'It's just as well that that thief Pierre sold it,' she said to herself as she stumbled along the cobblestones. 'I could never live there. Never. It's no use trying to live in a house full of ugly ghosts.'
She headed straight home, strangely glad that Guy would be there. His company would be a comfort.
The window was still open when she got back. The room was icy. Guy didn't speak. He was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. He looked exhausted. His eyes were on The Hyperbolic Ascension.
Hélène stepped over his palette and sat down on the floor beside him. She stared up at the canvas, which seemed to explode off the wall with a force of its own. She didn't need to be told. It was finished.
In silence she got to her feet and went back out. Ten minutes later she returned with a bottle of champagne. She had splurged recklessly. It had cost every last sou they had left. When she opened it, the cork flew across the room and out the open window. She heard it land in the courtyard below. Carefully she filled their drinking bottles and handed one over to him. They clunked the bottles together.
She looked into his eyes. 'To your masterpiece,' she toasted in a solemn whisper. 'To your future.'
He nodded. Even he couldn't help but admit that The Hyperbolic Ascension had turned out to be a masterpiece. And with Andre Lichtenstein at his side, even the impossible was possible. The art dealer was an acknowledged genius when it came to discovering new talent.
Guy smiled. Suddenly the road to his fame and fortune looked paved with promise. He would be not only a respected artiste but perhaps also even a member of the small, close-knit community of financially successful artists as well. Who could tell? He might even become another Picasso, another Dali. Anything seemed possible.
But it never happened.
3
Breathlessly Hélène dashed past a startled Madame Guerin and ran up the steep flights two steps at a time. When she flung open the door and burst into the room, sweat was pouring down her forehead and her breast was heaving from exertion. She had run all the way.
Guy was standing at the sink. He twisted around and looked at her red face in surprise. 'Where's the fire?'
She took deep gulps of air and plopped herself down on the bed. 'The news. . .I couldn't wait. . .to tell you. . .I ran. . .'
'First catch your breath,' he said calmly. 'Then tell me everything. Can I get you a glass of water?'
She nodded and waited impatiently while he went over to the sink and filled the bottle under the tap. Water dripped down on the floor as he carried it to her.
'Thanks.' She held the bottle between her trembling hands and drank thirstily.
He sat down beside her. 'Caught your breath?'
Excitedly she nodded her head. With the back of her hand she wiped the water from around her mouth. 'We're rich!' she blurted out. 'I got a job!'
His eyes widened. 'What?' He hugged her tightly and then held her at arm's length by the shoulders. 'Where? How?'
Her eyes shone. 'I answered an ad. I didn't tell you about it because I didn't want to give you false hopes. I didn't really think for a moment that I would get it! But finally we'll have some money! Now we'll be able to buy food and even be able to cover the rent!'
Jumping to her feet, she raised her hands above her head and broke into a flamenco. Fiercely she snapped her fingers and stomped her heels. Her dress swirled around her. 'We're rich!' she sang. 'We're rich!'
From the floor below, someone began banging on the ceiling. Undaunted, Hélène danced on. Finally she collapsed on the bed. She was out of breath again.
'Well?' Guy demanded. 'Are you going to dance all night? Or are you going to tell me about it? What kind of job is it? Where is it?'
'It's nothing, really. Just a hat-check job. But it's not far from here, and I'll be able to walk to work. Even in the rain. I think the very first thing I'll buy myself will be an umbrella.' Her eyes were shining. 'Then I'll go out every time it rains just to luxuriate under it. I'll never have to get wet again!'
'You'll be a hat-check girl?' he asked softly.
'That's what I said.' She waved her hand deprecatingly. 'Oh, I know. It's no big deal. But they told me the tips are good.'
He looked at her questioningly. 'Where is it?' he asked hesitantly.
'On the rue de la Tour-d'Auvergne.'
He nodded slowly. 'It wouldn't by any chance happen to be the Folies de Babylon?'
She looked at him in surprise. 'You've been there!'
He shook his head, and their eyes met. 'No, I haven't been there. But I've heard enough. It's not a good place, Hélène. It has a. . .reputation, let's say.'
