by Vanda Writer
Richard had stayed for three days. Juliana and he went off both nights to who knew where, and I didn’t get any sleep pacing in my room until they got back. Once they got back, I still couldn’t sleep because I’d be picturing them doing—you know—on the other side of my door. And I didn’t like that picture. Thank God, he finally left and I could get back to the business of trying to see Schuyler without him tailing me.
Yet, after Richard had left, something had changed and it felt strange. I felt closer to Richard than I ever had. I found after all the years we’d worked together that I liked him. But oddly, I didn’t feel guilty about my relationship with his wife. That was a thing apart from the closeness I felt for him. I would never want him to know about us. Oh my gosh, no! But I didn’t feel guilty. Maybe I was a really awful person.
The conductor called out my stop and the bus pulled over in front of a bakery, une boulangerie. I yanked a ticket from my carnet, handed it to him, and got off. I followed the makeshift map the concierge at the hotel had put together for me. I walked down the sidewalk a little ways and crossed over the cobblestone street. The sky was turning an ominous gray. I had a flash of recall: I was alone in the house; I was twelve; lightning pierced the radio and it burst into flames. Ever since then, I was terrified of thunder and lightning. Please, God, I’ve got enough to handle today. No thunder and lightning.
Two nuns passed by and nodded in my direction. I nodded back. Maybe they were a sign my prayer was being considered in higher places. The buildings I passed were made of stone that was cracking and, like that so-called village that Juliana and I had stumbled upon in the car, there were balconies, many with laundry thrown over the railings. I made another turn and came to the street that the woman on the other end of the phone had spelled out for me when I’d called for Schuyler. I stood before a building, much like the others, stone cracking, a wooden door that lead into a courtyard.
I took a deep breath; the stillness of the hot air held me closer in its arms. Yes, I could go in there and convince or manipulate Schuyler—whichever it took—to change his mind about all this. A nearby tree’s green branches flapped in the breeze that was beginning to pick up.
I pushed through the wooden door and walked across the cement floor, the sound of my steps clicking through the silence as I read my scribbled directions. There was no other sound in the courtyard but me looking for Staircase A. All the apartment doors were shut tight.
Hanging onto the rickety banister that shook under my grasp, I climbed upward toward the sixth floor, hoping that Schuyler was home and hoping he wasn’t. Max’s cablegram had arrived only minutes before I left; otherwise, I’d be going in there with nothing. Richard delaying my trip had turned out to be a good thing. The heat got thicker with each upward step I climbed, and what the hell did the French have against elevators? I remembered the elevator operator strike in New York back in 1945 and how that had practically shut down the whole city. It was as if we no longer knew how to walk up long flights of stairs. Maybe these flights were good for me.
A little winded, I arrived at the sixth-floor landing, which was really the seventh floor because the French never counted the first floor. I had news for them—the first floor counts. It was so hot up there I had to stop a moment, leaning against the wall practicing breathing. I wiped some sweat from my eyes with my handkerchief and returned the handkerchief to my purse. I pulled my dress into place and knocked on the door. An old woman, small and stooped over, with big breasts that flopped against her loose-fitting dress, opened the door. “Madame Desmarais?” I asked, hoping she was the woman from the phone.
She nodded, waiting for me to elaborate. As soon as I said, “Schuyler,” she said, “Entrez, entrez s’il vous plait,” and led the way into a small room painted blue with a table in the center and wooden chairs around it. It reminded me of a smaller version of Mrs. Minton’s Christian Ladies of Hope House, where I’d lived when I first came to New York City. I figured this must be a French boardinghouse.
The woman skipped from the room, sprier than her years would predict, while I paced, looking over the bookshelves that lined the walls. Of course, they were all in French so they couldn’t hold my interest for long. The woman returned and said, “Il est prët a vous recevoir maintenant.” I kind of got the gist of what she was telling me—that he’d see me soon. I found that was happening sometimes. That I could understand some words, but I rarely had the words to answer back.
