A Bad Coin Always Turns Up

by Alberto Guardia

  “Why? Don’t you read the newspapers? I mean your national press.”

  As he spoke, he pulled a copy of the European edition of the New York Herald out of a drawer. He glanced at the front page, folded the newspaper and handed it to Thérèse, pointing at a brief article in bold type.

  The death of van Buren

  […] what is more, the news of the death of the well-known financier Klaas van Buren shocked the financial world yesterday. It would seem that he committed suicide after the collapse of his financial empire…

  “That is why…,” said the shopkeeper, but he fell silent when he saw the anguished face of his customer, who said nothing, but snatched the newspaper and fled from the shop.

  Overwhelmed, Thérèse returned swiftly to her Hôtel nearby, in a side street off Boulevard des Italiens.

  As soon as she entered the lobby, she threw herself into an armchair and began to weep. Then she remembered her meeting with Mr Fantone and looked for the card he had given her a day earlier: Hôtel Millennium. She asked the receptionist if it was far away and was far away and was told that it was only five minutes on foot.

  The concierge at the Hôtel Millennium opened the door for her and Thérèse went to the reception to ask if Monsieur Fantone was in the Hôtel: when she received confirmation, she asked that he be advised that Madame Milaud was waiting for him in the salon de thé.

  Thérèse’s expression was sufficient for Carlo to realise that something serious had happened.

  Thérèse did not speak, she simply handed Carlo the copy of the New York Herald, pointing to the article that mentioned van Buren.

  Carlo muttered a very Italian “Oh cazzo!” of which, fortunately, understood only the tone of surprise.

  Carlo very delicately placed his hand on Thérèse’s telling her to be calm and not to worry, that he and his father would give her all the help they could. Carlo ordered a tea for her and a cognac for himself and tried to distract her by asking how she had spent the morning and how her search for a potential buyer was going.

  Thérèse listened in silence, shaking her head. Then suddenly she gathered her wits and said to Carlo, “I met five shopkeepers and I did not ask them to buy the coin, but rather to sell me a similar one. No one has a coin, but every one of them, I repeat, every one, told me or gave me to understand that they would never ever keep it in the shop. The last one, I think he was called Moratian, told me to ask the van Buren heirs to sell me theirs. When I asked why, he simply produced the newspaper from a drawer.”

  Carlo nodded.

  “I know Moratian and I can assure you that he is a good person, but unfortunately for him, he saw terrible scenes before he was able to flee from his homeland and he has become rather cynical.”

  “So, all those stories that you told me yesterday are true!” said Thérèse in the tone of someone who hopes to receive a negative response.

  “Thérèse, quite frankly, I would like to be able to say no, but… I just don’t know. Certainly, the case of Mr van Buren is unusual because, if we want to believe in the evil spell, the coin has had a delayed effect.”

  Just at that moment, a bellboy from the Hôtel came over and asked, “Madame Milaud? A messenger from the Hôtel Angleterre asked me to give you this urgent letter, saying that it arrived just after you left.”

  Paris – November 10th 1929

  Mrs Thérèse Milaud

  C/o Hôtel Angleterre

  Paris

  New York, November 6th 1929

  Dear Terry,

  When you receive this letter, you will certainly have read the newspapers and so it is useless to explain.

  I am completely ruined, and not even the sale of the coin can save me.

  You know how I feel about life and that I could not bear to survive on a few dollars.

  Keep the coin as compensation for everything you have done for me and for the affection that has bound us, but I beg you to sell it immediately, because I believe that keeping it brings bad luck.

  Adieu,

  Nick

  Paris – November 10th 1929

  Thérèse wept silently and Carlo passed her his handkerchief. She took it and handed him the letter she had just received.

  Carlo asked for permission to read it and she nodded.

  After he had finished reading it, Carlo asked, “Was he your fiancé?”

  Thérèse lifted her head and despite the tears in her eyes, she gave a brief laugh.

  “Who? Nick? No, I could never have…”

  “Forgive me, but it seems to be in such a confidential tone…”

  “It is, because I am… I was… his best friend. You see Signor Fantone, Nick, he… I… I was, so to say, his… sentimental confidant. He would ask me what I thought about John, or Bob, or whoever… who was more handsome?!”

  “Ah!” said Carlo.

  “Yes! He preferred the company of men and when he met someone he liked, he would take me into his confidence. He was a wonderful person.”

  Then she became gloomy once again and remained silent, staring into space.

  “Excuse me if I am interfering with your private affairs, but what do you intend to do? Have you any contacts here in France? Do you intend to go back to America; do you need any help with your travel plans?”

  Her eyes on her hands clasped on the table, Thérèse began to speak.

  “As you will have imagined, I am not American, I went there almost ten years ago. At the time I was living in Lille, I was married and led a quiet life, and then suddenly my world was overturned. I discovered that my husband was leading a double life, but not with a mistress, he was mixed up with the underworld and he ended up in prison. For me it was the start of a nightmare and I thought I could escape by asking for a divorce, but it was not granted and I found not only his family, but mine too against me.

