Paris, Adrift

by Vanda Writer

  “Nice to meet you. Could we dance over that way? I want to keep an eye on my friend. He doesn’t know anyone here and . . . Oh, I’m being rude. My name is—”

  “I know who are, Miss Huffman.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. That’s why I cut in. You’re close to Juliana.”

  A chill ran up the center of my spine. “I—don’t think I know what you mean.”

  “Can we stop dancing a minute before I step on you? My wife says I have three left feet. I have a business proposition to make.”

  “A business proposition, Mr. Schuyler?” He walked me over to the row of red, barrel-backed chairs situated around small round tables that lined the perimeter of the ballroom. “Schuyler? Schuyler?” I said, “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “Well, you may have heard of me in connection with The Miller’s Daughter. I co-produced that show with Martin Bilberbank.”

  “You were with Martin Bilberbank? I’ve heard good things about him, but I’ve never met him. I wouldn’t remember you from that show, though, because it was before my time. I wasn’t in the business then.”

  “No matter. I was merely in the background, co-producing.”

  “But I did hear some talk about that show. Old-timer Broadway scuttlebutt. It was a hit and then something happened, I believe, that almost closed it. I’m not sure what. I’m afraid I don’t stay on top of Broadway gossip. I have enough to do keeping track of the supper clubs and cabarets.”

  “Well, it’s best not to pay too much attention to rumors anyway. They can be so hurtful. Can’t they, Miss Huffman?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Like for instance, it’s been rumored that I disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? My goodness. I never heard that one.”

  “Good.” He spread his arms out wide. “Because here I am. I did go away for a time to gather my internal resources. I went to India to meditate. Shall we sit?”

  “Yes, of course.” He guided me into my chair. As I sat, I took in the measure of his thirtyish demeanor. He was slim in a well-made tuxedo, dark hair slicked back away from his brow. Nothing particularly distinctive.

  “Meditation can put you in touch with your true self.” He sat across from me. “So, you see I did not disappear, Miss Huffman, rather, I appeared. After much contemplation, I appeared to myself. What would you like to drink?”

  “Nothing. If we’re going to talk business.”

  “I always find business goes down easier with a martini.”

  “Then please have one, Mr. Schuyler. I personally find it best to have a clear head when discussing business matters.”

  He signaled the waiter and ordered his drink. “Miss Huffman, I have a script I’d like to speak to you about for Juliana.”

  “A script? But Juliana is a singer, not an actress.”

  “You’re referring to that fiasco last season.”

  “Well . . .”

  “That part wasn’t right for her. I’m surprised you let her do it. The script I’m talking about is a musical. That’s what she does. Sing. Like an angel. From hell.”

  “Well, I’ve never heard it put that way, but that description does sound apt.”

  “The script I have in mind allows room for that wonderful presence she brings to the stage without sinking her behind some dull character. She is the character. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes; he slid one away from the rest and extended the pack toward me.

  “No thank you. I don’t smoke.”

  “Ah, but these are Gauloises. French. Serious cigarettes, more so than our American brands. I make this trip three or four times a year and I always stock up. Can’t I entice you to try?”

  “I’m familiar with the brand. I have a friend who smoked these and Gitanes Brunes right after the war, but he found them both coarse, inferior to American brands.”

  “Oh?” He put the package back into his pocket without taking one out.

  In the background, a girl singer sang “You Belong to Me” with the orchestra.

  “Things are changing, Miss Huffman.” He leaned close to me. “Can’t you feel it in your bones? That’s what I’ve been off thinking about. In India. Cabaret is changing. Music is changing.”

  “You had to go that far away to think that?”

  “Distance brings perspective.” He took the cigarette package out again and quickly lit one, returning the pack to his inside pocket. Damn, those inside pockets are handy. Why don’t women have them? “Look what’s happening. The cabarets are bringing in solo comics to do a whole evening.”

  “At both Max’s Mt. Olympus and The Haven, we still headline singers.”

  “Yes, but how long can you continue doing that? People are coming less and less to hear singers. Even Swing Street is being infected with hoodlums and other unsavory elements. You must’ve seen that. That new rock ‘n’ roll music has a lot to do with making criminals out of the young.”

  “Mr. Schuyler, I don’t think—”

  “Audiences fearful for their lives are staying home. But, they still go to the theater where the grown-ups are.”

  “Perhaps, but the theater has been limping lately, too.”

  “True. But we’ve got some pretty good shows on the boards right now. Carousel, Peter Pan, Damn Yankees. They’re making money.”

  “By busing in audiences from Ohio. New Yorkers are staying home to watch TV. I don’t know if you can consider that a thriving theater.”

  “You wait. Theater will survive. And it will be musicals like the one I have in mind for Juliana, the big musical, that will bring back the crowds. Not those pesky social issue plays they’re doing on off-Broadway that depress everyone. Broadway is about to explode once again with new talent. And you know—Juliana isn’t getting any younger.”

