The Paris party was on the front page of Women’s Wear Daily in New York the next day, under the headline:
MODE GALA DAZZLES PARIS!
Six pages of photographs were devoted to it inside the newspaper.
The Times, as usual, was more restrained, with the headline:
NORMALLY BLASÉ PARISIANS
IMPRESSED BY FASHION PARTY
The party marked the turning point in Mode’s advertising fortunes. In the months that followed, new accounts poured into the book virtually unsolicited.
But meanwhile, backstage at the party, a very different scenario was playing itself out. It seemed that—perhaps because of the hasty, last-minute preparation for the climactic display of light—the switch controlling the floodlights on the tower had apparently been improperly grounded. As the young engineer, whose name was Jean-Claud Lautier, pulled the lever that sent fifty thousand watts of light into the night sky over Paris, he was instantly electrocuted, and his body was sent plunging nine hundred and eighty-five feet downward into the courtyard below.
When the news of the accident was whispered to Ho Rothman, an immediate family council of war was called in one of the small salons in the palace. Alex was excluded from this and, in fact, she knew nothing of the tragedy that befell M. Lautier that night for many months. At the time, she supposed she was excluded from this gathering because she was not a “real” Rothman and had no real title or position with the magazine. More likely, it was because Ho Rothman could not force himself to admit that the one detail of the party that she had not personally planned had gone tragically wrong. Steven Rothman merely told her that there was family business to discuss, and that he would meet her later back at the hotel. And so, in the early-morning hours at the Palais de Chaillot, grand portraits of assorted eighteenth-century Gallic courtiers and their ladies gazed sternly and imperiously down from the walls of the salon in gilded frames, while the various Rothmans screamed at one another.
“The only thing to do,” said Steven, pacing up and down the Aubusson and puffing furiously on a cigarette, “is to issue a statement expressing our sympathy to the Lautier family, and offering to make any necessary reparations—”
“What?” Ho bellowed. “And take blame? You’se damn fool, Steven. It was Frog’s own fault.”
“But the spotlight was your idea, Gramps. You insisted—”
“Why not blame the city of Paris?” Herb Rothman suggested. “It was their damned electricity that did it. They hooked it up. Crazy electricity system. I can’t even get my electric shaver to work in my bathroom.”
“And at the Ritz!” Pegeen interjected. “At the Ritz! My electric curlers won’t work, either.”
“Shavers! Curlers!” Ho roared. “You’se all damn fools. I spend million bucks tonight. And this I get for it!”
“Ho could be given the French Legion of Honor for having given this party,” Aunt Lily said. “One of Pompidou’s aides told me so.”
“Damn right,” Ho said. “Legion of Honor! Highest honor inna world.” (Later on, in fact, he was given it.)
“But what about me?” Pegeen wailed. “This was to be the party of the century. This was to be my entree into society—not just New York society, but international society.”
“Oh, shut up, Pegeen,” her sister-in-law, Arthur Rothman’s wife, said. “Nobody gives a damn about you.”
“Herbert, are you going to let her talk that way to me?”
“Don’t talk to my wife that way, Doris,” Herb said.
“I was photographed tonight with the Baroness de Rothschild.”
“Fuck the Baroness de Rothschild, Pegeen,” Doris Rothman said.
“I’m that close to being invited onto the board of the Metropolitan.”
“You?” said Aunt Lily. “You, on the board of the Metropolitan? That’ll be the day.”
“Herbert, are you going to sit there and let your mother talk to me that way?”
“Don’t talk to my wife that way,” he said. “Pegeen and I have a certain social position to uphold.”
“I’ll talk to her any damn way I feel like,” Aunt Lily said. “Some social position.”
“Bitch!”
“Social climber!”
“The point is, there must be no publicity,” Herb Rothman said. “No publicity about this, is that clear?”
“But how can there be no publicity, Pop?” Steven said. “A man’s been killed.”
“But I’m the publisher of Mode. If any publicity gets out on this, I’ll be blamed. Actually, it’s all Alex’s fault. She planned everything.”