  Jean-Luc had been in prison for six months, my life was miserable, the war was just over and there were still a lot of foreign soldiers around. The little English I had learned at school was sufficient to get me a post at the American hospital, where I looked after the wounded soldiers waiting to be sent home. That is where I met Nick. He was badly wounded in the leg and he still… he always limped. At first I thought that he was exaggerating the problem so that he could lean on me and hug me, but it didn’t take me long to understand that women did not interest him, except as friends. I told him about my life and he told me about his and about his plans: he had plenty; he was a torrent of surprising new ideas! We spent three months together, then he was given his orders to return home and he told me that if he said I was his fiancée, he could take me with him to the States. I had nothing to lose and a lot to forget in France, so I accepted.

  When we arrived in New York, we were given a joyous welcome by his parents, who were pleased to see that he had changed… his tastes: they just wanted us to get married, but that never happened.

  He immediately began playing the Stock Exchange and he was very skilled and ruthless, he involved me in his dealings and within a year we were rich, very rich.

  However, his world was a jungle where tens of thousands of dollars changed hands at dizzying speed. I asked him to stop, but he didn’t and so, to avoid being caught up in his speculations, he asked me to leave the company and become his assistant, with an amazing salary. Thanks to this, we became even closer. They were fantastic years, I was leading a life that I could never have dreamed of and I confess that I spent a fortune in clothes, hats, jewellery and entertainment.

  Then, in July this year the first problems appeared, worsening until October 28th when our world collapsed. Nick was desperate and he asked me to sell the coin. He had already pawned his collection. In recognition of all he had done for me, I gave him all my savings to try one last desperate operation: now I know that that money also flew out of the window. I set out with the money necessary to stay one week in France and then I intended to return to America.”

  She interrupted h
er story, raised her glance and stared Carlo in the eyes.

  “Mr Fantone, in my pocket I have a return ticket to the States, but it is now no use to me, a coin that is worth nothing and one hundred dollars in traveller’s cheques. That is my situation. Oh, I forgot, since I am in France, there is also the risk that my husband will come looking for me: he never accepted the fact that I had left him.”

  November 10th 1929

  Jean-Luc was amazed to see Thérèse disembark from a luxury steamship, she certainly hadn’t travelled first class but even travelling in second class was a luxury that they could never have afforded.

  He had thought that she was returning from a holiday, but the fact that her baggage was destined for a hotel in Paris meant that she would be returning to America: her new home.

  Like a knife thrust, the thought flitted through his mind that she might have remarried in America, without anyone knowing that she had never divorced, but if that were so, she would have been in the company of her husband, or at least she would have carried his name, while the luggage label said Milaud, her maiden name.

  Then he thought that since Thérèse was a smart girl, she had made a position for herself in America and maybe a small fortune… of which a part belonged to him: wasn’t he still her husband, after all?

  He smiled to himself: Thérèse I am on my way.

  Paris – November 1929

  Madame Antonelli was a lady who looked much younger than her seventy-odd years because, more for herself than for others, she tried as well as she could to keep up appearances and the tone of one who conducts a comfortable bourgeois existence.

  The events of the war first of all, the economic crisis afterwards and the recent death of her husband, George, had slowly reduced her economic resources to the point where she had decided to rent out some rooms of her house in rue du Sentier, in the second arrondissement. For a question of decency, as she put it, she only accepted female boarders. A few days earlier, an English teacher had left her most spacious room, the one that had been George’s study.

  The new boarder was very elegant; she was attractive and spoke perfect French although with a slight American accent. Madame Antonelli thought she was Canadian and was surprised when Madame Milaud gave her a French identity card that showed she was born in Hem, a town near Lille.

  The cost of the Hôtel had become too expensive for Thérèse, who risked frittering away that reserve of one hundred dollars that, if well guarded, would guarantee her a minimum of serenity until she found a job.

  To her great surprise, thanks to her knowledge of English and also thanks to a recommendation by Madame Antonelli, she found a post as a teacher at a boarding school for young ladies of good family. However, there was no hope of selling the notorious coin. After the first refusals, she had prudently stopped asking: the world of the numismatic dealers was limited and even the rumour that a valuable item like a coin purchased for two hundred thousand francs led to plenty of gossip amongst the Parisian merchants and beyond.

  Carlo Fantone had suggested that she work for him, since he intended to open an office in Paris, but Thérèse wanted to stand on her own two feet and keep her distance, as far as possible, from that loathsome object. She had begun to think that it really was jinxed!

  On November twenty-seventh something happened that really upset her: it was six in the evening and she was returning to Madame Antonelli’s house from the school where she worked. She was walking along a dark street when a man attacked her and dragged her into a doorway with the intention of raping her. Her screams were heard by a coalman who had just made his delivery and he grabbed his shovel, jumping down from his cart to grab the attacker by the jacket and throw him to the ground, but before the coalman could strike him, the man got to his feet and fled.

  Thérèse, panting with fear, looked at her rescuer and said in a tiny voice, “How can I thank you enough?”

