Service friendships aren't long-lasting. When a tour of duty is over, everyone goes his own way. Bavier and Carras said their good-byes and made the usual well-meant promises to look each other up. Both men knew they wouldn't. And unknown to Bavier, Carras got off the ship with a hundred and twenty thousand dollars in his pocket and blood on his hands. No one had even suspected him, least of all Siegfried Bavier. While Carras got himself a suite in the Waldorf-Astoria and renewed his contacts with the Zanmattis, Bavier was wearing out his boot soles searching Brooklyn for a job. Any job.
Finally he managed to find one unloading fish from the trawlers at Sheepshead Bay. He didn't like the job one bit. It was beneath him, and would take him nowhere, but he had no choice. He had to eat.
There were times when he thought he'd never be able to get the stench of fish out of his nostrils. It seemed to follow him wherever he went. And it was grueling, demanding work which sapped a man's energies and paid miserably.
Right before Christmas, he came down with pneumonia. When he was released from the charity ward, he made up his mind. He'd never eat fish again as long as he lived. He wouldn't even set foot in a restaurant that served fish. But more important, he was through with Brooklyn. It was a dead-end place, and no one knew it better than he. He wanted to be in the real New York. In the picture-postcard New York of skyscrapers and clogged streets and noise and lights and excitement. He didn't even return to the rooming house where he'd been living to pick up his clothes and precious few belongings. If he returned, he'd have to pay the back rent. Besides, a new beginning was better done completely from scratch. He bought the only thing he needed to pursue his dream. A subway token. Then he took the BMT across the East River into Manhattan and never looked back.
Manhattan was a whole different world from Brooklyn. A world with a distinctly different set of rules. Bavier's instincts immediately told him that here opportunities awaited those with foresight, intelligence, and ambition. There was an excitement in the air which you couldn't find in Brooklyn. You could feel it wherever you went, uptown or downtown, East Side or West Side.
The first thing Bavier did when he got into Manhattan was to walk all day and all night long. He listened, he watched, he smelled, he learned, and he absorbed. When he couldn't stay awake any longer, he boarded the subway and slept sitting upright, riding around within the bowels of the city. After he woke up, he made it his first order of business to look for a place to live. The Lower East Side was cheap, so he went there first. He found a two-room cold-water tenement apartment on Rivington Street.
There were four apartments to each floor, and they shared a common toilet in the hall. The bathtubs were in the kitchens. The stairwell was dimly lit with naked low-wattage bulbs which threw bizarre shadows onto the walls. There was one overpowering smell here which, like the fish at Sheepshead Bay, Bavier could never seem to get out of his nostrils. It was the smell of boiled cabbage and boiling laundry. Then, too, there were the sounds in the building. Not that he minded them, for they covered up the creaking of the building and gave it its mantle of life and dignity. There were the cries of babies and the sounds of families which proved that, despite all the poverty, the cycle of life went on. The languages he heard around him were a strangely exotic mixture of German, Polish, and Yiddish.
He wasn't at all intimidated by the bleak surroundings or the foreign flavor. He looked upon them for what they were—the first rung up the ladder toward success. He was in Manhattan, he kept telling himself. It was here, and only here, that opportunity upon opportunity beckoned. And Rivington Street was a symbol. Not only for him, but for all the thousands of others who had flocked here. Many years later when Bavier was rich and living on Sutton Place, he would look fondly back upon Rivington Street as the place where it had all begun. Even as his millions accumulated, he never once lost sight of those humble beginnings. He took an immeasurable pride in having started at the bottom and having made it to the top.