“But how can you say that, Pop?” Steven said. “It was Gramps who wanted the floodlight. He wanted it to surprise Alex!”
“We could say she’s young, inexperienced, uneducated. A little girl from the sticks—”
“Alex had nothing to do with the floodlight, Pop!”
“She wanted the party in Paris. Ho didn’t want it in Paris—did you, Dad?”
“Damn right! I said no Frogs! Frogs said okay to Hitler—killed six million Jewish pipple!”
“You mean you’ve spent a million dollars on a party you didn’t want to give?”
“Damn right!”
Steven shook his head in despair.
“Now, Ho, dear,” Aunt Lily said, “you know that this party was your idea. You told me so.”
“Damn right.”
“Every important idea this company has ever had has come from you.”
“Damn right.”
“And you wanted to hold the party in Paris.”
“Damn right. De Gaulle is hero. He stood up to Hitler. Saved millions of pipple’s lives.”
“And you wanted the floodlight,” Steven said.
“Damn right. Got it, too. Cost me a million bucks tonight. What happened was Frog’s own fault. Frog who plays with Frog electric stuff should know better. If he doesn’t, it’s suicide.”
“Could we say it was suicide?” Aunt Lily suggested.
“Look,” Herb Rothman said, “what did we give this party for, anyway? For publicity—right? For good publicity, publicity that will attract advertisers. But can you imagine what the enemy press will do to us if they get hold of this story? Look what the enemy press is saying about us already. They’re saying the Helen J. Pritzl Award for Tiny Tots is a fake.”
“Helen Pritzl was fine woman! She taught me English language.”
“But what if we were all just to stand up tall, and say we’re sorry?” Steven said. “A terrible mistake was made—by whom, we don’t know, but a man’s life was lost. We regret it deeply. Wouldn’t that be good publicity?”
“Of course not, you horse’s ass,” his father said. “Haven’t you even been following what the enemy press has been trying to do to us? They’re even hinting that the loss of our Ingleside printing plant was an insurance fire, for God’s sake!”
Steven Rothman looked sideways at his father. “Well,” he said, “was it?”
“Shut up, you Goddamned horse’s ass! You ought to know what the enemy press can do to us! What about what Women’s Wear is saying about you? That you’re nothing but your Goddamned wife’s Goddamned errand boy—that’s what they’re saying. If you want to do something for this family, you can get your Goddamned wife pregnant, and give us an heir—that’s what you can do.”
“Damn right.”
“Now, Ho, dear, they’re trying,” Aunt Lily said gently.
“So what I been telling you all along?” Ho Rothman said. “Pay ’em off. Pay ’em all off—all the Frogs. Is all Nazis, anyway. Pay ’em off, and tell ’em to keep their traps shut. No publicity.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Herbert said. “That’s what I was hoping to hear you say.”
Ho Rothman shrugged, though he was clearly unhappy. “So what’s another million?” he said.
“But don’t pay them off too much,” said Aunt Lily, ever the conscientious bookkeeper. “Keep your offers as low as possible. Don’t let them get the idea we’re rich
Americans.”
“Does anyone here speak French?” Herb Rothman asked.
“I do,” said Steven miserably, and lighted another cigarette.
“So do I,” said Lenny Liebling who, up to that point, had said nothing, but had been doing what he always did at gatherings like this one: listening, observing, making mental notes.
And so that was the team that was dispatched that night—Herb, Steven, and Lenny Liebling—to deal with Jean-Claud Lautier’s family: his mother, whom he supported, his widow, and his four young children. Lenny and Steven handled the negotiations, while Herbert handled the checkbook. In their grief, as it turned out, the Lautiers’ demands were modest; in fact, the Lautier family seemed already to have resigned themselves to the fact that the young man’s death was simply a work-related accident, and they seemed surprised that these strange Americans were approaching them with offers of money. But, most important in the waivers and release forms that they signed were statements to the effect that Jean-Claud’s death bore no connection to the Rothman party and that, indeed, early that day, Jean-Claud had talked of committing suicide.
