Angels All Over Town

by Luanne Rice

  He squeezed my shoulders and pulled the covers higher. Cold air swept down from the north to frost the brass monkeys that night. “It was private. I didn’t want everyone to read it anyway.”

  “Even though they did, eventually. Margo saw it, and she showed Matt…”

  “They feel responsible for us. They feel as though they brought us together.”

  An understanding thought, coming from an only child. Things about the future filled my mind: what will happen while I’m in Europe? When I get back to New York? When we’re not in Watch Hill? I ached with the thought of leaving him. My train pulled out of the Westerly station the next morning at 8:24. What would happen after that? What would happen after? What would happen?

  “Did you like dinner tonight?” I asked.

  “Sure. Did you?”

  “Margo planned it for your benefit. She figured beef would be right up your alley.”

  “I know,” he said, laughing, squeezing my shoulders again. He slid under the covers, until we were smiling straight into each other’s eyes. “Matt told me.”

  Chapter 12

  A whirlwind tour of Europe, and I could think only of Sam. The Concorde (the flight being Billy and Chance’s thirtieth-birthday present to me), Daimler limousines, fine hotels, and a hefty expense account. Also, a weeping Jason Mordant.

  Jason had lost his lover, this time for good. On the plane, between nibbles of Beluga caviar and tarte aux truffes, he told me the story. Terry had been cheating on Jason with a cast member of The Fantasticks.

  “A couple of times, that I could stand,” Jason said, “but this was love. I mean, they bought a town house together. Off Seventh Avenue South, I don’t even feel like saying the name of the street. You can see it from the Buffalo Roadhouse, which used to be our hangout. It really makes me feel sick, Una.”

  “I’m really sorry, Jason,” I said, but I kept my voice closed off. I wanted privacy to savor the memory of Sam. Why hadn’t I taken any pictures of him? I always wish I had photos to remind me of how people I love look, but I didn’t even own a camera. In my luggage was a pillowcase from the turret room, full of Sam’s scent, but that was stowed in the Concorde’s hull, and, besides, the scent would soon fade.

  The flight attendant plumped small white pillows beneath our necks. The lights were dim and yellow, and there was a lulling buzz of the craft flying through the night. The window burned at the touch, from the friction of flying at a supersonic speed. Sam felt more distant with each passing time zone. I kept touching the hot window with my fingertips, to shock myself. Jason was turned away from me, his stifled sobs shaking his thin body. I covered his hand with mine. When one is in love, it is easy to give comfort to someone who is hurt. Their pain seems alien. It has nothing to do with your love. With your life. On Beyond the Bridge Jason’s character and mine shared everything. Our viewers and Soap Opera Update had just voted us “Soap Couple of the Year.” Watching Jason dissolved in agony, I tried to soothe myself with thoughts of Sam. Finally I had stumbled onto a love that would redeem me. Sam didn’t bring out the macho in me, nor did he require me to be a little girl. He let my nature take its course. I watched Jason and thought: I am nothing like you.

  Winging east, my father appeared to me. I have never been hypnotized, but that night I am sure I had the sensation of hypnosis. My eyes were closed, and I breathed in steady, sleepy breaths, but I was aware of the flight, the silently moving flight attendants, the sleepless passenger behind me, Jason dozing. My father wore a white robe. He flew alongside us, outside the aircraft. He motioned for me to roll down the hot window, and I did, as if it were a window in the Volvo.

  “The Concorde, that’s my girl,” he said, patting the sleek hull with one hand. “The Cavans go first class or we don’t go at all.”

  I smiled at him and reached for his hand. He zoomed through the sky, parting the air into turbulent black eddies. There was no body movement, however. He simply zoomed. Occasionally the plane would gather speed, and my father would lag slightly behind. I would have to lean my head out the window and look back at him, watching him try to catch up, his mouth open like that picture of a man in a wind tunnel, moving in words that were drowned out by the plane’s wind.

  “Why haven’t you come back?” I asked, when the plane slowed to a steady speed. “Since that time in Newport? I thought I’d see you in the turret room.”

  “I’ve been busy. Things to do that you can’t begin to understand, Una.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling abysmally sad.

  “But I’ve been watching you, sweetheart. You’re doing great. You’ve really turned over a new leaf.”

