Scorpio Rising

by Monique Domovitch

  Still weak from her ordeal, she clung to Marcel's arm for support as he showed her through the empty rooms. “Marcel, I can't afford an apartment like this. I need is a small place. I don't have any furniture.”

  Marcel saw the worry in her eyes and quickly reassured her. “Brigitte, I don't want you to worry about a thing. Leave everything to me.”

  “But I could never repay…”

  Marcel put his index finger to his lips. “Shhhh! I don't want you to worry about having to repay anything. I only want to help. I am a rich man and I can afford this. Besides, you don't have only yourself to think about anymore. There is the baby.”

  At the mention of the word baby, Brigitte's heart sank, but she said nothing.

  “Trust me, Brigitte. I'm only thinking of you. Besides, what other choice have you got?”

  Brigitte's eyes swept over the apartment again. Every room was lovelier than the last. She imagined living in a place like this, where the floors were polished wood, the kitchen was sunny and modern, and the closets were so large one could walk right in. This could all be hers. Everything would be so much easier. All she had to do was say the word. If she did not accept Marcel's kind offer, then what? He's right, she thought. What choice do I really have?

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I'll take it.” Brigitte felt as if a giant weight had just been lifted from her shoulders. God bless Marcel. He must be the kindest man in the world. He treats me as if I were his own daughter.

  Marcel threw himself into the role of benefactor with enthusiasm. He took charge of Brigitte's life with a concern and efficiency that was almost frightening. “Leave everything to me,” he told Brigitte as soon as she accepted the apartment. He rushed off to work, leaving her in the bare flat. Back at his office, he closed the heavy mahogany door, called in Jeanne and barked more orders to her than he had in months. “A small table and chairs, a mattress, and make sure to get household linens while you’re at it.”

  Jeanne took notes, nodding from time to time. Although she seemed perfectly composed, inside she was livid. How could he? As soon as Marcel had given her the address in the fifth arrondissement, she knew her suspicions had been right. How could he make that child his mistress? She bit her tongue and said nothing. There were not many jobs that paid as much as hers.

  “By the way, Brigitte notified me that she found other employment. She won't be coming in anymore.” His eyes avoided hers.

  I'll bet she found a job, the oldest profession in the world. “After everything you did for her,” Jeanne exclaimed, sounding outraged. “What an ungrateful girl.” She had the small satisfaction of seeing Marcel Latreille look embarrassed for a moment.

  “When I help someone, I do it for no other reason than for the deed itself. I don't expect anything in return,” he answered virtuously.

  You hypocritical little worm, Jeanne wanted to shout. Instead she said, “Monsieur Latreille you are an inspiration. I wonder if Madame Latreille knows just what a gem she has as a husband.” She smiled sweetly. “Will that be all?”

  “Yes, that's all, thank you Jeanne,” replied her employer, looking uncomfortable. “Just one more thing. Keep this to yourself would you? I want a home away from home, somewhere I can escape. If anyone finds out about it, my privacy will be shot.”

  Jeanne nodded. “Don't worry, I won't tell a soul.” She closed her steno pad and walked out. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes when Madame Latreille finds out, and one thing I know is that she will find out. The thought gave her great satisfaction.

  * * *

  Brigitte had no idea how painful it would be to go back to the rooming house. In her room, the bed was still unmade. Though the bare mattress had been scrubbed clean, Brigitte could still see the faint traces of blood. I almost died, she thought, remembering the horror of that night. If not for Marcel, I would have. She quickly gathered her belongings, paid the landlady, and left.

  Outside, she almost turned toward Richoux. It would have been nice to go back and see her friends. I'll speak to Marcel about it, she decided, and took a taxi back to her new apartment. Except for the new folding table and chairs in the kitchen and the mattress in the bedroom, the apartment was completely bare. Brigitte put her few belongings in the large walk-in closet and waited for Marcel.

  Later that evening when he stopped by, Brigitte was surprised at the surge of happiness she felt when she saw him. Over coffee she broached the subject. “I don't care what the doctor says. I'm feeling well.” She hesitated for a moment, glancing at him over the rim of her cup. He was in a good mood, enjoying a piece of rich chocolate cake. She gathered her courage, and continued. “I thought, maybe if I could go back to Richoux…”

  “Under no circumstance,” interrupted Marcel, explosively. “I don't want you to ever set foot there,” he told her. He put his fork down hard and it clattered on the plate. “I know you miss having friends, but you are not to see or speak to any of the employees. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly,” answered Brigitte, surprised at the vehemence with which Marcel had spoken.

  “Believe me, Brigitte. I'm only doing this for you.”

  His anger had been so quick and strong, Brigitte dared not insist. I'll find other ways to keep myself occupied. After all, he is being so generous, how can I refuse him this one request?

  Suddenly Brigitte's days were filled with appointments. There were endless meetings and decisions to be made about the apartment. A decorator had been hired and he wanted to discuss every detail. “Before we do anything, we have to agree on the style you want. Then we’ll go on to define a mood—choose colors and textures. The last thing we do is select the furniture.” Tony De Angelo was a short, balding man, given to grand arm gestures and a dramatically elegant style of dressing. Brigitte liked him instantly.

