The American Fiancee

by Eric Dupont

  Only one recording of Giaccomo Puccini’s voice survives today. It dates back to the afternoon of February 21, 1907, in the New York City offices of the Columbia Phonograph Company as the composer was preparing to take La Provence, an ocean liner, back to Europe. In the very short recording, Puccini thanks his New York audience in Italian for their enthusiasm for his operas. He ends on a piece of flattery borrowed from Lieutenant Pinkerton in Madame Butterfly:

  “America forever!”

  Then there is a round of applause, and a few words from his wife. Puccini was to return to New York, this time without Mrs. Puccini—una dona gelosa, a jealous woman—to oversee rehearsals for La fanciulla del West, an opera inspired by an American play he’d seen during his first stay in the Big Apple. It could be said, without fear of exaggeration, that New York needed Puccini as much as Puccini and Madeleine Lamontagne needed New York. Graced by Puccini’s presence, New York could now count itself among the world’s foremost opera cities: it could look the likes of Paris, London, and Vienna in the eye.

  “Look! He walked our streets! He gave us an opera as a gift! Look at me! Just look at me, will you?”

  Puccini went back to Italy and, until his dying day, wore the halo that God gives to Italians who make their mark in America. As for Madeleine, the opening of her Times Square restaurant would make her one of the business world’s leading lights.

  On the morning of January 1, 2000, Puccini’s “America forever” was still echoing among the skyscrapers of Manhattan, traveling along subway tunnels until it was lost in the songs of revelers who couldn’t believe they were still alive to see the first dawn of the new millennium. Frank Sinatra was not entirely right when he claimed this was a city that never slept. It drifts off for a few minutes every day—never at the same time—then opens its eyes to see its reflection in the eyes of the tourists who have come looking for proof that they exist. Because that’s all New York City can give you, nothing more, nothing less: irrefutable, everlasting, and intoxicating proof of your own existence. Puccini had worked that out for himself.

  Madeleine Lamontagne, too. First in 1968, then again on that morning of January 1, 2000. Which is why, when a journalist from CNN challenged her to lift an enormous tray of plates and glasses of orange juice, she summoned the spirit of Cheval Lamontagne, walked over to the tray, which was resting on a stand, bent her knees, and, all smiles, hoisted it with one hand, even though it must have weighed over fifty pounds. Amid a hail of flashes and applause, she walked to the back of the restaurant, which was bursting at the seams with New York celebrities. An effigy of Good Saint Anne observed the amusing spectacle from its place on the wall. Madeleine’s ovation went on for a good while. Then, once she was certain she’d shut the wretched journalist up for good, she handed Solange the microphone and the litany that had been drafted by a New York–based, Canada-loving writer friend could begin. The speech lasted a full five minutes. The word family came up fourteen times, work six times, and homeland five. Right on cue, Madeleine shed a tear, which was met with respectful silence.

  Since none of the guests of honor had slept the previous night, no one noticed that the travelers were tired. The expression of resigned rage that lit up Solange Bérubé’s face as she pulled up to the Radisson in the Jaguar at 5 a.m. was simply thought to be the look of a determined businesswoman. As for Madeleine’s pursed lips, New Yorkers took them to be—and they weren’t entirely wrong—a reflection of the never-say-die self-assurance that had made her reputation in the restaurant world.

  In the 175-seat restaurant, two courses had been prepared for the VIPs. There were politicians, businesspeople, archbishops, mother superiors, and more journalists than you could shake a stick at. Inspired by the substances that had helped him stay up all night, one of the latter had penned the following paragraph for his hundreds of thousands of readers:

  “Yesterday morning the first Mado’s restaurant in Manhattan opened its doors in Times Square. It has been a long time coming, but at last we have caught up with the rest of North America: we too can now enjoy a breakfast worthy of the name, one that’s prepared lovingly and served promptly—with a smile. Having tasted the now legendary Solange pancakes, the end of the world suddenly seems a whole lot less terrifying.”