  Had he been watching me? Could he say that if he knew about Joe, about Sam? I blushed and shrugged my shoulders. I had to avoid his eyes, which were sunken into his sockets. He looked much worse than he had the last time. The sight of him made me want to weep.

  “I know what you’re thinking, honey,” he said, bringing his hand to my cheek. “You think I haven’t been doing my job. But I’ve seen it all. I know you’ve made some mistakes—we all do. That’s for sure. But you’re on the right track. You’re heading in the right direction. That’s all I ask.”

  Behind me the sleepless passenger asked the flight attendant for a glass of pineapple juice. I wondered whether the air from my open window was bothering him.

  “Your movie audition, for example,” my father said. “I’ll be right there when you have it. It makes me so damn proud. My daughter, a movie star! A regular Katharine Hepburn!”

  “Well, it hasn’t happened yet.”

  “No, but you’re making headway. Not to mention that Sam. He’s a hell of a guy, a real gentleman. I know you two made a couple moral slip-ups, but I just turned a blind eye. It’s the intention that matters.”

  “What is his intention?” I asked, burning to know.

  “Why, he wants to marry you,” my father said, his white robe rustling behind him like God’s or an angel’s. “It might take him some time to ask you, but he will. That’s something I know for sure.”

  “What do you think about Lily and Margaret?”

  My father smiled, and most of his teeth were black. Two were gold. “Dad, you should see a dentist,” I said, alarmed.

  He brought one hand to his mouth, exploring his teeth with one finger, his eyes troubled. “Yes, they’re all rotten, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly, with a wave, my father veered off into the night. A swirling black-and-purple wake, glittering with tiny stars or bioluminescence, followed him until he disappeared, leaving me to wonder whether he had meant his teeth were all rotten, or that Lily and Henk and Margo and Matt were rotten. Behind me the sleepless passenger plunked down his empty glass on the tray. I took that as a signal of irritation, and I rolled up the window. But I didn’t stop scanning the blackness until much later, when the jet hit an air shear, jostling me out of sleep.

  I wakened wondering whether my experience had been no more than a strange dream.

  Chance had arranged for Jason and me to spend two days in Paris before beginning our tour. Our itinerary would take us to visit United States Army installations at the Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers in Europe, better known as SHAPE, in Belgium; the First Armored Division in Nuremberg and the Seventh Corps Headquarters in Stuttgart, Germany; the 509th Airborne Infantry in Vicenza, Italy. But first we were directed to recover from jet lag and enjoy Paris. I was to contact Emile Balfour. We had accommodations at the Hôtel de Crillon, the Schutzes’ favorite, between the Tuileries and Jardin des Champs Elysées.

  Paris in late September. For the first morning I did no more than sleep deeply beneath white percale sheets and featherlight blankets. My room contained pale green-and-cream silk curtains and Louis XVI furniture. The windows overlooked the hotel’s interior courtyard. I would waken, glance around the unfamiliar and luxurious room, and fall back to sleep. Finally I wakened for good. Lifting the receiver, I said, “Café filtre et un brioche, s’il vou
s plaît.” Margo had prepared a list of useful phrases for me. We had approached it like a computer dating service, with Margo matching the phrases with my habits. She spent an hour asking me questions like “Do you prefer butter or preserves? What kind of preserves?”

  I had finished breakfast and had already written a long letter to Sam on the Hôtel de Crillon’s cream vellum stationery when I finally called to leave a message with Emile Balfour’s secretary. I had not even had time to work myself into a nervous frenzy when he called me back.

  “Miss Cavan,” he said in perfect, gracious English. “Welcome to France.”

  “Thank you.” I straightened up, pulling the covers over my breasts, as if he could see me. I had left the window open to let in the cool night air, and now I heard voices in the courtyard. Low, female voices speaking in French. The clink of a china coffee cup being placed on a saucer.

  “I know your business will take you to several locations before you return to France. Perhaps you will read for me on your return?”

  “I would be delighted to. Enchanted,” I said, trying to decide whether or not to say “enchanté.” I have always disliked using foreign words such as ambiance, cachepot, and manicotti because I do not feel I have the authority to pronounce them properly. Who am I to say “manigotte”? “What will you have me read?” I asked.

