“Marcel, wouldn't it be simpler if Hélène and I met? That way we could all…”
“Don't be ridiculous!” Brigitte listened, subdued, while Marcel went on. “What do you think she would say about us? What do you think anybody would say for that matter? I pay for all of your expenses. If that doesn't look like a cozy little set up, I don't know what does. Instead of pressuring me, why don't you try to show me some understanding?”
Brigitte was stunned. The conversation ended on a sour note. She put the telephone back in its cradle and sat down heavily, suddenly exhausted. What was that all about? Why would anyone think me and Marcel…? The thought was ridiculous. Or was it? She looked around at the expensive furniture that surrounded her. Marcel's money had paid for all of it. The reality of her situation suddenly hit her. If she ever did anything to anger him, he could very easily kick her out. The thought sent chills down her spine. Nothing here actually belonged to her. She was nothing more than a charity case, a beggar in this apartment. There, as long as Marcel allowed.
If not for this baby, I would not be in this position, she thought, and immediately felt guilty. Although she had no more than a hazy recollection of her stay in the hospital, she could recall every detail of her attempted abortion. She remembered the doctor’s last words before her release. The baby will be fine. Repeating those words like a mantra, she climbed into bed.
* * *
Chapter 9
It was midsummer in New York and the temperature was nearly ninety in the shade. It was the hottest twenty-fourth of July in recorded history. On Forty-Second Avenue, a fire hydrant was illegally turned on and children frolicked in the cool rushing water until the police chased them away. All along Madison, traffic was stalled. Impatient drivers waved their fists and honked their horns. From a distance, the noise was like one long plaintive wail, the sound of a city crying.
Alex lie on his bed, perspiring. The open window brought no relief from the unbearable heat, only dust and noise from the traffic below.
This was Manhattan, the city of his dreams. Somewhere along the way, the dream had turned into a nightmare. For three years, he had worked harder than anyone would have believed possible—and for what? Since his graduation, a year ago, he had applied for twenty-three different jobs. At every one of them, the answer had been the same. Sorry, but we're not hiring at the moment. He was near despair.
His ambition of someday designing skyscrapers was beginning to fade. He was lucky to have a job, any kind of job. Half the people with whom he had graduated were unemployed, or worked in an area totally unrelated to architecture. At least he was still at Durring & Durring. He wiped the beads of moisture from his forehead. A frightening thought, one he had vainly tried to brush away for months, now crept into his mind. Three years of studying and working, could they really have been for nothing?
The phone rang and Alex was startled out of his morose thoughts. He hesitated and glanced at the clock on the table. It was nearly five. In another hour, he would leave for work. He let the phone ring again. The last thing he wanted was to listen to some girl demanding to know why he had not called her back. The ringing continued. Exasperated, he picked up the receiver. “Yes,” he answered gruffly.
“This is the Frost Placement Center,” the voice said. “There is an opening for a junior at William Brandon & Company. Would you be interested in applying?”
Interested? What an understatement. His fears of a moment ago quickly disappeared. “Of course I'm interested.” He scribbled down the details and hung up. This is it. I can feel it, he thought, as he did every time he had an interview. I don't care what kind of work they do. Just let me get in.
* * *
The brass plate on the outside of the elegant brownstone read, 'William Brandon & Company, Architecture & Design.' Alex wiped his palms against his trousers and pushed the door open.
The reception area was luxuriously decorated. High white ceilings with ornate moldings contrasted sharply with the deep sable of the silk covered walls. The gentle strains of a Beethoven concerto played softly from the large Marconi radio cabinet in the corner. Alex noticed every opulent detail. He closed the door quietly and walked in.
At the front desk, the receptionist called Brandon's secretary. The stunning young blonde arrived a moment later and greeted Alex with a pleasant smile. “May I help you?” Her crisp blue linen dress, with the fitted waist and flared skirt, looked expensive. Alex wondered if the gold and diamond pin she wore was real. She discretely looked him up and down and he became aware of his own well-worn suit, which he’d bought years ago.
“I have an appointment with William Brandon,” he said and wondered if he looked as nervous as he felt.
“Please be seated. I'll let him know you're here.” She disappeared down the hall, her high heels silent on the thick wall-to-wall carpet.
Alex sank into one of the leather chairs and inspected the rest of his surroundings. In front of him, a row of shelves held an assortment of plaques for various honors in architectural design. On the coffee table was a miniature scale model of a large residential development project, and on the wall facing the entrance was a large original by Monet. William Brandon must be a rich man.
The blonde reappeared. “He will see you now.”
Alex followed her down a long and narrow hall. Through open doors along the way, he glimpsed countless house plans. Some were pinned to walls. Others were rolled and stacked in corners. More were spread open on drafting tables. Workers leaned over sketches, drawing and measuring. Hell, there must be a hundred projects going on here. There is bound to be something for me.
“Right in here.” She stopped and gestured him into a luxurious mahogany paneled room.
