He would never have dared to ask for a dance at a table with Olga, Trempont, and all the famous people, but suddenly, seeing her by herself, even more alone, he plucked up the courage.
“May I have the pleasure, Mademoiselle?”
Michel Roz would never forget the sweet, piercing eyes that looked up at him. No, this girl was not a regular at the Parrot. She looked more like a shy kid lost in a room full of adults. More than ever, he had the feeling of a troubled child.
Martine’s gaze lasted only a second, but the examination must have been positive because she accepted with a nod, and stood up.
They waltzed together for a while, in silence. He was thoroughly happy with her being with him. This girl, seen for the first time, was definitely having a surprising effect on him. Nothing compared with those spicy, exciting girls for whom the first dance is but one step closer to the bedroom.
The waltz ended. While walking her back, he asked quite humbly, almost shyly (which was not his style), if they could dance again. She said “yes” kindly, not at all like a “celebrity’s friend.”
A little later, they played a tango. Olga stayed at the table this time, pouring into a microphone some totally pointless words, punctuated by that weird laughter that had become her trademark, a laugh of wild joy that made the listeners shiver.
“I have to admit,” Michel Roz said, “that I never would have dared to approach you…”
“Why? Am I so intimidating?”
“You? No, absolutely not. But you’re part of her entourage …”
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s not that, but when you aim too high…”
She laughed, graciously, and they started talking, very quietly, swept away in the throng of dancers where they had turned the lights back down. Olga’s table remained the only lighted place in the Parrot.
After some small talk, Michel learned that Martine was a friend “almost since childhood” of the new star, and she was in charge of her PR. With charming naiveté, Martine admitted that the title was purely honorary, because she knew pretty much nothing about the role she was supposed to be playing.
“Olga is so good to me…”
“Oh. And yet, she seems so daunting.”
“Don’t say that. She’s beautiful.”
“I don’t deny that. But a fierce kind of beauty… Anyway, they say she’s going to specialize in horror films, that she’s going to replace of Edwige Hossegor, the famous Mephista.”
“They say a lot of things,” Martine sighed.
“That aren’t true?”
Her beautifully clear eyes looked up at him. They passed under a spotlight and, all of a sudden, he saw a dread fear in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing… nothing.”
“You looked worried.”
“Excuse me, Monsieur, I… no, it’s nothing.”
“Do you want to go back to your table?”
“Oh no! I want to stay…” she blurted out.
“With me?” he whispered, softly, very affectionately.
She snuggled against his shoulder so that he would not see her face and maybe also seeking his manly protection.
Carrying her away to the rhythm, he teased quietly:
“You seemed… scared of the Devil... Or a witch… Your friend Olga must be a little like a witch…”
“That’s a stupid thing to say.”
“Her success is like black magic.”
“Oh, be quiet!”
They were silent for a while before he spoke again. His voice was full of charm like an incantation.
“There are some girls who need a knight to come to their rescue and fight off the demons.”
He felt her tense up against him. Her slender hands were shaking and he suddenly knew that she really was scared and his jokes were not just jokes—there was some truth behind it all.
“What a pity,” he said, “that you’re with all these people.”
“But I owe so much to Olga.”
“Not at all!”
Once spoken, she seemed to regret her words. Even in the shadows of the dance, he thought she had blushed. Finally he took the leap.
“Listen, mademoiselle… Mademoiselle... what?”
“Martine. And you?”
“Michel. The name of an archangel. Well, I don’t have this honor… but you know…”
“The one who brought down the Devil.” She giggled. “The Devil and his demons…”
“You’re going to say I’m pretentious. But those who fight never fight better than for a pair of beautiful eyes in distress.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because… it seems to me… you’re afraid.”
She did not answer.
They played the tango again, and this cut short their conversation. She fell back into his arms but, this time, he knew that she was terrorized. Looking up, he realized that, while dancing, she’s been looking over his shoulder at a point in the room, next to the bar.
Michel turned around and saw, among the darkened crowd, a man, rather tall, standing still, who was not drinking, not smoking, just standing at the bar, on the edge of the dance floor, looking at Martine.
He was really struck by this, and stopped for an instant. He apologized but she, as if mesmerized, did not respond. Then, with the instincts that belong only to chivalrous, headstrong men, he grumbled softly into Martine’s ear:
“If you’re scared of that man over there…”
“Oh, be quiet! I’m sorry…”
She tried to wriggle away from him but he held her.
“No, please… Stay. With me you have nothing to fear.”
Once again she looked up at him and, for a minute, they danced slowly, without saying a word, barely seeing each other in the poor light. For Martine, it was a relief to see this face that was still young, so open, and so full of energy, that seemed so different from all the other faces that were always “performing” around her, all the actors that Olga had been rubbing shoulders with over the past few weeks.
She cast another nervous glance at the stranger before letting herself be swept away in the dance. But he was turning closer to the bar. He was leading her there. Slowly. Because all the dancers were moving in slow motion to the languid rhythm of the tango as their bodies mingled together.