  “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

  “I mean no offence. She’s maturing, which can work in her favor. Now is the perfect time for her to make the transition to something that doesn’t tie her to only singing in nightclubs. If she had a hit musical, I bet it wouldn’t be long before we were seeing her regularly on TV. Maybe she’d even get her own show.”

  “I like the way you think, Mr. Schuyler. But finding the money for a musical these days is no easy task. That’s why fewer musicals are being produced. How do you purport to raise the money?”

  “I assure you I can get the money, but you’ll have to trust me on that one. May I bring a copy of the script to your stateroom tomorrow?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Or even better we could read it together on the deck after breakfast.”

  “Read it together? I think it would be difficult for me to concentrate if you were reading over my shoulder.”

  “I could read it to you.”

  “Mr. Schuyler, did you write this script? Because you’re starting to sound like a writer and I don’t do business with writers.”

  “Heavens, no,” he laughed. “I don’t write. My talent is like yours, Miss Huffman. I discover those with the savvy for writing, singing, whatever, and I exploit it.”

  “Well, ‘exploit’ isn’t exactly the word I would have chosen, but your point is well taken. I would have used the word ‘support.’”

  “That’s because you’re a woman.”

  “Is that a problem for you?”

  “Not at all. I very much like that you’re a woman. As the French say, ‘Vive la difference.’” He blew out a stream of smoke and winked at me.

  “So—back to business, Mr. Schuyler.”

  He leaned toward me. “I know this script is perfect for your client.”

  “Richard Styles is J
uliana’s manager and he’d have to approve any—”

  “Come on, Miss Huffman, I know your secret.”

  I felt the color draining from my face. “What secret? I have no—”

  “Sure, you do. Mr. Styles is Juliana’s manager in name only. You are the creative force behind her. I’ve been studying you for some time. I leave nothing to chance. I know you, Miss Huffman.”

  Sweat gathered around the waistband of my underpants. Was he playing a game with me or did he know something? I smiled. “I think I’ll take that drink now.”

  “My pleasure.” He signaled for the waiter. “What’ll you have?”

  “Uh, well, a side—no, a Manhattan.”

  “You heard the lady,” he said to the waiter.

  “Very well, sir.” The waiter nodded and dashed off.

  “So, you’ve been observing me.” I tried to sound unconcerned. “Whatever on earth for?”

  “To learn.”

  “What would I have to teach an apparently savvy man like yourself?”

  “Oh, Miss Huffman, there is so much I have learned from you.” He didn’t take his eyes off me, so I didn’t take mine off his.

  “You are good at this business,” he continued. “And you know it. Not only with what you’ve done with Juliana, but with Lili Donovan too. I may have something for her in another property I’m developing.”

  The waiter handed me my drink. I gripped the glass so hard I thought I might crush it, but I would not take my eyes off him.

  “Your Buck Martin has a strong voice, but he was terrible in ‘Hey There, I’m Here,’ a ridiculous piece of fluff. Unworthy of Dame Margaret.”

  “And Buck Martin,” I said. “Give him time and you’ll see what he can do.”

  “Well, you do know how to choose your talent, so I’ll believe you. I’ve also got my eye on Patsy LaRue, but she’s got to change that name. It makes her sound like a stripper.”

  “So, you’ve been observing me because of my work with singers?”

  “No, Miss Huffman. That’s not the only reason.”

  “Oh?” I took a sip of my drink and switched my glass from one hand to the other, trying to appear at ease.

  “You are a most fascinating woman. Are you married?” He leaned his elbow on the arm of my chair. Too close. Don’t react, Al. Keep calm.

  “Well, if you’ve been studying me as closely as you claim, you must already know the answer to that.”

  “You could have a husband tucked away in some dark closet, but I don’t think so. A husband would get in your way. Wouldn’t he?”

  “And what does any of this have to do with the script?” I resisted turning my gaze from him.

  “I’d like to invite you to afternoon tea tomorrow. Will you join me?”

  “Mr. Schuyler, I am not married, but you are.”

  He leaned back in his own chair. “Divorced. Three years. I know, immoral. However, you know what they say about people in our business. We’re all an immoral bunch. Aren’t we, Miss Huffman?”

  “I am an ardent spinster, Mr. Schuyler. Totally dedicated to my work.” I couldn’t believe I’d said that. There was a time that admitting to being a spinster would’ve crushed me under a heavy weight of shame. Now, I used it as my shield to protect me from the truth of what others might suspect.

  The orchestra played, “Sway,” the song Ethel, Lucille’s friend, had sung while she took her clothes off for me at The Haven.

  “Call me Dan, won’t you?”

  “No, Mr. Schuyler, I don’t think so. We have business—”

  “Dance with me.” He hopped out of his chair and took my hand.

  “What about the three left feet?”

  “I lied.”

  “Why would you lie about something like that?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I had to get you to sit with me and consider reading the script. Sorry. Business. Let’s dance.”

