by Sophie Davis
We’d pretty much figured out all the details before our arrival, but Ines helped to fill in some iffy spots to make us more attractive to Rosenthal’s crowd.
“And we have arrived, darlings,” Ines declared, just as Gaige finished explaining how I was looking to practice my sexual freedom throughout Europe. Obviously he was taking creative liberties.
“Lock it up,” I said, pointing at him with a smile.
“You lock it up,” he replied, grinning and mimicking my gesture.
It was our standard call to commence acting the part, through and through. Odd phrasing, an offhand mention to history books, or even seemingly-innocuous conversations between the two of us had a way of raising questions and piquing interest in the wrong way. We couldn’t have that.
Ines gave us an odd look before crossing to the opposite side of the street. As we followed suit, I glanced around, expecting to see a sign with the name of the nightclub. There wasn’t one. In fact, the entire row of storefronts was dark. Many looked abandoned—no mannequins in the windows or fancy writing across the glass declaring the names of the shops.
“Ines, are you sure we’re in the right place?” I asked. “It doesn’t look like there’s a party here.”
“Do not be ridiculous, love, of course we are. Do you mistrust me?” She tittered, a sound that was beginning to grate my nerves. “Do not answer that. Close your eyes and listen.”
No way was I closing my eyes on that shady Parisian street. But I did listen. At first, I didn’t hear it. Then, faint jazz music met my ears. It sounded like it was coming from very far away.
Ines grinned. “You see? We are in the correct place. Come.” She strode towards a black door wedged between two store windows and knocked once. A window in the door slid open. Dark eyes peered out at us.
“Ines Callandries,” she declared.
The door opened, exposing a broad-shouldered man with what looked like cooking oil coating his dark hair and trim mustache. Gaige snorted, then pretended to cough into his hand to cover it. Blank-faced, the doorman stepped aside to let us enter.
“Gaige! Anastasia! Come along, darlings,” Ines called over her shoulder, beckoning us to her like we were dogs.
“I swear on my salary, if she keeps calling me ‘Anastasia’, I’m going to lose it,” I grumbled to my partner as we crossed the threshold.
“Oh, no need to pay me. The spectacle will be compensation enough,” Gaige replied with a wink.
I smiled back at him. Thank goodness my partner was a people person. I was good at pretending to like people—emphasis on pretending—when the run called for it. Since Ines knew my true identity, and I didn’t care one way or the other how she felt about me, there was no reason to pretend with her. Gaige, however, actually did like most people. And most people liked him. I had a feeling that would pay off on this run.
Loud music and thick, sweet smoke engulfed us as we descended a dark staircase with Ines in the lead. I held tightly to the railing with one hand, gathering the scarf trailing from my waist with the other. The last thing I needed was to have the material twist around my legs and send me tumbling down the steps. It would make quite the entrance.
Once we were halfway down the staircase, the wall on my right side ended and I was able to see the underground jazz club through a haze of violet-gray smoke. It was larger than I’d expected, yet small enough to be considered intimate. Only about twenty tables were scattered throughout the middle of the room. Couches ringed the perimeter on a slightly elevated platform, to allow the occupants a better view of the stage.
At the front of the room, musicians played an upbeat tune that featured the saxophone. Couples on the dance floor were doing the Charleston in a tangling twist of flailing arms and legs. Laughter rang out over the music from those who’d started their night much earlier than we had.
“Over there, you see that group in the corner? Do not stare, darling, it’s gauche,” Ines said, waving her cigarette holder in the general direction she was indicating with her eyes. “Rosenthal is the one on the far left. The one who looks like he would rather eat his hat than listen to another word from the man beside him.”
Despite her chastisement, I continued to stare. No one at the table was paying attention to us, so I didn’t see the harm in it. In my ear, Ines was matching faces to names. She included fun facts about each that she’d somehow overlooked during the exhaustive eight hours we’d spent together that day. In her defense, it was her job to know everyone’s business. But I was pretty sure she would’ve been the same scandalmonger even with a different occupation. After she was done with me, Ines leaned over to Gaige and, I assumed, gave him the same speech.
