Parisian Promises

by Cecilia Velástegui

  By contrast, the Frenchwomen from his own elite social class yawned at all the ruckus taking place in Latin America. From their perspective, class struggles had been resolved centuries ago with the rolling of Marie Antoinette’s hideously coiffed head. Somehow their own ancestors––clever, greedy, and titled––had managed to maintain the family fortune, and that was all that mattered. Since the unrest of 1968, these women had toned down the evidence of their upper-class privileges in public, but in private, among friends who owned weekend châteaux somewhere like the Loire Valley, they closed ranks on any social climbers. They appreciated Jean-Michel’s cultivated perspective on art and music, and they relished his lasting power in bed. But ultimately, these women were more concerned about maintaining their leisure time privileges, like traveling to Morocco or Tahiti to acquire objets d’art, fashionable objects that shocked their staid parents with their own conventional art collections. They asserted their rebelliousness by spending their inheritances in ways that they considered unorthodox.

  Other European women, whom Jean-Michel encountered at various Sorbonne events, were less than enthusiastic about Che’s past exploits thousands of miles away, and they ignored Jean-Michel—and vice versa. As for all the Latin American female students, they repelled Jean-Michel with their ostentatious modesty and religiosity. He’d realized that his ideal target would be a beautiful, naïve, over-optimistic American––perhaps someone not unlike the fragile creature sitting next to him this afternoon.

  “So, Monica, have you seen the photograph of Che to which I’m referring?” Jean-Michel prompted, when Monica didn’t say anything.

  Monica looked back at him with the waif-like innocence he’d seen only in the kitschy paintings of wide-eyed children sold by street artists in Montmartre. She seemed so totally void of any geopolitical awareness, and Jean-Michel felt an unusual sense of excitement. He exhaled another swirl of smoke, his mind performing its own distinct algorithms. Step one: does she know anything about Che? If the answer is no, then proceed to the next step and ask her about the Cuban embargo. If the answer is again negative, then continue with the next step, and so on and so forth. If he got the answers he was expecting, this Monica could prove to be the ideal woman to facilitate his complex plan.

  “Would you like to smoke my cigar?” Jean-Michel asked, and Monica nodded like an eager filly. In fact, she realized, she was acting like her beloved quarter horse, Rocky, whose sorrel coat––not unlike her own hair color––glistened in the morning sun when she groomed him. Rocky was always too eager for a carrot or an apple, and Monica, her auburn hair fluttering in the breeze, was conscious of not being quite cool enough for the dashing Jean-Michel. He slipped the thick cigar between her small pale fingers, and watched as she inserted its moist tip into her mouth. She inhaled and instantly started hacking and coughing. Only a gulp of her Kir Royale could take away the awful taste––something like a bale of hay roasted on a barbecue.

  To her relief, Jean-Michel looked amused rather than contemptuous. He winked at her and said, “Ahh, a taste of the forbidden fruit can sometimes be too much, can’t it?”

  Monica didn’t want to appear like a total ingénue, so she tried to answer him in French.

  “Je ne sais pas, mais…” she stammered. “Oh geez, that’s all the French I can muster today. And you speak English perfectly. Sorry. I feel like––I don’t know. A goofy American in Paris.”

  She bit her lower lip, and Jean-Michel brushed it gently with his pinkie. Even though the lighted cigar in his hand was perilously close to her feathery hair, Monica willed herself not to flinch.

  “Why do you say it’s the forbidden fruit?” she asked him.

  Jean-Michel peered over her shoulder at his compañeros, who were gesturing to him; they were going to follow Monica’s friends down the Champs-Élysées, he realized.

  “I call it the forbidden fruit,” he told Monica, “because Cuban cigars are illegal in the States, are they not?”

