Fortune Is a Woman (37 page)

“Oh, you are a cruel mistress…‘you must be meek and bow as love requires, so may the outcome answer your desires.’ Come here, I said. I’m weary.”

“I come soon and send no excuse.”

“She comes soon. ‘I pleased a girl of taste and bravely bore: her tantrums–praise me thus, I ask no more. Let later lovers read me when they pine, and ease their own distress when they learn mine.’ Bar the door, spurned poet, and see how much she likes it.”

“You couldn’t, Lydia Beaumont.”

“No, I don’t suppose so. I confess.”

“Poor, poor poet. ‘Trained as I am your griefs are safe with me, yet I’ve a greater skill than secrecy’…hmm?”

“I know that, Dr. Kristenson. It’s what brings me here.”

“You’re a cad to say so.”

“Can we do this lying down?”

“I’ll bet not.”

“No, she says.” Lydia plucked another strawberry. “So, ‘the path to pleasure leads to bankruptcy’!”

“Pleasure is it?”

“LOVE the poet must have meant–open your mouth.”

“Yummmm–‘for whatsoever love is held to be, its mark is unpredictability’–try this.”

“What is it?”

“Truffles, darling, open wide.”

“Mmmmmm…I’m too predictable?”

“I never said that.”

“Then I’m stumped. What then when brinkmanship fails?”

“Well, as I spontaneously perceive, Ms. Beaumont, you have one of two choices.”

“Choices, you say?”

“Choices, darling.”

Choices were not bad things. Lydia was into choices. Her bag landed at her feet with a thud. “Nice dress, by the way,” she said, making her way slowly down the edge of the table.

“I thought you might like it.”

Lydia was about to round the bend. Helaine grabbed the champagne and moved to the other side.

“You’ll need this. Don’t you think?”

“A glass…yes.” The cork shot off and the bottle foamed. “Oops!” Helaine teased, putting her mouth over the tip of it.

“Oh, shit, Lana.” Lydia was gaining ground. “What are my choices?”

“Hot or cold,” Helaine said, eluding her again.

Lydia held out the glass and Helaine reached over the table to fill it.

“Hot or cold what?” Lydia asked, picking up a napkin and waving it like a white flag.

“Dinner, my love. Shall we have it hot, as it is?” Helaine proposed with a sweep of her bare arm. “Or cold…as it will inevitably become?”

Inevitably become?

The bottle and the goddess were disappearing together, fading into the sunset of the bedroom. Lydia gulped the champagne, threw the glass against the wall and hastened after them. “Cold,” she said, in hot pursuit.

“Cold–you’re pretty good on your feet, darling.”

“And you’re pretty good,” Lydia replied, overtaking her, “off.”

_____

If you are accustomed to hostilities and life in a heavily armed society–as VP Angelo had been since the day she was born–then peace is for you nothing more than a calm before the storm, the deadly quiet that precedes a bloody drive-by, the smoky seconds before the sirens go off, the sound of the bell when the markets close. Strolling hand in hand with a beautiful girl in the Tuilleries unmolested, or down an ancient cobblestone street the width of two horses and a surrey in search of that perfect crepe and a bottle of sparkling cider or a rare print or a bouquet, is not all that relaxing. When you are waiting for the spray of bullets to hit the wall, when you are poised for the fight or the flight, when you are ready, constantly ready, and always looking over your shoulder lest you be caught by surprise, peace can be a rather nerve-rattling experience.

She had been at home, she thought, in the synthetic Americas of Hong Kong, Tokyo, Bangkok, Bombay–speeding cultures that shared commerce, crime and commercialism could never truly seem that foreign to her, even if she didn’t speak the native languages or honor their customs and ways. But here in the heart of Paris, in the sleepy Paris that Claudine introduced to her, that, just like Claudine, didn’t wake up until ten or eleven in the morning, here in the playful Paris that wouldn’t go to bed until the last musician went home, Venus felt like an absolute refugee, war torn and restless, the bombs of her other existence still echoing in her head, the bullets perpetually ricocheting.

“What is this?” Claudine complained. “You are stiff!”

Steef
.

“What, Venus? You are a criminal, so stiff?”

