by Vanda Writer
“Good morning,” Juliana said, exiting the bathroom in her frilliest bathrobe covered with pink and white lace. “Well, look at you.”
I flexed my non-existent muscles and she smiled, pulling me toward her. “You’re a quick study.”
“Did I please you?”
“You know you did.”
“That’s all I want to do, Jule. Please you. I thought maybe we could spend some time in bed before we have to—”
“Come here,” Juliana said, putting her arm around me and guiding me back toward the bed. She sat down on the edge and I sat next to her, worrying about what she was going to say. Something serious. I didn’t want to be serious. Not yet. I didn’t want to think about serious things. I didn’t want to think about the serious things I knew I had to think about. And soon.
“There are some things you wanted to know that I didn’t tell you.”
“You mean about you and Margarite?”
“Sort of.”
My stomach did a somersault. “Can you tell me in bed?”
“I suppose.” She stood and threw off her bathrobe. She wore a silky nightgown that hugged her body.
She climbed into the bed, but I touched her arm. “Could you take your nightgown off too? If you’re going to tell me something bad, I think it’d be easier to take if you don’t have clothes on.”
She laughed, shaking her head as she threw off her nightgown; she climbed into bed and I got in beside her. “I’m afraid,” I told her.
“Of what?”
“Of what you’re going to tell me about you and Margarite. I tried so hard to please you last night, but she’s better and . . .”
She put a finger to my lips. “Shh. Could you stop thinking in those categories for a few minutes?”
“Categories?”
“Good. Bad. Better. Best. I’ve been invited to a party to catch up with some old friends. Friends who go a long way back. Before the war.”
“And Margarite is going to be there, right?”
“I don’t know. I don’t keep track of Margarite’s social calendar. Do you want to come?”
Ecstasy bubbled up in my stomach. “I’d love to go. When is it?”
“Tuesday when I’m not working.”
“That’s good. Tomorrow I’m at the Moulin Rouge to check out their new show, but I haven’t scheduled any business yet for Tuesday, so I’m free too.”
“You might not like this type of party and Al, please, don’t turn yourself inside out trying to make yourself like it. It doesn’t matter to me if this isn’t something you want to do.”
“Well, I’d be with you and meeting your friends. How could I not like it?”
“It’s a sex party.”
“Oh.”
“Remember I said I do certain things with Margarite that I don’t do with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Look, you know, I never talk about other people’s private business. I’m only doing this because you felt like I was lying to you and—”
“You’ve been to these parties before? With Margarite? In New York?”
“These kinds of ‘things,’ ‘activities,’ have been around for a long time, but not officially. They only started opening clubs for these ‘games’ in the States within the last ten years. After the war. Clubs like these have been in France a lot longer and some of the GI’s brought the ideas back to the US. Most of them are for straights and some extremely secret ones are for homosexual men. But a few people have parties in their homes that accommodate gay girls.”
“And you’ve gone to these parties? Participated? In France and New York?”
“Occasionally. Not a lot.”
“I can’t believe this. How could you?”
“I knew you’d react like this. That’s why I haven’t told you. You’re shocked and upset.” She grabbed her robe and got out of the bed.
“No. I’m fine. Tell me. What kinds of party games are usually planned at these gatherings?” I plastered a big phony smile on my face as if she couldn’t see through it.
“You don’t need to know about this. Let’s go to the zoo this afternoon.”
“The zoo? Like I’m ten?”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant . . . The Louvre. We could—”
“Please, Jule, tell me about this party. I won’t be shocked. For Pete’s sake, I run a club in New York City. I hear and see lots of disgusting things all the time. I just don’t participate. I go home instead. I was thinking about your career. If it ever got out that you—”
“You were not thinking of my ‘career.’ You were shocked and you had that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“The one you get when you’re disappointed in me. That look of horror, the one that says, ‘Oh, Julie, how could you?’ It makes me feel awful. You’re so good and I can’t be.”
“I’m not good. You just don’t know in what ways I’m not good. But I’m not. Tell me what you do with Margarite.”
“And you won’t give me that face?”
“Not if you take off your robe and come back to bed with me.” She let the robe fall and we both crawled under the covers. “So, tell me,” I said, facing her, my head supported by the flat of my hand and my elbow. “I won’t make any faces.”
“Do you know about things like voyeurism and exhibitionism?”
“Of course. Voyeurs are those creepy guys who go around peeking in women’s windows trying to see them undress. You know, Peeping Toms. And exhibitionists are those sick ones who go up to nice girls in parks and subways and show them their privates.”
“Well, those are some examples. But there are others. You see, there are some people who are discrete and decent who would never want to hurt or impose themselves on anyone, people who have the kinds of urges that ‘nice’ people don’t think are so nice. At a party like this, they can play games and indulge their fantasies and . . . urges without upsetting the ‘nice’ people.”
“Well, what do they do?”
