Parisian Promises (22 page)

“Dear boy, I am too old to do anything!”

“I'm talking about nourishment for your soul. The ambrosia that will rejuvenate you. You do recall how ambrosia erased the years from Penelope's face and she regained the youthfulness that drove her suitors mad with passion, don't you?” Jean-Michel knew that Madame would be flattered by his allusions to the ancient Greeks.

“It's been ages since I discussed Homer with any cultured person. Since you've met my concierge, you know what a dimwit she is. And if you ever meet my American students, why they are, how shall I put it?” Madame paused for effect. “Well, they're provincial and small-minded. And these are the people I'm reduced to these days.”

“Then you agree that by elevating your level of involvement with what is transpiring in Paris today, you would be resisting the narrow-mindedness and domination of the Fascists?”

Madame's stomach growled with hunger. “As I said earlier, I'm just too old to be back in the game. I can barely make it up and down the stairs once or twice a week. If that surly concierge didn't bring me food, I'd starve.” She tugged at the waist of her skirt to show the extra two inches of fabric that hung on her bony body.

Jean-Michel tickled her waistline. “Keep your eyes closed,” he said, and he pulled something out of the large briefcase. “You can open your eyes now, Marcelle.”

“
O là là, c'est incroyable
!” Madame cooed. “I can't believe it. A Chanel outfit from this season's line!”

“But that is not all, my unsung heroine.” He pulled out a pair of Chanel two-toned shoes. Madame pulled off her old shoes and flung them across the salon. Bits of old cardboard flew out of the left shoe and the worn-down heel of the right shoe dropped off when it hit the floor.

Madame laughed madly and walked into her bedroom to change into her new outfit. “I'll be back when I am all put together again,” she sang out.

“I'm sure you'll look fetching. Shall we go out to dinner?”

“Oh, yes.” Madame looked over her shoulder and blew him a kiss.

“And I can count on you to lead our
maquis
, our own guerilla group?”

“A woman has never led a
maquis
, certainly not during the German occupation!”

Jean-Michel swooped-up Madame in his arms and kissed her passionately. “It's never too late. It's your turn to be in the history books, Marcelle.”

Madame bobbed her head like a woodpecker, though she'd lost track of what she had just agreed to do. Perhaps it was going out to dinner with Jean-Michel; perhaps it was helping him with some sort of modern-day
Résistance
activity. Perhaps she had simply agreed to help him relax in her inimitable fashion, and that is why he just paid her with this dazzling Chanel outfit. Madame guffawed at her own confusion, and closed the door to her bedroom.

For an instant, Jean-Michel felt satisfied that he had made the old lady happy. This is what it must mean to make one's grandmother laugh and act silly, he thought. Unlike other filthy rich families in Latin America, his large family preferred to send its excess offspring to Swiss boarding schools, primarily to get them out of the way, and also to make them more European. They had succeeded wildly with Jean-Michel. Because of his absence from his family since the age of eleven, with only sporadic visits home, he had not developed emotional ties to any member of his family––certainly not to any grandmother––and he had not bonded with anyone in Europe, either.

This momentary glee at observing Madame's giddiness soon subsided, replaced by an urge to witness his own creation and execution of a revolutionary act from the vantage point of Madame's spacious apartment. This time all of Europe would know about Jean-Michel's exploits, and no one would associate his past failures with his current, spectacular success. His ragtag rich-boy squad had failed in their debut detonation, and Rémy was the victim of his own carelessness. But Monica's disappearance and clean getaway rankled him more than anything. He had already bragged about the effectiveness of his California Girl Mind Control Method to other revolutionary squads, and they had dismissed him. “Actions speak louder than words,” they'd told him. “We'll wait until we see a favorable demonstration of your method.”

Jean-Michel stood by the window and felt compelled to jump-start his mission. He wanted to observe Monica as she delivered a package a half-block away into the hands of the wrong people, and he would enjoy watching as those wrong people destroyed her. Madame's apartment would be the ideal place to observe the action, and then to hunker down while the rest of Europe wondered about the genius behind this latest plot.

