by Amber Brock
Despite her delay, she hurried enough that she arrived at the restaurant right on time. She ordered her crab salad and tomatoes, and she and her mother began their usual run of questions and answers. When the meal arrived, however, her mother surprised her with an unexpected change in topic.
“Tell me, how is the mural project coming along?”
Hallan’s face leapt to Vera’s mind, and she nearly dropped her fork. “Oh. It’s coming along well, I think.” She had been forced to mention the mural to explain why she had to miss lunch the day Hallan arrived, and her mother had latched on to the project. She wanted to know everything about the artist: where he came from, where he studied. Vera had been grateful to have the Ecole des Beaux-Arts as an answer, since she knew very little else. The lack of information only encouraged her mother’s interest, and she inquired about the mural’s status every time they saw each other.
Her mother’s lips tightened. “You don’t know? You mustn’t speculate, Vera. You either know or you don’t.”
“He arrived and he’s begun painting. That’s all I know, Mother.”
“Still? You haven’t seen the work?”
“No. He asked to work in privacy. No one is allowed in the pool room until the painting is complete.”
Her mother took a bite of salad. “Sounds like an artist. Have you spoken to him more? You hired him, you have a right to know how it’s progressing.”
“I haven’t had much of a chance to talk to him.” Vera kept her eyes on her tomatoes.
“I’d like to meet him. Remind me of his name…Emil…?”
Vera fought the rising panic at the thought of her mother and Hallan exchanging pleasantries. “Emil Hallan.”
“Unusual name. Hmm. You’ll have to have us over and invite him.”
“Yes, I will.” Vera prayed her mother would forget that little notion but knew her mother’s bear-trap mind would not allow for such a reprieve. As her mother moved into a story about the latest ballet she had attended, Vera mentally calculated how many people she would need to invite to dinner to put a suitable distance between her mother and the artist.
That afternoon, Vera and Marguerite went through nearly all of Vera’s dinner dresses, as Vera tried to choose the one that might appeal to Arthur most. She chose a sapphire satin gown with silver beading, a long multi-strand silver chain necklace, and a headband with silver scrolls. Marguerite pinned her hair into an elaborate chignon, and Vera hung large diamond teardrop earrings in her ears.
At last, she made her way down to the car. She had chosen the Crystal Room at the Ritz and could easily have walked the few blocks, but she did not want to arrive mussed or dirty. When she went in, the maître d’ led her to her requested table by the window. She settled in to wait, resisting the urge to consult the mirror in her small beaded handbag. She did not have to wait long. A white-gloved waiter came over after a few minutes.
“Ma’am, there’s a telephone call for you,” he said.
She felt a sharp pang of dread. “For me?”
He nodded, and she rose to follow him to the front desk. The maître d’ handed her the receiver, and she pulled it to her ear.
“Arthur?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s me.” He sounded reluctant to admit it.
“Where are you?”
“The office.”
A little thrill of hope ran through her. “Oh, are you running late?”
“No. I’m afraid I have to leave for Chicago tonight.”
“What?” She had the sudden impulse to bash the receiver on the brick wall beside her.
“Yes, the deal is in danger of falling to pieces. I hoped there would be a later train, but I have to leave from the office this instant to make the last one. I hardly have time for this call.”
She turned away from the maître d’. “But Arthur,” she whispered.
“I am sorry, truly.” His voice was heavy and hoarse. “Leaving you alone like this, it’s terrible…but it was unavoidable. When I get back, we’ll plan something else. A whole evening—dinner and a show, if you like. How does that sound?”
She swallowed. “Very nice. Of course. Safe travels.”
She handed the phone back to the maître d’ and walked in a daze back to her table without even realizing she was doing so. The waiter appeared at her arm, jolting her back to her senses.
“Has the gentleman been delayed?” he asked.
“Oh. Oh, no. He’s not coming,” she said. The words stung coming out of her mouth.
“Will you still be dining with us?”
Why not? she thought. Better than going back to her empty apartment in her fine clothes. “I will. May I have a glass of Bordeaux, please?”
The waiter’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry…no. The…the law, madam.”
She forced a laugh. “No, of course. So silly of me. Sparkling water will do.”
“Right away.”
Vera stared at the plate in front of her as silverware clinked against china under the quiet chatter and laughter of the other diners. She did not even notice when her drink arrived, and when the waiter asked what she would like to eat, the only thing she could think to order was steak. Then a voice cut through the cloud surrounding her, but not the waiter’s.
“Vera?”
She looked up. Hallan stood by the table, dressed in a well-cut black suit.
“My goodness. Mr. Hallan,” she said, a little breathless. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you.”
“I can tell by the look on your face. I didn’t know eyes could get that wide without falling out entirely. Are you waiting for your husband?”
She straightened her shoulders, resisting the urge to lift her chin. “He was unavoidably detained.”
“That’s a shame.” Hallan gestured to her dress. “He shouldn’t miss seeing you like this, you look stunning.”
