Trick or Treat?

by Ray Connolly

  He’s thirty-eight to forty, she guessed. French. Married. And probably casually unfaithful when the situation presents itself with sufficient convenience and charm. She looked at his hand-cut lightweight suit, the silk shirt and the Gucci shoes, and decided that he was rich, morally bourgeois, probably vain, and quite handsome. Probably he considered himself not a bad lover. Well, we shall see what we shall see, she thought, and turning her eyes to the window settled back in her seat as the giant jet trundled down the runway and up into the late afternoon orange haze.

  Kathy didn’t get a chance to go back to the economy class to see the movie. Shortly after dinner, while listening on her headphones to the rock-music channel, she became aware of a figure leaning over her and smiling. As she looked up, she saw the good-looking Frenchman mouthing something to her, but it wasn’t until she pulled out her earphones that she realized she was being picked up.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go and have a drink upstairs. We can’t spend the rest of the flight looking at each other and wondering who is going to make the first move.’ The man smiled, and with a wave of his head moved towards the spiral staircase that led to the lounge. A more timid approach might have repelled her but amused by his arrogance she pushed aside her headphones and magazine and followed. Here was a man who was too familiar with winning. He needed putting into place, she thought.

  Half shy at the abruptness of the pick-up Kathy was unsure of how to behave at first. They both ordered cognacs, he insisting that his be served without ice, and while the drinks were being prepared they each began their probings of each other’s lives.

  ‘Will this be your first visit to Paris?’ he asked, his face shiny with the intense glow of concentration. His English was good and educated.

  ‘No. Are you always so upfront with your pick-ups?’ Kathy’s nervousness made her unnecessarily aggressive.

  ‘This isn’t a pick-up. Or is it?’ He looked at her mischievously.

  ‘No. No it isn’t.’ Kathy wasn’t quite sure of what to make of him, so she took her cognac and smiled a token toast towards him and waited to see what happened.

  ‘You are very chic. Are you a model?’

  That’s not very nice, she thought. Surely I don’t look like a model. She frowned slightly: ‘No,’ she said, and then with a dismissive look at the texture of his suit: ‘Are you?’

  He smiled as he took the point, and folding his hands over his knees, studied the manicure of his nails for a moment. ‘I am a publisher,’ he said at length. ‘My name is Claude Arbus. I live and work in Paris and I have been in Los Angeles at the Book Expo. And please forgive me if I appeared rude. It was not intentional. I think now you are probably a student.’

  Kathy felt the pivoting control of the situation swinging back towards her. That was probably the major advantage of being beautiful. Men could be made to feel embarrassed so easily.

  And so for the next couple of hours as the plane raced into its short polar night they went about finding out about each other. And Kathy discovered that he was the inheritor of an old family firm of religious publishers, that he had a house in Paris near Invalides and a summer house in Corsica where his wife, Hélène, was presently entertaining friends. And after a few more cognacs he let it slip that he and his wife had no children, owing to some disorder in her, which was a source of some considerable disappointment to him, but which had become something of a minor obsession with Hélène. And Kathy said yes, she could understand such a situation very well (although she couldn’t really) and it was a great pity. And then she told him about her decision to work and study in Paris although she revealed as little of her private life as was possibly polite, and before they went downstairs to go to sleep she took his telephone numbers and promised to call him that he might buy her lunch one day or dinner one evening. And a little later snuggling under her blanket across the aisle from him she considered what a pleasant companion Claude Arbus had turned out to be, even if he was a bit arrogant on the surface.

  By the time breakfast was served she felt as though she’d known him for months, and they sat side by side and talked over eggs and bacon of the cultural merits of Dali, about whom Kathy knew little, but on whom her companion was an expert. And once that topic of conversation was exhausted they moved on to matters of class and privilege and the changing world, and it transpired, not altogether surprisingly, that Claude Arbus was something of a gentleman, conservative in his behaviour, and Catholic in both the religious and the secular senses. All of which amused Kathy who had stolen an incisive insight into Arbus, without betraying more than the minimum of facts about herself. And it didn’t come as too much of a surprise when her new friend suggested as the plane began its descent into Orly that rather than moving straight into the Hotel Raphael she should go and stay with him for a few days at his apartment. At which she smiled and said: ‘Doesn’t it say something in the bibles you publish about such suggestions, Monsieur Arbus? You can buy me dinner in a few days. I promise.’

