Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 (6 page)

From
Make Yourself New

BY
LIONEL MAINE

NO SOONER HAD
we got to the hotel room than we took off all our clothes, no sooner had we twisted ourselves into an acrobatic position orchestrated by Suzanne, no sooner had I stopped wondering which filthy ex-boyfriend had taught her this, no sooner had my delirious cock silenced my chattering brain than we heard someone pounding on the door and shouting, “Police! Open up!”

I told the desk clerk to go fuck himself, but he kept yelling from the hall that the room was rented to a Hungarian. It was against the rules to loan out rooms on a short-term basis. The French have rules about everything. Nothing is too trivial or intimate to be regulated by the Napoleonic Code.

“Short-term?” I whispered to Suzanne. “Is he insulting my manhood?” Suzanne was unamused. The clerk would have gladly gone on knocking forever. It was a pleasant break from the reception desk and an outlet for the resentment produced by a lifetime of handing others the keys to ecstasy or despair. He'd been on the telephone when we sneaked past and let ourselves in with Gabor's key.

I was reasonably sure that, even in France, our presence was legal. But it didn't seem like the ideal moment to discuss tenants' rights. Suzanne rolled away from me and pressed her face into the pillow.

Knock knock.

“Just a minute,” I said.

Suzanne cursed. Why was she blaming
me
? Obviously, the poor thing was as horny and frustrated as I was. What an enlightened culture! So unlike our own hypocritical country, where ladies are taught to lie back, close their eyes, and think of Calvin Coolidge. How refreshing to live in a place where it is taken for granted that coitus interruptus can leave a woman cranky. Though perhaps I should have thought less about French sexual attitudes and more about Suzanne, who had begun to yell at the clerk. With each new perversion she proposed for him and his mother, I fell more deeply in love.

Before I came to Paris, I thought I knew something about women. Hilarious, said Paris. You Americans know nothing. The women of Paris are a separate species. They compete to be the wildest. They work on their bad reputations. If Kiki has no pubic hair, she makes sure the whole world knows. There is a girl in Montparnasse, a blond tart who calls herself Arlette and is famous for the strawberry birthmark that covers half her ass.

Meanwhile I wander among them, a sexual Columbus, marveling at the customs of this exotic breed, these gorgeous moths who fling themselves at the flickering candle, determined to immolate themselves for love, to burst into flame before they end up pinned beneath a washing tub, a mother-in-law, and five squalling brats. They live for freedom, for dancing, good dinners and wine, for music and trips to the Riviera. They refuse to sell their bodies for a diamond ring but will gladly rent them to rich old men and talented young painters. Like geishas, they are artists: their art is how much they can drink, how many drugs and how many lovers of both sexes they can take, how quickly they strip naked at artists' balls and rip off their shirts on Bastille Day.

It's all in fun. Sex is different here. Brothels are licensed and safe! Bald ladies, fatsos, amputees? Sex in a bedroom decorated like an ocean-liner cabin, an igloo, the boudoir of a French king? The customer need only ask. Friends visit a whorehouse as casually as a group of clerks in Hoboken go out after work for a beer.

Without much hope, I reached for Suzanne. She pushed my hand away.

“I'm starving,” she told the wallpaper. “And I'm sick of this room.”

Twice that day, I'd caused a scene at the American Express. Why were they pretending that my check hadn't come? Hadn't I written to my ex-wife: Dear Beedie, I am in mortal danger! I've joked about starvation before, but this time I'm not kidding.

Once again, my survival instinct muscled down my panic, and my sex-starved, protein-deficient brain lumbered into action. I remembered that Gabor was dining at the Café des Vosges with the baroness Lily de Rossignol.

This afternoon, as Suzanne and I were grappling on his gritty sheets, Gabor was (on my suggestion) escorting the baroness to see a charming Sapphic creature hurling deadly weapons in the Vélodrome d'Hiver. I knew they would enjoy it, partly because my Hungarian friend was always on the lookout for sports-related stories and partly because the baroness sounded like someone who would appreciate a performance that involved an Amazon, a giant nun, and a snake-oil salesman. I knew from my own experience that one could work up quite an appetite watching the exertions and the intriguingly broad behind of the sexually ambiguous, vaguely alarming female athlete.

