer’s jacket stayed in her mind.

  ‘Where’s the fat American tart?’ Suzette demanded.

  ‘She’s coming now,’ said Alexandrine, as Lana Mae came out the glass door. ‘Darling, where is your luggage?’

  Lana Mae looked uncooperative. ‘Honey, please don’t blow a goddamn fuse.’

  Alexandrine’s temper flared. ‘Don’t tell me you couldn’t decide what to pack?’

  ‘You’re the living end!’ said Zita. ‘Just throw in some rags. It’s only for a week at the most.’

  ‘That’s not it, girls . . .’

  Alexandrine glowered at her. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not coming now.’

  Lana Mae squirmed. ‘Girls . . .’

  Suzette frowned as if her every prejudice about these women had just been confirmed.

  ‘How could you?’ Alexandrine demanded. ‘The Saint-Malo arrangements have been made for all of us.’

  ‘I know they have, baby, but the banks have all closed and I can’t get any of my jewels out.’

  ‘Screw your jewels,’ said Zita.

  Lana Mae eyed Zita’s handbag. ‘I bet you’ve got all yours.’

  ‘Because I’m not the idiot who shoves them in a bank!’

  ‘Oh girls, it’s not just the jewels, there’s my furs, too.’

  ‘It’s summer,’ said Alexandrine, ‘this is not the season for sable.’

  ‘But I’ve got a whole closet of ’em hanging upstairs in my suite. Seventeen at last count. You can’t make me leave those. They’re like babies to me.’

  There was a chilling silence from the women.

  ‘And I’ve come over poorly!’ Lana Mae claimed. ‘I’ve been feeling a pain in my belly since lunch.’ She indicated the spot. ‘Right here – it’s murder!’

  Alexandrine pointed a gloved finger at her. ‘This is not about you, me, the furs, the jewels, or your over-eating, Lana Mae,’ she said warningly, ‘this is about Polly.’

  Lana Mae flushed with guilt. ‘But you’ll both be there with her . . .’

  ‘Our ward Polly, to whom we have shamefully lied and treated with such contempt,’ Alexandrine went on.

  Zita and Lana Mae’s mouths gaped, surprising Polly with their strength of reaction.

  ‘Oh my God!’ cried Zita.

  ‘Honey, what are you saying?’ gasped Lana Mae, mortified.

  Polly watched curiously as Alexandrine paused for emphasis before answering. ‘All along Polly has suspected the truth about the ineptitude of France’s men in this war.’

  There was a visible wave of relief from the other two women.

  ‘Oh that,’ said Zita.

  ‘Oh that, indeed,’ said Alexandrine. ‘Polly is no fool. She knew she was being lied to – and she knew we were all just playing along in order to spare her our own fears. Well, look where it’s left us.’

  To hear this said by Alexandrine was not only vindicating but moving. Polly stepped forward, wanting only to be peacemaker now. ‘It's all right,’ she reassured them. ‘I understand why, and I forgive you for it. You were only trying to protect me and none of that matters now.’

  ‘It does,’ said Alexandrine. Her face folded with shame. ‘I hit you, darling . . .’

  As one, they became aware of Coco Chanel standing a small distance from them on the rue Cambon pavement, a suitcase in her hand. The upset evaporated as Polly’s three guardians instantly took a unified stance in the face of her.

  ‘Well, hullo, puss,’ said Zita, smiling with her teeth, but not with her eyes. ‘Waiting for trade?’

  It was plain to Polly that Coco Chanel was markedly less haughty today.

  ‘Oh, good afternoon, ladies – yes, I’m just waiting on my car.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Alexandrine. ‘Your lovely Rolls?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the famed designer. ‘I sent my little maids to fetch the chauffeur for it earlier.’ She glanced at the dainty timepiece she wore at her wrist. ‘I can’t think what’s become of the maids or the car. It’s been more than an hour now.’

  ‘That ugly thing keeps shitty time,’ said Zita of Coco’s watch, ‘you’ll find it’s two hours.’

  The designer frowned.

  ‘What’ll you do if Germaine and Jeanne don’t come back for you, honey?’ Lana Mae wondered with false regard.

  They all enjoyed the longing glance Coco gave the black Mercedes.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ said Chanel, convincing none of them.

  Alexandrine turned to Lana Mae. ‘Fortunately, my husband’s car is such a roomy vehicle,’ she told her.

  ‘And without your fat ass inside it, it’ll be roomier still,’ said Zita to Lana Mae, picking up on the theme.

  They smiled at Coco, who smiled back with transparent expectancy.

  ‘All the more space for us then,’ said Alexandrine, ‘I do like to stretch my legs.’

