CHAMPAGNE BLUES

by Nan

  “But why?” Emma asked.

  “It has been almost four years since we had a new applicant. And our number has dwindled through attrition. There are only a handful of us left.” She sat up straight. “The Bishop has been advised to shut the convent and sell the land to cover losses in other areas of the Archdiocese.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “It’s such a beautiful building,” Clifford said.

  “Our Lady of the Apparition is one of the finest neo-Gothic examples in the quarter. It is the responsibility of those who remain to stop them from turning our order into chaos.”

  Emma stifled a smile. “Is there really a nun shortage?”

  “When I was a novice the halls were filled with young girls eager to serve.”

  “What happened?” Clifford asked.

  Sister Marcella shrugged. “Times have changed. In my day, a good percentage of girls from respectable families grew up knowing they would someday enter the sisterhood. Today,” she said with a sigh, “everyone wants to be a stewardess!”

  “And so you plan to cover the deficit by offering accommodations for tourists?” Clifford said. “It’s a brilliant idea!”

  “Oh, I knew you were the right people to talk to as soon as I read your chapter on Rome! You really can do the Vatican on next to nothing.”

  “Sister, what is it you’re offering here?” Emma asked, taking out her notebook.

  “Single rooms furnished with the traditional simplicity of the finest in clerical accommodations.”

  “Which means?”

  “A bed and a Bible.”

  “That’s it?” she asked.

  “Several rooms have a stool and a coat hook. Naturally, I would expect to charge more for those.”

  Emma sat back. She put her pad in her lap and looked at Clifford. He was pursing his lips, searching for an angle.

  “What about food?” he asked.

  “With all due modesty, before we fell upon hard times, it was to our convent that all the priests came to eat.” She smiled broadly. “Oh, I just know if we are but mentioned in your book, our halls will be filled once again with the bustle of silent pilgrims.”

  “How much are you planning to charge?” Clifford asked.

  “Well, considering the competition, very little. I needn’t tell you what an appalling tourist trap Lourdes has become. An absolute disgrace. We wish to appeal to the more discerning pilgrim. The pity is that we did not put the plan into operation sooner. But blessed Mother Minvielle had a rather laissez-faire attitude toward the leisure industries. Otherwise, we would have a piece of the action by now. Be on the map, as it were. However, we are a hearty group, and we are prepared to pull ourselves up by our Oxfords.”

  “How much are you planning to charge?” Clifford repeated.

  “You must consider the following. One, we are tucked safely away from the hubbub and hawkers of sordid Parisian night life. Two, we are in a particularly attractive setting for quiet contemplation. And three, the weary traveler need not cope with the burdensome problem of dressing for dinner.”

  “Why not?” Emma asked.

  Sister Marcella’s face brightened. “We each eat alone in our rooms. Of course, if a guest chooses to dine out, we never lock the gates until five.”

  “A.M. or P.M.?” Emma asked.

  “Such witty people. Be sure to note that guests may read in their rooms until seven.”

  “P.M.,” Emma muttered.

  “Sister, will it be American or European plan?”

  “It is neither American plan nor European plan.” Sister Marcella raised both hands to the heavens. “It is His plan!”

  Emma’s eyes widened as she watched the sleeves of Sister Marcella’s white habit fall back to reveal a red quilted ski jacket. She poked Clifford and motioned toward the door.

  “How many rooms do you have, Sister?” Clifford asked, making a point of ignoring Emma.

  “With or without windows?” she asked.

  “Both.”

  “We have twenty-four rooms with windows and twenty-two without. Of the twenty-two without, there are seven with no doors.”

  “No doors?” Clifford asked.

  “Just a minute, Cliffy!” Emma said, as she wrote down the specifications. “Now, just how many is that with hooks and stools?”

  “Nineteen. Of which twelve have windows and two have no doors. Now, you mustn’t forget that every room, from the most modest to the deluxe—”

  “The ones with hooks and stools,” Emma clarified for Clifford.

  “Every single room,” Sister Marcella continued, “will have a matching color-coordinated sheet, blanket and hand towel by Yves Saint Laurent.”

