Well. What do you know.
Belladonna sounds so sweet.
Annabeth stared down at her hands. They were trembling again, and I felt an intense wave of pity for this woman, desperate and afraid. Helpless while her louse of a husband gleefully planned his evening, basking in the superiority allowing him to attend an exclusive ball in the Club Belladonna. I bet he was planning to screw Miss Linda Jerome all night long, while she was still wearing the necklace delicate as spun air.
Belladonna would not be pleased, but my knee was screaming that we should help Annabeth. One glance at Matteo’s face, and I could tell he was thinking the same thing.
“I’m terribly sorry to do this to you. I’ve never been here before,” Annabeth said again. “I was afraid the dog might bark at me.”
“I don’t think she would,” Matteo said. “She can tell who’s worthy.”
I thought of Leandro once more. He, too, had been worthy. I remembered how, whenever I’d had a problem and asked for advice, he’d never given me a direct answer. He’d driven me crazy, because I had been so impatient and wanted an answer, right that moment. Instead, he’d talked around the problem, as it were.
“Do you know the story of Medusa?” I asked Annabeth. She looked at me as though I was a bit touched and shook her head no.
“The god of the sea, Poseidon, tried everything to seduce Medusa, an innocent, beautiful virgin. But she was afraid, and she refused him,” I said. “He raped her anyway, in the temple of the goddess Athena. Then Athena was so enraged by this violation that she blamed the victim, and turned poor Medusa into a hideous dragon, her hair a nest of vipers and her gaze so strong and evil it would turn men into stone How Medusa suffered, trapped in that monster’s body, abandoned and desperate. The only thing that saved her was when the brave Perseus cut off her head.”
Annabeth sat, puzzled, not knowing how close this myth mirrors the life of my darling Belladonna. That was what saved Medusa"death?
“By cutting her loose, he set her free,” I explained. I was fervently hoping that Leandro would be proud of me as I told this tale, that Belladonna would be proud of me when I related everything to her later. “Even in death Medusa kept her power, for it was said that if you touched the blood from her right side, it would bring you sadness and death; and if you touched the blood from her left, then life would be restored to you.”
“You’re telling me that I can choose sadness, or I can choose life,” Annabeth said cautiously.
“Are you willing?” I asked her. “We will tell Belladonna everything, and I can assure you,” I offered, vastly overstepping our bounds and praying that Belladonna would not chop off my head and my brother’s as well, “that she will help you. Only you can say the word.”
I rummaged around in my pocket for one of Belladonna’s golden coins that I always carry with me on club nights as a goodluck charm.
“Shall we flip?” I asked. “This coin is from Pompeii. It survived fire and ash and centuries of burial, hidden away from the world. This way, we can blame it on Vesuvius.”
It fell on heads, as I had hoped: This meant Belladonna would figure out what to do, and Wesley would get no less than what he deserved.
We drape yards of gold lamé on the walls and the tables; we make place cards in gold leaf as souvenirs. Blocks of dry ice are placed in copper buckets to cover the floor in a sea of silver fog. All the staff have masks of bright silver and gold, for a change, and gloves and bow ties of bronze leather.
Naturally, this ball means lots of jewels. Belladonna comes as diamonds and ice: her gown seemingly made of spun silver, dripping with shiny paillettes that flicker reflected light, dazzling all who see her. Silver dewdrops glisten in a wig the color of molten copper, and her gems are so big you could use them as perfume stoppers. One on each finger; two more dangling like miniature chandeliers from her ears; giant black pearls marching down her bodice.
She is an unearthly apparition. Of course, she always is. But tonight she outdoes herself.
The show begins as the guests stream in. Women have painted their bodies and clothes in bronze, gold, copper; while others, dressed as air, are wearing diaphanous gowns with floating streamers of gauze in blue and white. Fire sprites are clad in red and orange stripes; a fiery lady seemed to have singed her leather cowgirl gear like a demented Dale Evans. Several water bearers are carrying goldfish in glass bowls to match the color of their gowns; one overheating slob has a snorkel as a mask. One man, evidently slumming as a peasant, is wearing a rustic shirt under his white dinner jacket and rough corduroy trousers tucked into scuffed boots, and he has smeared his lapels with dirt It is probably as close to the earth as he’s ever gotten in his life. The pitchfork is a nice touch, but we still make him check it at the door.
