Scorpio Rising

by Monique Domovitch

  “Now there is a French woman worth meeting,” commented Frédérique.

  Alex turned to observe the singer just making her entrance. “Wow. She certainly is!” He followed the woman's movements as she glided to the center of the stage. There, she stopped and stretched out her arms in an all-embracing gesture. The audience went wild. Her hair was platinum blonde à la Marilyn Monroe. Her sheer and beaded floor-length gown gave the illusion of shimmering nude skin. A side slit, extending all the way from her ankle to her waist, exposed a long, shapely leg. Even in such a revealing outfit, there was nothing cheap about her. Her whole bearing was regal. She gracefully blew a kiss to her audience and raised her hands to quell the applause.

  “Did you say something, Frédérique?” asked Alex.

  Frédérique shouted above the applause. “I said would you like to meet her?”

  “You know her?” Alex was impressed.

  “I know everybody in this town,” answered Frédérique, casually.

  On stage, the woman took the microphone. “Bonjour. Good evening. My name is Gigi L'Amour,” she whispered seductively to the audience. “Tonight I will sing to you a very special song.”

  She strolled languidly along the stage, graceful and fluid, her voice low and suggestive. Suddenly the music changed from a slow romantic song to a rock-and-roll number. Gigi's body instantly became a tornado of energy. She twirled and, all at once, whipped off her skirt, throwing it into the wildly applauding audience. Now all she wore was a transparent mesh suit that left nothing to the imagination. Then, just as unexpectedly, the suit was gone and she had nothing but a tiny gold triangle covering her pubic hair, and matching pasties on the nipples of her small, perfect breasts. The whistling and stamping drowned out her voice. Then a chorus of scantily clad dancers surrounded her and the stage became a flurry of bright colors and dazzling jewels. When the circle of dancers opened again, Gigi had disappeared. The audience went wild.

  Chants of, “On veut Gigi! On veut Gigi! On veut Gigi!” continued until the blonde bombshell reappeared for an encore, this time wearing a slightly less revealing shimmering gown.

  “So what do you think of Gigi?” asked Frédérique.

  Alex shook his head, still overwhelmed. “She's beautiful.”

  At that moment, Paul Leduc arrived with a suitcase of camera equipment.

  “Before you set up,” said Frédérique. “I think it might be a good idea to add some local color to the photos. Why don't we ask some of the girls to come and pose with the finalists?”

  “D’accord,” agreed the photographer. “We could use it for the social column as well.”

  Moments later, Gigi and three of the chorus girls joined the table.

  “Gigi, could you be a dear and stand here?” asked Frédérique. He whispered a few words in her ear and steered her between the finalists.

  “Oh là là! Quels beaux hommes!” She wrapped one arm around Alex and gave him a seductive smile. Alex’s pulse raced with desire. Following the photo shoot, Gigi lingered at the table. “Alex, you don't mind if I sit next to you, do you?”

  Alex was almost speechless. “Y-yes…I mean no…I mean, please do.”

  During the rest of the evening, Gigi had eyes only for Alex. She completely ignored Darren and Guillermo. When she spoke, it was to Alex. When she smiled, it was for Alex. To Alex's great surprise, he suddenly felt her hand on his thigh. Gradually it moved up and up until it cupped his testicles. He could hardly breathe. When Frédérique suggested they call it a night, Gigi agreed enthusiastically. She pulled her hand away and leaned over to Alex. “Meet me outside in twenty minutes. D’accord?”

  Outside the Moulin Rouge, the men said goodnight and dispersed. Alex paced, scanning the giant posters advertising upcoming performances, waiting impatiently until Gigi appeared. “My place or yours?” she asked.

  “Yours,” he replied, thinking of the thin walls and the three-minute timer on the water and electricity in his auberge.

  In the taxi, Gigi's hands were all over Alex. “I love your body, Alex. You are such a beautiful young American.”

  Alex looked at Gigi appreciatively. “You're not bad yourself,” he started to say, but his words were cut short by Gigi's mouth on his.

  Gigi's apartment was a shrine to sensuality. The bed was a gigantic round creation occupying half the space of the large room, with a panel of buttons on the side. Alex glanced at the buttons with curiosity.

  “Make yourself a drink, mon amour. I won't be long.” Gigi disappeared behind a mirrored door. Moments later, she reappeared in a shear silk robe. She slinked over to Alex and almost before he knew what was happening, she was extracting him from his trousers. At the sight of his impressive erection, Gigi gasped. “You are going to make me very happy, mon amour.”

  Alex chuckled. “The pleasure will be all mine,” he replied. He guided Gigi to the bed and eagerly slipped off her robe. A second later, he leaped from the bed. “God damn it! Why the fuck didn't you tell me?”

  Gigi sat up contrite on the disheveled bed. “But, mon amour, everybody knows Gigi is short for Gilbert.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Alex was back at La Petite Tuilerie, scrubbing furiously in the shower. Although nothing had actually transpired between himself and Gilbert, a.k.a. Gigi, he felt unclean. Damn that Frédérique, he fumed. He set me up. From now on, when I want to meet a girl, I'll do it on my own.

