All the covers were fantastic, and she knew it. Yet there was something about each one that didn't quite suit her. At first she couldn't put her finger on what it was, but then it dawned on her: they were the covers for the June issues, and outside it was still midwinter. Even after years of preparing the magazines four to six months ahead of their issue dates, she still hadn't learned to get used to seeing bathing suits and chiffons in winter, wools and furs in summer. There was something oddly obscene about it. It made her feel like a clairvoyant when the issues—and clothes—finally came out, and it was a rather creepy feeling. Each season confronted her with this peculiar sense of deja vu.
She heard the door opening and looked up. It was Edmond. He hadn't bothered to knock. He was the only person permitted to walk in unannounced, but usually he did not exercise this prerogative. As a matter of courtesy to Julie and herself, he always let himself be announced. The fact that he hadn't bothered with formalities aroused Hélène's misgivings. Something very important must have happened. She could remember only two times before that he had rushed in like that. Both times had been emergencies.
He walked briskly toward her and didn't wait for her to ask what had happened. 'You've just gained a week's extension!' he said excitedly. 'ManhattanBank has decided it won't call in the loan tomorrow.'
She frowned in silence, digesting this unexpected turn of events. Stretching the deadline by a week wouldn't help her in the long run. Still, it was a nonrenewable note. As such, the extension was significant. 'I don't understand,' she said.
'Why don't you have a seat and I'll explain it to you.'
She nodded and they sat down in the fragile French chairs that faced her desk. She crossed her legs and waited while he lit a cigarette.
'I just found out that Gore is no longer handling your accounts,' he said. 'Whoever is appointed to replace him will have to acquaint himself with them, review your financial predicament, and come to a decision. He'll need a week—maybe more—to catch up on it.'
Hélène gave him an odd look. 'But why? Has Gore quit his job?' she asked curiously. She couldn't imagine the well-fed banker doing anything of the sort.
Edmond shook his head and watched her closely. His voice was soft. 'He committed suicide. Jumped out of his office window.'
Hélène went pale. An uncontrollable chill rushed through her. 'I think someone just walked over my grave,' she said quietly.
'What do you mean?'
Hélène looked down at her hands. 'Only yesterday, I ran into his wife at Susumu's. She showed me a bracelet she'd just bought at Bulgari, and do you know what she said?' Edmond shook his head in silence. 'She said: 'My husband will probably kill himself when he sees it.' Those were her exact words!'
Edmond stared at her. 'That's too bad,' he said sympathetically. 'I only hope the poor woman won't blame herself for it.' He paused. 'But mercenary as it may sound, Gore's done you an enormous favor. It's gotten you an extension. Even if it is only for a week or so.'
She nodded slowly. At least now she'd have more time to think everything over carefully, to weigh the alternatives and arrive at the right decision. But there was still one thing she couldn't understand. 'Edmond, why did he do it?'
He shrugged and took a deep drag on his cigarette. 'I'm not certain, but the rumors are flying. ManhattanBank tried to put a lid on them, but word's leaked out anyway. They say he's embezzled a lot of money. Apparently he must have thought death was the only way out.'
Hubert de Léger waited in his upstairs library until the house phone rang. 'Monsieur le Comte,' the soft-spoken butler said in French, 'they are all here.'
'Very well, Eduard,' the Comte said. 'I'll be down shortly. See that they're made comfortable. Serve them drinks.'
'I already have, sir.'
'Good.' The Comte replaced the receiver and finished the letter he was reading. He was in no hurry. Let them wait, he thought with a smirk. It would only add to their suspense. He had hastily summoned them little more than half an hour ago, and each one had pointedly inquired about the reason for the urgent meeting. He had been purposely mysterious, and none of them had lost any time in getting here. Now he would let them speculate.
He made some notes on a pad, wrote out a telex, finished his inevitable Armagnac, and finally got to his feet. By now they would be bursting with impatience.
He took the small suede-lined elevator down to the foyer. At the living- room doors he hesitated. Then he flung them aside and strode in.