I like his clever simplicity so much I seat his party at the next table while Belladonna has temporarily retreated to her office to adjust her wig. Peregrine Burrell, he says his name is, and he introduces us to his friends: Celeste Lucaire, the editor of the fashion magazine A la Mode; another editor, Bettina Barrone; their top photographer, Johnnie Mink, and his little pal, Scottie Tannahill, who both sit with what seem to be permanent smirks of superiority on their faces. And another friend, Guy Lindell. No peasants these. Botheration. Fashion people get on my nerves, so smug and sanctimonious and sure of the perfection of the hemlines they tell their readers to change on a monthly basis. Really, who cares? We are so used to having our own tailors and seamstresses make anything our hearts desire that I wouldn’t know how to set foot in a department store, much less buy anything that some stupid magazine tells me is an absolute must.
I have to say this about Celeste, skinny thing that she is: Her dress is beautiful"it must be Jacques Fath peasant wear. She looks like Marie Antoinette on a feed-her-flock day, in a bodice laced with gold ribbons, and yards and yards of skirt made from gaily colored ribbons sewn together. Even better, her necklace is made of tiny cigarette lighters strung together on what seem to be cigar wrappers. Bryony would love this getup, yet I have an irresistible urge to smear some of Peregrine’s dirt on Celeste’s lovely white stockings, even if she’d probably kick me with one of her ballerina slippers. Bettina is not quite so elegant: Having drenched her nearly transparent ball gown in the style of Napoleonic masochists, she’ll probably go home with a bad chest cold. Johnnie and Scottie are trying not to sweat in their matching fur vests. That getup took a lot of deliberation. No wonder they call Johnnie the Mink. I think I’ll have to remind him that minks are rodents.
Then I realize they’re talking about someone they’re calling the sociopathic squire, and I perk right up. It may be a lead. Only an inherently sadistic Brit would dump such an outlandish name like Peregrine on his child, I decide. Guy, too, has an English accent Yes, this may be that kind of international group, so I signal one of the waiters, ask him to bring Jack over, and have him tell Belladonna to join us sooner rather than later.
The last thing he gave her was a custom-made black leather corset from Rigby & Peller, studded with diamonds,” Peregrine is saying.
“And they all said it would never last” Bettina says with a smug smile.
“That’s because she turns a blind eye, Michaela does. Like the time she came home and found a young woman tied to the bed, in hysterics. He’d left her there when he popped out to have a drink, and forgot all about her.”
“Michaela likes it,” Celeste says. “She bought the handcuffs to use as napkin rings.” She takes a delicate sip of her Belladonna cocktail. “But, Perry, darling, I really don’t understand how you endure them. Sometimes I think your friends are a little too stupid for you.”
“They’re not stupid,” Perry protests. “At least Squire Simon isn’t. He’s just a tad eccentric.”
“What do you mean?” asks the Mink.
“For one thing,” he says, “he’s never so much as set foot in Germany, but he insists on being called ‘Schultzie.’ He swears his favorite film is Heidi.”
“Triumph of the Will is more like it,” Guy mutters. His only concession to our theme is a bronze leather mask, and his brightly colored bronze silk cummerbund and bow tie. He actually could get up and mingle with our waiters, if he were so inclined. Although I don’t think service is a concept that has much appeal to him.
“Schultzie loves lederhosen,” Bettina goes on. “And he hums ‘Edelweiss’ whenever he ties his hapless lover to the bed. Then the poor girl’s forced to look at the trompe l’oeil scene of the Alps he’s had painted on his window shades. Guy, surely you’ve heard that.”
“No, I hadn’t heard that,” Guy says. “All I can say about Schultzie is that his pug eyes remind me of the spigot on a sink.”
I try not to laugh.
“But he’s been nothing but nice to me,” says Bettina.