For quite a few years he played with his wealth as a child tends to play with his favorite toys, making and losing several fortunes in the process. Finally he decided that it was time to stop taking chances and put everything on an even financial keel. He bought the penthouse co-op on Sutton Place and tried to break into high society. Even with his wealth, it wasn't easy. You needed a social background as well as money, or at least good manners and a quick wit. Bavier lacked all the social graces, and he was looked upon as being brash and somewhat vulgar. He'd never had the time to acquire polish. He had been too busy working. Now he tried to make up for it. When he bought the penthouse, he hired the services of an interior decorator. He went to an expensive art gallery on Madison Avenue and let them pick out the paintings to hang on his walls. To his untrained eye they looked crude and baffling, as if a demented child had randomly splashed paint on canvas. But he thought that they gave him an instant veneer. It took him a while to discover that they didn't.
With the same misguided intent, he started haunting the best restaurants and nightclubs, only to discover how much he still had to learn. He had bought an off-the-rack tuxedo, and had gone, proud as a peacock, to El Morocco. Since he hadn't known that it was customary to tip the maitre d', he had been seated at the worst table in the house. And to add to the insult, he had actually been mistaken for a headwaiter in his store-bought tuxedo. The next day, his lesson learned, he ordered tailor-made suits and tuxedos.
And then he met Z.Z.
Up until he met her, Bavier had very little contact with women. Not that he disliked them. On the contrary, he worshiped them and put them on a pedestal. Quite simply he'd never had the time for them. As a result, most of his relationships so far had been with prostitutes, for he had deemed sex to be as necessary as bathing or eating or brushing his teeth. For him, prostitutes were a convenience: he didn't have to waste any precious time on a relationship. He got what he wanted, and so did they. Then slowly he began to find that these sexual acts just weren't enough. That something vital was lacking. He thought about it and came to the realization that prostitutes mechanically did what was required of them, but no more. And that he now needed more. He was a rich man and it was time he had a woman he could call his own. No, not just a woman. A wife. But one with an acceptable society background, a credit to his wealth. One who could open all those doors that were still locked to him.
He met Z.Z. at a party given by a business associate. As soon as he saw her, he knew he had to have her. His unfailing instincts told him that she was special. That she was unlike any of the women he had ever met so far. He put her on an even higher pedestal than he had put any other. She was beautiful, with shimmering blond hair, a husky, cultured voice, and a graceful way of moving that brought an excitement to his loins such as he had never felt before. She had an aloof coolness about her, and yet he felt he could detect the smoldering passions which lay beneath the surface of her flawless skin. When she brushed against him, he felt a shiver tingling down his spine. Several days later, he proposed to her. She lowered her green eyes demurely and told him that she was flattered but needed time to think.
Had Bavier known more about the complicated workings of a scheming woman's mind, he would have realized that it was not he who had proposed to Z.Z., but she who had proposed to him. Without his even knowing it, she had baited the hook, dangled it in front of him, and then made him sweat it out before she reeled him in. Bavier took his having to wait as the sure sign of her being a lady. The truth was, Z.Z., who was in her early twenties, had been waiting to get married until she found a man who was rich enough to supply her with what she needed. Then she played her game. As far as sex and love were concerned, they were luxuries she never considered indulging in. What drove her was wealth, which translated into power. And she knew how to play her game. It was one which Bavier didn't even know existed.
In the beginning, theirs seemed a marriage made in heaven. The moment they left St. Patrick's Cathedral as husband and wife, with Z.Z. resplendent in a white gown and veil and
both of them ducking to avoid the showers of rice as they sprinted down the steps to the waiting limousine, Bavier was as light-headed as a sweepstakes winner. For the first time in his life, he had someone to shower his affection upon. He was a dutiful husband and he generously let Z.Z. have anything she wanted. A beautiful woman, he rationalized, was born to be spoiled. Besides, she was opening doors to a society he hadn't even known existed. And he was grateful.