Slowly he looked around the big, Empire-furnished room. Seated on chairs with sphinx heads for arms and on couches with gilt claws for legs were Z.Z. Bavier, Karl von Eiderfeld, and Marcello d'Itri. A look of satisfaction showed in the Comte's eyes. No, not one of Hélène's enemies had wasted a second getting here. All of them had drinks in their hands.
The Comte could feel the hostility in his guests' eyes, and his lips spread into a sudden smile. 'My friends,' he announced with a quick nod of his head, 'I am pleased to see that you could all come so quickly. Especially on such short notice.'
Z.Z.'s lynx eyes narrowed. 'Is that why you kept us waiting for so long?' she hissed in annoyance.
The Comte smiled easily. 'Of course not, my dear Z.Z. I was delayed by a most urgent call.' He came toward her, bent down, kissed her cheek. 'My heartfelt apologies.'
She looked at him doubtfully. Suspicious bitch, he thought to himself. He crossed the room to the bar, poured himself a glass of Armagnac, and leaned against the marble fireplace. Since they were all seated, he preferred to remain standing. It gave him a certain feeling of dominance.
'Well?' Z.Z. demanded. 'Would you mind explaining what is so urgent that we had to drop everything and rush over here?'
The Comte sipped his Armagnac. 'An unexpected development has come up. It requires that we revise our plans.'
Z.Z. looked at him sharply. 'An unexpected development? What the hell has happened?'
'Gore,' he answered softly. 'The banker.'
D'Itri exchanged glances with Z.Z. 'What about the banker?' the Italian designer asked. 'Has he had a change of mind? Won't he sell us her collateral?'
The Comte looked at d'Itri. 'It's not that he won't sell it. It's that he can't.'
D'Itri looked puzzled. 'I don't see any difference between 'won't' and 'can't.''
'Ah, but there is a subtle distinction,' the Comte said.
'You mean she's actually managed to pay it all back?' Z.Z.'s voice was incredulous.
All at once d'Itri and von Eiderfeld began to talk excitedly.
The Comte raised a hand to silence them. 'No, she hasn't paid it back. But she's gotten a week's extension.'
'An extension!' Z.Z. wailed. 'How! It's a nonrenewable loan!'
The Comte smiled grimly. 'At ten-forty-five this morning, Mr. Gore made a rather untimely departure from this life. He committed suicide.'
'Verdammt!' Von Eiderfeld slammed his palm down on one of the sphinx heads of his chair. 'I knew we should not have trusted that man!'
D'Itri stared sullenly at the Comte. 'So what do we do now?'
'What can we do!' Z.Z. shrieked. She stared accusingly at the Comte. 'You assured us that it was all arranged! That nothing could go wrong!' With trembling fingers she lit a Dunhill.
The Comte was calm. He wasn't about to be goaded into an argument. 'This was beyond even my control,' he said patiently. 'I like it as little as you do. It seems that Gore had been embezzling money. It just so happens that he got caught at the worst possible moment.'
'Oh, Christ!' Z.Z. swore. She drained her drink in one long swallow.
'Now that Gore is gone,' von Eiderfeld murmured thoughtfully, 'where does that leave us?'
The Comte shrugged. 'Someone else will have to take Gore's place. We'll just wait patiently and see who it is. Then we'll approach him.'
'And if he can't be bribed?' d'Itri snapped. 'What then?'
'My dear Marcello.' The Comte's tone was cold. 'Everyone has his price. You should know that better than a
nyone.'
D'Itri flushed. 'Just what do you mean by that?' he demanded angrily.
The Comte smiled. 'All I mean to say is that of all of us, you are the one with the scantiest excuse for hating Hélène. Without her, you'd be nothing. Oh, maybe you'd have a third-rate dress shop somewhere. But face it—she made you. She set you up, and now you don't like the price.' He paused. 'Marcello, you're biting the hand that feeds you.'
D'Itri's hands shot up to cover his ears. 'Shut up!' he screamed. 'Shut up!' Angrily he jumped to his feet. 'What about you?' He pointed an accusing finger at each one of them in turn. 'And you? And you?'
The Comte smiled benignly. 'We have other reasons, Marcello. Better reasons. With us it's not a simple matter of turning our backs on a debt.'
