I stayed a few minutes longer, until it was almost time for her to go on again. She insisted on having one of the guys run me out to Queens in his car. I ran through my head the possibility of staring at the thick neck of some club gofer while I sat in the backseat all the way across town and then over the Long Island Expressway to Elmhurst. Or maybe, I thought with a shudder, he might try to chat me up. We’d talk about—what?—Heavy D’s latest, or some new designer drug? My heart sank.
Then I mentally put myself on the subway, stop after stop after stop. I didn’t even have a newspaper to distract me.
I went for the car.
I left with the promise that I would call her the next day to give her a full report on Mom’s news, whatever it turned out to be.
On the way out I ran into Justin.
“What’s happening, Smash-up?”
“Same old, same old, Justin. You know.”
“Have a quick one with me, girlfriend.”
“I can’t.
“Got a date?”
“Yep. Dinner. With my mother.”
“Ooooh. Bring me back some cornbread.”
I guffawed. He didn’t know how funny that was.
The kitchen was spotless, as always. But then, why shouldn’t it be? Mom never cooked. Everything was take-out or premixed or delivered in stay-warm aluminum foil.
“Mom, I’m here! Where are you?”
My mother’s cotton dress was as surreal as the kitchen counters in its neatness. Decorous pageboy wig bobby-pinned in place. Makeup specially blended by one of the black salesladies at the Macy’s in the mall.
It must be eight, nine years now since Daddy left her. But if I no longer remembered the exact date that had happened, Mom sure did. I bet she could tell you what she’d eaten for breakfast that day, what shoes Daddy was wearing when he broke the news to her. On those rare occasions when Mom talks about him, she never uses his name, referring to my father only as “him.”
My father soon remarried: a young white teacher on his staff at the private school where he was now the principal. Outside of the occasional birthday lunch, Christmastime, and so on, I saw very little of him. He was happy enough, I suppose, in his new life. And he never missed an alimony payment.
“Nanette, what have you got on your feet?”
“They’re called boots, Mother.”
“Those things are something you wear down in the basement when you’re looking to kill a rat. Don’t tell me you dress like that for—”
“Holy mackerel, Mother, what is it you have to tell me!”
“It’s about Vivian,” she said grimly.
I fell into a chair, suddenly exhausted. No melanoma. Thank God. No wedding.
Vivian, my father’s sister, had been my idol when I was a kid. Breezing into town and swooping me up, Aunt Vivian meant trips into Manhattan and eating exotic food and hanging with her hip friends and my first sip of beer and every other cool thing you can imagine when you’re ten years old and your father’s baby sister is a sophisticated sometime-fashion-model who drinks at piano bars and parties with people who actually make the rock ’n’ roll records you hear on the radio.
My father felt about his little sister Vivian the way Justin feels about dykes. He disapproved of her friends and her nomadic ways and her prodigious consumption of vodka and her way-out hairdos and everything else about her lifestyle, which he didn’t understand at all.
My mother didn’t understand it any better than he did, but she loved Vivian just the same. Maybe that was due to the same kind of sympathy with strays that had moved her to take Aubrey to her heart. Mom looked on with pity while Auntie Viv blew all her money and drank too much and got her heart broken by trifling pretty men and then recovered to start the cycle all over again.
In time Vivian married and divorced—two or three times, if I remember right—and moved out of New York and then back again, half a dozen times—to L.A. and Mexico and France and Portugal—wherever the job or the party or the boyfriend might take her. Daddy and she finally had one final royal blowup during the cocaine-laced eighties and stopped speaking to each other altogether. We didn’t even know where she had been living for the past eight or ten years.
And now, apparently, some disaster had befallen her.
“Is she dead?” I asked. “How did it happen?”
“No, no. She isn’t dead.”
“She isn’t? Then what happened to her? What about Vivian?”
“She’s in trouble. Wait here a minute.”
Mom vanished into the dining room.