“Oh, splendid, a table just came free,” she declared a moment later.
Ines clapped her hands together twice like the head cheerleader at a football game I’d attended on a run to Pittsburgh in the 1970s. I almost expected her next words to be “Ready? Okay!”.
They weren’t, of course.
“Come, darlings,” she trilled.
“Is it just me or is Ines a little…something?” Gaige asked me as Ines beelined for the vacant table.
“She’s something, alright,” I agreed as we followed our guide through the crowd.
As soon as we settled in to our seats, a waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket.
“Bonsoir Mademoiselle Callandries, monsieur, mademoiselle,” the tuxedoed man said, nodding to each of us in turn. “May I offer you champagne, compliments of Madame Stein?”
Ines readily accepted the bottle on behalf of our group. As he poured the bubbling amber liquid into chipped teacups—they were really going for the prohibition vibe here—the waiter exchanged pleasantries with Ines in a mix of French and English. Thanks to the Rosetta, I understood it all perfectly.
In English, Ines asked, “So, tell me, is there anyone of particular interest here tonight? I promised my American friends a night of fascinating conversation with smart companions.”
“But of course, mademoiselle,” the waiter replied, subtly tilting his head to indicate each table. “Madame Stein is holding court in the far corner with the gentleman of the evening, Monsieur Fitzgerald, and their closest friends. Lady Beaumont is with the Count at a table close to the dance floor. And Monsieur DuPree and his companions have been here for hours. I believe you can find those gentlemen in their preferred booth—center back, directly across from the stage.”
“So kind of you,” Ines chirped, discreetly slipping several folded bills into the waiter’s palm. She’d essentially just paid him to scan the room for her, but then again it was the syndicate’s money, not her own.
“Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle Callandries, you are too kind,” he sang to Ines, then turned to Gaige and I with a bland smile. “We welcome you to our humble establishment. Please, let me know when you are ready for another bottle. Or if Monsieur wishes for a beverage of another sort.”
Gaige passed on the stronger stuff, drawing a raised eyebrow from the waiter. Apparently it wasn’t manly to drink champagne. Luckily, my partner was exceedingly confident in his manhood.
“A gossip, that one,” Ines declared once the waiter was out of earshot. She sipped her champagne, closed her eyes, and sighed contentedly. “But he does know me well. This is my absolute favorite vintage.” Her dark eyes popped open. “Try, try. I must know what you think.”
I took a small, polite sip from my own china cup. It was good. A bit tangy, but good. Gaige drained his in one, long swallow and smacked his lips.
“Feeling the urge to get drunk already?” I teased.
“Just trying to fit in,” he replied, refilling his cup.
Ready to get going, I turned to Ines.
“How do we work this?” I asked her quietly. “Should we go over there and say hello, so you can introduce us?”
The Frenchwoman raised a hand to her chest in mock horror.
“Heavens no, dear. That would be an amateur move.” She patted
my hand. “You are with me, they will come to us. As the night progresses, they will make their way here. Give it time, you will see.”
Much as I hated to admit it, Ines was right. Strolling right over to a tightknit group of assets was a rookie move, but I’d assumed the direct approach would be acceptable since we were with Ines. I wondered, not for the first time, if she’d exaggerated her position within Parisian society. As I watched Stein greet a table of familiar faces, it dawned on me that those at the center of the societal orbit would likely make their way outward as the night progressed and the champagne flowed. Gaige and I being newcomers and unknowns would not warrant immediate attention from the smart set. Or, as we Americans might say, the popular kids. Evidently, Ines didn’t either, since the suns of this solar system didn’t shine on our table right away.