'Well, fuck you!' With his hands, d'Itri made an obscene gesture and left, slamming the door behind him.
For a moment the others sat in stunned silence. Then Z.Z. began to laugh. 'My, my! Such a vulgar outburst!'
The Comte crossed the room and poured himself another glass of Armagnac. 'Marcello is a peasant,' he said derisively. 'He may have money, but in the end, class always tells. There is nothing worse than the nouveau riche.' He looked at von Eiderfeld and smiled apologetically. 'Excepting yourself, of course. I do not consider you to be in that category.'
'I should hope not,' the industrialist said with dignity. He rose to his feet. 'As soon as you contact the new banker, you will let us know?'
The Comte nodded. 'Of course.'
'Good. And now I must regretfully be going. I have an important appointment, and I am already late.' Von Eiderfeld stiffly shook hands with the Comte, and the butler showed him out.
When they were alone, Z.Z. shook her head. 'Von Eiderfeld never fails to give me the creeps,' she said. There was a note of disgust in her voice. 'All that dreadfully white skin and those bloodless eyes. He reminds me of something out of a monster movie.' She shuddered.
The Comte was silent, and she took it as a cue.
'Well, I suppose it's time for me to go also,' she said with a sigh. 'After all this bad news, I might as well stop at Bendel's and buy a little something to cheer me up.'
The butler came with her silver-fox coat and she took her time slipping into it. Then the Comte personally escorted her to the door, drink in hand.
In the foyer, she halted, turning to face him. Her lips formed a mocking smile, and there was a glint of wicked amusement in her eyes. 'You never mentioned why you hate Hélène Junot so much, my dear Comte. Could it be too unladylike for my delicate ears to hear?'
He stared down at his glass. His face looked suddenly haggard with pain, and she couldn't help wincing. For an instant she felt genuinely sorry that she had brought up the subject.
When he spoke, his words came out so softly that she almost didn't catch them. 'I. . .was in love with her once.'
Z.Z. glanced at him sharply. Curiosity had replaced her momentary pity. 'So? What happened?'
Suddenly he began to tremble, then gripped his glass so hard that the delicate crystal shattered in his hand. She stared at his fingers; they were starting to bleed, and pieces of jagged crystal were embedded in the flesh. She heard what sounded like a strangled sob in his throat.
'What happened?' he screamed. Then his hysterical laughter reverberated around the foyer.
YESTERDAY
III Adultery
1
Paris, 1953
A lump came up in Hélène's throat as the train sped into Paris. She got to her feet, pushed down the window, and leaned her head out. She had to squint as the cold wind hit her face and rushed through her hair. She swallowed her first deep gulps of Parisian air and the tears sprang to her eyes. In the distance, through the tears, she could see the Eiffel Tower. For a while she stared out at it in rapt fascination. It seemed to spring triumphantly up from among the endless sea of gray and black rooftops like a welcoming beacon. Then it disappeared as the train began the drawn-out, grating screech that signaled its approach to the station.
When the train jolted to a halt, Hélène carefully stepped down onto the platform. Up front, clouds of steam billowed up from under the hissing locomotive. It sounded like a weary giant letting out a deep sigh. Overhead, the metal girders of the Gare Montparnasse soared up to the glass roof in apparent defiance of the laws of gravity. She put down her suitcase and looked around. The first thing that caught her eye was that the travelers looked fatter and healthier than the Parisians of her memory, and they were far better dressed. All around her was the vibrant air of life that the French called joie de vivre. Gone were the dark things that had left a smudge on her memory: the haunting silence, the frightened looks on people's faces and the constant furtive glances over their shoulders, the fumblings with those all-important documents—official, stamped papers. Missing, too, were the swastikas and the sharp-eyed, ever-present Boches. Paris was different. She could feel it, and it felt good.
An old porter came up to her. 'Mademoiselle?' he asked. He looked at her questioningly.