I sat looking around the kitchen in puzzlement, at last fixing on the covered Styrofoam plates that held our dinner, waiting to be popped into the microwave. And I thought the day had been long and weird before I crossed the bridge into Queens. What the hell was going on here? Well, at least my mother hadn’t tried to reach me at NYU. That sure would have resulted in an interesting phone message. But I had always discouraged her from calling me at work, telling her that as a part-timer I didn’t really have an office of my own.
“Look at these.”
She handed me two pieces, one a standard tourist postcard with a corny photo of the Eiffel Tower, the other a telegram.
I turned the postcard over and read:
“Long time No see. Hate to ask you but I’m strapped. Can you spare anything? Just send what you can—if you can. Love, Viv.”
The postmark on the card was about three weeks old.
There was an address beneath her signature. A place on the rue du Cardinal Lemoine—my Lord, Viv was in Paris.
I looked up at Mom and began to ask a question, but she ordered me to read the telegram first, which was dated a week or so after the postcard.
JEAN
DID YOU GET MY CARD?
WORSE. I CAN’T GET OUT.
VIV.
“What’s this about?” I asked, the fear rising in my voice.
“I don’t know, honey. I don’t know.” Her spine stiffened then and her eyes took on a glassy look. “I finally called…him. I mean, he is her brother.”
“You’re kidding! You called Daddy?”
She nodded.
I tried to imagine White Mrs. Daddy picking up the phone in their apartment near Lincoln Center. Handing the receiver over. Jesus, the look on his face when she told him who it was.
“What did he say?” I asked. “Did Viv write to him too?”
“Yes. But he doesn’t want to know anything about Vivian. Says he tore the card up without reading it. It’s a sin. I told him I hoped one day he would be hurting in the same way and when he reached out for help—well, never mind. I told him I think it’s a sin, that’s all.”
I shook my head. “Wow. This is so weird. What are you going to do? You don’t have any money to send her, and if Pop won’t do it—”
“He wouldn’t give it to her, but I managed to shame him into giving me something for you.”
“Me? What do you mean?”
She pulled out a chair for herself then and sat down in it before answering. “Listen, Nan.”
“What?”
“I don’t have any money to spare. But—well, I do have it, but it’s not mine. As a matter of fact it’s Vivian’s money.”
“What are you talking about, Mother?”
“I mean I actually do have some money for Vivian—especially for her. When your grandfather died he left most of what he had to your daddy, naturally. And you got enough to take that beautiful trip. But you know how he was. He feuded with Viv just like your father did, but at the end he wanted to come to some kind of peace with her. Nobody even knew where Vivian was at the time. So he left her some money, and gave it to me to keep for her. It’s in a special account. Waiting. There must be close to ten thousand in it by now.”
“Ten thousand dollars! That sure sounds like enough to bail her out of trouble. And you mean you’ve had this money all along?”
“Yes. I knew sooner or later we’d hear from her again.”
&
nbsp; “But not like this,” I said.
“No. Not like this. And so…” She glanced away from me then.
“What is it?”
“I know it’s a lot to ask, Nan. You haven’t seen Viv since you were a kid. I just know she’s over there drinking, broke, stranded somewhere. Maybe even sick. I wouldn’t know where to begin to help her. I don’t know how I’d even get out of the airport over there. But I thought—since you’ve been there so many times—I thought maybe you could go over there and help her—take this money to her and help her get home. Like I said, I managed to shame your father into giving me enough for your expenses.”
Expenses?
“What are you saying, Mother? You want me to go to Paris!”
“Yes. Would you do it? If—I mean, only if you could take the time from work. You’re going to be on spring vacation soon, aren’t you?”
“It started yesterday, Mom. No problem.”
A lot to ask.! Holy—
I felt a kick right then. Right on the shin. I knew who that was: my conscience, Ernestine. I just kicked the bitch right back. Yes, I’m a liar, I told her; a deceiver, a coldhearted Air France slut. I was thinking not of my Aunt Viv in a French drunk tank but of the braised rabbit in that bistro on the rue Monsieur le Prince.