  And cheered and flattered by the attention of this handsome lecher Kathy arrived in Paris, and soon lost sight of him in the chaos of immigration and baggage retrieval.

  Chapter 2

  Despite her desire to be up and active Kathy gave way to sleep that first day in Paris. After the excitement of the flight and settling into her hotel suite she was suddenly shredded with exhaustion, and after carefully making a reconnoitrey survey of the hotel and all its marbled nineteenth-century elegance she fell asleep on her bed still fully dressed. She was awakened at eight in the evening when the chambermaid poked a head rapidly round the door and inquired if she might turn down the bed, disappearing just as quickly at a sleepy wave from Kathy’s hand.

  An opalescent dust was falling outside as Kathy lay and stared at the filtered light that now spread thinly across the room through net curtains. How strange that a new continent should have its own peculiar light patterns, she thought. Getting up and going into the bathroom she appreciated for the first time the huge worn enamelled bathtub with its ageing pattern of a million hairline cracks, and the clumsy sturdiness of the huge chrome taps. As the water ran she listened to the cacophony of sound orchestrated by the plumbing and opened the packet of soap, an elaborately circular bar smelling of tea roses. Settling back into the water she considered her evening. Now that she was here she didn’t exactly know what to do. Apart from Arbus she didn’t know anyone in Paris, and although Arbus intrigued her she had no desire to encourage a man so thoroughly married that he would only approach her when his wife was safely out of the way. So what should she do? She couldn’t stay in on this her first night in Paris. But neither did she want to go out sight-seeing alone. In fact she didn’t want to sight-see at all. So what to do? There was always the letter. When it had been passed to her for transmitting to Paris she had thought little of it. But now its contents began to intrigue her. She had met the sender in a restaurant two weekends before while spending a few days in Sausalito, a small, once bohemian, now trendy, town on the coast just across San Francisco’s Golden Gate bridge. She had gone there alone, and one evening while eating in a restaurant on the beach, had become involved in a conversation with the hostess there, a statuesque and beautiful Dutch girl. Flattered by her attentions, Kathy had begun to tell her about her forthcoming trip to Paris and finding a ready and sympathetic listener had spilled out more of her private doubts than she had dared tell anyone else. Sometimes attentive strangers can be of great therapeutic benefit, so she told her about her loneliness, her dissatisfaction with her life, her crumbling romance. And then with hardly a word the girl had left her to finish dinner, suddenly reappearing just as she was about to pay the bill, and carrying a sealed envelope bearing a name, address and a Paris telephone number: ‘Perhaps you could pass this on for me,’ she said. ‘The girl’s name is Ille. If you are alone she may be able to help. I knew her in Paris.’ And without further explanation the girl had left, smiling as always, to escort some late-comers to a table. It had occurred to Kath
y at the time that a fuller explanation might be called for, but though she waited for a few minutes in the lobby the hostess didn’t reappear, and deciding it was more intriguing not to know, she had slipped the letter into her purse and resolved to play the situation by instinct.

  Now two weeks later in Paris her instincts were undecided. Should she call and tell this girl Ille that she had a letter for her? Or would it be better to go straight over to the address and wing whatever experiences might be in store?

  While she dressed she decided upon the latter course of action. The telephone is so deceptive a means of communication. Better to deliver the letter herself. It was all so mysterious anyway.

  The address on the envelope was a small side street of Rue de Dragon, and it was there that her taxi dropped her shortly before nine. She paid the driver and then turning looked for a way in. The large glass and wrought iron gate on to the street was locked. She rang the bell, clutching her letter and beginning to wish that she’d called before leaving. Above the doorway an elaborate bust of a bearded man bearing tiny horns glared mutely at her. From inside the building came the sound of a barking dog, shuffling feet and then the door pulled partly open to reveal a small Chinese concierge in black baggy trousers, a cardigan and slippers. Her face was worn and twisted and prematurely old. For a moment Kathy felt a sense of shock.

