The American Fiancee

by Eric Dupont

  Solange went off to buy tickets to the United States. Alone on her bench, Madeleine attracted the attention of a man who’d had a few drinks too many, charmed by her youth and her crimson wool coat. He spoke to her in English and she didn’t understand a word. His mouth was hidden behind an enormous moustache that made him look like the picture of Stalin she’d seen in history books. But Stalin proved no match for an impatient Solange and went off to join the other drunks in a dark corner of the terminal.

  “We have to wait four hours for the Greyhound. We’ll be in New York tomorrow morning. Are you tired?”

  “No, just sad. It’s not the same thing. And I’m scared, too.”

  “What are you frightened of, Mado?”

  “Of finding myself all alone without you.”

  Upon hearing those words, Solange felt the bones in her ribcage open, and a vibration that first stirred in her perineum ran up right through her, rocking her very foundations and rising up heavenward and through her lungs, pharynx, vocal cords, and nasal cavities to leave the back of her head trembling. The sound she produced was pure and clear, carried forth by the words “I will never leave you,” which resounded through the bus station the way the song of an angel will one day burst forth into the world God promised to his followers. It could well have been the moment, in all her life, that Solange was at her most lucid, her most beautiful too.

  They made the trip along Route 87 to New York in complete darkness. Plattsburgh, Albany. The customs officers wanted to know what the two young women were intending to do in New York. Do you have family there? Yes, lied Solange, who had been told that the word “family” was the “Open, Sesame” for the United States.

  Twenty or so black men and women had got on and sat at the back of the bus in Montreal. Madeleine had watched them file in without wondering if her staring might offend them. Their amused smiles suggested they knew she had simply never seen anyone their color before. She spent the first two hours of the journey looking over her shoulder at them, trying to catch what they were saying. She had never seen people more fascinating, as much for their colorful, loose-fitting clothes as their satin-smooth skin. Those travelers seldom spoke and would occasionally flash her a smile as if to say, “Are you crazy? What forest have you just wandered out of, you poor fool?” that she took to be invitations to happiness. At the stopover in Albany, two white women who had found themselves sandwiched between the group of black people asked Solange and Madeleine to swap seats with them and let them sit in the front row.

  “We’re just too old for this!” the more fearful of the two whimpered.

  “Too old for what?” Solange wondered. Once Madeleine understood what the two Americans wanted, she begged Solange to agree. It was all the same to Solange; all she wanted was to sleep a little longer. In the darkness of the bus, Madeleine continued to observe her neighbors, stealthily at first, then as they fell asleep, gazing at them as others might admire the paintings of Degas. One of the black women who was still awake found it all highly amusing and, guessing right away that Madeleine had only ever seen people who looked like Madeleine, struck up a conversation that Solange had to interpret for both of them. They were musicians. They sang in a choir, to be exact. Were on their way back from a church in Montreal. Little Burgundy? You know it? The woman’s name was Deborah. Flashed two rows of white teeth when she talked. Didn’t move her hands until the very end of each sentence. Wore a white scarf around her neck. Was that wool? No, finer than wool. Quick to reply. All we know is the convent and the parish that protected us from the world until last night. Why New York? To see the Statue of Liberty. Don’t forget it’s just a statue. (Big laughs.) Can you sing? Hymns, prayers, but badly. Really? You’ve never seen people of color? No. Not ever. Mind if we sing? No. No, please sing! For the love of God, please sing and give this trip to hell what it’s lacking in solemnity and solace! Sing before I start throwing up again! Sing for my brother Luc, for my brother Marc, and for all the souls in purgatory! Sing for the repose of the soul of my American grandmother whose cross I was just given. Please, black lady, sing!

