Now the palazzo was silent as Hélène pushed open the massive carved doors to the ballroom. Suddenly the glare of all that gold hit her in the eyes. Instinctively she threw up a hand to shield herself against it. Except for the candles, which would be lit tomorrow evening, all the lights were on.
As in a daze, she walked slowly around the room. It was unbelievable— Yvette had truly outdone herself. The ancient ballroom was everything she herself had envisioned, and more. Much more.
With military precision, carved gilt ballroom chairs lined the walls. They were upholstered in a dark blue muslin which, like the ceiling above, was hand-painted with gold stars. The Byzantine murals on the walls were completely hidden by gold-veined mirrors that reflected—and refracted—everything over and over to minuscule infinity. The cold, dark marble floor was covered with a thick sea of tiny wafer-thin gold-foil stars that scattered and danced and swirled around your feet as you walked through them.
Hélène could feel a powerful surge of satisfaction, of having set a goal and then having surpassed it beyond even her own wildest imaginings. It would indeed be the party of the decade, she thought. And it was tax-deductible, for it was heralding the new d'Itri perfume. The perfume which she and Luba had helped the chemists in Grasse to create, and which would be sold only through the d'Itri boutiques and a select number of the world's most exclusive shops starting the day after tomorrow. Already, each of these shops had a special booth set up in the cosmetics departments. Each booth was hooked up to a central computer. Day by day and hour by hour, d'Or's price per ounce, per precious fraction of a fluid ounce, would fluctuate with the price of gold on the international market.
Her eyes rested now on the tall Lucite pedestal which stood in the very center of the room. On top of it was the enormous thirty-gallon crystal bottle of d'Or. Tomorrow, at the height of the ball, Marcello d'Itri would unveil it to a fanfare accompaniment. Each guest would receive one of the half-ounce sizes as a gift. Precious contents aside, even the bottles themselves were valuable and bound to become collectors' items. They were made of hand-cut Lalique crystal. The caps were miniature bars of bullion imprinted with the d'Or logo and the exact fraction of a gram of the real gold used in the plating.
Hélène sank down onto one of the ballroom chairs. Was it possible that all the work was finally finished? That everything for the twenty-eight hundred guests who had accepted was in readiness? Yes, it was possible, she told herself firmly. All the fatigue she now felt told her so. But worn out though she was, she'd take a Dalmane before she went to bed. Tonight, a sleeping pill wouldn't hurt. She needed to get a good night's rest. She'd have to be up early and look her absolute best. This was one occasion when having hollow circles around the eyes just wouldn't do.
She sighed. Morning would begin a gruelingly long day and an endless night. It would start at ten A.M. when a seamstress from Yves St. Laurent was arriving by train, just in case her gown needed some last-minute adjustments or she'd happened to put on a few pounds.
Wearily she closed her eyes. The seamstress wasn't all she had to contend with tomorrow. Alexandre himself would be flying in from Paris at one-thirty to do her hair. And at five, Pablo was arriving from Elizabeth Arden's in New York. He was going to paint her eyes to look like an African butterfly in flight, with ostrich-feather antennae as eyebrows and tiny glued- on canary-diamond tears. And she had to have a last-minute talk with Scavullo. She had hired him to take pictures of the ball for Les Modes.
Hélène let out a deep breath. She opened her eyes and shook her head as the staggering schedule sank in. There wasn't a moment to waste.
13
Before the Golden Ball was even in full swing, word had it that Venice would never see another occasion quite like it. It eclipsed even the Black-and-White Ball that had caused such a furor a few years earlier. Throughout the evening Hélène was everywhere, seeing to it that everyone was greeted, that each guest got just the right amount of personal attention, and that the proper introductions were made. She knew that ultimately it was up to her, the hostess, to see that it would indeed turn out to be the party of the season. She noted, with some satisfaction, that it was certainly beginning to look that way.
Never a big partygoer herself, she suddenly found herself enjoying this one immensely. Without a doubt, she was its star. Her shimmering gown was almost translucent except for its molded gold breast plates. The floor-length hand-painted African butterfly sleeves matched her extraordinarily made-up eyes to perfection. Each time she spread her arms, it was as if she were spreading her wings, ready to take flight. It was clear that of all the costumes, it was hers that was the most original, the most photographed, and the most envied. Yet it never failed to amaze her to what extraordinary lengths the celebrities she had invited had gone to when it came to their costumes. Each one had tried to outdo the other. There were gleaming belts of clinking gold coins, several knights in gold-sprayed armor, necklaces of nuggets, gowns of mesh and coins. The Vicomtesse de Sevigne stole the show as far as arriving in style went. Dressed as an Aztec idol, she had come floating lazily down the Grand Canal on a golden barge she had commandeered from somewhere, no one knew quite where. Not to be outdone, the Czarina wore an antique Florentine ball gown that had once belonged to one of the Medicis. It was sewn and embroidered with gold thread and trimmed with layers of soft gold lace. The train was so long and heavy that it required the services of two gold-clad midgets to hold it up all evening. A gold-costumed monkey (rented from some enterprising organ-grinder, Helene thought) perched on Luba's shoulder, fascinated with the Czarina's latest trademark—gold Yves Tanguy earrings she had taken to wearing constantly.