Alex strode in and found himself facing a florid, heavyset man sitting behind an elegant partner's desk. His suit looked expensive, but did not entirely conceal his thick waistline. His hair was graying, receding, and combed from back to front and back again in a vain attempt to hide a bald spot. His jaw was set, betraying a lifelong habit of being in control.
Alex felt his anxiety rise.
“I'm William Brandon. You wanted to see me?”
“I'm pleased to meet you Mister Brandon. I'm Alex Ivanov.” He paused. The man looked at him with a blank expression on his face. “I'm here for the job interview?”
The jaw softened and the lips parted in an apologetic smile. “I'm terribly sorry, but we've already hired someone.” The man shook his head in dismissal.
Alex wanted to cry. For a moment, his expression betrayed his disappointment, and then he forced himself to look composed and confident. “As long as I'm here, would you mind taking a look at my resume? You never know; you'll probably be hiring again soon.”
“I'm sorry, I forgot about your interview. The agency should have called and canceled your appointment.” There was no stop between comments, no invitation to shake hands. Brandon continued in a rush. “I'm afraid I won't be able to give you any time. Miss Turner, don't I have another appointment?”
Alex held his breath and threw Miss Turner a pleading look.
“You have a meeting with the building committee, sir.” Her eyes met Alex's and she hesitated. “But that’s not for another half hour,” she added innocently.
“Thank you. That will be all Miss Turner.” The door closed behind her. William Brandon took a cigar from the silver box on his desk. He rummaged for a moment through his pocket and pulled out a heavy gold DuPont lighter. The flame shot up and he took a series of short puffs. The entire procedure took a long minute, during which the young man waited patiently. Brandon tapped the end of the cigar in the ashtray. “Is that your resume?”
Alex had rarely been greeted so unenthusiastic. He handed his C.V. to Brandon, who skimmed through it.
“I see you have no experience.”
“True, but if you look at my college grades, you'll see that I was consistently at the top of my class.”
Brandon's eyebrows furrowed. “That's not exper
ience,” he insisted.
“Experience has to start somewhere.” Alex spoke calmly, an easy manner covering his nervousness.
“What kind of architecture are you most interested in?”
“I'm interested in every type of architecture. I'm good, I'm bright, and I'm willing. Whatever I don't know, I'll learn.”
William Brandon closed the C.V. and handed it back. He looked at this Alex Ivanov more closely. The young man was obviously intelligent. His grades certainly attested to that. There was strength about him. Brandon guessed that along with his obviously strong will, the man also had ambition. He liked that. It almost made him rethink his decision to hire the other candidate.
“Mister Ivanov, you strike me as a good candidate. If I needed another employee in my firm, I would hire you. Truth is, I am a businessman and I cannot logically hire and pay for an employee I don't need. Leave your name and number with my secretary on your way out. Next time there's an opening, I'll make a point of asking for you.”
Alex saw his chance disappearing. There had to be a way of turning things around. “Sir, if you're a business man, then let me make you a deal.”
Bill Brandon leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “This I have to hear.”
Alex took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Let me work here for two weeks without pay. At the end of that time if you still feel that your company does not need me, I will leave. If you like the work I do, hire me at whatever level you choose.”
William Brandon burst into laughter. “I've got to hand it to you; you really have a lot of guts. I could take your offer and work you like a dog for two weeks, without any intention whatsoever of keeping you.”
“That's a chance I'm prepared to take.”
William Brandon picked up his cigar again and took another series of short puffs. “I think you ought to know that I demand a lot from my people,” he said. “The hours here are long and the pay isn't great until a man proves himself.”
“Sounds fair to me, sir. I'm not afraid of hard work.”
“On the other hand, when someone does good work, I don't hold him back. Hell, I built my company on the talent of good men. Talent is the foundation of this company—talent and honest to goodness hard work.”
“I don't mind sir. I can work hard, and I know I can do well.” He felt like a schoolchild, repeating the same thing over and over.
“…next Monday morning at eight,” Alex heard Brandon say. Suddenly the interview was over and Alex was shaking the older man's hand.
“Do you mean I'm hired?”
“Hell yes,” replied the big man is his booming voice. “How can I refuse free help?”
I'm hired! He could hardly believe it. He had barely said three words. Brandon was obviously impressed with him. Outside Brandon's office, he gave Miss Turner his most glowing smile. “I'm hired,” he told her.
She laughed and gave him a thumbs up.
He walked out into the sunshine, filled with a sense of euphoria. He could already imagine himself a full partner. Brandon & Ivanov, Architecture & Design. There was a certain ring to it.
* * *
Chapter 10
The first wave of pain came suddenly. She looked down at herself and noticed a fine thread of crimson snaking its way through the warm sudsy bath water. Horrified, she jumped up. Mon Dieu! Blood streamed down her legs. Again, a stab of pain went through her body, this time followed by an overpowering urge to push. Push! Push hard! Harder! The voice seemed to come from inside her head. Slowly, in a wave of agony, the baby made its way through the birth canal until it slipped out from between her legs. Brigitte plucked it out of the water quickly and looked down at it. In her arms was a pulsating mass of bleeding tissue. You did this to your child… You did this… The voice echoed in her mind, while from far away, she heard a child’s shrill crying.