Another brilliant idea of mine was telling Gabor where he and his lovely patron should dine. If Suzanne and I just happened to stroll into the Café des Vosges, and if we just happened to run into them, Gabor might just mention that I was the one who told him about the athletic demonstration. And the grateful baroness might just invite us to join them.

What a schoolboy Gabor is! Sometimes I wonder which of us is the naive American and which is the savvy European. He still seems astonished when the baroness picks up a check. How can he not understand that she will pay for the food he eats, the wine he drinks, the oxygen he breathes? She will promote his art, support him, and sleep with him, but only on her terms. Either he is truly innocent or else pretending because of some atavistic male vanity he'd be better off without. Perhaps such women don't exist in his Hungarian backwater: older, rich, not caring what it costs to stave off boredom. But for me to tell Gabor would test the limits of our friendship. Two women could easily discuss all that and more—another reason why a man must be careful around women.

My plan had obvious risks. What if the baroness changed her mind about where she wanted to eat? What if I convinced the snooty maître d' that our friends were inside, and led Suzanne past all those glittering diamonds, past all those sparkly perfect teeth lightly marinated in champagne—and found Gabor and the baroness installed at a cozy table for two?

But the gods of Paris were smiling on us, or in any case consoling us for our ruined
amour
. I spotted Gabor from across the restaurant. A less loyal friend might have taken a sudden interest in the potted ferns. But Gabor grinned and beckoned us over.

In her sleek platinum bob and ermine coat, the baroness turned to watch us approach with the sleepy languor of a jungle cat. It was a relief to discover that she wasn't my type: too bossy, too spoiled, too arrogant, too close to my own age. But most men would have fucked her in a heartbeat, as Gabor could have, if he'd wanted. Only God, or another Hungarian, could fathom why he has been so excessively respectful toward his attractive patron.

Gabor hugged me and kissed Suzanne. Blushing, he introduced us. The baroness knew who I was and made a point of not caring who Suzanne was.

She said, “So you are the American writer we can thank for sending us to see that pitiful girl, her tedious British Svengali, and that utterly delectable, colossal cross-dressing nun?”

I said, “The nun was a female, I think.”

“Oh, really?” said the baroness. “How long have you been in Paris?”

I said, “I want to thank you for getting us out of jail.”

She looked at Gabor. “Jail? Why is this not ringing a bell? I really must quit drinking.”

Gabor said, “When I took that photo of the three crooks breaking into the house . . . ? Lionel was one of the thieves . . . the one in the checkered cap . . . ?”

“Right,” she said. “A
faint
bell. I own a print of that, don't I?”

“In fact you do,” said Gabor.

The baroness ran one pearly fingernail down the length of his cheek. “Now I remember. And you”—she inspected me—“the
old
thief, am I right?”

After an awkward silence, Suzanne asked Gabor, “How
are
you?”

“Never better,” the baroness told me, as if I were the one who'd asked
her
. She refocused the brute force of her attention on Gabor, who was looking apologetically at Suzanne, as if to say, Don't blame
me
. Suzanne smiled sweetly at him, as if to say, I don't.

Whom exactly did I have to fuck to make someone look at
me
? Should I lecture the baroness about good manners? Or whisper a warning against offending Suzanne, whose sense of justice was as fierce as her compassion, and who might be planning to make the baroness pay for her rudeness? Would our lives have been different if I'd grabbed Suzanne's hand and dragged her out of that den of the blood-sucking rich and found a deserted corner and had semirough sex with her against a wall?

Why did I do none of that? Because when Suzanne finally turned toward me, I saw the face of someone witnessing a miracle, and when I looked over my shoulder to see what the miracle was, I saw a waiter heading toward us with a giant platter of oysters.

