Читать книгу Montparnasse - Thierry Sagnier - Страница 17

Chapter 12

And why, Frederick wondered, did the man at the hotel suggest that particular show? Granted, it had been great fun, a splendid tale to tell the boys back home, but not what he’d had in mind.

The subterfuge was obvious; those were men on the stage. It was evident to him and should have been to anyone, Easter included. She’d been shocked, or at least feigned her disapproval, and that had surprised him. Wasn’t it obvious that the singers’ falsettos were strained, that the legs were too stout, the hands too large? It seemed to him that everyone in the audience, save his bride, had recognized the buffoonery for what it was.

In fact, it was exactly the same sort of merriment he and his fraternity brothers had put on one year during the spring semester; excerpts from Romeo and Juliet with an all-male cast. The seniors cajoled him into playing Juliet; he hadn’t wanted to, had done his best to overplay the female lead and to make her farcical, and been cheered for it. He had liked it. By the end of the skit, he understood how Juliet felt, had developed feelings for Romeo (played by a burly junior who forgot half the lines), and had relished the attention and ribald comments of the others who, after the performance, drunkenly pinched his rear and squeezed his padded breasts. He’d maintained the Juliet persona the entire evening, and the next day had felt a void as he put on his trousers, tie and blazer.

He dressed carefully for dinner. Tonight there would be an opera, something unobjectionable by Massenet; Le Cid, Easter had said. It would be in French, of course.

“Large costumed women bellowing their problems to a hushed crowd leave me cold,” he told Easter. “I’ve never quite understood the attraction.”

“It’s an adventure story. You’ll like it.” She reached into her purse, brought out a small wrapped package. “Here, wear these. I purchased them today, and you’ll look devastatingly handsome.”

He stripped the paper wrapping and opened a small leather box. Four gold studs and a matching pair of cufflinks glinted within. He took them out and fitted them to his shirt.

“You shouldn’t have, darling. They look expensive.”

Easter shook her head. “They weren’t. Don’t be offended, but they’re secondhand. I bought them in a shop that sells estate items and got quite a bargain. I think the shop owner had weak spot for American ladies.” She adjusted his shirtfront, stepped back to inspect him. “Handsome and dashing. They fit you.”

She went into the bathroom, fussed with her hair. “And anyway, I know how we can save a great deal of money. It’s just an idea; we can talk about it over dinner. I’ve reserved a table at La Tour d’Or. It’s reputed to be quite good.” He had suggested she choose a place, still feeling some culpability for the preceding night’s spectacle.

He nodded, took her in his arms. “And after dinner,” he said, “we’ll go somewhere special. La Rotonde. Bechtel‘s Guide to Paris says this is where all the artists meet.”

She smiled, pondered the offer. “Then I shall have to wear a hat. I’ve heard it is gauche to enter La Rotonde bareheaded.”

They took a taxi, a black Citroën driven by an older man who whipped the automobile around the Place de la Concorde and pounded his klaxon horn with abandon. A large tan and white dog was asleep on the seat beside him. The man drove with one hand, using the other to stroke the animal’s flank. “Mon meilleur ami. A man’s best friend, you say in England.”

Frederick, not partial to dogs, nodded. “America, actually. And there, we seldom hire them as copilots.” It seemed dangerous. “That’s something I can’t get used to in this country,” he added to Easter. “You have to be exceedingly careful of where you step. Dogs everywhere.”

Easter shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me. In fact, I think it’s rather sweet.” She liked animals, had been raised with puppies and kittens. It surprised her—but not much—that Frederick didn’t.

“Did you know,” she continued, “that there were 29 million dogs and cats before the war, and now fewer than 2 million are left?”

The driver threw a glance over his shoulder. “People eated them. No food during the war. People eat dogs, cats, rats sometimes. People eat animals in zoo. Elephants and giraffes, monkeys, everything.”

Frederick made a face. “That may explain some of the more esoteric items on the menus. I’m certain I saw one dish that said cheval, and that means horse. Horse steak.”

Easter wasn’t amused. “That’s dreadful.”

“It better than rat,” the driver muttered.

Easter leaned forward, “You’ve eaten horsemeat?”

The driver nodded. “Oh yes. Not bad. A little hard, yes? My wife fixes. In soup.”

The rest of the ride was silent. Easter made sure Frederick tipped generously.

