A Season in Purgatory (23 page)

“Get away from me, get away from me,” Eloise screamed at Czarina the first time she went to the apartment, and the dog barked and barked at her. She kicked at it. “I hate dogs.”

“Don’t you dare touch my sweet little doggie,” screamed Rupert back at her. He leaned over and picked up Czarina. “Now, look, you’ve upset her. She’s very high-strung. She has a pedigree of inconceivable grandeur. Can’t you tell that, just looking at her? Don’t you think she’s elegant?” He covered Czarina’s face with kisses. “Yes, you are. Yes, you are.
Elegant
is the only word, my little darling.”

“The happiest day of my life was when my dog ran away,” said Eloise. “What were you thinking of asking for this?” she asked.

“I thought two and a half million, something in that area,” he replied grandly.

“Oh, honey, no way,” she sang out. “Get real.”

He looked at her. He couldn’t bear her intimacy. He loathed being called honey.

She understood. She took off her mink coat, dropped it on a chair. Eloise said, “We’re in a depressed market, Rupie. All that two million, five million, nine million, was in the last decade. Times have changed. Ronnie and Nancy are gone, gone, gone. Good-bye, Ronnie. Now, let me tell you how it’s going to be. We’ll ask a million, and we’ll take eight hundred thousand.”

“Eight hundred thousand! Oh, no. It has to be worth more than that,” cried Rupert.

“No, it’s not. I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything, but if this was a house rather than an apartment, it’d be a teardown. Let’s be practical here. The place is rundown. You’re smart to have those pink lightbulbs and pink lamp shades. It covers up all the cracks and peeling paint. The kind of person who would pass the board in this building would have to tear out the bathrooms, tear out the kitchen. It’s going to cost a million dollars to put this place in shape.”

She wandered over to a table filled with silver-framed photographs. “Is that Rosalind Russell?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. His voice was almost a whisper after the news of the true value of his apartment. He was trying to figure out how much he owed, how much it would cost to move, how he could make ends meet on so little money.

“You knew Rosalind Russell? My God!” exclaimed Eloise.

“Oh, I adored Roz,” he said, softening a bit. He liked to talk about his famous friends.

“She was my mothers favorite,” she said. “Who’s that?” She picked up a picture and held it before him.

“ ‘Who’s that?’ ” he said, mimicking her voice, which he told Cleanie Cleanie was too common for words. “You don’t know who that is? That’s the Duchess of Windsor, for God’s sake.”

“Oh.” She replaced the picture. “Was she the one who took the king off the throne, or something like that?”

“Dear God,” he said. “She’ll be written about in history books for the next five hundred years.”

“Oh. And Marlene Dietrich! You knew her, too?”

“Oh, I adored Marlene. She used to come here and sing at some of my Sunday-night suppers. Alice Grenville, Elsa Maxwell, Billy Baldwin, Pauline Mendelson, when she was in town—they all came. Marlene always brought her girlfriend of the moment.”

“Marlene Dietrich was a dyke? I never knew that,” cried Eloise, thrilled with the inside news.

“She was not a dyke, for God’s sake, woman. She was everything.” His voice was steely. “It is so ghastly when you people reduce everyone’s life to just
that
. She was a star, that’s who she was, a star, a great star, who happened, incidentally, to have had a girlfriend from time to time, along with a great many boyfriends.”

“Go on, go on, Rupie,” replied Eloise, oblivious to his tone. “I want to hear everything. Who’s this one? Look at that jewelry!”

“Oh, that’s Sunny. Poor Sunny. Still in a coma.”

“What’s it like not to matter anymore?” asked Eloise. She asked it out of curiosity, not cruelty. “I mean, after being where it all was happening for so long, and now just sitting here all day long, with the phone never ringing.”

He turned away from her. He did not want her to see how deeply she had hurt him. As he turned, she saw the wetness in his eyes.

“I didn’t say anything wrong, did I?” she asked.

“You were born wrong, darling,” replied Rupert.

They came to a working relationship. But the apartment did not sell. People came to look and left. There was this wrong with it. There was that wrong with it. Eloise always relayed back their remarks.

On the Friday afternoon that Harrison Burns was due to meet with Rupert du Pithon, Eloise Brazen arrived. She threw her mink coat on a chair in the hallway and walked into the apartment.

“Hi, Rupie,” she called out. Czarina began to bark at her. “Shut up, you little piece of shit.”

“Who is that?” Rupert called back, although he knew perfectly well who it was.

“It’s Marlene Dietrich’s girlfriend, who the hell do you think it is?” said Eloise.