Heeding her advice, I tamped down my impatience and waited. People did come over, lots of people, but no one from Rosenthal’s crowd. We met dukes and counts, fashion designers and wealthy merchants, minor British noblemen and their mistresses, stage actresses and the playwrights who adored them, all gushing about the genius of Gatsby. With the women, I lamented the tragic love story and the loss at the end of the book. With the men, I chimed in as Gaige discussed the societal commentary of the novel. All of our thoughts were based on an encyclopedia article I’d downloaded that morning, but no one needed to know that.
At one point, a cattle farmer from the states stopped by to pay compliments to Ines. When he found out Gaige and I were American, he wanted to trade stories about the good ole U.S. of A. Unfortunately, all my knowledge of cattle ranches and Texas was from about fifty years in the future, and even that was spotty. But drunk as our new friend was, he didn’t seem to notice my vague answers. Or Gaige’s embellished ones. When my partner made reference to me attending the same girls’ school as Wallis Simpson, who had yet to rise to infamy as consort to the Prince of Wales, the Texan just grinned.
As Gaige spun a ridiculous tale about a fictitious trip to Texas and the women he’d met there, my mind began to wander. It was already well past midnight. We’d been there for hours and had yet to make contact with any of the targets, even the farthest outliers. If we waited too much longer, anyone we met would surely forget the introductions in their drunken states.
It might be time to make some moves, I decided, trying to catch Gaige’s eye.
“Care to dance?”
The question caught me by surprise. I’d been so focused on beaming my thoughts to my partner that I didn’t even hear the speaker’s approach.
Turning in my chair, I found big brown eyes staring down at me through a mop of blonde curls.
Taken aback by the man’s too-handsome-for-his-own-good face, all I could manage was a stuttered, “H-h-hi.”
Eloquent, I know.
“AMERICAN, HOW LOVELY. Ines, you did not tell me you were entertaining guests from across the pond,” the man said, straightening to his full height. His English was perfect and only slightly accented, as if maybe he’d attended school at Eaton or Radley.
“Charles, love, I did not know you were here this evening,” Ines pouted. “Whatever took you so long to say hello?”
The man leaned over and kissed Ines on both cheeks.
“My apologies,” he told her. “I was preoccupied with Dali’s talk of big game hunting. You know how he can go on.” His gaze traveled back to me. “And then I saw your enchanting friend here.”
“Charles DuPree, allow me to introduce Anastasia Prince. Our fathers attended university together.”
“And I’m Gaige Prince, Anastasia’s brother,” Gaige supplied helpfully.
Internally cringing at the name, I did my best to maintain a composed face. Anastasia Prince sounded like Ravenal’s secret lover from that long-running space soap in the 2300s.
Charles took my hand and bowed, placing a light kiss just below my wrist. I was startled by the small tingle that ran up my arm. Glancing at my mostly-full teacup, I realized it couldn’t be blamed on the alcohol. No, it had just been that long since a guy showed interest in me.
Lock it up, Stassi, I coached myself.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Anastasia Prince,” Charles said gallantly. “And you, as well, brother.”
“It’s Stassi,” I told him flatly.
“Pardon?” He arched an eyebrow.
“Stassi,” I repeated. “That’s what my friends call me, Stassi.”
Why was I saying my name so much?
“And you consider me a friend already? I am honored,” Charles teased. His tone was light and playful, a half-smile making his expression decidedly flirty.
That tingly sensation from earlier vanished. He was the 1920s version of Gaige—all sugary-sweet one-liners and adorable smiles. Just like with Gaige, I saw through the façade. The guy was the very definition of rakish.
He probably has good abs, too, I thought traitorously.
“So it is that a ‘yes’ then?” Charles was saying.
“Huh?” I asked, feeling as dense as I sounded.
“If we are friends, then you will dance with me?” His smile practically lit up the room.
He and Gaige are brothers from different mothers, I thought, stifling the urge to poke fun at the debonair stranger.