  Style? thought Brigitte, overwhelmed with the number of decisions she needed to make. It would have been so much simpler if I found a small apartment. Despite how frightening the whole process was, she found herself enjoying it.

  Tony bubbled over with dozens of ideas. He walked through the apartment spitting them out so quickly Brigitte could barely follow.

  “…and over there.” He pointed theatrically to the far corner. “A mass of tropical plants. This room, yellow. What do you think?”

  Brigitte nodded. “I-I think so.” She had never met anyone who thought, or for that matter spoke, so fast. “I like the idea of yellow. It would be like waking up in sunshine. We could choose a bright print for the bedspread and curtains, something happy and floral.”

  Tony threw up his arms enthusiastically. “That's great. A brilliant print will look wonderful here. I imagined something more classic but your idea is wonderful. Let's go for it.”

  Marcel walked out of Richoux at seven-thirty. By the time he arrived at the apartment, he was tired and cranky. Brigitte rushed to great him and took his coat. She was eager to show him the preliminary plans. “Look. This is a sample of the fabric I chose for the upholstery. And here, this is what the living room will look like. What do you think?” She waited, eager for his approval.

  Marcel looked at them doubtfully. “A bit on the bold side, don't you think? What about something a bit more subdued? You know, something with a bit more class. This… Well, it just looks so…common.”

  The next day, to Tony's great distress, Brigitte canceled all the previous day's plans. “I think your ideas are fresh and wonderful,” insisted Tony. “You have a natural sense of style. I wish you would trust your instincts about those fabrics and colors. They suit your personality much better than a quiet and elegant look.”

  Brigitte was equally adamant, however. Pleasing Marcel meant a great deal to her. After all, he was paying for everything and was so kind. “I would have enjoyed bright colors, but the decision is really not mine to make.”

  Tony did not insist. The man with the checkbook speaks loudest, he thought. He opened his notepad and jotted down the latest instructions.

  Later when Marcel calle
d from the office, Brigitte told him of her decision. “I'm glad you changed your mind about that fabric,” he told her. “Don't worry. I'll teach you all about good taste. In no time, you'll be a proper young woman.” He laughed as he said it. “By the way,” he asked. “Did you call the adoption agency?”

  Brigitte hesitated. “No, not yet,” she answered. “I'll get around to it soon. I just haven't had the time.” Afterwards Brigitte wondered why she kept putting off something she knew she wanted to do. I still have plenty of time. The baby isn't due for months. She quickly put the thought out of her mind.

  Soon, the renovations began. Carpenters and painters took over the apartment and for weeks the sound of hammering and sawing went on from morning till night. “Oops! Sorry, lady. I didn't see you there.” The man had almost hit Brigitte with a long piece of lumber.

  “No problem. I'll just get out of your way.” She carried her morning cup of coffee to the kitchen only to be disturbed again two minutes later.

  “Sorry, lady. Would you mind if I used the table here?” The burly man set his tool box on the marble without waiting for an answer. Coffee splashed across the surface.

  “No problem, I'll just get out of your way.”

  No matter where she went, somebody seemed to be tripping over her. I'm getting out of here, she decided, moments after brushing against some wet paint in the hall and earning herself a dirty look from the painter. She grabbed her coat and fled. From that day on, Brigitte left as soon as the first workman arrived and returned only when she was sure the last one had left.

  Then, with no one around, she leisurely walked through the apartment and inspected the day's progress. So much work had been done, yet there was still so much to do. New plaster moldings were going up throughout the apartment. A new marble floor had been chosen for the entrance. Walls were being painted with a faux-marble effect. The entire project was taking on ridiculously large proportions. This is crazy. I never wanted anything so elaborate. I would have been happy in a rooming house.

  * * *

  Marcel’s day was long and hard. For months now, the sales figures had been slipping. He had tried a new, more aggressive advertising campaign but the response had been disappointing. Today, Hélène had stormed into his office demanding to know what he was proposing to do about the situation. Half a dozen aspirins later, his head was still throbbing.

  He drove slowly. The thought of Hélène waiting for him at home was anything but enticing. On the other hand, Brigitte was always a joy to be with. He made up his mind, suddenly pulled a sharp turn, and drove off in the opposite direction. Fifteen minutes later, he let himself into Brigitte's apartment. “Brigitte, I'm home!”

  Brigitte appeared from the kitchen. “Marcel! What a nice surprise,” she exclaimed. “How did you get in?”

  He showed her the key. “I kept one. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. I'm here all by myself. I feel safer knowing you have a key. Can I get you something to drink?”

  Marcel collapsed onto the couch and patted the seat next to him. “First I want a kiss, and then you can make me a scotch,” he said.

  Brigitte ran over and threw her arms around him. “Marcel, you are the dearest person in the world.”