  The only products Monica thought of as illegal back home were marijuana joints, and she’d always stayed away from any drugs. Matters of international conflict didn’t interest her whatsoever. She followed the rules at college, and at the ranch she was too busy working her fingers to the bone––though when she groomed her horses, Monica let her imagination run wild thinking about her upcoming year in Paris. She certainly didn’t have any interest in anything illegal or in any foreign products, except French perfume. She had made a presentation on this very topic in her Advanced French class back at Cal State, but now that she was in Paris, Monica realized that all her advanced language courses didn’t mean she could converse with the sophisticated man sitting across from her. Jean-Michel was in his late twenties, she guessed, maybe eight or nine years older than she was, but he seemed so urbane and well-bred, a thoroughbred compared with her own swayback trail horse.

  “I think, uh, that we can buy any cigar we want in the U.S.,” she said in a timid whisper. “We’re a free country, you know.”

  Jean-Michel’s mental algorithm ground to an abrupt halt. He waved to the waiter to bring them two more drinks. With a benign smile he said, “Let’s forget about embargos and manure and all stinky things, shall we?” He leaned over and playfully brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Do you know that the Arc de Triomphe is fifty meters in height by forty-five meters wide?”

  He leaned even closer in order to smell her breath, sweet as a baby’s, and to peer into the shallow pool of her hazel eyes. “And do you know that your French pronunciation is superbe?”

  Monica blushed again and shook her head.

  “And,” he continued, “I think that we should go dancing tonight, don’t you agree?”

  This time Monica nodded and Jean-Michel smiled broadly at her. The waiter, brandishing his tray of drinks and leaning over the table, flashed Jean-Michel a conspiratorial sneer.

  CHAPTER THREE

  La Belle Otero

  Jean-Michel’s compañeros followed the three coeds at a safe distance, although they could have just as well been inches away and the women would not have noticed them, so engrossed were they in their own lively conversation. Annie adjusted the metal rim of the granny glasses that had slipped down on her turned-up nose. Her piercing brown eyes and bright face exuded intelligence. She stopped to read some item from a travel guide she pulled out of her designer shoulder bag, one hand gripping her long dark hair.

  “Seriously, you guys,” she announced. “It says here we should go the Comédie Française for an Ionesco play. We can always go dancing another night. Plus, we should study for our oral quiz tomorrow. We’re a sorry bunch compared to the European students in the program.”

  “They really shouldn’t be in our classes,” Karen said, her sweet face slumping into a frown. “They’re perfectly fluent in French.”

  Lola tossed her cascading red curls in the direction of an admirer who could not take his eyes off of her. She was used to this: she expected men to be awestruck by her vivid mane of hair and curvaceous figure.

  “Really?” she said, striking a pose, one hand on hip. “Are we going to spend all afternoon talking about quizzes and tests and competitive Euros and … who did you say? Ionesco? I don’t think so. We’re in Paris to have the time of our lives! It’s all about fun. Do you know where we are standing? Right near the home of my all-time favorite French courtesan.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Annie demanded. “And anyway, it may be all about fun to you, but I’m here to study. I want to get a Ph.D. someday, and I’m not going to mess that up. So excuse me if I don’t get excited about seeing the home of some … obscure French whore.”

  “Obscure?” Lola rolled her eyes. “That shows how little you know about La Belle Otero, Men fought duels to the death over her. How many whores—or virgins, for that matter—can make that claim?”

  “Truce,” Karen pleaded, wriggling between them. “And please lower your voices. Everyone’s staring at us. They probably think we’re
typical loud, obnoxious Americans.”

  Lola laughed. “They’re staring at us ’cause they think we’re foxy. I mean, look at those guys over there, ogling us.”

  The compañeros smiled back sheepishly, and murmured to each other, changing their plan of attack. First, they would have to contact Jean-Michel and tell him that the knock-out redhead had spotted them. They slowly backed away, but Lola didn’t notice. She wasn’t paying them that much attention; that particular group of dark-haired guys seemed just ordinary and definitely not rich enough for her. Lola was out to catch someone exceptionally wealthy. Little did she know that the combined value of the discreet antique gold watches the compañeros wore were worth a fortune.

  “Besides,” Lola continued, “if you only knew about La Belle Otero, you would have to agree that she was a bitchin’ courtesan, the last of the grandes horizontales.”

