Goodbye, Janette

by Harold Robbins

  “What if you never hear from him?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Under French law you’re liable for the money in any case,” he said.

  “I know that,” she said calmly. “But tomorrow I will get in touch with the notaire, and when he makes the necessary changes in the papers, I will make the payment.”

  “And what am I supposed to do?”

  “Just what we agreed on. You will be the director general of the companies. Manage them well and there’s no reason why you too cannot be rich.”

  “You won’t get away with it,” he said balefully. “You can be deported.”

  “And where will you be if you open that can of beans?” she asked with a faint smile. “Especially when I tell them of the circumstances that led to our marriage.”

  He stared at her without speaking.

  “You can go now,” she said calmly, dismissing him. “And on your way downstairs inform the butler that I will be ready to look at the rest of the house in a few minutes.”

  “Is there anything else Madame la Marquise wants me to do?” he asked sarcastically.

  “Yes,” she said. “Tell your boyfriend to get his things out of the house before dinner. You know how servants love to gossip. I don’t think it would be an especially nice thing to have them spreading the word all over Paris that Monsieur le Marquis is a pederast.”

  She waited until the door closed behind him, then went into the bathroom and opened her cosmetic case. She lifted the top shelf out and placed it on the marble countertop next to the sink. Quickly she emptied the jars of cream and lotion from the bottom of the case until the leather case resting on the bottom was revealed. Then she took the leather case and held it in her hand.

  The gold-tooled lettering shone at her. W v B Schweringen.

  She snapped open the case. The silver-steel razors gleamed. Seven of them. One for each day of the week. Labeled in black on the ivory handles. Monday through Sunday. She had found them in the bathroom of the Geneva house and on an impulse had packed them in her case. Now she knew it wasn’t an impulse at all. Suddenly the thought flashed through her mind that Wolfgang hadn’t forgotten them at all. That he had deliberately left them where she could find them.

  Quickly she went back into the bedroom and stood in the center of the room. A moment later she had made up her mind. One on either side of the mattress and the headboard. Then one under the mattress on each side at the foot of the bed. One under the cushion of the small couch in front of the coffee table, one more under the cushion of the chaise lounge and the last behind the curtain on the window near the breakfast table.

  She took one last look around then returned the leather case to the bathroom just as the butler’s knock sounded on the door.

  ***

  It took more than two hours for the butler to show the house, and when at last they returned to her room, she complimented him. “You have done very well, Henri. I am pleased.”

  He bowed. “Thank you, Madame. Is Madame ready to proceed with the unpacking of her luggage?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I will inform Louise to come and assist you. She should be finished in your daughter’s room by now.” He hesitated a moment. “And what time would Madame like dinner?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “In the dining room?”

  She looked at him questioningly. “Why do you ask?”

  He was uncomfortable. “Monsieur le Marquis informed me that he would not be taking dinner at home tonight.”

  She was silent.

  “Perhaps you and the child would be more comfortable in the breakfast room. It’s very cozy in there and looks out on the garden.”

  She nodded. “A good idea, Henri. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Madame.” He bowed again and started for the door.

  “Henri.”

  He stopped. “Yes, Madame.”

  “You’ve shown me all the rooms except my husband’s. I would like to see that now.”

  “Excuse me, Madame,” he said uncomfortably. “I thought—”

  “No. I haven’t seen it. I don’t even know where it is.”

  He gestured to a narrow door on the far wall of her room. “If Madame will follow me.”

  She looked at the door. Narrower than normal, until now she had thought it was a closet. The door opened into a narrow corridor, slightly less than a meter wide and a little more than a meter long, at the end of which was another narrow door.

  He opened the second door and she walked into Maurice’s room. She stood there for a moment. She should have known it. Maurice had taken the best room for himself. All four windows facing the front of the house overlooking the park across the street. And newly decorated in a fashion that was somehow even more feminine than her own room. She walked into the bathroom. Even that was more than twice the size of her bathroom.

  She came out of the bathroom to find the butler standing in the center of the room watching her. “Very nice, Henri.”

  His voice was guarded. “Yes, Madame.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. You do not have to send Louise to unpack me today. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “We will also be changing rooms tomorrow,” she said. “I will occupy this suite, my daughter will move into mine and you will move the marquis’ things into my daughter’s suite.”

  “But, Madame—” His voice was shocked.

  “Yes, Henri?” Her voice was cool.

  “Monsieur le Marquis. Le patron.” He was stammering. “He would not like it.”

  She met his gaze steadily. “If I am correct, Henri, le patron is your employer, the person who pays your wages. N’est-ce pas?”

  “That is correct, Madame.”

  “Then you have nothing to concern yourself about,” she said, her voice still cool. “Since I am the person who is paying your wages, not Monsieur le Marquis, I am la patronne. And the only person you have to please.”

  His eyes fell before her gaze. He bowed. “Yes, Madame.”

  “One more thing, Henry,” she added. “Tomorrow when you change the rooms you will also have a locksmith change the door locks.”

  “Yes, Madame. Will there be anything else, Madame?”