A lot to ask? Coq au vin, here I come!
CHAPTER 2
Can’t We Be Friends?
I know I’m a fool. A sentimentalist. A sucker for a sad song. The same old hokey things undo me every time.
I was crying so hard I could barely see out the window of the taxi, one of those workhorse Renaults with a driver who smoked Gitanes, a beautifully dappled Dalmatian asleep beside him on the front seat. It was April and the trees were budding and we had just passed the Arc de Triomphe and it was tearing my heart out.
It helped a lot that I had sucked down about fifty glasses of Veuve Clicquot on the flight over and been hit on big time by both an African diplomat in a vintage Armani and a sublimely big-nosed Frenchman.
Drying my eyes, I recalled that first time I saw Paris, from the window of a train. I was still a student and traveling on the cheap. I took a charter flight into Amsterdam, where I met up with a couple of classmates and their European boyfriends. After a couple of days of museum going and smoking pot till I was pixillated, I took the train into Paris. That first sight of the roof of the Gare de Nord, alive with pigeons, had produced the same kind of waterworks.
By the time the cab deposited me at the picturesque little square in the 5th arrondissement, I was working on one hell of a hangover. The address on Vivian’s postcard turned out to be a clean but decidedly unglamorous little hotel at the top of a rise in the pavement. Their one-star rating was not mere modesty—nothing fancy about the place. I set my valise down and walked over to the reception.
There was no such American madame as Vivian Hayes registered at the hotel, the well-fed gentleman behind the desk reported. Perhaps my friend was at the small hotel at the other end of the square? No, I said, checking the postcard again, this was the address given. It occurred to me then that Aunt Viv might be using either of two—or was it three?—married names. So I began to describe her, thinking even as I did so that she had probably changed so much since our last meeting that the description might be worthless. I was just about to dig into my bag for a twenty-year-old snapshot of Vivian, when the monsieur suddenly realized who I was seeking.
A sneer pulled at his lips. “Oh yes. I recall your friend now.” I waited for him to go on. “This Madame Hayes,” he said contemptuously, had checked out more than ten days ago.
“Checked out” was not exactly the phrase he used to describe her departure. Apparently Vivian had left without paying the last week’s rent, abandoning her suitcase and clothing and personal items. She had simply gone out one afternoon and never returned.
Not good.
I had counted on some kind of trouble. Still, I didn’t have to hit the panic button yet. I might have to mount a search for her. On the other hand, she might be able to raise a few dollars from somewhere, in which case she would show up again to pay her bill and collect her things.
But I couldn’t think about that at the moment. My head was pounding and I needed some sleep—real sleep, not airplane nodding. This hotel was not exactly what I’d had in mind as a base of operations, but it would do for now. Hell, dowdy French hotels short on amenities but rich in character had been the sites of some of my most delightful adventures.
I asked for a room and, to forestall any problems, paid for a few days in advance. I pulled the envelope with the Thomas Cook money orders earmarked for Aunt Vivian out of my carry-on bag and committed it to the hotel safe. Mom had asked if it wouldn’t be better to buy traveler’s checks in my own name, but I wanted to guarantee I wouldn’t be tempted to start dipping into those funds for my own use. In Vivian’s place, I don’t think I would’ve appreciated any messenger messing about with my inheritance, even if it was a totally unexpected gift from heaven.
I splurged on the best room in the house. Even so, the toilet was down the hall. The bidet had been cracked and repaired half a dozen times. The bureau smelled faintly of mildew. But the room was a good size, and the view wasn’t bad. Not bad at all: my room, on the sixth floor, looked out over the busy square with its ancient copper fountain. I put in five minutes at the open window just looking at the people, pulling the air into my chest—and thinking about Aunt Vivian, somewhere out there. I didn’t know yet what kind of shape I’d find her in. But I did know she wouldn’t be high stepping in her designer jeans and smart black pumps. She wouldn’t be laughing her tantalizing laugh that put lights in her clear brown eyes. She wouldn’t be young anymore.