  A three-page interview with Solange and Madeleine took up most of the Food section. In it, they set out Mado’s business model and the obstacles they’d overcome on their way to opening a restaurant at America’s most sought-after location. “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” Solange had proclaimed when asked to explain their shared obsession for hygiene. And, to conclude the interview, the journalist had mentioned the rumors that Madeleine Lamontagne might very well have an American grandmother.

  “A rumor? Why, it’s the truth!” Solange had corrected him.

  The journalist, tossing the softest of softballs, had then wanted to know if, by opening restaurants across the United States, Madeleine considered it a triumphant return to the homeland of her grandmother. Madeleine, whose son Michel had kept her well-versed in Puccini anecdotes, had simply replied: “America forever.”

  While the hoi polloi waited in line outside amid the New Year’s detritus, the mountains of confetti, and the portable toilets that were still dotted about the city, Madeleine’s waitresses performed their bustling ballet like machines set to “courteous” mode. The restaurant opening had required a great deal of preparation. Given the crowds that had gathered in the area around the restaurant the night before the opening, preparations had to be completed three days ahead of time to avoid deliverymen having to battle through throngs of two million drunk people stretching from Central Park to 42nd Street. Of the two million revelers, plenty stayed out in the cold of night. Beneath the Mado’s logo, curious onlookers pointed inside the restaurant, delirious with drink and quite certain that Good Saint Anne had just winked at them!

  That day Madeleine smashed the record for the number of breakfasts served in a single day, previously held by the Sydney, Australia, branch during Gay Pride 1997. America forever indeed.

  Solange and Madeleine kept it up until noon, then announced they were leaving, utterly exhausted.

  “You can go back to the hotel now,” the manager, a woman who’d handled the restaurant openings in New Jersey and Connecticut, had reassured them. “It’ll all be fine.”

  “Was the Radisson in the budget?” Madeleine had asked when she saw the room, probably the smallest in the whole hotel.

  “I stick to the budget, Madeleine. You weren’t supposed to be here. And I was supposed to fly in, not drive up to the door half dead.”

  “Just don’t get too comfortable, Solange. It’s time we were going.”

  Solange pretended not to hear.

  “I need to find my cross. Are you coming? I need you.”

  And so Solange went back to her meditation behind the wheel of the Jaguar. After the incredibly busy morning, there were still hours of excitement in store. Madeleine sensed she was close to her goal. The three notebooks Gabriel had filled sat on her lap, the improbable, hopeless story of a German woman. She reread some of the passages, barely moving her lips so as not to disturb her friend while she drove. Madeleine kept a close eye on the words like children watch their manners at the tables of the nouveau riche. They drove down Lexington until 42nd Street. In the Jaguar’s rearview mirror, Solange eyed a red Honda Civic in consternation.

  “Any closer and it’ll be up my ass!” she complained.

  At 1:32 p.m., they left the parking lot at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, the orifice through which Manhattan had swallowed them whole the first time, then spat them up later that day in December 1968. Madeleine wanted to do it this way so they could walk back to Dr. Beck’s house from there. She remembered the route they’d walked, but couldn’t work it out by car—the downside to having a photographic memory. Slowly she’d dragged poor Solange along the filthy, freezing streets, without once taking a wrong turn. Tosca’s Diner had gone; a samba school had ta
ken its place. They stood gaping at the plate glass windows.

  “First Lesson Free,” Solange read out loud.