I walked toward her. “Je suis désolé mais je ne parle pas Francais,” I pronounced distinctly, which meant, I’m sorry, but I don’t speak French.” Jule had taught me to say that. I practiced it over and over till my pronunciation got so good that French people didn’t believe I couldn’t speak French. As soon as I said my phrase to Madame Demarrias, she spoke to me excitedly as if I were her long-lost French friend. She took my hand, sat me down at the table, and buzzed around the room making coffee while she chattered on. I smiled as a wash of French sounds poured over me like love music; if only I could understand.
While she waited for the coffee to percolate, she skipped over to the birdcage that sat above the sink facing the window. She sprinkled bird food into the cage as the two canaries happily sang. An orange and white cat sat on the ledge studying them until Madame Desmarais lay her wrinkled hand gently on top of his head. He purred with what seemed to be extreme pleasure, turning onto his back so she could pet his belly. She pulled the cat into her arms, holding him close and rubbing his head as she walked back to me. She leaned on one of the chairs by the table and said something that sounded warm and sincere. Her voice made me want to turn over on my back, so she’d pet my belly. Still petting the cat’s head, she bent over and laid him gently on the floor. His claws clicked against the linoleum as he headed for his plate of food. She whispered something in my ear, and I wondered if she were talking about the cat or telling me something useful about Dan Schuyler. I so much wanted to respond in some kind way to those gentle eyes that peered out of that wrinkled face. Instead, I said, “Je suis désolé mais je ne parle pas Francais.”
The wrinkles on her forehead sunk deeper. “Oui?”
“Oui,” I repeated. “Schuyler?”
She shook her head, giggled to herself, and said, “Si vous voulez bien me suivre, mademoiselle.” I followed her into a hallway and we passed by a few doors. She knocked on one of them and my stomach flip-flopped as I waited for it to open. I had to remain calm. I couldn’t let him think he rattled me, even though he did. I pulled myself up to my tallest height.
The door opened and there he stood, looking a little more tired than I remembered, but still impeccably dressed in tie and suit.
“Merci, Madame Desmarais,” he said, bowing to the old woman.
They had words. Madame Desmarais sounded firm. Finally, she grabbed some knitting from a table that stood against the wall and marched into the tiny room. She planted herself onto a straight back chair in the corner.
“Well, Mr. Schuyler,” I said, removing my gloves and placing them in my purse.
“I like the hat, Miss Huffman. Dior?”
“Schiaparelli. Dior would never work in straw. Now can we get down to business and cut the crap?”
He took in a barely perceptible breath. “I see you’ve found me out. I don’t know a thing about women’s hats. Won’t you sit down? I was so pleased when Madame Desmarais told me you phoned. I’ve looked forward to your visit.”
“I am not here for a social visit, Mr. Schuyler, and you know it.”
I looked over at the exposed toilet sticking out of the wall, not far from the fold-out bed with the thin hard tack mattress. An ugly purple and green cloth was thrown over it as a makeshift bedspread, but it was too small to cover the whole bed. The air was stale with cigarette smoke and lack of ventilation. There was only one tiny closed window at the peak of this attic apartment. It was streaked with city muck.
Schuyler sat on the bed. I was about to sit on the only chair left when something bubbled up in me and I forgot all about being calm and sophisticated. “How dare you call Juliana’s husband and involve him in your scheme. Who do you think you are? I told you I would work on it.”
“But you haven’t, have you? I keep waiting to see that signed contract in my hand, but alas . . .” He held out his palm. “It’s still not there. It’s nearly a month since we arrived in Paris. I needed some assurances. I also feel badly for the poor man, two women making a fool of him behind his back. Shameful.” He leaned toward me. “If you do not produce that contract and soon, I will take great joy in telling the papers, French and American, everything I know about you and watch you both squirm like worms stuck on my hook.” He leaned back, a pleasant smile creasing his face. “However, I am a gentleman and I have not broken our agreement. I haven’t involved Mr. Styles in my ‘scheme’ as you so inelegantly put it. I merely let him read the play. After all, he is Juliana’s true manager, is he not?”