  The Harlem Eternity Gospel Choir didn’t wait to be asked twice to provide the musical accompaniment to the tardy migration of the two snow geese. Transformed into a Baptist church on wheels, the bus ate up the miles in the dark of night. The snowstorm seemed to want to come south with Madeleine. Snowflakes fell with each passing stop, a sign that it was time to leave before they got caught in the worst of it. The driver sped up to put some distance between them and the area of low pressure pushing down from the north. The storm was heralded by ice-cold winds. The heat was turned up as far as it could go, but the passengers were shivering, especially the three baritones at the back. In the morning, Solange and Madeleine were treated to—what else?—My Lord, What A Morning, which lasted at least twelve minutes. On both sides of the vehicle, the city was beginning to take shape, to grow. The traffic was getting heavier. They felt that they were on the verge of something huge and noisy, powerful enough to quiet the singers, by now caught up in the excitement that comes with returning from a long trip. They crossed a bridge, then an expressway or two. At last, they arrived at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, officially declared the world’s ugliest place on that day, December 5, 1968. By that point, neither Madeleine nor Solange had slept since the night of December 3. They could feel their powers of reasoning gradually abandoning them. Finding herself on the sidewalk at the corner of 8th Avenue and 42nd Street, Madeleine almost forgot what she was doing in New York. Her gaze searched for answers in the pallid morning sky beyond the enormous skyscrapers. Solange’s hand took hers and they walked, closely followed by the singers from the Harlem Eternity Gospel Choir, who had insisted on seeing the scrap of paper that bore the address where Madeleine was expected. It was decided they would go with them. They’d get lost otherwise. Embarrassed by such concern for their welfare, the girls protested, no you’re too kind, that’s too nice of you. Your music has already helped us forget our suffering. A gift? Deborah couldn’t help observing Madeleine’s covetous glances. She took off her lovely white scarf.

  “New York is a very windy city. This will protect you.” Her first gift from America: a white silk scarf.

  Madeleine wondered what had compelled Deborah to give her a gift like that and felt indebted to her forever after. Deborah was now pointing out the north of the city, where she lived. Solange and Madeleine stared at the white palm of her hand in the grey New York sky.

  “You know where you’re goin’?”

  No, no more than they knew exactly where they were. Far from home, that was for sure. And yet the sun stubbornly persisted in flinging down a smattering of sad rays across the city, through the rare openings in the clouds. The choir disappeared into a hole with a stairwell, out of which came the howl of a wounded animal. Or was it the sound of a train braking?

  Alone in New York. It was their stomachs that reminded them of their humanity. They had to eat. The girls set off toward the tallest towers, sure they’d find something to eat there. The search took a while. Every place they found along 42nd Street was either closed or too seedy for them to risk. Thinking they might have more luck on another street, they walked for a good half hour before coming out onto what Solange said was 55th or 56th Street. Madeleine was starting to show signs of impatience that could be put down to both her hunger and the fact that she hadn’t slept in over thirty-six hours. So it was something of a miracle when Tosca’s Diner appeared before them. They went in. Or, rather, they were sucked inside.

  Tosca’s Diner was opened by a family of Italian immigrants by the name of Donatello in 1927. Built in the Roaring Twenties, it originally catered to businesspeople, then later to certain shady businesspeople, who were often one and the same. For many a year, the fine white stripes of Italian-cut suits were a staple in the establishment. The couple bequeathed the restaurant to their only daughter, Donatella. Over time, as tastes and times changed, the restaurant became a favorite for American b
reakfasts and quick lunches. It looked like a brightly lit Irish pub minus the taps and kegs of beer. It was full to bursting at nine o’clock on that December 5 morning, buzzing with the sounds of hundreds of customers who were visibly happy to be there. Donatella Donatello, a woman well into her fifties whose Louis XIV hairstyle and Mae West makeup glued Solange to the spot (for a second or two she thought she’d landed in the middle of some sort of New York Mardi Gras), didn’t give the girls a chance to wonder if they shouldn’t find someplace else instead. Donatella Donatello had a gift of being able to tell, with extraordinary precision, two things about people, namely whether they were hungry and whether they were lying. This double gift had made her both a wealthy woman and a longtime spinster. A generous patron of the Metropolitan Opera, Donatella spent every Saturday night there, provided there was a performance. The family had nurtured a passion for opera for centuries, which is why the walls were covered with opera posters from the Met, signed photos of Elizabeth Schwarzkopf, and even, standing tall in the middle of the dining room, a mannequin wearing a reproduction of the dress worn by Dorothy Kirsten for the five hundredth showing of Tosca, which had just finished its November 1968 run at the Met. She clutched a wooden dagger in her hand, which never failed to draw a smile from the regulars and gave pause to any customers thinking about leaving without paying their bill.