  * * *

  For the following weeks, Alex pushed all thoughts of women and sex out of his mind and concentrated on the competition. He had so much work to do. Every day he got up at the crack of dawn, gulped down a hurried breakfast, and labored furiously, often into the early hours of the morning. He sometimes wouldn’t stop until his hand cramped. He was riddled with self-doubt and revised his plans over and over. Weeks went by, and still he was fixed in the belief they were mediocre at best. His ideas, so original at the beginning, now seemed bland. As the deadline approached, he began to panic. One week before the final date, he called the Modern Design & Architecture and asked for a meeting with Frédérique.

  Frédérique was in his office, editing an article for the next issue of Modern Design & Architecture when Alex walked in. He listened patiently while Alex poured out his doubts. “You want my advice?” asked Frédérique. “Forget about your work for a few days. Don’t even look at it. You need a break so you can see it with a fresh eye.”

  Alex was near despair. “I wish I could. But I can't afford to put it aside for a few days. I still have so much work to do.”

  Frédérique was sympathetic but firm. “I wish I could help, but I can't give you an extension. Unless you bring all the plans in by the deadline, you will automatically be disqualified.”

  Alex's hopes of getting a few days’ grace evaporated. “I understand,” he said. Still he hesitated. “I don't suppose you could take a look at my designs and give me your opinion?”

  Frédérique slowly shook his head. “That would be unethical.”

  Alex nodded. “I understand. I guess I'd better get back to work.”

  He hurried back to his auberge and pulled out his plans. The next morning, he was working at his usual frantic pace when a knock rattled the door. “Téléphone pour vous,” Madame Durand announced.

  He hurried to the front desk and picked up the receiver.

  “Alex, it's Jean Pierre. Frédérique wants you to come in with your plans this afternoon. He’ll go over them with you and make sure everything is okay. If there are any changes to be made, they should be made now while there is still time.”

  Bless Frédérique. He's coming through after all. “Absolutely!”

  “I don’t have to tell you that you shouldn’t tell anybody about this. If the others found out about this, it could create problems. You’ve probably noticed the special treatment you’ve been getting.” Alex had noticed no such thing, but he was more than happy to believe it. “Frédérique thinks your ideas are brilliant,” continued Jean Pierre. He lowered his voice. “Now, j
ust between you and me, I have a feeling you're being groomed to win. Don't blow it! Come in this afternoon at three o'clock and if you need it, I'll see that you get your deadline delayed.”

  Alex was elated. This was more than he dared hope for.

  * * *

  When Alex walked into Modern Design & Architecture's offices, the short, balding man was already waiting for him in the lobby. Jean Pierre quickly ushered Alex into his office and closed the door.

  “I have good news for you,” he said. “I got you an extra three days to finish your presentation.”

  “That’s great,” exclaimed Alex, in disbelief. “I really appreciate this.”

  Jean Pierre smiled. “Just do me one favor. Don't tell anybody about this. I wouldn't want Darren and Guillermo to find out. Now let's take a look at those plans.”

  Back at his hotel, Alex calculated the number of hours he needed to complete the changes. It will take every minute of those extra days just to complete the corrections. He groaned and settled down to another night of work. For the first time in weeks, however, he believed he had a chance.

  Meanwhile, at Modern Design & Architecture's headquarters, Guillermo walked into Jean Pierre's office. “Here's the money,” said Guillermo, throwing the thick brown envelope on the desk. “You're absolutely sure Ivanov won't be finished on time?'

  “Absolutely,” replied Jean Pierre reassuringly, as he picked up the envelope and pulled out a wad of francs.

  Guillermo still hesitated. “What about Bishop?'

  “Don't worry about him. I've got a plan.”

  Guillermo nodded. “I'm counting on you,” he said.

  Jean Pierre laughed. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  After the fat Italian had left, Jean Pierre leaned back in his chair and reflected on the irony of the situation. From the moment he had first lain eyes on the American, Jean Pierre had decided to do anything in his power to make sure he would not win. He had spent many sleepless nights wrestling with the problem and now he was getting paid to accomplish his own goal.

  He spread the large colorful bills on the top of his desk and counted them—twenty-thousand francs, not a fortune, but certainly enough to buy Frédérique a very special gift. The little man smiled in anticipation. For nearly two months now, the mere possibility of Ivanov winning and having to spend the next two years working at Modern Design & Architecture had driven him mad with jealousy. Jean Pierre hated everything about the handsome American—his youth, his vitality, his drive—but mainly, he hated the way Frédérique's eyes followed him around continuously. There is no way I will allow that man to win.

  The next day Jean Pierre summoned Darren Bishop. He greeted the Englishman in the reception area and invited him into his office. “Would you mind leaving your plans in the hall? I have so much stuff on my desk, I wouldn't want to risk damaging them,” he offered solicitously. “I want to go over the winner's itinerary for the next few weeks.” He smiled and shrugged easily. “You never know, you just might be the one.”

  Darren's eyes lit up. He knows something, he thought, just as Jean Pierre had wanted him to believe. “Sure. I'll take out my agenda.” He eagerly followed Jean Pierre into his office.

