Paris, Adrift

by Vanda Writer

  “We gotta go, Jule.”

  “Yes, yes, I think you’re right.”

  But before we could turn back to the car, a drunken man sprang into the open and pulled at the skirt of Juliana’s dress, laughing. She jerked herself away.

  “Let’s go.” I wanted to grab her, but if they saw how I was dressed, there was no telling what they’d do.

  “Yes, let’s go.” Juliana was about to run.

  “Don’t run,” I told her. “That makes you look scared.”

  “I am.”

  “Keep smiling,” I whispered to her. I turned back toward them and waved. “Au revoir. Au revoir.”

  Some of them waved back. I could hear the drunken man’s steps crunching against the pieces of cobblestone behind us. “When we get to the car, get in as fast as you can.”

  “Al, I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared before in my life.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of you. Keep walking easy, like you’re strolling along the Seine. Au revoir,” I called again and got a chorus of “au revoirs” back in return. I took a quick look behind me to see where that drunk guy was. He fell down, got up again, and swayed toward us, getting closer. I guided Jule over to the driver’s side door without touching her. As I had my hand on the door handle ready to pull it open, the drunken guy grabbed Juliana’s shoulder. She screamed. I pushed him back and flung open the door, but the guy came at her again; he put his arms around her, trying to kiss her. I got behind him, pulling on his shoulders, but I couldn’t budge him. Suddenly this big bruiser guy came out of nowhere and moved me out of the way like I was made of feathers. He pulled the drunken guy off Juliana and pinned both his arms down to his side with one of his massive arms. He walked backwards away from us with the drunk’s feet bobbing up and down over the crumbly road. “Au revoir,” he called, waving at us with his free hand.

  Jule jumped into the car and leaned over the seat to throw open my door for me. I yelled out one last “au revoir” to our savior and hopped in. Jule wasted no time in backing us up to the main road. We didn’t speak until we’d gone a good distance away, but I held my French phrase book near the window, letting the light from the street help me decipher the words I’d seen on the homemade sign: ‘Defense de passer.’ It meant “Keep out.” They sure weren’t kidding.

  Juliana pulled the car over to the side, breathing heavily. We were safe. The lights of Paris once again sparkled around us. “You okay?” I asked her. I wanted so much to take her in my arms.

  “In a minute. I need a minute.” She leaned her forehead on the steering wheel. “Would you get my rosary out of my purse? It’s on top.”

  “Sure.” I opened the purse and took out a small gold case shaped like an octagon. “This?”

  I held the box up and she took it. I’d never seen her with these before. The only rosary I’d ever seen her with was blue with no case; these were a translucent red.

  I waited, watched her as she held them, threading them through her fingers, her eyes closed and I guess praying.

  After some moments, she kissed a few of the beads, letting her lips linger as if trying to suck peace from them. She placed the rosary back into its case and held it out for me. “Thank you.”

  “These are new.”

  “My brother brought them to me tonight. They were my mother’s. You can read the inscription if you want.”

  I turned it over to the bottom. It simply said, ‘To Grace, with my fondest love, John.’ “Grace. That was your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “And John is your . . . ?”

  “No. John is not my father. But he may have been my mother’s murderer. Al, I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through that tonight without you.”

  I slid my hand across the seat and interlaced my fingers with hers.

  I thought, hoped actually, that after all that she’d say she didn’t want to go to the party; I thought perhaps we’d go home and make love.

  She turned the ignition on. “And so off we go. My friends will be wondering what on earth has happened to us. And won’t we have a story to tell?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Well, here we are,” Juliana said, stopping the car at a curb in front of a group of buildings tightly packed together. This neighborhood looked nothing like the one we’d just come from. There were no runaway three-wheeled baby carriages in this neighborhood or people in ragged clothes sitting on stoops. The bricks were dusty, but the curtains that hung in the windows weren’t torn.

  “Down a few doors is my friend Armando’s home. Shall we go?” She took a few steps down the sidewalk, her heels clicking against the cement. I pulled her arm back to stop her. “You mean men are going to be at this party?”

  “Perhaps one or two, but they’ll be gay. They won’t bother you.”

  “Oh.” We walked a little further on until we came to a building with three small steps in front and a door that looked freshly painted. This building wasn’t covered in laundry.

  “Al, you understand,” Juliana said as we stood before the steps, “these people might not be as friendly toward you as we both might like. They might seem abrupt or standoffish. They’re cautious around Americans. Keep in mind they have their reasons and those reasons have nothing to do with you. Luckily, you won’t have the slightest idea of what most of them are saying.”

  As she was about to knock on the door, I grabbed her arm. “Uh, Jule.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re going to do with me what—whatever you do with Margarite. Right?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I do.” I was breathing too fast. Jule turned to knock and I grabbed her arm again.

  “And what—what exactly do you do to Margarite at these parties?”