  “Ahhh—” I could almost hear his shrug. “We do not have that type of formality. I will decide on a scene when you arrive. Will that be acceptable?”

  “Of course.” Emile Balfour, asking me whether it would be acceptable. He came from the same school as Chance Schutz.

  “So, listen: are you free tonight? You would like to go to Palace, see something else of Paris?”

  “I’d love to!” What the hell was Palace? I pictured some Gothic château on the banks of the Loire, with crenellations and a moat, towers and balustrades. But the Loire was far away; were there castles on the Seine?

  “Great. I will come to you at ten tonight. We will have supper.” Then he hung up.

  I added a long postscript to Sam’s letter, dressed, and knocked on Jason’s door. When he answered I could see that I had wakened him. The room smelled of heavy sleep; the curtains and shades were drawn, and the only light was that which slanted in from the hall.

  “Want to be my fellow tourist?” I asked. I hung back, not wanting to get too close. I was afraid of what might spring at me from the dark.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly noon. We should get hopping.”

  “No, I haven’t even thought about coffee yet. You’d better go without me.”

  I stood in the hall, regarding Jason in his handsome dark-silk robe. His tan skin looked sallow in the room’s blackness, and there were shadows beneath his eyes. I wanted to yank him into the light, shake his shoulders, tell him to pull himself together. “Well, okay,” I said doubtfully. “Would you like to meet this afternoon?”

  “Oh, knock on my door if you’re in the neighborhood. Don’t make any special trips, though.”

  “Maybe we should plan on lunch. I’ll come back around one-thirty—”

  “Listen, you’re not being paid to keep an eye on me,” he snapped, then immediately grabbed my forearm. “Forgive me, Una. I’m a crank when I first wake up.”

  “That’s all right,” I said cheerfully, heading down the hall, feeling as though someone had just poured gravy on my head. I hate having people yell at me, especially when I don’t deserve it. It reminds me too much of being young, of trying to please everyone in sight.

  This was my first visit to Paris. I walked alone on the Faubourg St.-Honoré. It reminded me of a celestial version of Madison Avenue. Hermès, Au Bain Marie. Shops of expensive hand-painted and hand-embroidered articles. Jewels. Cafés. I walked into a tiny children’s store and bought a fuzzy white lamb. With some difficulty I directed the shopwoman, who spoke shaky English, to send it to Lily in New York. Even on these streets the French women carried shopping bags, the way peasant women did in picture books of French life, only here the bags were of fine leather instead of cotton net, and they contained snakeskin wallets and Turkish cigarettes instead of leeks and turnips. I wandered along the Champs Elysées toward the Arc de Triomphe. It stood before me, carved with intricate reliefs, seeming to block the street. I wished I had had the presence of mind to buy a guidebook in New York. I thought of the Louvre, the Rodin Museum (where I wished to buy something for Margo), Notre Dame. But instead of exploring, I found a small café with wrought-iron chairs and tables on the busy sidewalk beside a flower market and wrote another letter to Sam.

  The scent of out-of-season irises, tulips, and peonies mingled with car fumes and the smell of strong coffee. I drank mine black.

  Dear Sam, I wrote,

  Well, here I am, the American in Paris, watching tout le monde (Margo will translate) from this sidewalk café. Gertrude Stein, Gertrude Stein, Gertrude Stein. Are you reading this on the beach? Are you within sight of the black zone? Shouldn’t the neap tides be along any day now? I have been reading Rachel Carson avidly.

  As I mentioned in my letter earlier, I’m going to meet Emile Balfour tonight. He’s taking me to something called “Palace.” Do you have any idea? I feel this need to act very cool, very suave with him. After all, if he’s going to make me a movie star, I have to act the part. Of course, he’s probably a perfectly humble nice guy and Palace is probably his local bowling alley, and I’m all hepped up over nothing.

  Two transvestites just walked by.

  I can’t believe I’m in Paris. I’m actually sitting in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe. Everything is magnificent, but so far jet lag prevents me from feeling totally fine. I’m walking the streets in a real daze. First of all I can’t speak the language. Second of all I don’t know anyone except Jason, who’s in a blue funk. It’s very sad—his loved one left him. I can’t imagine being in Paris with a broken heart—

  How are Matt and Margo? Margo will be mighty pissed off when you get two letters from me and she gets none, but tell her I’ll write from Brussels or somewhere.