  ‘I’ve come to see Ille,’ Kathy explained in English. The woman looked at her without understanding. ‘Ille …’ insisted Kathy. ‘J’ai une lettre pour Ille.’ Her high school French sounded embarrassingly inadequate, and she waved the envelope in front of the woman’s nose hopefully. The concierge stared at her thoughtfully for a moment more, and then, indicating that she follow, opened the door, no more than a couple of feet, and beckoned Kathy through. Kathy followed the dark, scurrying figure into a wide marbled passageway between the buildings. At the far end it opened out into a courtyard, and Kathy could see a full and ancient horsechestnut tree, lush with spreading greenery, stretching low over lines of drying clothes. The concierge opened a glass doorway into the left-hand apartment block. A facing elevator carried the sign ‘Out of Order’ hanging from its gate handle. The concierge shrugged her shoulders at it, an attitude of grudging acceptance, and pointed up a wide, snaking stairway: ‘Elle est en haut,’ she said. Then seeing Kathy’s look of perplexity she took gently hold of her arm and propelled her up the first few steps. Then standing at an angle which would reveal to her all five flights of the building she pointed to a door just beneath a skylight. ‘Elle est là dedans … elle est en haut,’ she said slowly and with some precision, and as Kathy began to climb the steps the concierge nodded, happy that she had made herself understood, and displaying a set of broken and badly discoloured teeth in her self-satisfaction.

  Kathy made a slow and anxious way up the snaking stone white staircase. The apartment house was enormous, slightly run down and in need of a repaint, but still rather more grand than she had anticipated when seeing it from the outside; an exterior of grey stucco walls and peeling shuttered windows gave no indication of the splendid scale and fading elegance of the interior.

  Reaching the top landing Kathy gingerly approached the only door. A button-bell, bearing the single name Ille, was set into the plaster above the top of the bannister. Carefully she pressed it. A muffled ringing came from somewhere deep inside the apartment. Would she, she wondered, be appraised through the peep-hole before the door was opened? She waited, listening hard for some sign of response from the far side of the door. There was nothing: complete silence. Feeling increasingly uneasy she rang again. Still there was no answer. That was odd, she thought. She had gained the distinct impression from the concierge that Ille was at home. After waiting for a few moments more, and trying to squint unsuccessfully through the peep-hole, she turned to retreat her way down the steps. Far below her, at the bottom of the staircase, the Chinese concierge was watching, still smiling. Feeling a slight sense of panic which she couldn’t understand Kathy swung back towards the door; she didn’t want to have to face the concierge again. Nervously her hand went out to the bell once more, but even as she pressed it the door to the apartment suddenly swung open. A small girl in a long crimson robe with straight black hair and penetrating, fixatingly blue eyes, stood looking at her. Kathy felt herself shaking slightly in mixed emotions of confusion and an inexplicable fear.

  ‘I brought you a letter … from San Francisco,’ she gabbled. The girl looked at her coolly, half smiling as though she were enjoying some private joke. Getting no reply Kathy pushed the envelope forward. The girl neither looked at it nor took it, but kept her gaze fixed on Kathy. ‘You are Ille, aren’t you?’ Kathy rattled on, wondering if she might possibly have made a mistake. Then adding: ‘You do understand? I mean you do speak English?’

  And then the girl smiled, a beautiful, delicate warm welcome that came from her eyes: ‘Yes. I am Ille. Come in,’ she said in measured, graceful tones, and opening the door further, indicated that Kathy should enter.

  Almost involuntarily Kathy entered into the dark redness of the apartment, experiencing a further foreboding of fear as she heard the door click shut softly behind her. A Chinese lantern threw a soft pink glow across her face and shoulders before its light was lost in the gloom of the thick and deep carpets. Still smiling Ille passed quickly by her, a sweet fragrance of Patchouli hanging in the air after her like a ghost, and led the way along a dark corridor. Meekly, like a discoverer entering Aladdin’s grotto, Kathy followed. The aura of the enigmatic which Ille wore was compelling and slightly disturbing.

