Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 (21 page)

From
The Devil Drives: The Life of Lou Villars

BY
NATHALIE DUNOIS

Chapter Nine: A False Memory?

 

LIKE ANY ARTIST,
the biographer has moments when the creative process taps directly into the unconscious, forging new associations or repairing old ones, dredging up buried memories silted over by time. One such memory surfaced when I was writing this part of my book.

I have written that I first heard the name of Lou Villars spoken in hushed tones, at the home of my great-aunt, Suzanne Dunois Tsenyi. But one morning, while writing, or
trying
to write, I rose from my desk and sleepwalked down to the corner café. With shaking hands, I lit a cigarette. I ordered a café filtre and, as I drank it, recalled a story my great-aunt told my mother about having been hired by a certain baroness to accompany Lou Villars to an exclusive mental asylum outside Paris.

The story had appealed to me for all the reasons it would fascinate the romantic girl I was then. An asylum for wealthy lunatics with glamorous nervous conditions! Just the word
baroness
was enough to inflame my imagination. Somehow I intuited that my aunt and this baroness were rivals for the same man. It is at once heartening and depressing to discover that our ancestors have been in fixes much like those in which we find ourselves, decades later.

Lily de Rossignol paid my aunt a large sum to help Lou search for her brother, whom the baroness's agents had tracked to the hospital in the suburbs. Why had Lou needed the baroness? Why did a woman who could race cars at terrifying speeds lack the wherewithal to locate her own brother? The only logical answer is that, all her life, Lou exhibited a strong, even self-destructive respect for authority, tradition, and established institutions.

The baroness must have known what Lou would discover. She didn't want Lou going alone but had no desire to go with her. And so the baroness offered my aunt an unpleasant job in return for a fee that she knew my aunt would accept.

When my aunt and Lou arrived, they were told that the brother was dead: a victim of powerful seizures. In the café, that phrase came back to me:
a victim of powerful seizures
.

Apart from this early memory of my own, I have been unable to find any evidence proving that these events occurred. Shockingly, there is no record of the fate of Robert Villars after he was admitted to the Institute Notre Dame de Miséricorde, which in the 1980s was dynamited to make way for a hideous mall. What happened to those children during the Occupation? How can we live in a country in which such things are “not known”?

Nor do we know for a fact that this traumatic discovery was made in the company of my aunt, whom Lou may have held responsible—as people do, blaming not only the messenger, but also the witness. Even in the absence of conclusive documentation, it seems likely that learning this sad truth, in such a shocking way, would surely have contributed to the person Lou became and influenced how she treated my aunt when their paths crossed again.

For a long time I pictured Lou being told the bad news by a clerk. I imagined Lou refusing to believe it and searching frantically through the wards, yanking the blankets off slumbering catatonics, staring into the faces of slobbering psychotics while my aunt trailed helplessly behind, until a team of guards subdued Lou and ushered her out. Perhaps I found it easier to sympathize with Lou than I might have, were I not an only child, unacquainted with the mixed feelings siblings can inspire.

In any case, my impression of this scene—not of the emotions involved, but of the circumstances—changed when I happened to find, in a flea market, a vintage postcard, thick as cardboard, softened by time. A sepia image, lightly stained. A group portrait of the nursing staff at Notre Dame de Miséricorde.

Not only does creative work mine the rich veins of the unconscious, but it also has an uncanny ability to obtain what the artist needs, from the world. My shock on discovering the postcard was so obvious to the vendor that he charged me ten times what it was worth. I paid without protest, then retreated to the nearest café, where I ordered a coffee to calm my nerves but continued to tremble as I stared at the hospital: a looming dark brick castle, in the English Victorian style. In front of the hospital stood two rows of women in white robes and enormous starched winged headdresses, like satellite antennae.

