The Heart of the Ritz

by Luke Devenish

  The telephone rang again just as a heavy knock came at the door. Claude shouted to Odile in her bedroom. ‘Get the door, will you?’ He picked up the receiver. ‘Yes, what is it?’

  The heavy knocking repeated. From the library, Claude saw Odile moving to answer it. He tried to make sense of what the footman in the lobby was telling him. ‘Odile should expect a visitor at the suite – what visitor?’ He glanced at the door. ‘Odile – Odile, wait a moment.’

  But his step-daughter didn’t hear him, already turning the handle.

  * * *

  Zita had secured them front row dress circle seats at the Théâtre du Vieux-Colombier, but when the bells rang for Act Two at the end of interval, and the other theatregoers around them began to stream back to their seats from the bar, Zita gave Blanche a cock-eyed look and proposed they go home to the Ritz.

  ‘Yes, please,’ Blanche said,’ I don’t care how it ends anyway.’

  ‘Here’s my guess,’ Zita offered, ‘they stay put in that stinking damn room.’

  ‘God, what a bore of a show!’ Blanche laughed. ‘And this being Paris, of course we all claim it’s a masterpiece.’

  ‘A piece of masturbation,’ Zita cracked.

  But on the walk home Zita admitted to herself that the play had badly unsettled her. She suspected Sartre had hidden a metaphor in it – and why wouldn’t he? The Germans had proven themselves blind to metaphors. But Sartre’s play about three self-indulgent sinners facing judgement and consequences in a room they can’t flee from had echoes for those who’d collaborated. All Paris was a locked room – especially the Ritz – and how much longer before everyone inside it faced a judgement of their own? Zita shuddered and predictably felt the stirring of her itch. When she and Blanche were once more ensconced in the Cambon bar, she glanced at Blanche sideways. ‘Want a little powder, puss?’

  Blanche’s eyes sparkled. ‘I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Yes, you should.’ She leaned closer to her. ‘It’ll give us the laughs the play didn’t.’

  ‘You’re a bad influence, Zita.’

  Zita chuckled, reaching into her purse for the little enamel tin she kept the powder in.

  Blanche looked around them with unease. ‘Right here?’

  ‘No one cares,’ said Zita. ‘They expect it of me, I’m a “film star”.’ She clocked a barman she didn’t recognise at the counter and waved.

  ‘But where the hell do you get it from? We can’t even get ourselves lambchops at the Ritz, and here’s you with a can full of snow.’

  Zita smiled and put a finger to her lips as she dipped her little spoon into the contents of the open tin. She offered it to Blanche, who hesitated for only a moment before snorting it up her nose.

  ‘Oh hell,’ said Blanche, reeling. She rubbed at her nostrils.

  ‘Seeing stars yet?’ Zita joked. She indicated herself self-deprecatingly. ‘Well, me obviously, but what about the celestial type?’

  Blanche couldn’t quite order her faculties enough to speak, so Zita helped herself to a heaped spoonful. ‘Manna from heaven,’ she proclaimed, once done.

  ‘Odile killed a kraut.’

  There was a pause before Zita did a double-take. ‘What?’

  Blanche had found the words she’d not intended to speak. ‘She says she did. She’s never been an untruthful kid. I believe her.’

  The buzzing in Zita’s head threatened to become a pounding. ‘That’s crazy. She told you this?’

  ‘She told Claude. I overheard it.’

  ‘I know it hurts you to hear it, but she’s blind. How could she ever kill a kraut?’

  ‘Nothing stops her.’ Blanch pondered her daughter. ‘I think she’s a lesbian, too.’ This suddenly made her emotional. ‘Poor sweet kid. How’s she gonna find a nice girlfriend for herself if she can’t see what the hell they even look like?’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  Blanche blinked. ‘I don’t know.’ Then she did. ‘It’s the snow. I come out with everything and then forget I said anything.’ She found this unaccountably hilarious. ‘Just like you do!’

  ‘I don’t do that,’ Zita protested.

  ‘Sure you do! Every goddamn time.’

  Zita was paranoid. Was this true?

  Blanche also became panicked. ‘Promise me you won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Of course, I won’t. It’s not even true. How can it be?’

  ‘But it is. It was Jürgen.’

  ‘Blanche! Stop it.’