As Hélène went past the buffet tables lining the hallway, she slowed down and paused for a moment to appreciate the scene. Gold-liveried servants stood behind the tables serving the hungry guests who were lined up, gold plates in hand. She managed to get a glimpse of the food. It looked even more delicious than it smelled. Once again, she mentally gave thanks to Yvette, at the same time marveling at how it had all been achieved in time, and how the platters of food could be so fresh. Even with the heat generated by the lights and the guests, all the food down to the last sprig of parsley looked bright and unwilted.
She made a left turn and glanced toward the front doors and the floodlit waters of the Grand Canal outside. The entrance was well guarded by the four gold-painted bodyguards hired by Yvette. Past them, outside the open doors, she could see more guests arriving. The armada of paparazzi was so thick that it was practically impossible for the guests to pull up in their gondolas and speedboats. Incessant flashbulbs popped blinding white lightning as the guests' boats carefully maneuvered to the floodlit palazzo entrance.
Hélène lifted her wrist and glanced at her gold watch. Nearly eleven o'clock. In half an hour, Nigel was due to arrive. She permitted herself a smile of eager anticipation. Nigel. It was comforting to know that he would soon be here beside her, dancing, laughing, holding her in his arms. Just his presence would be enough to make everything else about the ball pale. When he arrived, she would be waiting for him here, near the entrance. But in the meantime, she would make a few more rounds to make sure that everything was in order.
14
At eleven-twenty Hélène decided to go back out to the entrance hall and wait there for Nigel. It wouldn't be long now, she told herself with growing excitement, and then he'd be standing here beside her. Ten minutes at the most, if he was punctual.
She had nearly reached the ballroom doors when she caught her breath. Nigel was already standing in the doorway. Dressed in a gold satin tunic and matching breeches, he looked like a grown-up Gainsborough that had just stepped out of its massive gold frame. A breeze swept through the hallway behind him and caught his hair, fluttering through it as he looked around at the mass of golden people. His eyes were searching.
For her, she knew. She straightened. She could almost reach out and feel his anticipation, his disappointment that she wasn't there at
the door waiting for him. She felt a surge of pride. He looked so dashing, so handsome.
He was about to step forward; then he checked himself. She realized at once why. He was afraid he'd get lost in the crowds. With this many people, chances were they could pass each other a dozen times without realizing it.
Hélène balanced herself on tiptoe, lifted her arm, and waved. After a moment she caught Nigel's eye. He smiled and swiftly strode toward her.
She threaded her way around some waltzing couples and then ran toward Nigel, throwing herself into his arms.
'For a moment I was afraid I wouldn't find you,' he said. 'You should have exercised the hostess's prerogative and worn red or white so that you'd stand out.'
Z. Z. Bavier couldn't remember just how it had happened, but she and Hubert de Léger had become friends. Well, if not exactly friends, then at least fast comrades-in-arms. It didn't really surprise her. After all, they had a mutual bond. Both of them hated Hélène Junot, although neither would divulge his reasons to the other. And both of them shared the same goal: to destroy her. Yet Z.Z. found herself enjoying every moment she spent with Hubert. With her, he was always polite, always the perfect, charming gentleman, the worldly Comte de Léger. His title was ancient, his manners continental. She had never had a chance to see that other, terrible, childish side of him. But Z.Z. sensed a turmoil boiling within him that he kept well to himself. It always seemed to be lurking just beneath the surface, ready to erupt without warning. She knew that it had something to do with Hélène Junot, and it fascinated her. She only wished she knew what it was.
Hubert had never given Z.Z. much serious thought, but he, too, was surprised. He liked being in her company. He appreciated her biting wit, her sharply honed razor tongue, her ever-ready sense of adventure. It was as if the two of them had been made for each other. But they both instinctively knew that they were too much alike ever to sustain any deep relationship. That was their strength. They did not get emotionally involved with each other. Instead, they kept their mutual goal well in sight.
In silence now they floated down the Grand Canal in the gondola. They sat side by side on the red velvet seat, each immersed in his own thoughts, oblivious of the gondolier at the rear, who expertly paddled the thin, sleek craft through the water.
Z.Z. leaned forward and fished the single red tea rose out of the crystal bud vase attached to the gunwales. She sat back and brought the rose up to her face until her nose was buried in the petals. Then languidly she began tearing the petals off one by one and tossing them into the canal. Another hundred yards to go and they would reach the Palazzo Daniela Donatella, she thought with satisfaction. Another hundred yards. . .
