CHAMPAGNE BLUES

by Nan

  A woman’s bejeweled hands flung out a bucket of ice implanted with a bottle of champagne. “For God’s sake, Gaspar, get rid of this slop!” Lily Simon watched as he struggled to catch the bucket. She laughed. It was the carefully cultivated, almost bawdy trademark of her decade as half of America’s leading third-rate acting team. Lily, in her mauve silk pantsuit, characteristically tossed back her long red silk hair to look stage left at Dwight.

  The other half of the team sported his matinee-idol silver-streaked hair and blue cashmere blazer with the pride of a general wearing his favorite medals. It was Dwight who had provoked their retirement from the stage. At an opening-night party at the Grand Motel in Eureka, Kansas, he declared that nothing worth acting had been written since the death of Philip Barry. He set a match to their Equity cards, which were buried inside his traveling copy of The Philadelphia Story. Unfortunately, the room caught fire. The Simons left town before they could be served with a summons. They had been traveling ever since.

  Lily put her hand on Gaspar’s free arm as he helped her from the car. “Beware, darling!” she warned. “It’s non-vintage.”

  “Don’t spill it on yourself,” Dwight said as he stepped out. “It’s sure to stain your . . . I say!” He paused for a moment and focused a professional eye. “Mmmm. A new uniform. A very handsome new emerald green tunic with snappy gold-edged lapels.”

  Pierre ran to them, his arms outstretched. “Enchanté, Madame. You have brought with you the sunshine!” He kissed her hand.

  “You know what Simon Says,” Dwight Simon said. “ ‘A good traveler always packs his own sunshine.’ ” He slapped Pierre on the shoulder.

  “No, no, no!” Pierre said, smiling for all he was worth. “A good traveler always packs his own copy of Simon Says.”

  Lily reached into her purse and took out a small tape recorder. “Lily. Paris. The twenty-first. Hôtel Louis Quinze.” She cleared her throat. “Dear Reader, for proof positive that not all the treasures of La Belle France are locked inside musty museums, tell the chauffeur to whisk you to the Hôtel Louis Quinze.” She smiled at Gaspar, as though alerting him that he was about to receive his Christmas bonus. “After the very attentive Gaspar helps you alight from your pumpkin, you’ll know why Cinderella had to settle for second best. If she had but waited for the dapper Pierre Durac, D-u-r-a-c, now in his . . .” Lily turned to Pierre as they walked into the lobby. “Darling, how many years have you racked up here?”

  “Fourteen,” Pierre answered.

  Lily switched on the recorder. “Now in his fifteenth brilliant year . . .”

  “No, no,” Pierre corrected, with a smile. “My fourteenth brilliant year.”

  “It will be fifteen brilliant years,” Dwight said, “by the time they read this. We’re always working a year ahead.” Dwight turned sharply and looked down at the floor. He smiled and slapped Pierre again. “Good show, Durac. They picked up the matchbook I dropped as we came in. Glad to see your staff is still on its toes.”

  The lobby of the Louis Q had six pink marble columns and three immense crystal chandeliers. Thick Oriental carpets sat smugly on the pink marble floor. Lily glanced up at the Gobelins tapestry. Still dictating, she ran a finger across the top of the Orléans fireplace mantel. “If Cinderella had but waited for the dapper Pierre Durac, now in his fifteenth brilliant year as Director, she would have lived happily ever after in the S-h-e-i-k-est oasis on the right side of the Seine. Of course, it remains to be seen who could retain his Seine-ity bedding down next door to the likes of, uh . . .” Lily put her hand to her forehead. “. . . the Shah, Lord and Lady Bethune, the Marchese di Santi, Elizabeth—”

  “But that is our VIP guest list!” Pierre gasped. “How did you get that?”

  Lily winked at Dwight and walked away. “Claude, darling!” She strode down the aisle between the mahogany-paneled reception area and the elaborately carved desk of the concierge.

  The Dutch industrialist stopped arguing with the cashier. The American couple looked up from their Herald Tribune. Six Egyptians walking in single file turned their heads. And Claude Picard sighted the enemy. Lily Simon was advancing. She was within shooting range. He kissed her hand.

  “Do you know of the attempt on my life?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Madame?”

