CHAMPAGNE BLUES

by Nan

  “Sweet Jesus,” Murphy said, his voice catching. “What will happen to them?”

  “I wouldn’t hold the presses if I were you.”

  “I’ll never forgive myself.”

  The aides led Millman to the limousine. “They’re waiting for me now at the Elysée. I’ll do the best I can.” Millman got inside and slammed the door.

  Murphy motioned for him to open the window and leaned over to speak softly. “I can remember the first time I read a Lily Simon restaurant review. She was ripping apart a chef who dared to make an espagnole demi-glace with arrowroot rather than flour. You know what that woman has done for our country?”

  “Pull yourself together, ace. You may have to drop some names from your Christmas-card list.”

  THE Council sat waiting in the Salon Murat. The scene resembled a Dürer sketch in which every face expressed another point of view. Except for the President of France, who sat expressionless as he inhaled a mentholated cigarette and sucked on a pineapple lozenge.

  In the next room, the Prime Minister was conferring with the ambassadors from Australia, Belgium, Brazil, Canada, Germany, Italy, Japan, The Netherlands, Portugal, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Spain, Switzerland, the United Kingdom, and the United States of America.

  The Minister of Justice sighed as he glanced at the passports. “Empty. There is nothing in those faces.”

  The Minister of the Interior put down his calculator. “It is an impossible figure to estimate.”

  “To say nothing of the tourist dollars that would be lost during the period of withdrawal.” The Minister of Economy and Finance shook his head. “Eurodollars, Petrodollars and now we have Tourodollars.” He shrugged. “I suppose there is also a difference between widows and old maids, but by the time they have become what they are, they are all the same.”

  The Minister of Justice smiled. “We must take care not to embrace the empty symbolism of the café intellectuals. That is, if we are to survive the unfavorable publicity of our decision.”

  The Ministers nodded at one another and listened for some response from the next room. Finally, the long period of waiting ended as the door opened and the Prime Minister came in. All eyes were on him. “Of course, they were not pleased with our decision,” he said defensively.

  The President of France stood up. “I do not expect them to be pleased! We agreed there was no choice. The problem is not whether they are pleased. The problem is, how do we get them all out by six o’clock?”

  “THEY can’t be serious!” Murphy said. As Etienne drove rapidly along the rue Royale, he repeated over and over again, “They can’t be serious! The travel industry will never recover from this!”

  “Mon Dieu! Would you prefer that the Simons and the Benjamins were killed?”

  Murphy thought for a moment. “Watch out for that bus,” he muttered.

  Etienne slammed on the brakes as the Cityrama bus pulled out in front of him on the turn into the rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré. “Do you see what that fool is doing? He will make me late!” Etienne began honking his horn. “Late for the President!”

  Murphy pointed to the bus. “It’s your own fault, tiger, for doing such a good job.”

  Etienne nodded ruefully, and then a bitter smile crossed his lips. “It will be interesting to see the city without tourists.” He stared out at the crowds on the most famous shopping street in Paris.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. They’ll never do it. They’ll find another way. Just as soon as somebody adds up what it would cost.”

  “There are some things, Murphy, that are worth doing no matter how excessive the cost may seem to be.”

  “Right you are,” he said with a smile. “And you just happen to be driving one of them.”

  Etienne turned away. He put his hand full on the horn as though bleating out his response to Murphy. “Damn them!” he muttered. “Get moving!” he yelled out the window.

  “Mind you,” Murphy said with a shrug, “there’s no sum of money too great to save my dear friends.” He raised his eyebrows as though advising his ears they need not believe what his mouth just said. Etienne continued honking. “It’s just that we’re gonna have one sweet time regaining the tourists’ confidence. You know, it’s gonna make your life a helluva lot harder.”

  “I will not have a life unless that bus moves! I cannot keep the President of France waiting!”

  “Tell him it’s because you’ve done such a terrific job. He’ll be very impressed. There are so many damn tourists in Paris the traffic can’t move. Jesus. I can’t wait to see a traffic jam like this in Epernay!”

