Sins

by Gould, Judith

  'Perhaps I will do it once the concert tour is over,' she said thoughtfully. 'I only hope that Jacques will understand the way I feel. I would hate to lose his friendship. But to create a new magazine—a new voice for couture—yes!' Her eyes shone with excitement. 'I would like that!'

  He smiled. 'Good. Then as soon as the honeymoon is over, you shall get to work and start planning it.'

  She smiled back at him. 'But let's not cut our honeymoon short. After all, this is the first vacation I've ever had.' On an impulse, she leaned over and kissed him, then toyed with his white hair. 'You know,' she whispered, 'I really love you. You're the first person who has ever understood me. You can't know how happy that makes me.'

  The following morning, Hélène helped Stanislaw set up his bulky reel-to-reel tape recorder in the living room.

  'I'm going to record some of my playing,' he announced. 'Come up to the bedroom. I'll need your help carrying the tapes down.'

  She nodded and followed him upstairs. The trunks that he'd shipped there the day before the wedding were in one of the big walk-in closets. Fortunately the one with the tapes was right inside the door. They pulled it out and slid it across the carpet. Inside, it was filled to the rim with boxes of recording tape.

  'Good Lord!' she exclaimed. 'I've never seen so many tapes in my life! We're not going to carry this whole thing downstairs by ourselves, are we?'

  He shook his head. 'No, it's too heavy. We'll just take some of the boxes.' He bent over, lifted out a stack, and piled them high in Hélène's arms. 'You can take these downstairs,' he said. 'They're blanks.'

  At the door, she stopped and poked her head around them. 'What are you going to carry?'

  'Some of the recorded ones. I'll just be a minute selecting them.'

  A little while later, she helped him get everything ready. She tore the wrappers off the new tapes and laid the reels out on a table. Carefully he threaded one of them through the machine and tested it. She noticed that the reels he had brought down were carefully labeled and dated. They were all Chopin or Scriabin. She picked up one and peered closely at the handwritten date. He had recorded this particular one nearly fifteen years earlier. She put it back down. 'What are you going to record?' she asked.

  He pointed at the blank reels. 'Everything I've transcribed so far on Clytemnestra. Then I'm going to listen to some of the old recordings I made years ago, just to compare my style with today's.'

  She shook her head. 'That sounds like an awful lot of work.' She brightened suddenly. 'Maybe I can help you change the reels?'

  'No, my dear. You go and do whatever you want.'

  'But I want—'

  He gestured her to silence. 'I'll need total peace and quiet for this.' He kissed her gently. 'I know you'd be as quiet as a mouse, but I need to concentrate.' He smiled. 'You're so pretty, I'd get distracted. Out you go.' He put his hands in the small of her back and propelled her toward the door.

  'Do you want me to call you for lunch or dinner?' she asked.

  'No, I'll call you.'

  She sighed helplessly. 'All right, if you say so.'

  'I do,' he said with finality.

  She spent the day in the garden. First she took a swim in the pool. Then she placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the lawn. She frowned. It was beginning to look disgraceful, but it would have to wait. Instead, she weeded some of the flowerbeds, trimmed around them with clippers, and snipped away dead blossoms. As she worked, she could hear the piano. She recognized the overture from Clytemnestra.

  In the afternoon, Stanislaw came out onto the terrace. 'I'm taking a break,' he called out.

  Quickly she prepared lunch. Then he took his nap and she sunbathed and swam. When he went back inside the house, she kept her bathing suit on. She'd gotten used to the sun; a little more tan wouldn't hurt.

  For hours, until the sun set, she could hear him playing, often the same passages over and over. At first some of them sounded awkward and laborious, but finally they were pure magic.

  Clytemnestra.

  Hélène shut her eyes for a moment. The music was hauntingly beautiful and she could imagine the drama unfolding onstage. She could almost see the beautiful Clytemnestra join her lover Aegisthus in murdering her husband upon his return from the Trojan War, and then being herself killed by their son, Orestes.

  'Pretty music.'

  Hélène jumped. Her eyes flew open and she stared at Hubert standing there in front of her. 'Go away,' she whispered coldly.