  “Saint Laurent?” Emma asked.

  “I have a nephew in the business. Morning porridge will be served in Limoges seconds, courtesy of my niece. I see no reason why Christianity and good taste cannot go hand in hand.”

  “Well,” Emma said, taking a deep breath, “here’s what it boils down to. Let me read this back to you, Clifford dearest darling, so you get the full picture.” She cleared her throat. “They have twelve rooms with windows and doors and hooks and stools, twelve rooms with windows and doors but no hooks and stools, five rooms with doors and hooks and stools but no windows, ten rooms with doors but no hooks and stools and no windows, two rooms with hooks and stools but no windows and no doors, and five rooms with no windows, no doors, no hooks and no stools.”

  “You know, I think you just might have something here, Sister,” he said with great conviction for Emma’s benefit. “But the question is still How much?”

  Sister Marcella leaned over and spoke with great intensity. “I know we’re not the Inter-Continental, where they get four hundred francs a night.”

  Emma shrugged. “Well, they’ve got a snack bar, a newspaper stand. Running water. Heat. That builds up the overhead.”

  “Exactly,” Sister Marcella said. “I certainly wouldn’t expect to charge four hundred francs a night.”

  “What about baths? Showers?” Emma asked.

  “Well, now,” she said, playfully shaking a finger at her, “you’re slipping back into that four-hundred-franc philosophy again.”

  “Sister, you still haven’t told me the rates,” Clifford said.

  “For one of our deluxe rooms . . .”

  “Window, door, hook and stool,” Emma clarified.

  “. . . which comes with two meals plus a daily blessing, I think we could bring it in somewhat under a hundred francs.”

  “Twenty bucks a night?” Clifford asked in horror.

  “With meals!” Sister Marcella reminded him.

  “And hooks and stools!” Emma added.

  “That’s impossible, Sister! It’s too much money!”

  Sister Marcella raised an eyebrow. “For Heaven’s sake, we’re offering atmosphere, religion and Saint Laurent!” She paused. “Ninety francs!” Clifford shook his head. Sister Marcella sighed. “It could be done for seventy-five, I suppose. That is, if we get the PR we need. Not least of which is a rave in your guide.”

  Clifford said firmly, “Our book is called The Penny Pincher’s Guide.”

  “Obviously you intend to pinch all of those pennies out of me!” She narrowed her eyes. “Seventy! I’m preparing a multimedia presentation for the Bishop. Sister Henriette is taking before and after pictures. It was Sister Berthe’s idea to add a sound track. Something from The Sound of Music.”

  “Sister, we have literally millions of readers who depend on us for low-budget accommodations and meals.”

  “Sixty!” She waited and then said sharply, “We have to charge something, Mr. Benjamin! This is not a kibbutz!”

  “Suppose you didn’t include meals?” he asked. “How low could you go?”

  “No meals? But Sister Mathilde has already planned Coquille St. Francis, Boeuf Bernadette, Apple Pius—”

  “How low?”

  “And still include Saint Laurent?”

  “No. Bare bones
. No frills.”

  Sister Marcella sighed. “No meals. No Saint Laurent. No Limoges. No scented candles.” She pursed her lips. “No fun. Twenty!”

  Clifford beamed. “Sister, you’ve got yourself a deal! We’ll have to work fast from here on. We’ve only got tonight. But if everything checks out by morning, you’ll be in the spring edition.”

  “Tonight?” Emma stared at Clifford.

  “I insist you dine with us.” Sister Marcella got up.

  “It would be a pleasure,” Clifford said.

  “I know we’ll get the money from somewhere to feed you. Don’t move, you two—I’ll be right back.” She hurried down the corridor. “What a terrific find!” Clifford said, taking out his notebook.

  Emma shrugged. “If you have Catholic tastes.”

  “Emma,” he said, taking her by the shoulders, “this could be even bigger than the gondoliers’ cafeteria!”

  “Cliffy, you’re not seriously considering spending tonight under the same roof as Attila the Nun?”