  “I have been Secretary of Tourism for six years and I have never met the President! I have never even been invited to the Elysée Palace! Now I am the most important man in an incredible international crisis and I cannot get there because of the traffic!” He honked and honked and honked. “They are right!” he cried out. “Everything they said was right! We should get every last one of them out of Paris!”

  “So what kind of mileage you get on this baby?”

  Etienne narrowed his eyes. “You think I do not mean that,” he said softly.

  “Maybe, old pal. But you’ll never go through with it.”

  “You think we will never tell the tourists to get out.”

  Murphy nodded. “I know you will never tell the tourists to get out.”

  Etienne released the automatic door lock. He turned to Murphy. Without any expression on his face, he said, “Get out.”

  “It’s a good thing you’re only the Secretary of Tourism and not in charge of the panic button.”

  “I said, get out. Get out of the car.”

  Murphy rubbed his head. “You mean, as in Get out, this car ain’t big enough for the two of us?”

  “I mean, as in telling the tourists to get out of Paris. I mean, as in Paris is not big enough for the two of us!” Etienne waited. He leaned over to open the car door on Murphy’s side. “Get out!”

  Without saying a word, Murphy stepped from the car. Etienne reached over and closed the door. He pressed a button to raise all the windows. He pressed a button to lock the doors. He pressed a button to turn on his headlights. And he kept his hand on the horn all the way to the Elysée Palace.

  Murphy stood on the sidewalk. He heart was pounding. As in The prisoner was condemned to death.

  WHILE the Ministers sat around the table, the Elysée Palace physician-in-residence looked down the throat of the President of France. He narrowed his gaze. “Say ‘Chablis.’ ”

  “Chablis,” said the President of France.

  The physician nodded approvingly. “Bon. Now say ‘Bordeaux.’ ”

  “Bordeaux.”

  The physician, careful to save the tongue depressor for a nephew, closed his bag. “There is no cause for alarm. The condition is sure to last for at least two more days.”

  The President smiled and, as the physician left, motioned for the Minister of the Quality of Life to continue.

  “Monsieur Duvert,” the Minister said nodding at Etienne, “has informed me there is an average for the month of October of somewhat under half a million tourists. If we divide this figure by thirty-one days, we have approximately sixteen thousand tourists per day.”

  “And they are all at Julien’s when I want a table!” said the Minister of Cooperation.

  The Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces pushed up his cuff and turned on his calculator watch. “I suggest, to be safe, we escalate the figure to twenty thousand.”

  “I agree,” said the Minister of the Interior. “That will account for the overflow at La Coupole.”

  The Chief of Staff continued. “If we say twenty thousand, and then divide by an average of two hundred seats per plane, we need only one hundred planes.”

  “But to get them to the planes,” said the Minister of Planning and Regional Development, “we would need some four hundred buses or trucks.”

  “Mon Dieu,” muttered the Prime Minister. “Four hundred buses and trucks.” He pau
sed for a moment. “All filled with tourists.” He brushed back a wisp of hair from his face. “All filled with tourists,” he repeated slowly.

  “Being taken away,” said the Minister of Cooperation.

  “Bus after bus after bus,” mused the Minister of Justice.

  “Far out of the city,” sighed the Minister of Foreign Affairs.

  There was a very long silence. The Minister of Planning and Regional Development took a deep breath and spoke softly. “It will be an unforgettable sight!”

  After a moment, the Minister of Foreign Affairs asked, “I wonder what will be the best place to see it from?”

  “We must keep the children up to watch until the very end,” said the President of France.

  “If only my son were older,” said the Chief of Staff. “Still, I am sure there will be pictures.”

  “There will be more time for this later.” The Minister of Foreign Affairs cleared his throat. “We must determine where the planes are to be sent.”

  “I have the ambassadors in the next room,” said the Prime Minister. “I shall inform them now that we require their assistance.”

  “It is first and foremost a mission of mercy,” said the Minister of Justice.

  “Oh, no,” laughed the Prime Minister. “I do not think we can expect them to understand that.”

