CHAMPAGNE BLUES

by Nan

  Nicolas got out of the car, put on a ski mask, leaned back in and pointed a gun at Lily’s head.

  “Mon Dieu,” she whispered. “Highway robbery!”

  “Good God!” Dwight reached for Lily’s hand.

  Not daring to move, Lily stared straight ahead. Her voice trembled as she said, “That is certainly not the proper way to hold a gun!”

  “Quiet, Lily!”

  “Get out of the car,” Nicolas demanded.

  Dwight opened his door. As Lily stepped out, she shouted nervously, “You’ll never get anywhere in this world holding a gun like that!”

  “Shut up, Lily!”

  “Into the van!” The doors opened. Someone wearing a ski mask extended an arm to help Lily up. There were long benches on either side. A third man, wearing an identical mask, hunched in the corner. He pointed a gun at them as Dwight sat down next to Lily. Nicolas jumped into the van. “Give me your bag, your jewelry, and empty your pockets.”

  “They’re not going to kill us,” Lily whispered as they took off their watches. “If they were, they would have killed us first and then taken everything.”

  “Well what are they doing?” Dwight’s voice cracked.

  “I think they’re trying to upset us.” Lily handed her watch and rings to Nicolas. She hesitated giving him her brooch. “This too?”

  Nicolas grabbed it from her. “Everything.”

  “So much for my lucky pin,” she hissed. “You might have been a gentleman about that. God knows you’ve taken enough money from us!”

  He stuffed their things into a bag. “It’s not your money we want.”

  Dwight and Lily looked at each other. They realized they were not merely being robbed. Nicolas jumped off the van and nodded to the other men. He raised his fist and shouted, “Vive la France!”

  As the blindfolds were put over their eyes and they began to drive away, the driver shouted, “Vive la France!”

  EMMA stared at Antoine’s gun as she loosened her watchband. “And to think of all I went through to have this fixed.”

  “No,” Antoine said from behind his ski mask. “Not your watch. Just his.”

  “But it works!” she said, suddenly defensive.

  “Emma, he doesn’t want it,” Clifford snapped as he held out his watch. “Shut up!”

  “Now your wallet!”

  Emma gave him her bag. “Lucky for me nostalgia hasn’t hit France,” she muttered.

  The brown van pulled off the N3 and stopped alongside the bus. “All right.” He opened the bus door. “Get out.”

  “What for?” Emma asked.

  “Move!”

  Clifford stood up and grabbed Emma’s arm. He led her off the bus. A man in an identical ski mask pointed a gun as he helped Emma inside the van. A third masked man seated her. As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, Emma and Clifford saw the Simons sitting across from them. Blindfolded.

  “Jesus,” Clifford muttered. Emma began to laugh.

  “Oh, Dwight,” Lily whispered. “That laugh! How terrifying!”

  Clifford reached over to touch Lily’s arm. She pulled back fearfully. “Lily, it’s us! Clifford and Emma.”

  “What?” Dwight asked.

  “Clifford?” Lily asked. Then her tone lowered a full octave. “You! You two? Of all the smarmy pranks! Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?”

  “How could you do this to us?” Dwight demanded.

  “We didn’t!” Emma tried to explain, but she couldn’t stop laughing. One of the men began blindfolding Clifford and Emma.

  Lily held on to Dwight’s arm. “They’re taking us straight to hell.”

  Emma reached over, trying to find Clifford’s knee. She patted it. “Too bad, Cliffy. Looks like this turned out to be a First Class kidnapping.”

  Antoine stood at the door while the others checked the blindfolds. Just before he shut the door, he called back, “Welcome to Epernay!”

  The four of them sat still as they heard the driver yell, “Vive la France!” They lurched from side to side as the van moved back onto the highway.

  “Did they hurt you?” Clifford asked.

  “No,” Emma said.

  “I meant Dwight and Lily.”

  “Oh!”

  “No, thank goodness,” Dwight said. “Are you two all right?”

  “Of course they are,” Lily added quickly. “They must be accustomed to this type of thing.”

  “I thought you meant me,” Emma said to Clifford.

