Indiscretion

by Charles Dubow

  This woman standing in the doorway was certainly not the mental image Madeleine had held for so long, and there was little of the beauty she had supposedly once possessed. It was a face worn down by poverty. Her teeth were bad. Her hair hung limply. For a moment, Maddy wondered if she was even in the right house.

  “I’m Madeleine,” she said. She didn’t kiss her mother. She didn’t even know what to call her. “Mother” seemed wrong. It had been too long. They were total strangers.

  “Hello, dear,” answered her mother, her accent pure Boston. “Come in.”

  There are two sides to every story. The two women sat in the kitchen, sipping the coffee Maddy had brought from paper cups. There were no accusations, no remonstrations, no tears. On either side. How do you get back almost two decades? You cannot. But it was obvious to Maddy that her mother had suffered during that time. Awkwardly they chatted about what Maddy was studying; her brother, Johnny; even, delicately, her father. “He was such a good-looking man,” said her mother. “No one could resist him.” Why had she left? It wasn’t my fault, her mother answered. They held all the cards. What could I do? The old woman smiled humorlessly. The smile of a prisoner serving a life sentence. It was a long time ago, she said.

  It was too much. After an hour Maddy found an excuse to go. When they parted, the two women embraced. There was no talk of a future meeting.

  When Maddy returned to her room that night, I asked her what she had expected to find. Did she think it would be a tearful reunion? Did she expect them to fall into each other’s arms after being separated for nineteen years?

  “It was awful,” she said. “You have no idea.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t just that she was so poor. It was that all my life I had felt so sorry for myself. That she must have been some kind of monster for not wanting me. But that wasn’t the case at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She didn’t come out and say it, but I could tell she was the real victim here, not me. It made me realize how horrible I have been to think these things about her all these years. I had always hated her for abandoning me, for making me the girl who didn’t have a mother. But they made her leave. They threatened her. What choice did she have? They had the money, the lawyers, the police if necessary. She had nothing. We destroyed her life.”

  “We? You had nothing to do with it.”

  She thought for a moment. “I didn’t, but I still did. It was about me. My grandmother didn’t want me raised by her. She was from the wrong side of the tracks. They told me she was crazy. That she had to be committed. That’s why she had gone. But that wasn’t true. They told her she would be arrested if she ever tried to find me. They would ruin her brothers. They lied to her. They lied to me.”

  She was in tears now. I had seldom seen her cry. It was unnerving. I remembered the grandmother. A formidable dowager who had terrified me as a child but who had never been anything but loving to Maddy. The father, charming and monstrous, a wonderful athlete who had smashed nearly every club record, was still alive at that point, having divorced his third wife. He was the only parent she ever had. She would hear nothing bad said against him, even when he had been at his worst, wanting to believe in him, feeling that a false god was better than none at all.

  Soon after that, she met Harry and never looked back. He was her family now. It would all be better. They waited to have Johnny. She wasn’t ready to share Harry with anyone. Then, she was. I was there the day Johnny was born. Everything was a movement away from what she had known to something better, something positive. I was, I am, so proud of her.

  Why am I recounting all of this? Isn’t it obvious? For years people have thought I was sexless, or gay. Neither was true. I have never married because I was already in love, of course. Maddy was the first and the only woman I ever loved. I have tried others, but no one had her goodness, her sense of honor, her strength. I was ruined from an early age. But you have to understand that it wasn’t a selfish love. When she first met Harry, I understood. They were perfect together. I was old enough then and aware enough of my shortcomings to know that she needed someone like him. Someone strong. Someone true. Someone who could lift her in his arms and protect her. I was a confidant, a companion, and I resigned myself to that role because it was best for her.

  There was one time when I tried. We were teenagers, maybe fifteen, and one night on one of our nocturnal outings, I tried to kiss her. But she laughed. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I love you,” I said, the epitome of adolescent angst. We were on the beach. We had snuck out on one of our moonlight sprees. I had brought marshmallows and a bottle of wine I had stolen from my parents’ cellar. I had been working up my courage all week. No, my whole life.

