Mistress of the Ritz

by Melanie Benjamin

  Sometimes Blanche wonders what her life would have been like had she not allowed a certain pompous little Frenchman to walk her feet off all over Paris that week, while he lectured and explained and, at the most unexpected moments, took her hand and kissed her with more passion than his neat little mustache indicated. He bought her armfuls of roses from vendors, romantic paintings of the Seine from starving artists, showed her delights that were not in any tourist brochure—like the little heart, laid by a bricklayer centuries ago in honor of his lover, on the road in front of Les Invalides. Where would she have ended up, had he not revealed, in showing her these private little monuments, his own surprisingly tender heart?

  She had not planned for Claude Auzello when she’d packed her trunks, bade a blithe farewell to her stricken parents, and marched up the gangplank of the France-bound ship in New York harbor. No, she had not even packed for a Claude Auzello; she had packed for someone else entirely.

  She sure as hell hadn’t packed for the Ritz.

  * * *

  —

  NOW, SHE SURVEYS HER FOOT, clad in the pristine satin, and thinks—I’m clean, I’m fashionable, I’m home. The Ritz and Blanche, they have a deal; they’d made it long ago.

  She’d behave herself within its gilded walls; she’d comport herself like a real lady, she’d be a credit to her husband, an asset, even. And in return?

  Those gilded walls would protect her—even, perhaps specifically, from herself. Because nothing bad can happen at the Ritz; it was designed to meet every whim, however ridiculous. Would you like a fresh nosegay to sniff while you bathe in an enormous tub with gold swan taps? The Ritz will provide. Would you like your dog walked while you have your tea in the palm-filled court, his meal—prepared by the same chef who prepared yours—waiting for him on a satin cushion at your feet? The Ritz will provide. Did your husband cheat on you yesterday, and would you like to take your revenge upon him, but you don’t happen to know any eligible young men?

  The Ritz will provide.

  And protect. Although it’s not only the rich that have secrets, and even the poorest chambermaid might have the most to lose. But it doesn’t matter, because once you enter the Ritz, you breathe a little more freely, indulge yourself in ways you wouldn’t anywhere else. Because the Ritz will keep you safe—you have no choice but to believe it.

  But will it now? Now that its famous front door is manned not by a top-hatted doorman in a black overcoat, but a Nazi soldier?

  Blanche shudders, then grabs her handbag and heads out to see a man about a drink.

  The Ritz can provide that, as well.

  The handsome prince awoke the fair maiden with a kiss…

  “Take me to that Ritz you’re always going on about, Claude,” she teased, tickling the back of his neck before she became quite serious. “Ask me that question you were about to ask.”

  Claude had won her, this enchanting American. Won her after a glorious week that he, for the very first time, did not want to end. Won her from her infuriating Egyptian prince, a man who would never marry this woman, it was obvious; a man who would only ruin her by making her one of his harem.

  And so Claude asked, and Blanche said yes. Their lives, joined, forever changed. For the better, he thought, then. Blanche was a prize—a fair maiden whom he had rescued from the very clutches of an Egyptian despot. It was all very dramatic, the most impetuous, romantic thing Claude had ever done in his life—completely out of character. He himself knew this, and so was, perhaps, a bit too impressed with himself to think beyond the moment of victory. Too intoxicated by his heroics to contemplate how on earth these two—the American flapper and the Paris hotelier—would manage to live happily ever after.

  But she did bring him luck, at least in the very beginning. For on the very day, in this very Ritz, that Claude dropped to his knees and proposed—his face still flushed with the triumph of rescuing this damsel in distress—he was also summoned to Marie-Louise Ritz’s suite and offered the job of assistant manager.

  The very last thing his new fiancée whispered to him before he went was, “Ask to be manager. You’re no assistant anything, Claude Auzello.”

  Indeed, he was not—hadn’t the events of the last twenty-four hours proved that? Emboldened by her American confidence, he did just as Blanche told him to. And was rewarded with an impressed, amused smile by the plump Madame Ritz, who agreed. And then asked him to take her dogs for a walk, which, naturally, Claude did without protest.

  For doing that, he was rewarded with an even more amused smile by his American bride-to-be, who found this extremely hilarious. For what reason, Claude did not know. But, ever the student of human behavior that he prided himself on being, he was determined to find out.

  As the weeks and months passed, Claude found out many things about this maiden, this damsel, now miraculously his wife. Things that were not apparent that triumphant day when they marched to the Hôtel de Ville with a marriage license and witnesses—Monsieur Renaudin from the Claridge and Blanche’s unfortunate friend, Pearl White—and said their vows in tremulous voices and were declared married by law, and reported back to the Hôtel Claridge for a raucous wedding breakfast. Blanche’s and Pearl’s friends from the film industry descended upon them; there was much alcohol and laughter and risqué jokes before they accompanied the Auzellos to the train station, where the dazzled couple boarded a train to the coast for a honeymoon and a visit with Claude’s parents in Nice. At the station, these theatrical rowdies made quite a scene; there were champagne bottles everywhere. Pearl even insisted on smashing one against the side of the train to christen it, and Claude was relieved when at last Blanche and he could board, and her friends lurched away, so drunk he could only pray none of them fell in front of an approaching train.

