by Nan
“Yes, I am. I want you to be able to see things for what they really are. I learned long ago you’ve got to take a close look at everything yourself. Few things are ever what they appear to be.” Etienne was focusing the binoculars. Murphy leaned close to him and spoke softly. “You know, when it was time for me to learn what life was all about, I didn’t pick it up on the street. When I was old enough, and my time had come, my father showed me.”
Etienne put down his binoculars. “He showed you?”
“That’s the kind of guy he was. Dad knew he was the best, and he wanted his son to see him in action.”
“A truly extraordinary man!”
“Don’t think I wasn’t nervous when he said I could watch. I tell you, I was pretty damn scared at the thought of seeing him perform.”
“Of course.”
“He had the chauffeur drive us downtown. I can still remember how I felt when the driver helped me out of the car.”
“You were very nervous.”
Murphy shrugged. “How do you describe the moment you become a man? I stood there with him on the street, looking up at the Stock Exchange. There was no turning back.”
“The Stock Exchange?”
“Jesus. It could have been yesterday, it’s so clear in my mind. We walked onto the balcony. They cleared a place for him right at the railing. For me too. He didn’t say a word and no one spoke to him. We just stood there, looking down at the action on the floor. Then I saw my dad take out a pair of binoculars. He looked down at the faces. He watched the expressions. He found his man. He watched what his man was doing. He saw his man raise three fingers and look up. My dad shook his head No. He only had to shake his head once. Then he tapped me on the shoulder and we left. And that’s how I found out what my dad did for a living.”
“What did he do?”
“He shook his head.”
“Well, perhaps in America . . .”
Murphy grabbed Etienne’s arm. “It’s the same anywhere, me bucko! You’ve got to know when to shake your head. And then you have to know when to buy a pair of binoculars.”
“I am afraid I do not understand what you are trying to tell me.”
“I’ve been thinking. It’s time my dirty half-dozen became the magnificent seven. I want you on my team. You’re my kind of guy.”
Etienne took a deep breath. To leave behind the bureaucracy of the government! To be away from prying eyes! To be able to accept bribes in peace! “But what would I do? What are you offering me?”
Murphy smiled. He made a broad gesture with one hand and swept across the horizon. “That’s what I’m offering you.” He took a small box of newly printed business cards from his pocket. “This!”
Etienne took the box and opened it.
ETIENNE DUVERT
Executive in Charge of Paris
“Mon Dieu,” he whispered.
“The way I see it, you’re gonna be my French connection. I’m a pretty damn good judge of character, and I need somebody here I can trust. I’m giving you the nod. Just like my dad did.”
“But what do you want me to do?”
Murphy patted the binoculars. “I want you to keep an eye out for me. I want to be sure the Château Norwalk gets built without any problems from the building inspectors, the fire inspectors, the zoning inspectors . . .”
“Of course. That is simple. But what will I do once the hotel is built?”
“That’s when your job will just begin. I want you on the board of directors of my hotel. And then what I really want is for you to work with my other guys. I’m smart enough to know there’s not another son of a bitch in all of France who has his finger up the ass of tourism the way you do. I gotta keep my hotel filled. And you and I know that can’t be done with the wine-tour stiffs alone. You gotta find me more tourists. I want them coming out of the woodwork! Round them up! You can do that better than anyone else. This is your town!”
The newly appointed Executive in Charge of Paris stared down at his territory. His Paris. To love and to cherish. To have and to hold. From this day forth.
CLAUDE walked quickly down the corridor. He knocked on the door. “Madame!” he called. “Are you all right?”
Lily stood poised on the other side. She brushed a wisp of hair from her face as she awaited her cue.
“Madame Simon! Can you hear me?”
Lily held on to the doorknob as though it were a smoking gun. If only The Theatre Guild could have seen her.
“Madame, you must open the door. Otherwise, I will be forced to break it down!”
And upstage her entrance?
“Madame!”
