“In your country this is not allowed, yes?” Pepe asked.
“Not legally,” Dee answered. “But it goes on anyway.”
“You Americans,” Raoul said good-naturedly. “You deprive your-selves of everything except money and appliances!”
They discussed at length the advantages and disadvantages of organized prostitution, which somehow led to a discussion of homosexuality. Dee did her best to sound as if the subject were not foreign to her, yet that she had not really delved into it—a tactic she had long ago learned was the safest. It was an uncomfortable role, however.
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And it reminded her of Rita. Where was she this minute? What was she doing? She wondered if Rita ever thought of her . . . if she had any idea of what she had done. Not likely, Dee concluded.
Pepe interrupted the conversation with the suggestion that they be on their way, admonishing them that she fully intended to get drunk that night.
They began a whirlwind of nightclub rounds, and it wasn’t until they were sitting at the bar of the Lido, watching the floor show, that Dee became aware of how long it had been since she had been to bed with anyone.
Pepe commented on the ingenuity of the staging, or the scanty costumes . . . but Dee found herself staring at the loveliness of the dancers’ exposed breasts. They were so very white under the stage lighting . . . and the nipples so innocently pink. One of the girls reminded her very much of Karen—she must send Karen a postcard or a letter. Karen would have breasts like that, Dee thought, and hated herself immediately. She’s just a kid, a nice, sweet kid who’s going to get married. Not some bull dyke you picked up in a gay nightclub downtown, Dee scolded herself.
Raoul poked her gently in the arm and whispered, “They are lovely, no?”
Her initial reaction was one of “He’s guessed!” but she put it aside at once, cursing her uncontrollable guilt. She smiled at him slowly. “Very interesting,” she whispered back.
What could she say? Of course they’re lovely, and how does an American lesbian go about making a date with one of them?
“Come on,” Raoul said after a moment. “The rest of the show is dull. Let’s go on to Pigalle.”
Dee was as entranced by Pigalle as she was by Times Square.
Everything squirmed with life and pleasure seekers. The streets were never still, and she found the spiel of the cabaret barkers master-pieces of the hard-sell. They entered one place, downed a pony of brandy, then left for another. And Pepe was holding true to her threat—she was getting quite tight. Everything was cause for a deep, throaty giggle, which Dee could not help but laugh with even though she didn’t know what Pepe was amused at.
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“I know where we must go!” Pepe said, leaving no room for contradiction.
“Where?” Raoul asked suspiciously.
She patted him gently on the cheek, pursing her lips with maternal concern. “It is just a few doors down. But what is a trip to Pigalle without going to a lesbian club? Eh? Tell me . . .” she giggled again.
“Sometimes, darling, I become concerned about your background.”
“Tsk!” she pouted, then turned to Dee. “Did you ever know such stuffiness? I am curious about everything which is life. . . . Even as a young girl I always looked on both sides of the street in search of something new, different, or exciting. I do not approve of people who close their eyes to anything which is outside their own small worlds—either out of snobbery or narrow-mindedness.”
“Bravo!” Dee exclaimed with a smile.
“But a lesbian club?” Raoul protested.
“Why not? The club is very discreet and it is run by an interna-tionally famous lesbian. They say she has been the lover of some of the world’s most beautiful and famous women.” Pepe sighed deeply. “To have such marvelous disregard for public opinion . . .”
“I don’t know, Pepe,” Dee said haltingly. She did not want to appear anxious or afraid about this. “It is getting rather late. . . .”
“Late! Late! Your life lies before you and you would sleep it away . . . like a bear! How frequently do you think you’ll be coming to Paris? Perhaps never again. Live today.”
“And what am I supposed to do in there?” Raoul objected.
“Pretend I’m a transvestite?”
“Raoul . . .” Pepe scolded.
“And if one of those fish-eyed women makes a move toward you . . . what then?”
“Do not concern yourself, my darling. I can always pretend I came with Dee . . . that we are lovers . . .” She broke into a musical giggle that prevented both Raoul and Dee from arguing further.
They found the place, paid an exorbitant admission charge, climbed the carpeted stairs while the sounds of a small band made it clear that quality is no substitute for volume. At the landing, a short 241
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woman came forward and took them through the darkened room, weaving around the many tiny tables crowded with people. It was too dark for Dee to be able to tell what sex they were—if any.
A small stage stood illuminated at the far end of the room, with sparse props, and a young girl was doing her routine in an even sparser costume. Even without speaking French, Dee could tell it was a dance-skit about a girl talking to her lover on the telephone, placing the receiver at various points of her body as the lover’s voice supposedly seduced her. Lurid—but effective.
The woman found them a tiny table to the far right of the stage, opposite the entrance. Pepe literally plopped into the spindly chair while Raoul almost slunk into his. Dee took the chair between them, careful to seem only mildly interested in her surroundings.
The girl finished her act and was followed immediately by a darkened stage while the noises of props being removed and replaced scratched over the low murmur of voices.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Pepe said gleefully.
“Hmph!” Raoul replied.