Le Cid bored them both. Frederick dozed during the final act and Easter fidgeted. They were among the first spectators out of their seats.

“I think the term ‘portentous’ applies to this music; excuse me for taking the opportunity to catch up on my sleep,” Frederick said. “Did I miss anything?”

Easter shook her head, arranged her hat properly. “No. But the program said someone called Gabrielle Chanel designed the costumes. Yvonne—the seamstress back home—mentioned that name. A milliner friend of hers, if memory serves. Makes chapeaux.” She pronounced the word emphatically.

They ate a leisurely dinner and arrived at the Rotonde shortly after 11 p.m. Though the night was chilly, most of the sidewalk tables were occupied. The maître d’hôtel, an immensely fat man with a friendly smile, led them to a table in the front room, but Easter shook her head. “S’il vous plait, l’autre salle.”

The man peered at her, said, “Very noisy there,” in passable English, then shrugged and led them to the back room. Easter settled her hat, squared her shoulders and followed.

It was more than noisy. The room was teeming; smoke hung heavy and acrid; Frederick’s eyes watered. Men in shirt sleeves shouted to overcome the din and added to it. Waiters in long white aprons ran obstacle courses past customers standing at the bar. The maître d’hôtel found a tiny table, asked, “Here?” Frederick was about to refuse but Easter smiled and quickly sat in the proffered chair.

“My God, Easter, this is intolerable!” Frederick made a show of wiping his brow with his handkerchief. “Please, let’s leave. It must be a hundred degrees in here!”

Easter was already scanning the room. “Take off your jacket. Everyone else has.”

It was true; all the men were in shirt sleeves rolled up to their elbows.

“I will not!” He stood. Easter remained seated. He sat back down, looked aggrieved. “Look at this rabble! If I take my jacket off, some thief will make off with it! Please, darling. Let’s find someplace civilized.”

She ignored him. A waiter slid a basket of bread on the table, looked at Frederick. “Monsieur?”

Easter answered, “Deux anisettes, s’il vous plait.”

Frederick’s annoyance grew. “What did you get us?”

“Anisette. A licorice drink.”

He made a face. She shot him a hard look, leaned close. “Frederick, I have wanted to come here for a decade. Don’t spoil it.”

Frederick opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it.

There were Arab men and black men, blond men smoking pipes, women with violently colored hair and make-up puffing on cigars. At the table next to theirs, an Oriental man in a tunic and bowl haircut played with the earring in his left lobe. The woman with him, a European with strangely slanted eyes, was arguing in a low voice. Frederick noticed the man had on leather sandals with straps wound about his bare lower legs.

The waiter brought their drinks. Easter sipped hers, then drank it down. Frederick put the glass tentatively to his lips. “This stuff is awful!” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Easter, I insist!”

The command didn’t have the expected impact. “Order something else, Frederick. Or go back to the hotel if you prefer and I’ll join you there later.”

He tried looking petulant. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Still, he remained seated.

The blanket of smoke made it hard to see. Easter stared, hoping to match faces to magazine photos she had seen. “The older man with the beard,” she whispered, “the one with the shaven skull and bushy mustache, the fat fellow in the boater, they all look familiar. But then, so does the waiter.” Her eyes swept the room, stopped, focused on a table close to the door. Frederick followed her gaze, saw nothing worth noting.

Easter squinted. “It’s James Johnson,” she said. The man she was looking at was in an animated discussion with a young woman. “That woman looks just like the one in the portraits hanging in his studio.”

The woman was laughing loudly and Frederick glimpsed her white teeth, bright eyes. The man reached across the table, found the woman’s hands, held them in both of his.

The woman glanced up and her eyes met Easter’s. Easter turned away, unaccountably flustered.

Frederick asked, “This is the man you visited? The one you told me about?”

She nodded. He grimaced, added, “The place smells like a mine shaft, Easter. I know some of these people haven’t bathed recently. I can smell it.” He made a dismissive gesture with his wrist. “Phew! Really very unpleasant.”

Easter was still watching Johnson’s table. The woman with him was walking away, hips swaying beneath her tight skirt. She embraced a tall and thin auburn-haired man and wound an arm about his waist.

Johnson was watching the couple amble toward the back of the room.

“We should join him,” said Easter. “I’ll introduce you.”

It took a minute, however, to hail their waiter and settle the bill and by the time they paid, Johnson was gone.