Ever since the explosion at the wine cellar and the fiasco with Bertrand's remaining body part, Jean-Michel had avoided returning to his deceased great-uncles' empty apartments. Although he was fairly certain that Charles or Xavier would never come looking for him there, he didn't want to take any chances. He had sneaked into the icy rooms once or twice to remove necessary items, such as the hummingbird he sent to the concierge, but now he had his prized possessions poised for action. He'd always been a lone wolf, and now he was staking and marking his new territory: Madame's apartment would be his lair.

While Madame dressed, Jean-Michel hid other items from his briefcase in the commodious upper shelves of her dusty library. He pushed aside a section of her leather-bound tomes, and placed his valuables behind them. No one would climb all the stairs to ask an addled, poor old lady any questions.

Jean-Michel made himself at home, his feet up on Madame's shabby divan, and studied the uniformity of the buildings across the street, all conforming to Haussmann's dictatorial architectural plan. He judged that the symmetry and geometric unity were still relevant, and found the second-floor balconies elaborate. But the fifth floors, with their line of undecorated windows, seemed dull. This was perfect, as far as Jen-Michel was concerned, hiding out in Madame's own fifth-floor apartment. From this anonymous perch, he would observe Monica as she struggled. He had come up with a foolproof way to lure his California Girl into finishing her task––and into ending her namby-pamby life.

W
hen Serge caught Christophe pounding the floor of the pool house at Les Charmilles, disgusted and despondent over a man-size muddy footprint on the area rug like a permanent indictment of Monica's infidelity, he tried to console him by lying.

“I'm sorry for having stepped on the rug with my muddy shoes,” Serge apologized.

“Don't lie to me!” Christophe shouted. He stayed kneeling on the ground, inspecting the dried mud footprint. It was proof that some man had been in the pool house with Monica a day ago, the same night she had acted in such a distant way, rejecting Christophe's sexual overtures. Yet, looking into her eyes that evening, he had detected trepidation; a cloudy apprehension that had just become crystal clear to him when he saw the remains of the dirty footprint. Some man, an intruder, a menace, had possessed the audacity come into his house and frighten or lure Monica away from him. Christophe had been preoccupied with matters of the grape harvest, and he'd allowed Monica to leave early the following morning. This was the decision––one he now regretted––that was prodding him into action.

“Let me clean up my mess,” Serge insisted.

“Your lies worked when you were covering up for my father, but I'm not easily fooled anymore.”

This bitter comment could have opened the floodgates of the long-standing rancor poisoning family life at Les Charmilles, but Serge preferred to continue plugging the holes in the dyke with lies and excuses. Serge never believed that Christophe's father had been a collaborator during the German occupation, and that is why he stayed working at Les Charmilles decade after decade. Initially, he protected the late, big-hearted Viscount from those who wanted revenge for getting away scot-free with what others perceived as financial gain through his affiliation with the Vichy Régime. But Serge understood the madness, the frenzy, the destruction that a torrid love affair could inflict on a man; Victoire had caged his own aching heart and thrown away the key.

Similarly, the late Viscount had fallen, quite literally, head over heels for Marcelle, a much older seductive woman. He had followed her hypnotic leg and sparkling red toes caged in peep-toe stiletto heels up the spiral staircase of a shady hotel in Paris. Although his fedora covered most of his face, the Viscount had been photographed by Robert Doisneau, a beam of light spotlighting Marcelle's leg. Whenever he saw that picture, his heart was singed with burning desire for her. The late Viscount purchased the photograph and had it enlarged and framed for Marcelle.

Unfortunately, more than one collaborator saw the photograph, recognized his face, and decided to blackmail the Viscount. He could have betrayed Marcelle as a known
Résistance
fighter to the Vichy Régime and its sympathizers, but he had her best interests at heart, and he paid off one, then another, and another collaborator, until they all died. All for the love of Marcelle, the Viscount's true heart and soul.

