The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  “Merci bien” she said with a trace of sarcasm.

  “Sit down,” he ordered. “The countess will join us in a moment. Here is what we have in mind for you. You will make four appearances in each show. Our show is divided into two acts, with a fifteen-minute intermission between. You will do one solo song with a striptease early in the first act, and a very brief song and dance in front of The Troupe at the close of the act. In the second part you will do another solo, and then merely appear, marching and singing in chorus with the entire company, at the grand finale. You understand?”

  “Yes,” she said, liking him more this way and hoping that he had decided to keep their relationship strictly that of le directeur and la chanteuse.

  They sat down at a table removed from the others, and when the countess had appeared with a pad and pen, and pulled up a chair, Michaud resumed. “Now, Medora, we want your entire repertory of numbers. We’ll select two numbers out of your repertory, those most in keeping with the show, for your solos. These we will note for the chef d’orchestre, and tomorrow morning, you can work with the musicians. We will try to agree upon a third number for you to do with The Troupe, something they are doing or have recently done. That should not be difficult to decide. They are very quick and adaptable, perhaps the equal of the fine Bluebell Girls over at the Lido. Now, Medora, you tell the countess and me what you can do.”

  Medora asked for a cigarette, then crossed her bare legs, pleased that Michaud was ignoring them, and after several puffs she began to recite the title of every song she had done or worked up in the last six months. Once the countess had listed these, there was a long discussion about which could or should be done and which were consistent with the theme of the Club Lautrec show. After a half hour, it was unanimously agreed that for her solo striptease numbers Medora would do “That Old Black Magic” and “Souvenir de Montmartre,” and for her brief appearance with The Troupe she would do “Sing, You Sinners,” a number most of the girls had done in last year’s show.

  Next, Medora was requested to do a run-through of her two solo numbers. She ascended to the stage, while Michaud and the countess remained at their table directly beneath. The Algerian had already gone over to an upright piano and begun thumping the keys. Off to her left, Medora could see the girls of The Troupe giving her their attention, and to her right, in the shadows behind the Algerian, three white-clad cooks had emerged from the kitchen to watch.

  At first, explaining her costume and her entrance, Medora was discomfited, but when she heard the opening bars of “That Old Black Magic,” and started to sing it, as she had done so many times before, she began to feel easier and finally confident. On the reprise, she explained, instead of singing she would do her striptease. As the piano cued her, she half walked, half danced through her movements about the perimeter of the stage, pretending that she was not in a leotard but fully clothed, and making the motions of shedding her garments, until she was center stage and completely disrobed, except for the triangular patch, at the blackout.

  When this was done, Michaud bobbed his head but said nothing. The countess came to the apron of the stage to discuss the lighting. With that settled, the countess asked Medora if she wanted to rest before the second solo, but Medora said that she was ready to continue. The Algerian began to play the bouncy “Souvenir de Montmartre,” and Medora sang the song, and, after calling for a slower tempo on the reprise, she once again simulated a striptease. This time her pantomime indicated that a lover was trying to undress her, and she was resisting, until, unable to resist any longer, she found herself breathlessly helping him disrobe her.

  When she finished, she saw the countess beaming appreciatively.

  Michaud sat up. “Very good, Miss Hart. Why don’t you and the girls take a ten-minute break, and then we’ll work on your short number with The Troupe.” He slumped moodily back into the chair, chin on his touching fingertips. As Medora crossed the platform, she was aware of Michaud’s eyes following her. Climbing down from the stage, she decided to challenge his gaze as coldly as possible. But when she looked over her shoulder, he was accepting a tumbler of red wine from a porter, as he spoke to the countess.

  For a moment, Medora stood there, uncertain of where to turn, where to sit, what to do. The girls of The Troupe had devoted themselves to their own occupations, eating, drinking, reading, gossiping, one sewing, another writing a letter, and Medora felt quite apart from them, an alien in a foreign place once more.

  Then she became aware of a milky arm raised, a long hand fluttering, and she realized that a generously endowed French-appearing girl in a jade-green bikini was beckoning to her. Eager as a homing pigeon, Medora hastily made her way to the table at which the girl sat alone, isolated from the others.