The Paris police traveled in packs. In twos or threes or more, they were everywhere, patrolling the peaceful citizenry, giving what fors to the picketing unionists, demanding papers from unruly guests. Sometimes they were on foot, sometimes on their bicycles. They were puny compared to those in the States, even compared to Venus, but police were police and she had learned to distrust them. It was a natural reflex to recoil. The very sight of them made her tense.

“Tense, is the word, Claudine. Not stiff.”

“Tense. What is this tense about? You tell me.”

You are not a tourist on holiday, Venus recalled Paula’s admonishment. You are a goddamn ambassador.

Right.

What did a goddamn ambassador know of racial profiling or bigotry anyway? Of corruption, intimidation, or excessive force? “You’re the prettiest woman in Paris, Madame Reseigner. I swear it.”

Claudine wrinkled her nose and smiled. It was too hard to turn down the compliment. “Oh, Venus, Venus,” she said, stopping to strategically adjust one stocking. “You are a
gangstah
, non?”

Uh-oh. Perhaps. “Oui, je suis.”

Beneath the rock of her heart Venus had something for unpretentious Claudine. It was impossible not to. She wasn’t cool like Anna, hot and then cool, and then asleep. Claudine was hot and then warm and she slept like a cat in its owner’s lap, purring contentedly there until morning. She wasn’t cool and then cold and then frigid the way Lydia chose to be, changeable Lydia who might allow herself to be seduced so long as she never knew about it. Simmering Lydia, popping her lid so she wouldn’t boil over.

“Oh-kay?”

Venus shook the adrenaline out of her arms. There should be a warning label for Lydia Beaumont. Somewhere on her body it should say in bold type
caution, contents under pressure
.

“What now, Venus?”

There probably is one. One with bar codes and everything. And when you scan it, it reads
invalid access code
or
sorry, try again
.

“Venus!”

“Claudine–I want to buy you something.”

“Oh? Chocolat?”

“Chocolate! No, something more lasting.”

“What?”

“What would you like?”

“Mmmmm…I think juste chocolat.”

Venus bought Claudine chocolate and the oil painting she had been pining for, a still-life she had spied tucked away in a catalogue room in one of the galleries on St.-Germain-des-Prés. Oil paintings, old or new, didn’t hold much appeal for Venus, that was no secret, but on the dealer’s recommendation and in the interest of pleasing her companion, she added one small but elaborate etching to the purchase, a nude reclining on a settee with a cat. The portrait resembled Claudine, Venus reasoned, and, unframed, she wouldn’t have to bother with shipping it home. It would fit perfectly into her briefcase.

On the way back to Marais they stopped at the pet store for cat treats and while Claudine gossiped and flirted with the ancient proprietor, Venus browsed his aisles. She knew exactly what she was looking for and, alleluia, there it was, stashed atop the animal crates: the pet bed of her dreams. She bought this, too, in hopes of substituting it for her once spotless overcoat.

“Ahh, you spoil my pussycat, now? It’s too far, Venus. Henrietta doesn’t need it.”

“Too much–Hank will love it.”

“Hank!”

Venus felt Hank better suited an animal with so many vulgar propensities. It vexed Claudine to hear her cat’s name besmirched like this.

“Poor Henrietta,” she said. “You carry it, then.”

Venus schlepped the day’s haul with a smirk, admiring her lover from behind while Claudine leisurely strolled up the block and nibbled at her new box of chocolates and made eyes at the unsuspecting passersby.

Sugar pie, honey bunch,
Venus sang in her head, picking up her gait to match the beat and gain some ground.
You know that I love you.
It would be a process, she already knew, finding that ideal spot for the painting.
Can’t help myself.
And the cat bed. Hmmm. Now that might require fortification.
I love you and
–she should stop at the market for a bottle of wine and–
nobody else
. There was plenty of room for it under her arm. She could accommodate a bottle of wine and a brick of cheese. A baguette. A smoked salmon. Mangos. Even a can of sardines for that rotten, furry beast.
Sugar pie, honey bunch.
She added a bar of white chocolate for good measure. A dozen lacy carnations.

They were red.

“Here, Hank. Where’s your mommy?” Venus threw the bed in the corner and stole her coat out from under Henrietta.

“Meowlp!” the cat protested.