  She was silent. It seemed to last for centuries. Then she spoke and told me I was her best friend, in many ways her only friend. She didn’t want a boyfriend. She wanted a friend. By then her breasts had grown in. They were—how can I put this delicately?—deliciously large. Surprisingly so. I ached to touch them. But she detested them. “I feel like a freak,” she said. She was already astonishingly beautiful, and I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  Even if I was the one with whom she chose to spend time, other men became part of her life. It was impossible to stop them. They surrounded her, but she wanted little to do with them. There was one Spanish boy she had met in Switzerland, but I think it was more of an experiment. To see what it was like. It didn’t last long. We never spoke in detail about it. I am grateful for that. I hated him, though I never met him. Gonzalo or Felipe. I can’t even remember his name, but he became my enemy when she told me about him and I couldn’t see what she would see in him.

  But I understood Harry. He was the sort of man with whom she should have fallen in love, and she did. He was handsome, confident, talented, kind, and loving. He was what she needed, and I, the eternal eunuch, the faithful friend, at least knew she was happy. And while it was cold comfort, it was enough.

  7

  I see them in their hotel room. Harry and Claire. I am not there but I can imagine. The heavy curtains have been drawn. The room is purple in darkness but objects are discernible. Above, an ornate ceiling maybe twenty feet high. Queens and movie stars have slept here. Outside, it is midafternoon, the weather dreary. Cars circle the place. Motorcycle messengers race by. Taxis idle, waiting for fares. Diamond necklaces glitter behind bulletproof glass in vitrines lining the hallway, and well-fed bankers return from lunch.

  They are on the bed, fucking. Urgently, desperately, like starving men at a banquet. She is still wearing her shoes, her blouse. Their bags where the chasseur left them. The bottle of house champagne is untouched in its sweating ice bucket. The only sounds primal. The slap of flesh on flesh, the grunt of effort, the moan of pleasure. Two halves of a whole joined. An amulet, the key to a kingdom. There is nothing else in the world.

  Afterward she tells him it was the best ever. She holds him, her hands cool around the tender flesh.

  “Yes,” he smiles, exhausted. “God, yes.”

  He lets her sleep, tired from her long flight and the time change. For him, the time is the same. He dresses and slips out, quietly closing the door behind him. Instead of taking the elevator, he walks down the carpeted stairwell. He nods to the clerks at the front desk and the concierge, who smile urbanely back at him. He is unknown to them. He hasn’t been here in years. He has yet to make an impression. They take in his coat, his shoes. Is he a good tipper? They will know him by name, grant him the benefit of their knowledge, their network of contacts, doors will unlock. If he tips poorly, monsieur will find that tables cannot be procured, tickets are regrettably unavailable. It is a simple relationship, the simplest.

  For Harry the anonymity is a thrill that he wears like a protective veil. On the street he turns down Rue de Castiglione to Rivoli, heading under the colonnade, past the cafés and shops catering to tourists. On the far side, the trees of the Tuileries
are barren, the grass brown, the benches empty. He carefully crosses the Place de la Concorde, heading toward the Seine. This is not the real Paris, the Paris of students, Algerians thin as blades, old women who feed stray cats. Of cheap shops, trade unions, and streets whose names celebrate long-forgotten victories. The France of working people, of eating lunch at home, of market day and bad shoes. This is the Paris of visitors, of the rich, of diplomats, and of those who cater to them. It is a façade, but a pleasing one nevertheless.

  Years ago he knew a homosexual comte who lived in an apartment nearby. It was a fabulous apartment, on the grand etage, decorated like an Egyptian nightclub. Harry and Maddy had been drinking with him all night and had gone everywhere. Ledoyen, Castel’s, Le Baron, and finally, as the birds began to sing, they went back to the comte’s for a last drink. It was dawn by that point. The comte, who was middle-aged and chubby, told Maddy that Harry was lucky his wife was along. Harry, who was younger and stronger than the comte, smiled, unthreatened, amused by the Proustian decadence of it all.