  “No, no,” said the Minister of Justice. “I do not mean for us. I am talking about saving the Americans.”

  “Of course,” said the Prime Minister. “That is our only concern. Surely they will help.”

  The Minister of Economy and Finance shook his head as he came out of a huddle with his staff. “The cost will be enormous. What do you think the chances are they will share the expenses?”

  The Minister of Foreign Affairs shrugged his shoulders. “The American Government should be most generous. What do you think?” he asked the Prime Minister. “Can we cover some of the costs? I am willing to contribute a modest amount. After all, it would be expensive to underwrite a rescue mission. That is, if we even knew where they are being held.”

  The Prime Minister took a deep breath. “Yes. I think the Minister of Economy and Finance has come up with a splendid idea. But even though we may be able to arrange such a subsidy, we must be prepared that the tourists will still be a very costly item for us to export.”

  “Mon Dieu!” Etienne jumped up. “Pardon! But that is the answer!”

  The Minister of the Quality of Life scowled. “It is my pleasure to introduce the Secretary of Tourism.”

  Etienne began walking slowly around the table. “Monsieur le Président, the Prime Minister has solved the entire problem. The tourists should be viewed as a product we are exporting. A product like any other. A bottle of wine. A piece of cheese. A machine. Oui. A money machine. The tourists spend money wherever they go. Is the Republic of France to give away to other nations that which we have worked so many years to attract to our shores?” Every eye was on Etienne as he walked from chair to chair, moving closer to the President. “No! If I were the Secretary of Transport, would you ask me to give away our trains and planes? No, you would not! If I were Secretary of Housing, would you ask me to give away our homes? You would not! If I were Secretary of Agriculture, would you ask me to give away our crops? No! No, you would not! With all due respect, Monsieur le Président, I am Secretary for a product as valuable as any other. I beg you, let us not send the tourists away! I beg you, let us not give the tourists away! I beg you, Monsieur le Président, let us sell the tourists!”

  For the second time that morning, the Ministers sat motionless as though in shock. Raised eyebrow met raised eyebrow. Inquiring glance met shrugged shoulders. And finally, Etienne met the President of France.

  “What is your name, my son?”

  “Etienne Duvert.”

  The President of France put his hands on Etienne’s shoulders. “I cannot kiss you because I have a cold.” He peered into Etienne’s eyes. “Tell me,” he asked, “how much do you think we can get for them?”

  CLIFFORD stood in the corner with his ear pressed against the door. Emma paced the length of the room, rolling her head from shoulder to shoulder to relieve the tension. Dwight sat on a red velvet chair and stared into his plate of uneaten Salade aux Moules à la Boulonnaise. Lily was hunched over in her chair, staring intently from mattress to mattress, from corner to corner, from floor to ceiling. Her eyes darted around the room. She nodded as though approving some master plan.

  Lily walked over to the mattresses. She bent down, grabbed one and began dragging it across the floor. Clifford and Dwight turned to watch. Lily pulled the mattress to the other side of the room and, after pinwheeling one end, rested it against the wall. She stood back and admired her chaise. While hauling a second mattress across the room, Lily, groaned as Emma, still pacing nervously, nearly collided with her.

  After manufacturing a second chaise, Lily positioned a red velvet chair as an end table. She took a vase of flowers from the buffet and put it on her table. Hands on hips, she admired her handiwork before turning to point an accusing finger directly at the two remaining mattresses. Eyes riveted to her every move, they watched Lily as though looking over the shoulder of a brilliant neurosurgeon. She breathed heavily while piling one mattress on top of the other in order to construct a sofa.

  Lily took a deep breath and removed her jacket. She rolled up her sleeves, narrowed her eyes and scrutinized the dishes on the table with the fervor of a mother hen searching for her chicks. Smiling, she reached for the Betteraves au Cumin, a chilled salad of beets in vinegar with caraway seeds. Lily then pinched each rosebud in the vase until she found one firm enough. She tucked a napkin into her blouse. With the Betteraves in one hand and her rosebud raised on high, she walked triumphantly to the blank wall between her Lily-the-First chaise and her Lily-the-First sofa.