  Blanche tried. ‘The pressure not to tell is too much for me sometimes.’

  ‘I know.’

  The barman brought two glasses of wine to their table, his eyes on stalks at the sight of the tin full of dope.

  Zita gave him a hundred franc note. ‘You’re new, aren’t you, puss?’

  ‘Yes, Mademoiselle.’

  She appraised him. He was pleasingly athletic. ‘What should we call you then?’

  ‘Baptiste, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘Baptiste,’ she repeated, savouring the sound of the name. ‘And where were you working before here?’

  She watched as he suddenly realised who she was. Zita batted her eyelids.

  ‘In the Dress Circle bar at the Théâtre du Vieux-Colombier,’ he told her, awed.

  Zita and Blanched laughed.

  ‘I don’t blame you for chucking it in,’ Zita told him. ‘Their latest show stinks.’

  But he was staring at her intently. ‘I had a friend – Guy Martin – who used to be barman here.’

  She saw the meaning behind the word ‘friend’ and felt sad. ‘A good friend, was he?

  He nodded.

  ‘We all loved Guy – didn’t we, Blanche? Shame how it went.’

  He bent closer to her ear. ‘That new film you’re in,’ he said, keeping his voice low, ‘the one that’s set in a theatre just like the Vieux-Colombier, but a hundred years ago?’

  ‘Yes?’ said Zita. He had a fine set of muscles and an excellent tan.

  ‘The one where the actors can only do plays that don’t have any words in them because some stupid rule says so – and then they go and break the rule.’ Baptiste leant closer. ‘I know what it’s really about,’ he whispered.

  Zita was poker-faced. ‘Sure you do, it’s about some tart – just like all my pictures. Don’t go searching for the secrets of King Tut’s tomb in it.’

  He looked taken aback, until he seemed to comprehend.

  ‘Keep on going to the movies, puss.’ Zita winked at him. She gave him another one-hundred franc note.

  ‘Christ, the cost of a drink these days,’ she muttered as Baptiste left. She took a gulp of the wine and grimaced. ‘And not even vintage.’

  Zita eyed Blanche lost in her powder-charged thoughts. ‘Do I really blurt out crazy stuff, too?’ she asked.

  Blanche stirred. ‘Sometimes. Not really.’

  Zita tried to hide her rising unease. ‘So, what have I said and forgotten about?’

  Blanche looked at her. ‘Things about Tom.’

  Zita suddenly felt very cold. ‘Who’s he?’

  Blanche put her hand upon Zita’s. ‘Don’t worry, girl. I know Tommy. I knew him before you did.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘We’re Jews.’

  Zita panicked. ‘Stop it, Blanche. I shouldn’t be hearing stuff like this.’

  ‘You know I’m a Jew.’

  ‘I do not. I do not.’

  But Blanche had gone still, looking to the entrance of the bar. ‘Oh fuck.’

  Zita turned to see Metzingen posed there, dressed in a blue serge suit. Grinning, he’d clearly been waiting for her to notice him. Her head throbbed. ‘For God’s sake, keep your shit in you, Blanche.’

  ‘He’s coming over here.’

  Zita gulped at the wine. ‘Don’t listen to anything he says. He’s a liar. Especially anything he says about me. He plays games with women.’

  Blanche was perspiring. ‘Oh fuck. Oh fuck.’

  ‘Did you hear what I told you?’

/>   ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stay calm.’

  Blanche whimpered. ‘How can I stay calm with a head full of snow?’

  Hans arrived, beaming at their table. ‘Hello Liebchen.’

  Zita feared he would kiss her, but he didn’t. He had a fresh gardenia in his lapel, she could actually smell it. Her acting kicked in a beat too late when she looked around as if he’d addressed someone else.

  Hans pulled out a seat, smiling at her indulgently. ‘Your timing is off. Does your comedy grow tired?’

  She now did her routine of ‘noticing’ him. ‘Oh, Herr Metzingen. How very nice to see you here.’

  Hans looked to Blanche, long-sufferingly.

  ‘You know Madame Auzello, of course,’ said Zita.

  Hans smiled and directed his gaze to the still open tin on the table. ‘I see you’ve been enjoying some of Fräulein Zita’s vice?’

  Blanche stiffened.

  Zita frowned at him. ‘I’d mind those accusations if I were you – it’s talc.’

