The wages of perversion are fear, Dee mumbled and threw the letter on the bed.
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Dee picked a table in the shade the next day and ordered an extra-dry martini while she waited for Martie to show up. She glanced around furtively and hated herself for being such a hyp-ocrite. She could “pass” easily—if she weren’t seen with an obvious lesbian.
If word got around about her, she would probably lose her job.
And more than likely not get another in the same field. It was stupid, of course, but that’s the way the world was. People at the office who had been her friends would turn their backs, or titter, or worse yet, try to be understanding when they didn’t understand at all.
It certainly would be Rita’s fault—it takes two to have an affair—but Rita didn’t have to be such a blabbermouth. Of course, there was no indication that Rita would say anything to anyone else—no real reason for her to. Rita had been drunk and shocked to find Karen there, had naturally jumped to the conclusion that Karen was her new love, and had behaved with illogical jealousy and spite.
Dee fished the onion from the bottom of her glass and carefully placed it in her mouth. The day was uncomfortably warm. She wished she had worn something lighter.
She looked up to see Martie walking toward her—wearing a 249
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dress, thank heaven. Actually, Dee considered, if one didn’t know better or recognize Martie, one might think she was simply the ath-letic type.
Martie weaved between the tables and extended her hand to Dee before she sat down. “Mrs. Sanders, I’m glad you could make it,”
she said loud enough for a one-mile radius of eavesdroppers.
A conspiratorial curl came to her lips as she sat down gracefully.
Unlike her nightclub personality, she was careful to wait for the waiter to come up to the table rather than simply signal him. She gave him her order through a pleasant, feminine smile. “Another?”
she asked Dee, pointing demurely to her empty glass.
Dee hesitated.
“Please,” Martie suggested. “I so hate to drink alone.”
Dee hid a smile at the feminine use of the word “so” coming from Martie. She was sure Martie would have preferred to use four-letter words in a positive command. “All right.”
The waiter nodded and walked away. Dee wasn’t too sure what she should say now that Martie was facing her. But Martie took the lead.
Without changing her expression she said softly, “You’re a no-good bitch! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“How? You didn’t give me an address,” Dee laughed.
“Come off it! I told you that you could reach me through my agent.”
“Who the hell thought you meant it?” Dee asked, still smiling.
“I don’t exactly have a reputation for making idle polite sugges-tions.” She sat back in her chair as the last remaining couple seated near them stood up and left. “Where’s your friend, Miss Professional Torrid, or whatever her name was. She come with you?”
“No,” Dee said slowly. “We . . . split up.” She was under no obligation to tell Martie, and it did place her on the “open market”
list and she knew it. But why not? She was tired of being so damn careful about everything, worrying lest someone find out or see her in a gay bar. She was thousands of miles away, and Paris was a city large enough for anyone to get lost in.
“I see. . . .” Martie said and fell silent.
Dee waited and watched her. Martie’s short blond hair was 250
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combed with a slight wave—in Dee’s behalf, she was sure—and softened with tiny bouquetlike earrings. She was really very touched by Martie’s pain not to cause her embarrassment and appreciated it.
“I suppose I should say I’m sorry. But to be frank, I didn’t like her looks.”
Dee had to laugh. “Not many people had that complaint.”
“You know what I meant; don’t be facetious. She looked like a first-class selfish, egomaniacal shrew.”
“Your vocabulary is slipping,” Dee said with a broad smile. She didn’t know Martie well enough to use poker-face humor yet.
Martie grinned. “You won’t believe it, but I have an M.A. from NYU. I put myself through singing in clubs in the Village.”
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Dee said it in an offhand way, but she really was surprised. She’d never thought of Martie as being particularly literate or academic—more in the school-of-hard-knocks way. “What was your major?”
“Music,” she answered with an of course! nod. But I minored in English.”
Their drinks arrived, leaving Dee an opportunity to change the subject. “How long are you going to stay in Paris?”
“That depends on you,” Martie said cautiously, sipping her drink. “I’ve another four days at this club and then a week before my next engagement in Munich. I had planned on leaving right away, but . . .”
“You’re putting me on the spot,” Dee said slowly.
“Are you tied up with anyone?”
Dee ignored the sudden flash of excitement in her body. She suddenly realized that she was just a little afraid of Martie . . . but she wasn’t sure why, unless perhaps it was the meeting of a new challenge. “I’m not tied up . . . but I’m not looking to be, either.
And I do have some obligations while I’m here.”
“Certainly. So do I. But is there any reason why we couldn’t get together a few times and enjoy a couple of drinks? I’m not officially on the make, you know. It’ll just be for kicks.”
“You know,” Dee said, feeling terribly adventurous, “I believe you.”
“Shall I plan on staying, then?”
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“If you think you can stand me . . . yes.”
“Well, then,” Martie laughed, “let’s stop jawing and order something to eat. I’m famished.” She picked up the huge menu, glanced at it, and put it down. “Can’t make head or tail of all that jazz there.