  “I know you’re hungry, girls! Please! Be my guest!”

  Donatella swooped down on Solange and Madeleine like an eagle catching its prey.

  In no time at all, they were sitting at a table that had just been wiped clean by a young black boy. Madeleine was tempted to ask him if he knew the Harlem Eternity Gospel Choir. Donatella was a real chatterbox and detected a foreign accent in Solange’s thank-you that caught her ear. She clucked with satisfaction when she caught sight of Deborah’s white scarf. Is that wool? We don’t know. It’s real pretty. A gift from a singer . . .

  She decided to take the hungry young things under her wing. Her sixth sense wasn’t deceiving her: the pair of them were starving. Donatella handed them menus and disappeared for a moment. They pointed to the Manhattan Breakfast Special for the smiling waitress and, as if by magic, steaming hot cups of coffee, silverware, napkins, and you’re welcome dears appeared in rapid succession. Sugar for the coffee, milk or cream? Are you French? Madeleine was as excited as a chihuahua. Her brain took in everything she saw: the choreography of the waitresses, the way they took the orders. They multiplied, subtracted, and divided at speeds she hadn’t known were possible. She saw at least twenty-four plates on the tables, which she multiplied by the price on the menu, subtracted what she reckoned to be the servers’ and busboys’ salaries, and indexed the overheads. In other words, the seeds of her dreams of a food empire were sown that day in an empty stomach.

  “Solange, look around you!”

  “What?”

  “The place is full! And look outside: people are lining up to get in!”

  “So?”

  “Listen, if we had a restaurant like this, we’d be rich in no time!”

  “Before we start selling eggs, we’d have to buy some first!”

  “We’ll ask Mr. Zucker to give us a good price!”

  “Zucker?”

  “Yes, Zucker. It’s right there on the side of his van: ‘Unbeatable Prices.’”

  “Vans aren’t always right, Madeleine.”

  Solange couldn’t believe her ears, but put it down to her friend’s fatigue. How could Madeleine get caught up in such mundane thoughts in such dark times? And so far from home too.

  Donatella came over. She told them, as though they were bound to be interested, how the restaurant had gotten its name after her parents who, still feeling the effects of the journey from Naples to New York, met while lining up for tickets at the Metropolitan Opera. The only tickets they could afford were for Tosca, which they subsequently declared their favorite opera for ever and ever and the rest of eternity. Donatella wiped away a tear from her fat cheek. Madeleine and Solange felt as though the rest of the room was watching some kind of show that they were part of. Plates appeared from nowhere. Two eggs, pancakes, bacon, fried potatoes, all swimming in grease.

  “Would you like some ketchup, darlings?”

  As they gobbled up what they would later maintain was the best meal of their lives—better even than the tender flesh of poor Lazarus—Donatella Donatello, only too aware that she had a captive and silent audience, asked if they knew the story of Tosca, then went on to describe how Cavaradossi and Tosca first met and fell in love, and about Tosca’s deadly jealousy, vile Scarpia, and his loathsome trap.