  “I knew you were all right.”

  “I don’t understand why he didn’t want my Mickey.”

  “Oh, dear,” Lily said.

  “What did she say?” Dwight asked.

  “He didn’t want her Mickey,” Lily whispered. “It must be some type of street slang.”

  “My Mickey Mouse watch!”

  “What fools they were,” Lily said coolly. “To think they took my Piaget instead.”

  “Does anyone know why we’re here?” Clifford asked.

  “Or why they’ve taken all four of us?” Dwight said.

  “Aside from lack of discrimination,” Lily began, “I would assume it has something to do with NAA. God knows, I wouldn’t put anything past Murphy.”

  “But why would he do a thing like this?” Emma asked.

  “Maybe it’s another airline trying to stop NAA.”

  “You mean TWA or Pan Am?” Dwight asked.

  “No!” Lily said, solving the mystery. “It must be Air France. Remember how testy they became when I sent back the Brie?”

  “My God!” Dwight gasped. “It might even be Aeroflot! That remark I made about the Mrs. Krushchev School for Stewardesses.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous darling; if it’s a joke that got us here, then the culprit is Polish Airlines.”

  “I’d almost forgotten,” Dwight said fearfully. “The Orange à la Duck culinary award we gave them.”

  “Well we didn’t make any of those remarks,” Emma said.

  “Why are we here?” Clifford asked.

  “It’s obvious,” Lily said. “To torture us.”

  “Clifford’s right. It’s no coincidence they got all four of us,” Dwight said. “It must have something to do with the NAA deal.”

  “Someone is trying to stop us from developing this tour.”

  “By kidnapping us,” Dwight said.

  “Or killing us,” Emma said.

  “Oh, who would take the trouble to kill you? It’s us they want,” Lily said. “And you two just happened to be there at the time.”

  “Why does everyone keep saying ‘Vive la France’?”

  “It really might be Murphy,” Dwight said.

  “God knows where they’re taking us,” Lily said.

  “He said, ‘Welcome to Epernay.’ ”

  “Yes, he did.” Dwight repeated, “He said, ‘Welcome to Epernay.’ ”

  “Perhaps he was being sarcastic,” Emma said. “Or maybe that’s where they want us to think we are.”

  “Murphy hates the four of us,” Clifford said.

  “Worse. He’s afraid of us,” Dwight added. “We could ruin his whole package.”

  Lily gasped. “What better insurance against our saying anything bad than to make certain we say nothing at all?”

  They sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the van as it rolled along the road. Finally, Emma voiced what everyone was thinking. “We are all going to die.”

  WHEN the van came to a stop, Emma huddled close to Clifford. Lily cleared her throat nervously. They heard the doors open and someone whispered, “Mon Dieu!” upon seeing them. A hand reached out for Clifford. Then Emma and Dwight and Lily. Walking one behind another on a stone floor, they heard only their own footsteps. Through a door. Down some steps. Along a corridor. Another door. More steps. Along a corridor. Another door. More steps. Into a room. And then suddenly the sound of the door closing behind them. A key in the lock.

  The four of them stood still. After a moment, Clifford
raised his hand tentatively, as though reaching toward his blindfold. He expected to be stopped. They were the only ones in the room. “Take off the blindfolds,” he said.

  The room had four mattresses on the floor and no windows. It was painted white and was lit by a large ornate crystal chandelier. A door opened to a small bathroom with sink and toilet. The room was dominated by a large mahogany dining table and four matching red velvet chairs. The table was set with a cold buffet of at least a dozen elegantly prepared platters and as many bottles of chilled champagne.

  “I don’t believe it,” Dwight said.

  “I must be seeing things,” Lily whispered. “Don’t tell me that’s really a Pâté de Caneton d’Amiens?”

  “Is that all you can think of?” Dwight asked sharply. “For God’s sake, who gives a damn about Pâté de Caneton d’Amiens? Don’t you realize, Lily, you’re standing right in front of a Tarte de Cambrai?”

  “My God, what’s wrong with me? I didn’t even see it. You can tell my nerves are shot,” Lily said, walking around the table. “Well, at least we know where we are.”