  Metzingen chortled. ‘Oh Liebchen.’ He dipped the little spoon into the powder and brought it up to his nose. He looked to Zita, dangerously. ‘Should I?’

  Her eyes narrowed at Hans. ‘I use it for athlete’s foot, but sure, why not? Go for your life.’

  Metzingen snorted it. At the bar, Baptiste was frozen.

  Blanche watched, mortified.

  Hans rubbed at his upper lip. ‘Did she tell you how she manages to get her hands on it these days?’ he asked Blanche.

  Blanche looked sharply at Zita. ‘She wouldn’t say.’

  ‘Ah.’ He indicated himself as the source. ‘She much prefers company when she takes it, you see. And I much prefer her company.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ Zita said. ‘You hardly know me.’

  Hans went on. ‘Fräulein Zita and I are such old friends that we’ve become predictable to each other. Dope brings surprises. That’s why I joined in.’

  Zita looked desperately at Blanche. ‘None of this is true. None of it.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ said Metzingen. He spooned some more powder up his nose. ‘Yes, a pleasure shared is a pleasure doubled.’ He reached across the table and brushed a speck of powder from Blanche’s lip. He licked it off his finger. ‘Or tripled today, Frau Auzello. There’s no end to the fun.’

  The strain of suppressing her terror at what else he might say only made Zita angry. ‘Why are you always found here at the Ritz? You need to get out more. Blanche and I can recommend a shitty play.’

  ‘The one by Sartre? But you were looking forward to it.’

  Zita’s eyes flashed. ‘You had no idea I was seeing any play.’

  ‘But you told me you would be.’

  Zita’s paranoia bit her. ‘I did not.’

  ‘But how do you know you didn’t?’ Hans asked her. ‘You come out with everything when there’s dope inside you.’ He turned to Blanche. ‘Doesn’t she, meine Dame? It is something we must all be mindful of – those of us who indulge. I hope your own tongue is held tight.’

  Blanche was shaking. She pushed back her chair. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’

  ‘Enough of what?’ said Hans.

  ‘This – whatever this is. Intimidation. Terror tactics. It’s all gonna end.’

  Hans laughed at her. ‘I don’t think so. The Third Reich is eternal.’

  The powder proved recklessly emboldening to Blanche. She stuck a lacquered fingernail into his chest. ‘Have you heard the damn news, kraut? Or have you spent the whole day with your head up your ass?’

  Zita closed her eyes.

  ‘Can you mean the Allied advance?’ Metzingen wondered.

  ‘What else would I mean, kraut?’ said Blanche. ‘You’ve got a fight on all fronts. There’s the Yanks coming up the boot of Italy, and the Reds over there in the east – and now you’ve got God’s own damn army coming at you like hellfire from the coast. Very soon it’s gonna be a kraut sandwich.’

  Metzingen said nothing for a moment as he and Blanche stared at each other.

  Zita placed a hand on his thigh. ‘Don’t mind her, puss,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just the dope talking. You said so yourself – we all say anything when we’ve had a sniff of the stuff, but it’s bullshit in the end. She means none of it.’

  Metzingen patted her hand, appreciative. ‘Your own dope talk has solved so much for me today, Liebchen.’

  Zita pulled back. ‘What do you mean?’

  Metzingen’s huge hand cupped Zita’s face. ‘You’re invaluable to me.’ He looked over to Blanche. ‘And to the Gestapo.’

  Zita stood up in horror. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  He kept his eyes upon Blanche. ‘Defiance of the air raid blackout has brought this upon you, Frau Auzello.’

  Blanche gaped at him. ‘Upon me?’

  ‘Well, upon your unfortunate daughter,’ said Hans. ‘Zita told me so much of it.’

  Zita went white. ‘Don’t believe him.’

  ‘Yet still there are gaps,’ said Metzingen. ‘I wonder who her accomplices are, for instance? Well, we will soon know. While you’ve been here, Odile has been arrested. There is much for her to discuss with the Gestapo.’

  Zita felt the very last atoms of her soul disintegrate.

  Blanche snapped in terror – and made a run for the doors.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Metzingen, watching her go. ‘I hope her girl didn’t respond in that way. Yet the Gestapo lads love a chase. Entitles them to bring out their “exemplary” measures, I’m told.’ He sniffed at the air. ‘Not such a bad thing really. Odile always looked in need of a bath.’