From the (Unpublished) Memoirs of Suzanne Dunois Tsenyi

To be destroyed on the occasion of its author's death

(1928)

 

ONCE A BOYFRIEND
told me, “Suzanne, there are two kinds of people. People who lean toward you and people who lean away.”

I said, “What about people who sit up straight?”

He said, “They haven't decided.”

If I were like Lionel, I would write a book:
Obvious Lies, Bad Advice, and Wrong Information I've Gotten from Men
. A book? An encyclopedia! But in this case my friend was right. Gabor's baroness not only leaned away, she seemed to levitate above the table and peer down at us from a great height as we waited like naughty children until her ladyship said, “Join us.”

For all I cared, she could have been looking at us through a telescope from Mars. There was a chance, a very good chance, that she was going to buy us dinner.

She asked Lionel, “Do you like oysters?”

Lionel said, “Suzanne loves oysters.”

“I'll bet she does,” she said.

Oysters
was the magic word the waiters lip-read across the room. Or perhaps they'd already been ordered, and the telepathic waiters knew to bring more.

Lionel had told me about a club where women perform erotic acts with fluffy kittens and lambs. Disgusting! But I could perform with oysters. Too bad no one was watching me have sex with a dozen bivalves. Lionel, Gabor, and the baroness were too busy talking. Well, fine. More oysters for me. I slurped a few and waited politely, then finished off the platter. I was never one of those girls who require constant attention.

Another boyfriend used to tell me, Watch and learn, Suzanne. And though he only said it in bed, I took his advice to heart.

I watched the baroness order. More oysters, escargots stewed with butter and cream, a mushroom bisque, lamb steaks,
bloody,
please tell the chef, haricots verts, and mashed potatoes. Then cheese, a sherry cake, wild strawberries, and coffee.

She'd let the waiter choose the wine. Something expensive, red, and delicious. She asked Gabor and Lionel, “Will that be enough?” Before they could reply she said, “If not, we'll order more.”

When the second round of oysters came, the baroness forbid the men to speak until they'd eaten. How much did it cost to earn the right to tell people what to do? After the empty platter went back and she'd grabbed the champagne bottle from the waiter so as to refill her own glass, she began to question Lionel about his writing. In other words, was he famous, or was she wasting her time and money buying him dinner?

Disappointed by Lionel's answers, she pouted at Gabor. Who was this American phony he'd swindled her into feeding? Three things kept me from jumping to Lionel's defense: First, the baroness hadn't actually said anything insulting. Second, I was still hungry. And third, I'd decided to leave him.

The baroness's disdain had no effect, or almost no effect, on my decision. I was tired of his jealousy, sick of his belief that the only permissible topic of conversation was his unrecognized genius. In all our time together, he had never once asked how Mama was, or how my day had gone. Of course, had I been in love with him, none of that would have mattered.

The baroness remarked that her husband's cousin had started a literary magazine called
Tomorrow
. Or
Today
. Or
Right Now
. Not
Yesterday,
she was sure of that. Who would call an avant-garde journal
Yesterday
? When she sobered up and remembered, she would give the address to Gabor. Lionel should submit his work.

The desperation with which Lionel wanted to be published in this magazine whose name the baroness couldn't recall was painful to behold. I had long since lost my Catholic faith, but I still believed that I would be punished for my sins: crimes of heartlessness, mostly. The crime of not loving someone who loves you. The crime of making a man suffer. But I didn't love Lionel. There was nothing I could do. A quick ending was more merciful, a clean cut would heal faster.

He said, “On Sunday nights I sometimes read my work aloud at the Café Dôme.”

The baroness said, “Oh, really? That must be wildly entertaining.”

The look that passed between Gabor and me was like a conversation in which we tried to decide who would wade in and save Lionel from drowning. Which of us would convince her that this crude American was the real thing? I believed in his talent, and so, I knew, did Gabor. But my opinion was not the one that would persuade the baroness.