“My dear Anastasia would love to dance,” Ines interjected. “Isn’t that right, Anastasia?”
No, Anastasia would not like to dance. Nor would she like to be called Anastasia, I thought, wondering when thinking about myself in the third-person became acceptable.
Instead of voicing the babble in my head, all I said was, “Sure.”
Accepting Charles’s hand, I rose from the table. Gaige’s snickers were audible even over the loud music. I longed for a throw pillow. When I glared at him over my shoulder, my partner wiggled his eyebrows and made a ridiculous gesture with his hands that made him look like he was swatting a fly.
“I hate you,” I mouthed.
Gaige grinned sweetly, then turned to Ines and began talking in her ear.
I wasn’t a great dancer. Not even a good dancer. We’d been instructed in many different types of dance during training, and Gaige had complained the whole time about his poor, trodden-upon feet. The thought made me nervous to step onto the dance floor.
Thankfully, Charles didn’t seem to mind my missteps. He took the lead, spinning me in time to the beat. I watched the other women around me and tried to imitate their movements, which served the added purpose of providing my eyes a focal point besides Charles’s handsome face. Of course, when he pulled me tight against his chest and swayed for several counts, I couldn’t help but notice how toned he was.
“Is this your first visit to Paris?” asked Charles.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone new approach the table where Gaige and Ines were sitting. I recognized her instantly—stout body, matronly face, plaited hair wrapped around her head. She was perhaps the least stylish person in the room, and yet she commanded the most stares: Gertrude Stein.
Distracted by the turn of events, I tried to keep one eye on Stein and answer Charles at the same time.
“Second, actually,” I replied absently.
“Oh, really? When was the first?”
Too late, I realized my mistake. I’d arrived in Paris for training almost two years ago in my life’s timeline, but I wasn’t acquainted with the city that Charles knew.
“Feels like a lifetime ago,” I said. “It was when I was young.”
Charles chuckled and spun me under his arm once more. I twirled gracelessly, nearly colliding with a well-dressed man crossing the dance floor. The man’s deep-set gaze landed on me with keen interest. I smiled apologetically, and the man replied in kind before moving on.
“You are still very young, n’est pas? What did you see while you were here?” Charles was saying.
Magic. Sorcery. The Temple of the Creation, home to an ancient order capable of making something extremely valuable from nothing of consequence.
>
“I can’t recall exactly,” I said aloud. “It’s been that long.”
Stein was sitting in my seat between Ines and Gaige, her hands folded primly on the table. Her expression didn’t change, so it was hard to tell how the conversation was going.
“We’ll have to change that this time around, won’t we?” Charles flirted. “You seem like a fashionable girl, Paris has wonderful boutiques. Or if you prefer the opera, or plays, we have much to offer.”
Gaige and Stein were shaking hands. Still, her expression remained annoyingly blank.
“There are many wonderful cafés and restaurants, as well,” he persisted.
“I like food,” I said, not realizing how trite that sounded until Charles barked with laughter.
“That is excellent to know,” he told me.
The song ended. Stein stood, and I noticed then that she was wearing a coat. She was leaving the nightclub.
“Excuse me,” I told Charles. “I need to go.”
He grabbed my hand as I tried to flee and pulled me back to him, following my gaze.
“Anxious to meet Gertie, I see? So then you are an art enthusiast. Or is it literature? She is the sitting queen of both circles.”
“Gertie?” I asked dubiously.
“We are good friends,” Charles said of Stein, his tone conspiratorial.
“Does she know that?” I asked.
“I imagine she does or she would not bother inviting me over all the time,” he remarked with a grin.
That drew my attention from the departing Stein, who was now joined by Toklas as she climbed the stairs.
“So you attend her salon parties?” I asked Charles, turning up the charm.
“Every Saturday. She has the most interesting friends. All creative types, you know? Creative types are always a good time.”
“I’d love to go,” I told him, only moments shy of actually batting my eyelashes.