Vera grabbed her glass of water. “What a thing to say.”
“I think the thing to say is ‘thank you.’ It was meant to be a compliment.”
She relaxed a bit. “Thank you.”
He glanced at the empty chair across from her. “If your husband isn’t…” He caught himself, then started again. “I don’t want to impose, but may I join you?”
“You’re not meeting someone?”
He smiled faintly. “No, actually. I was walking by and saw you through the window. I thought I ought to say hello.”
“How kind of you.” She looked up at him. He had tamed his unruly reddish waves into a neat part. First the museum, now the restaurant. If she did not know better, she might wonder if he was following her around. But surely he would not have expected her to be on her own. She was not the type of woman to dress up and dine out alone. “Are you sure you’re not meeting someone? You’re dressed so nicely.”
“I was planning to meet up with some friends later on, and I thought I’d have a bite to eat before.” He looked around the dining room. “Well, not here, of course. But since we’re both here, I’d be happy to keep you company.”
She thought again of Arthur’s regretful words and eager promises on the phone. Chicago, indeed. She wondered who had made their dinner plans so easy to discard. What hotel or apartment he might be staying in for the next few nights. What kind of cheap scent he would come home reeking of. She deserved a little company if her husband was determined to ignore her. And maybe if he heard Vera had had dinner with another man, the thought might awaken a little jealousy in him. Besides, Vera did not want Hallan’s most recent memory of her to be the emotional spectacle in her apartment the night before. Perhaps she could make clear that she was not typically given to such outbursts.
She smiled up at Hallan. “Please, I would love for you to join me.”
His blue-green eyes shone, and he sat across from her. “Wonderful, thank you. So, what do you recommend here?”
“The steak is very good.”
He pointed at her glass of water. “Wine is out of the question?”
Her mouth lift
ed in a half smile. “I’m afraid so.”
“So strange. As I was leaving, half my friends told me, ‘there is no alcohol in America.’ The other half said, ‘America is floating away on alcohol.’ I come here, your building is awash with it. But we go to a fine restaurant and—” He shook his head. “No, we have to pretend it doesn’t exist. Interesting situation you find yourselves in.”
“This is your first time in America, then?” she asked.
Hallan looked out the window. “Yes.”
“And your accent leads me to believe you are not originally from Paris.” She leaned in. “For all the conversations people in the building have had with you, no one ever seems to recall you saying much about your family, or where you’re from.”
He shrugged. “I find people prefer to talk about themselves rather than listen.”
“I’m listening. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Hallan.”
He turned to her, and they held each other’s gaze for a long moment.
“What’s there to tell? I studied art at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. I paint.” His words had the air of being both carefully chosen and practiced.
“I know that. Where are you from? Who is your family?”
He squinted a bit, and his mouth ticked up in amusement. “I’m not in the habit of boring people with my biography.”
Her own words from the party. She would have been irritated, but there was something refreshing about chatting with someone so sharp. “I see. Very clever.”
“You know, I could ask the same things of you,” he said. “I don’t know where you were born. I don’t know your family.”
“But I am not a stranger from abroad.”
“You are to me.”
“You’ve been in my home. I’m hardly a stranger.”
He sighed. “Why do you care? You hired me to paint, I’m painting.”
“I’m curious,” she said.
“There are some things I’m curious about, too.”
“Oh?”
“Is this why you were crying the other night? Because he leaves you alone?” he asked.
Vera opened her mouth, but no words came out. She ought to express outrage, to get out of her chair, fling her napkin to the floor, and walk right out. But instead she stared at the place setting before her, unable to lift a finger. Hallan dropped his head and exhaled hard then stood.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I shouldn’t have asked something like that. Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ll take you somewhere I can buy you a proper drink.”
Vera took a sip of her water. “You really do say so many things you shouldn’t.”
“At times,” he agreed. He held out a hand, and she noticed that, despite an obvious effort to scrub them, there were traces of blue paint at the cuticles. A soft sky blue. In her mind, that hand traced the arc of Giovanna Tornabuoni’s back in the air. Those eyes gazed in wonder at Esmeralda dancing on the screen in the movie house. To her surprise, she took his hand and stood.
“Let me call my driver,” she said.
“It’s a nice evening, let’s walk.”
“I still need to call and let him know not to come back for me. We’re not going too far, are we?”
He smiled. “We can always take a cab.”
“Oh. Right.”
She called George and told him not to bother returning to the restaurant, and asked the maître d’ to put the bill on Arthur’s account. Then she and Hallan strolled out onto the sidewalk. She took his arm, and Hallan led her confidently off to the left.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Fun little club. They have music and a show, then dancing after. Plus real drinks. Does that sound all right?”
“Of course.” Vera’s stomach tingled. She wanted to write the sensation off as hunger, since she had left her steak behind. But she knew it was anticipation. She had heard of these places, and Arthur went frequently with business associates. They were not the sorts of places men took their wives, though. Other ladies, yes. Wives, never.