  Fifteen minutes later when Darren Bishop left his office, he was so excited his feet hardly touched the ground. He picked up his roll of plans, thanked Jean Pierre and left. It was only later, back at the George V that he noticed half of his sketches were missing from the cardboard cylinder. Frantic, he called Jean Pierre at Modern Design & Architecture. “My perspectives are missing, and so are the electrical plans!” he yelled into the telephone.

  “Calm yourself. What are you talking about?” came Jean Pierre's innocent reply.

  Darren was beside himself. “One of my sketches is gone, and so are some plans! They were all there when I went to see you. Someone must have taken them while we were in your office.”

  Jean Pierre's voice was cold. “If this is some plan you concocted to get an extension, it won't work.”

  Darren Bishop was in a state of shock. For the next hour, he went crazy trying to remember where his plans might be. Did I leave them in my room when I went to meet Jean Pierre? Did I throw them out by mistake? At this late date, however it had happened, the result was the same. He was out of the running!

  * * *

  Alex pushed away from the table and stretched his aching back. That's one more sketch finished. If he kept this pace, he might finish by the original deadline, but his vision was blurred from too many long hours and too many late nights. What I need is a break. Not only did he well deserve it after all the work he had just done, but a break would reenergize him. He looked at the clock. Two-thirty. He could take a few hours off and come back refreshed and ready to buckle down to another night's work. He grabbed his jacket and walked out of la Petite Tuilerie.

  * * *

  La rue du Faubourg St Honoré was one of the trendiest streets in Paris. A few doors up and across the road from Cedric's, where fashionable ladies bought shoes with pink ribbons and other boldly-decorated footwear, and two steps from A Fragonard, where the chic Parisienne shopped for lush little dresses of deceptively simple and subtle designs, were the best galleries in the city. L'Ecole de Paris, Le Chapelin, Ror Valmar, Knoedler, and Le Gallet. The five galleries offered works by the most sought after names in art. Here, one could find something to please every taste. There were modern and impressionist, cubism, realist, and old masters, as were also the latest au courant names.

  Alex strolled through the many galleries studying the different styles. Some he admired, others he hated. I don't believe people actually consider this art, he thought, standing before a window display showing a giant tableau of electrically brilliant colors. The gallery was Le Gallet, the most modern of the group. On impulse, he wandered in.

  The room was pitch-black. Beams of light projected from the ceiling, highlighting a dozen or so boldly-modern paintings. Alex looked around, amused. Each painting was uglier than the last. They call this art? Out of curiosity, he walked up to one of the paintings and looked at the price tag. “That's crazy,” he muttered under his breath. “What kind of fool would pay that much for such junk?”

  Chapter 20

  A few weeks later when the article appeared in Le Monde, Brigitte waited in unabashed anticipation for Réjeanne's reaction. When Réjeanne came home that afternoon, she dropped the heavy bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and groaned with relief. “I'm not a young woman anymore,” she mumbled to herself.

  “Why don't you have them delivered like I always tell you?” asked Brigitte from the doorway.

  Réjeanne jumped. “Brigitte, you scared me. What are you doing here so early?” she asked suspiciously. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I'm feeling fine,” replied Brigitte as she picked up the heavy bags and carried them to the counter. “I wanted to be here when you read the paper.” She walked over to the table, pulled a chair for Réjeanne and handed her the newspaper.

  “I have to put away the groceries and fix dinner. I don't have time to—”

  “I'll do that,” Brigitte interrupted with a smile. “You sit and read,” she ordered.

  Réjeanne glumly picked up the paper. “I don't see why…” She stopped suddenly as she recognized the picture of Brigitte. “It’s you,” she exclaimed. On the first inside page was a large photograph of Brigitte standing next to one of her paintings and wearing a beaming smile.

  “This is so exciting,” exclaimed Réjeanne. She read quickly, nodding and smiling, until she came to the part about Brigitte and Fortune's broken engagement. Without a word, Réjeanne folded up the paper and stormed over to the counter. She took out some potatoes from the cupboard and began to peel them. Suddenly, she was crying.

  “Why are you so upset?” asked Brigitte, shocked.

  Réjeanne continued pealing the potatoes, stopping every few seconds to wipe her eyes. She pushed away her bowl of potatoes, abruptly, and turned back to Brigitte, g
laring. “I don't understand you,” she shouted. “I don't understand you at all. When I accepted to come live here, you told me I was a part of this family, that I would never be treated like an employee. But the truth is I don't know you at all. I only know what anybody who bought this issue of Le Monde knows. This is how I find out that you and Fortune called off your engagement—by reading it in the newspaper?”

  Brigitte was stunned. “I had no idea you felt that way.”

  “You are so secretive! I feel like I'm living with a stranger.”

  “I'm so sorry. About Fortune and me—”

  “That is just one example,” continued Réjeanne passionately. “There are hundreds of other things you never talk to me about—like David's father. You never even told me about him.” She stopped, suddenly weary. “The truth is,” she continued more calmly, “you and David are my only family, and I feel left out and lonely.” She dried her tears with her apron. “I'm sorry. I'm just being silly. You can tell me to mind my own business, if you like.”