The band interrupted further comment with a few introductory chords of “Autumn in New York,” and when the single blue spotlight shot out onto the entertainer on stage, Dee almost gagged.
It was Martie Thornton!
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She was very excited about finding Martie and watched her as she sang, feeling her pulse accelerate. Partly from homesickness, she assumed, and partly because she really had taken an instant liking to Martie and had regretted not being able to get to know her better.
Martie had evidently picked up enough French to be able to throw in some of her more “gay gags” to please the audience. She was enough of a showwoman to know that her accent didn’t matter, just the fact that she was trying was all that counted. And the audience loved her. They kept applauding, and the more enthusiasm they showed, the more Martie threw herself into each song.
Finally, she finished her last song and walked down to the nearest table, grabbed the person closest to the stage, and kissed her on the forehead. The place very nearly went wild.
As beer bottles banged on the tables and everyone hooted, Pepe partially stood up—not too steadily—and exclaimed, “I must meet her! C’est magnifique!”
Before Raoul could stop her, she had run over to Martie, pointed eloquently at their table, and had obviously talked her into coming over for a drink. As Martie drew near, her expression changed from 243
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one of professional good humor to one of genuine surprise and pleasure.
Dee hoped it would not prove to be an embarrassing meeting and that Martie would not say something including Dee in her circle of lesbian friends.
Martie was close enough to her now that Dee could hear Martie ask Pepe, “This is your friend from America?”
“Why, yes . . .” Pepe answered hesitantly.
Martie smiled broadly. She strode up to the table and stood before Dee with a diabolical smile.
“Mrs. Sa
nders, I presume?” she said evenly.
Dee felt like a teenager at her first prom. She didn’t quite know what to do. Delighted though she was at seeing Martie, at the same time she didn’t want Pepe and Raoul to get any ideas.
“What a pleasant surprise,” she managed to say. “You’ve met Madame Bizot. . . . This is M’sieu Bizot, my company’s French representative.” She said it calmly but hoped to hell that Martie got the idea this was business, so that she wouldn’t make any slips. Why did she always end up in these impossible situations?
“Sit down, please,” Raoul said, bringing another chair from an adjacent table. “What will you drink?” He carefully avoided Dee’s eyes, but Pepe was unable to control her curiosity.
“But you already know each other? How marvelous!”
Martie glanced at Pepe, yet directed her reply toward Raoul.
“Mrs. Sanders was once kind enough to recommend some competent photographers for my publicity pictures in New York.”
Thank God! Dee thought with relief. “We met at one of those dreadful little ‘intimate’ parties downtown,” she cued.
Martie laughed as if remembering a real party. “What a night!”
She sat back and lit a cigarette. “Those parties are all the same.
They invite one left-wing writer, one off-Broadway actor, one beat-nik, and one homosexual . . . then everyone gets drunk and thinks he is really being terribly democratic and intellectual.”
Raoul seemed to accept this explanation, and his expression softened considerably. He smiled for the first time since they’d entered the place, and put a protective arm around Dee’s shoulder. “But you 244
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forgot someone, Miss Thornton. They invited one excellent photographer.”
“Doesn’t count, M’sieur Bizot. Too normal.”
Pepe clapped her hands lightly. “What you call in America, too
‘in.’ . . .”
“They should have invited you, Pepe,” Dee said, laughing.
“I should have arrived barefooted with a long cigarette holder.
But no! A cigar would have been better.”
It was plain to Dee that Martie was controlling herself admirably yet was bursting to ask her many questions. How could she explain it to Raoul?
She only half listened as Martie drew Raoul out with conversation about his work and photography in general. Martie told him she’d always been interested in the subject and absolutely marveled at anyone who could figure out all the settings on a camera. Raoul promptly offered to explain it to her and proceeded to give her a rough breakdown of the principles involved.
Poor Martie, Dee thought. She watched Martie’s face intently—
mindful to shift her gaze occasionally—and once again was intrigued by her. She certainly was not pretty, but her face was so mobile, so rich with life, that it more than compensated for lack of physical beauty.
She looked over to Pepe, who sat in rapt fascination with Martie.
She’s got it, all right, Dee decided. Raoul is eating out of her hand, Pepe adores her . . . and me? It was a good question, she told herself. Just how did she feel about Martie? She liked her; that much she knew. But how far was she willing to go with Martie?
You pompous egotist! she exclaimed silently. Why should Martie want to ‘go’ anywhere with you? She’s probably got dozens of girlfriends, and if tonight’s audience is any indication, thousands of propositions.
Pepe was, surprisingly enough, the one to break it all up. “Raoul, darling, you have bored Miss Thornton enough with your talk about cameras.”
“On the contrary, madame, it’s been very interesting, and I intend to go out tomorrow and buy a camera.”
Raoul laughed. “You see?” He nodded smugly to Pepe. “If it 245
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were not for an important appointment, I would gladly go with you and help you select one.”
Martie said nothing but smiled pleasantly at Pepe.