“An exhibitionist might, say, for instance, if she were a woman, she might undress while others watch her.”
“A woman would do that? In front of polite company? You mean Margarite—” I slapped a hand to my mouth, took a deep breath, wiped my look of horror off with my hand, and smiled pleasantly. “Oh, how interesting. And tell me, would a woman who was an exhibitionist be likely to take off her clothes while in the parlor with other guests who are on the sofa enjoying their cheese and baguettes?”
“She might.”
“How illuminating.” I said, struggling to hold my facial expression in neutral. “And that would have no ill effect on the other guests’ appetites?”
“Well, it depends on what you mean by appetite. If the other guests are voyeurs, they would enjoy it quite a bit.”
“I see.” The scene of that girl, Ethel, who auditioned for me the time Lucille played the piano, flipped through my mind. She stripped down to nothing right in the club and I hadn’t minded watching her. Well, if I were going to be honest with myself, I kind of liked it. If I hadn’t been afraid of getting caught or killed—that was a pretty big knife she was dancing with—I probably would’ve let her continue her dance. Did that make me a voyeur? “Is that all?” I asked. “That doesn’t seem so bad.”
“Some people like to be tied up or have a blindfold placed over their eyes when having sex. There are others who enjoy having their clothes torn off by their partner or perhaps a stranger; others prefer being bent over a chair or a lap and having their bare behind spanked or lightly whipped. And there are those—”
“In front of everyone?”
“You see? You’re doing it again. You can’t help yourself. It’s your upbringing. It’s all right.” She started out of bed.
&n
bsp; I grabbed her arm. “Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad at you, Al. I wish I knew how to get you to understand that. I’m not asking you to change a thing. I’m simply asking you for my right to be who I am.” She took in a breath. “Right now, I am a little frustrated because you keep asking me to tell you something you don’t want to know. Let’s go have breakfast. I know a pleasant little bistro near here where—”
“All right, all right, maybe I am a little shocked. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel a little excited too by what you’re telling me.”
“Do you?”
I took a deep breath. “Yeah. A lot. I think we should go to that party.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Magnificent,” Juliana mused, taking a sip of her Blanc de Blanc. We were looking out at Notre Dame from a window six floors up in La Tour d’Argent, the oldest restaurant in Paris, founded way back in the sixteenth century. It was also one of the most expensive restaurants in Paris. I couldn’t help thinking of such things. The place was dripping in elegance with waiters running around in black ties and tails and the tables set with fine china and Christofle silverware. Our drinks were served in Waterford Crystal stemware and all the tables had different hand-blown glass ducks from Murano, Italy. Our particular duck had outstretched wings colored in a translucent violet. It was truly exquisite, a small piece of art from an unknown artist sitting right on our table.
Juliana looked lovely in her Jacques Fath sleek black dress with the scoop neckline; it hugged every curve of her body. She set the ensemble off with matching opera gloves and a wide-brimmed hat. She caught every male eye, and some female, as she sat there simply sipping her drink and musing at the view. Me? I don’t know how “lovely” I looked. I just put on the dress Juliana said would be right for this place. A silky one with blue and red flowers—I was too distracted to pay attention to which designer—and red, open-toed heels. Oh, but such a view of the city we had, sitting above it all. The sun was still bright.
“Jule, do you ever wonder if you deserve all this?”
“All what?”
“All this. The view. The elegance of this place. The prices.”
“Well, if you’re worrying about the cost, tonight’s on me.”
“Thanks, but I didn’t mean that. Sitting here makes me think of all the people who can’t sit in our seats and take in this view or eat the food we’re going to eat. Some may be lucky to get any food. Do you ever think about that?”
“No. I guess I take it all for granted. I’ve always had it, so I always expect it.”
I think that was the biggest difference between Jule and me. She expected it always to be there and I knew how easily it could slip away. Was it slipping away now? Today? Could Schuyler make all this wealth and beauty disintegrate in one brief moment? “My father worked in a gas station,” I said to Jule, “from early morning to the end of the day.”
“I know. You’ve told me.”
“He hardly ever had a day off. Came home exhausted and poured himself into bed. During the Depression, he took any odd job he could get and every time they let him go, he felt ashamed. Mom tried to work, but . . . well, I told you she was sick, something with her mind.”
“Is everything all right, Al?”
“You know during the depression, if employers found out a woman was married, they wouldn’t hire her. They’d yell at her for trying to take a job away from a man. When a woman lied and said she wasn’t married when she was, employers looked down on her for not doing what women were supposed to do. My mother wasn’t strong enough to take any of that.”
“Has something happened?” Juliana asked “Are you worried about your parents? Is that why you’re talking about this now?”
I kept staring out at Notre Dame, getting lost in its gargoyled walls. “You know, people don’t talk about the women who roamed the country during the Depression in search of work, eating out of garbage cans, sometimes getting raped. They write songs about the men and how they suffered during those times and they did. I’m not denying that, but where are the songs for the women who were hopping those same freight trains? Nobody even knows about them.”
