The Adventurers

by Harold Robbins

  “Thank you.” She walked over and took the part of the paper he held out. She sat down in a chair opposite him and looked at the first page. One headline ran across the top:

  LA PREMIERE PRESENTATION DE LA SAISON

  CHANEL, BALMAIN, DIOR, PRINCE SERGEI NIKOVITCH

  The page was covered with pictures of the new clothes. She studied hungrily the poses of the models staring haughtily back at her. She closed her eyes. Paris. The time of the showings.

  It was electric. No matter who you were, princess or butcher’s wife, all the talk would be about the new fashions. Copies of L’Officiel would pass from hand to hand with oohs and aahs over each new trend, and everyone had her opinion as to whether the style would go or not. It didn’t matter whether you had bought a new dress in ten years, you still had a right to an opinion. And your neighbors listened as if your name had appeared at the top of the ten-best-dressed list.

  Paris was thrilling at that time of the year. The buyers would be there from all over the world. North and South America, Germany, England, Italy, even the Far East. The restaurants and theaters and clubs would be jammed.

  How long had it been since she had been in a gay laughing group of people? The Israelis had no sense of humor. They were a grim people. Not that she blamed them. It was a grim world and making a nation was not easy. There wasn’t very much to laugh about. Not for them. And when they did laugh, their laughter seemed strange and empty, as if it had been torn from them reluctantly.

  Denisonde turned the page and a familiar face looked up at her from the center of the sheet. She knew the girl, they had been at Madame Blanchette’s together. She had always said that she would be a model. She had finally made it.

  Once Denisonde had had such ambitions. It was when she had first come to Paris. But the haute couture houses couldn’t use her. Her bust was too large; the suits didn’t fall right. She had dieted madly, until there were hollows in her cheeks and large black circles under her eyes, but it didn’t help. She was still too busty for haute couture. But finally she did manage to get a job at a lingerie house. The salary was small, and there were two showings a day, plus one in the evening.

  Denisonde had been very naive then. The buyers were all men, and she thought nothing of parading around the room clad only in a brassiere and panties. She kept her eyes impersonally on the ceiling as she opened the brassiere and took it off, then put it back on, to demonstrate its construction. And if occasionally a buyer’s hand, as often happened, would linger caressingly on her breasts, she merely considered it a normal hazard of the business.

  And then one day after she had been there almost a week, the boss had come back to the dressing room. She looked up at him from where she sat on the chair in front of the mirror. Her brassiere, the last for the evening, which she had just removed, lay on the table. She made no move to cover herself. After all, he was the boss, and he had already seen her and all the other girls more times than she could count.

  “Tomorrow you get your first pay.”

  She nodded with satisfaction. “A week already?”

  “Yes, one week.”

  But there was something in his voice that bothered her. “Are you satisfied with my work?”

  “So far. But it’s time you paid attention to the other part of your job.”

  “Other part of the job?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Yes. There’s a very important buyer here tonight. He wants you to go out with him.”

  Denisonde was beginning to feel like a parrot. “Go out with him?”

  “You know what I mean,” he said, his voice suddenly harsh. Then abruptly it softened. “It’s not for nothing, you know. You get a hundred francs extra and a five-percent commission on his order.”

  Denisonde stared at him. It wasn’t that she was shocked. Or even offended. After all, she was French and a realist. Sex was nothing new to her, but until now it had always been at her option. It was just that she was surprised because nothing had been said to her when she took the job.

  “And if I don’t want to go out with him?”

  “There wouldn’t be much point in your coming to work tomorrow. I can’t afford any girl who won’t do her fair share of the work.”

  Denisonde sat very still for a moment then picked up her own brassiere from the chair next to her. “No, thanks. If that’s the way it is, I’d rather be a cocotte. I would make more money.”

  “You would also have to carry a police card, and you know what that means. No one would ever give you a decent job again. That’s the first reference they always check out.”

  Denisonde didn’t answer, merely picked up her skirt from the chair and stepped into it.

  “You’re being very foolish.”

  She smiled at him and reached for her blouse. “You mean I’ve been very foolish.”

  ***

  After that there had never been any question in Denisonde’s mind as to her occupation. She had a shrewd mind and an agile body. It hadn’t taken her long to secure a good connection with Madame Blanchette. Actually she had been recommended by an inspector of police who told her to come and see him after she got out of the jail where he’d sent her.

  “You look like a nice young girl,” he’d said in a kindly manner. “I’ll find you a nice house to work in. It’s dangerous for a young girl to be on the streets so late at night. You never know whom you might meet.”

  The smell of burning meat brought her out of her reverie.

  She looked up, startled for a moment. Robert was asleep in the chair opposite her, the paper hanging loosely from his hand. Then she saw the pot, and she was out of her chair and to the stove. Quickly she snatched off the pot, burning her fingers, and dropped in into the sink. It turned over and the burned meat and potatoes rolled out. She stared down in horror at the mess. Suddenly it was all too much for her. “Merde!” Suddenly, hopelessly, she began to cry.