The cover-up operation did not cost Ho Rothman another million. It cost him only six thousand dollars—a thousand to each of Jean-Claud’s heirs.
Alone in their suite at the Ritz, Alex Rothman lay wide awake, waiting for the sound of her husband’s footsteps in the foyer. She had no idea where he might be, or what he might be doing. Here she was, in Paris, and as far as she knew then her party had been an unqualified success, the added touch of the floodlight a stroke of genius, the kind of genius she sometimes had to admit Ho Rothman had. Their suite was on the quiet side of the hotel, overlooking the Place Vendôme and the Espandon gardens, and the night was very still. But she was still on an adrenaline high from the excitement of the evening, and she could not sleep. She was thinking of her deep curtsey to President Georges Pompidou, and hoping that Steven had noticed it.
Here she was, in Paris, the City of Lights, the city of license, the city of sin, but she was certain that, wherever Steven was, he was not off in search of license or of sin. After four years of marriage to him, she had grown almost used to the fact that theirs was, as it was said, a marriage in name only. They were partners, they were friends, they enjoyed each other’s company. They often made each other laugh. They told each other that they were good for one another. They told each other that they made each other happy. He told her that she made him enjoy his life, and his work, more than ever before. Their wedding present from Ho Rothman had been the apartment at 10 Gracie Square, with its magnificent terrace and sweeping river view, and Alex had spent nearly two years decorating it and designing the terrace plantings and gazebo. The black-and-white drawing room had a lustrous black walnut floor defined by thin lines of brass inlay. The dining room was decorated entirely in a pale gray-blue, with eighteenth-century English faux marbre dining table and chairs. The library was painted a rich, dark malachite green, and their newly acquired paintings were illuminated with the latest Wendel lighting system—small spotlights concealed in moldings and end tables and operated by switches on a control panel. Alex and Steven entertained often, and they were invited everywhere.
To all outward appearances, they were a dream couple—bright, handsome, young, eager, and very much in love. They were often in Mona Potter’s column in those days, and Mona, who had no reason to be jealous of Alex then, had christened them the Ravishing Rothmans.
The Ravishing Rothmans entertained again Thursday night at their fab-u-lous apartment high above the East River—a gay dinner of sixteen in honor of the visiting Sir Noel Coward. Alexandra and Steven Rothman are the newest and no question the most beautiful of New York’s Beautiful People.
He is tall, dark and handsome, a young Rock Hudson look-alike, the scion of the Rothman publishing fortune and editor-in-chief of Mode. She’s a willowy, creamy-skinned beauty with hair the color of cornsilk from the tall cornfields of Kansas, which was right where—you guessed it, kiddies—Steven Rothman found her. (She was last June’s Mode cover girl.)
Steve Rothman says, “She’s my new unpaid assistant on the magazine.” And, yes indeedy, that old-time mag really does seem to be shedding some of the dowdy look it was beginning to get under Connie Ferlinghetti.… Editorially, there’s a new sparkle … Now that the beauteous and talented Alex has a hand in things, I betcha we can expect more changes. Remember, you heard it from Mother, kiddies.…
They seemed a perfectly matched pair in every way.
Except …
In the quiet hotel room, her thoughts turned dark.
“There are some men who are simply asexual,” Dr. Richard Lenhardt had told her. “It’s not common, but it’s not unheard-of. It isn’t impotence. Sex simply doesn’t interest them.”
“But how can that be? Everybody talks about how much sex appeal he has. Women fall all over him. They—”
“Yes. Until they discover the asexual personality. There is often a psychogenesis. It may be due to some childhood trauma—the overpowering father and grandfather that you’ve told me about. It’s really up to you, Alex, whether you decide to stay in this marriage that’s without love—”
“Oh, there’s love,” she said. “I really love him very much. In some ways, we’re crazy about each other. We never run out of things to talk about. We have wonderful times together, but—”
“I should have said without sex,” he said. “The so-called white marriage. There have been other, quite successful white marriages like yours. There are asexual marriages.”