  Tonight, it is raining lightly, droplets dampening his hair. He has no hat or umbrella, but he doesn’t mind. He is a walker. New York, London, Rome, Paris. It doesn’t matter. That is why he dislikes Los Angeles and most American cities. There are not enough sidewalks.

  He walks down the river and then up to the Place des Vosges, the oldest in Paris, before turning back. He finds himself on Saint-Honoré. He walks past the famous shops, Hermès, Longchamp, Gucci. Their elegant wares redolent of beautiful lives, ski trips, Mediterranean islands, wealthy tanned men, aristocratic women. He stops in front of one of the greatest and on impulse walks in, uncertain of what he is looking for. The tall, elegant vendeuses watch him. He is unused to being in stores like this. Unlike many husbands, he has not been dragged along on shopping trips, waiting idly outside a fitting room, watching the elaborate dance between customer and clerk.

  Self-consciously he browses through the racks, inspecting the price tags, trying not to be astonished. There is a black cocktail dress that catches his eye. It is thousands of dollars. Maddy had never bought anything this expensive in her life. But the cost isn’t important. He needs, he wants to buy Claire something. He has the generosity of early love.

  He calls to one of the saleswomen who, less disinterested now that she sees what he is looking at, comes over. He struggles to remember his French and not to confuse it with his even more rudimentary Italian. Unlike Maddy, languages never came easily to him.

  “Je veux acheter cette robe.”

  “Mais oui, monsieur. Savez-vous la taille?” With her hands, she carves a woman’s body in the air.

  He looks at her blankly. He realizes he has no idea what size Claire is.

  “I don’t know,” he says, feeling stupid.

  The saleswoman holds her hands to her hips. “Like me?” she asks in English. “Comme ça?”

  He has forgotten the word. “No, smaller. Petite?”

  “Ah, pas de problème,” she says. She locates the same dress in the next size down.

  “If it doesn’t fit, I can bring it back?”

  “Oui, monsieur. Of course.”

  It is almost dark now. He walks back to the hotel swinging the bag, the dress cocooned in its box, protected by layers of tissue paper. This is not him. It is someone else. Someone who stays in expensive hotels, patronizes stylish shops, is meeting a woman not his wife. It is a role he is inhabiting, a dream. Nothing is real. If someone pinched him he’d wake up. But he doesn’t want to wake up.

  He goes up to the room. It is as dark as he left it. Naked under the covers, she is just stirring. Her body warm, hair ruffled, breath sour.

  She smiles, eyes half-closed. “Did you have a nice walk?” she asks drowsily, stifling a yawn.

  “I did. I love walking in Paris. It was certainly the most expensive walk I’ve ever taken in Paris, though.” He shows her the shopping bag, with a smile. “I bought you a present.”

  She brightens and sits up in bed. “You didn’t! Oh my god, I love that store.”

  She takes the bag from him and opens the box. The cover has fallen now, revealing her breasts. The nipples soft and pink. He thinks about what is underneath the covers.

  Holding up the dress, she cries, “It’s beautiful. I can’t believe you did this.” She jumps out of bed and embraces him. “It’s the nicest present I’ve ever had,” she says, kissing him. “Thank you so much.”

  “Try it on. See if it fits. I had no idea what size you were. The salesgirl told me I could return it if we wanted.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She runs to the bathroom. The light comes on. The heavy door clicks behind her. He sits on the bed, waiting for her answer.

  “It’s perfect!” she cries from within.

  “Let me see.”

  “No. I want it to be a surprise.”

  She comes out of the bathroom, provocatively naked. She walks to him and, bending over, dangles her breasts in his face like two ripe pears, lightly brushing her lips against his cheek. “Let me show you how much I like my present.”