Looking at Gabor, I felt the first stirrings of that attraction, let's call it desire, that can spark up out of nowhere when a woman and man can communicate without words. I felt guilty that the subject of our silent exchange was the imperiled dignity of Gabor's friend and my soon-to-be-ex-lover. Why had I never noticed how beautiful Gabor's eyes were? Because he had never looked at me the way he was looking at me now.

Before Gabor could speak, the baroness said, “I felt so sorry for that poor girl in the Vélodrome, that unfortunate creature whose body they'd deformed so she could do tricks. Like one of those beggar children whose legs have been broken, or those dwarf Japanese trees. Imagine running and throwing a spear in that unflattering outfit.”

Lionel said, “With a face like that, there's not much you can do.”

It's over, I thought. I'm leaving him. I'm telling him tonight.

The baroness said, “There is always something a woman can do.”

I said, “Maybe it was
her
idea. Maybe she wanted to break the record.”

The baroness could not have seemed more startled if an oyster had addressed her from its shell.

“Why would a woman want
that
? Is your little friend a feminist?” she asked Lionel.

“Suzanne's a toughie,” Lionel said. “Watch out.”

“I too am a toughie,” the baroness said.

“Hot!” warned the waiters, settling down ramekins at our places. I leaned into the tendrils of garlicky steam curling up from the ceramic.

“Eat,” the baroness said. “Go ahead. I'll just finish this cigarette.”

Parsleyed cream dripped from the snails I speared with my tiny trident. In a trance of pleasure, I forgot the others and scrubbed my dish with bread. Lionel too cleaned his plate. The baroness laughed, or semi-laughed, semi-amused by our ravenous hunger. Our empty dishes disappeared, and the lamb steaks arrived.

The baroness said, “
Bloody
means nothing anymore.
Bloody
means
incinerated
. Didn't I ask for them bloody? Are these rare enough for you?”

“Excellent.” Lionel's mouth was full. I didn't want to look at his mouth.

While we ate, the baroness smoked and drank. Every time she tapped her cigarette, the ashtray was whisked away. When it was slow in returning, she made a trough for her ashes in the mashed potatoes she wouldn't let the waiters remove.

Buoyed by the delicious food, my spirits began to lift. Pretty soon I liked everyone. The waiters, the other diners, even Lionel and the baroness. Especially Gabor. How witty they were. Lionel told his joke about limiting himself to one glass of wine per night but making sure that his glass, his one glass, was never empty. Laughing, we toasted the punch line. Fill it, please!

Poor Lionel! When he looked back on tonight, would he wonder when exactly I decided that our love affair was over? Fortunately, it was Lionel's policy to look back as rarely as possible. What happened to Orpheus, Lionel said, was entirely the woman's fault. Same with Lot. Blame the wife. If Lionel had looked back, he'd still be in Jersey with Beedie and little Walt.

The baroness told a story about her husband and her brother-in-law, Didi and Armand. They were in business together, manufacturing automobiles. Her story began with a long list of famous names I'd never heard of. Duke A said something to Viscount B, who said something to Princess C and the German industrialist D. The upshot was that Didi and Armand hired the world's fastest auto racer to take their new sports car around the track and report any problems.

The driver agreed on one condition: that he test the car only at night, and that he have the track to himself with no one there to spot him. For a while the arrangement worked until one night a cop saw headlights circling the track, and not having been alerted, found the driver doing a hundred and twenty kilometers an hour, wearing only a helmet and a lady's black lace nightie.

“What happened?” Gabor asked.

“Nothing,” said the baroness. “The driver delivered his report. It went to the engineers.”

“In America he would have been executed,” said Lionel.

“Hardly,” the baroness said. “I spent years in Hollywood. You think there aren't perverts there? I knew a producer who could only achieve orgasm by having Asian virgins set off firecrackers on his chest. How does someone figure
that
out? Does he roll away from his wife one night and think, What would really make me happy is a Chinese schoolgirl blowing Catherine wheels off my nipples?”

The men laughed, a little nervously. Watch and learn, Suzanne.