Which was the one who informed Lou about her brother's death? Lou could not have looked at these women without remembering her time with the nuns, Sister Francis saving her life and then handing it on to her brother. The sight of the nun would have triggered Lou's reflexive, schoolgirl obedience. Instead of punching the messenger, Lou thanked the sister for her trouble. She and my aunt rode in silence all the way back to the city.

Paris

November 1934

Dear parents,

Last week I had a visit from Clovis Chanac, our former prefect of police, who came under a cloud of scandal but was soon back in power and now heads the Municipal Council. Chanac asked to see the prints of every shot I took at the track. He flipped through them, pausing over my pictures of Lou. He said he had agents and operatives whose secret identities would be compromised if anyone saw them in a photo taken at the race course. I didn't see how this could be true, but I nodded as if it made sense.

I wish I could tell you that I was mature enough to keep silent as he shuffled through my work like a deck of playing cards. But finally I couldn't bear it.

I said, “What are you looking for? Why?”

He said, “Do you think this is Communist Hungary, where every comrade is entitled to a detailed explanation of secret government affairs?”

Papa, you could have set him straight. I myself was speechless, which was probably just as well. Just before he left, he saw a photo of Lou hanging from the clothesline, a picture I took just after her victory at Brooklands. Chanac tore down the print, threw it on the floor, ground his heel in it, and spat on it for good luck.

Mama and Papa, pray for Lou. Chanac wants to destroy her. We are all uneasy. We live in frightening times. It calms me to think of you, and of all the changes and upheavals that you have survived.

Your loving son,
Gabor

From
A Baroness by Night

BY
LILY DE ROSSIGNOL

MY BROTHER-IN-LAW INSISTED
that every outing, however informal, be choreographed with all the pomp and rigmarole of a military parade. Perhaps he'd watched too many newsreels from Italy and Germany, gotten too many overheated letters from his British friend Oswald, heard too many reports from like-minded acquaintances who'd been to Berlin and developed crushes on Hitler. He'd loved his time in the army. I sometimes forgot that about him.

Whenever Lou competed, Armand demanded that we all arrive at the race course together. Though it would have been more convenient for us to take separate cars, our short trip to Montverre became a precision maneuver. Armand and his driver picked up Didi and me, then we stopped for Lou, whose cottage was down a dirt path half a mile from the track. Maybe Lou would have liked to walk. But Armand said she should ride.

It was a beautiful morning in June. The grass glittered in Lou's front yard.

Lou always looked her best before a race: bright eyed, confident, calm. But that morning, she looked tired. That morning, of all mornings! Armand noticed too. Even Didi remarked on it, though my husband was hardly the most observant creature.

“Did you sleep?” Armand said as Lou climbed in the car.

“Like a baby,” Lou said.

“Meaning you woke up screaming every hour,” said Armand. Everyone laughed politely, though I always felt that Armand's references to children were veiled criticisms of Didi and me for not doing our part to increase the pureblooded French population. It was a source of great sorrow for me that Didi and I never had children, a pain that ebbed and waned unpredictably, over time.

Lou's path joined the main road not far from the track, near the parking area, surrounded by forest. We were turning the corner when we saw the scatter of black police cars angled like toys thrown down by a careless child and left wherever they landed.

As we drove up, the police fanned across the road with their weapons pointed at us. Through the window I saw Clovis Chanac, flanked by a gang of cronies.

Didi said, “Disaster.”

“Not necessarily,” said Armand.

But I knew that Didi was right, and I sensed that Lou did too.

We got out of the car. Armand's driver remained at the wheel. As Chanac twirled his mustaches like a melodrama villain, his men grinned at the spectacle of how distraught we were.

I put my hand on Armand's arm.

The cops gripped their guns as they watched Lou march up to Chanac. It was satisfying, but disquieting, to see him take a step backward. We were too far away to hear. I don't know why we didn't go closer. We were stunned, I suppose. Chanac produced an envelope and handed it to Lou, who stared at it. She was never a confident reader. Lou asked Chanac something. Then he said something else, and Lou shouted, “You bastard!” releasing us from the spell.

