Later that evening, she looked at the three suitcases lined up against the wall. How appropriate, she thought. I came here with almost nothing, and now I'm leaving the same way. She picked up the telephone. “Hello. I'd like a taxi please.”
Half an hour later, the cab was there. The driver helped her put the suitcases into the trunk and held the door open for her. “Where to, lady?” he asked when she climbed in.
“Ninety-Nine Avenue du Seigneur,” she told him and leaned back in her seat.
“That's in Montmartre, isn't it?” he asked.
“That's right, in Montmartre.” She leaned back into the worn vinyl seat, completely exhausted. As the car pulled away, she turned for a last glimpse of the luxurious building she was leaving behind.
* * *
Secure in the knowledge that she needed him more than he needed her, Marcel waited for Brigitte to call. She's pregnant and I am her only source of income. She'll call, he told himself. Every morning, he hurried to the office and asked Jeanne for his messages. There were messages from suppliers, from the store managers and from clients, but none from Brigitte. How long is she going to wait? he asked himself in dismay. Days went by and still there was no call. Slowly, it dawned on him that she might never want to see him again. If she thinks I am going to continue paying for that apartment, she's dreaming.
One week later Marcel had had enough. After work one night, he drove over and burst into the apartment in a rage. “Brigitte,” he called out. There was no answer, only an eerie silence. Then he noticed that the easel was gone. He stood in the entrance in shock, refusing to believe the obvious. He ran from room to room, flinging open closet doors. They were all empty. “Brigitte!” he called out, his voice almost a roar.
“Are you looking for someone?”
He turned at the sound of the familiar voice. In the doorway was Hélène with a small bitter smile on her thin lips. “I hope the screwing that whore gave you,” she said, sounding victorious, “was worth the screwing I'm about to give you.”
Marcel felt the blood drain out of him. “Hélène, I can explain.”
She laughed and her joy sounded ominous. “Don't bother Marcel. I have all the explanation I need.”
Helplessly, Marcel watched as Hélène turned and walked out of his life, taking with her his entire future as director of Richoux.
* * *
In her office one week later, Jeanne read the business section of Le Monde. The headlines that morning were, “Hélène Richoux becomes CEO of Richoux stores.” Underneath, in smaller letters, the story went on to tell of Marcel Latreille's dismissal after years of service and of the couple's sudden breakup.
Jeanne crumpled up the newspaper and threw it into the garbage. “Serves him right!” she muttered to herself. “Now if that old bag has any brains, she'll put me in charge of this store.”
“Did you say something, dear?” From the doorway Madame Richoux watched her with a small, self-satisfied smile. Jeanne froze. Hélène continued, her voice saccharine sweet. “My dear, would join me in my office? I'm afraid I have some bad news for you.”
Numb with sudden fear, Jeanne followed the woman into the mahogany paneled office.
Hélène pulled out an envelope from her briefcase and abruptly handed it to Jeanne.
“Wh-what is this?” asked Jeanne.
“That is your severance pay. You have been with the company for a long time, and that is why I'm generously giving you two month’s salary as compensation.”
Jeanne was aghast. “B-but…” she stammered, trying to think of something intelligent to say. “I-I'm invaluable to…”
Hélène shrugged. “Everybody is expendable, my dear. I suggest you leave now. You have just been fired.”
* * *
Brigitte's new apartment in Montmartre could not have been any more different from the one she had just left. The main room was the size of the kitchen she'd had on George V. In it was an old ice box and a double burner, a couch, a small table and a few wobbly chairs. The only other room was what would have been the bedroom, if she could have afforded a bed. I don't need more than this, she thought. I can sleep on the couch. Since she had moved into her new home, she felt stronger and happier than ever. Life would not be easy, she knew, but she also knew that she would manage somehow.
She threw herself into her project. She had a home to make for herself, and after paying for the first two month’s rent, she only had a few thousand francs left. It was more than enough to live comfortably until her baby was born. After that… God only knew how she would survive.
I'll find a way, she told herself optimistically. She used her imagination and came up with dozens of inexpensive ideas to decorate the apartment. A lace table cloth from the flea market dressed the small window, hiding from view the battered brick wall across the alley. She painted the walls a sunny shade of yellow and covered them with her own paintings. On the old couch, she threw a bright floral sheet, then stood back to study the results. The small room looked warm and inviting.
As soon as she settled in, Brigitte set up the easel in a corner of the main room and began to paint. More and more lately, the baby moved inside of her, kicking sharply at a spot just under her ribs. Somehow, as uncomfortable as it was, the sensation felt oddly reassuring. “You're a healthy little one, aren't you?” she asked the child. She dreaded the moment she would have to give him over to the adoption agency. For months now, she had kept the number of the agency Director Swanson had given her. She still kept putting off making the call.