  Between sips of his drink he talked about the dropping sales at the store. “I've tried everything I could think of and nothing seems to work.”

  “Are you worried about money?” asked Brigitte, concerned. “Marcel, all I need is a bed and a roof over my head. I don't need to live in this expensive place.”

  “Don't be silly. I am not having financial difficulties. It makes me happy to do this for you. The least you can do is enjoy it.”

  Brigitte hesitated. “I'm not used to such luxury.” In the back of her mind was the growing feeling that she would forever be indebted to Marcel.

  In time the apartment was finished. All the bold, exciting ideas Brigitte and Tony had dreamed up had been replaced by quiet, graceful elegance. Although it was not what she would have preferred, Brigitte had to admit that the apartment looked wonderful. She walked through the rooms and familiarized herself with her new home. Somehow, the formal beauty and obvious wealth of the place made her feel uncomfortable.

  Marcel, on the other hand, was pleased. “Beautiful,” he pronounced after inspecting it. “Much better than what you had originally wanted, don't you think?”

  “It is beautiful. Thank you.” Brigitte was happy that he liked it. She hesitated for a moment. “How would you like me to cook you dinner? You've done so much for me; I want to do something for you.”

  “Cook? You?” Marcel looked at her, mildly amused. “What are you planning to serve, something out of a can?”

  “Absolutely not. I can cook. Come over one night next week and I'll prove it to you,” answered Brigitte, laughing. He is such a dear, and I owe him so much.

  For days, Brigitte searched through cook books until she had the perfect menu. On the day of the dinner, she got up early and made the list of everything she needed. At the market she went from stall to stall, looking, touching, and smelling. She wanted everything to be just right. Asparagus, fresh Boston lettuce, and cherry tomatoes, all were carefully inspected until she was satisfied they were of the finest choice. At the butcher's, she asked for their most expensive cut. She almost fainted when she heard the price. That's more than I made in a day's work. She could hardly wait to see his face when he saw the feast she would prepare. She hurried home and went to work.

  At seven o'clock, everything was ready. The boeuf en papillotte was nicely golden. The tossed salad waited in the refrigerator. Cheeses mellowed on the counter and the wine breathed on the coffee table in the living room. The only thing missing was the guest of honor. Minutes ticked by.

  Brigitte looked at her watch impatiently. It was eight o'clock and still she had not heard one word from Marcel. The beef in its blanket of puff pastry was overcooked. The salad had wilted and the cheese was overripe. Dinner was ruined. At nine o'clock, Brigitte took her carefully prepared meal and scraped it into the garbage. Later, as she climbed into bed, she forced herself to be calm. The man is running one of the largest chain stores in the country. There are bound to be times when he will have to cancel social plans. Why had he not bothered to call?

  * * *

  Brigitte stepped into her obstetrician's office. Doctor Beaulieu was reassuringly old and gray. He looked at Brigitte over his gold rimmed bifocals. “Alors. How far along are you?”

  “About five months,” Brigitte replied nervously. “I-I'm not exactly sure.”

  “Well. Let's take a look at you.” He instructed her to take everything off and handed her a white hospital gown. Brigitte lay on the cold table while the doctor performed his examination.

  “I expect that you are closer to six months than five, and from what I can determine, you are going to have a healthy baby. From now on, you should supplement your diet with vitamins.” He wrote out a prescription and handed it to her. Still, Brigitte did not move. “Was there anything else?” he asked.

  “I-I was wondering if I could have harmed the baby when…” She did not finish the sentence.

  The doctor leaned over and patted her arm reassuringly. “From what I could see, everything looks normal. Right now what you have to do is stop worrying. That won't do anybody any good.” He smiled cheerfully. “Aren't you going to ask me whether it's a girl or a boy?”

  “I didn't know you could tell,” she said, surprised.

  “Science claims I can't, but just between you and me, I'm never wrong. It's a boy,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  Brigitte felt a strange sense of wonderment. She thanked the doctor and left. On the way home, the same thought kept dancing through her mind. A boy! I have a real live baby growing inside of me. A baby boy. At that moment there was a sudden fluttering in her abdomen. Can it be? No. I must be having some indigestion.

  A few days later there was no question anymore. The flutters had grown to kicks and jabs. A
ctive little fellow, she thought. Almost against her will, as she felt the child moving in her womb, she began to feel emotions stirring deep inside of her. I must make that call. It's ridiculous for me to keep putting it off. Though she kept thinking of it, the number on the piece of paper remained under the telephone, where she had put it.

  Gradually Brigitte settled into her new life. This is not so bad, she told herself repeatedly as she walked through her beautiful, apartment. Millions of women would give their eyes and teeth to be able to live the way I do. Slowly, loneliness and boredom were setting in. Because of Marcel's objections, she had cut contact with all of her friends. The only person she saw was him. She felt so desperate for company she thought she might go crazy.

  Marcel called. “I'm sorry I missed your dinner. Hélène pulled a tantrum. I'm afraid I couldn't get away.”