“Out, out, out,” cried Rupert. “You can’t show the apartment today. I’m being interviewed for a national magazine, and I can’t have people wandering through the apartment.”

“Listen, Rupie, I’ve lined up Mr. Rock and Roll himself. He’s a very important man. He needs a
pied-à-terre
—do you like my French?—in New York and he doesn’t care what it costs. You do not put off Mr. Sol Hertzog and think he’s going to come again some other time. These guys don’t grow on trees.”

“No, no, impossible today. If you had called and said you had a client I would have told you, but, no, you just show up, as brash as brash can be. You have no feeling for other people, Miss Brazen. I don’t think it would look right
in the story to say the apartment is for sale and have Mr. Hertzog wandering around complaining about the bathroom fixtures. It might look like I’m on my uppers.”

“You are on your uppers, Rupie,” said Eloise. “The elevator man said you haven’t paid your maintenance in nine months. They’re dying for you to get out of this building, in case you don’t know it.”

“I do wish you’d stop calling me Rupie. You don’t know me well enough.” He looked at himself in the mirror and noticed that his little toupee was awry. “Christ, I look like Georgia O’Keeffe,” he said, patting color into his face with his soft white hands with their protruding lavender veins. “Suppose he brings a photographer. I have to pull myself together. Go now, call me tomorrow, and we’ll set up another appointment for Mr. Hertzog. I don’t think I look eighty-four, do you?”

“No, no, Rupert. Eighty-three, maybe. Not eighty-four.”

“Tomorrow.”

“There just may not be another tomorrow,” said Eloise. “I’m mad, Rupert, goddamn mad.”

In the hallway she picked up her mink coat. As she was about to ring for the elevator, the elevator door opened and Harrison Burns stepped into the hallway.

“You’re not Sol Hertzog, I hope,” said Eloise.

“No.”

“You don’t look like a Sol Hertzog. You must be the reporter here to interview Rupie.”

“I’m here to see Mr. du Pithon.”

“I’m expecting this guy from Hollywood to see the apartment, and now Rupert won’t let me show it because you’re coming to interview him.”

“Is Mr. du Pithon here?”

“Oh, yes. He’s preening and primping for you.”

“Is that the reporter? Is that Mr. Harrison? I mean Mr. Burns?” called out the high nasal voice of Rupert du Pithon.

“Oh, he’s finished making his toilet,” said Eloise. “Yes, Rupie. Mr. Burns is here, waiting to see you.”

“I thought you’d gone,” he called back.

“I’m on my way out.” She picked up her mink coat off a chair in the hall and handed it to Harrison. “I always like a gentleman to help me on with my coat,” she said.

Harrison held up the mink coat. Inside he noticed a Revillon Frères label and the intertwining initials
EB
.

“What did you say your name was?” he asked.

“Eloise Brazen.”

He looked at her, as his mind went back many years to a late-night telephone call Constant made to his father.

The room reverberated with Rupert du Pithon’s shrieks of laughter. “Wait there. Wait there,” he said to Harrison, covering the mouthpiece and indicating a chair for him to sit. “I’m on the telephone. Lil Altemus.” He whispered the last two words, expecting Harrison to be impressed with the grand name. Then he returned to his call. “Are you there, Lil? Sorry. Someone came by. I’m being interviewed. I didn’t even think to ask what for. Where was I? Oh, yes. Eloise. And
then
she said, ‘People of our class,’ and I said, ‘Just a minute, Eloise, your class or mine?’ Don’t you love it? Don’t you love it?” Again there was a shriek of laughter. “No, no, I can’t tomorrow, Lil. I’m out all day. I’m lunching out. I’m cocktailing out. I’m dining out. Maybe Thursday. I’ll call tomorrow, first thing. Big hug.” He turned to Harrison. “Don’t mind the doggie. That’s Czarina.”

Harrison looked at the dog. He nodded.

Rupert du Pithon sat grandly amid red lacquer cabinets and porcelain tureens, on a Queen Anne chair. The face that he had seen in the mirror a half hour before—pale, lined,
haggard—bore little resemblance to the face that greeted his guest. “I have been reading Baron de Charlus,” he said, holding up a book. “He is my favorite character in all fiction. What a sad end, don’t you think?”

Harrison nodded.

“Hello, I’m Rupert du Pithon. Do, please, sit. I once went to a costume ball in Venice as Baron de Charlus. I was a sensation. Well, I suppose, actually, it was Annabelle Mosley who was really the sensation. She went as the Duchesse de Guermantes. She wore all her emeralds. Marvelous night. There’s nothing like that these days. Oh, no. That’s all gone.” He held up the third volume of
Á la Recherche du Temps Perdu
. “You’ve read it, of course.”