  Then suddenly they were in quite the most astonishing room that Kathy had seen in all her life: a grand temple, almost, of ornately patterned tapestries, thick Eastern carpets, table tops with mandarin patterns, a Buddha in repose, bizarre and erotic Tantra pictures, screens everywhere, enormous cushions spreading across the floor, peacock feathers sprouting from out of jade vases, and everywhere tiny relics of a travelled and educated life. Kathy’s only thought was that of bewildered astonishment.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t answer the bell at first,’ said Ille. ‘I was feeding the birds.’ And crossing to a huge wooden screen on one wall she began to carefully unfold it, revealing to Kathy’s increasing incredulity a series of vertical cage bars, and beyond a further enormous and bright room where doves fluttered up and down from the screened skylight, and where parrots sat on perches, staring eyes considering each other’s beauty. In this first moment of surprise Kathy almost wanted to laugh. It all seemed so bizarre, but as she stared through what might have been a gigantic open picture frame into the aviary she caught an insight into the living beauty that Ille held captive. And as Ille moved closer to the cage a half dozen snow doves hovered playfully around the barred window.

  ‘Come and help me feed them,’ she said, and disregarding the offered letter she walked towards a side door and opening it carefully slipped inside before any of the birds could escape. Kathy followed, but instead of accompanying Ille across the expanse of the aviary she stood at the door, watching while the birds fluttered around the girl in red who was by now liberally tossing corn around the sawdust-covered floor.

  ‘Are they not beautiful?’ said Ille, walking back towards the door. ‘There’s no need to be afraid. They are too beautiful to hurt anything. They live simply to look beautiful. Isn’t it a pity they cannot appreciate their own reflections.’

  Then crossing to one side she began to winch over the blinds that would block out the evening light: ‘Even parrots need their beauty sleep,’ she said. And she smiled again, so much so that Kathy was struck again by the piercing blueness of her eyes against the dark texture of her skin.

  Together they retreated into the living room, and at last Ille took the letter.

  ‘A girl I met in the States asked me to give it to you … I didn’t even think to ask her name.’ Kathy felt strangely foolish.

  Ille opened the envelope, and began to read the short, hurriedly written note. Tactfully Kathy
turned away to gaze once more at the aviary. A beautiful eccentric, she thought to herself. And such serenity. Yet she can’t be more than twentythree. At the sound of the paper and envelope being crumpled into a ball she returned her attention to Ille.

  ‘Her name is Sonja. She used to live here with me. But she wanted to visit America. She is a good friend.’ And with no more of an explanation than that Ille put down the ball of paper and sat crosslegged on a cushion: ‘Why did you come here tonight?’ she asked gently, then seeing Kathy’s expression of embarrassment, added: ‘Sit down. Don’t be shy. We must talk.’

  Kathy felt in her purse for a cigarette and found an adjacent cushion. Ille watched her with a serene patience.

  ‘To be honest …’ Kathy cleared her throat, ‘… to be honest it’s my first night in Paris. I’m going to live here, and the letter and the girl, Sonja you said? … yes, well it was sort of intriguing.’ She looked up but Ille was quite impassive, willing her to carry on. ‘I mean there were people I could go and see, or I could have gone up the Eiffel Tower or round Notre Dame and been a good American tourist, but … none of that seemed to offer any excitement. Delivering a letter from someone I didn’t know to someone I didn’t know … it seemed a better way of becoming involved in Paris.’ As soon as she’d said this she felt awkward. She knew she had said too much. But Ille just smiled at her, drawing her knees up in front of her chin and hugging the long red skirt of her gown as she listened. ‘Anyway, now that it’s delivered I’d better get off back to my hotel….’ Kathy was trying to be light and breezy in the face of the other girl’s mysterious calmness. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night, what with the flight and everything.’