  He reached for her hand and held it. 'I've loved you,' he said, 'ever since that first day I saw you. I'd do anything for you. I'd even help you get rid of that old man!'

  She felt a sudden chill and her eyes flashed in the sunset. She tried to pull her hand away, but he was clutching it tightly. Suddenly she was frightened. 'Let me go!' she said quietly.

  'Uh-uh. Not until you tell me the truth,' he persisted. 'That you love me and that you only married him for his money!'

  She glared at him. Her voice was flat. 'Hubert, there is nothing to tell. I love Stanislaw. Now, I think—'

  'Aren't you at least going to admit that you love me?'

  'No, Hubert,' she said wearily. 'I'll never admit that. You see, I don't love you.'

  Suddenly his face clouded over. Savagely he pulled her up from the chair and pressed his face against hers. His cheeks scratched her as she fought to turn away. His mouth found hers, and suddenly he pushed his tongue between her lips. She tried to shove him away. Clumsily he thrust a hand inside her bathing-suit halter and squeezed one of her nipples. She let out a cry of pain.

  The music had come to a crescendo and then stopped abruptly.

  'Stanislaw!' Hélène screamed. 'Stanislaw!'

  A moment later, Stanislaw came running out to the terrace. Hélène turned her head and looked up at him. His face went purple. She pushed away from Hubert and ran toward her husband.

  'Go inside,' he said in a quiet voice.

  She nodded wordlessly and ran into the house. She watched from the French doors as Stanislaw approached Hubert. They were both silhouetted against the spectacular bloodred sunset. She could hear their voices raised in anger. As she watched, Stanislaw grabbed Hubert by the collar and shoved him backward. Then he raised a trembling finger and pointed to the edge of the property.

  Hubert did not move. Hélène could hear his ugly, taunting laugh. Suddenly Stanislaw struck him across the face. Hubert recoiled.

  Hélène shut her eyes. When she opened them, Hubert was flinging himself at Stanislaw. They began fighting with their fists.

  'Stop it!' Hélène screamed. 'Stop it!' She pounded her hands on the frame of the French door. The panes of glass rattled in their mullions.

  The men continued grappling. They fell to the ground and started rolling around. Hélène's face had turned white. Hubert was young and strong and Stanislaw was old and weak. And there were his hands to consider. His piano fingers. If only one got broken, it would be enough to put an end to his concert career. Suddenly she sucked in her breath. The cliff, she thought. Oh, God! She hadn't given it a thought, and now they were nearly at the edge!

  Abruptly she ran out of the house, across the terrace, past the pool pavilion toward the cliff. When she was almost there, one of the silhouettes lost his balance and vanished, abruptly dropping out of sight.

  The last thing Hélène saw were two clawing hands desperately clutching at air. Then a drawn-out, fading scream pierced the dusk, blending with her own.

  And suddenly there was silence.

  8

  The Place Vendome was very quiet at night. Even during the day, it had a kind of peaceful, secluded elegance. But it was by lamplight that one got the real ambience of the place, the illusion of what it must have been like when it was first built in the 1700s. It wasn't just the expensive shops, or the fact that it was closed off from the world by the majestic pilastered buildings on all sides, or that there were only two openings into this most exclusive enclave—one the rue de la Paix, t
he other the rue de Castiglione. The quiet came from the staid smell of money. It seemed to seep out through the doors and windows of the mighty Banque Rothschild; it somehow managed to escape the well-sealed vaults filled with millions of dollars' worth of gold and gems in the jewelry emporiums. It hung over the Ritz at number 15 like a sterling-silver cloud. And why not? Its wealthy international clientele were those who crossed borders with true carte blanche. These borders were not defined on maps; they were carefully surveyed and charted in the minute-by- minute fluctuations of multimillions, the dizzying plunges and peaks of power.

  Hélène smiled as they got out of the taxi. For a moment she paused in front of one of the pedimented gray buildings that melted into other identical buildings that made up this side of the square. Her delicate nostrils flared as she tried to pinpoint the exact source of the elusive, quiet scent. It seemed to come from all around. There were few other places where it hit you with this impact. Palm Beach, parts of New York, Beverly Hills, Zurich, and the French Riviera.