  “Well, Margarite likes it when I blindfold her, bind her wrists and ankles in handcuffs that are attached to pulleys that come down from the ceiling—that’s so I can get to any part of her body. When I have her bound, I open her clothes. Sometimes I use feathers, other times paddles. Occasionally I use a dildo with her. Ready?” She raised her hand to knock.

  My mouth dropped open into fly-catching position and my heart thundered as we waited for the door to open. “In front of everybody?”

  “Yes. Does that bother you?”

  “Oh, no, no. I’m as sophisticated as she is. More. I’m more sophisticated.”

  “Then shall we?” She knocked.

  The fear of that drunken guy instantly melted, Schuyler became a flimsy, ghost-like image. The immediacy of this party and what would happen to me on the other side of that door was all that enveloped me.

  A maid let us in and took Juliana’s wrap and my long coat. The man I’d seen with Juliana and Margarite in the Montmartre Church/Opera House appeared in the wide foyer to greet us. “Juliana,” he exclaimed with utter joy at seeing her. Instantly, he and Juliana were giving each other those cheek kisses.

  “Armand,” Juliana said, “this is my good friend, Al. Al, this is Armando Vigolio, a brilliant impresario, but in France he is often Armand.”

  Armand kissed the back of my hand and said in his Italian accent, “Charmed, my dear.” His goatee tickled. “Come in, come in. There are many here who die to see you, Julien. And to meet you, precious Al. Julien has told me much of you.”

  Juliana took Armand’s offered arm while he took my hand and we strode into the next room together. “We worried it has been so long that you have not arrived that you became lost. Our roads are changed. Are they not?”

  “We were accosted,” Juliana announced.

  “My dear. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Thanks to Al’s quick thinking. My mind went blank. Al is a genuine heroine.”

  “Not really.”

  “Wel
l, you must come in and tell us your story.”

  “A moment, Armand. There were people. People living in deplorable conditions. Not the slums. We weren’t in the suburbs. Not the Algerians. French men and women. What has happened to my France?”

  “Nothing dear. We are the same and better. We are united; we are rebuilding what the war tore down. Now come, your friends await.”

  As we moved into the next room, Juliana was instantly surrounded by a gaggle of women wearing expensive dresses or suits and ties made of the finest fabrics. I backed away from the crowd to get a good view of the large parlor. The women chattered unfamiliar sounds with only an occasional English word popping out. I’d never seen so many women with short, slicked back hair all in one room before. Other women in dresses that flared around their legs clung to the arms of the mannish looking ones. They’re smoking permeated the room making my eyes burn. There were colorful paintings on the walls and a broad fireplace with a gilded mirror above it. Some women, seemingly more interested in talking to their dates than hearing Juliana’s story, were seated on thickly upholstered brightly colored furniture. All held glasses of something in their hands. Juliana sidled out of the circle to take my hand and introduce me. Since they were doing a lot of oohing and aahing and nodding at me, I figured she was repeating that ridiculous story about me saving her. It was embarrassing. What about the big guy who showed up? What would have happened if he hadn’t come along?

  Not being one for large gatherings, despite all the years I’d spent going to them in pursuit of my career, I gradually slipped from the circle and left Juliana to her friends and found the guy circulating around the room with the drinks. I lifted a reddish-pink thing in a champagne glass from his tray. It was garnished with a lemon peel. When I took my first sip, the thing practically knocked me down.

  “Oui,” Armand said, coming from behind me. “A strong kick. Yes?”

  “You’re not kidding. What is it?”

  “Francais soixante quinze.”

  “I don’t have a hope of ever pronouncing that.”

  “Being Italian, it took me a while to learn to say it too, but it is served in your country. The French 75, they call it. Named so because to drink it makes one feel that they have been shelled by a French 75 mm field gun. Be careful it may be lethal.”

  I thought it might be what I needed to get through this party, so I took another sip. My body became looser, freer, my head fuzzier. I took great pride in watching Juliana poised, conversing in three languages, and flirting. I’d sort of gotten used to her flirting; it was a part of who she was and it was good for business. Still, her flirting was usually reserved for men, and it was Richard who had to cope with his feelings about it. But tonight, she flirted with women. That’s her job, I told myself. Those women will come to the show at the Lido. They’ll get their husbands to write stories about her in the best French magazines. Perhaps they’ll even be a source of investment money at some future time. I mean, she wasn’t really going to do anything with any of them. Was she?

  “This is a beautiful room, Armand.”

  “Merci. I enjoy it myself. I live alone. No paramour with which to share my days. At least, not at this time, but there have been a few, how do you Americans say, young bucks in my day.”

  “I imagine there have been. You’re an attractive man.”

  “Madam, you make me blush. Have you tried the wine?” He held up his own wine glass. “Bordeaux, 1929. A superb year and much gentler than your francais soixante quinze. Delicate to the palate and the digestion.”

  “I’ll be sure to try some before I leave.”

  “You must.”

  “That couch.” I pointed. “A fine piece of furniture. It’s an antique, isn’t it?”

  “You mean the settee. You have excellent taste.”

  “I share an apartment with a connoisseur of fine things.”