Gabor and Lionel excused themselves and got up to go to the toilet, leaving me with the baroness. She leaned so far away from me, she was practically horizontal. Then she lit another cigarette and said, “If my brother-in-law were here, he would only speak to you—and not one word to the others.”

“Doesn't he like men?”

“Armand likes men fine. He is married and very religious. In fact he belongs to Opus Dei. He was among its first members. A pioneer, one might say.”

I was afraid to tell the baroness that I didn't know what Opus Dei was, though later I would learn from Gabor that it was an extreme right-wing Catholic sect with radical ideas about how the universe works and with practices that, one heard, included self-flagellation.

“Apparently,” said the baroness, “this cult or coven or whatever it is has no problem with . . . never mind. I meant: the only reason Armand would talk to you is because you are French. Unlike our two friends, who are foreigners, in case you hadn't noticed. Armand is patriotic to an almost fanatical degree. Correction: a fanatical degree. In addition to his religious manias he is a founding member of the Order of the Legion of Joan of Arc. Though I don't believe that he agrees with the thugs who go around roughing up immigrants, Jews, Bolsheviks, and the rest.”

The baroness looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time all evening. As if I'd evolved from a talking oyster into a fellow human in whom she was confiding, or whose opinion she wanted. The flicker of her shifting moods bathed her face in a flattering, honeyed light. I wanted to tell her something. I wanted to talk about my father's death and my mother's poor health. I can't imagine why I thought that she would be sympathetic.

“What about your husband?” I asked. “Does he share his brother's political views?”

“Ah, my husband. Didi is a different story completely.”

The baroness flapped one hand at the waiter and told him he had forgotten the brandy. He returned with four snifters. He was sorry. The management was sorry. The Armagnac was on the house. Should he leave the gentlemen's glasses? The baroness waved him away.

Where were Gabor and Lionel? I finished my cake and brandy. As the baroness rooted around in her purse for more cigarettes, I switched my glass with Lionel's and drank his brandy too.

When the men came back they seemed disappointed that the baroness and I weren't talking. Had they imagined that any two women will become intimate friends the minute the boys leave the table? Our silence was infectious. Gabor drank his brandy. Lionel picked up his empty glass and looked at me but said nothing.

“What now?” the baroness asked. “You're the racy young crowd. Wait. I have an idea. Gabor promised to take me to that cross-dressers club. What a perfect conclusion to our day at the Vélodrome!”

“It's Tuesday,” said Gabor. “The Chameleon is closed tonight.”

“Pity,” the baroness said.

After another long silence I said, “I know about a party.”

“
Whose
party?” Lionel asked.

None of your business, I thought. After tonight I would never again have to find a way to subtly communicate the fact that the friend I was going to visit was female or homosexual: not a sexual threat. Another boyfriend used to say, “Your lover's jealousy knows you better than you do.” That statement will not be included in my encyclopedia of misinformation I've gotten from men.

“Ricardo and Paul,” I said.

I'd met Ricardo and Paul at the language school where I taught and where they'd enrolled to improve their French. Ricardo was a medical student from an old Argentinean family. His lover Paul was a Malaysian sculptor who'd stowed away on a steamer from Singapore. Ricardo was tall, handsome, reserved, Paul an extroverted sprite. They were opposites in every way, but what they shared was a generosity of spirit: Ricardo gave freely of his money and time (already he diagnosed and treated half of Paris for free) while Paul lavished unlimited energy on their parties, and on changing his appearance—his hairstyle and outlandish costumes—to amuse their friends.

It was through them that I'd met the painters and poets who'd admitted me into their circle—mostly because I was pretty, I knew, but that was how it was. Beauty and money were the only keys with which women could open the door to that locked room. I'd gone to meet Paul and Ricardo in the Café Voltaire on the night I met Lionel, the night he'd spoken so movingly about Rimbaud. He should never have told me—later—that he only did it for the free drinks.

“You know this Ricardo?” the baroness asked Gabor.

“Slightly,” Gabor said.