  She started back through the narrow corridor. “Let me know as soon as Mr. Johnson has removed his things.”

  “He has already left the house, Madame. About an hour ago while we were upstairs on the fourth floor.”

  “Good,” she said. She had made her point and knew that he didn’t miss it. “Thank you, Henri.”

  ***

  “Isn’t Monsieur Maurice having dinner with us?”

  Tanya looked across the small table at her daughter. “No, darling. He went out.”

  Janette’s voice was curious. “With that girl?”

  Tanya was puzzled. “What girl?”

  “You know.” Janette’s voice was guileless. “That one. The one that dresses in men’s clothing.”

  Tanya stared at her daughter. “He’s not a girl. He’s a man.”

  “If she’s a man, why did you send her out of the house?” Janette asked pointedly.

  Tanya was surprised. The child saw more than she thought she did. “We need the room for someone else,” she explained, sensing the lameness of her words.

  Janette was silent as she finished her soup. She looked up again after Henri had removed her plate. “I still think she’s a girl.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I was downstairs in the kitchen when Monsieur Maurice came down and told her that you ordered her to leave.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s a girl.”

  “Then when I was going back up the stairs, I passed her room. She was crying and Monsieur Maurice was kissing her and telling her that everything would be all right. He acted just like she was a girl.”

  Tanya was silent. “Maybe he just felt bad,” she finally said.

  Janette shook
her head. “She was taking dresses out of her closet and putting them in the valise. When they saw me standing there, Monsieur Maurice kicked the door shut with his foot. But they couldn’t fool me.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” Tanya said with finality. “Either way, he is gone and will not be back in the house.”

  They were silent until after the entree had been served. Janette cut

  into her meat. “This is good, isn’t it? French cooking is better than Swiss.”

  Tanya smiled. “Yes, darling.”

  Janette took another mouthful of food. “I really like it.” Then without changing the tone of her voice, “Does it hurt when Monsieur Maurice puts his big thing in you?”

  “Janette!” Tanya was shocked. “Where did you ever learn such things?”

  “In school,” Janette answered casually. “All the kids talk about it. Some of them have even seen their mothers and fathers doing it. Do you think sometime you can let me watch when Monsieur Maurice does it to you?”

  “No,” Tanya said sharply. “And that’s not a nice thing to talk about. Nice girls never talk about it.”

  “I came into your room one night when you and Papa General were doing it. But you didn’t see me, and I went out.” She took another forkful of the meat. “But Monsieur Maurice’s thing is twice as big as Papa General’s. That’s why I thought it might hurt.”

  “How do you know such things?”

  “Monsieur Maurice always left his bathroom door open when he took a pee. I couldn’t help seeing it. He even knew that I saw him and he used to smile.”

  Tanya didn’t know what to say. Maurice had only stayed in Geneva for a week after they were married and then had gone back to Paris to put the house in order, and until he met them at the train today she hadn’t seen him. “Well, that won’t happen anymore,” she finally said. “Tomorrow you’re changing rooms to the room next to mine.”

  “Where will Monsieur Maurice be staying?”

  “He’ll be moving into your room.”

  “Then he won’t be making a baby in you with his thing?” Janette asked.

  “No,” Tanya said definitely.

  “Why not?”

  Tanya looked at her daughter. Her voice grew gentle. “Because you’re the only child I want. I don’t want any other baby but you.”

  A smile suddenly broke over Janette’s face. She left her chair and ran to her mother, throwing her arms around her. “Really?” she exclaimed.

  Tanya hugged her. “Really. You’re all the babies I need.”

  “I’m glad, Maman,” Janette said. “I don’t want you to have any other baby except me.”

  ***

  It was almost midnight when she turned the bed lamp off. Her eyelids felt as if they were lead-weighted. It had been a long day, starting before six o’clock in the morning in Geneva. The nine-hour train ride hadn’t been that restful either with its many stops and starts. She had wanted to be awake when Maurice returned but there was no use. She had to get some sleep.

  The faint sound of voices and laughter filtered through her sleep. She stirred restlessly, trying to block out the sound, but it was persistent. Finally she opened her eyes and stared at the radium numbers glowing on the alarm-clock dial. It was ten minutes to three. She rolled over on her back, listening to the noise.

  It seemed to come through the narrow corridor connecting their rooms. Someone was in there with Maurice, but the sound was too blurred for her to tell whether there was one person or more. She lay quietly in the dark. After a while the sounds seemed to die down and her eyes closed and she drifted off.

  She didn’t know how much later it was that the sharp click of the light switch and the sudden flooding of light into the room woke her up. She sat up in bed, her eyes blinking against the blinking lights. Quickly her eyes adjusted.

  The connecting door was partly open and Maurice was standing behind it, looking at her.

  “Get out!” she said coldly.

  Instead he threw the door wide and stepped into the room. He was completely naked and the cat-o’-nine-tails trailed along the floor as it fell from his right hand. He stopped in the center of the room, staring at her, and with his left hand began to stroke his penis into an erection.

  She glanced up at him, then up into his face. “It won’t work this time,” she said, her voice still cold. “Get out.”