  Once ensconced in their compartment, Claude learned the first new thing about his Blanchette (the pet name he had determined for her).

  “Now that we are married, I will do as Napoleon did to Josephine,” he told her serenely, happy to be alone with his bride at last. “I will insist that you drop those friends of yours, as they do not befit one in your position, especially since I’m about to start at the Ritz. You are too good for them, Blanche.”

  “You—what?” She blinked and squeezed the bouquet of orchids he had given her so tightly, he thought the blossoms might snap off their stems.

  “I insist that you drop these friends, Blanche.” Claude did not understand why he had to repeat himself; as far as he was aware, she was not at all hard of hearing.

  “Hmmm.” She reached for her makeup case and began to touch up her face with powder and lip rouge.

  “And another thing,” Claude continued, pleased to have this opportunity to properly explain things to his new American bride, who might not completely understand her role as his wife, for he did not know how these things were done in America. “I wish you not to use that much paint. I understand that it’s necessary for your profession, but not in real life.” And not, Claude added silently, necessary for your profession much longer, please God. She had made one film in France since they’d been engaged, a romantic potboiler in which she had to make love to another actor, and Claude had seen the film perhaps twenty times, each time purple with impotence and rage at the sight of his fiancée—now wife—being kissed by another man. But Blanche, Claude had to admit, was not a very convincing actress. Surely it would only be a matter of time before others recognized it?

  “You don’t need it, Blanche,” he continued, relishing his role of new husband, first rescuer, now protector of this enchanting creature. “You are a natural beauty, and furthermore, you are married now.”

  “And what does that mean, Popsy?”

  Claude winced. Blanche had also determined her pet name for him. In a moment of pure giddiness, he had shared the—romantic, he had thought—insight that when he first saw her, his heart went “pop.” Unfort
unately, his new bride had found it quite amusing instead of romantic, and seemed to take great delight in calling him by this undignified nickname.

  “It means you are my wife and you will do as I say.” Claude smiled anyway. Surely she was joking?

  “I’ll do as you say?”

  “It is the way in France, of course. I have no idea how married couples behave in America, but you are in France.”

  “For the time being,” she said, her voice tight.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I didn’t realize I was marrying a caveman. I thought I was marrying a gentleman who respected me in the way that a certain Egyptian prince did not.”

  “I do!” Claude didn’t understand her meaning—was it the language barrier?

  “Then stop behaving like a Neanderthal.”

  “All I want is that you drop those friends of yours and stop using paint.” The train was moving swiftly through the countryside outside of Paris; rolling green hills and small thatched farmhouses and cows everywhere.

  “And I say no. I like them. I like the way I look. So do most men.”

  “It does not matter what other men think about you now.” Claude laughed; she was so charmingly innocent. “You are married.”

  “If you believe I’m going to stop caring about what other men think of me, you’re nuttier than J’Ali.”

  “Do not say that man’s name again, Blanche.” Claude was no longer amused.

  “I’ll say whatever the hell I want! J’Ali, J’Ali, J’Ali, J’Ali!”

  And then he did a remarkable thing. Claude Auzello allowed his temper to overcome his sense of decorum. This young woman, his new bride, had ignited some undetonated bomb—perhaps left over from the war—buried deep inside. She had triggered so many new emotions in these past few weeks, perhaps he should not have been surprised to find she now made him more furious than he’d ever been before. And that he was reduced to growling like the Neanderthal she accused him of imitating, and grabbing her makeup case, opening the window, and throwing the case out of the train.

  They both stared at the open window for a long moment, astonished by his actions. Claude started to explain but before he could complete a sentence, she did something even more astonishing.

  She ran to the window and tried to push herself out of it.

  He grabbed her by the waist and threw her back in the compartment.

  They stared at each other, frozen in this absurd tableau, panting heavily, until the train slowed down and began to pull into a station.

  Like lightning, Blanche escaped his grasp, dashing out of the compartment and off the train before Claude could even register she was doing so; she was in his arms one moment, vanished the next, and as he tried to understand what had just happened, he grabbed some of their belongings and ran after her. He was barely off the last step before their train began to pull away; darting around startled bystanders, he reached the opposite platform just in time to see his new bride leap onto a train heading the other way; a train bound for Paris. Claude began to run after her, his arms full of things that fell out of his grasp with each step—at one point, he realized that one of her filmy nightgowns was caught on the heel of his shoe—but the train sped away.

  Merde.

  With clammy palms, perspiration stains on his collar, his arms full of unmentionables, Claude sank down onto a bench and tried to process what had just occurred. The poor man played it over and over again in his mind, as if it was a text he had been forced to memorize but the meaning of which he couldn’t quite grasp.

  At this very moment, he was supposed to be nuzzling the nape of his new bride’s neck, a repast of cold duck and colder champagne in front of them (naturally, Claude had made all the arrangements prior to leaving, and now he winced to think of the puzzled look of the porter wheeling the cart into an empty compartment). He was supposed to be stroking her, kissing her, preparing her for the night ahead. (They had slept together already so there would be no surprises awaiting them, only passion and pleasurable familiarity.)