  “At the airport. It was nonvintage champagne!”

  “I shall notify the Sûreté!”

  “To hell with the Sûreté. Book me a plot at Père-Lachaise!”

  “Well, Picard,” Dwight said, shaking hands. “Are you ready for the invasion of the Simons?”

  “I have looked forward to it.”

  “Tell me, Picard, what suite is the Shah in? Three-oh-five? Our readers must know which rooms to ask for.”

  “You know I cannot tell you that.”

  “Well, then, what about the Marchese?” Dwight asked eagerly. “Does he still dine at Allard?”

  “Allard is a very popular restaurant.”

  “Darling,” Lily cooed, “all we want to know is where the blue-bloods of happiness are hanging out.”

  “Tonight, everyone will be at the Opéra. It is completely sold out. And after, of course, to Chez Gustave. It has been booked for weeks.”

  “Wunderbar!” Dwight exclaimed. “I could use a nap. Let’s have a night at the opera.”

  “And then,” Lily said, “Chez Gustave.” She smiled as she moved in for the kill. “The window table!”

  “Naturally,” said Claude. Then he parried, “Shall I have them prepare the lobster soufflé?”

  Lily laughed. “How do you do it, Claude?”

  “Madame?”

  “The impossible! Someday you must tell me how.”

  He looked into her eyes. “Someday.”

  Pierre interrupted by taking Lily’s arm to lead her across the lobby. “And now, while the maids unpack, you must allow me to restore your faith in the nation. I trust the mishap earlier will not spoil your day.”

  Lily sighed. “So said the Captain of the Titanic.”

  They sat on the gold brocade sofa and chairs facing the fireplace. Lily leaned back. So far, so good. How comforting to find the Louis still up to snuff. “I tell you, Pierre,” she confided, “there are easier ways to earn a living.”

  Pierre stared at her, trying to think of one. “Of course.”

  “You know, Durac, we’ve done over thirty thousand miles this year alone.”

  “At a cost of nearly two dollars per!” Lily took a deep breath. “It’s so terribly expensive to be rich these days.”

  André set down the champagne service. “Good God,” Dwight said. “ ’Seventy-three? Is there really any more of that left? I thought we drank it all.”

  “No, darling, that was ’66 and ’69,” Lily said, smiling.

  Dwight raised his glass in a toast. “You know what Simon Says: “ ‘A day without champagne is like a hunchback without Notre Dame.’ ”

  Lily raised her glass. “To Le Dom!”

  “Le Dom?” Pierre was shocked.

  “Of course, darling; who else do you think made all of this possible?” She pointed to the bottle of champagne. “To Dom Pérignon himself!”

  Dwight looked across the lobby and smiled. “Now, who is that with the Marchese?”

  Pierre cleared his throat. “We have rewired completely. First it was the electric razors. Now it is the hot combs.”

  “Splendid,” Dwight said.

  “Isn’t she an ambassador’s wife?” Lily asked.

  “Yes, from one of those blond countries. Sweden!” Dwight said.

  Lily poked Pierre. “So, darling, you’re serving Smörgåsbord in the lobby these days.”

  “We have also this year installed direct-dial telephones.”

  Lily sighed aloud. “Well, if the cat’s got your tongue, direct-dial me an emergency croissant.”

  “I thought, Madame, you might prefer tea in your suite.”

  “Be a dear. I do hate starving on an empty stomach.”

/>   “Of course.” Pierre snapped his fingers for André. “Tell Philippe to serve tea at once.”

  André leaned over and whispered, “Their tray was taken upstairs.”

  “Tea. Here!”

  André shrugged. “It may take a few moments.”

  “Or it may not!” Pierre snarled. He would have to stall for time. “I am intensely interested in hearing about your new project.”

  “I don’t mind telling you, Durac, it’s a damn clever idea.”

  “ ‘COME TO FRANCE—YOU’LL EAT IT UP!’ ” Lily exclaimed.

  “Damn good slogan,” Dwight said. “For once they’re using their heads.”

  “You mean, darling, for once they’re using our heads.”