She turned at him angrily. 'Not good? Reputation? What are you trying to say? That I shouldn't work there because it's a nightclub?'
'Not because it's a nightclub. Because it's where men go to pick up girls. Girls who aren't nice. You know what I mean.'
'Prostitutes. Yes, I know,' she said wearily. 'I've been in Paris long enough to know that there is such a thing as prostitution. So what? I'm not a prostitute and I certainly don't intend to become one. I'm merely the hat-check girl.'
He shrugged. 'Have it your way, then. You won't last there anyway. They've got a fast employee turnover.'
'Then I'll work twice as hard. Three times as hard. I'll make sure I keep my job.'
He fell silent and got to his feet. He shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets and started to pace the room in annoyance.
She looked up at him for a while. Finally she spoke. 'You don't want me to work there, do you?'
He stopped pacing. 'I can't tell you what to do.'
She reached out, grabbed his sleeve, and shook it. 'We need the money, Guy. Can't you understand that? This is a chance! Another two weeks and the rent will be due again.' She motioned around the room. 'This is no way for human beings to live! We need money to live well. To eat well.' She looked at him pleadingly. 'Please understand me. I want to eat some good food for a change. I'm tired of going through garbage cans and chasing away the flies just to get at other people's leftovers!'
'Don't you understand?' he asked softly. 'It's worse at the Folies de Babylon. There you'll become garbage.'
'Then I'll become as rotten as the garbage I eat!' she declared angrily. 'I know the taste well enough by now. Do you really think working in a trash bin is any different than eating out of one?'
He reached up and grabbed his coat off a hook on the wall. 'I'm taking a walk.' He looked at her in disgust. 'I need the clean air.'
She looked stunned as he stalked out. She was about to open the door and call after him when she had second thoughts. She sighed and turned away. No, it wouldn't be of any use. He was too stubborn to listen.
Suddenly she noticed that something about the room was different. Then she realized what it was. The Hyperbolic Ascension was no longer there. Andre Lichtenstein must have had it picked up while she was out. Now she understood. With the excitement of her pitiful job offer, she had stolen Guy's thunder. No wonder he felt so hurt.
She rushed over to the door and flung it open. 'Guy!' she screamed. 'Guy! Please wait!'
But it was too late. Her calls were answered by the angry slamming of the front door. Even four flights up, she could hear the panes of glass rattling in the frames.
'You fool!' Madame Guerin's shouts echoed shrilly in the stairwell. 'Are you trying to tear the whole house apart?'
Slowly Hélène shut the door and slumped heavily against it. She let out a deep breath. She wished she had the time to sit down and relax, to get all the ill feeling out of her system. But she'd have to start getting ready soon. In less than two hours she would have to report to work.
Her lips twisted bitterly. This was a hell of a way to start off her first working day.
She got to the nightclub on the rue de la Tour-d'Auvergne half an hour before opening time. The night was dark but the tall red neons over the entrance hadn't been turned on yet.
For a moment she hesitated in front of
the big glass double doors. They had been painted over with lilac paint so that people couldn't peek in without paying admission, but to her it only made it appear that much more ominous and foreboding. Already she was so nervous that her teeth were chattering like castanets. She had never before worked in the city, let alone in a nightclub, and she was filled with fears. Perhaps people would look down on her like Madame d'Arbeuf had, and think she was provincial. Or worse yet. . .Her heart began beating heavily. Perhaps the Folies de Babylon was an even worse fleshpot than Guy had let on. For an instant the impulse to flee seized her. Then she forced herself to stifle it. Think of the money, she told herself grimly. Or do you want to starve? She stared at the lilac doors. Then, fortifying herself with a deep breath, she pulled open the heavy doors and walked in. She tried her best to act casual, but her legs felt weak. They were trembling as if she had the ague.
The bright overhead lights inside the club were still on, and in the glare everything looked tawdry and cheap. She couldn't help wrinkling her nose at the odor of stale tobacco and spilled drinks that hung in the air. Passing the hat-check room, she paused to give it a brief inspection. Then she wove her way past the sea of tiny tables toward the stage that took up the entire front of the massive room. As she walked, she looked around the club.