  “We do?” Clifford asked.

  “Of course,” Dwight said. “These are all regional specialties.”

  Lily sat in a chair at the dessert end of the table. “Pain d’Epices. Dragées. Gougère.” She pointed directly to a platter of macaroons as though revealing the name of the murderer. “Biscuits de Reims!”

  “We are in Champagne!” Dwight announced.

  Emma pulled out a chair and sat down. “Am I the only one here who cares about dying? What is it with all of you? Is all you care about a delicious hereafter?”

  “What a trying little pest you are, Emma darling.” Lily leaned back in her chair. “Much as I hate to be the one to tell you, no one is going to kill you.”

  “How do you know?” Clifford asked.

  “Biscuits de Reims, darling. Do you think anyone who’s going to kill us would set up such a dazzling buffet? And mattresses? They might take our identification and bring us somewhere to murder us. But they wouldn’t bring us somewhere to dine sumptuously and then murder us.”

  “What do you think they plan on doing?”

  Lily stood up and took a plate. She walked to the Flamiche aux Poireaux, a Flemish leek pie, and cut into it. “Well, darlings, it looks to my baby blues like nothing more serious than a good old-fashioned kidnapping.”

  “But who did it?” Clifford asked.

  Lily began to eat. “Someone with superb taste. Oh, this is glorious!”

  “Why would they kidnap us?” Emma asked. “Who are they going to send the ransom note to?”

  “Mmm,” Lily said between bites. “For you, they will most likely contact Fagin. For us, there’s not the slightest question. It’s Murphy! Dear, dear Murphy.”

  “That’s damned clever,” Dwight said, sitting down. “And quite a relief!”

  Clifford pulled up a chair. “It makes sense. Everyone knows how much this package is worth to NAA.”

  “Why else would they take all four of us?” Dwight asked.

  Lily walked around the table. “Dwight, darling, you simply must have some of this divine Salade aux Moules à la Boulonnaise.”

  Dwight took a plate and looked back at Emma and Clifford. “It’s only a matter of time until they get the money from NAA. Might as well make the best of it.”

  Clifford shrugged. “I guess so.” He stood up. “Emma?”

  She sat in her chair. “Before we turned this into a celebration dinner, we all thought Murphy had enough motive to want to kill us. Well, suppose he just never had the nerve?”

  “So?”

  “So, Cliffy. While you and the Gourmet Hittites are stuffing your gullets, Murphy might be stuffing his. I bet our ransom note would taste pretty delicious to him.”

  Clifford sat down. Dwight put his plate on the table. And Lily left her knife standing straight up in the Boudin Blanc.

  THE Comte de Montaigne-Villiers walked up the steps from the cellar and closed the door behind him. He hurried along the corridor lined with portraits of his ancestors and opened the door to the Salon d’Est. Isabelle sat on a velvet settee. She put down her crocheting and took a sip from a glass of Montaigne-Villiers Extra Sec.

  As Le Comte picked up the telephone and dialed, Isabelle noted, “I think someone peed in your ’73.”

  He motioned to her to keep quiet as he completed his call.

  “Concierge,” the voice said.

  “The harvest is in from the fields.”

  “The grapes have not been bruised?” Claude asked.

  “Not at all.”

  Claude paused. “You are certain they are all right?”

  “I do not bring damaged merchandise into the house of Montaigne-Villiers!”

  “Vive la France, mon ami.”

  “Vive la France!” Le Comte hung up the phone.

  Isabelle poured another glass of champagne. “I still think we should have killed the fuckers!”

  CLAUDE kept his hand on the receiver. Every moment counted. Every moment, he thought as he hesitated. Then, while Judith Cornwell of Nyack, New York waited patiently in her room for the address of the Jeu de Paume, Claude picked up the phone and dialed the Café Zola.

  “Bonjour.”

  “Emile, you may deliver the letter.”

  “Vive la France!”

  “Vive la France!” Claude looked at his watch. It was not yet ten o’clock. Mickey’s little hand would be on the ten, and his big hand very near the twelve.