  “Then you must tell your friend you saw a genuine antique settee from the Italian Rococo period.”

  “I don’t know anything about furniture. That’s Max’s department. Perhaps you’ve heard of Max’s Mt. Olympus or The Haven. They’re clubs in New York City. Max Harlington owns both.

  “I know them. I love New York cabaret. I have been many times.”

  “Well, Max knows his furniture. And his wine. And his art. And I think he’d love that piece, because even in my ignorance I can see that it’s special: the intricacy of the carved wood around the base, with the cushioning of the maroon velvet seat. Spectacular. Did you buy it or has it been in your family? I hope you don’t mind my asking.”

  “No. Not at all. I appreciate a fellow lover of the finer things of this life. It has been in my family for generations.”

  “Really? I thought the Nazis ran off with all the art, but here in this room it all appears undisturbed.”

  “Uh . . . yes,” Armand said, holding his glass to his lips and taking a big swallow, turning away from me.

  I took another sip of my drink. “So, I guess you’ve known Juliana a long time,” I said.

  “Ever since the Conservertoire. She, I believe, was only sixteen, and I eighteen. I fancied myself the next great Caruso in those days. But I didn’t have—how do you Americans call it—the chops. I didn’t have the chops. I found I was much better on the business side of things, so for a while I had a business in which I collected and sold fine musical instruments—violins, violas, cellos, flutes. I met many people: composers, conductors, performers from all over the world. But my greatest love was the opera. Later I did well as an impresario to a number of successful French opera divas. Perhaps, you’ve heard of Monica Ramblay.”

  “No. Sorry. I go to the opera, of course, when I can, but I’m afraid I don’t know much about it.”

  “Perhaps someday you will.” He lit a Galoise. “I believe you are an impresario like me,” Armand continued.

  I laughed. “No, that’s much too grand a title for what I do. I merely manage talent and organize the money to get the talent where people can see it.”

  “That’s what I said. An impresario. You have done well with Juliana.”

  I debated quickly with myself whether to set him straight by giving Richard the credit. I decided to take the credit I’d earned. Who’d know at a secret sex party in Paris?

  “There was a time that I thought I would put together an opera for Julien,” Armand said. “Ah, but I was much too young and inexperienced, and she ran away from us. But Julien—she has a natural gift. She should never have ceased her opera. A voice like hers is a gift from God.” He crossed himself. “It is a sin not to use it.”

  “She does use it. In the nightclubs.”

  “Ah, but that is not enough. She will not come to her true self until she shares her gift, her true gift, with the world. She must sing opera. It will be her salvation.”

  “Her salvation?”

  “Do you think she is truly happy with half of her heart cut off?”

  “She studies it.”

  “And that is enough?”

  “She says she’s too old to do anything with opera professionally now.”

  “Unfortunately, she’s right about that if we’re talking about singing in the Paris Opera or the Metropolitan in New York, but you’re an ingenious soul. Surely you can come up with some way for her to share her opera with the public.”

  “She says she doesn’t have what it takes. The chops.”

  “Ah, now that’s her mother. Get her mother out of the way and voilá, there will be no one to stop her. Excuse me. I must mingle with my other guests or they will feel slighted. We will speak again soon, oui?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure, oui. I’d like that.”

  The bulk of the guests stood in the center of the room. I heard someone say something in English about the war in Algeria. Some other guests got agitated a
nd spoke in French and Italian with their hands flying all around.

  My eyes wandered over the group looking for Juliana. She was gone. Panicked, I searched the unfamiliar faces making those unfamiliar sounds. She was nowhere. I drank down the last of my francais soixante quinze and spun around, looking for a hallway she might’ve gone down, and fell into a potted plant.

  Armand set me upright. “I warned you to be careful of the francais soixante quinze. A wollop, no?”

  “Juliana. Where is she?” My fingernails dug into the cloth on his shoulders.

  “Answering nature’s call, perhaps?” Armand said. “I doubt there is reason for such alarm. Let me help you to sit.”

  “Gotta find her.” Still hanging onto him, I watched the room dip and sway.

  “She perhaps has ended in the kitchen with Andy.”

  “Andy’s here?”

  “She came in a while ago. You know her?”

  “Where’s the kitchen?” I demanded, as if Armand was trying to keep its location a secret from me.

  “Down that hallway on the left,” he answered calmly.

  My legs and arms flew in different directions, not quite under my control, as I slipped and slid down the hallway and knocked into the walls. I had gotten her away from Margarite—sort of—and now she was hidden in the kitchen with Andy? With me right here waiting to do that awful thing she wanted me to do.

  I skidded into the kitchen, caught a glimpse of Juliana and Andy holding hands at the kitchen table, reached out for the back of Juliana’s chair, missed, and landed on the floor.

  “Al, what on earth are you doing?” Juliana asked.

  I scrambled to my feet. “No. The question is—what are you doing?” I slurred. “I saw you two holding hands when I came in. Don’t deny it. I saw it.”