  From there, it took them precisely twenty-three minutes to find the 10th Avenue dry cleaner’s that Dr. David Beck worked above, a stone’s throw from 56th Street. There was a flashing neon coat hanger in the window, a rather blunt reminder of the services once on offer from the doctor. The gold plate with his name on it had gone. Other names had taken the doctor’s place, unknown names of people performing other jobs. But none of this was going to stand in Madeleine’s way. She hadn’t gone through hell that night to turn back the first time things didn’t go her way. All the businesses in the neighborhood’s four- and five-story buildings were closed for the holiday, except for the Thai restaurant they ventured into. It took Solange a while to explain to the owner what they were looking for. What had happened to the doctor? His office had been next door in 1969. No, no, the brown house. The one above the dry cleaner’s. No, we don’t need any dry-cleaning done, and we’re not sick either. You don’t know? The woman agreed to phone the owner of the building. He might know who owned the building next door. She got through to his answering machine and a message that gave his cellphone number. A little irritated by now, she scrawled the number down on the back of a paper placemat and handed it to Solange in a manner that suggested that playing detective wasn’t her idea of the best way to spend New Year’s Day. Back outside on the sidewalk, Solange turned on the cell phone she’d turned off the day before on their way to the hospital. She ignored the four new messages and called the man who owned the building next door to where Dr. Beck had used to work. With Madeleine looking on anxiously, she managed to get through to a woman with a nasal-sounding voice who explained that the owner, a man by the name of Levi, was vacationing in Florida, and that he would be back in four months. Realizing she’d need to be crafty, Solange pretended to be a tenant from the neighboring building complaining about the noise from next door. The woman with the nasal voice laughed. She’d just have to get used to it. What else could you expect on New Year’s Day?

  “But,” she went on, “if you really are determined to be a pain when everyone around you is enjoying themselves, I can pass your message on to Mr. Levi. He can have a word with your owner, Mr. Ho.”

  She’d come up empty. Solange wasn’t any farther along than before. All she knew now was that the man who owned the brown building was called Ho. Worn out and demoralized, she tried to reason with Madeleine, but she was having none of it. It was now or never. While they wondered what to do next, the door into the building opened and a woman staggered outside, visibly drunk. In a flash, Madeleine jammed her wedge-heel, finest quality leather ankle boot with side zipper and lambskin lining between the door and the frame. The drunk woman, assuming they lived in the building, apologized for not holding the door and turned out onto 56th Avenue.

  “Do you recognize the staircase?”

  Solange didn’t recognize a thing. It was a staircase like any other: no broader, no narrower. The stores inside the building had been converted into apartments, by the looks of things. When they got to the floor where, according to Madeleine’s impeccable memory, the doctor’s office had been, they stopped outside the door. There was a number on it. Madeleine knocked three times. A dog barked. Then a shadow flickered behind the spyhole.

  “Who’s there?”

  “We’re looking for Dr. Beck.”

  “He doesn’t live here.”

  “We know. But he had his office here in 1968. Do you happen to know where he went?”

  “In 1968? I wasn’t even born!”

  Silence. Then the door opened to reveal a tall girl with brown hair. She was wearing flannel pajamas, with some kind of apple-green knit beanie on her head. The smell of soup hung in the air. The girl eyed the two women with the smirk of a child who’s never had to do the dishes. She was curious now, and let them inside so she could hear their story.

  “You don’t get that every day. Two ladies going around knocking on people’s doors on New Year’s Day, hoping to find a doctor they met in 1959!”

  “1968,” Madeleine corrected her.

  “And why are you looking for this Dr. Peck?”

  “Beck. He has something that belongs to me, something I want back.”

  “I hope it wasn’t anything that might have gone bad!”

  The girl hadn’t slept all night, she explained. She’d just got home from a wild party. Time enough to brush her teeth, comb her hair, and pop a pill before heading off to supper with the family.

  “You could always call Ho, the guy who owns the building, but you can’t make out a word he says. And he wasn’t even in the States in 1968. I’ve been here since 1996. Before that, there was an old Portuguese lady with two sons. My parents rented this apartment from Ho when she died. The Portuguese lady’s sons work at a taxi stand right at the other end of the street. Manuel and Pedro Barbosa. Just ask for them. I think that’s your best bet. I remember when Mom came to rent the apartment, one of the sons mentioned that a doctor used to live here. Maybe he’s the one you’re looking for. But I’m not sure if they’re working today.”