  The girls were only half listening. Madeleine didn’t understand a word and Solange was too busy devouring her breakfast to devote any of her attention to the flamboyant woman. Donatella didn’t stop there. To demonstrate her favorite moment in the opera, which is to say the murder of Baron Scarpia, she seized the wooden dagger from the mannequin’s hand and, after exchanging a knowing glance with a waiter who was clearly used to playing the scene, mimed the murder, to the amusement of Solange and Madeleine. The scene lasted a few moments. Even the cook chimed in, shouting out like Cavaradossi from the kitchen, tortured by Scarpia’s henchmen offstage. Tosca’s kiss. A man collapses. Hope renewed. But for how long? Thunderous applause throughout Donatella Donatello’s diner. Even the autographed photo of Maria Callas seemed to enjoy it.

  Donatella, decidedly fascinated by the two French girls, sat down at their table and recounted the legendary tales of the various productions. How, for instance, the great Régine Crespin, during Tosca’s second run at the Met in 1965, had fallen victim to the curse that has always hung over the opera. While trying to grab a knife with which to kill the frenzied, deceitful Scarpia, Crespin ran into trouble: the props had been nailed to the table so they wouldn’t shift during the performance. The props team had forgotten that Floria Tosca was supposed to stab Baron Scarpia dead. With the audience looking on in amusement, the diva tried in vain to pick up the knife, which remained obstinately nailed to the table. And so Scarpia was stabbed to death with a fork, proving it’s the intention that counts, not the tool in hand.

  Poor Maria Callas was less fortunate. During a rehearsal of the same scene in London, a candle set her wig on fire. Callas, whose concentration was legendary and who never went out of character, wondered, so the story goes, why the baritone Tito Gobbi was looking at her with such a panicked expression. Gobbi managed to put out the fire and the rehearsal went on.

  The stories kept coming from Donatella, but Madeleine couldn’t make out a word. Solange understood, but since she didn’t know the first thing about opera, she contented herself with smiling at the parts she decided must be funny.

  Donatella amused her. She asked them what they were doing in New York City. They glanced at each other. They couldn’t remember! Tosca’s Diner had made them forget for a moment why they’d traveled close to fifteen hours on a bus! They laughed. Solange took out the name and address of the doctor Madeleine was to meet at eleven o’clock, so that Donatella might show them the way. When she saw the doctor’s name and address, Donatella froze, albeit imperceptibly; she knew how to control herself, after all.

  “You don’t have far to walk,” she told them and kindly drew a map on the back of a piece of paper. “Maybe twenty minutes, twenty-five tops.”

  Suddenly deflated, Donatella Donatello excused herself and disappeared into the kitchen.

  As they left the restaurant, bellies full and a spring in their step, Solange and Madeleine asked to say good-bye to Donatella. She was called back from her dressing room. Her eyes were red. She held Solange in her arms, then Madeleine, longer this time, intently, like an aunt. Long and hard enough to leave her feeling a little uncomfortable. She had a gift for Madeleine, a reminder of her visit to Tosca’s Diner. A dried flower, a rose from Tosca’s bouquet. She put it in her hair. A rose to watch over you, my little French girl. The flower came from a bouquet an admirer had tossed to Maria Cal
las in March 1965, Donatella explained, the night she sang Tosca at the Metropolitan Opera for the last time.

  “People lined up for three days and three nights for standing-room tickets! Can you imagine? I was in the orchestra seats.”

  The diva, showered with flowers and applause, had thrown the rose to the audience. Donatella had dried it to preserve a little of its color. The girls insisted on paying the bill. Donatella waved them away. Out of the question. Her treat.

  “She’s a sensitive soul,” Madeleine concluded outside on the sidewalk. Six times she turned to go back to Tosca’s Diner. Solange dragged her forward.

  While Solange and Madeleine walked the streets of Manhattan, Papa Louis was cursing the woman who had kept Madeleine’s trip to Quebec City a secret from him. He didn’t approve. What had she gone off to work in the capital’s hotels for? What was she going to do there? What was the point of it all?

  “Her place is here with us! Why didn’t you talk it over with me first?”