It took him a year to discover that the society he had entered was one he would gladly have done without. He didn't like the cocktail parties where he had to stand around talking about the stock market. He preferred to play it. He couldn't stand the interminable, boring dinners, or the Monday nights at the opera. He couldn't care less about Thoroughbred horses or the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, or polo matches in Palm Beach. He didn't like talking about sailing. He preferred to sail. Slowly his disdain for Z.Z.'s crowd grew deeper and deeper. He despised the shallowness of these people. The constant snide social chitchat. The petty back-stabbing and scheming. The gossip. The spiteful glee whenever misery struck someone they knew. And he discovered, to his dismay, that Z.Z. thrived on all these things. She was the most backstabbing, scheming gossiper of them all, and as venomous as the queen of the cobras. When someone wronged her, she inevitably got her revenge tenfold, even if she had to spend months weaving her web. When it came to that, she had the patience of a spider. Bavier became as disenchanted with her as he had with her whole social scene. If it had been possible, he would have washed his hands of the whole affair, but he was trapped. Slowly at first, and then with gathering momentum, he looked for escape whenever he could. He drifted into affairs with other women. He knew that Z.Z. knew. He also knew that as long as Z.Z. thought he was being discreet enough, she didn't care what he did. He could do anything with her blessing as long as it would not compromise her social position or cause her fellow vipers to turn their tongues on her. She even helped push him into his affairs. She found them to be agreeably convenient. As her maids freed her time around the house, so Bavier's mistresses relieved her from certain domestic duties she found distasteful. Slowly Bavier came to the conclusion that his wife hated sex. Not only with him, but with anyone. He got no comfort from the fact that she didn't sleep around. The truth was, he would have preferred that to a libido which had given up the ghost. At first her lack of desire confounded him. In time, he discovered the answer. When he did, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Z.Z. was terrified that having sex would leave her looking dissipated and give her hollows around the eyes.
When Bavier took his various mistresses out on the town, they always went to out-of-the-way places. For Z.Z.'s sake, he kept them out of her way.
As far as Z.Z. was concerned, her husband would always come crawling back to her, no matter how far he strayed. And whenever she realized that the gap between herself and her husband had grown a little too wide for comfort, she would play her old game, the one she had snared him with. She would fling out the bait, reel him back in, and devote herself exclusively to him. She would even give herself up to him in bed and pretend to enjoy it. If she thought these little bouts were strengthening their relationship, she was sorely mistaken. On the contrary, these moments of contrition were so predictable that Bavier could even forecast their longevity to the day. They never lasted longer than a week. After that, Z.Z. would be climbing the walls and things would invariably return to the way they had been.
Had Z.Z. taken the time to analyze their relationship more carefully, she would have been aware of how truly precarious it had become. But she honestly had no idea how weary her husband had actually grown of her. She would never have believed that he needed someone more stimulating than herself.
In Hélène he found everything that was missing in Z.Z., and much more. Hélène possessed the exact qualities for which he had been unconsciously searching in a woman. She was entirely feminine, but in matters of business she was practical and thought like a man. Whereas his occasional crude manners and salty figures of speech embarrassed Z.Z., Hélène just naturally accepted them. She saw Bavier for what he was. A giant among men, but a kind giant. In many ways, he reminded her of Edmond. She felt she could rely on him in any circumstance. And be totally protected. But even more important, she truly loved Siegfried Bavier. In business, he was feared, and his lack of compassion toward anyone's interests except his own was legend. Hélène knew that that side of him existed, but she never saw it. Her Siegfried was kind and gentle, lusty, earthy, and spirited.
After the tugboats nudged the SS United States against the West Side pier, Hélène and Bavier parted company, but not for long. They ended up seeing each other nearly every day, even if they could snatch only a few precious minutes at a time out of their busy schedules. Neither of them minded this inconvenience. They respected each other's priorities and needs. Just having met each other seemed to have spurred them both on to new ambitions. Bavier was putting together a diversified investment package while Hélène rented two floors high up in the RCA Building in Rockefeller Center. She was setting up the American edition of Les Modes. Not only that, but she had come to a major decision which was to change her life. She loved New York. She loved its vitality, its larger-than-life glamour. She loved the frenzied creativity. But above all, she loved Bavier, and he loved her. Under the circumstances, it only made sense to stay here and move her headquarters over from Paris. The European editions would be put under a new umbrella: Hélène Junot International, Inc.