“Meow,” Venus corrected. The shower water was running and steam was billowing from the bathroom. Venus placed the cat on her new bed and hung her coat on a high hook in the kitchen. It was a small shower stall, but it could tolerate two people. If they were making love.

“Meowlp!” the cat repeated, standing in the center of the bed as if on a rock in the middle of a raging river. “Meowlp! Meowlp!”

“Come on, Henrietta. What’s the deal?”

“Ssssst!” she answered, darting under the sofa.

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud. Look. See? Sardines. That’s English for–for sardines.”

“Venus…?”

“Yes, yes. I’m here.”

“Meowlp?”

“Nice kitty.”

“Ssssst.”

“Venus?”

“I’m coming! Here, eat this, Hank. It’s fish. Poisson, POISSON.”

That cat stuck its head out and sniffed the air.

“Yeowwwl,” it said, calling woefully for its mother.

“Venus…où es-tu?”

“Coming, coming.”

“Henrietta…où es-tu?”

“Yeeeowwwl.”

_____

“Where are you?”

“In here.”

A few days of female companionship and marital bliss was all it took to jump-start Helaine’s hormones again. Unfortunately, she was experiencing the kind of menstrual cramping she had, heretofore, only heard anecdotal accounts of or read about in her medical journals. Lydia found her at three in the morning as white as a ghost sitting on the toilet, her head on her knees, the long blond hair nearly sweeping the floor.

“Brandy,” she moaned. “There’s no goddamned aspirin.”

Lydia came back with a glass of port and Helaine took one look at the blood red liquid and covered her mouth so she wouldn’t vomit.

“Be a good patient, Dr. Kristenson, and take your medicine.”

“My medicine.” She propped her head up against the wall and drank the port in several large gulps. “God, Lydia. I’ve got cold sweats and I’m–I’m practically hemorrhaging here.”

“Come lie down. You’ll feel bet–”

“Lying down is not the answer to everything,” Helaine snapped.

“Uh-oh…come, Lana…let’s lie down. It’s almost morning. We’ll send Mr. Montague for some brandy and ibuprofen.”

The port was quick acting on an empty stomach. Helaine permitted herself to be led to bed again. “Do you have your period?” she asked, juicily. “Is that why I got–oh, no, I think I need some water.”

A glass of water later, she was fast asleep.

Lydia didn’t have her period but she got it the next day. A week ahead of cycle.

Women

New Year’s Eve found Venus as resolute as any woman could be, if not more so. Lips intact at last, she was resolved never to corner the esteemed Mrs. Kristenson again. As a matter of fact, she was determined to simplify her life all across the board this year and so Anna, too, was on her list of don’ts. A woman who could identify another merely by a whiff of perfume or a smudge of lipstick was not a woman to mess with and Venus wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her sooner.

The cab ride from the airport was an eye-opener this time. She made the cabby snake through the city so she could get a better look at the place she had been calling “home” for thirty years. For good reason he was nervous about touring the old stomping grounds, but a hundred dollar bill gave him some newfound courage and, as it was burning a hole in his pocket, he made no objection whatsoever to the risky venture of looping in and around the projects for awhile, though Venus did hear him breathe a loud sigh of relief when she finally directed him to take her home.

Home now was an exclusive midtown address and a life of privileges and a world of plenty. She pondered her journey silently in the back seat of his idling cab and he waited patiently and, of course, expectantly as she sat there breathing in the fumes and contemplating her future in the darkness.

Money can’t buy you love, her mother was always insisting, and even her kid sister would back that up. But it had bought Lydia Beaumont love, hadn’t it?

She pulled another crisp bill from her purse and slipped it through the slot.

“Thank you, ma’am!” the cabby said. “Thank you!”

Money, money, money, money, money. It can’t buy you love.

The doorman rushed outside to greet her. She tipped him for carrying her bags into the elevator.

It can’t buy you love.

“Thank you, ma’am!”

Can it?

The elevator seemed especially small tonight. She entered it gravely and began the customary count to the penthouse.

Two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen...she could easily have afforded that more expensive penthouse uptown…eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…indeed, except for the glass elevator, she had liked it better than this one. It was roomier, the patio was larger, and there was underground parking and keyless entries.
Ding.
But Venus couldn’t ride in a glass elevator. A glass elevator in a glass chute? Nun-uh! Not after having been raised to stay away from windows.