With a heavy heart, and to tame his wife's fears about the welfare of their son, Christophe, he gave up Marcelle––although he did allow her to live in one of his properties in Paris for the rest of her life. He returned home to Les Charmilles and attended to his estate, vineyard, and prize horses, tolerating his wife's anger, the never-ending wrath of a woman scorned, for the sake of his adoring son.

Serge knelt down, attempted to brush the dried mud away, but Christophe stopped him. His eyes were red with boiling rage.

“I have to bring Monica back to Les Charmilles,” he announced. “This is where she belongs…”

He choked on his words, unable to finish the sentence.

“Let her go––” Serge began, but this seemed to enrage Christophe more.

“Should I follow your example? Is that what you're saying?” Christophe shoved the old man. “You never fought to keep Victoire, and now look at you. You're a pathe––”

Serge grabbed Christophe with his iron grip, and clambered to his feet. “You're right about Victoire and me,” he said. “Why don't you telephone Monica at Madame Caron de Pichet's, and let her explain?”

“The explanation is right there.” Christophe kicked the caked mud from the rug. “I just need to bring her back here with me. Don't you understand that I need her presence?”

Serge understood that to love profoundly means both to soar and to dive. Monica's absence, and her suspicious activity with another man, had torn Christophe's heart out and plummeted him into the depths of wretchedness. His love for her was making him suffer and pine in the same way that Serge did, despairing over losing Victoire year after year.

“Shall I telephone Madame Caron de Pichet and ask her to put Monica on the line?”

“No, I'm driving to Paris right now.” Christophe disappeared into the main house, and came out minutes later carrying an overnight bag. When he stepped into his car, he found Serge sitting in the driver's seat.

“I'll drive you,” said Serge, starting the car. “I know where Madame Caron de Pichet lives.”

“How do you know that?”

“I drove you father
away
from her house, back to Les Charmilles years ago.” Serge finally spoke the truth, and Christophe said nothing. For almost an hour they drove in tense silence, before Christophe found himself able to speak.

“Did my father love that woman?” he asked in a voice not much louder than a whisper.

“Yes, but not as much as he loved you. He came back to Les Charmilles to be with you and your mother.”

Christophe pounded the dashboard. “Why does loving Monica hurt so much?”

“It's always been this way,” Serge told him. “The anguish and the exhilaration of love! She was in your arms two days ago and you were in paradise. Now, she's left and you are in hell.”

“I didn't think I could love anyone as much,” Christophe groaned. “I'm love-stricken. I have to get her back. Drive faster, Serge.”

But Serge could not bypass the line of trucks driving slowly into Paris. As they crawled along the highway, the truck drivers––the heavyweights of French dissent––honked their enthusiasm about joining the growing fireball of protestors in Paris. Every dissatisfied segment of society was on its way there, prepared to make its voice heard and to parade its ideological stripes.

“Damn it, Serge, drive on the side of the road and get me to Paris!” screamed Christophe. Old Serge obeyed, maneuvering the car on the narrow side of the highway, hoping that the police were preoccupied elsewhere.

When they drove into Paris, it was impossible to miss the protestors already filling the streets, from clusters of disgruntled labor unions to groups protesting nuclear testing in the Pacific. The idealistic students from the Latin Quarter joined the throng, looking excited to be part of the legacy of the French student protestors of 1968.

“I thought you said she lived in the 6
^th
arrondissment
, around this
quartier
? Let me out of the car and I'll run to her house,” Christophe insisted.

“Take a look around and face the reality of the situation, Christophe. See that group over there?” Serge pointed to a bedraggled group of anarchists. “Can't you see how they're lining up to fight the hard-booted fascists hiding behind the
pissoir
there?”

Serge pointed to the defaced and decaying public men's urinal, the foul odor of which only seemed to pump up the neo-fascists and serve as a military shield, a barricade of sorts, against possible opponents.

