She waited while the tall showgirl stopped to light a cigarette. Then she watched her pull her coat tightly around her and hurry down the alley, the footsteps of her flat heels noiseless in the snow. Quickly Hélène slipped out of the shadows and fell in step behind her.
'Angelique?' she said in a small, timid voice, a band of fear suddenly constricting her chest.
The showgirl stopped and looked at Hélène in the dim light of a street- lamp. 'Yes?'
Hélène pushed her hat back from her face. 'Remember me? I used to work with Yvette in the hat-check.'
Angelique looked at her blankly. 'There's no job opening right now,' she said in a bored voice and continued walking. 'Look someplace else,' she said over her shoulder.
Hélène ran after her and caught her arm. 'I'm not looking for a job,' she said quickly. 'I need your advice.'
Angelique laughed. 'Listen, cherie. It's been a grueling night. My legs ache, I'm tired, and I want to go home.'
'Please,' Hélène begged. 'I've just got one question.'
Angelique stopped and faced Hélène wearily. 'All right, what is it?'
'I remember you had to get an abortion—'
'Listen, young lady!' Angelique snapped. 'What I do or don't do is none of your business!' She squinted and frowned. Then her eyes flickered with recognition. 'Now I remember you,' she said, giving a short laugh. 'You're the wholesome one.'
Hélène felt her cheeks stinging as if she'd been slapped. She looked down at her feet. 'I need to know where I can get an abortion,' she said quietly.
Angelique laughed. 'Don't tell me! So you're not that wholesome after all!'
'No,' Hélène said tightly. She looked back at Angelique. 'Please,' she whispered. 'I need to know where I can go.'
Angelique looked at her. Suddenly the girl's misery sank through. She thawed immediately. 'All right,' she said in a gentler voice. She put her arm around Hélène's shoulders. 'Hey, you're crying!'
Hélène nodded and wiped her eyes.
'You really want to keep the baby, don't you?'
Hélène's voice trembled. 'Yes. But I. . .I can't.'
'Come on,' Angelique said, smiling. 'I'm suddenly not that tired after all. How about some breakfast?'
'I'm not hungry,' Hélène said. 'But I'll have a cup of coffee.'
Angelique smiled. 'Then I know just the place. Henri has the worst coffee in Paris, and nobody drinks it. But he keeps the best brandy under the counter.'
The brandy was served in coffee cups. Hélène looked down at hers and smiled faintly.
'Henri can't get a liquor license,' Angelique explained. 'So in his typically sneaky fashion he circumvented the liquor laws by serving drinks in cups. Not that it's legal. It just looks aboveboard to the casual observer. Even the gendarmes on the beat drop in for a cup of his 'coffee' every now and then.' Suddenly she reached across the table and took Heine's hand. 'Listen,' she said softly, 'how far gone are you?'
Hélène's lips twitched. 'Three months,' she whispered heavily.
Angelique was silent for a moment. 'It'll be difficult,' she said quietly. 'Once you've carried a child for that long, it gets very tricky.'
Hélène stared at her.
'You're sure you want to. . .get rid of it?'
Hélène winced at the expression. Slowly she nodded.
Angelique toyed with the cup. 'I know this intern . . .' She smiled humorlessly and shrugged. 'At least he says he's an intern. If you decide to go ahead with it, I'll have to call him and recommend you. Then he'll get in touch with you. Just think it over carefully first. If you do it, there's no going back, you know. Once it's done, it's done.'
Hélène nodded. 'I've thought it over already,' she said. 'I have to do it.'
Now she felt a tightening in her throat as she knocked three times on the door on the top floor. A muffled voice came from inside. 'Who is it?'
'Angelique's friend, Hélène. I. . .I have an appointment?'
There was the sound of a key turning in the lock and then the door jerked open. A sloppy, fat young man stood in front of her, scratching his beard. Behind him, the room was dark and musty. He stared at her. 'Well, don't just stand there! Quick! Come in.'
Hélène quickly stepped past him. He glanced suspiciously out into the stairwell and lost no time in shutting the door and locking it behind her. She looked around, a nervous smile masking her disgust. There were newspapers spread out over the floor, and cats were everywhere. Licking their paws, sizing her up, slinking around.