My brother-in-law asked what the problem was. Chanac gestured at the envelope, which Lou handed to Armand.

“Read it aloud,” Didi said. But Armand read it silently and summarized its contents. It was an official document revoking Lou's license to compete in public athletic events, starting with, and including, today's race.

I said, “Did she
have
a license?”

Didi and Armand nodded.

“Right,” I said. “This is France.”

Armand said, “Don't be unpatriotic, Lily.”

I noticed Chanac regarding me with malignant interest.

“Whether or not she had a license,” Chanac said, “she doesn't have one now.”

“And why not, may I ask?” said Didi.

“Look at Mademoiselle Villars,” said Chanac. “Look at how she's dressed.” We all did, as if we didn't know that Lou was wearing trousers and a blazer. Before the race she would change into her jumpsuit, helmet, and goggles.

Chanac said, “It goes against the laws that Napoleon passed down to us and are part of the heritage of France.” I expected that to wake up Armand. The heritage of France. But he was poring over the document.

Armand said, “It's not just Chanac. It's the French Legion of Decency, the Movement for the Family, the Cross of Fire, the Order of the Legion of Joan of Arc, the French Women's National Athletic Association, etcetera and so on.” All these groups had joined together to protest the threat that Lou Villars posed to the morality of the nation in general, and to young French women, in particular.

Armand belonged to at least two of these organizations. Why hadn't someone warned him? Chanac's power was on the rise. No one wanted to cross him over a female pervert in trousers.

“We're calling our lawyer,” Armand said. “If you'll let us by, we'll phone him from the track.”

“Call anyone you want,” Chanac said. “Your girlfriend—or should I say
your boyfriend
?— isn't driving today.”

Armand said, “This is treason! Who will drive for France?”

Chanac motioned toward his black sedan. Arlette got out of the car, wearing a black leather trench coat unbuttoned to the base of her cleavage. What did the Legion of Decency have to say about
that
? Arlette's lips and cheeks were slashes of red, her lashes a shelf of mascara. Life with Chanac had been unkind. Her face had grown harder and sadder.

Lou and Arlette looked at each other, then looked away before I could decipher what, if anything, passed between them.

Armand said, “Who is
that
?” No one bothered answering. Even Didi knew.

Armand said, “You're joking. Is
she
driving?”

Chanac said, “I
am
joking. Maybe she'll drive in the future. France doesn't need to win this race. France will win all the rest. We will win when it's important.” He'd brought Arlette along to mock us. She was never going to drive. He didn't want to go to bed with the muscles she'd need to compete.

Didi said, “Our lawyer will contact you.”

“By all means,” said Chanac. “We have the government behind us.”

Lou stood there, trembling, murderous. I thought about the referee she'd punched in Belgium. But Lou was not an idiot. Her career was at stake. She was the first to get back into Armand's car.

Armand's instincts had been correct. It was good we were all there, so we could retreat together. His chauffeur made a smooth full turn. He was an excellent driver.

Later, people sometimes asked how things happened the way they did: Hitler breathing down our necks, threatening France, and the French doing nothing but fighting among themselves. When they asked, I'd sometimes tell the story of Lou's expulsion from the athletic federation. How her license was revoked because she dressed like a man.

I'd say, That was what we were focused on as Hitler made plans to surprise us.

From
Paris in My Rearview Mirror

BY
LIONEL MAINE

WHEN THE DESK
clerk said I'd gotten a 4:00
A.M.
. call from Jersey City, my first thought was that something had happened to Beedie or little Walt. The caller left a number. Hooray, it wasn't theirs.

When I phoned back, a secretary informed me that I had reached the desk of the international editor of the
Jersey City Herald
. I assumed he wanted to interview me about my book. How had my life changed since
Make Yourself New
was banned by the court? Had my purity been tarnished by fame? Did it bother me that my American audience was limited because my publishers, the Pixho brothers, refused to pay the second round of legal fees? Why waste good money they could spend on white wine at lunch? What did they care if a famous American poet—now mostly forgotten but at the time touted as the new Walt Whitman—had written that
Make Yourself New
should replace the Gideon Bible in every hotel room?