Enter Lily. She opened the door, stood frozen for a moment and then pressed the back of her hand to a fevered brow. Claude took one step and she fell limp against him. Overwhelmed by déjà vu, he carried Lily back into the room. Only a few hours earlier he had held Emma Benjamin in his arms. How ironic. How ecological. How different she felt from Emma.
As he put Lily on the sofa, she turned to him and whispered, “Champagne!”
Claude smiled. He leaned over and said, “I would suggest ’71.”
She opened her eyes for a moment to flutter approval and then pointed to a bucket of chilled champagne and two glasses. As he filled her glass, it occurred to him that perhaps NAA had put Claude Picard on the itinerary. He sat down and carefully brought the glass to her lips. “This will help, Madame.”
Lily puckered and, purposely making the loudest noise she could, sucked in all the champagne in the glass. “Dear Claude. How good of you to rescue me.”
He refilled her glass. “You must tell me, Madame. What happened?”
Lily looked directly at him. She leaned forward and spoke slowly, precisely, to be certain he understood. “The sun was in my eyes.”
He understood. Without hesitation, Claude picked up the challenge. “What did you do, Madame?” he parried. “When it happened?”
“I shut my eyes.”
“Show me how.” She closed her eyes. “Exactly right, Madame. Then what did you do?”
Lily’s eyes were still shut as she groped in the air. “I couldn’t see a thing. I stumbled to the telephone. I called you.”
“Tell me what you said to me.”
Lily opened one eye for a moment. She had not expected him to be so adept a player. “Claude!” she called, re-creating the moment. “I need you! Come to me!”
He framed her face in his hands. He watched her eyes widen as he leaned closer and kissed her gently on the lips. He felt her shudder as he put his arms around her. “Madame, my darling. Do you trust me?”
Lily nodded breathlessly. “Did Piper trust Heidsieck?”
“Then we must leave this room at once.”
“Why?” she asked, pulling back from him.
He leaned forward and brought his lips to her ear. First he kissed her, and then he whispered, “It will return.”
“It will?” she asked intently.
“Yes, Madame.”
“What will?”
He put his hands over her eyes. “The sun.”
“WHERE are you taking me?” Lily asked as they walked down the service stairs.
“Are you having second thoughts?”
“About what?” she stopped.
“About going to bed with me.” He looked up at her on the staircase. He was having second thoughts. But why? Not even Zorro, or Pimpernel or Rassendyl had the chance to sleep with the enemy. Why was Le Dom hesitating?
“Darling, don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t finished my first thoughts yet.” He smiled. “I like your smile.”
“Do you say that to all the concierges?”
Lily turned away. “My God, is that what you think?”
He walked up the stairs and put his arms around her. “Madame . . .” He was hesitating because of Emma. The closer he got to Lily, the more he wanted Emma. And the more he wanted Emma, the more threatened he was.
She faced him. “I’ve never done this before. Ever.”
He paused. “Then you have given me a grave responsibility.”
She smiled and put her hand through his hair. “Dear Claude Picard. The man who thrives on the impossible.”
“But not, until now, the improbable.” Claude took her hand and kissed it. He needed Lily for symmetry. He needed her to restore perspective. It was safer to sleep with all of his enemies. “Madame, you will never know how much I want to go to bed with you.”
“Concierge, I am a woman whose life is devoted to experiencing the best.”
“I have never disappointed you, Madame.”
“Never.” He pulled her close and put his tongue into her mouth even before their lips met. They stood on the service stairs holding one kiss for a very long time. They might have kissed a hundred times before she rested her head on his shoulder. She paused to catch her breath. “Concierge?”
“Oui, Madame?”
“That was an excellent kiss.”
LILY walked from the harpsichord to the window. There was the same Eiffel Tower she and Dwight had stared at yesterday. Or was it a different one? Of course! There must be hundreds. She’d put that in the next edition. ‘Beware, Dear Reader, the latest racket in Paris is fake Eiffel Towers. They’ve sprung up everywhere you look!’ Lily turned to Claude with a sigh. “It was not necessary to lie to me, Concierge.”