The fat man shuffled over to her, the soles of his mules slapping against the newspapers. 'Three thousand francs,' he said, holding out his hand.
Hélène nodded. Nervously she reached into her coat pocket. 'Don't take a purse,' Angelique had advised her. 'Don't take anything you'll have to carry. You'll feel very weak afterward.' She peeled off some bills and handed them to him. Wordlessly he wet his finger and counted them. Then he grunted and stuffed them into his trouser pocket.
'Follow me,' he said, gesturing with his hand.
Hélène hesitantly followed him into the kitchen. Here, too, the floor was covered up with newspaper. There was a pot of water boiling on the stove and dirty dishes in the enamel sink. In the center of the room was a large wooden table. The top was covered with a thick layer of newspapers.
'Take off your clothes and lie down on there,' he said.
She stared at the table. 'On. . .here?' she asked hesitantly, pointing at it.
'You don't see no other place, do you?'
She shook her head. 'No,' she said softly. Self-consciously she began to unbutton her blouse. Then she stepped out of her skirt. She glanced at him. He had his back to her, washing his hands in the kitchen sink. Quickly she stepped out of her slip and shrugged off her brassiere. She draped her clothes neatly over a chair. The room felt suddenly cold. She shivered and rubbed her arms with her hands.
He turned around and looked at her indifferently. Instinctively she tried to cover herself. 'I told you to get on the table,' he said.
Her face turned scarlet. She looked at him without replying. She took a deep breath and then climbed onto the table.
'Lie down on your back,' he said. With his foot he pushed a metal trashcan over beside the table.
'What's that for?' she asked with a sudden fear.
'Let me worry about that.'
She nodded hesitantly. Stiffly she lay back, her head hanging over the edge of the table.
'Slide farther down,' he said. 'And put your legs up. You know, like someone's going to shove something up your pussy.'
She bit down on her lip and did as she was told. Then she watched him reach for a long, thin piece of wire with an ugly hook at the end. He tossed it into the pot of boiling water. A minute later he fished it back out, holding the end of it with a rag. Some water dripped down onto the burner and hissed.
Hélène closed her eyes. She hadn't had any idea that it would be like this. She had thought it would be nicer, somehow. Cleaner. More professional. Dignified.
'Spread your legs apart,' he said. 'And keep still.'
She took a deep breath. Her legs were trembling as she splayed them. Then she felt his fingers brushing her pubic hair aside. She tensed, her hands gripping the sides of the table, her breasts rising and falling with her quiet breathing. A moment later he began to push the warm metal hook inside her. It felt foreign, like an object that didn't belong. Something deep within her made her want to cry out, but she fought against it, biting down on her lip. She felt the wire going in deeper. Deeper. Probing, moving around. Then the hook hit against something.
'No,' she cried, hammering her head against the tabletop. 'No!' she screamed as she felt the hook digging in. The pain shot through her belly as the something inside her was being poked and jabbed and jostled loose.
She knew what it was. Her baby. The spark of life which she and the Comte had produced and which her body had been nurturing for more than three months. The tears pushed out of her eyes, running
down her cheeks.
Now the pain was gaining in strength. She forced herself to open her eyes and look down at the man. He was holding the end of the wire, moving it around within her, poking still farther in and then giving it short, swift tugs. Suddenly the pain burst through her like a flash of red-hot lightning. Her body convulsed and she screamed in agony as her baby was wrenched from her womb.
'Don't look,' he advised grimly.
She opened her eyes and pushed herself forward into a sitting position. 'I want to see,' she whispered in an anguished voice. 'I have to see.'
Then she saw and she let out a cry of terror. The newspaper under her was soaked with thick, sticky blood. On it lay the motionless little fetus. It had an oversized pink head, short little limbs, and a network of fine blue veins crisscrossing the misshapen body. Its umbilical cord still snaked up inside her.
Now she knew what the trashcan was for. Her baby.