Even if I could read French, the handwriting is always so damn fancy you couldn’t make it out anyway. But I can recommend their duckling here. They put it in a casserole and do something absolutely perverse to it.”
“So be it,” Dee smiled. They placed their order along with one for another drink, and Dee felt the martinis relaxing her—even though they only made her feel warmer.
“Do you really want to buy a camera today?” Dee said. “Raoul will never know the difference, you know.”
“Of course I want to. Whoever went to Europe without a camera? But I expect private instruction from you,” she said with a wicked glint. “Purely an educational advance, you understand.”
“Certainly,” Dee smiled. “We can start this afternoon. I’ve got my Leica in my purse and I’ve been dying to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Are you game?”
“Only if we can have dinner together . . .”
“I’ll have to make a phone call and give some excuse to the Bizots.”
“Phone . . .”
“After lunch,” Dee replied. She couldn’t remember ever meeting anyone like Martie before. This was going to be quite an experience.
Dee called the office from the restaurant after lunch and wrote down the name of the closest camera store where they would give her a discount. She picked out a Petri 2:8 for Martie; an inexpensive but adequate light meter; and three rolls of black-and-white film.
They stopped at a sidewalk café and sipped Cinzano while Dee explained how to operate the camera and meter and supervised Martie while she loaded it. Then they began to walk and walk and walk, stopping frequently as something would catch their eye as being typical of the area, laughing at Martie’s initial clumsiness 252
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with the camera, comparing light meter readings, or discussing the best ap
proach to the picture.
Dee honestly forgot for most of the time that she was a lesbian on a date with another lesbian. It was just two women friends enjoying a foreign country and a common interest. She had relaxed considerably since lunch; her first mixed reactions to Martie had been calmed.
They didn’t reach the Eiffel Tower until late afternoon and enjoyed a cocktail in the Tower restaurant, watching the warm sun surrender to night, speeding long shadows across the twisted, fascinating Paris streets and long-ago-turned-green copper roofs everywhere.
“I think I will always remember Paris,” Martie said softly, “as a horizon of rooftops and chimneys.”
Dee looked up at her quickly. Her own thoughts had not been too dissimilar. It was strange to be with someone she could actually communicate with. So unlike Rita, who usually replied with an undisguised “Huh?” or a bored “Uh-huh.” Of course, she was always able to talk with Karen, but it was a strain to be careful not to say something that would give her away. There had been many times when she had felt so at ease with Karen she had almost slipped and said something incriminating. But Rita had solved that little problem for her.
She hoped Karen would not recoil from her now, and that she would not lose her friendship. It was going to be such a goddamn relief not to have to be constantly on guard.
They finished their drinks, and Martie led her away from the Tower grounds, down a quiet, narrow street through which even the French cars would not have been able to maneuver. She refused to tell Dee where they were going.
An inconspicuous doorway with a small wooden sign overhead was their destination. Dee only knew she was somewhere on the Left Bank, but had long ago lost track of their exact direction now that the sun was gone. Dee’s navigational attempts ended with the fact that the sun always set in the west.
Martie led the way through the Dutch door, obviously hundreds of years old, into a dark, wood-paneled oblong room. A marvelous 253
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room. Dee could feel the spirit of the Three Musketeers, Madame Defarge, Napoleon . . . the history of the entire city within its four walls dank with the smell of serving as a pub throughout the centuries. She doubted that the bar had changed in all the years it had stood, initials carved upon initials. The plank floor was worn hollow where it had received the most use, and polished brass spit-toons still sat lined against the bar rail. There was only one small difference.
It was a gay bar now. There were no chairs or stools. Clusters of women stood separated from the boys, with rare exception. Draught beer or red wine seemed to be the order of the day despite the fact that the cabinet behind the bar was lined with a complete stock of liquor. But here there was no pretense of a caste system, separating the fems from the butches. They could have been shop girls or uni-versity students belonging to a mutual club.
Dee delighted in the unevenness of the room, the ceiling high with beams at one end, then sloping to an uncomfortable low for anyone over five feet six. Electricity had been added, Dee noted sadly, but at least it had been done without removing the old fixtures.
The owners at the time had simply converted the glass-covered gas jets to preserve the atmosphere, or perhaps to save money.
“I thought you’d be intrigued,” Martie grinned. “Your eyes have turned into a goddamn twin reflex.”
Dee laughed. “Listen to the amateur! But you’re right. I’m fascinated. Where did you ever find this place?”
“Ah, the advantages of being a successful lesbian. The gal that owns the club where I’m working clued me in about this crazy pad.” Martie waved to an old woman across the bar. “That’s Madame Journet. Her family has owned this joint for the last four generations—but I doubt that it was gay all that time,” she snickered.
“Is she a member of the clan?” Dee asked curiously.
“No,” Martie replied simply.