  “What happened?” Robert was at her shoulder. He stared into the sink. “You burned the dinner,” he said accusingly.

  She looked at him for a moment, the tears rolling down her cheeks, then angrily ran into the bedroom. “Yes,” she shouted back over her shoulder. “I burned the fucking dinner!”

  She kicked the door shut behind her and threw herself across the bed in a paroxysm of sobbing. The door opened behind her and Robert came across the room and sat down on the bed beside her. He reached over and put his hand on her shoulder.

  She came up into his arms, her face buried against his chest. “Oh, Robert, I want to go home.”

  He sat silently, his arms tightening around her.

  “Can’t you see? This land is not my land, these people are not like me. I’m French, I don’t belong here.”

  Robert still didn’t speak.

  She pushed herself away from him. “And you don’t belong here either! You’re no refugee, you didn’t have to come. You’re French, too. They didn’t ask us to come, they don’t even want us. We do nothing but take up space others need far more than we do. We even eat their food.”

  “You’re tired,” Robert said gently, “you’ll feel better after you rest a little.”

  “I won’t! What I said was the truth, and you know it. If they really needed you, they would give you something more important to do than a clerk’s job in a translating office. You know what they need far more than either of us? Money. Money to build with, money to buy food with, clothing. You could do more for Israel in your father’s bank than here.”

  He stared at her. “I can’t go back.”

  “Why not?” she demanded.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Because your father is a realist and knows you have to do things you don’t like to stay alive in this world?”

  “It’s not that.”

  She stared at him. “Because of me? Because I wouldn’t fit into your world?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She looked into his eyes. “You needn’t worry about that. Just go home where you belong. We’ll get a
divorce. You won’t have to be ashamed of me.” The tears came back into her eyes. “Please, Robert, I can’t take it anymore. I want to go home.”

  She began to cry again. She hid her face against his chest, and after a moment she heard his voice rumbling softly in his chest.

  “I love you, Denisonde. Don’t cry anymore, we’re going home.”

  18

  It was less than six months later and Denisonde was standing in front of the full-length three-way mirror in her room in the De Coyne town house in Paris. She looked at herself critically. Strange what a difference which side of the counter you stood on made. As a model they had told her that her bust was too large. As a client they even more effusively maintained that it was perfect for their designs. She half-smiled to herself.

  The designer at Prince Nikovitch’s had almost gone out of his mind. He had clapped his hand to his forehead dramatically and closed his eyes. “I see it now, a simple dark-green sheath, tight, clinging to the figure just so. The neck high, coming to a point at the base of the throat, then a bold daring décolletage cut out in the shape of a crescent to highlight those magnificent breasts. And a tapered skirt slit from the floor almost to the knee, a la Chinois. Formidable!”

  He had opened his eyes and stared at her. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know, I never wore green.”

  The dress had been everything that the designer had hoped it would be, though the final touch had come from Robert: the world-famous De Coyne emerald, a fifty-five-carat stone cut into a brilliantly faceted heart set in a framework of tiny baguetted diamonds, and suspended from a simple thin platinum chain. The emerald glowed now against the golden tones of her skin in the exact center of the décolletage between her breasts. Even her tawny eyes seemed to reflect its rich green.

  Suddenly Denisonde was nervous. She turned from the mirror and glanced at her sister-in-law, seated on the small love seat behind her. The sounds from the party already in progress downstairs came faintly to her ears. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Suddenly I’m afraid to go down.”

  Caroline smiled. “You don’t have to be afraid. They won’t devour you.”

  Denisonde met Caroline’s eyes evenly. “You don’t understand. Some of those men have had me. What do I say when I meet them now? Or their wives?”

  “To hell with them!” Caroline said. “I could tell you things that would make you seem like an innocent.”

  “Perhaps, but they did not do them for money.”

  Caroline came toward her. “Look in the mirror. Do you know what that emerald means?”

  Silently Denisonde shook her head.

  “My mother wore that emerald,” Caroline said, “and my grandmother and her mother before her. No one ever wore it unless she was or was about to become the Baroness de Coyne. When my father gave it to Robert to give to you, that was the end of your past so far as we were concerned. And there is no one down there who doesn’t know it.”

  Denisonde felt the tears behind her eyes. “Robert never told me that.”

  “Robert wouldn’t. He would just take it for granted, and so will everyone else. You’ll see.”

  “I’m going to cry.”

  “Don’t.” Caroline smiled and reached for her sister-in-law’s hand. “Come downstairs before you do—you’d ruin your makeup.”

  ***

  The baron made his way through the guests toward Denisonde. “May I have this dance, ma fille?”

  Denisonde nodded and made her excuses. He took her hand and led her to the edge of the small dance floor. The orchestra broke into a slow waltz as they moved out on the floor.

  The baron smiled as she came into his arms. “You see? I have them well trained. They show respect for my age.”

  She laughed. “In that case they should play the American lindy hop.”

  “No, not anymore.” He looked into her eyes. “Are you enjoying the party?”