  The man answered that he had only done what any man worthy of the name would have done, and above all, he insisted that she should not take that street again, because it had a bad reputation.

  She returned home very upset, where Madame Antonelli helped her to undress and ran a hot bath for her. Apart from her disgust for the contact with that individual, she had the very unpleasant sensation, perhaps influenced by memories that sometimes returned when she was tense, that she had recognised in the form and the behaviour of the person who had attacked her, the features of her husband. Yet it could not be her husband, because he was still in prison, and he had another two years to serve. She was certain of this because Nick, before he left France last April, had asked for information through the American Embassy in Paris.

  Paris – November 29th 1929

  “Madame Milaud, you must realise that the reputation of our institute must not even be shadowed by the doubt that one of our teachers is not conducting an unimpeachable life.”

  The headmistress of the boarding school for young ladies of good family, Sister Ermeline, had called Thérèse to her study urgently, as soon as she heard of the attack.

  Thérèse was staring at her in amazement.

  “What were you doing in that street and what did you do to cause the reaction of your… shall we call him your attacker?”

  Thérèse said nothing and continued to stare at the nun with rage that it was difficult to hide.

  “Do you realise that your behaviour has damaged the reputation of our holy institution? You are fired! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  All the other teachers on the board were silent and had fixed their gaze on the ground. Thérèse approached the headmistress and looking her up and down she whispered in a chilling tone, “A whited sepulchre, that’s what you are, a whited sepulchre.”

  Then she turned to the other teachers.

  “If you don’t know what that means, it is written in a book that you have probably been forbidden to read in here, because it says unfitting things.”

  Before any one of them could speak, she went out of the door, descended the main staircase and left the school, so angry that even tears would not come.

  She returned home and told the whole story to Madame Antonelli, who made her sit on the sofa in the best parlour, took her maternally in her arms and finally let her weep until she hiccupped. After a while, she shook her with a complicit air.

  “I would give a hundred francs to have been there and seen their faces! I can imagine their expressions and the comments they made with those duckfaces”.

  Thérèse raised her head and looked at her perplexedly.

  “Oh, they are not worth bothering with, my dear. Anyway, a young woman must think of her future. You have the world before you. By the way…”

  Thérèse waited expectantly.

  “By the way,” repeated the old lady. “That Italian gentleman you spoke of…”

  “He’s not Italian, he is Swiss.”

  “Italian, Swiss, it is not important where he comes from. My George was Belgian and we were happy anyway. However, I must not digress, why don’t you accept his offer? Perhaps, sooner or later, he will make you another… of a different kind.”

  “Another? What kind?” asked Thérèse.

  “Oh my goodness! You young people! Is your generation, with all your spouting about emancipation so naïve, or are you just pretending? Listen to me; try to make sure that you meet up with that gentleman tomorrow.”

  “But can’t I just go and see him?” asked Thérèse bewilderedly.

  “No, no, no! Ah forgive me; there are rules to be followed!

  It was getting dark and Madame Antonelli asked Thérèse to turn on the lamp beside the sofa. Then she took her by the arm and they began a whispered conversation, with a lot of giggling.

  Paris – December 3rd 1929

  “Madame Milaud, what a surprise! How are you? Have you found a suitable place to live?”

  Thérèse had spent three days discreetly following Carlo, in order to understand wher
e he was to be found and choose the most suitable place in which, to use Madame Antonelli’s words, to ‘ambush him’.

  They were standing before an elegant salon de thé on Boulevard Lafayette and to Carlo it seemed to be quite by chance that their paths had crossed. He invited her to have tea with him, but she, following Madame’s instructions, told him that she could not accept because she had an appointment. Then, when he insisted, she accepted: in Madame’s opinion, the game was now won.

  It must be said, however, that in the days following the attack, Thérèse had begun to believe that the infamous piece of gold truly brought bad luck. Ever since Nick had purchased it, his fortunes had begun to decline, then financial ruin had followed and in the end, he had killed himself. She had, as soon as she became its owner, first attacked and then fired.

  Thérèse kept these considerations to herself and told Carlo that she had found pleasant accommodation with Madame Antonelli and how content she was with her new teaching job.

  “I am very pleased for you, although I would have preferred to hear that you had decided to accept my proposal. However, I will not give up and I hope that sooner or later you will change your mind.”

  Thérèse did not answer, she simply gave a smile that encouraged Carlo to make a proposal he had in mind from the moment they had ‘casually’ met on the street.

  “The season has already begun at the Opéra, but the highlight this year will be Puccini’s La Bohème, where the part of Rodolfo will be sung by the Spanish tenor Lucas Cortes. Last year he drove the fans of Verdi wild at the Teatro Regio in Parma, playing Alfredo in La Traviata. I have the honour of being his friend, I met him when he was still making a name for himself and whenever I can, I go to hear him sing.”

  Thérèse listened to him, wondering what this lengthy preamble meant.

  “Perhaps you don’t like opera?” Carlo asked worriedly.