  “Grandes horizontales?” hooted Annie. “You mean prostitutes …”

  “Mistresses of men of rank!” Lola corrected.

  “Oh, sorry! Really. I don’t believe the words ‘grandes horizontales’ will be on our quiz tomorrow. But please, go ahead and tell us all about your idol, La Belle Otero.”

  Once again, Lola was about to cast her red-headed fishing line in the direction of another handsome admirer, but at the last moment she noticed that he joined the line for a public bus, and she lost interest.

  “Let me tell you, ladies, La Belle Otero possessed an unrivaled awareness of men with deep wealth. Honestly, I have to ramp up my rich-guy detection skills.” Lola said this more for her own benefit than for her friends.

  “So her name was Belle?” Karen asked.

  “Her real name was Carolina Otero,” Lola told her, nodding her head so emphatically her red curls bounced. “Nina to her friends. She lived from the late 1880s until the 1960s, and she always traveled in style. She even accompanied Wilhelm II, the German Kaiser, on his Imperial yacht. When she took her afternoon rides from her home right here, 27 Rue Pierre Charron, she rode like a queen in specially designed carriages––never on putrid public transportation.” Lola pointed a manicured index finger accusatorily at the departing bus.

  Annie didn’t want to hear any additional trite details. “So what? Apparently, she was a prosperous prostitute and nothing else. What qualities did she possibly possess to make you, a twentieth-century woman with a college education, want to emulate her?”

  “That’s precisely my point.” Lola beamed at her two friends. “Her tactics were universal and timeless. Think about it. La Belle Otero used her talent as a dancer at the Folies Bergère to catapult herself onto a much larger stage––the playing fields of the wealthiest aristocrats. They were more than glad to support her in the style to which they were accustomed. And she played one rich aristo against the other. Nina had so much money that she regularly lost hundreds of thousands of francs at the gaming tables throughout Europe, and all those lovelorn male admirers of hers picked up the tab. She was such a cunning fox! In total control of every aspect of her life. Don’t you think that’s impressive? Don’t you think her life was exciting?”

  Annie shook her head, but before she could say anything more, Karen jumped in to make the peace.

  “I get what Lola is saying.” Karen sounded almost wistful. “At least, I know where she’s coming from, where we’re both coming from. It’s an idée fixe for lots of us who come from humble roots. Not an obsession, exactly––more of a daydream or fantasy. We think that somehow our talents are going to be spotted and recognized and––hey presto, we’re rich and famous.”

  “You want a shortcut, you mean,” Annie said sternly. “The easy way.”

  Now it was Karen’s turn to shake her head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Annie, but you’ve had a very privileged life. It may be hard for you to understand that some people may work really hard but never get ahead, never even get financially secure. I’m not putting your wealth down, or saying that you don’t have to work hard––it’s just you can easily fly down to the south of France and stay at your grandmother’s property, whenever you like. Or if you’re stuck you can contact your trust fund manager in L.A., and the money you need will be wired to you. So maybe you don’t need daydreams the way we do.”

  Annie didn’t respond. She didn’t like to be tagged as the rich girl; she wanted to make it in Paris all on her own. But nothing Karen was saying was untrue.

  “And I think what Lola is talking about right now is just a goofy daydream,” Karen continued. “Isn’t that right, Lola?”

  “Hell, no!” Lola was defiant. “I’m completely serious. La Belle Otero’s my idol.”

  Annie groaned and started to walk away, but Lola tugged on her loose silk sleeve.

  “Listen! She was an amazing Spanish dancer, really talented. They said when she danced flamenco it was so sinuous and erotic she drove men wild with desire. She spoke several languages fluently, so she was clearly no ding-a-ling. She was a creative, intelligent woman who came from nothing but set her sights as high as possible. She got what she wanted from the men she chose to sleep with. So of course I admire her.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Annie, holding up one hand. “I guess La Belle Otero had to do what she had to do. But you don’t come ‘from nothing,’ Lola.”