  “This is a scoop, Em! It’s cheap, it’s clean, it’s honest. It would be an incredible experience for any kid—”

  “Like us?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get you the cell next door.” He smiled and kissed her on the nose. “I’ll even spring for one with a hook and a stool.” He took his forefinger and began tapping on her nose. “We could send messages to each other.”

  “What did you just say?” she asked.

  ‘I said let’s meet in the herb garden and do it.” Emma tapped the tip of his nose. “What did you say?”

  “I said Not tonight, Clifford. I have a headache.”

  “C’mon, Em. It’s our last night in Paris!”

  “That’s the whole point. I don’t want to spend it here at the Celibate Hilton.”

  “Then what do you want, Emma?”

  “It seems we stood and talked like this before.” She got up. “I’m not staying here, Clifford. I’ll do my job from nine to five. And I’ll do it good. But I won’t sleep here. What’s more, I won’t even pretend I like any of this. Any fool who had enough money would never stay here.”

  “And you’re any fool?” he asked.

  “I guess so.”

  He stood up and put his arms around her. She pulled back. Almost involuntarily. “Em, what’s happening? Why did you pull away?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “In all the years, Emma, you never before told me you had a headache.”

  She shrugged. “What an ingrate I am. To have a headache when Diamond Jim wants to get me a room with a hook and a stool!” Emma’s eyes filled with tears. She pressed her lips together, fighting back the rage that was replacing the sadness. She began to breathe heavily, almost uncontrollably. Emma raised her hand and, staring directly into Clifford’s eyes, slapped him hard. She was even more stunned than he. “Oh, Cliffy,” she gasped.

  Clifford’s eyes searched her face for an explanation. But Emma turned and ran down the corridor. He watched until she was out of sight and then sat down on the stone bench. It was very, very cold.

  THE office of the Louis Q’s chef de cuisine was furnished as a room in a hunting lodge. The pebbly walls were crisscrossed with wood beams. Surrounding the stone fireplace was a collection of mounted animal heads. Xavier Ronay leaned across his writing desk, narrowed his eyes, pointed a finger and said fervently, “It must be tarragon!”

  Dwight raised his arms in despair. He leaned back in the stuffed leather chair. “Never!” he proclaimed, refusing the Greeks entry to Troy.

  “But what is wrong with tarragon?”

  Dwight leaned forward and spoke in earnest to his old friend. “It’s not me! That’s what’s wrong. It simply is not me!”

  Xavier banged his fist on the table. “What are you saying, it is not you? When God looked in at the Sistine Chapel even He did not say that! I have spent weeks creating this dish and you tell me you are not tarragon!”

  “Dear boy, you know how much I appreciate the honor. I have always said in print you are one of the world’s greatest chefs. To have you create a dish for me guarantees my immortality in the esteemed company of Pèche Melba, Chicken Tetrazzini and the Napoleon!”

  “So? That is not so bad as a bullet in the head.”

  “You have known me long enough, Xavier. My integrity is impeccable! I cannot in all honesty lend my name to a dish I do not like. Perhaps, if instead of the tarragon you considered using sorrel—”

  “No! No! No! There is already a Saumon à l’Oseille! I am proposing a culinary breakthrough with my Saumon Simon.”

  “I suppose dill is rather passé.”

  “Dill?” he repeated with horror. He shook his head. “It is very sad what has happened to dill. Tragique. They are using it everywhere. Every fool in Paris is snipping fresh dill as carelessly as if he were circumcising his wife’s lover. No! No! No! I am afraid, my dear friend, the good old days of dill are finished. Which is why I have proposed to begin a new era with my Saumon Simon.”

  “Then you refuse to substitute something for the tarragon?”

  “Aha! You, my dear friend, think you are the only one with integrity, eh? Ha! The tarragon stays! The name will go!”

  “So be it, dear boy. If there is no other way. Flattered as I am to be immortalized by a talent such as yours.”

  Xavier pointed to the heads on the wall. “But you are obviously not as flattered as the moose was. I am lucky the moose did not speak English.”

  “You’re running out of wall space, you know. I presume these are rather special.”

  “No. In the dawn they are all the same.”