Right away her worst fears began to vanish. She had half-expected to be met by a fire-breathing dragon, but instead it all looked rather amusingly theatrical. Whoever had decorated the place must have had two things in abundance, she thought. No end of bad taste and a fixation on lilac and pink. The walls were lilac and embedded with pink sequins, and so was the heavy curtain drawn across the stage. On each side of the stage, an enormous cutout of a turbaned Negro woman was attached to the wall. Except for the faces, these, too, were heavily decorated in lilac with pink sequins.
Squeezed into the room must have been a hundred tables. Each one was draped with a pink cloth and held a little pink-shaded lamp, a large pink card with a big black number printed on it, and a pink French-style telephone. Instinctively she knew what the phones were for. You could use them to call from one table to another just by dialing the number of the table you wanted. It was supposed to be a discreet way for people to contact each other. She was highly amused.
Behind the pink bar, two middle-aged, bored-looking Algerians were polishing glasses. In front of the bar a big Algerian bouncer was seated on a stool. He scowled across the room at her. He had been cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife. Carefully he folded it up and snapped his thick fingers at her. She came over and looked at him questioningly. His dark eyes shone at her from under thick black eyebrows.
'Front door for customers only,' he growled in bad French. 'Employee door in side alley.' He nodded to his left.
Hélène looked confused. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'They didn't tell me.'
'Well, don't forget for future. This club belong to Monsieur Blond. Monsieur Blond don't like mistakes. Especially not from pretty ladies.' He eyed her up and down. 'Around here, you gotta do what Monsieur Blond says.'
She nodded and smiled tightly. 'I'll try to keep that in mind.'
'You be smart girl and do that.' He reached in his pocket for a cigarette and looked at her as he lit it. He took a deep drag and nodded to himself. She was fresh-looking and healthy, not like all those worn-out, pasty-faced showgirls and painted hookers. Yes, she really was quite beautiful. In fact, if Monsieur Blond didn't take a fancy to her, then perhaps. . .His face broke into a smile. 'Now, be a good girl,' he said in a friendlier voice. 'Run along and go behind stage. Ask for Mother. She get you in costume and tell you what to do.'
Costume? Hélène thought. What costume? Nobody had said anything about a costume. Then she shrugged. She turned around, skirted the bar, and climbed up the steps to the stage. She groped around the curtain for a while. Then she found an opening and slipped backstage.
From the look of things, there was a lot going on. The overhead lights were much brighter back here than out in the club, and they burned with a stifling heat. Hélène saw tall, long-legged showgirls in sequined bikinis and mountains of feathers, muscular showboys in sequined stretch tuxedos or obscene-looking loincloths. They all stood around looking bored, smoking cigarettes in groups. Close up, their makeup looked garish. Their skin underneath the greasy, powdered surface was pimply and uneven. With surprise, she noticed that even their bodies had makeup. The girls' breasts were rouged and the boys' washboard stomachs were outlined in brown greasepaint.
She noticed immediately that it was not the performers but the stagehands who were panic-stricken. They were rushing around seeing to this and that, screaming at the repairmen who were hammering away on a damaged set. In a corner, an ambivalent orchestra was tuning up. A clarinet squeaked.
Hélène was dazzled by the shabby glamour of it all. The set facing the curtains was big and garish and glittery. She looked up at it in awe. Prancing atop a wide, gold-painted pyramid were three stuffed stallions with colorful plumes on their heads. Hélène gazed farther up, at the ceiling. There were more flat sets up there, suspended above the height of the stage, ready to be lowered at a moment's notice.
Suddenly the floor under her began to move. She looked down in horror. Then she realized that she was standing on a revolving stage. When it stopped moving she quickly hopped off the big platform. She found herself in the midst of a group of gossiping girls. Most of them wore pink bikinis and massive headdresses sprouting pink ostrich plumes. They held their heads curiously straight, afraid that their elaborate headgear would slip off.
'I can't stand wearing all this crap,' one of the girls complained crossly. She was wearing a thick, arched ponytail on her rear and another atop her head. 'Monsieur Blond's a sadist for making us get ready so early. My feet hurt and I want to sit down!' She snorted and stamped her feet. The tail bounced up and down, and it rather looked like the movements of a horse. Hélène couldn't help giggling.