  THE President of France had a cold. His nose was red, his eyes were watery and his throat was sore. It was a condition of which he was particularly fond, because it gave his voice resonance. More important, under such conditions his pronunciation became even more impeccable. He remembered waking early, pleasantly surprised by the threat of congestion. It could have been a most enjoyable day had it not been for the letter.

  Business as usual at the Wednesday Council of Ministers meeting in the Salon Murat of the Elysée Palace had been delayed indefinitely. The President of France put down his Rose Pompadour Sevrès porcelain coffee cup and sighed. The Prime Minister had passed the letter to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Then it would have to go around the table, beneath the great Georges Bontemps crystal chandelier, to the Minister of Defense, the Minister of Cooperation, the Minister of the Quality of Life and the commanders-in-chief of the Army, Navy and Air Force.

  “I shall read the letter aloud,” said the President of France, holding his hand out toward the Minister of Foreign Affairs. “It will save time.” He cleared his throat and prepared to explain to the Council of Ministers why there were four passports, three watches, two purses and two wallets in the center of the table. He was also about to perform what he regarded as one of his most solemn duties as head of state: to exemplify the correct pronunciation of the French Language.

  TO THE PRESIDENT OF FRANCE,

  We hereby demand that all foreign tourists leave the city by six o’clock tonight.

  We demand a period for reawakening traditional French values before we are buried alive under fallout from the tourist explosion. They have invaded more than our privacy; they have invaded our national heritage.

  We demand that the people of Paris be given room to stand at the top of the Eiffel Tower, to sit at the Opéra, to dine peacefully at the restaurant of their choice, to walk along the boulevards and once again hear their own language spoken.

  Unless every foreign tourist has left Paris by six o’clock this evening, the four American travel writers we are holding will die.

  The conditions for their release are:

  1)by noon: announce the deportation of all foreign tourists

  2)by six o’clock: Paris is to be cleared of all foreign tourists.

  They must not be allowed back on French soil until sunset Friday.

  Otherwise, the four will die.

  We have taken this action because we are patriots.

  We are not militant; we
are dedicated. We did not allow Paris to burn. We must not allow her to smother.

  We who fought against, and survived, the occupation of France in 1940 did not do so for Paris to be reoccupied by an equally deadly army.

  The Paris of Pasteur, Zola and Curie, of Lautrec, Cézanne and Degas, of Proust, Balzac and Dumas must be returned to the people of France.

  Vive la France!

  There was a stunned silence. The Minister of Defense glanced quickly at the Minister of the Quality of Life. The President of France drew a deep breath. Then the Prime Minister smiled. The other Ministers looked at him and nodded. To a man, the Ministers rose from their chairs and applauded.

  MURPHY paced the Ambassador’s anteroom, nervously folding and refolding his Hermès handkerchief. He had rushed to the American Embassy immediately after Etienne’s call and had been waiting for nearly half an hour. Finally, the door opened and Channing Bannister Millman came out.

  “Mr. Ambassador!”

  “Terrible, terrible,” Millman bellowed, patting Murphy on the shoulder. Two aides followed behind as he led Murphy quickly down the corridor. “I don’t know what the hell’s going to happen.”

  “Mr. Ambassador, they’re American citizens!”

  “Why the hell aren’t you people satisfied with taking tourists to the Caribbean, where they get sunshine and pools and casinos? Don’t you aces know by now that’s all anybody really wants?”

  “They’re depending upon us to help them!”

  Millman walked down the stairs that led to the garage. “I sure as hell don’t feel I’ve had a proper vacation unless I’ve been swimming.”

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Murphy pleaded.

  Millman stopped. “I know. You want me to tell you the demands will be met and your people will be safe. Well, I can’t. We’ve got over twenty nations involved in this mess. Not one of them has ever given in to terrorist demands. Now, I grant you, that was not your run-of-the-mill guerrilla love note, and the demands were pretty esoteric, but they might as well have asked for a pastrami sandwich. You can bet your ass the French won’t budge an inch.” Millman continued down the steps. “Listen to me, ace. It would cost the French Government millions to evacuate Paris. You really think they’re gonna buy that?”