  Karen and Lola exchanged glances but said nothing. They had been roommates at Cal State and they knew each other’s past. All the details of their seedy family dramas were things nobody else needed to know. They had promised each other that in Paris they’d create new personas, and they were not about to reveal their modest backgrounds to a rich USC girl like Annie.

  “And anyway,” Annie said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “surely you don’t intend to bring your lovers into Madame Caron de Pichet’s apartment, do you? She’d throw us all out.”

  Madame Caron de Pichet was the aristocratic old lady who owned the hôtel particulier where they lived. In the past, she had managed the upkeep of such a large town house through her liaisons with rich foreign men, who were glad to give her petits cadeaux, small but generous gifts. Although still elegant in her seventies, Madam’s Caron de Pichet’s house had fallen into disrepair, her couture clothing barely revealed its past glamour, and she was forced to reluctantly take in this group of alluring Americans to buoy her melancholic nostalgia.

  “She wouldn’t throw me out,” Lola retorted. “I was the one who chatted up our darling house mother when I saw her sad old face that day at the hairdresser! I’m the one who charmed her into letting us live with her. Remember, whatever Lola wants––Lola gets.”

  She laughed at her own cliché, and tossed her curls again in the direction of the compañeros, not recognizing them as the same men she had earlier seen at the café.

  Karen managed a smile as well, eager to make peace.

  “Come on, you two. No more squabbling. Annie, just think of this as a history lesson. Hey, did men really fight duels over La Belle Otero?”

  “Not only did they duel over her, but one young admirer committed suicide when she rejected him. He was the scion of the wealthy Payen family, and he pursued her madly, sending her love letters and enclosing thousands and thousands of francs, desperate to persuade her to meet him.”

  “I bet he wanted to do more than just meet her,” Annie said drily.

  “Sadly for him, yes,” said Lola. “They met up at last at the Chinese Pavilion in the Bois de Boulogne.”

  “How romantic!” exclaimed Karen.

  “It could have been, but La Belle Otero wasn’t into this guy at all, even though he was richer than anybody else. So he killed himself in despair. And when the story got out, she had even more admirers than before, showering her with priceless jewels, furs, money––and this groovy townhouse.” Lola waved a hand at the Rue Pierre Charron address. “Let’s go ring all the buttons until someone answers the door. I bet I can charm my way into them letting us in. I wonder if anyone who lives there knows that it used to belong to La Belle Otero?”


  Karen shook her head. “I don’t think we should ring the bell. You know how Parisians are ––they’re much more reserved and formal than Americans.”

  “Besides,” said Annie, stowing away her guidebook, “you already seem to know more about La Belle Otero than anyone else.”

  “You two need to be more daring,” Lola said, shaking her head in despair. “At least Monica showed more interest in La Belle Otero. She wanted to know exactly how Nina honed her femme fatale allure. In fact, she asked me so many questions, you would have thought she was preparing for a test on courtesans.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Taking Command

  Jean-Michel left a smiling Monica sitting at the table, and walked off to whisper in the waiter’s ear. Monica craned her neck to see where Jean-Michel was heading, but the longer flaps of the café’s red awning blocked her view. The awning trembled when Jean-Michel passed underneath. This was exactly how Jean-Michel expected Paris to react to him––and not the other way around. He knew how to hide in plain sight among the interminable gawky tourists cluttering all the picturesque sites, or among the agitated students in the Latin Quarter. He expected everything, from the city’s fabled historic haunts to its malodorous quais, to conform to his vision of the future––and to conspire along with him. He used its crowds, its drizzle, its wide avenues and narrow covered passages, even the three-hundred-step stairway leading up to Sacré-Cœur, like a sleek cat slinking in and out of sight, intent on catching its prey.

  Of course, there were added benefits to moving stealthily through the many Parisian quartiers. Women on the street were anxious to flirt with him, unabashedly tying and untying their long silk scarves in a public imitation of seductive undressing. Usually he ignored them, because he had more important things to do, for the greater good, but on some days he stopped to bask in their jittery sensuality. Venice had its thousand purring cats underfoot, weaving around the narrow lanes and fetid canals, but Paris seemed to overflow with female students craving his attention.