Standing in front of her easel, she carefully leaned forward as much as her protruding stomach would allow. She picked up her palette and dipped her brush delicately into the vermilion red, then lathered it into the ochre yellow. She cautiously applied the resulting color to the canvas.
“Merde!” she exclaimed impatiently. No matter how she tried, the results were not what she wanted. In a sudden surge of anger she struck out at the canvas with her brush. Again and again she slashed on the paint. Then, her frustration relieved, she threw the brush into the jar of cloudy turpentine.
This is absolutely crazy, she told herself. She wiped her hands on the paint covered rag reserved for that purpose and strode away. I am not an artist. Whatever possessed me to think I could paint? From across the room she glared at the ruined painting. From where she stood, the angry streaks on the canvas seemed to jump out. Those few splashes of color looked more alive than anything she had ever painted.
She stared in amazement. That's the kind of vibrancy I want to put into my work, she thought. Slowly, she walked back to the easel. Maybe that's what I'm doing wrong. I'm being too careful, too timid. She picked up her brush again, wiped off the turpentine and this time purposely slashed the paint onto the canvas with strong, bold strokes. This is more like it!
Brigitte's brush flew across the canvas. In minutes, flowers sprang to life and blooms exploded with color. The painting was no longer an insipid little still life. Instead, the result was exciting, wildly alive foliage. Intoxicated with the thrill of discovery, she worked for hours. Only long after the light from the window had disappeared did she notice it was night. Exhausted, but exhilarated, she stepped away from her finished work. At last she had a painting she was proud of. At that moment, the first contraction came. It shot through her like a knife and left her breathless. A few moments later she felt another and she thought, It's time.
* * *
Chapter 11
The following Monday, promptly at eight, Alex arrived at work fresh and eager to start his new career. At the entrance, another young man greeted him. His name was Andrew McGregor. He was short, no more than five-foot-six, but built like a brick wall. His brown hair was curly and a multitude of freckles covered his face.
“So you're the new guy. I don't know what you said during your interview but you sure made some impression.”
“Why do you say that?” Alex asked, his interest awakened.
Andrew looked at him intently. “
The word is out you got your job by offering to work for free. So for the next two weeks, you are going to bust your ass making a good impression and at the end of that time, there is a good chance Brandon will hire you. Then what will you do? Don't even think of going after my job.” Andrew's handshake was crushing. “Welcome to William Brandon and Company,” he added, his tone only slightly friendlier than his words.
They went to the basement through a flight of narrow stairs, and Alex found himself in a large, cavernous room. There were building plans everywhere. A dozen or so cafeteria-type tables lined the walls. At each one, a worker sketched, hunched over a drawing under the glare of large fluorescent lights.
“The guys call this Purgatory,” McGregor said. “But maybe it would be more realistic to call it Hell. All the boring work gets done down here.” At Alex's expression of surprise he explained “That's what you'll do, drudgery, until God,” he pointed to the ceiling, “decides you're worthy of more important work.”
“I take it William Brandon is God.”
“You're a fast learner,” he replied with a glint of sarcasm in his eyes. “Maybe you'll move up fast. Hey everybody, this is Alex Ivanov.”
“Hi Alex. Nice to meet you.” A thin man in horn-rimmed glasses introduced himself as Joey.
“Welcome to the group, I'm Ben.” The introductions continued.
Alex shook hands with everyone, and then Andrew directed him to a corner of the room. There he picked up a stack of plans from a table and piled them onto a chair. Alex's eyes lit up.
“This is where you'll be working. Your job will be to go through this.” Andrew pointed to the stack of mail at the other end of the table. “Sort these. Go through the junk, keep whatever might be useful, and deliver the letters to whomever they are addressed. If you need coffee, the percolator is over there. Lunch is at twelve, you can take forty-five minutes, and at five you're out of here.” He turned to leave.
“Wait a minute,” said Alex. Andrew turned back. “This isn't what I was hired for. This is secretarial work.”
“Hey, if I remember correctly, there was no job description attached to your offer. Shall I tell Brandon you don't want to do it?” A few of the men chuckled. Andrew walked away and a few steps further he called out, “Like I said. Welcome to Purgatory.”
Alex sat down and pushed the mail to one side of the desk. For the rest of the morning he sorted flyers and catalogues from countless construction supply companies and carefully filed them under various categories. There were files for lumber, files for plumbing, and others for electrical wiring. The list was non-ending and Alex had to decide which information was worth keeping and which was not. In the end, he relied on an infallible method. Eenie…meenie…minie…mo… Shut up and work, Alex admonished himself. Two days ago, you were willing to take anything. Well, looks like anything is what you got.