The door behind her crashed shut and then there was silence. It was the kind of unearthly silence you would experience if you were the only person alive on earth. She looked slowly up and down the alley. It was still daylight. What time was it? she wondered. Slowly she pulled back her sleeve and looked at the watch on her wrist. Could it be possible? she asked herself. She had been upstairs for less than half an hour. Yet she seemed to have aged a few years.
She stumbled along the sidewalk, veering like a drunkard. Her face was pale. She leaned against a wall and shut her eyes. There was a terrible pain within her; suddenly she felt hot. She wiped her sleeve across her forehead. It was wet and her hair was plastered against her head. But there was snow on the ground. Why should she feel so hot?
Then she slumped to the ground.
2
Hélène twisted her head to one side and a moan came through her lips. Slowly she opened her eyes and stared straight ahead, a puzzled look on her face. All she could see was one dark, unfocused blur and a vague vertical line of light that kept changing shape as it danced in front of her.
She frowned and blinked her eyes. Slowly her vision focused. The room was dark, but it was daylight outside; straight ahead there were chinks of light between the drapes. The window was open, and the light kept shifting as the draperies moved. So that was the dancing, changing shape. She had imagined it to be many things. A whirling ballerina, a nightmare creature, a white horse prancing in front of her. But never draperies.
She tried to sit up in bed, but her body felt like lead and refused to obey. Frustrated, she sighed deeply and let her head sink back down on the pillow. What had happened? What was wrong with her?
Then she remembered. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. Still she could almost smell the offensive odor of urine and cat feces. She could almost see the dingy apartment covered with newspapers and the fat bearded man holding the long piece of wire that had the hook on the end. And now she also remembered the cats stalking around everywhere, and the. . .the fetus. . .
Nausea rose up within her. Quickly, as if it would chase away the demons in her memory, she turned her head sideways on the pillow. She frowned again as the curtains billowed and the room was flooded with sudden light. The pillow was white. So were the bedsheets. And they were starched, not soft like the Porthault sheets embroidered with violets that she had at home.
Wearily she moved her head from side to side, her violet eyes straining to get a better view of the room. It was a large room, but one in which she had never been before. That much she knew. But it was a clean room. There were no newspapers, no cats. She felt an immeasurable relief at that.
She tried to look up as she heard a door opening. A man came quietly into the room. He approached the bed and looked down into her face. 'How are you feeling?' he asked gently.
She looked up at him with curiosity. 'Who are you?'
He smiled and switched on a lamp. She could feel the mattress shifting as he sat down on the edge of the bed. 'I was going to ask you the same question,' he said, tucking the sheet around her chin. 'But that can wait.' He smiled reassuringly and reached into his pocket. Then he took a pair of thick wire-rimmed glasses out of an eyeglass case. Carefully he put them on. Then he picked up a thermometer off the nightstand and shook it with short, expert jerks of his wrist. He peered closely at it, gave a nod of approval, and stuck it in her mouth. Dutifully she closed her lips over it and looked up at him.
He was short and small-framed, with narrow shoulders that seemed to sag under an enormous invisible burden. His hair and beard were of various shades of black and gray, his nose was magnificent, almost noble in its size and shape, and seemed sadly out of place in a face so deeply engraved with sadness. Under the hooded lids his eyes were dark and heavy. They were eyes that had seen too much pain in the past and could foresee a future that was filled with no less suffering.
He waited patiently. After a while he reached for the thermometer, slipped it gently out of her mouth, and held it close to his eyes. He looked pleased. 'Your temperature is stable, as I suspected it would be.' He put the thermometer down on the nightstand. 'You are out of danger. Your fever broke yesterday.'
'Yesterday!' Hélène said in a small voice. A sudden intuition came into her eyes. 'How long have I been here?'
'Four days.'
'Four days!' She shook her head unbelievingly. 'But I just woke up. . .'
The man nodded, 'You were very weak,' he explained to her. 'And you lost a lot of blood. But that wasn't half as debilitating as the infection.'
'Infection!' Hélène struggled to sit up, but he shook his head.
'Don't try to move,' he warned. 'You are still too weak. It will be a few days before your body recovers its strength.'