  I wish you were here with me. I loved being with you at Watch Hill. This trip, by all accounts, will last for two weeks, and then we can meet in New York. After today I’ll start sending letters to your New York address. I miss you, Sam.

  Avec beaucoup d’amour,

  Una

  Margo, along with her pragmatic French phrases, had given me some romantic French phrases to use in letters to Sam. How I love letters! They allow you to say things that might be difficult face-to-face. You can think about the words, erase them if they aren’t perfect, hold back if you are unsure. But that day, sitting at my café table in the Paris sun, I did not feel unsure. I pictured Sam, walking along the sand flats. In Watch Hill it would be early morning. He would be walking slowly, his hands deep in the pockets of his khaki shorts, his messy black hair falling into his eyes. He would be looking east, across the Atlantic, facing the shores of France, squinting into the rising sun. We were separated by the mere element of water.

  Jason had risen and was smoking a black cigarette in the lobby when I returned. He wore a pale yellow silk shirt with a maroon foulard scarf knotted around his neck, and he wore sunglasses with very dark lenses. “Eh, ça va?” he said, standing to greet me.

  “Say what?” I asked, kissing both his cheeks.

  “How goes it, Una my love?”

  “You said all that in three tiny syllables?”

  A wave of the hand. “Inflection is all. Absolutely all. You can speak volumes in one sentence, if you only have the right tone.”

  “Like on Beyond, when Beck looks at Delilah and says, ‘But why?’”

  “Exactly.” Jason checked his black diver’s watch. “My mother’s French. I speak la langue fluently. Rustily, but fluently.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that.” I marveled at the strangeness of not knowing very much about Jason’s family. We spent every day working together and were America’s favorite daytime cou
ple, and I hadn’t known his mother was French. Was she still alive? Did she live in Paris? I wanted to ask, but Jason grabbed his buttery leather jacket and kissed my cheek.

  “Listen, I’m off. You don’t mind if I desert you?”

  “No, not at all.” Flustered, I had thought we could spend the afternoon together. I suddenly felt marooned and without options. “Oh, wait,” I called just before he went through the door. “Have you ever heard of ‘Palace’? I’m supposed to be going there with Balfour tonight.”

  Jason took a step back and grinned, his foot planted dramatically on the marble floor. “How chichi. It’s a terrific nightclub called ‘Palace des Complines.’ Known to the cool people as ‘Palace.’ Impossible to get into unless you are with one of the greats. I’m going to Crazy Zebra, myself. It’s Crazy Horse for gays.”

  “Well, have fun,” I said. I wanted to wait by the door, to see whom Jason would meet, but politeness prevented me. Crazy Horse? Palace? Whatever had happened to Le Moulin Rouge, Les Deux Magots, Les Folies Bérgères? All the great Paris haunts of legend and song? Of Hemingway, Lautrec, Colette, Scott and Zelda, Matisse, and Picasso? What did one wear to Palace? I ran upstairs to peruse my wardrobe.

  When Emile Balfour rang my room at ten that night, I looked fabulous. I had gone to a fancy beauty salon and had my hair washed and twisted into a magnificent chignon. It was very severe and accented my sharp profile. I wore a gold satin tunic with a belt of twisted silk and brass baubles over skinny, straight-legged black pants. On my feet I wore pointed gold shoes, the toes slightly upturned, like Aladdin’s. My black stockings were sheer, flecked with gold. The entire ensemble brought out gold highlights in my auburn hair. I thought I looked very modish.

  Taking the elevator to the lobby, I felt short of breath. I tried to rehearse what I would say to him. Should I call him Emile or Mr. Balfour? Would it be better to appear confident, as a colleague, and say “Hi, Emile,” or would it be better to show my awe, to act a bit subservient, and say, “How do you do, Mr. Balfour”? Or “Monsieur Balfour”? Movie directors adored adulation, but he had said on the telephone that he did not believe in formality. When the grand elevator doors slid open, and I was finally standing in the lobby, I was too muddled to do anything but beam when Emile Balfour, tall and wonderfully handsome in his tuxedo, came toward me, kissed both my cheeks, and said quietly into my ear, “Welcome to Paris.”