“Lady hobos is an interesting topic, but why are you talking about them now? We’re sitting in this lovely old restaurant, with a splendid view.”
“Yes, but for how long?”
“Excuse me?”
“Everything is fleeting, but you’re right. It all is so terribly beautiful. So beautiful it hurts my heart.” I took a few sips of my chardonnay and sighed as I stared down at the Seine flowing past Notre Dame.
“Juliana, Juliana,” a trim man in an excellent three-piece suit called, hurriedly approaching our table.
“Claude,” Juliana called back, rising to greet him. The two hugged and planted kisses on each other’s cheeks. They excitedly rattled off French words that I didn’t have a hope of deciphering. Juliana turned to me and, speaking too distinctly in English, I gathered for Claude, said, “Alice Huffman, let me present Monsieur Claude Terrill, the owner of this restaurant.” We shook hands, and Juliana and Claude went back to rattling off a string of sounds that made no sense to me.
“I haven’t seen him in ages, Juliana told me as she sat down again. “Ever since the war. His father was still living when I was last here. Claude’s a brave man. When he was a boy, twenty I think, the Nazis stomped through this magnificent edifice thinking they could have culture simply by taking it, but never endeavoring to incorporate it into their inner beings, the fabric of their souls. One of Goering’s men stormed in here demanding to see the wine cellar. The Nazis took away 80,000 bottles and I imagine, thought themselves very smart. They didn’t know Claude had single-handedly built a brick wall where he had hidden a remaining 20,000 bottles. That became the basis of the huge collection they have now. In Paris, a good wine collection is much like a good art collection, and often as valuable. He fought in Le Cleric’s Free French Division, you know. A brave man.”
“You know a lot of people here.”
“It’s my home.”
“Is it more your home than the US?”
She stared out the window, considering the question. “No,” she said simply and picked up her glass, finishing the last of her Blanc de Blanc. “Drink up. Claude is having the sommelier bring over a bottle of their best champagne.”
“That’ll cost a fortune.”
Juliana shook her head. “It’s a gift. You sound like Shirl. I wonder what’s keeping Scott?”
“He went over to the American Express office to pick up the mail. He’s hoping for a letter from Max. It’s been longer than usual and he’s worried.”
“International mail can be tricky. I’m sure everything’s okay.”
“That’s what I told him. And Max is running both clubs, so he may be writing fewer letters. I hope he gets here soon. The waiters won’t let us eat without him. I mean, they won’t even give us a dang menu until the “man” gets here, and he’s the only one who gets the menu with the prices on it. Doesn’t it make you mad that our menus won’t have prices on them? Especially since you’re paying.”
“No. We’re women. They’re treating us special. Why should I mind that? I’m sure Scott will be here soon. Why don’t you let yourself relax? Be a tad less American for a few hours. Tonight is to be our night of pleasure.”
I took in a deep breath. “Yes. An excellent idea. I wish I had a cigar.”
“What?”
“It seems to relax Shirl.”
“If I ever catch you—”
I laughed, “I’m joking. I don’t even like cigarettes.” I sat way back in my chair, trying to look relaxed, trying to pretend that I wasn’t a little worried about the sex party we’d be going to later that night.
“I’m concerned you’ll be bored tonight,” Juliana said.
“Bored?” How could I possibly be bored at a sex party. Terrified maybe, but bored?
“Well, most of the people who’ll be there either don’t or won’t speak English. Everyone will be speaking either Italian or French except perhaps—”
“You speak Italian too?”
“My Italian isn’t as good as my French, but I manage. Close your mouth. You’ll catch a fly.”
“Flies at these prices! Gosh, Jule, Italian too. That’s almost obscene.”
“I needed it to sing Italian opera, and my mother and I often took our holidays in Milan when I was a child so . . .”
“Being an American is important too, you know,” I said a little too forcefully. “And so is speaking English.”
“I am an American and I do speak English.”
“I just wanted to remind you.” I drank down the last of my wine. I’d miss white wine when we went home. It wasn’t so easy to get in the States.
“Madam.” The garçon stood near Juliana with a telephone in his hands. “You have a call.”
“Merci, monsieur,” Juliana said, taking the phone from him. I knew it couldn’t be Richard. The garçon had brought the house phone. If not Richard, then who? Richard usually called around this time. We generally left our destination at the hotel desk, so he could track us down. Juliana spoke French into the phone. Her voice and face became increasingly more animated as the call progressed. I wasn’t sure if it was anger or something else. When she hung up, her eyes had a blank sheen that I couldn’t read.
“Who was that?”
The garçon returned and removed the phone.
“My brother.”
“Your what? You never told me you had one of those.” I vaguely recalled years ago when Juliana had gone off to join the troops at the front, Shirl had said something about there being a brother in France.
“Yes.” Juliana’s forehead wrinkled in thought and she seemed far away.