The girl turned around, her heavily made-up eyes flickering up and down Hélène. She placed her hands on her bare hips. 'Would you like to share the joke?' she demanded.
Hélène clapped a hand over her mouth and drew back. 'N-no, mademoiselle,' she stammered in embarrassment. 'Excusez-moi, I wasn't laughing at you. It's just. .. I'm looking for Mother.'
'Humph!' The girl's eyes narrowed. 'You're new around here, huh?'
Hélène nodded. 'I'm the new hat-check girl.'
'Listen, honey, we've all been hat-check girls. Right, ladies?' She looked at the others and winked.
They all burst out laughing. Hélène felt a deep blush coming on.
One of the girls stepped forward. 'Don't mind Angelique,' she said gently. 'She's just pissed off because she's pregnant and she'll have to foot the bill for the abortion herself. Come on, I'll take you to Mother.' She took Hélène by the hand and scowled at Angelique. Then she looked back at Hélène and smiled. 'My name is Denise.'
Hélène smiled shyly. 'Mine's Hélène.'
They walked on farther back, through a dim, narrow corridor. 'Don't mind the girls,' Denise said. 'They're not that bad, really. They just like to sound tough. And all these feathers get hot and heavy, believe me. It's amazing that tempers don't fly more often. Ah, here's Mother.'
They had stopped at one of the dressing-room doors. It was open, and Hélène could see inside. An old, limp-wristed little man with short brown bangs and a ruffled white shirt was touching up one of the showgirls' makeup.
'I can't see through these eyelashes, Mother!' the girl wailed. 'They feel like stiff brushes!'
The man gave a high-pitched cackle and tossed his wrist. 'Don't worry, cherie. The worst they'll do is poke your eyes out.' He made a minor adjustment on her eyes. 'There.' He stepped back to study the result and rubbed his hands together. 'You look very chic.'
Hélène glanced at Denise curiously. 'Th-that's Mother?' she whispered incredulously, pointing at the man.
Denise nodded. 'Except for his tongue, he's really quite harmles
s. If you're a girl, that is. The showboys don't like him, since he's constantly trying to grab them. The reason we call him Mother is because he's a pouf. Actually, he rather likes being called that, since it makes him feel he's one of us.'
'One of us?'
'Sure. Us girls.' Denise smiled. 'Anyway, he mothers all of us. He's like an old hen, but we love him dearly.'
Hélène shook her head. It was all so bizarre. Women with horses' tails. Stiff false eyelashes. A man called 'Mother' who liked to grab the boys.
She watched as the showgirl bent close in to a mirror and blinked her eyes. 'I'll probably be blind in five minutes,' she wailed.
Mother put his hands between her bony shoulder blades and propelled her to the door. 'Off you go, cherie.' Suddenly he stopped in his tracks and stared at Hélène. He knocked his hand against his forehead. 'I think I'm going to faint!' he shrieked. 'Where did this wholesome creature come from? Mon Dieu! I'm supposed to make her look like a painted hooker? Yes, I think I am going to faint!'
'She's the new hat-check girl,' Denise said.
Mother minced over to Hélène, looking her over. 'How do you do? Hmmm. You do have lovely skin. Perhaps I'll give you the milkmaid outfit,' he mused, a thoughtful pinkie resting on his lips.
Hélène looked perplexed. 'The. . .milkmaid outfit?' she asked cautiously, glancing at Denise.
Denise narrowed her eyes. 'He wouldn't dare! It's one of his peasant costumes. It's simply the ugliest thing we've ever laid eyes on. So far, all the girls have refused to wear it. It's got a low-cut bosom so that your tetons practically hang out, with a little lace edging and one of those god-awful Marie Antoinette peasant caps. Ugh!' She shuddered involuntarily.
Mother put an angry hand on his hip and snapped, 'What do you mean 'ugh'? I designed it myself! Peasant top, net stockings, and all. It's very flattering.'
'It's very disgusting,' Denise snapped. 'Have you got cataracts? Where's your taste? Can't you see that this girl's got class? Now, give her something decent so she won't look like a hooker. Otherwise, we'll all gang up on you and cut off your pecker!'
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