  That evening she wears the dress to dinner. Black hair, black dress, pale skin. She is all youth, all vitality, all sexuality. She is the most beautiful woman in the room. Other diners look up from their meals and watch her as she enters. It is as if she is not wearing any clothes at all. It is vertiginous following her. The maître d’ proudly leads them in.

  Harry marvels at the transformation in her. From the artless young woman of the summer to this figure dressed in the latest style. What would her life have been like if she had never met him on the beach? If she had never come to that fateful party?

  “I can’t believe we’re in Paris,” she says excitedly. Tonight they are dining in the hotel. It is a two-star restaurant. A Belle Epoque temple to Escoffier. Tomorrow they will go out.

  They discuss plans. This is a city she knows from her childhood, parts of it forever associated with dreary Sundays and airless rooms. He wants to show her the other side.

  The waiter hands them the menus. They order cocktails. Her French is impeccable. The waiter tries not to look surprised. He had taken her for an American.

  “I had no idea you spoke so well,” Harry says. “My French is pretty much limited to what I can order from a menu or a wine list.”

  “It’s been a long time,” she says. “I’ve been practicing for the trip but I’m still a little rusty. I’ve forgotten so much though. My mother always said I had a good accent. They say you never lose that.” She pauses. “I had a French passport for years. I was a dual national before they made you choose. I still have it. In a drawer at home. The photograph is from when I was twelve or thirteen. I keep it because it does remind me that, after all, I am half French.”

  “Have you ever wanted to spend more time here? I mean, to live?”

  “Not when I was a child. It was awful coming here. I suppose I was lucky. While most kids my age were going to Disneyland, I was going to Paris. But it was a Paris without joy, without fun or beauty or art or any of the things people come here for. My grandparents didn’t even have a TV. My brother and I would spend endless hours sitting on a hard settee in their living room while my mother chatted with them, drinking tea and nibbling on biscuits. It was agony. I could see the sky outside, imagining that the other children, the real French children, were playing in the park or going to the zoo. When my grandparents died, I was relieved. I know that sounds horrible, but it’s true.”

  “At least you saw the real France. I’ve been to France, oh, I don’t know, maybe two dozen or so times, sometimes longer, sometimes shorter, sometimes coming through Paris, sometimes not, but I’ve never seen what you saw. I’ve only seen the Hollywood version, the version that France wants us to see. You lived behind the curtain.”

  “I suppose, but I like this better. The food isn’t as good behind the curtain.” She laughs. Her face lights up. Her teeth are white. He can see the pink of her gums.

  She orders lobster bis
que laced with pistachio followed by truffled sole. He orders the same.

  Harry calls over the sommelier. They decide on a Montrachet.

  “I’m starving,” she says.

  “And no need to worry about eating too much. They have a beautiful spa with a pool. Pamela Harriman died while swimming laps in the pool.”

  “Who?”

  “A famous courtesan,” he explains. Then he adds, “Actually, she was the American ambassador to France. She married a lot of rich men and had affairs with even more.”

  After dinner they stroll down a long corridor to the back of the hotel. It is midweek and a reception is winding down. Businessmen are exchanging cards. They head to the little bar, down a few steps. The smell of expensive cigars perfumes the air.

  “This is my favorite bar in the world,” he tells her. He would come here even when he couldn’t afford to stay in the hotel.

  They walk in. Claire is surprised by how small it is. It is already crowded. Smoke plumes in the air. All the tables are occupied, but there are two seats at the narrow bar. George, the bartender, is mixing drinks.

  “Mister Winslow,” says George in an English accent. “Lovely to have you back with us, sir.” He is slightly taller than average, balding, white-jacketed, precise in his movements. Harry has already sent him a note saying he would not be coming in with Maddy.

  The two men shake hands. “Good to see you again, George. This is Claire.”

  “Welcome,” George says. “You’ve just dined, I believe. Might I suggest a digestif?”

  Harry looks to Claire. “Whatever he offers, agree to it. He is to the cocktail shaker what Picasso was to the brush.”