Michel had no sexual thoughts although Martine’s alluring body was hugging him tightly. He realized that he was protecting her, that he was born and put into this world to save her, like a heroine from the legends, and he felt possessed by the spirit of romance, by a knight’s soul lost in the middle of the 20th century.
They reached the bar. The stranger was gone.
Martine, without saying a word, was looking for him and seemed relieved by his absence.
Michel felt the need to tell her:
“He’s left.”
“Yes, I… No... Perhaps I was mistaken...”
“I know I’m being forward, but I’d like to help you.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you said that!”
“You know, I think I can.”
She put her cheek on his shoulder and said very softly:
“I believe you.”
The dance finished and he brought her back, greeting the people at her table, although they paid him no attention. The reporters continued their interviews.
He left as the band started a jerk. Then there was another tango. Michel needed nothing more. Martine watched him coming back, happy without really knowing why. This time, it happened fast.
The scary man popped up at the edge of the dance floor right when they passed by. Michel tried to look into his eyes as he stood there, obviously on purpose in a patch of shadow to hide his face. He felt Martine trembling in his arms. He was fed up. He stopped dancing right there. Martine stiffened up and tried to hold him back.
Michel turned to the stranger, grumbling:
“Are you done watching this young lady?”
The other did not budge.
“Did you hear me? I’m talking to you!”
“Please…” said Martine, grabbing onto him.
“Come on, this guy is harassing you. As if I can’t see it.”
The guy in question stood as still as a statue. The people around could see Michel’s anger. Nothing would stop him now.
“Are you going to answer or not? I’m telling you to get the hell out of here.”
He took one step closer. He went no farther. All of a sudden, he felt a shock. Like a punch in the stomach. But an electric charge. He fell back onto the floor, bumping into the other dancers. After being dazed for a second, he stood up, furious, not even thinking to apologize. He ignored the men’s sarcastic remarks and the ladies’ cries of alarm and shouldered his way through the crowd, looking for the stranger, but he had vanished, who knows how.
The incident was already forgotten amidst the bass beats as the orchestra started in on another jerk, completely different than the tango.
Michel spotted Martine at a distance. Bob Andair had come to get her and he saw Olga, Trempont, J.-P. Max and the others standing up. They brought Olga a fur coat. The reporters were packing up.
“She’s going…”
He felt like she was searching for him in desperation, but the group of film stars were surrounding her, carrying her away.
Michel was bewildered by the whole evening and could not move. A man was standing next to him. He jumped, but saw clearly that it was not the mysterious stranger who was terrorizing Martine and had taken him out…
And how had he done that anyway? Michel could have sworn that his adversary had not even touched him.
He was surprised to hear a kindly voice whispering to him:
“Don’t worry. You’ll see that charming girl again. Because she could very well need you, a brave man, to protect her. Excuse me, can I buy you a drink? I’d like to have a few words with you. I admired your attitude just now. Only idiots would laugh at your fall.” A pause and then, “Idiots… and those who do not know.” He led Michel to the bar, adding, “But I should introduce myself. My name’s Teddy Verano.”
He said his name and in the glow of the bar lights, Michel saw his hazel eyes sparkle.
CHAPTER IX
Will I see him again? thought Martine.
It all felt like a dream, like Michel had just appeared and then disappeared forever…
And yet I’m not crazy. It was real.
But do I know what is real or not, what is tangible or not, after these last few, frightening weeks in Olga’s shadow? If only I’d known… Of course, I’d hang onto him…
But no, I’m turning into an idiot, with all that’s happening. How could I literally throw myself into the arms of someone I’d known for only half an hour, maybe a little longer? But I felt something strange when I was with him.
It’s not the first time men have flirted with me. In Lille… and then in Paris… And even more, since I started playing secretary to the stars... Well, a future star, but already on her way thanks to the well-orchestrated publicity, the clever hype…
And then things got scary with the bloody death of that poor young stagehand.
The papers will get hold of it and make some bizarre connections. They already are. Olga, covered in the poor boy’s blood. And at the same time, she gets a wonderful offer from Hollywood.
No, they’ll say whatever they want. They’ll make thousands of conjectures. I have my own idea. I say, it’s not natural.
It all started… one morning. After a sleepless night, worried crazy, I was waiting for Olga. She wasn’t the same after that night. I’ve thought of all kinds of things. I’m sure I’m wrong, that it’s something beyond my understanding.
Something dreadful…
But what?
I tried asking Olga about it several times. She loves me, I’m sure, and she constantly shows me proof of it. She treats me like a sister and forced the production people to give me this job, even though I’m totally incapable of doing public relations.”I’m just happy to be her faithful little secretary. Others do the work with the press and the public…
I’m stubborn. I want to know. I drop hints. But I see that I annoy her, that she doesn’t want, or can’t, answer me.