I thought, too, of my first trip to Paris and all the subsequent ones; of the friends I’d once had here, all dispersed to other places, other lives, now; of my summer in Provence; the meals, the men; the just plain fun. I’d been happy, ecstatic, in Paris—drunk on it—and yet I’d also known that peculiar tristesse that could fasten around your heart like a vise, for no particular reason, and suddenly make you feel so very alone.
Tiredness overtook me then. I closed the shutters tight. I turned back the covers on the creaky iron bed and slipped between the ironed white sheets. And then—darkness.
The trick is not to let yourself sleep too long lest you fall victim to jet lag. It was the only travel tip I could ever remember. You’ve got to crash and allow the old ankles to lose the swelling that results from sitting constricted in one place for so long. Nap, yes. But you mustn’t sleep too long, or you’ll be on the way back home before your body clock is running right again.
I was groggy when I pulled myself out of dreamland—and ravenous. I opened the metal shutters. Pam! Night had fallen. Those inimitable lights were all around me, and, down below, the canopies of a thousand cafes. I went and cleaned up quickly in the communal shower room and then jumped into some black trousers and a leotard. I threw my long raincoat over that and I was ready to roll.
I did a quick turn around the Pantheon, where I had often gone in the dark of night to sit and think and sometimes consume a couple of boules of rich ice cream purchased at one of the carts dotting the landscape. Then I headed back across the square and the boulevard St. Michel, pulsating with young people.
I hit boulevard St. Germain, or rather it hit me. It was Friday night and the street was hopping. Traffic was the predictable nightmare. I took a deep breath and ran, snaked, bullied my way across the street, heedless of the color of the traffic lights. I headed north then, away from the worst of the crowds. I had decided to eat at the Café Cloche, which was on the pricey side, but my mouth was watering for a couple of their beautiful spring lamb chops. I remembered that they didn’t take reservations—the only reason I had for believing I’d get a table on a Friday night. The cross streets were beginning to look familiar now. Yes, this was the block. The café was near.
Except it wasn’t. It was not there. The Café Cloche, where I’d
once been seduced by a chain-smoking academic from Toulouse over a fine daube of beef, was no more. I stared stupidly, dejected, at the darkened window of the boutique that had replaced the restaurant.
Well, what was the big deal? Things change. So I’d find someplace else to eat dinner. A restaurant closing was a small thing, yet, inexplicably, it unsettled me. I walked back slowly into the heart of the crowd and found a friendly looking if undistinguished place where I ordered foie gras and then went on to langoustines and a half bottle of white wine. Afterward, I browsed somnolently through a few of the late-night bookstores on St. Michel, buying nothing, and found my way back to the hotel.
I got into my nightgown almost immediately. It was cool in the room but I opened the window wide and let the low night sky fall in on me. Another one of those singular Paris moments. The lights on the Pantheon were silver blue and I watched them for a long time, wondering how many others were doing the same thing, their hearts moving in their chest. But, curiously enough, I had stopped crying.
I made a bet with myself as I called downstairs to order breakfast. At every hotel I’d ever lived in on this side of the Seine, the maid’s name was Josette. I figured that would never change.
I lost. Marise bid me good morning in her musical colonial accent—was she from Antigua? maybe St. Croix?—and set the wooden tray bearing my soupy black coffee and croissants down at the foot of the bed.
I spent the late morning and all afternoon checking out the really low-rent hotels on streets like Gay Lussac, thinking that Vivian might have got her hands on a few bucks to live on, but not enough to go back to the hotel in the Square. The next day, I figured, I’d go another rung down on the ladder and try Pigalle and the parts of Bastille that had not yet been gentrified. Then, if I didn’t turn up any leads, I’d head out to the edge of the city, Buttes Chaumont or someplace, where I’d probably be mugged and left for dead somewhere.
I put in a full day. Nothing. At six o’clock I returned to the hotel and put in a call to my mother, reporting on my progress, or rather lack of progress.
Rhode Island Red Page 17