Brigitte woke with a start. For a moment she could still hear the child wailing, and then she realized that the strangled sound came from her own mouth. It's a nightmare, just a nightmare. Yet it had seemed so horribly real. She huddled under the blankets and closed her eyes. Immediately her mind wandered back to the deformed creature of her nightmare. Minute by minute, the dark hours ticked by while she lay awake trembling. Over and over she repeated the same prayer. Please let this child be healthy. If there is a God in heaven, please let my baby be all right. There was no question about it anymore. She loved her unborn child, more than she could ever have believed possible. How will I ever find the strength to give my child away? she wondered suddenly frightened.
Morning came, gray and rainy. Brigitte watched from her window as the people rushed about on the wet streets below. Everybody seems to have things to do and places to go except me. What kind of a life do I have? I'm living in a cage. I am still a prisoner. Then she thought of Marcel. She had to give him credit for coming to her rescue, and though she regretted not being able to see her friends, it was a small price to pay for his help. Rather than sit here and worry about my future, I have to do something, find some way to keep busy. Otherwise, I'll go crazy.
She grabbed her raincoat and umbrella from the closet and set out for a walk. For hours, she wandered around with the rain beating down on her. She trudged on until she found herself in front of the Louvre.
* * *
The Louvre was France’s most famous and venerable museum. Among the thousands of priceless art works on display were paintings by Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Degas, Monet, Picasso, Renoir, and countless others. Brigitte stood in front of the portrait of l'Enfant Marguerite by Velsquez, awestruck. Every detail was perfection, from the luster of the rich brocade, to the detail of the child's hands. Never in her life had Brigitte seen anything so magnificent and so touching.
Hours later, Brigitte was roused from her spell when a guard came by. “Madame, visiting hours are over,” he said.
Brigitte looked up, startled. She had never been addressed as Madame before, but with her lightly swollen belly, she realized it was probably normal. “I'm so sorry. I didn't realize how late it was.” She stood and pulled on her coat.
“No apology needed. Have a good evening.” The guard tipped his hat to her and watched appreciatively as the attractive girl walked away.
That night Brigitte's dreams were filled with images of the many wonderful paintings she had seen, and in her dreams, she felt peaceful and happy. The next morning when she awoke, she had the irresistible urge to return to the Louvre. When it opened, she was the first in line.
“Bonjour Madame,” called out the burly security guard as Brigitte rushed through the entrance and up the stairs.
“Bonjour monsieur,” she called back and waved.
“You're here again today. Don't tell me there are still some paintings you did not see.”
Brigitte laughed. “Maybe I'm planning a robbery. You'll have to keep your eye on me.”
“Keeping an eye on you, Madame, will be a real pleasure,” answered the guard. He watched as Brigitte rushed ahead, in a hurry to get to the impressionist wing. Though in her sixth month of pregnancy, her skin glowed and she looked radiant.
Within minutes Brigitte was once again transported into a world of beauty. This time a garden scene by Monet captured her fancy. For hours she stood entranced by it. Just imagine, she thought, the joy an artist must feel, creating such beauty. How I would love to be able to produce something as magnificent as that. She remembered the joy drawing used bring her so many years ago. Perhaps I could try painting for a hobby.
* * *
Hélène Richoux walked into Richoux's department store like a general inspecting troops. She wore a brown Christian Dior front-buttoned dress for which she had paid a small fortune. On her ears dangled a pair of drop pearl earrings worth a king's ransom. A brown mink wrap was draped over her narrow shoulders in a way she thought was casual and chic. Instead, Hélène Richoux looked frumpy. It was one of her life’s tragedies, that no matter how much money she spent, she always managed to look like a maid in her emplo
yer's finery.
“Bonjour Madame Richoux,” called out a sales girl.
As the woman marched through the cosmetics department to the elevator, the greetings continued. “Madame Richoux, bonjour.”
She walked briskly, nodding occasionally to a few of the senior employees. She stepped into the elevator. The uniformed operator, a pleasant gray-haired man, greeted her politely and immediately pushed the button to the fourth floor. The brass cage climbed slowly until it came to a bouncing stop on the executive floor. She glared at the old man and stepped out hurriedly. Moments later she stormed into Jeanne's office.
Jeanne looked up from her Olivetti. Uh, oh, trouble.
“Where is Marcel?” demanded Madame Richoux in a tone meant to intimidate. Instead she sounded nasal and whiney. “I have just had the most frightening experience in my life. Tell me why in the world Simon is still working here? He should be retired. Hasn't anybody complained about the way he operates the elevator? Where is Marcel? I want him to fire that man immediately.”
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