Her whole attitude has changed. Oh, she’s still alone, of course. If she had a lover, I’d know. Because we still live together, but in a beautiful apartment now, on Avenue Paul Doumer. Our little studio in Montmartre is long forgotten.
Who is paying for all this? There’s money… where does it come from? Advances for films… What else?
I’m dizzy. I’m scared. I have to admit it.
Despite Olga’s generosity, I’m scared of her. She’s got a fire constantly burning inside her, and sometimes she stares at me. I don’t know if she’s seeing me or not, but it burns me…
Can I continue to live like this? I want to run away, bury myself in a simple life, boring but normal.
I know what I’m missing. The arm of a strong, healthy, sincere and open young man. I have no interest in those around me at the studio. Men and women in search of one-night stands. For a lot of people in this business, nothing is important, not even marriage… Maybe I’m old-fashioned but I dream of a quiet happiness, a happiness that lasts. Getting married in order to divorce—that’s not the life for me!
So, there was Michel last night… Out of the blue, I was starting to trust him, to talk to him. Was I being stupid? I don’t know anything about him. But there are people we meet and feel like we’ve known them for years, forever…
Dare I give a name to these feelings? It’d be crazy…
But then the other showed up.
I recognized him. In Boulogne, in the rain, at the café window, when I was waiting for Olga… Again, following us down the Seine in the fog… Olga pretended that I was wrong, that it wasn’t possible… But I saw him.
And it was him again last night. Him… and his eyes... Eyes that glowed.
There was Michel’s aggressive reaction, and then the fall. After that, I was separated from him, and Bob Andair came to take me away. I was back with what they’re already calling “Olga’s gang.” We left the Parrot and didn’t see Michel again.
My God, I’m crying. Yes, I’m crying. Will I ever see him again?
It’s my fault. Silly goose, I should have pushed Bob Andair away, told him that I wanted to see the young man who so gallantly defended me instead of running away like a coward. But I’m shy, timid, passive. No, I must rebel! I shouldn’t have such an attitude anymore.
What happened to him? What does he think of me?
Martine, you’re becoming a romantic. Forget about this man…
In my confused state, far away from my family, alone in Paris with Olga, alone because Olga isn’t the same, I have no one to trust…
I would have liked to trust Michel.
Olga…
She’s here in her room. No more little twin beds like in that wretched studio where we used to live. I have my own room now, not too big, but in her house, it’s worthy of a star…
Four o’clock in the morning. They brought us back. We’re alone. But what’s that? She’s talking… to whom, Good Lord?
I’m cold. I’m scared. I’m shivering. Someone is with Olga. Who?
Do I have the right to know? Is there really a man here? Of course, it’s her right, absolutely, but still, I wonder if…
I want to know. I can’t stand it. And I’m doing something that’s not nice at all. I’m listening at her door, trying to see through the keyhole....
Olga is there, dressed in a see-through nightgown that shows off the beautiful creature that she is. She hasn’t gone to bed yet. She’s standing with her hands in front of her, like she’s praying, and talking with… with someone invisible.
She’s talking… I can’t hear what she’s saying. I press my ear against the door, not trying to see for the moment. I listen carefully
, with my full attention.
“No, not her! I can’t. That would be dreadful!”
I heard this—or almost. What does she mean? And it’s not the first time I caught her like this, talking to no one with her big eyes wide open, eyes that are worse than scary…
Olga… She’s talking… I have to listen… I have to know…
“No, all-powerful master, don’t make me… It’s awful. It’s atrocious. She’s innocent. Oh, yes, I understand, that’s why…”
Olga seems to be suffocating under some terrible weight and she gasps:
“It’s because she’s innocent… A pure victim is needed and that’s how the sacrifice will be completed.”
What does all this nonsense mean? Olga’s going crazy…
Often since… since that infamous night when she didn’t come home, I’ve wondered about this. Has she lost her mind?
But in her professional, life she’s completely the opposite, very reasonable, cold, impenetrable; she argues well, stands up for herself, and intimidates the filmmakers as well as the journalists. I never would have thought she could become such a remarkable businesswoman.
What a contrast between this girl who, according to one reporter, already knew how to sell her talent and beauty so well, and this poor thing in a state of delusion, almost nude, holding dreadful conversations with god-knows-who.
Who indeed? It’s as if Olga is talking with someone from another world…
She’s groaning now, and I try to see again. I see her begging, wringing her hands, asking them not to touch… Touch who? Who is the innocent victim she speaks of?
Then, since the other seems unrelenting, in a desperate gesture, she turns her hands against herself and, with sudden madness, claws at her breasts.
Blood spurts…
“Olga! Olga! Please!”
I cannot take it anymore and I rush into the room.
Olga snaps out of her hypnosis and looks at me with pure horror in her eyes, as if I were a ghost. It stops me cold.
Nude and beautiful, bloody and tortured, she is magnificent and frightening.
She screams as if an invisible hand is strangling her:
“You… you… I don’t want to… Get out… Go… You don’t understand…”
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