  'I used to dream of this place when I was a kid,' she said, looking around with a proprietary expression. 'Only then I knew I didn't belong here. I belonged in the slums of Montmartre.'

  'You've come a long way,' Jacques said.

  She sighed and looked down at her hand-sewn shoes. Then she looked back up. 'Sometimes I wonder. You know, the older I get, the more I realize that distance isn't measured in kilometers. It's measured in francs and dollars and deutsche marks. Montmartre's not so far away from here. Just a little bit beyond the Opera. So how far have I really come in all these years? Three kilometers, maybe. That's not far, is it?' Suddenly she touched his arm. 'I'm getting maudlin. Come, I want to show you something.'

  With a sigh of anticipation she led him to a recessed doorway in the arcade. On one side of the door, the lamp caught the sheen of a new brass plaque. Jacques looked closely at it. It was engraved with simple block letters:

  LES EDITIONS HÉLÈNE JUNOT S.A.

  Les Modes

  He looked at her strangely and swept his finger along the lettering. 'What's this?'

  She reached out and touched the plaque. The brass was cold and lifeless. 'I suppose it could be called the culmination of a dream,' she said softly. 'Ever since I was a young schoolgirl I've waited for this moment.' She got the keys out of her purse and unlocked the door. 'In a minute I'll tell you all about it.'

  He glanced at the sign once more and followed her inside. She turned on the lights and closed the door. The big rooms were empty and silent. For a moment they stood there without speaking.

  She spoke finally. 'I just signed the lease yesterday. The plaque went up this afternoon. You're the first person to see it.'

  'I'm honored,' Jacques said in a puzzled voice.

  She led him from one tremendous room to the next, then up a broad staircase. On the second floor she switched on another light. 'This will be my office. Look,' she said. She crossed the room, each hollow footstep echoing around the bare white walls. She threw open one of the six tall windows. He came up beside her.

  Across the huge square, most of the buildings were dark. Except number 15. Lights were blazing at the Ritz.

  She went over to a corner, bent down, and picked up a bottle of Chateau Mouton-Rothschild and two glasses that were sitting on the floor.

  'Wine?' he asked in surprise.

  She glanced at him as she poured it into the glasses. 'This is a celebration. I would have had champagne, but the icebox hasn't been installed yet.'

  He took his glass. 'You still haven't told me what exactly you're celebrating.'

  'My new business. Hélène Junot is now a publisher.' She gave a little laugh. 'Or rather, will be soon. After Stanislaw died, I found I was a rather rich young woman with a lot of free time on my hands. I had to do some¬thing.'

  'You could have retired in youthful splendor.'

  'Not me. I have to keep busy.'

  He raised his glass. 'Congratulations.' He drank the wine. 'Now, tell me about this publishing company.'

  She stood with her back to the window, her hands resting on the sill. She chose to keep her words and voice light. 'You've heard of Elle, you've heard of Vogue and L'Officiel.' She paused. 'I intend to take them down a peg or two.'

  He looked to see if she was joking; her violet eyes were dead serious. 'That's a big ambition,' he said carefully.

  'Not really. I have the money to pump into it. What I need now is a staff.'

  'I think I'd better have some more wine,' he said. Quickly he refilled his glass and drank it down. The Mouton was warm and smooth as liquid velvet. 'Shoot.'

  'I'm offering you a job, Jacques.'

  'I already have a job.'

  'I know that. You're a photographer, and a damn fine one,'

  'I'm at Vogue. That's top of the line.'

  'Les Modes will surpass Vogue,' she said with a certainty he had never heard in her voice. 'Give me a year and you'll see.'

  'You haven't even set up yet. It'll be six to eight months before the first issue is ready to go out.'

  'It'll be out in four months. What I need now is a staff. The best people I can find. I'll need your help hiring them.'

  'Where are you going to get them?'

  She grinned. 'I'm going to pull off the biggest heist French publishing has ever seen. I intend to steal the best talent that Vogue, Elle, L'Officiel, Marie Claire, and Harper's has to offer.'