“But, Dee, you could help Miss Thornton, could you not?” Pepe asked enthusiastically.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you to that trouble,” Martie answered quickly.
“There’s nothing too pressing for you tomorrow, Dee,” Raoul collaborated. “You could take off during the afternoon.”
It’s fate, Dee decided. Don’t fight it.
“It’s no trouble, Miss Thornton . . . if you really would like me to tag along.” Signed, sealed, and delivered. Amen.
“In that case,” Martie grinned broadly, “why not meet me for lunch? There’s a crazy little place on the Rue Bassano.”
“No need for that,” Dee smiled. “Besides, I thought perhaps Pepe might like to come along.” She mentally crossed her fingers and waited.
“Ah . . . I would have loved to, Dee. You are sweet. But I could not. My sister-in-law is coming in from Saint Ouen tomorrow, and I must have lunch with her and take her shopping.” She threw a mildly reproaching glance at Raoul.
“Then I insist!” Martie said politely. “It’s the least I can do to repay you.”
Dee decided she had put up enough of a display battle, and agreed. The appointment was arranged, Martie excused herself, and shortly after, they left the club and headed for home, accompanied by the constant chatter from Pepe praising Martie.
They arrived home tired but in good spirits. Raoul opened the front door, followed by Pepe, who stopped to bend over and pick up a white envelope.
“Dee, it is for you,” she said, and handed it to her.
The Photo World address had been crossed out, and Dee’s home address was written below it in Karen’s neat handwriting. “Thank you,” Dee muttered, and put the letter nonchalantly in her purse.
“I will never understand the diabolical mind that can receive a letter and not open it immediately,” Pepe laughed as they proceeded up the stairs. “Would you like a nightcap?”
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“No,” Dee answered quickly. “No, thank you anyway.”
She headed for her room only half hearing Raoul’s comment to Pepe that Martie did not seem as offensive as most of the lesbians one sees on the street.
Dee let her hand rest for a moment on the chest-high door handle to her room, then opened it and went in. There were this morning’s flowers, arranged carefully in a slim blue vase on her chiffonier.
Every morning Pepe put fresh flowers in her room—in almost every room, in fact. It was her firm belief that a home without flowers was a home without love.
Dee threw her purse on the high four-poster bed, crossed over to the louvered windows, and opened them wider. She could just make out the illuminated tip of the Obélisque from her room in between the night-shadowed Paris rooftops and chimney stacks.
Street sounds drifted faintly up to her over the dull, constant hum of the city at night.
She had to admit she did not want to open Karen’s letter. She didn’t know why—just a premonition. She stood for a long while at the window.
Instead of feeling elated, the drinks of the evening had left her very depressed. Her feelings were disturbingly mixed about meeting Martie the next day. She didn’t know how wise it was to have agreed—after all, Martie was a notorious lesbian. She didn’t want any gossip starting when she was the houseguest of the Bizots.
Open the letter, Dee! she told herself aloud.
Sighing, she walked back to the bed and picked up her purse from the white chenille spread. The letter lay on top, the contents folded in quarters. Dee had the feeling of timelessness as she took it out, the stiff paper making the only sound in the room.
She tore the envelope across its side and pulled out three neatly folded sheets of company paper. Karen’s familiar script began with Dearest Dee.
One or two paragraphs about how everyone missed her and the office was the same and it was hotter than blazes in good old New York and hoping she was having a good time and why hadn�
��t she dropped her a card.
Cho-Cho-San and she had become good friends after the cat had 247
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become drunk one night when she had left a glass of vodka and tomato juice in the living room while she had gone to check how her dinner was doing. She had been worried the next morning when Cho-Cho had overslept, but everything was fine now.
Phil had come by several times. They were having some difficulty, though. She didn’t know how to say it, but one night the previous week, while Phil was there, Mrs. Evans had shown up unexpectedly.
Quite drunk—and quite upset.
Dee put the letter down for a moment and lighted a cigarette with trembling hands. What had Rita said to them?
There was a smudge on the next line, which read: Please believe me when I say nothing will ever be repeated about what was said. She cut short the events, but it was sordid enough for Dee to know the occasion had not been pleasant.
Rita had asked who Karen was, and when Karen replied, she had thrown back her head with laughter, saying she had figured Dee was having a side affair with her. Then she had looked intently at Phil and, with a cruel smile, commented on how she was pleased to see that she had not been the only one unfaithful to Dee.
Phil asked her what she meant, but Rita refused to reply. She had simply laughed—yet the way she laughed had been more revealing than any words could have been.
As a parting shot, Rita leaned against the door dramatically and exclaimed in front of Phil that if Karen ever got tired of Dee, Rita might find time for her . . . show her some educational variations.
Poor Karen! Dee thought, what must she think? Karen closed the letter telling Dee not to worry and that she would write again as soon as she could get things straightened out in her own mind. She had been more than mildly shocked . . . and Phil had made quite a scene of his own, demanding that she move immediately.
P.S.: she wasn’t going to move until Dee got back.
P.S.S.: something should be done about Mrs. Evans before she really got Dee into trouble.
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