  ‘They’ were North American Airlines. In an effort to capture what NAA considered a long-overdue piece of the transatlantic trade, a major tour package was being developed to cover Champagne, Burgundy and Bordeaux. Dwight and Lily, as authors of the “millionaire’s” guide to Europe, were wooed and won on a millionaire’s retainer to research the wine country for NAA’s marketing team.

  “And on this ‘Eat France Alive’ project . . .” Pierre began.

  “Not alive,” Lily said laughing. “Up, darling. Eat France Up!”

  “Mmmm,” Pierre replied, unconvinced. “You have for the first time colleagues?”

  “The Benjamins are not our colleagues!” Dwight snapped.

  Pierre knew he had struck a nerve, but could not resist. “I hear their Penny Pincher’s Guide is extremely popular. Of course, with a much different clientele.”

  Dwight smirked. “One might say, and I would hate not to be quoted, that the Benjamins are the veterinarians of the travel industry.”

  “Now, now,” Lily chided, “let’s not speak ill of the dread.”

  CLAUDE stood against the kitchen door as André, Philippe and Jean assembled the tea tray.

  “Damn it!” Philippe called out. “I can’t read Marcel’s notes.”

  “What’s the difference?” André asked. “She would not notice if she were on fire. She is already on her second bottle.”

  “Nothing ever escapes her,” Claude said.

  “All right,” Jean announced. “It is ready!” André, Philippe and Jean hovered over the tray, checking each item. Jean pointed angrily to the crystal dish with the Dark Seville marmalade. “It was for this Marcel was fired!”

  Claude stepped forward. “No.” He replaced the Dark Seville with the deadly Mandarin Orange. “It was for this Marcel was fired!”

  Philippe picked up the tray solemnly. “I shall deliver this in memory of our fallen comrade.” He paused and then raised his eyebrows mischievously. “The marmalade heard round the world!”

  LILY scrutinized every move as Philippe arranged the settings. She picked up her tea cup. “I’ve never seen this pattern before.”

  Pierre smiled. “It was copied specially for us. It was designed originally for a cousin of Pauline Bonaparte.”

  “That’s good for a paragraph.” Lily took out the tape recorder. She cleared her throat and flipped the switch. “New paragraph, Sophie. Imagine, darlings, sitting in a mirrored alcove on a Versailles settee previously occupied by Marie Antoinette’s tush, and being surprised by an impromptu tea served in the unique Pauline Bonaparte Limoges. Note: commoners need not apply.”

  “Durac, how about some copy on the tea?”

  Pierre shrugged his shoulders. “It is a blend made for us by Fauchon.”

  “What’s it called, darling? Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.”

  “It is called Number Twenty-three.”

  Lily switched on the recorder. “And in case you’re wondering what we drank, it was a blend mysteriously named Number Twenty-three and made exclusively at our favorite Right Bank deli, Fauchon. It was superfluously sweet for our taste. But, all in all, a most pleasant interlude with a dear friend.” Lily smiled at the astonished Pierre. She put down the recorder. “Darling, what an absolutely vile brew!”

  Pierre sighed. “At least there is a year before Fauchon is forced to change the blend.”

  “Come now, Durac,” Dwight said. “Don’t sulk. We’ve never given an opinion that didn’t reflect the tastes of our readers. Just between us, old boy, the fifteen editions of our little literary lark have been instrumental in upgrading the quality of life available to countless travelers.”

  “Speaking of upgrading the quality of life, how about my croissant?”

  “Madame.” Pierre picked up the silver tray and held it for her. Simultaneously, he and Lily recognized the pale golden reflection of the Mandarin Orange. Pierre shut his eyes.

  “Oh, Pierre,” she said sadly.

  “All is lost,” he murmured.

  “What is it, Lily?” Dwight asked.

  “The marmalade! Pierre, how could you do this to me? After we have personally guaranteed the Louis for years!”

  “I’m afraid we all know what this means,” Dwight said with a deep sigh.

  Lily narrowed her eyes. She leaned toward Pierre. “The confiture is on the wall.”

  Dwight sat back. “Too bad, old friend. We’ll have to redo you from top to bottom.”

  Pierre broke out in a cold sweat.