Hélène nodded obediently and lay quietly back. 'Where am I?' she asked.
'Don't worry, you are under good care. I am a doctor. My name is Simon Rosen.'
She relaxed a little. 'How did I get here?'
'I found you and carried you here. You had passed out.'
She felt a sudden stab of guilt. 'I put you through a lot of trouble,' she apologized meekly.
'Don't worry yourself about that. I should have taken you to a hospital, but I thought it was better to bring you here. The hospital would have been forced to call the police. They would have asked many ugly questions.'
Now she understood what it was like to owe a big debt. He had not only saved her life. He had kept her name clean as well.
'I don't know how I can ever thank you,' she said solemnly.
He smiled. 'Just concentrate on getting your strength back.' He got to his feet. 'I will bring you some food in a moment.'
She nodded gratefully. Suddenly she felt very tired. He noticed it. He would wait with dinner and let her sleep. It would do her more good right now than eating. But first she needed to drink some water. He reached for the glass, placed one hand under the back of her head, and held her up as he put the glass to her lips. She drank slowly. When she had had enough, she nodded. Gently he let her head back down.
'I shall be right back,' he promised.
She smiled weakly and closed her eyes. Already she could feel the mantle of sleep closing in around her.
'By the way,' he said. 'You never told me your name.'
'Hélène Junot,' she whispered so softly that he could barely hear it.
Her eyes were shut so she did not see the tears behind his glasses. He shook his head. God worked in strange ways. He had seen to it that his path crossed with another Junot's. Hélène Junot. He frowned and searched his memory. There were four children. She would be the second youngest.
He took off his glasses, wiped them carefully with his handkerchief, and placed them back in the case. He rubbed the tears from his eyes with his fingers. Then he just stood there looking over at her. Her face was lost in innocence, and the sounds of her breathing were slow and regular. She was fast asleep.
He shook his head sadly. 'Sleep peacefully, little one,' he murmured. 'Gather up your strength, for you shall need it. You should never have had to
hear the story I must tell you. But God would not have crossed our paths if he did not will you to hear it.'
She slept through two days and two nights. When she awoke, her strength had returned enough so that she could eat, sit up, talk, and worry. Her biggest worry was over her job. 'Please,' she begged Dr. Rosen. 'Could you call the Maison d'Odile Joly for me and tell them that I am sick? That I can't come in to work yet?'
'Odile Joly?' Dr. Rosen asked. 'You mean the couturiere?'
She nodded.
He looked at her strangely; then his face broke into a smile. 'I shall call immediately.'
He left to place the call. When he returned, she looked at him questioningly.
He smiled. 'I spoke to Odile Joly herself. She was very worried about you. She hopes that you will get well soon.'
Hélène looked suddenly troubled. 'You didn't tell her. . .?'
He looked genuinely upset. 'Of course not!' he said, drawing himself up indignantly. 'I am a doctor. A doctor keeps his patient's illness in confidence.'
'I'm sorry,' she said contritely. 'I should have known better.' But there was a look of relief in her eyes.
That afternoon, an enormous bouquet of roses arrived from the atelier. Dr. Rosen went to find a vase and made room on the nightstand for it. Hélène pulled the stiff card out of the small white envelope. The spidery handwriting was so elegant she could barely read it. Finally she made it out: 'Feel better soon. Your job is waiting. So don't worry about that. Odile Joly and all the girls.'
Hélène smiled suddenly and stared at the roses. They were long-stemmed and luxuriantly pink, just barely open. The delicate petals tightly cocooned the thick fat buds, promising huge blossoms to burst forth. She could smell their sweet fragrance in the air. Odile Joly could be hard as nails, but as far as her 'girls' were concerned, she had a soft spot in her heart.
The next day, Dr. Rosen sat on the edge of the bed. He was reading to Hélène from a new book that was causing a sensation. It was called Bonjour Tristesse and was written by an unknown young writer named Francoise Sagan. Abruptly she reached out for his hand. She gripped it fiercely. He stopped reading, carefully placed a ribbon between the pages, and closed the book.
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