  As though tutored by Rivera, she dipped the rosebud into the beet juice and drew an enormous purple square on the white wall. Then she divided it into four equal parts by drawing a line vertically down the center and a line across the horizontal. Lily smiled broadly as her audience watched in astonished silence. She dipped and redipped the rosebud. With the greatest of flourishes, she drew curtains on either side of her window.

  Dwight began to smile. Emma stopped pacing and looked over at Clifford. As all heads turned to watch, Lily selected a fresh rosebud. She picked up a dish of mustard and walked back to her window. She drew a large yellow circle peeking out from behind the curtains. Using the mustard with the assurance of Van Gogh, she painted a bright sun. As a final touch, she drew cheerful little rays.

  Dwight applauded. He stood up and shouted, “Brava! Brava, Lily!”

  Emma ran across the room and put her arms around Clifford. Lily’s performance terrified her. “All the world is not a stage!” Emma yelled.

  “Wouldn’t you know she’d get that line wrong?” Lily said to Dwight. “See here, Raggedy Ann, I am merely trying to brighten things up a bit, to help us survive this ordeal more pleasantly.”

  “What makes you so certain we’ll survive?” Emma asked.

  Lily ignored the question and spoke to Dwight. “There’s still one thing missing.” She dipped her rosebud into the mustard and put a little yellow circle on the wall. “A present for you, my darling. Room Service!”

  “Lily,” Emma began.

  “I know!” Lily interrupted. “The play’s not the thing!”

  “Don’t you realize the danger we’re in?” Emma asked.

  “Would you really feel better, darling, if I beat my fists on the door and screamed?”

  “It might convince me you were human. My God, Lily, aren’t you worried at all?”

  “Good news at last, Emma,” she said sarcastically. “Yes, I am worried.”

  “Dearest.” Dwight held her close.

  She took a deep breath. “If you must know, I’m terrified the sons of bitches haven’t asked for enough money.”

  “What?” Emma asked.

  �
�See here, you don’t think I want to be ransomed off like forgotten railway baggage!” She turned to Dwight. “I’ll never be able to face anyone if this turns out to be some sort of penny-ante abduction.”

  Dwight tried to comfort her. “Lily, all you have to do is look at the table to know this plot was thickened with great care and style.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, brushing a wisp of hair from her face. “I know it’s been beautifully catered. But you can’t expect me to overlook these depressing summer-stock mattresses. Darling, they do give one pause.”

  “Jesus,” Clifford muttered.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m the one who’s wrong,” Emma said. “Maybe I’m crazy.”

  “Perhaps it’s merely that the Princess and the Pauper don’t realize they’ve been in worse danger before,” Lily said.

  “Indeed,” Dwight said. “I don’t know how you two survived some of the restaurants you’ve reviewed. Seems to me you’re safer right now than you’ve been in years.”

  Suddenly, Emma turned to Clifford. “Cliffy, is this the jacket you wore the day you got your hair cut at the barber school?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Take it off!”

  “Why?”

  “Take it off. Please!” Clifford removed his jacket and handed it to her. Emma felt the inside breast pocket. She smiled. “It’s still there!”

  “What is?” he asked.

  “The pencil.” Emma was examining the lining. “You complained about the hole in your pocket. Oh, Cliffy,” she said excitedly, “it’s still there!”

  “Splendid!” Lily gushed. “Now you can draw in little roaches on your side of the room and feel right at home.”

  “Let’s all have a drink,” Dwight said, trying to change the subject.

  “My hero,” Lily cooed.

  Dwight walked to the wall and pressed the yellow button. “A bottle of bubbly coming up!”

  “I’ve got it!” Emma shouted.

  Lily sat down and sighed. “I can hardly wait to see what the Queen of the Vile has in store for us.”

  Emma pulled up a chair and cleared a space at the table. She smoothed out the cloth. “It’s very simple, Diamond Lily. It’s time one of us coped with the reality of being captured, imprisoned and in danger of being killed. I am going to write my will.”