  “Mr. Schuyler. I manage with the waltz and the foxtrot. Not terribly well, but I don’t usually kill my partner. This is a rhumba.”

  “You were fine before.”

  “Fine?”

  “No. Divine.”

  “I know I wasn’t divine, but I was hoping for a little better than fine.”

  He pulled on my arm. “Come, you’re stalling. I’ll guide you through it.”

  “My friend!” I practically shouted, pulling back my hand. “Where is he?”

  My eyes shot around the room. There was no sign of Scott. I’d forgotten to watch him.

  “He looked like a big boy to me. I bet he can take care of himself. Let’s go.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I do need to find him.”

  “Then I’ll help you.”

  “No, no, I have to go. But I do want to see that script. Where can we meet so you can give it to me?”

  “Your stateroom?”

  “No.”

  “How about that afternoon tea tomorrow? It’s a real treat.” He put on a poor English accent. “Veddy British.”

  I took his arm and guided him to the side. “There’s one thing. You cannot tell Juliana we’re talking about a script for her. If you do the whole thing will never happen. This has to be handled delicately.”

  “Not a word.” He locked his lips with his fingers.

  I dashed out of the room like Cinderella hurrying to catch her carriage before it turned into a pumpkin. I caught up with Scott on deck. He leaned on the railing, staring at the moon. As I walked toward him, the wind coming off the Atlantic almost knocked me over. Couples clung to each other and the railing as they made their romantic moonlight walk. One woman’s hat flew off her head and her beau tried to grab it, but a gust of wind took it higher into the air and plopped it down onto the dark choppy water.

  I took my hat off and held it under my arm as I stood next to Scott. The wind rearranged my hair into a wild mess. “Are you all right?” I asked him.

  “Could you stop asking me that all the time? It makes me nervous. I start thinking you know something I don’t.”

  “I don’t ask you all the time.”

  “Yeah, you do, and then you look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how you’re looking at me now. All sad and worried. Like I’m a sick person that you have to be really careful around. I wish you’d treat me like you used to—normal. Max is worse than you. He’s always got this stupid grin on his face and telling me to ‘have some tea,’ ‘put up my feet,’ ‘don’t work so hard.’ He even cuts the depressing stories out of the newspaper before I read them. It’s like trying to read Swiss cheese with advertisements. I won’t be able to stand this kid-glove treatment for the whole trip. And no, I wasn’t thinking of jumping in.”

  “You weren’t?”

  “No, I was thinking how beautiful it is. The ocean and the moon and the salt air. And I was thinking how beautiful you and Max were to me during that bad time. And how my grandma came all the way up from Lake Ambrosia. I caused everybody a lot of trouble, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Well, you asked.”

  “You could have been a little more tactful, softened the blow some.”

  “You were a pain in the ass, Scott, and we went through all that because we love you. You said you want me to stop treating you like a sick person, so I’m telling you the unadorned truth.”

  The ship bounced up and down with the waves, and I pulled my wrap more tightly around me. We went up, down and up, and down and up and . . . “Uh, Scott, I think . . .”

  “Don’t look at the water. Look at the horizon.”

  “I’m not feeling so . . .”

  He took my arm. “Come over here.” He
walked me into the glass-enclosed deck and sat me down on one of the chaise lounge deck chairs. He shook out a blanket that hung over the back of the chair and draped it over my legs. “Now look at me. Not the ocean.” He sat on the chair next to me. “The French call that green look on your face ‘mal de mer.’”

  “You speak French?”

  “No, I met a French couple on deck a little while ago. They’re on their way home. I used to go sailing with my father when I was small. He taught me all about avoiding seasickness.”

  “How are you, Scott? Really.”

  “Fine.”

  “You don’t look so fine.”

  “Neither do you,” he laughed.

  “Yeah, but I have a reason. What’s yours? Are you mad because I left you by yourself?”

  “No. I like being by myself.”

  “How are things with you and Max?”

  “Well, you know.”

  “No, I don’t. You never tell me anything. You don’t have to, but I thought we were friends. You never let me help you with anything.”

  “You do help me, Al. By being around and saying nice things to me.”

  “That obviously wasn’t enough.” I drew my wrap closer around my shoulders, trying to block out the cold.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You never told me that you were feeling so desperate that you wanted to—to die. Is that what you wanted? We were never sure if that was what you were trying to do or what.”

  Scott looked away. “Do we have to talk about this?”

  “Yeah, I think we do. You’re making everyone—me—feel so left out of your life. You went and did that, and you didn’t say one word, not one word about how bad you were feeling. When the doctors told me what had happened, I was so mad I wanted kill you.” I slapped my hand over my mouth, shocked at what I said. He laughed, and I joined him.

  “I’m sorry, kid,” he said.

  “How can you call me kid? I’m older than you. And I’m your boss, so show some respect.”

  “Max calls you kid so. . . Look Al, you mean a lot to me, Al, and that was a lousy thing to do to you.”