  The French girl, raven hair in a short gamin cut, great orbs of eyes heavily shadowed, tremendous helicoid breasts straining against her bikini top, offered her hand in a clasp of welcome and gestured with a glass toward her plates of bread, Italian cheese, slices of Bayonne ham, bottle of Vittel, and the empty chair across from her.

  “I’m Denise Averil, and I’m drinking a Fernet Branca because I’ve got a hangover, and I don’t know which is worse,” she said, “but I do know it is awful the first day, not knowing a soul. Sit down, Medora, if you don’t mind. You can have the Vittel water, all of it.”

  “Thank you,” said Medora, hesitatingly, “I mean, if it’s not imposing on you?”

  “Cut it out,” said Denise Averil. “I say only what I think.” As Medora settled down gingerly, Denise poured some mineral water into a paper cup for her, and went on. “Besides, I like to keep up on my English. I was born in Marseille, but only my mother was French. My father, I guess he was my father, was a Czech who’d been an American GI. My parents didn’t speak each other’s language, but they both knew English, my mother from school, my old man from living ten years in Detroit, so I was raised on some kind of bastard Anglo-American speech. I’ve had occasion to improve it since. My name really isn’t Denise Averil. I mean, it is Denise, but my father’s last name—well, you had to shake well before pronouncing—so when I got into the club here, they insisted I take Averil for my last name because some chick named Jane Avril had been one of the babes Lautrec painted for a poster. Is your name really Medora Hart?”

  “My father changed Horth-something-or-other—something longer—to Hart when he moved to England. Yes, I was christened Medora Hart. Unfortunately.”

  “Oh, come off it. It’s a beautiful name. Besides, it’s making you ten times what the rest of us earn in a week.”

  “Yes, I suppose I shouldn’t complain. But it gets overwhelming—always being the—”

  “The Jameson girl,” said Denise. “Honey, I can guess what that means. Like your track record’s in the open for every stud, and the second they lay eyes on you, they see an invitation for an advance.”

  “Something like that.”

  With her forefinger under her nostrils, Denise tried to prevent a sneeze, and then she sneezed and apologized. ‘This filthy Fernet Branca, or maybe the Vittel, does it to me every time. Not champagne, just medicinal potions and charged water.” She touched the corners of her eyes with a napkin. “Michaud made his pass at you yet?”

  Startled, Medora was at a loss for words. “I—I don’t think so. I mean, not directly.”

  Denise winked broadly and grinned. “He will, my pet. Expect it.” She leaned forward confidentially, her overflowing spiral breasts almost slipping out. “That was another reason I wanted to speak to you. I took a liking to you when you were up there. You looked like a waif. Listen to me, saying that to you—you could probably tell me a thing or two—”

  “No.”

  “But you seemed nice, so I wanted to warn you to slip into your chastity belt offstage—that is, unless you don’t give a damn—or maybe you even like it—except, if you do, you can do better than Michaud. He’s a sort of mechanical monster. You get the prerecorded words, the windup motions, the Moet et Chando
n and caviar and silk-canopy bed, the feeling of being first, but before you get used to the floral-decorated bidet, you get the boot, and the mechanized contraption moves on to another victim. I mean, it’s nothing terrible, except that it is nothing, it’s zero. You realize you’ve been used, all one-way, you’ve got nothing back emotionally, not even one warm feeling, and you’re just a little sicker of yourself, that’s all. Denise knows.”

  “You do know?”

  “Three months’ worth, two years ago.”

  “But why—?”

  “The job, honey. I wanted to step up in class. And I’m not all that classy. So what the hell, you do what you have to. I figured it’s no worse than a cramp. And well, it paid off. Here I am, the youngest old retainer.” She grinned. “And you’re next. I can spot the Michaud look. The nostrils flaring. Means he’s turned on. The dragon is breathing hot passion. He’s preparing to envelop you.”

  “Not a chance,” said Medora. “I’m not exactly an innocent, as you know. I can’t be bothered by small dragons.’.’