They turned the corner onto the next block. Ahead of them, a man sat on a blanket. In front of him was a sign that said VETERAN: PLEASE HELP, GOD BLESS, with a can set out for coins. The sight of his face, red, raw, and pockmarked, sent an involuntary crawl under Vera’s skin. Part of his leg was missing, and he had tucked the excess trouser material under the stump of his thigh. Hallan spotted him at the same moment, and he halted. He stood still for so long Vera began to worry, but she did not know if speaking to him would make whatever reaction he was having better or worse. At last, he let go of Vera’s arm, dug into his pocket, and put money into the can.
“Thank you, sir,” the man said. The skin around his mouth was tight and shiny, and the words came out muffled and hard to distinguish. Hallan only nodded and continued on.
Vera threw some coins into the can. “Thank you for your service,” she said, unable to look the man in the eye. He called a “thank you, ma’am” to her as she walked past.
She caught up to Hallan, whose gaze was stony. “It’s so terribly sad,” she said. “Some days it feels so far behind us, and some days it’s everywhere, isn’t it?”
He did not respond. She took his arm again, and they walked a few blocks before she could feel the muscles under his jacket relax. Though she wanted to ask if he had served, she thought mention of the war might darken the evening. Perhaps the war explained his reluctance to talk about his life. She did not want to cause him any heartache after he had been kind enough to want to show her a nice time in the wake of her disappointment. She supposed the question was an empty one anyway. He was more likely than not to have been a soldier.
She remembered well how empty of men the city had seemed throughout the war. During that time, her thoughts would occasionally drift back to the young men she and Bea had sat by the lake with. How many of them had gone? Had any of them come back? She might not recognize them. She had never heard from Cliff again after that autumn. What horrors might have followed their sweet exchange of letters? The war may have damaged him as it had damaged the man sitting by the street that night. She glanced back over her shoulder for one more look before they turned the corner and left him behind.
Hallan led her into a sleepy little shop, and they walked to the back wall. There, hidden near the corner, was the door to a staircase leading down to a corridor with brick walls. As they entered, it was quiet, but the sound of muffled music and laughter increased as they continued. At last they came to the other end, where a huge man stood in front of a barred metal door.
“Password?” The man’s bristly mustache barely moved as he spoke.
“Dempsey,” Hallan said. The man nodded and pushed the bar away, then opened the door. Smoke and noise billowed out into the corridor, swooping over Vera and Hallan. The urge rose in her to turn and run, but she gripped Hallan’s elbow harder and they stepped into the club.
If her mother disapproved of the skirts some girls wore in the streets, the dresses in the club would have sent her to an early grave. Vera had slips that covered more leg, and rather more chest as well. She felt as if she had walked in wearing Queen Victoria’s wedding dress instead of her blue dinner gown. The earthy smell of damp brick carried an undercurrent of sweat and drugstore perfume. Vera worried the scent would sink into her clothes and hair, letting anyone she passed in the Angelus on her way home know that she had been somewhere she had no business being.
She wanted to tell Hallan she had to leave, but the wailing of the trumpet and the riot of conversation meant she would have to yell it, and she did not particularly want to announce her discomfort to the room. More familiar with his surroundings, he nodded to a nearby table. But before they could cross to it, a woman nearby let out a shriek that temporarily rendered every other sound in the club inaudible.
“Emil!” The woman leapt into their path and threw her arms around Hallan’s shoulders, jolting Vera to the side. “Lucy, come here, this is the artist I was telling you about.�
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“Hello, Jenny,” Hallan said, disengaging himself.
Jenny raised a painted-on eyebrow. “Ooh, and he brought high society with him. Is this one of the people from the building?”
Before he could answer, another woman, clad in a slinky silver dress with clattering beads, tottered over in pin-thin heels. “Is this the artist?”
“That’s what I just said.” Jenny rolled her eyes. “Lucy is a little dim.”
Lucy slapped Jenny’s bare shoulder. “I am not! Don’t listen to her.” Lucy looked Vera up and down, her dark red lips drooping into a frown. “I thought you said he was single.”
Hallan laughed. “Ladies, let me find my friend a seat.” He directed Vera to the empty table, and the other two women promptly dropped into the available chairs across from her.
Vera leaned in and lowered her voice. “You’ve certainly been quick to find your way around the city. How is it that you already know passwords and girls after only a few weeks?”
“I know someone who moved to the city several years ago. The same friend who mentioned the Angelus mural to me. Had some good recommendations about nightlife.”
“Who? Someone I might know?” Vera asked.
He shrugged. “I doubt it. Word about the mural made its way around the art world pretty quickly. I was just the lucky one you hired.”
“So,” Jenny said, adjusting the straps of her shimmery green dress. “You’re from the building where Emil is doing his painting?”
Vera sat up, putting on her best cool expression. “I am.”
Jenny pursed her lips. “A real rich lady, huh?”
A smile flickered on Hallan’s face. “That’s not very polite, Jenny.”
Vera leaned in to him again. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”