HJII was born.
For the first time in ages, Bavier felt like his old self. The weariness that had come over him after being saddled with Z.Z. had suddenly dropped away. Just knowing that Hélène was around seemed to be enough. It caused him to thrive as never before. For some strange reason, he and Hélène gave each other even more drive than either of them had ever had on their own. He sent his mistresses packing and worked himself to a frenzy.
Two months later, he met with Z.Z. and her lawyers to arrange for a quick divorce. Z.Z. took the news quietly, without undue concern. She didn't even try to put up a fight. She was certain that Bavier and Hélène were doomed. She began getting concerned only after he and Hélène got married in a quiet civil ceremony. Still, her concern was limited. Sigi would come crawling back. She was sure of it. All she had to do was reel him back in.
Edmond and Petite Hélène flew in from Paris for the marriage ceremony. Afterward Hélène and Bavier moved into the twelve-room co-op apartment they'd bought. It was on Fifth Avenue at Sixty-sixth Street and overlooked Central Park. Bavier never told her what getting his freedom from Z.Z. had cost him. Seven million dollars, the house in the Hamptons, the Sutton Place penthouse, the four-million-dollar art collection, and the priceless antiques. He thought the exchange well worth it. After all, he had a knack for making money. He'd make up for the losses in no time.
Nor did he tell Hélène that Z.Z. was pregnant. That news had caught him totally unawares, but he didn't let it influence his decision. Nor had he wanted it to influence Hélène's. Besides, the baby would pose no problem because Z.Z. had sworn she would get an abortion. Under the circumstances, it was the best solution.
What Bavier never knew was that Z.Z. decided against having the abortion. She was going to have the baby and try to use it for leverage to win him back. Not for himself, but so that no one else would have him.
And Z.Z. had made up her mind about one more thing. Already she was patiently beginning to spin her web. Given time, she would destroy Hélène Junot.
11
Bavier and Hélène honeymooned in Acapulco for a week. The days flew by so fast that it seemed as if they had just arrived when they had to pack their bags and leave again. Like it or not, they had to get back to New York. Both of them had pressing business awaiting. But even after they returned, Bavier made certain that the honeymoon did not come to an end. He constantly showered Hélène with gifts. The first week after their return he gave her a small but exquisite Utrillo painting depict
ing a Parisian street scene. The next week came the square-cut eighteen-carat emerald from Harry Winston, which she refused to take off her finger even when she went to sleep. And finally, in the third week there was the piece de resistance. The gleaming white 135-foot Feadship motor yacht which they christened the Petite H. It had cost six million dollars and carried a permanent crew of ten. It boasted three salons, a small discotheque, two speedboats, a master suite on deck, and four guest staterooms below. Bavier had had the yacht brought up from the broker's in Fort Lauderdale to the Seventy-ninth Street marina. After he and Hélène cruised around Manhattan on it in the moonlight, he instructed the captain to sail it on to Spain without them. They decided to keep it moored in Barcelona, planning to use it for vacations.
Unfortunately, there were to be no vacations. Fate played a cruel trick, and within weeks of their marriage, Siegfried Bavier dropped dead on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. The doctor said it was caused by an aneurysm in the brain. Hélène was too numb to understand any of it, and she took little comfort in the fact that it could never have been detected in a checkup. Once again, it seemed that her happiness had reached its peak only to be flung back down into the ashes.
Bavier's death made headlines in The Wall Street Journal and in the business section of the New York Times. The funeral was held at Campbell's on Madison Avenue. The chapel was packed with businessmen who had come to pay their last respects. When Bavier died, so had one of the last great gamblers on Wall Street. Hélène wished she knew who some of these people were, but most of them were strangers. She sat through the eulogy with a stony expression. The tears would come later. She didn't want to have to share them with strangers. Least of all with Z. Z. Bavier, who sat in the row behind her. It was Z.Z., she thought bitterly, who seemed to know everyone present. And who was receiving the condolences meant for the wife.
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