  Denise was plainly skeptical. “This one usually gets what he wants. He saw you to your dressing room and wouldn’t leave. Right? His speech became more informal and provocative. Right? You were armed and resistant. Right? You came down here to rehearsal, and to your surprise the passionate ogre was all disinterest and business. Right? You are now disarmed. Right?”

  Medora laughed. “Well—”

  “Well, next, sweetie pie, the rehearsal is over. He will tell you not to leave right away. He will say he wants to discuss your act further.” She paused, grinning. “You doubt me?”

  “I don’t think he’ll try anything, Denise. He knows where I stand. I made it clear… I don’t have time for any Michauds. I’m in Paris for something else.”

  “Good luck,” said Denise. She nodded off. “The countess stirs. That means we’re on.”

  Denise and the seventeen other girls clambered onto the stage. Medora took one more sip of her mineral water and joined them on the platform. While Michaud remained in his chair below lazily studying Medora and The Troupe, the countess ascended the stage. For fifteen minutes, she walked the veteran dancers through her choreography of the old “Sing, You Sinners” number, then gave the newcomers in the line and Medora more detailed individual directions, creakingly pantomiming entrances, the steps, the exits.

  After that, the Algerian hooked up the tape, and the loudspeakers blared forth. Under Michaud’s noncommittal gaze, and following Countess Ribault’s stomping and shouting directions. The Troupe pranced, kicked, split, leaped, gyrated. Medora, weaving and undulating before them, portable microphone in hand, sang out the lyrics, finally merging with the chorus line for their arm-shaking march off the stage.

  The first time through, the number was alive but woefully ragged, and Medora knew it and was ready for more. By the third time through, the number had begun to smooth out as timing and coordination improved. By the fifth rehearsal, when the small of her back and the calves of her legs were beginning to ache, Medora sensed that it was finally right and prayed that the session was over. With a grateful gasp, she heard the countess applaud and congratulate them.

  Michaud was rising. “Thank you, girls. That is enough for today. See you tonight.”

  The line of The Troupe broke formation, and there was chatter and laughter as the tall chorines began to leave the platform for their dressing rooms. Wearily, Medora started to follow them.

  “Oh, Miss Hart!” It was Michaud’s voice, and Medora stopped and turned, as he approached the apron of the stage. “I thought you did remarkably well, all things considered.”

  “Merci,” she said warily.

  “Just one other thing,” he said. “I’d like to see you briefly for a little private talk before you go. I want to discuss a few points about your act. And then there is some business.”

  Medora hesitated. “If it’s important—”

  “It is important.”

  With a sigh, Medora descended from the platform and entered the backstage area. Several members of The Troupe, Denise Averil among them, were gathered about the soft-drink vending machine, conversing. Immediately, Denise saw her, and her eyebrows went up questioningly. Medora could not help but smile. “Thanks,” she called out. “Your radar was right.” Denise nodded seriously, and held up her fingers to form a V-for-Victory sign. Medora shrugged in a gesture of helplessness, and hastened up the staircase.

  Once enclosed in her austere dressing room, Medora pushed off her dancing slippers, and rolled off her adhesive white leotard. She felt the dryness across every inch of her naked body that always followed a perspiring rehearsal or performance, and she wished that she could shower or bathe, but there would be time enough for that at the hotel, after she had made short shrift of le directeur and his so-called business meeting. She took up her white nylon panties, stepped into them, and straightened the elastic waistband, as she returned to the mirror to find some facial tissue and wipe off her makeup.

  Suddenly, she heard a quick sound behind her, the door opening and closing, and she whirled around to see what had happened. Inside her room, leaning back against the shut door, was Alphonse Michaud, his unblinking eyes judging and approving of her semi-nude body.

  Her first automatic impulse was to scream, but the audacity of his entrance had struck her dumb.

  “Forgive me, Medora,” he said contritely, “but—”

  She groped for a garment to cover herself, but realized her clothes were on the chair beside Michaud and on the door hook behind him. Desperately, her hands went up to shield her breasts. “What in the hell are you doing here?” she demanded angrily.