At twelve noon, all work stopped instantly. Workers put away their pencils, rolled up their plans and stacked them, then disappeared as if by magic. Within seconds, the place was empty.
“Want to go for lunch?” Andrew McGregor stood beside Alex, a smirk on his freckled face.
The cafeteria was a crowded room with one long narrow table and a shortage of chairs. People sat on the floor, on windowsills, wherever they could.
As soon as Andrew walked in, a few men stood and walked toward the back of the room. “Have a seat,” said Andrew motioning to two of the unoccupied chairs. “Did you bring your lunch?” he asked as he opened a brown paper bag and pulled out its contents.
Alex's stomach rumbled. “No, I didn't think of it.”
“Don't worry about it. Here.” He grabbed one of his own sandwiches and set it on the table in front of Alex. “I always bring too much food anyhow.”
“Thanks.” Alex bit into the thick chicken and lettuce sandwich with pleasure. He watched the way the other men seemed to defer to Andrew. “So, how long have you been with the company?”
“Long enough,” Andrew replied. “How are you enjoying it so far?”
“I didn't go to college to learn filing. But I'll do it for as long as I have to.”
“Listen Alex, let me give you a piece of advice. Don't expect any big projects to land in your lap. Even if Brandon hires you—which he may not—you're going to be staying right where you are for a good long time.” There was a hint of the earlier edginess in Andrew's voice. “Let me put it to you this way. If there's any promotion being handed out around here, there are a few people in line before you.”
“I guess that's up to Brandon to decide, don't you think?” asked Alex. Andrew glared at him and Alex decided it was time to change the subject. “Want another coffee? I'll get it for you.”
Back in the office, Andrew made a point of repeating, word for word, his conversation with Alex. “So what do you think guys? Maybe we should place a bet on how fast Alex takes over this company.” A few of the men chuckled. Alex did not. Go ahead, laugh. While you go around wasting time trying to intimidate me, I'll be working on more important things.
Halfway through the afternoon Alex finished sorting the mail and asked for something else to do. “Go see Anne Turner. She has tons of files that need sorting.”
Alex found her in the small office adjoining William Brandon's. It was a pretty office. The walls were a soft shade of blue. On her desk was the picture of a woman and two children.
Her sister, thought Alex, noting the resemblance. African violets bloomed in a white ceramic pot on the windowsill. Anne looked up at him expectantly.
“I was told you have files that need to be sorted.”
“You're filing?” She sounded surprised. “Does Andrew McGregor have anything to do with this?”
Alex nodded.
“Well, I'm sure it won't last forever. Sometimes Andrew can be a jerk. He likes to think he's the boss.” She led him to large file cabinet and pulled open the top drawer.
“What happens if I tell him to fuck off?”
“Have you ever heard of Daniel McGregor?”
Alex recognized the name as one a well-respected architect. “Sure, who hasn’t?”
“Andrew is his son.” She pulled a thick stack of files and handed them to Alex. “Brandon and Daniel McGregor have been friends for a long time.”
Alex shrugged. “Hey, I love filing, right?” The rest of the day went by in a blur of envelopes.
The next day, Alex went to the accounting department to fill out his employment form. The accountant, a bored looking man with coke-bottle glasses, took back the sheet of paper Alex handed to him and jotted down a few words. “Mister Brandon said to let you know that you are on salary as of now,” he said.
Great! Alex cleared his throat. “Can you can tell me what my salary will be?”
“Sure. Let me check your file.” He came back a moment later with another form. “Here you go,” he said and handed the sheet to Alex.
Alex looked at the figure on the sheet. What? This is less than I make at Durring and Durring. He had been working the night shift with the company for nearly four years and his salary, already high because of the time-and-a-half nightshift rate, had grown to comfortable wages. I definitely have to get a promotion. I can't afford to work for so little. In the meantime, he had no choice but to keep his night job. The good news is that I can bank my entire Brandon and Company salary.
Since leaving Brooklyn four years ago, he had sent a check to his mother every month. Not once had he ever heard a word of thanks or even received a note from her. The day I stop sending her money is the day I’ll hear from her. In the meantime, slowly, gradually, through careful spending and consistent thriftiness, his savings grew. Now, with the extra income, his bank account would grow even faster. And someday, when he had enough money…
Later that same afternoon, Sol Goldstein, one of the senior architects, came downstairs. He looked around until he spotted Alex and walked over. “Brandon asked me to give you this. He wants you to work on these revisions. Do you think you can handle it?�
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“Can I handle it?” Alex exclaimed. He grabbed the roll of plans and spread them out on the table.
A few tables away, Andrew looked up from his work. “Hey, what's that?”
“A project for Alex to do,” replied Goldstein firmly.
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