Suddenly she felt the sharp sting of a thorn in her flesh. Angrily she tossed the remainder of the rose overboard and licked the blood off her finger. She stared fixedly ahead through her narrowed eyes and focused her thoughts on Hélène. On the woman who had stolen her husband and left her to deal with her son, Wilfred, alone. She wondered how Hélène would react to her and Hubert appearing at the ball, since they hadn't been invited. She smiled, thanking God that her friend Betty Lindenbaum had come down sick and had let herself be talked into giving Z.Z. her invitation. Poor Betty. After tonight, she probably wouldn't receive another invitation from Hélène Junot for as long as she lived.
With rising anticipation, Z.Z. glanced now at the ancient palazzos as they drifted slowly past. Most of them were dark, their windows shuttered. It was close to midnight.
Suddenly she was aware of Hubert's eyes on her and she turned to him. He nudged her and pointed straight ahead. She sat forward and caught her breath. The Palazzo Daniela Donatella was just coming into view beyond the curve, floodlighted like something out of a Hollywood premiere. Z.Z. couldn't believe her eyes. Every window and cornice caught the light; even the outside had been decorated with festive garlands of gold. And the paparazzi—they must number at least a hundred! she thought as she saw the masses of little craft bobbing dangerously in the water in front of the palazzo.
She took a deep breath. 'We're almost there,' she said, settling back in the seat. Her long tapered fingers impatiently tapped the legs of her gold-lame tuxedo. She turned to Hubert, her eyes challenging. 'How do you think she'll react to your costume?'
He shrugged. 'With Hélène, you can never tell.'
'I think I can.' Z.Z. smiled wickedly. 'I can't wait to see her face when you take off your coat!' She let out a hoarse laugh of satisfaction as she reached over and traced a gold-lacquered fingertip down the side of his gilded leather coat. 'This is one thing the imperturbable Hélène Junot hasn't bargained for!'
At exactly midnight, the lights in the ballroom flickered and then went out. For a moment there was total darkness. As if someone had thrown a master switch, the music, talking, and laughter subsided.
Suddenly there was a dramatic roll of drums and a single spotlight clicked on overhead. Marcello d'Itri, in a woven gold tuxedo, was standing at the foot of the draped pedestal beside Hélène. Slowly the guests drew closer around them.
Hélène looked around at the shadows of the people encircling her and Marcello. She could sense their curiosity. They were waiting expectantly.
She clasped her hands in front of her, cleared her throat, and smiled. 'My dear friends,' she announced in a loud voice that rang out clearly and echoed from the vaulted ceiling. 'Surely you are all aware that the theme of this ball is 'Gold.' This theme has not been chosen on a whim. There is a purpose behind it. It gives me pleasure to announce that my friend Marcello d'Itri'—she turned and curtsied graciously to him, and he returned it with a solemn bow—'has created a new and lavish addition to his already superb line of clothing and accessories. This new addition to the line is far more ethereal, and appeals far more to the senses than anything his genius has created thus far.' She stopped and looked at Marcello. Their eyes met again. She smiled and nodded.
Marcello d'Itri took a step backward and reached for a corner of the gold cloth that draped the pedestal.
'Ladies and gentlemen!' d'Itri announced. 'May I present. . .d'Or!'
There was another drumroll and Marcello tugged on the cloth. In fluid slow motion it began to glide to the floor. All eyes were raised to the enormous cut-crystal bottle with the gold-bullion cap. The facets of the crystal caught the spotlight and flashed fire in all directions, the liquid inside it glowing a deep rich gold. There was a roar of applause.
Marcello stepped forward. 'Ladies and gentlemen. In a moment, the waiters will circulate to give each of you a half-ounce bottle. Need I say this is not such a small token?' He paused. 'For the price of d'Or, ounce by ounce, is the price of gold on the international market!'
He stopped and bowed again. There was more enthusiastic applause and the spotlight went out. Immediately the chandeliers clicked back on and the music and excited talk started up as before. As quickly as the first notes of the fox trot had begun, they now faded, and the conversation died quickly until the ballroom was silent. People began turning around, craning their necks and standing on tiptoe to see what was happening.
Hélène had been heading toward Nigel. Now she looked around with a puzzled expression. Something was wrong. She could feel the tension in the air. But what was it? What could have happened?
Not losing a moment, she fought her way through the crowd, Nigel following behind her.
When she neared the doors, Hélène's steps faltered. She came to a standstill, her face white with shock, and she began to tremble.
Hubert de Léger and Z.Z. Bavier stood there smiling, facing everyone. Their eyes were challenging.
It was not the fact that they had crashed the ball which caused the anger to constrict Hélène's heart. It was Hubert's costume.
Slung casually over his arm was a gilded leather coat, and set on his head at a jaunty angle was a visored golden cap. An SS cap. He was in head-to-toe uniform. A golden Nazi uniform that flashed and gleamed obscenely beautiful.
As if she had bee
n struck, Hélène caught the nearest person's arm and grabbed hold of it as the ballroom suddenly reeled around her. She closed her eyes. Then she felt firm fingers pushing her into yet someone else's arms. She had been clutching Luba.
Hélène opened her eyes and shook her head like a dazed prizefighter. She barely realized that she was now in Nigel's arms.
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