  “I became impatient. I could not resist. I had to speak to you alone.”

  “You’ve got your bloody nerve, busting in like this. Can’t you even let a lady dress in privacy?”

  For the first time, he smiled. “Come, my dear, be sensible. It is not as if you are a Floradora or cancan girl. Your condition right now is more respectable than it will be on the stage tomorrow. There is less for me to see than any customer will see in the next few weeks.”

  Her hands spread wider across her bust, and she was conscious of her transparent panties. She had never felt more naked. “I just don’t like the idea of anyone intruding on my privacy. And I don’t like your insolence. Who in the hell do you think you are?”

  “I am your employer,” he said softly. “I am also the director of the club.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can behave as you like with me. That’s not in your damn contract.”

  “You are most pretty when you are angry,” he said. “I am one more person besides your employer, Medora. I am a man who is madly in love with you. It was instantaneous, the moment that I laid eyes on you. The girls come and go here. They are my trade, my stock in trade, and I am hardly conscious of them as women. You are different. You have had a profound effect on me. Your beauty, your youth, your personality—I am shaken—I feel weakness. Medora, I could be your slave. I am wealthy and a member of the best circles, but I am alone, truly, and in you I sense a compassionate, compatible soul. I ask that we be friends.”

  “I ask that you get your arse right out of here,” said Medora with mounting fury, “and save your oily insincerity for those scared little wretches who are afraid of you.”

  Michaud had straightened during the last, his features bunching unpleasantly into a scowl. “Medora, I suggest you calm down and reconsider your position and my own. You want a career. I could make it possible for you to have one at the top level. I could make life very comfortable for you—if you were sensible and considerate.”

  She dropped her hands from her breasts, knotting them into fists. “I don’t want a lousy career, and above all I don’t want or need you. I’m not in the habit of crawling into bed with just any old lecher, so—”

  “Medora,” he interrupted firmly, “your paean to virtue seems hardly in character. We both know you are anything but a lily-white virgin.” His
features had set in a look of superior disdain. “Let us stop this fencing. Let us be open. Now I think we shall get somewhere. You know and I know that you have little talent. You cannot sing. You cannot dance. You cannot act. All you have to offer is a remarkable body. Even that would not be enough—there are so many—but your attractiveness is enhanced by your reputation for looseness with many men, from the filthy Jameson up to that young brother of the British Cabinet Minister. I make no criticism. I am a Frenchman and a man of the world. We are what we are, no? Let it be. Let us understand and enjoy ourselves. So why this pretense with me? Why this act? I can do more for you than anyone has—”

  He had taken one step forward, and she went rigid. “Get out of here!”

  He stopped and squinted at her.

  “If you don’t get out this instant,” she said, “then I’m getting out, walking right out of your bloody show.”

  He rocked uncertainly, taking measure of her. At last, he heaved his shoulders upward, and then let them drop downward, signifying defeat. “You win, Medora,” he said, “although I think you lose. Of course, I shall not come to you again. You will have to come to me.”

  “For that you can wait until hell freezes over.”

  “C’est la guerre,” he said with a smile, reluctantly lifting his gaze from her breasts. “But one thing I do not retract. You are beautiful.”

  As he turned away, trying to hold on to dignity, he paused to pick up her brassiere and toss it to her. Hand on doorknob, he came around once more, and watched impersonally, as she settled her breasts into her brassiere and fastened it. The tone of his voice was changed The lasciviousness had gone out of it.

  “There was actually real business, you know, and I had better speak of it now, Medora. There are two clauses in our contract, ambiguous in the wording, but important, and clauses with which I expect you to comply.”

  “Please give me my dress,” said Medora.

  Now the Frenchman of commerce, not amour, Michaud absently took her teal-blue woolen dress off the hanger and handed it to her, as he continued to speak. “First, I should want you, as well as the other performers, to be friendly with our clientele. It is of the best. With the Summit conference here, our tables will be filled with many important figures. If some foreign official sends you a card, or invites you to share a bottle of champagne between shows, or after your own act, it would be advantageous to accept.”