  She put on warm clothes and insisted on going with Madeleine and Solange to the taxi rank, where a man weighing at least 350 pounds told them that Manuel and Pedro Barbosa both had the day off. Leaning in through the window of his taxi, the girl asked if there was any way to reach them. The man hesitated, looked Madeleine and Solange up and down, and said no. The girl made a face and left the two travelers in front of her building.

  “You can always try coming back in a day or two. They’ll probably be there then.”

  Solange thanked the girl again, then gave Madeleine the look of a woman who’s done enough.

  “Face it: he’s gone. You’ll have to try something different. Like look him up in the phone book.”

  “Do you really think I didn’t try that already? There must be twenty David Becks! It’s the first thing I did when I got to the hotel this morning, while you were in the shower.”

  They were walking along in silent resignation when Madeleine suddenly turned back. Solange followed after her, now more tired than words could describe. Madeleine marched back to the taxi rank. The obese driver recognized them. Madeleine opened the door, sat down in the back seat, and motioned for Solange to do the same. The driver, who was sucking on an old toothpick, seemed amused. Madeleine opened her bag, rummaged around for a moment, and held up a hundred-dollar bill, which she slipped through the crack in the front seat. The driver started the engine before the money had even hit the beige leatherette seat beside him.

  “Manuel or Pedro?”

  “Both,” Solange replied.

  They drove for ten minutes, along streets that became more and more seedy until they stopped outside a run-down building. It didn’t escape Solange’s attention that the same red Honda Civic that had followed them from the hotel to the Port Authority Bus Terminal was now fifty yards behind. No doubt about it: it was the same car. Solange decided to keep it to herself, not wanting to worry Madeleine.

  The driver gave them Manuel Barbosa’s apartment number and they thanked him. By some miracle, he was home, but refused to buzz them in. Madeleine had to ring three times before the Portuguese man finally gave in. The women thought they’d seen it all, but they hadn’t yet been to Manuel Barbosa’s apartment, on the fourth floor of an elevatorless building where, on every landing, you half expected to trip over a still-warm dead body. Solange swore she saw a rat in the shadows. She also swore she’d never set foot inside the place again, but silently, as usual. Barbosa was furious. He was already standing in front of the door, wielding a hammer in one hand. He was maybe thirty-five. He was wearing canvas deck shoes with thermoplastic rubber soles, too-tight Levi 501s, and a green t-shirt with the word COLT spelled out in yellow letters.

  “Are you the police?”

  It seemed a fair question to Solange. As they explained what had brought them there, a barefoot wo
man wearing nothing more than a terry bathrobe and way too much makeup appeared in the doorway.

  “They’re looking for the doctor who used to live in Mama’s apartment.”

  “Your Mama was living with a doctor?”

  “No! Before!”

  An irritated Manuel Barbosa explained that he knew there used to be a doctor’s office in the apartment, but he didn’t know when, let alone the guy’s name.

  “Beck? Yeah, maybe. Pedro would know. But he’s in Puerto Vallarta.”

  “Can you call him?”

  Manuel began to laugh. His friend disappeared into the apartment and came back with a copy of The New York Times. She waved the photo of Solange and Madeleine under his nose.

  “What do you want Dr. Beck for?”

  It took fifteen minutes to reach Pedro Barbosa. He was vacationing in Mexico and just coming down off a bad ecstasy trip. He agreed to speak to Solange, although she had to ask four or five times. There was a silence, then Pedro explained that his mama had been the first person to live in the apartment after it was renovated in 1978. Being the eldest, he had a clearer memory of the doctor coming to ask about the mail one day, or rather, it was his daughter.

  “But dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians . . . I can’t remember their name or where they live now!”

  Solange imagined Manuel Barbosa dripping with honey and pursed her lips.

  “It’ll be with Mama’s stuff. Tell Manuel to have a look in Mama’s old pink notebook.”

  Manuel grumbled, then went down to the basement, returning with an old suitcase. Left alone with Solange and Madeleine, the woman he lived with—Sandy was her name—told them she’d been a waitress for eight years. Manuel found the pink notebook without too much trouble and, sure enough, there was Dr. Beck’s address.