“Yes.” I wanted to strangle this man.
“Yes,” he repeated. “Yes, he is. You have done most of the work, but Richard Styles is Juliana’s true manager.” He grinned. “And her husband. You have hardly claim on her at all, Miss Huffman.”
I looked over at Madame Desmarais who calmly knit as we spoke. “You’re sure she doesn’t speak English?” She was giving me a kind of Madame DeFarge feeling.
“Yes, I am.”
“Still, I’d like more privacy with this topic. Could you please ask her to leave us alone?”
“Oh, but Miss Huffman, she would never do that. She is here for your benefit, not mine. She has developed motherly feelings toward you and is here to make certain that I do not compromise your virtue. She is your chaperone.”
“Oh?” I looked over at her clicking knitting needles.
She lifted her eyes to meet mine and smiled. I smiled back.
“She has no idea you could not be tempted by me. If she knew the reason for that, she would spit on you and throw you down her steps. Won’t you have a seat?”
I sat on the chair near the toilet. It smelled. It was bound to smell in such close quarters.
“I gather you do not have Juliana’s signature on the papers. When may I expect that signature, Miss Huffman?”
“It must have been difficult for you to have been locked up. A whole ten years? That’s a long time.”
“Brava, Miss Huffman.” He clapped and Madame Desmarais looked in our direction, her wrinkled brow wrinkling more. “You have done your research. I would not expect less from you. I knew you would be a worthy opponent. But no, it was not difficult. It gave me time to reflect, to read, to plan a renewed life.”
“Let’s cut the bull. How many investors do you think would invest with a producer who did six years in the jug for embezzlement? I think we’re at one of those Mexican standoffs. Can we call it a draw?”
“Five years, ten months. A crime in my tormented youth. It was found that I, a mere boy of twenty-two, had been led astray by an older, more experienced criminal. The court saw promise in me and cut down my original ten-year sentence, especially when I told them where they could locate said older, more experienced criminal. I have never been in trouble since, Miss Huffman. Americans are an awfully forgiving lot.”
A yellow zigzag of lightning sliced through the sky and sped across the small window behind Schuyler’s head. Then a crash like a bomb. I gripped the chair with my nails as if it were about to be whisked off into the air like Dorothy’s house.
“It’s your turn, Miss Huffman.”
Concentrate, Al, hang on. Forget the lightning. You can’t let this guy . . . Another crash. My heart jumped into my throat.
“Miss Huffman, certainly you are not speechless.”
“No one will—no one will care how young—twenty-two is not a child. You were convicted of stealing—stealing money. What investor would—” Repeating bombs of thunder circled the splintery wooden upstairs apartment. Wind battered the glass and the room shook. He was saying, saying something, but I couldn’t, couldn’t . . . Snap out of it, Al.
“. . . a matter of public record. I haven’t tried to hide . . . to India . . . rehabilitated . . . penance . . . giving to worthy causes like the Red Cross and the March of Dimes. This also is a matter of public record. And do you think anyone is going to care a twit about my dull background once the scandal sheets start tossing around Juliana’s secret life as a baritone babe? The New York Times might even get into the act. They have a penchant for writing about ‘perverts.’ Every day they seem to have some juicy article about perverts endangering our national security.”
Everything was spinning. This couldn’t be happening. Why didn’t that damn thunder shut up and leave me alone?
“Oh, by the way, did you enjoy my gift?”
“What—what are you talking about?”
“The book for your office. Female Homosexuality. Didn’t you find it entertaining?”
Madame Desmarais looked up, concern on her face.
“Oops! That word is the same in French. Sounds a little different, of course. We must be careful.” He oozed French words at her and she went back to her knitting.
“You? How did you get into my office?”