“I only care about Monica. Tell me her address, because I'm going there now.” Christophe flung open the car door.

Serge managed to drive up on the sidewalk a few blocks from rue de Condé, screeching to a halt near a heap of trash bags left uncollected by striking waste-disposal employees.

“Wait up, I'll go with you,” he said. “Marcelle won't see you without me there to vouch for you.”

Lola gazed out from her dormer window in the cramped garret of Madame's apartment building.

“You know,” she said, turning to Monica, “Haussmann designed these airless rooms as quarters for the servants. And we're not servants. Let's get out of here for good.”

Monica said nothing and didn't move, slumped on the bed as though in a depressed daze.

“Look!” Lola shouted, trying to wake Monica from her stupor. “I'm not sure what's going on out on the streets today, but it looks like another protest. I'm going to the travel agency near the Fontaine Saint-Michel, and I'm buying you an airline ticket back home, before
their
employees go on strike as well.”

Monica shrugged her shoulders and slumped back on the bed. “I guess,” she said quietly.

“My cousins told me to get your ass back to California before the fuzz come looking for you… and me.”

“So are you flying home with me?”

“Hell, no.” Lola looked defiant. “I'm going to Monte Carlo. Then when I'm good and ready, I'll go back to California.”

“But aren't you afraid of the police?”

“I didn't do anything wrong, did I? You're sounding as daffy as our housemother. Did you hear her last night, cooing and purring with some man about the delicious dinner he just bought her at Le Procope? He must be an old mute because I didn't hear a word from him. She went on and on about the food, and how the old waiter remembered her from her heyday. Geez, I can't believe you slept through the whole thing. Her bedroom is just one floor below yours.”

Monica ignored all this as though she hadn't even heard. “I want to see Christophe before I leave. I have to explain to him and tell him I love him.”

“So, give him a call.”

“I telephoned him this morning but he wasn't at home. Neither was Serge. And, needless to say, Madame La Vicomtesse was very curt to me.”

“Then that's that.” Lola didn't want to engage in any forlorn babble about Christophe. There was no time to lose. “I'll be right back. You start packing, and we'll both head out of Paris before we get into any more trouble.”

“I can't allow my year in Paris to end so abruptly.” Monica was being stubborn. “And, I, I can't
live
without seeing Christophe.”

“Please look out the window, Monica!” Lola was exasperated. “One hell of a protest is brewing down there, and I have to buy your airline ticket now while we still can. Just promise me you'll stay in this room until I return, OK?”

Lola didn't wait for Monica to reply. She hightailed down the five flights of stairs, eager not to lose any more time. When she stepped into the street through the large wood gate, the concierge hurried out to lock it behind her.

“Please be careful, Mademoiselle, it's a hornet's nest out there. You can't trust anyone. Believe me; even a prince can turn out to be a snake in the grass.” The concierge spat on the floor, then gave the fifth-floor apartment the evil eye.

Upstairs, Madame was calling up to Monica in the attic bedroom.

“Monica, my sweet girl, please come to the salon.”

Monica wiped her tears and slowly made her way down. She was surprised to see Madame dressed in what looked like brand-new and very expensive Chanel.

“Oh, my gosh, you look fabulous, Madame. You were made to wear that Chanel suit.”

“My dear, you're too sweet. But yes, I was made to wear Chanel and dine at the best places. I had a great dinner last night, and now I must do an errand of utmost importance.” She reached out to Monica and whispered. “
Mon amour
has asked me to pose for a photograph down by the street protestors.”

“But that could be dangerous, Madame,” warned Monica. “It's too crowded and you know you lose your balance in crowds.”

“Not if you're with me, my California girl! I just have to make my way to the middle of the crowd and look as if I'm still leading the
Résistance
. He said I have to hold my hand up high and the photographer will snap the shot for the book on my days as a heroine of the French republic.”