If the editor in New Jersey asked, I'd say I was writing a sequel filled with filthy stories I'd hesitated to put in my first book. Now I had nothing to lose. I was more determined than ever, thanks to the ban imposed by the New York judge whose brain had been softened by backed-up sperm. Thanks also to the lovers of literature who smuggled
Make Yourself New
home in their luggage. I'm going to tell
everything
in the second volume. If the truth is too obscene for my fellow Americans, so be it.

I'll admit I was disappointed when the editor from the
Herald
, Chuck van Something or Other, asked if I'd be interested in covering the trial of Lou Villars. A short piece, six hundred words, about a lady auto racer he'd heard about, suing to get back a government license that had been revoked because she dresses like a guy. Was this even true? Were people in Paris talking about it?

“Round the clock,” I said. How much was the paper willing to pay? Twice as much as I expected.

I said, “So, Chuck, does this mean happy days are here again?”

Chuck said, “We're dying. The circulation guys are all over me for a sexy story like this.”

Sexy? Chuck didn't know Lou. I tried to see the sexy part. Lesbians. Fast cars. Was I supposed to mention Lou cutting off her breasts? The
Herald
was a family paper. How could I phrase
that
so no one in Jersey got their panties in a twist? Who would think a voluntary double mastectomy was sexy? Maybe a few deviants. Not enough to boost circulation.

I say, “Well, you know, Chuck, it's funny. I know Lou pretty well. I'd been planning to attend the trial.” That part was a lie. I was planning to harass the clerks at American Express in case Beedie had wired a few bucks. Then I planned on hunkering down in my favorite café to work on the book that has become
Paris in My Rearview Mirror
.

If I was writing about the trial, I could get in to watch. And the baroness would be grateful. Any press was good for the Rossignol brand, even in New Jersey. Given the state of the world, it might be a smart idea to have the well-connected baroness—finally!—in my corner.

I didn't blame the Rossignols for turning Lou's misfortune into publicity for their car. They'd invested time and money. In fact I admired the baroness for spreading the word that the Joan of Arc of the racing world had been destroyed by a moronic bureaucrat on trumped-up charges designed to safeguard the moral health of the French—an oxymoron, if there ever was one.

Had she been allowed to compete, Lou would have won, instead of Inge Wallser, who brought home the gold medal for Germany in the Mercedes. A story about Lou's trial was better than no story at all. If life was handing the Rossignols lemons, they'd make
citron pressé
.

The Rossignols should have seen what was coming. They should have cared about Lou's career. They knew Chanac wanted her dead. They knew that cross-dressing was technically illegal. They should have hired a chic designer to tailor some unisex culottes. Didi and Armand could have fixed this. Now they'd found her a lawyer, and everyone hoped for the best, which, as everyone but Lou seemed to know, would not be all that good.

When I discussed the case with Gabor, he defended the baroness. That worried me, needless to say. You don't want to watch your friend selling his soul to the devil. You don't want to see a decent, talented guy fall in love with a rich, controlling, neurotic snob who's been trying to buy him for years.

I hadn't planned to write about Lou for
Paris in My Rearview Mirror
. But I could work on the newspaper piece and my book at the same time. I'd earn a few bucks and get something for my memoir. Maybe a three-way sex scene involving Lou, the baroness, and me.

Neither woman attracted me, but the orgy they had in my fantasies was exciting. I hadn't gotten laid in so long I was fantasizing about Beedie, in Jersey City. Her gambler husband had been shot dead and left her comfortable, if not rich. Maybe that was why I'd thought of her first when the editor called.