His lips curled into a self-satisfied grin and he crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t. I had a friend. A most accommodating friend. A friend of yours too. We have something in common. This friend, I believe, left it in the center of your desk so you wouldn’t miss it. Those were my instructions. Be sure to deliver that signed contract to my office—not here, my office, the address is on the envelope I gave you—no later than Thursday, or I will have no choice but to act.”
“Thursday? But that’s only two days away.”
“I know. But you’re a talented woman and I know you can—”
A triple blast of thunder trilled through the air and I charged out his door, down the stairs, and through the courtyard with no plan except escape. I ran into the street as if I were being chased by the devil himself. The sky, dark with no sun, opened up and poured cold buckets of water onto my new Schiaparelli hat.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Was there any way I could have handled that worse? I sat in the back of the Lido nursing the last of my scotch. The house was packed, and I wanted to hide from it all. Max would’ve been so disappointed in me. Juliana sat on a stool center stage singing Pourquoi M’Avoir Tant Donne, a romantic ballad. I drained my glass and signaled the waiter to bring another. I had taken to drinking scotch recently, prompted, I suppose, by my survival instinct. I hadn’t had a sidecar since I left the States. I missed it, and it made me angry that some anonymous “they” could make me drink something other than what I wanted. Le garçon gracelessly dropped my scotch on the rocks in front of me. Despite my having sat there alone all month, he still didn’t approve of a woman sitting unescorted at a table, not even Juliana’s manager.
Max, in his cablegram, had wanted to know why I was asking about Schuyler, but how could I tell him without telling the guy who took down the cablegram message? Somehow, I had to solve this myself. I’d make it go away, so why upset him? I would tell him about it when it was over, and he’d be proud of me. Except—I wasn’t going to solve it. I was going to have to tell her. I was going to have to tell her the worst thing she could ever hear. I drank down the last of my scotch.
I’d suspected it’d been me all along. Me who gave us away. Maybe I did it by how I walked. I didn’t take delicate little steps like I was supposed to. Maybe I gave us away because my hands were too big. I looked at them lying on the table. Were they? Or maybe it was how I pushed my hair out of my eyes, so I could see. It could’ve been the way I ran the club. Too tough. But I hadn’t been tough today. Maybe I let my feelings for Juliana show in some wrong pl
ace.
Schuyler got into my office because had a “friend.” A friend that had posed as my friend and betrayed me. But who? Bertha? Bertha, the hatcheck girl? She’s not my friend, but how would Schuyler know that? It must be her. None of my real friends would’ve done Schuyler’s bidding. Bertha was a weird girl, always following me, always wanting to do something for me. Whenever I turned around, there she was staring at me. I was always falling into her, all that phony embarrassing fawning. Yes, it must’ve been Bertha. But is she too much of a simpleton to—
Bart. That’s who. Of course. Bartholomew Montadeus Honeywell the Fourth. He had a reason to betray me. First, I don’t think he ever liked me. Plus, I fired him. He said I’d regret it. Was this his revenge? Yes. Bart had done it. He fit so well with Schuyler; he was just like him. Why didn’t I see it sooner? But would he put Max in such jeopardy to get back at me? It was Max who told me to fire him. Could Bart know that? I’m sure they were once lovers.
No. No, it was Lillian Wadwacker. Of course! No, not Lillian. She and I have become close. Still, she’d been part of that trap with her friend, Ethel. And she came begging for the job at the club. A sadness filled me. It must be Lillian. How could I have been so stupid to fall for her innocence routine? Believing she didn’t know what Ethel had been up to. Believing she thought Ethel was a terrible person for doing that striptease dance for me. That little traitor. She plotted against me from the beginning. So she could spy on me. And I even promoted her. What an ass I’d been. Yes, it’s Lillian. But . . . what would she get out of it? What would any of them get out of it?
Money? Bart was the only one who seemed willing to do about anything for money. But Schuyler didn’t have money. Look where he was living. That toilet in his living room. He wanted Juliana for his show to build his career as a producer by pleasing that secret investor. He didn’t have the money himself.