  Instead, he was alone at a train station in some country town, and he had no idea when the next train to Paris would arrive. Or where to find his wife once he got there.

  Had Claude perhaps made a mistake marrying this American, no matter how charming, so hastily?

  * * *

  —

  AT LAST, A TRAIN heading north arrived; Claude boarded it, went immediately to the bar car and had a stiff drink, and when the train pulled into the station, the first thing he saw when he disembarked was Blanche sitting on a bench, her crumpled wedding bouquet still in her hands, her eyes red from crying, and when she looked up at Claude and began to sob even harder, his heart did that popping thing once more, and he held her in his arms, forgetting everything that had happened on the train.

  Until he made the next discovery.

  “Wow, you have an impressive collection, Popsy,” Blanche said, soon after they returned from their honeymoon. She was wandering around the kitchen of his bachelor flat, admiring all his copper pots, hanging neatly on the wall. “How do you make them shine so?”

  “You polish them,” Claude replied, puzzled. “With vinegar and salt.”

  “Oh.” She opened a drawer and gave a little gasp. “And all those knives. So many! Why do you need them all?”

  “Because they’re different.” Claude was, again, puzzled—and growing concerned. “See, this large blocky one is for dicing, this longer one for carving, this jagged one for cutting bread, and so forth.”

  “Ohhh…” Again that little gasp of wonder.

  “Blanchette,” he said, a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, which he should have recognized as a presentiment. “Don’t you—don’t you know how to cook?”

  “Me?” Her brown eyes flew open wide in surprise; she looked as if he’d asked her if she knew how to carve a boat out of wood, or fly an aeroplane, or dance on her toes. Then she laughed; she threw back her head and laughed her throaty, abandoned laugh. “Claude, you’re a riot. Whatever gave you the idea I could cook? Of course I can’t!”

  “What do you mean, ‘of course’?” He shut the drawer, irritated. Deceived. “How on earth would I know? Women cook. That’s the way it is here in France.”

  “It’s like that in America, too,” she admitted, opening up another cupboard and taking out a mandoline, appraising it as if it were an artifact from ancient Greece. “Most girls are brought up learning how to cook and clean, even if they’re wealthy enough to have someone else do it. My sisters and I were brought up that way, too—only I always managed to find some excuse to get out of the lesson. I wasn’t going to learn that bunk, let me tell you. I had no desire to learn the lessons my mother taught me. I was slippery that way, Claude.” She looked up at him, her eyes blazing, her luscious red lips in a teasing pout. “I still am.”

  “Yes, but…” Claude was torn between wanting to whisk her away to the bedroom and wanting to march her down to Le Cordon Bleu for some cooking lessons. “But how will you cook for me?”

  She shrugged. “I guess you’ll do the cooking, Claude. Or we’ll go out. I hear there’s a kitchen at the Ritz.” And she laughed again.

  Claude did not know what to say to that; nothing in his life had prepared him for such a moment. So he did, then, whisk her away to the bedroom, because what else could a man do under the circumstances?

  After, he made an omelet of chanterelles, shallots, and garlic, which she devoured, and so he had to make another for himself.

  What else did he discover in those early days—those heady, passionate, disturbing, delightful early days of his marriage to this charming American who had changed his life so thoroughly that Claude wondered, at times, if she were a witch instead of a damsel? He discovered that she muttered in her sleep. He discovered that she had no qualms about using his toothbrush. That she threw out her
silk stockings as soon as they had a run, instead of darning them. He discovered that she liked to wander the streets, with no real purpose; she grew restless as a child if she had to sit for too long. He discovered that she liked cats, tolerated dogs, was enchanted by birds but only if kept out of doors; there was something about a bird in a house that frightened her.

  Claude also discovered that she had small feet, of which she was very proud. And that the insteps of these delectable feet were very ticklish. And that she enjoyed having him tickle them, when she was in a certain mood.

  Claude discovered that she did, still, want to pursue her film career, which meant that some nights when he returned, exhausted, from the Ritz, his small flat was filled with those inappropriate friends of hers, Pearl White and other actors, smoking and drinking and telling stories about “sets” and “takes” and “goddamned directors.” Coarse people, all of them—which surprised Claude, because he refused to see his Blanchette as anything other than a fairy-tale princess, still.

  Claude also learned another thing.

  He learned that his Blanche loved the Ritz as much as he did.

  “Why do we do it, Pearl?” Blanche remembers asking her friend back in 1923, right after that funny little man, Claude Auzello, bade her adieu with a promise of dinner later that night. She still had J’Ali’s telegram in her pocket, informing her that he was going to be delayed a week. “Why do we fall for these men who tell us pretty things just to get us to go to bed with them? Just to get us to cross an ocean without even so much as a contract, let alone a wedding ring?” If she came to Europe with him, he would make her a film star in Egypt, her handsome prince, her lover, had promised. She would be as glamorous as Cleopatra, with her own barge on the Nile. He would marry her.

  Except no, he had never promised her that, not in so many words.

  “Because we’re saps. We’re women in a men’s world. We’re stupid enough to believe that the right man will make us forget that.”