Dee was pleased that Martie had not made any of the common guesses like, “She says no, but I think . . .” or, “She must have been at one time. . . .” Looking at her, the woman was probably in her sixties—bent over with rheumatism. She wore a drab ankle-length 254
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dress with a faded green, loose-knit shawl around her shoulders tied in a knot at her breast.
Madame Journet’s unkempt hair was a dull brown, hastily pulled back in a bun with enormous hairpins hanging perilously from all sides. Her face was relatively unlined, and she had a bright expression despite the fact she didn’t seem to have a tooth in her mouth.
She waved them to approach closer and, as she did, placed two glasses of Cinzano on the bar for them, her hands a light brown with thousands of freckles, the knuckles swollen with years of work.
“Mademoiselle Thornton, how glad I am to see you, and not alone.” Her voice half lilted and half croaked out the words.
Martie pulled Dee closer to the bar. “My friend from New York.
She has just arrived in Paris, and I couldn’t let her go another minute without meeting you . . . and certainly not without tasting your wonderful food.”
Madame almost blushed with pleasure, then leaned forward secretively. “Tonight . . . boeuf a la Bourguignonne.” She rolled her eyes heavenward and pursed her lips. “If this pleases you?” she added hastily.
“Anything you cook pleases me,” Martie answered promptly.
“I make onion soup this morning, also. My father’s recipe—not like this city’s avortement. He learned it from his mama, who was from the provinces.”
Dee’s mouth was beginning to water. She felt as if she were about to be introduced into a ceremonial rite rather than simply have dinner.
“Is the dining room crowded, Madame, or can we go up now?”
“No, no. It is still too early for the French to eat. All the better for you—the food has not been overheated.”
“Then if you will make up a pitcher of six martinis, I will carry them upstairs for you. We will finish our Cinzano while you make them.”
Madame smiled broadly. She looked at Dee a long time. “Always considerate, this one. Always a way to save me work.” She winked merrily, then turned back to Martie. “I like your friend. Strong, good face.”
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time to open her mouth. But everything that came to mind seemed trite or superficial. It was better to wait until she was spoken to directly.
Madame ambled down the long bar to mix the martinis, leaving them alone.
“The dining room is upstairs,” Martie explained, “and a narrow stairway it is. But you’ll like it. At one time, it was probably the living quarters. There are two sections now. One has a series of long picnic-like tables with regular menus. We can sit at either—
whichever you prefer. The most expensive item on the menu is pretty reasonably priced, so it doesn’t matter much unless the budget is really cramped.”
“What do you mean, family-style?” Dee asked.
“As many people as will fit sit down at one table, and there’s no choice of menu. You have whatever is the dinner for the day. It’s brought out on a big platter and you help yourself, then pass it down to the next person.” Martie smiled knowingly. “It’s a great way to make friends if you’re normally a little bashful . . . but that’s never been my problem. I occasionally sit there anyhow when I come in alone, so I don’t have to eat all by myself. A pretty nice bunch of kids come in here. Madame doesn’t allow any monkey business, and in order to be admitted you have to be introduced by someone already known here as well-behaved and able to hold her liquor. No cruising—no brawls.”
Madame returned carrying a tankard of martinis. Dee suppressed a smile, thinking of what all the self-appointed martini experts would say about their being mixed in a metal container.
She followed Martie up the poorly lit stairway, fully expecting secret passages. The dining room was even more than she had im
agined. A walk-in fireplace with a huge black kettle suspended over the unlit logs took up almost one whole wall. The room was painted in an off-white with French blue on the woodwork and the one paneled wall. Orange-print café curtains added warmth and privacy for the customers. And, of course, each table had a wine bottle with a candle. Heavy sliding doors separated the kitchen but could not keep out the delicious aroma of the food.
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be Madame’s nephew—a courtly gay boy who would inherit the place when she died.
Dee couldn’t remember when she had had a more wonderful day.
The dinner was perfect, and she was comfortably tired from all the walking and the drinks.
If she never moved from her chair, she felt as if she could be happy the rest of her life.
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Dee saw quite a bit of Martie—every day, in fact. The Bizots did not question her about the mysterious “man” she had invented to account for her activities.
But her time was running short now, and Dee found herself having off moments of near panic at the thought of returning to New York. She didn’t want to go back. . . . What for? To face Karen? To the prospect of the approaching fall and winter with its slush and bleak, naked buildings? To an empty apartment filled with the echo of her vacuum-sealed life—work, eat, and sleep . . . alone.
Yet here in Paris she had a childlike, clinging belief that things might be different, that her prince would come and wake her. It was silly and she knew it. But in her current mood the whole routine process of living seemed just as silly.
And even if her prince never showed up, at least she had a pseudo-prince in Martie. Martie had been a perfect gentleman.
There was no other way to put it. If the circumstances allowed, she would place a light kiss on Dee’s lips at the private entrance to her rooms—otherwise, a cheery wave of her hand and back into the cab she would go. They had gone dancing in some of the more discreet clubs, and Dee had enjoyed it—Martie was an excellent dancer.
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