  “I’ve never understood that side of your character. Killing for sport.”

  “Would you prefer me to hand the head of a chicken over the mantel? I tell you, Dwight, it has been a very strange part of my life. It began while I was still in cooking school. A trout. A lobster. A pigeon. Then as we learned about carving meat, I became possessed. Cooking was not enough.” He looked at Dwight and paused. “But I do not think you have come here today to talk of hunting.”

  “Au contraire, mon ami. That’s precisely why I am here. Lily and I are doing the Louis from top to bottom.”

  “A full tour of inspection?” he asked in horror.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Xavier leaned back in his chair. “Ah, but not the kitchen?” Dwight nodded Yes. “Mon Dieu, I have not been in the kitchen since . . . since . . . I cannot remember. Oh, my dear friend, you bring back such bad memories. The heat. Always the incroyable heat. And the noise. The sweating.” His eyes narrowed as he changed his tone. “Of course, the kitchens of the Louis are above reproach.”

  “I can leave no stove unturned, mon ami.”

  “This is even more depressing than the tarragon. Is there not some way, some more civilized way in which to handle your inspection?”

  “I fear we are again facing that old demon, integrity.” He avoided Xavier’s eyes. “You know,” he said, opening the bidding, “it is quite painful for me to lose my rightful place in the gastronomic hall of fame.”

  “The kitchen is fine. Trust me,” Xavier said, beginning to show his hand. “You have known me long enough. I give you my word. Do not make me go in there!”

  Dwight smiled. “Are you suggesting I compromise my principles because of our long and valued friendship?”

  “I would never do such a thing!” Xavier turned up his last card. “I would no sooner do that than you would suggest I substitute for tarragon finely chopped bulb of fennel.” He rose from the chair, his hands suddenly expressive and graceful as he swept in the winner’s chips. “And on top of the fennel, to crown Le Saumon Simon, a single perfect lacy leaf!”

  LILY strode down the second-floor corridor of the Louis Q. She wore an apricot velvet tunic over her lemon silk dress. Around her neck was a lemon chiffon scarf. In her hand was an apricot leather clipboard. In her heart was righteousness.

  All the forces of evil had conspired aga
inst her—l’affaire de la marmalade, l’affaire de Murphy and worst of all, l’affaire de Dwight. Lily was at last ready to play St. Joan. If she only had understood what it meant to be a savior twenty years ago! The reviews would have been spectacular.

  Without knocking, she opened the door behind which lay the target of her sneak attack. She stepped into a world of beige suede walls and Barcelona chairs. A thoroughly modern mademoiselle looked across the reception desk through her lavender eye shadow. “Bonjour, Madame.”

  “I wish to see the Gouvernante Générale.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I am Lily Simon,” she announced with an authority that negated the need for an appointment to see the Pope.

  “One moment, please.” She buzzed the inner office. “Madame Simon est ici à vous voir. . . . Oui.” She smiled and signaled for Lily to enter.

  The Gouvernante Générale stood behind a chrome-and-glass desk. A very chic white flower was nestled in her very blond hair. She wore a pale gray pinstripe pantsuit with an ivory satin blouse. By no means your everyday chambermaid, Lily thought.

  “Madame,” Marie-Thérèse began with a smile. “What can I say?”

  Lily stared for a long moment. “How about ‘ouch’?” She laughed and sat back. “Relax, Mademoiselle. I’m here this morning to discuss your role as housekeeper, not as femme fatale. Bit players have never interested me. You see, darling, I have a rather unfair advantage over you.”

  “Aside from being older and wiser?”

  Lily smiled. “Yes. I’ve been there before. Often. For all the years Dwight and I were on the stage, we each quite believed the roles we had. I’ve been his wife and his mistress. We’ve had hundreds of glorious affairs set in Padua, Philadelphia, Berlin, Vienna, London—everywhere! I know just how convincing he can be.”

  Marie-Thérèse acknowledged Lily with an icy smile. “How may the Gouvernante be of help to you?”

  “I wish to be reassured that the opinion my husband and I had of the Louis Q is still valid.”