  “Very much, it’s like a dream. I never knew the world could be like this.” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you, man pere.”

  “Don’t thank me, it was you who made it possible. You returned my son to me.” He hesitated. “Is Robert all right?”

  She met his eyes. “You mean the drugs?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes,” she said, “it is over. It was not easy for Robert. He was very sick for a long time but now it is over.”

  “I am glad. That is yet another thing I have you to thank for.”

  “Not me, the Israelis. They are very strict about such things. They made him get well.”

  They were near the entrance to the library, and the baron led her from the floor. “Come in, I have something to give you.”

  Curiously Denisonde followed him through the door. There was a fire burning in the fireplace. He opened a drawer in the desk and took out some papers and handed them to her. “These are yours.”

  Denisonde looked down. They were all there—the police cards, the medical certificates, the record of her arrests. She looked up, bewildered. “How did you get these?”

  “I bought them,” he said. “Now, so far as the records are concerned, your name has never appeared anywhere.”

  “But why?” she asked. “They must have been very expensive.”

  Without answering, he took the papers from her hand and walked over to the fireplace. He dropped them into the flames, and they began to burn brightly.

  “I wanted you to see that,” he said, turning to her. “That Denisonde is gone forever.”

  She looked into the fireplace, then back at him. “Is she?” she asked. “Then who is left? Who am I?”

  “My daughter-in-law,” he answered quietly. “Robert’s wife, of whom I am very proud.”

  ***

  Robert came down the corridor and walked into his father’s office. “It’s not worth it.”

  His father looked up. “What makes you say that?”

  “I was there,” Robert replied heatedly. “Have you forgotten I lived in that country? As important as the project is, Israel will never be able to pay for an irrigation pipeline across the desert. Not in a hundred years. We’ll never see our money out of it.”

  A strange expression crossed his father’s face. “But you do agree that such a project is possible?”

  “Oui.”

  “And necessary?”

  “Of course, I do not dispute that. What I am questioning is the economics.”

  “Sometimes it is good banking to invest in things that do not show an immediate profit,” the baron said. “That is one of the responsibilities of wealth. To make certain that some benefits for all result from it.”

  Robert stared at his father curiously. “Doesn’t that reflect a rather broad change in your attitude?”

  His father smiled. “As much probably as your objections reflect one in yours.”

  “But this responsibility you have to the rest of the family,” Robert persisted. “Was that not the reason you gave for saving the Von Kuppen works?”

  The baron got to his feet. “It is part of the same thing. If we had not done what we did, someone else would have reaped the benefit. It is the money we made from saving Von Kuppen that makes this possible.”

  Robert was silent for a moment. “Does it mean then that you are not interested in making money on this project?”

  “I didn’t say that,” his father answered quickly. “As a banker I must always be interested in profit. But profit alone is not the major motive here.”

  “But you would accept a profit if I could show you how one could be realized?”

  “Of course.” The baron sat down again. “Exactly what do you have in mind?”

  “The Campion-Israeli Steamship Company. We are about to turn down their request for underwriting because Marcel is greedy and wants to keep all the profits.”

  “That’s right,” the baron said. “Our good friend Marcel wants to gobble up everything in sight. In a little more than a year, he has got his hands on almost as many
ships as his father-in-law owns, more certainly than any of the Greek interests. But his ships are so heavily cross-collateralized that I am afraid any new acquisition might be the one to bring the lot tumbling down.”

  “But if the profits from the Israeli line were not funneled back into his other companies, might not that be enough to carry the operating deficit on the pipeline?”

  His father looked thoughtful. “It might, though the margin would be a very narrow one.”

  “If we tied the two projects into one and loaned Israel the money at say, one-half of one percent, instead of the usual five, six, or even seven, would that carry them both?”

  “That would do it.”

  Robert smiled.

  His father looked up at him. “But what if Marcel won’t go for it? Chances are there wouldn’t be any profit if he were forced to carry more than his share.”

  “We can ask him,” Robert said. “If he wants the ships as badly as you think he does, he’ll go for it. Will anyone else be more eager to underwrite him than we are?”

  The baron looked at his son with a new respect. It was basically a sound idea, and if it worked, there would be much benefit in it for Israel. “Marcel is in New York,” he said, “perhaps you could go there and talk with him.”

  “Good. I think Denisonde would like that. She’s never been there.”

  The baron watched the door close behind his son. Idly he picked up a sheet of paper and studied it, but his mind refused to concentrate. He was getting old. When he was younger, even a matter of a few years ago, he would never have overlooked such a possibility. Perhaps it was time for him to think about retirement.

  It wasn’t so much that he was tired. It was just that he had carried the burden long enough. Or possibly it was just that he hadn’t been ready to step aside until he was certain someone was capable of carrying on for him. As he had for his father.

  19

  The crowd began to cheer almost before the long black limousine rolled to a stop beside the flag-draped platform. Quickly a man in uniform, a captain, leaped forward to open the door. There was a glimpse of a silk-clad knee, then the sun glinted brilliantly in the soft gold of her hair as Amparo got out.