Quickly she shook her head. 'Non, merci,' she said softly. Porters cost money, and she didn't have as much as a sou to throw away on such an extravagance. She grabbed her old suitcase and lugged it out to the street. The sunlight was bright and hurt her eyes. She blinked, but not because of the sun. In front of the station was the most incredible sight she had ever seen. Rows of gleaming black taxis. She shook her head in wonder. Would miracles never cease? And the streets—it was the first time she had ever seen the streets of Paris so crowded. Gone were the horse-drawn wagons, the velo-taxis, and the hordes of bicycles. Instead, there were cars of every shade of the rainbow. How different everything looked from the Occupation! If only Maman were here to see it, she thought with regret.
'Taxi, mademoiselle?' A driver with a mustache held the door of his Renault open.
Hélène hesitated and peered inside. The seats were thickly upholstered and looked inviting. For an instant she almost splurged and got in. It would be nice to celebrate her return and ride down the Champs-Elysees and through the narrow streets of the Right Bank in style. But like the porter, it was a waste of money. Quickly she tightened her grip on the suitcase and walked away. She would need every last precious sou she had. Her first priority would be to find an inexpensive place to live. And then to buy food.
Wearily Hélène climbed the four narrow flights to her apartment. Another useless day, she thought listlessly as she unlocked the door. She threw the key down on the rickety kitchen table, kicked the door shut behind her, and slipped out of her clothes. Then she flopped down on the bed. The mattress sagged under her weight. In silence she stared up at the cracked ceiling. She was bone-tired. When she first arrived, her hopes had known no ceiling. Anything was possible. Now reality was crushing her hopes slowly but inextricably.
Still no job, she thought miserably. For three weeks she'd been looking now, and still nothing. Meanwhile, all Paris was bustling while she was pounding the pavement. And today had been the worst day yet. She closed her eyes.
Today she had answered an advertisement for a brassiere manufacturer looking for models. It was not the kind of job she wanted, but in desperation she'd gone anyway. It had been a gross mistake. The 'manufacturer' had turned out to be nothing more than a front for a low-class whorehouse. And the disgusting fat pig who ran the place took one look at her and chased her around the filthy 'office.' She shuddered in disgust. Luckily she had managed to outwit him, get to the door, and flee. Now what would she do?
She had less than fifty francs left to her name. There was nothing in the tiny cupboard but two eggs, plus the bottle of milk she kept out on the windowsill to stay cool. The rent was due in two days.
She sighed and opened her eyes. Then she sat up and looked around the apartment. It was unbelievable. One room in a crummy Montmartre garret. She shook her head. In the expansive letters she had sent Edmond and Madame Dupre, she had written that it was small but charming, and had a splendid view. So they wouldn'
t worry about her, she had even lied and written that she had several job possibilities lined up. And that she'd have to think each over carefully to choose the one she thought would best suit her future.
Future? What future? Job opportunities? Being chased around by a pervert who smelled of cheap wine? Was that a job possibility?
Suddenly she began to laugh.
Charming apartment? She began to laugh even harder. Sure it was charming, she thought. The walls were covered with dirty white paint, the linoleum floor was cracked, and three of the nine panes of glass in the one small window were broken and boarded over. And the view she had written home so warmly about? She was in gales of laughter now. The view was the window of an apartment across the courtyard. In it lived a shaggy young artist who masturbated with more frequency than he painted. When Hélène had discovered that, she lost no time in yanking the tattered tablecloth off the kitchen table and draping it across the window. She was only too happy to spare herself that view.
And the size of her apartment? Also laughable. It was a single room, twelve feet long and not quite nine feet wide. There wasn't even a closet. All her clothes were hanging from hooks on the wall that some previous tenant had put up. The toilet out in the hall was unheated. She shared it with three other tenants on the floor. There was no bath.
She despised the place.
Her eyes came to rest on a heap of fabric on the floor. It was the dress she had been wearing. Tonight she'd once again have to wash it out in the sink, hang it up to dry, and then borrow the concierge's iron. Tomorrow she'd have to wear it to go back out and pound the pavement again.
Suddenly her laughter turned to tears and she buried her face in the pillow. Violent sobs began to rack her body. Oh, what was the use? she asked herself. Surely this was the end of the road.
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