“Lie?”
“Whose room is this?” Lily rubbed her hand across the velvet on the Pathier chair. “Does Pierre know what you do with his best suite?”
“This is my room.”
“Rented for quick liaisons with mature ladies? Come now, Concierge. Neither of us is that desperate.”
Claude leaned against the door. He was just that desperate. He could not let her escape. He had to have both Lily Simon and Emma Benjamin before they left for Champagne. And in the same bed. He smiled. “Ah, yes, you wish to see my receipts?”
Lily laughed. “Receipts? I don’t need receipts, Concierge.” He watched her every move, comparing every step with those taken by her predecessor. But Lily was truly incomparable. Her veneer was more exotic than that on the Hache desk. Her polish was brighter than the sparkle from the Saint-Louis chandelier. She walked to Claude and put her hand on his cheek. “La vérité will do.”
Claude put his hand to her breast. She gasped. He felt her body tense. “Did I not secure the window table at Chez Gustave?”
“Oui.”
Both breasts. “A box at the Opéra?”
“Oui. But—”
“A runway chair at Balenciaga?”
She put her arms around his neck. “Mais oui. Mais oui.”
“And still you do not believe me?” He kissed her neck and began opening the buttons on her kimono. Lily shook her head No. “Then this is how Dreyfus felt.” They sat on the edge of the bed.
She turned toward him and touched the tip of his nose with her finger. “J’accuse, darling.”
Claude brought her face to his. “How can I convince you, Madame?”
Lily lay back and let her arms fall gracefully. “Je ne sais pas, Concierge. Surely there must be some way for you to convince me you are telling me the truth.”
Claude began to unbutton her kimono. He paused to caress her bare shoulders. “As though polished by Rodin,” he whispered.
“Bravo, Concierge. At last, la vérité!”
He lifted her gently and slipped off her kimono. “Never have I seen such elegant breasts, Madame.”
She moaned as he kissed her nipples. “How wonderful it feels to hear the truth!” Lily opened her eyes as he stood up. His back was to her. “What are you doing, Concierge?”
“I am undressing, Madame. I am taking off my uniform.”
“How will I know you without your uniform, Concierge?” She watched as Claude took off his shirt. “How splendid, Concierge.”
He turned to her as he unzipped his trousers. “You must not call me ‘Concierge,’ Madame.”
“Aha! There is to be a French Revolution after all! Citizen, what shall I call you?” she asked, staring as he took off his shorts.
“My name. Claude Picard.”
Lily touched his penis. “You must be lying again, darling. See how it gets longer when you do?” He lay down next to her. “My Pinocchio. My dearest Citizen Pinocchio.”
“I am a Citizen of France,” he said, kissing her thigh.
“C’est bon,” she whispered.
He lay close to Lily, his hand between her legs. The moment she was moist, Claude moved on top of her. “France must belong only to us. It is the birthright of the French.”
Lily moaned. “Of course, darling. And the birthplace of the French fry.”
“We have the greatest artists in the world.”
She took hold of Claude’s penis and began to ease him inside her. “And the best French toast.”
He entered in a single thrust. “French is the language of literature.”
“And of French pastry.”
He began rocking. “French justice has served as a model for the world.”
“So have French cuffs.”
“The great French composers.”
“French doors.”
“The great French philosophers.”
“French bread.” Lily held tightly to Claude. They were both breathing heavily.
“French architects.” He pushed harder and harder.
“Ooh. And French postcards!”
“French wine.”
“The French Foreign Legion.” Lily began to moan. Her fingers dug into Claude’s back as she tensed. “Oh my God, darling! We almost forgot the French horn!”
Claude buried his head on her shoulder and lay motionless except for the spasms. He was, at the height of his pleasure, thinking only of Emma. After a few moments, he whispered, as though to reassure himself, “Yes, Madame. You are right. There is to be a French Revolution after all.”