“After all you’ve done"or rather, what your magazine’s done for him"why shouldn’t he be nice?” Guy asks. “But what rich man is nice? Or rather, what rich man is nice to his wife? If she’s smart, she knows she must be nastier to him"in her very own special nice way, mind you"than he can ever be to her. That’s her only leverage when he’s controlling everything else.
“Take her jewelry, for example,” he adds, opening a silver monogrammed case and tapping a cigarette on the table before fitting it into a mother-of-pearl holder. He leans over to Celeste and lights it from her necklace. “She must hold out for the best, always. Why should a man buy his woman a piece of real jewelry if she shows herself willing to wear fakes?”
“The only time it’s permissible is if the real jewelry is in the vault and the copy is better than the real thing,” Bettina says.
“No copy can ever be better than the real thing,” Guy retorts.
“It can be nearly as good,” she says.
“Good like a man is good?” Guy asks sardonically. “Nothing is so bad for a woman as a man who says he’s good.”
“And you ought to know,” Celeste says. “After what people say about you.”
“Oh,” he says, languidly blowing smoke rings in our direction. He knows we’re listening, and I admire his self-control. He never once looks at us. “I know full well what they say about me. That I’m filth. Real filth. Filth totale.”
I can see why he says that. I bet lots of women in the room would like to pounce on this Guy. It’s the posture that’s so seductive, the air of casual, expensive ease, the way his tuxedo is cut close to his body in a style that’s more reminiscent of Noël Coward than of Nathan Detroit. He likes to be looked at, this one, and he knows he’s worth it. That’s why he’s pushed his mask up on his forehead. He’s got black hair, slicked like Jack’s, deep-set dark blue eyes, a nose that could be slightly too big on any other face, and an expressive mouth. His skin is deeply tanned and his figure is trim. He fairly reeks of sex. Filthy, sweet sex.
Oh ho, those days are long gone. Now I can only look at Guy and dream of his conquests. Belladonna has slipped into the banquette beside me and I can sense her gaze. Then. I feel her fingers lightly on my sleeve for the briefest of seconds. Sometimes I swear she can read my mind. I wipe the melancholy off my face and smile brightly, directing my attention back to the bits of conversation swirling in the air like cigarette smoke, and I’m almost beginning to feel bad that the infamous Schultzie couldn’t have been here tonight. We do, after all, have a special treat in store for our guests.
The happy couple is sitting at a table near the center of the room, cooing like lovebirds. Wesley is dressed as a balloon seller, and Linda’s clad in a Jean Harlow-like charmeuse nightgown, topped with a diaphanous robe fairly dripping layers of chiffon. Hardly what I’d call an original concept. She looks like a ball of airy pink fluff. A necklace of hundreds of diamonds strung on gossamer threads sparkles beautifully at her throat
It will look particularly fetching in the photographs being developed right this instant.
Belladonna stands up and moves through the club, pausing to compliment one couple’s costumes and asking them to move to her table. They’ve come as the Tin Man and the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz Metal and straw are pretty elemental, and these are much simpler costumes than the fanciful froufrous most others are wearing. The couple practically swoons with pleasure. I see Linda shrugging as Wesley leans over to whisper in her ear.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Belladonna says when she reaches the stage, tapping on the microphone with her fan rimmed with crystals. She seems a veritable apparition, glistening and sparkling, as evanescent as sea foam. The club is instantly silent, dazzled. “Thank you for joining me here tonight at our Ball of the Elements.”
Applause crashes all around. “This is indeed a special occasion,” she continues, “for it seems that there is a saga unfolding before us. It is an earthly saga, particularly fitting for our elemental theme.” The crowd ooohs and aahhs. “Here, in my club, sits a man of particular sensibilities, and his very entrancing lady friend. In other words, this gentleman”" she says this word with particular sarcasm"“is here with his mistress. Obviously, I know who he is, but he doesn’t know how. I shall, therefore, refer to him as Mr. John Doe. Is that satisfactory?”
There is a much smaller smattering of applause, because many of our cherished and invited guests are here with their mistresses, and they are starting to get a rather uncomfortable squirming feeling.