  He laughed suddenly, then turned and called. “Come in, Jerry darling. Let me show you how to treat a German whore.”

  Jerry appeared in the doorway. He, too, was naked and holding a bottle of cognac. He stared at her and giggled drunkenly.

  The cat snaked across the bed at her. She threw up her hands, catching most of the lashes across her arms, shielding her face. The cat snaked again, falling across her breasts, still covered by the bed sheet.

  “Get out of bed, whore cunt!” Maurice snarled.

  Silently she got out of bed, her white cotton nightgown touching the floor. She stood erect, facing him.

  “Jerry, tear off her gown,” Maurice commanded.

  Still giggling, Jerry minced toward her. “Like a drink, darling?” he asked, waving the bottle of cognac.

  She stared at him without answering.

  “Give her shit!” Maurice snapped. “Tear off her gown. I’ve got what she wants.”

  She said nothing as Jerry tried to rip the gown from her. But the cotton was too strong and wouldn’t give. Finally he pulled it down over her shoulders and it fell to the floor. He stared at her, then reached out and touched her breasts. “She has big tits,” he said almost enviously.

  Angrily she slapped his hands away from her.

  He giggled. “Don’t worry, darling. Another year and they’ll begin to fall down to your belly. Bit tits always do. Then you won’t be so proud of them.”

  The cat slashed across her. She bit her lips against the pain. “Come over here,” Maurice commanded.

  Silently she moved toward him, stopping directly in front of him, her eyes fixed on his face. He gripped her by the hair, forcing her to look down at him. “Look at your master, slave bitch!”

  She tried to turn her head away from him but the cat slashed across her shoulders as he angrily forced her to her knees before him. He pulled her head back against her neck, forcing her mouth open. “Suck it!”

  She tried to close her mouth. This time the cat fell across her back and she gasped in pain. “Now. Will you do as I tell you?”

  Slowly she reached for his phallus with one hand as she inched closer to the small couch next to where he was standing. She closed one hand around it, drawing it toward her mouth, as with the other hand she searched between the cushions and found the razor.

  Maurice laughed triumphantly. “I told you I knew what she wanted.”

  Jerry giggled. “She’ll never get it in her mouth. That’s the biggest cock in Paris.”

  Now the razor was in her hand. The silver blade flashed briefly in the light. A line of blood suddenly appeared on Maurice’s body reaching from his bellybutton down into the hair over his pubis.

  Maurice screamed in sudden pain. He stared down at himself. “What have you done to me, you bitch?” Then he saw the blood. “You’ve killed me!” he screamed and fell to the floor in a faint.

  She got to her feet, staring down at him, the razor still bloody in her hand, then she turned to look at Jerry.

  He was suddenly sober, his face white, as if he were going to be sick. He stared at the razor in her hand and tried to speak, but no words would come to his lips. Then his eyes fixed on her with horror.

  “I could have killed him but I didn’t,” she said calmly. She stepped across Maurice and started for the bathroom. At the door she turned back to Jerry. “You’d better call a doctor. He’ll need some stitches or he could bleed to death.”

  “What are you going to do?” he asked hoarsely.

  “I’m going to my daughter’s room to sleep,” she said. “After all, I’m not responsible for what you to do to each ot
her when you get drunk.”

  ***

  It was about ten o’clock the next morning and she was seated at the breakfast table having a cup of coffee after dropping Janette off at her new school when he came into the room. She glanced up at him. “You’d better sit down,” she said calmly, as if nothing had happened the night before. “You don’t look too well.”

  He dropped into a chair. “The doctor says I might have the scar the rest of my life.”

  “Too bad,” she said noncommittally.

  He reached for the coffee and filled his cup. He took a sip and looked at her. “Now what do we do?”

  She met his eyes. “We stop playing games and go to work. Isn’t that the reason for this whole arrangement?”

  He nodded morosely into his coffee cup.

  “You’re a good businessman,” she said. “Wolfgang said that a long time ago. I respect that and I respect your abilities. I haven’t changed in that regard.”

  He raised his eyes. There was a growing respect in his voice. “You’re a strange woman, Tanya.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But there is one thing you and I have in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re both survivors,” she said slowly. “We’ve come this far together and there’s no reason to let a moment’s stupidity fuck us up and keep us from going a long way further.”

  He took a tentative sip of his coffee. It was already cold. He put it down. “And you’re not angry over what has happened?”

  “Should I be?” she asked. “As far as I’m concerned it’s over. Are you hungry?”

  He thought for a moment. “Yes. And no. But you are right. It’s over.”

  “We can still make it the good life, Monsieur la Marquis.” She smiled. “For both of us.”

  He raised his head and looked at her intently. Then he nodded his head slowly. “Madame la Marquise, I’m beginning to believe you are right.”

  “Of course, I’m right, Maurice.” She smiled. She picked up the service bell. “Now, let me call Henri and get you some hot coffee and breakfast.

  ***

  The voice came through the telephone, echoing through a corridor ten years long. “This is Johann Schwebel.”

  Maurice felt the knot tighten in his stomach. Even after ten years, fear gripped him. He couldn’t speak.