  Zita slipped to the floor and vomited under the table.

  When she sat up again, Metzingen was helping himself to more powder.

  ‘I know nothing of any of this,’ she told him. ‘I never said a damn thing.’

  He rubbed at his nostrils, loving her like this: debased and half mad. He felt himself beginning to tent in his blue serge trousers. ‘Are you sure of that, Liebchen?’

  She wasn’t, of course. ‘Why arrest her daughter, Hans – are you inhuman?’

  He placed her hand on his pants as he shrugged. ‘Liebchen, Liebchen . . .’ he muttered pityingly.

  Zita watched on as more of the dope went up his nostrils. Then he offered the spoon to her. She began to sob. ‘Oh Jesus . . . oh Jesus, help me . . .’

  ‘But it is nothing,’ said Metzingen, waving the implement of her own destruction at her. ‘It is like breathing in air, just as you once told me – like breathing in happiness. It makes your pain go away.’

  Zita tried to shut her eyes to it, but the pull of the powder was relentless.

  ‘And what’s that, Liebchen, what’s that you ask? What happens when the happiness wears off?’ he taunted her. ‘Well, that’s when you snort some more of it.’ He was laughing at her now. ‘Liebchen, are you really such a rube?’

  * * *

  Polly had enjoyed an untroubled afternoon. Her circuitous route home from the scene of her bookshop attack had taken her through the Jardin des Plantes, where, as she wandered between what was still left uneaten of the botanical specimens, she found that her conscience was not burdened. When Jürgen had died in the deception she’d initiated, she’d been haunted by nightmares. His splattered blood, his shattered skull, the desperate love in his eyes that he’d felt for her just as he died; these images stayed with her, seared into her heart. She knew she would never be rid of them. None of the many resistance acts she’d contributed to since had scarred her in the same way.

  Yet at times of triumph like these, Polly’s memory returned to that day of the very first butterflies prank when she’d stood at the top of the stairs at the Ritz and stopped Tommy from saying what it was that he’d been on the cusp of confessing to her. She’d seen in his eyes – Tommy’s soft, brown eyes – that there was so much more to be said between them. But she’d used her commitment to resistance as the excuse to keep him from saying anything. Now, as she had on so many o
ther occasions since, Polly wondered what might have happened had she not been so scared of rejection.

  Polly entered the Cambon lobby, glad to be out of the heat. She saw Tommy inside with Mimi, and she knew from their faces that something was badly wrong.

  ‘Pol . . .’ Tommy was stricken.

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  Mimi put up a warning hand. ‘Not here,’ she said. She put a key in the door of a tiny office that opened off the lobby. Polly saw she’d been crying.

  They went inside, closing the door behind them.

  ‘Tell me what’s happened please,’ said Polly.

  Tommy and Mimi passed a tormented look. ‘The krauts have taken Odile,’ he said.

  Polly remained calm but it was a moment before she could speak. ‘Gestapo?’

  He didn’t know. ‘We saw Blanche going up to their suite – Metzingen had told her of the arrest – she was hysterical.’

  ‘Metzingen?’ Polly had to sit down in a chair. ‘Why did they take her?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Tommy looked more exhausted than she’d ever seen him, yet, like her, he appeared calm. ‘It could be for things that we know of – it could be for things that we don’t.’

  Polly was thrown by the openness with which Tommy was speaking in front of the Ritz owner.

  Mimi understood this without Polly saying anything. ‘There is very little that goes on in this hotel that I do not know of, my dear.’

  Polly looked at Mimi anew. Then she turned to Tommy again and saw now how desperately he was fighting his emotions, forcing himself to appear pragmatic. ‘We always knew this day might come,’ she whispered to him.

  He stuck his chin out. ‘We can’t expect Odile to withstand interrogation for very long, Pol.’ He was trying to seem stoic and failing.

  ‘She’s tougher than any of us,’ Polly said, desperately. But she couldn’t convince herself. Her heart had shattered. ‘Oh God, Odile . . .’ She started weeping in front of them.

  Neither Tommy nor Mimi said anything more for a while.

  ‘What should we do then?’ said Polly, after a time, trying to pull herself together. ‘Take tail and run like bunny rabbits?’