“But—” she began. She realized that she was beginning to dislike Dr. Richard Lenhardt, and his repeated use of that term. In fact, this would be their last session together.
“But what, Alex?”
“I really hate talking about this,” she said.
“But you must! It is important that you unlock these feelings, Alex.”
“But there is sex. Sometimes. Not very often. And it’s so—perfunctory. And quick. And he doesn’t seem to enjoy it, and as a result I don’t enjoy it. And I—”
“Yes?”
“And if there is sex, I have to initiate it. Which makes me feel—dirty, somehow. Whorish.”
“The asexual personality,” he said again. “A textbook case. So you must weigh your options. On the one hand, you have a husband who is very good to you. You have the excitement and glamour of working with an important fashion magazine, meeting and knowing famous and important people. You have the beautiful apartment in the city. You have the lovely estate in Tarrytown for weekends. You have the jewels he gives you, and I’m sure he gives you jewels in lieu of the sex he cannot give you. The jewels are his guilty offering. Each pearl on that triple strand you’re wearing represents a drop of his manhood, a drop of his semen, if you will.”
“Oh, come on!” she said.
“I’m quite serious. Those pearls are very symbolic, very talismanic. You also have more money than you ever had before. But, on the other hand, you also have the asexual, the white, marriage. Which means more to you? This is what you must decide for yourself—which means more to you, as you contemplate the future of this marriage?”
“But what about children?” she asked him. “The family has made it very clear that they expect us to produce an heir—a son, preferably, since Steven’s Uncle Arthur has only the two girls.”
“An heir for the Rothman dynasty. What about adoption?”
She shivered. “I don’t think the family would stand for that,” she said. “An adopted son wouldn’t be a real Rothman.”
“Have you thought of taking a lover? Certainly, under the circumstances, your husband could raise no objections to that.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” she said. “It would hurt Steven too much. You see, I’m really terribly fond of Steven. I do love him, you see, and I couldn’t bear to hurt him.”
“Do you miss the sexual side of the relationship that much?”
“Oh, yes,” she admitted. �
��I suppose it’s because—well, a man I fell in love with years ago was so—well, the sex was so wonderful that time, so deep, and passionate, and—fulfilling.”
“But that is not to happen in this marriage.”
“No. Apparently not.”
He glanced at his watch, a signal that their hour was nearly over. “I think you want very much to stay in this marriage, Alex,” he said.
She nodded. But there was one thing she could not bring herself to tell Dr. Richard Lenhardt. It was simply that she could not bear having her friend Lulu Withers discover that the marriage was not as perfect as Alex had pretended that it was, that Lulu’s gloomy predictions had been right. “I told you so,” Lulu would say.
Now she heard his key turn in the lock. It was nearly dawn, and sunlight was beginning to filter through the drawn drapes of her bedroom windows. She heard him open the door, and close it behind him. She heard his footsteps cross the thick carpet of the entrance foyer. Was it her imagination, or did his footsteps sound tired and old? It was her imagination. She turned breathlessly on her side in the bed, and bunched the big down pillows against her cheek. Now was the time!
His silhouette appeared outside her open door. He was still in his dinner jacket, and he paused in her doorway and lighted a cigarette. They had separate bedrooms, in the European style.
She sat up eagerly in bed. “Where’ve you been, darling?” she asked him. “I was getting worried.”
“Family crisis,” he said. “But it’s settled now.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It was nothing. I’ll tell you about it later.”
She patted the bedclothes beside her. “Come in, darling,” she said. “Let’s talk about the party. I’ve been so excited I haven’t been able to sleep a wink. Let’s have one of our famous postparty rehashes.”
With a small sigh, he crossed the room and sat beside her on the bed. She reached out and loosened his black tie.
When you have these post-party rehashes, Dr. Lenhardt said, you always begin by loosening his tie. Why, I wonder? Do the lobes of the black tie symbolize his testicles—the black, sterile testicles?
The Rothman Scandal Page 48