IT was six o’clock. Clifford was tired and hungry and angry. His afternoon with Sister Marcella seemed interminable as she took every opportunity to reopen negotiations on price. Normally, he would never fight to save an entry, but if the convent was not a dramatic “stop press” recommendation, he couldn’t face Emma. He realized, as he stood in the chill twilight, that even with the “stop press” entry he didn’t want to face Emma. Clifford turned up his collar and walked to the corner.
One lone taxi sat waiting at the taxi stand. He walked slowly toward it. The driver sat reading the paper while his dog slept in the seat next to him. The man did not look up as Clifford got in. The dog opened one eye and went back to sleep. “Monsieur?” the driver asked.
“Bonjour.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” the driver said, turning the page. And then, after a moment, he repeated, as though not to appear impolite, “Monsieur?”
“Bonjour.” Clifford hesitated and then said, “Je voudrais diner.”
The driver glanced at his watch. He shook his head. He shrugged his shoulders. “C’est un taxi, Monsieur. Non pas un restaurant. N’est-ce pas, Simone?”
Simone barked. The driver turned to Clifford and pointed to Simone, the bark of reason. He repeated the judgment. “C’est un taxi.”
Clifford rubbed his hand nervously across the fabric on the seat. He looked around. “C’est un bon taxi.”
The driver nodded. Clifford nodded. Simone barked. The driver picked up his paper and continued reading. After a moment, without looking up, the driver said, “J’aime mon taxi.”
Clifford patted the fabric on the empty seat next to him. “C’est un bon taxi,” he repeated. The driver folded his paper very slowly and very carefully. He turned around to look squarely at Clifford. Simone sat up and turned around to look squarely at Clifford. As he patted her head, Clifford leaned forward and said to Simone, “Je voudrais le ‘best’ restaurant de Paris.”
Simone turned to look at the driver, who asked, “Le ‘best’?”
“Oui,” Clifford said. “Le plus très beau grand bon!” He was searchin
g for the restaurant that would save his marriage.
Mimicking the intensity in his voice, Simone raised her head and began to howl. The driver accelerated with such force that Clifford was thrown against the back of the seat. Simone did not stop howling until they reached Chez Gustave.
“BONJOUR, Monsieur. May I have your name?”
“My name is Clifford Benjamin.”
The impeccably dressed young man in the dimly lit downstairs vestibule consulted his book. He shook his head as his finger followed the list of names. “Your name is not here, Monsieur.”
“What book is that you’re looking in?”
“It is our book of reservations.”
“Oh, well, you won’t find my name in there. I have no reservation.”
The impeccably dressed young man looked up. “You have no reservation?”
“Of course not,” Clifford said. “I never make reservations.”
“But why?”
Clifford shrugged. “I am too rich.”
A pause. “I see.”
“Too damn rich,” Clifford said, suddenly angry. He reached into his pocket and took out a one-franc coin. “This is for you, young man.”
“Merci, Monsieur Benjamin,” said the impeccably dressed young man. “I will have your table ready in a moment. Please follow me. The elevator is this way. I shall call upstairs.”
Clifford sat on a small white-and-gold brocade settee in the mirrored elevator. The car moved with a slow, deliberate motion. Clifford felt as though he were entering another dimension. The only way back to Emma was an uncharted course. He knew he must first embrace the good life before he could again embrace Emma.
“Monsieur Benjamin. Bonjour, and welcome to Chez Gustave.” The tall man with a silver streak in his black hair opened the door. He extended a hand toward Clifford.
Chez Gustave was red. The walls, carpet, linen and flowers were bright crimson. On each table was a small illuminated replica of the Eiffel Tower in deference to the restaurant’s namesake, Gustave Eiffel. The large picture window had an unobstructed view of the Tower. The room was empty.
“Hi,” Clifford said.
“Monsieur, how may we help you?”
“Well, I was on my way back to the hotel when I realized I hadn’t eaten lunch.”