“Yes,” she continues, her voice smooth and mellifluous, “Mr. John Doe is here with, hmmm, I think I shall call her Madame X. She is wearing a most exquisite necklace, among other things.” The hands of all the mistresses instinctively rise to cover their jewels, and we hear a few nervous titters. They can’t help themselves. “The problem is, this particular exquisite necklace belongs to Mr. John Doe’s wife. Furthermore, it was given to Mr. John Doe’s devoted wife by a dearly departed member of her family. In other words, its value is sentimental, and therefore entirely priceless.” She opens her fan and begins waving it languidly. “I hasten to assure you that Mr. John Doe’s wife is undoubtedly sleeping at home, and she has absolutely no idea I am speaking these words on her behalf.” Which is true, if you think about it in a Belladonna kind of way.
But then Belladonna’s voice darkens, and even I shudder. “Nor is this the time to judge the morality of whether the lady’s husband should be lying beside her in their marital bed, instead of flaunting his broken vows in my club.”
There is a dead silence, and when Belladonna snaps her fan shut with a violent click nearly everyone in the room jumps.
“Do I detect a whiff of a guilty conscience?” she asks as she steps off the stage. The spotlight, as usual, follows her as she imperiously walks around the club, stopping before each and every woman wearing a necklace.
“How lovely,” she murmurs, examining a diamond dewdrop. She points her fan at a pearl choker. “Soak them in seawater,” she says, “to renew their luster.”
Around the room she moves, in no particular order, until she reaches our own happy couple. Wesley’s mouth is pinched in rage, while Linda’s cheeks are flaming circles. Elemental indeed!
“Magnificent,” Belladonna says, trailing the fan along Linda’s shoulder blades as she flinches and tries not to be sick. Then Belladonna moves on to the next table and Wesley sighs in relief. Linda is too terrified to get up and run to the ladies’ room.
Belladonna returns to the stage. “My most welcome guests, I ask you this,” she says in sugared tones. “Should Madame X be allowed to keep the necklace, souvenir of her lover’s feckless desire? Or should she return it"surreptitiously, of course"to its rightful owner, and demand in its place an even finer piece of jewelry as proof of his devotion? Applaud, if you will, when I ask you again.
“Should she keep the necklace?”
There is not a sound.
“Should she give it back?”
The applause is deafening.
“Thank you,” Belladonna says, her voice still sweet “I am very pleased that you have restored my faith in the value of those worthy of entry to my club. T
he verdict is in. To protect the identity of the guilty, we are going to dim the lights. This will give Madame X the opportunity to unfasten her necklace under the cloak of darkness. There will be a small box in the coat check as you leave, so I ask her to deposit the necklace there. No questions will be asked. I can assure you the necklace will be returned to its rightful owner, and we shall hear no more of it.
“And now, Richard is going to lead the band in a luscious song for all the duplicitous, the lovelorn, the weary, all you splendid liars among us. Ladies and gentlemen, ‘Love Is Here to Stay.’ Drinks are on the house. Enjoy your evening.”
She curtsies, and the lights go off abruptly. Nervous tittering again flits through the club, and when the lights go up a moment later, Belladonna is nowhere to be found.
All at once, the club erupts in noisome conversation. Several couples get up to leave, but Wesley and Linda are still with us, he stony-faced with fury and she trembling with mortification. I almost feel sorry for the girl, who is no longer wearing Annabeth’s necklace. She couldn’t have known her sweet lover was such a cheap scumbucket.
Our waiters keep an eagle eye on the table, then surreptitiously follow our happy couple to the coat check when they finally get up to leave. Linda looks around to see that she’s not being watched when Josie is fetching her things, then takes the necklace out of Wesley’s jacket pocket and quickly drops it into the box.
“I’ll kill the bitch,” Wesley is saying as he hands Linda her coat and they step outside. “This is all her fault.”
They walk quickly to one of the waiting cabs. As Wesley opens the door and Linda slides her fluff into the backseat, he feels a tap on his shoulder. It’s Jack, who wordlessly hands him a manila envelope. The label is addressed to Wesley’s law firm.
Wesley tears open the envelope and pulls out the freshly printed evidence of his duplicity. Ever so flattering, I must say, although Wesley clearly doesn’t think so. His face, previously enraged, is now positively apoplectic.
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