“Yes.”

“In French?”

“No. English.”

“Oh, I think you miss so much if you don’t read it in French. The nuances. The subtleties. Don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” said Harrison. “I don’t really know.”

“You met Ms. Brazen on the way in, I see. She calls Proust Prowst.”

Harrison did not pursue the conversation. “I wanted to ask you about Esme Bland.”

“Esme Bland? Whatever for?”

“I am trying to locate Miss Bland. I have been told that you knew her.”

“Yes, I know Esme. Or knew her. She’s in the bins. Mad as a hatter.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Esme was hopeless. She had every advantage and took advantage of none of them. She had no idea how to do the flowers. No idea how to seat a table. She cared nothing about clothes. Cardigans, cardigans, cardigans.”

“Perhaps other things interested her. Living in society is not everyone’s goal,” said Harrison.

“She was a terrible disappointment to her father,” said Rupert. “Everything she did was wrong. She took a villa in Florence, but it was on the wrong side of the Arno. The Pitti side. And she never married. Loved the wrong man, that sort of thing.”

“Did you know her father?” asked Harrison.

“Esmond? Oh, yes.”

“Would you tell me about him?”

Rupert seemed confused. “You want to know about Esmond Bland?”

“Yes.”

“Rarefied. Rode to hounds. Had a house in Middleburg. Divine house. Georgian, red brick, divine—you would have thought you were in England. Had some very good Stubbs horse pictures. A Munnings or two, I believe. He loved his Jack Russells. I suppose he was as close to an American aristocrat as there is. Why?”

“Tell me more.”

“He was a friend to many presidents. Jackie
adored
him, always had him around. He spent lots of time in the Oval Office with Jack. Nelson liked him when he was vice president. Ronnie liked him, too. He was a modern-day Bernard Baruch, I suppose. Behind the scenes. Never really in public life, in a public sort of way, I mean. He refused several ambassadorships. I happen to know he was offered both London and Paris at different times. I always felt he didn’t want to go through the confirmation hearings for one reason or another. He used to come here to my Sunday nights. Lots of money. A great gentleman, really. I went to his funeral at St. Thomas’s. Quite extraordinary. It was a distinguished life. But why this great interest in Esmond and poor Esme? Their
place in my life is treasured, but not of paramount importance, if you see what I mean.”

Harrison nodded but persevered. “Could you possibly explain to me why I have this inner feeling that all was not tranquil in Esmond Bland’s distinguished life, that perhaps there were secrets of a shabby nature, that perhaps Esme Bland is the keeper of his flame,” said Harrison.

“I haven’t a clue what you are talking about, Mr. Burns,” said Rupert hastily.

“Have you heard of a man called Dwane Lonergan?”

“Dwane Lonergan was the man Esme killed.”

“Did you know him?”

There was a long pause. “No,” he answered finally.

“Why did you hesitate?”

“One knew about him, Dwane Lonergan. He was quite well known in a certain circle of, uh, rich men. But, you know, listening to you talk, I might be interested in letting you write my book,” said Rupert du Pithon, looking at Harrison in a manner that suggested he was offering him something that would enhance his life. “I’ve never talked to anyone, really talked to anyone, in my whole life. I’ve told little bits to a lot of people, but never everything to one person.”

“What book?”

“My life. It’s utterly fascinating. Everyone will tell you that. I’ve known everybody in the Western world. All the royalty. All the politicians. All the film stars. You must have heard some of the stories about me.”

Harrison, bewildered, nodded.

“About the duchess? Surely you heard that story?”

Harrison had not heard. “What duchess?” he asked.

“What duchess? What duchess indeed!
Wallis
. Windsor. In Southampton? Black tie on Sunday night. Can you imagine? That lesbian who plays cards all the time, what’s her
name? She gave the party. Dead now. She was so fat the undertaker had to put her in the casket sideways. Anyway, I said I wouldn’t go. I said only waiters and bandleaders wore black tie on Sunday night. And they changed the whole dinner at the last minute. Such a commotion it caused! It was frightfully funny, really. Wallis
adored
it. I have so many stories like that. I’ve been looking for the right person to put it all together for me. And now here you are at last, the perfect person, sitting right here in my apartment. Heaven sent, that’s what I call it. I’m prepared to be very generous. I’d even consider a fifty-fifty split.”