  With that they turned their backs on the hapless designer.

  ‘Take care then, darling,’ said Alexandrine to Lana Mae, meaning it. ‘I feel like killing you for it, but I know we’ll cope somehow.’

  ‘I’ll stick to my suite and stay fixed to the phone,’ said Lana Mae, relieved. ‘Don’t worry, girls, I won’t try to fraternise or do anything stupid. I’ll take every meal in my bed.’

  ‘I thought your guts ached?’ said Zita.

  ‘I’ve got a bottle of pink bismuth for that.’

  ‘Don’t knock yourself out,’ said Zita, kissing her. ‘We’ll be back in a week.’

  ‘You bet your patootie you will,’ said Lana Mae, ‘I’ll keep you clued up on the krauts and let off a flare when we’ve got the all clear.’

  Lana Mae turned to Polly. ‘I know you’re mad at me.’

  But Polly wasn’t. ‘You’re neutral, Lana Mae, just like the Ritz. I think it’s a jolly good idea you stay behind. We need a spy in our camp.’

  ‘See?’ said Lana Mae to Alexandrine, triumphantly, before hugging Polly. ‘The kid understands. I’m doing what Marjorie asked for and I’m looking out for my furs.’ She fished inside her handbag. ‘Here, baby, I want you to have this.’

  She removed a jar of face cream.

  ‘Cosmetics?’ said Zita, incredulous. ‘You shouldn’t give those up too lightly, you need all the help you can get.’

  Lana Mae gave Polly the most meaningful look in her repertoire. ‘For a rainy day, baby.’ She winked.

  Polly was surprised. She already had face cream of her own and had packed it. ‘Thank you, Lana Mae,’ she said all the same.

  ‘Can you fucking tarts get your twats in the car?’ said Suzette, well sick of standing there. And then to Polly she said: ‘I don’t mean you, Mademoiselle, you’re not a tart. I’d call your late aunt a saint if I believed in them, which I don’t, being a Jew, so let’s just say she was one in a million.’ She pinched Polly’s cheek. ‘I’ll get you out of here safe. I owe it to her.’

  * * *

  The foul-mouthed, aged housekeeper took her driver’s seat on the edge of a pile of cushions so that she could both reach the pedals with her feet and see past the hood of the car. As she steered the massive black Mercedes down the rue Cambon towards the rue de Rivoli, and from there to the first road that would lead them out of the
capital, Polly spotted Tommy in the street. His hair was unmissable.

  He was still in his flying jacket and tweeds, now accompanied by Blanche Auzello.

  They were walking very closely together in the direction of the Ritz, their heads bowed in conversation. They looked troubled, serious. Just as the car passed them, for the second that Polly could see them both clearly, Blanche reached out and took Tommy’s broad hand.

  Polly had wanted to call out, or at least wave goodbye, or do something, anything to show Tommy that she’d seen him and was sorry that they’d quarrelled. Yet the unexpected intimacy between Hungarian nephew and American aunt stopped the words in her throat.

  They disappeared.

  Turning back inside the car, Polly realised that Alexandrine had been looking at Tommy just as intently. When she saw Polly had noticed this, she covered. ‘Was that Blanche Auzello in the street?’ she wondered. She had kicked off her high heels and was duly stretching her legs in honour of the despised Chanel.

  ‘Where?’ said Zita, who had opened one of the bottles of Dom Perignon.

  ‘We’ve passed her now,’ said Alexandrine.

  ‘Poor old drunk,’ said Zita with affection, sipping the champagne.

  Alexandrine saw that Polly was watching her closely. ‘She had that barman with her, the very blond one.’

  There was the sliver of a pause before Zita responded. ‘The one who looks like a kraut?’ The line felt unnatural.

  Polly couldn’t help herself. ‘He’s Hungarian, sort of,’ she clarified. Then, unable to help herself further, she added: ‘His name is Tommy Harsanyi. He’s seventeen, practically the same age as me.’

  Zita apparently processed this. Alexandrine was very still. Then Zita asked Polly, ‘Friends, are we?’

  Polly’s relief was indescribable at managing not to blush. ‘I’m friends with all the nice staff,’ she said, ‘I’m friends with Blanche, too.’ She gave Zita a supercilious look. ‘You tease her that she’s a drunk, but I’ve never seen her drink any more than you do.’

  Zita gave a look of such supreme superciliousness it put Polly in the shade. ‘What is Tommy to Blanche Auzello?’

  ‘What do you mean? He’s her nephew – she’s his American aunt.’

  ‘Oh, puss,’ said Zita, falling back in the seat.