  He shook his head. 'Why do you think you'll be able to do it?'

  'I'm going to offer them big francs. Everyone likes to get a raise. Plus there's the matter of ego. The chance to have a hand in shaping something new.'

  'You seem to have it all worked out.'

  She shrugged. 'It's one way to get things done quickly. The sooner the ball gets rolling, the sooner Les Modes is out. What do you say? Will you consider coming in with me?'

  He looked at her cautiously. 'How big are those francs you were talking about?'

  'What are you making now?'

  'This,' he said. He took a check from Conde Nast out of his pocket. 'I don't usually carry these around with me. I just got paid today and haven't been able to get to the bank.'

  She took the check and looked at it. It was for twenty-eight hundred francs. She handed it back. 'You don't do badly taking pictures.'

  'As you said, I'm a damn fine photographer.'

  'All right, I'm prepared to offer you thirty-five hundred a month.'

  'That's not bad,' he said slowly. He thought for a minute. Then he nodded. 'I'll give notice at Vogue. Two weeks from tomorrow, I'm yours.'

  She narrowed her eyes shrewdly. 'I'll make it four thousand a month and you start tomorrow. Plus, there's no moonlighting around here. God help you if you smuggle pictures to Vogue or L'Officiel, byline or none.'

  Suddenly he grinned. 'Boss,' he said, 'you've got yourself a deal.' He extended his hand and they shook on it. 'Where do I report in the morning? Here?'

  'Right here.' She smiled and looked around the empty room again. Their voices sounded as if they were bouncing off the walls of a cavern. But soon that would change. She could already envision what it would look like. A thick carpet on the floor would deaden the hollow sounds. So would the furniture. Her desk would be placed diagonally in front of the window. That way, she would be able to swivel her comfortable chair around and look down at the Place Vendome whenever she felt like it. The chairs for her visitors were another matter. They would be stiffly uncomfortable; anyone coming to see her would immediately be put on the defensive. There must never be any doubt of who was in command. There would be filing cabinets and bookcases around the office, and the only decoration on the walls would be covers from Les Modes. A sudden idea hit her. She would change the covers each month so that only the most recent one would hang there. She made a mental note and filed it away among the hundreds of other details that had occurred to her.

  'Where are you?' Jacques asked. He was watching her with an amused expression on his face.

&
nbsp; She gave an apologetic little smile. 'In the future.'

  'That's as good a place as any, I suppose.'

  'Yes, it is.' She nodded slowly. The future would be a good place, she thought. At any rate, it couldn't be any worse than the past.

  It seemed unbelievable that her dream was beginning to take shape at long last. She frowned suddenly. Something was missing. Then she knew what it was. She should be feeling elation. Triumph. There should be excitement and electricity crackling through the air. But there wasn't. The only thing she felt was a levelheaded determination to work hard and succeed. It was as if her childish sense of wonder and joy had deserted her when she had stood over Stanislaw's crumpled body on the rocks below the cliff on Cap Ferrat. That had been the final step she had had to take toward her ambition. Strangely enough, it had endowed her with that which she needed to become successful. A new sense of awareness and maturity. The willingness to take the worst kind of situation and turn it around to her advantage.

  She was breathing heavily from the exertion of the climb, but she barely noticed. The windows of the villa were red with fire. For a moment she stared at the house dumbly, her hands at her side. Then she realized that it was not on fire. The windows were merely reflecting the sunset. Slowly she held out her blood-covered hands and looked at them with a blurred expression. 'He's dead,' she whispered. 'He's dead!'

  Quickly Hubert came over to her and put his hands on her arms. His eyes were wild. He seemed to have aged thirty years. 'I didn't mean for this to happen!' he said softly. 'It was an accident! You have to believe that.'

  In a daze she pushed him away and started walking toward the house. She couldn't even feel the ground beneath her feet. It was as if she were walking on air. She could not even feel any pain. Only a dull numbness. The pain would come later.

  Solicitously Hubert helped her toward the house. 'Maybe you're wrong,' he said quickly. 'Maybe if we call a doctor he'll be able to do something. Patch him up. . .'