  Lily snatched her tape recorder. “Okay, Sophie. This is for the locked file. Triple-space, and let’s hope we never have to use it.” She began. “Red alert to all Our Darlings. For the past ten years we’ve toot-toot-touted the glories of the Louis Quinze as the most elegant digs in our beloved City of Light. Well, sweeties, don’t look now, but despite our kindly kudos, unless things pick up pronto, we might as well move to the wrong side of the arrondissement and stay at the Plaza-Athénée with the poor people. Unfortunately, we’ve had to adopt ‘a phooey-on-Louis’ policy this time round. Keep your fingers crossed, Dear Readers, and let’s hope the patient recovers.” She put the recorder away.

  “But it was only the marmalade!” Pierre pleaded.

  Lily patted his hand. “Today the marmalade! Tomorrow the toidy!”

  CLAUDE walked back to his desk. The deceit he dreaded was nearly over. He had greeted the Simons as their devoted concierge. Le Dom was still a stranger to them.

  He nodded to his assistant, Henri. “What trouble have you gotten into?”

  “I had six flight confirmations, two flight changes, three requests for special seats, four limousines.” Henri read from the next sheet. “I have pickups scheduled so far at Givenchy, Vuitton, Dunhill and Caron.” The next sheet. “I have returns to Cartier, Hermès and Ricci.” Sheet four. “There were fifteen cables, one telex, four hand-delivered letters and one registered-mail picture postcard.” Sheet five. “Seven lunches and so far,” he said, picking up another sheet, “only four dinners.” He shuffled through the other pages. “No tours. Six hairdresser appointments, two barbers, one pedicure.” He sighed. “And last, there is the sad tale of the Princess who wants to attend the Saint Laurent showing.”

  Claude looked up at Henri for the first time. “There are no seats left.”

  “I know. That’s what I told her.”

  Claude’s lips tightened. “You told her she would be unable to attend?”

  “You just said it was impossible.”

  “Of course it is impossible. But what has that to do with whether I will get her a seat?”

  Henri shook his head with the familiarity of one who had been through it before. “I will go to the back room. I will pick up the house phone,” he said, anticipating Claude’s words. “I will tell the Princess to be ready at two-thirty. I will know better the next time. I will never tell a guest anything is impossible.”

  As Henri left, Claude took his pad and picked up a pencil. Simon. Opéra. Chez Gustave. He took a deep breath. It was the least he could do. One last cigarette before the blindfold. He signaled for an outside line, dialed and waited for Jules to answer. “Good morning. This is Claude.”

  “I do not care if you are Giuseppe Verdi! The Paris Opéra is sold out for this perf
ormance.”

  “I need a box for tonight.”

  “So does Count Dracula.”

  “I will have the tickets picked up in an hour. Merci.” Claude hung up, but kept his hand on the receiver. As he had expected, the phone rang immediately.

  “Why must you have a box?” Jules asked.

  “Because it is there.”

  “It is impossible!” Jules yelled.

  “I know,” Claude said. He hung up the receiver. They had told Claude it was impossible to survive the Germans at Epernay. It was impossible for the Republic to fall. It was impossible to organize a resistance movement. It was impossible to declare a vintage champagne in 1942. And now it was impossible to get a box at the Opéra.

  He dialed Chez Gustave. “Jacques? Claude Picard.”

  “Bonjour, Claude. How are you?”

  “Very well. Who has the window table for tonight?”

  “César.”

  “No, no. I mean for whom?”

  “The Israeli Minister of Defense. Unfortunately, it is not merely a king or a movie star. I cannot afford to unseat him with relations so tenuous.”

  “Of course. If the talks in Geneva had gone better—”

  “Or if the arms shipment had been made, then in that case I would not care if I sat the Minister in the men’s room.”

  After he hung up, Claude paused and dialed César, the concierge at Le Château Fontaine.

  “Concierge.”

  “An admirable aspiration, César. But you should not make your dreams public.”

  “If you are looking for work, Claude, I suggest you call the Comédie-Française.”

  “César, I need your help.”

  “Le Dom, you have merely to ask.”

  “Can you persuade the Israeli Minister to have dinner elsewhere?”

  “But it was I who insisted he try Chez Gustave. I presume you need the window table.”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask for whom?”

  “No.”

  “It must be for the Marchese di Santi. I hear he is having an affair with the Swedish Ambassador’s wife.”