So I told Chuck, Yes. Absolutely. I'll cover Lou's trial so the good citizens of New Jersey can be distracted from their catastrophic unemployment rate by the story of how the supposedly permissive and sexed-up but actually snooty and prudish French are keeping Lou Villars out of professional racing because she wears pants.

There was a lot I couldn't fit into six hundred words. Would the writer inside me erupt and blow apart the obedient reporter?

How could I convey the bizarre, Old World formality of the French court? You would have thought the guillotine was at stake instead of a racing license. A rising politician was using a women's sports federation and a fortune in French taxpayer money to ruin his mistress's ex-girlfriend. Wouldn't it have been simpler just to have her killed? People were being murdered every day, for political reasons. Chanac had already massacred dozens of blameless Parisians.

In France, cases took decades to come to trial. Money must have changed hands, favors been promised or called in. Chanac rushed the case through the system. He knew he was going to win. It was just entertainment for him—and a lesson for Arlette.

There were plenty of reporters, which pleased the baroness. Lou also enjoyed the attention, though she seemed not to know what it meant.

Another thing I couldn't include in the article was my personal opinion. I think people should be allowed to dress however they want. I like low-cut dresses on women, but I wouldn't make it a law. Nudity would be the best, though perhaps not for gents of my age. Women should drive as fast as they like and be free to mutilate their own bodies.

Obviously, I omitted the sex scene I'd imagined: me and Lou, then Lou and the baroness, then the three of us together. Six hundred words for a family newspaper gave me no room to observe that the judges from Dreyer's
The Passion of Joan of Arc
were sitting on Lou's tribunal. I didn't know if the film had been released at home, and I would have had to explain.

But why am I tantalizing my readers with the fun bits I couldn't fit into the piece? Here is what I wired the
Jersey City Herald
:

 

All of Paris is talking about the case of Lou Villars, the talented auto racer currently suing the French government and the French Women's National Athletic Association to force them to reinstate her professional license to compete.

Ever since last spring, in a dramatic public encounter, Villars has been barred from the track. She had been slated to represent France, driving the Rossignol 280 in the Women's International at Montverre. Since then Villars and her mostly female supporters have been holding weekly demonstrations on the steps of the Third Tribunal, where the trial began today.

This morning the judges heard from the defense, arguing that Villars sets an unhealthy example for young woman athletes—and all French women. She smokes three packs of cigarettes a day, swears like a sailor, drinks whiskey to excess, punches referees, and corrupts innocent girls. (Could I say this in the paper? Let the editors decide.) In addition she dresses in trousers, an offense to public decency, and has gone to the extraordinary length of surgically altering her body to look more like a man.

As evidence, the prosecutors introduced a photo of Lou Villars in male attire.

When the buzz subsided, Lou's lawyers presented their case. She should have her license back. Had the judges heard of Joan of Arc? Would they have ruled like
her
judges?

Their client admits that she underwent an elective operation, but not because of vanity and certainly not perversion. Like everything she does, it was for sport, which, along with God and France, is her reason for existing. And what was wearing trousers compared to the treason committed by the government and the French Women's National Athletic Association by not letting the French auto industry prove itself against Germany, Italy, and Great Britain?

All eyes were on Lou, who was seated between her attorney and Armand de Rossignol, the scion of the auto manufacturing family. Dressed in a man's white cotton suit, a silk tie, and a white fedora, Lou was a model of gangster high style. When her lawyer pronounced the word
treason
, Lou's arm shot up in the salute of the French far right. The judge instructed Lou's lawyer that his client would be removed from the courtroom unless she behaved.

Highly sensational testimony is expected to follow, though the word on the boulevards is that the bookies are offering ten to one
against
Lou Villars. Meanwhile the racing-world star has announced that, if she loses, she will move to Italy or Germany or even the United States, any country that accepts her—and knows how to treat its athletes.

 

In fact Lou Villars never mentioned the United States. And she never gave the fascist salute. But no one in Jersey City ever found out or complained.