Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald (29 page)

I took Larionov’s arm and said, “Never mind those show-plates; let’s get a table, and then you need to tell me
everything
.”

His enthusiasm for his work was boundless. After two hours of conversation, he said, “I have much to add, but I must be on my way. Please seek me out anytime you come to a show.”

And so I did.

“Tell me how an artist makes a name for himself,” I urged him during our next meeting, just the two of us this time. “I want to know so I don’t end up like the proverbial grasshopper.”

He looked at me quizzically, and I explained, “Caught unprepared when winter comes.”

“Of what winter is it you speak?”

“I don’t know. I can’t describe it. It’s just a feeling I have—that anything can happen and I need to be prepared.”

He smiled generously. “A woman of your beauty will never find herself alone. I think you will always be warm when winter comes.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Just the same: How did you come to work with the Ballets Russes? When Diaghilev says he’s got a new ballet to stage, how do you begin forming your vision? Do you need to see the dancers in rehearsal, or just hear the music, or…”

We met weekly, then, and I wasn’t exactly deceiving Scott when I neglected to mention these platonic post-performance dates. He was always out when I got home, and by the time he was awake and sober the next day, his mind was occupied with the future, so why volunteer the information and give him the opportunity to overreact? My silence was a protection from distraction, that’s how I thought of it.

All was well until one night in June, when we attended a small party to celebrate Cole’s thirty-fourth birthday. The party was being held in one of the Ritz’s opulent private salons. Before we went in, though, Scott wanted to pay a visit to the Ritz bar, where he had quickly become a favored patron.

As always, we were greeted warmly by the maître d’ and the staff of liveried waiters and the bartender, whose regard was maybe one grin shy of obsequious. Here at the Ritz, Scott was
le suprême Américain,
the role he’d been born to play.

“Champagne, my good fellow,” he told our waiter. We were dressed in our finery, Scott in a tuxedo with a bow tie, me in sleeveless teal silk and fringe.

“Monsieur has an occasion?”

“That’s what I want to know,” I said. “It’s
Cole’s
birthday, darling. Are we going to practice our toasts?”

Scott said, “Au contraire; we’re celebrating.” He sent the waiter off, then placed a square velvet box in the center of the table. “I have
this,
to go with
this,
” he said, then took a folded bit of newspaper from his jacket pocket and laid it out on the table beside the box.

The newspaper clipping’s headline read,
“Our Own Movie Queen” by F. Scott Fitzgerald,
and was followed by the story,
my
story, the one I’d written back in Great Neck.

“What’s the matter?” Scott said when I didn’t speak or react. “I know it took forever, but I thought you’d be ecstatic.”

“I … it’s great,” I said, my eyes scanning the words that I’d labored over. My Gracie Axelrod was now as alive as she’d ever become, here in the
Chicago Sunday Tribune
. Right below Scott’s name.

“It’s real exciting,” I added, forcing cheer into my voice.

“It is!” He pushed the box over to me. “Open it.”

I did; inside was a black-enameled, diamond-bejeweled film-reel brooch made of gold, about a half inch in size. “I had it custom-made,” Scott said, beaming.

Had I accepted the gift with grace and gratitude, the night might have ended better. Neither of those feelings came to me, though. My mind was warring with my heart over the disappointment I felt as I looked, again, at Scott’s name beside my story’s title.

This was my own doing. I’d agreed to let Harold sell the story as Scott’s, never guessing the result would depress me so. We’d gotten a thousand dollars, but where had that thousand dollars gone? What did I have to show for it—except this brooch that, pretty and thoughtful as it was, announced nothing of my talent, my imagination, my skill.

“I don’t want it,” I said. “It’s lovely, but you haven’t sold anything since winter. We can’t afford this sort of thing right now.”

Scott’s eyes narrowed the littlest bit, a flinch, really, and he glanced around to see whether I’d been overheard.

“That’s
my
concern, darling,” he said heartily, and now his voice had the false cheer. His eyes were wary, as if he was dealing with an impostor;
his
wife
loved
gifts, and had always before been thrilled with publication.

Heeding the warning, I said, “Yes, of course it is. Thank you.” I closed the box and tucked it into my handbag, then picked up my glass and downed the contents fast. I called out, “Garçon,” and signaled the waiter with my glass. “Bring us a bottle.”

*   *   *

Cole was at the piano when we joined the party. The room was afire with gilt and crystal, awash with gleaming silver and white tablecloths, abuzz with music, sequins, beads, feathers. Cole was in the middle of a jazzy tune we hadn’t heard before:

No one knows what a glimpse of paradise

Someone who’s naughty showed to someone who’s nice …

Linda, elegant in a powder-blue sequined suit, greeted us near the piano and said, “He’s test-driving this one—”

“If you hate it, don’t tell me,” Cole said as he continued to play. “At my advanced age, I can’t handle disappointment.”

He sang, “‘I’m in love again…’”

Scott said, “Does it make you think of Jozan, darling?” which alarmed me until he continued, “Linda, did Zelda ever tell you about the man who fell in love with her last year on the Riviera? Poor fellow took his own life when she rejected him for me.”

“My God!” Linda said. “How awfully sad.”

Jozan had not done any such thing, but I played along, affecting a bored look. “Yes, but what can you do? Men are so irrational about love.”

It seemed that Scott had decided to overlook my out-of-character reaction from earlier, so I tried to let myself relax and enjoy the party. Drinking, mingling, dancing: it was a routine so familiar to me that I ought to be able to do it automatically. I found, though, that this time the best I could do was listen politely while carrying a drink with me as a prop; the champagne and events of earlier had soured my stomach and my mood.

That mood lifted some when Mikhail Larionov saw me and came to say hello. He hugged me with all the warmth of an old friend. “Your art, how does it progress?” he said.

“Like a snail over boulders,” I told him, aware that Scott had come up beside me. Scott held a highball glass half-full of what looked like bourbon, and I just knew he was sniffing Larionov for trouble.

I went on, “Paris is too full of distractions for me to get much done. Mikhail Larionov, meet my husband, Scott Fitzgerald.”

“What line are you in?” Scott said, keeping his free hand in his pocket—and another warning bell rang in my head. “Do you write? Paint? Fly for the navy?”

A string trio had taken over for Cole, and he and Linda were hamming things up on the dance floor with an exaggerated waltz. They were an ideal pair, always affectionate, supportive, funny, sweet.
Why
, I thought,
can’t that be us?

Larionov said, “I paint and sculpt, and do the stage sets and costumes for the Ballets Russes.” He nodded toward Diaghilev, who was waltzing with Sara.

“How good of you, then, to take Zelda’s little pastime seriously.”

Larionov raised an eyebrow. “Her mind is the artist’s,” he said. “And while I’ve not yet seen her work, I have quite enjoyed our conversations after the shows.”

“Oh, have you?” It was Scott’s brow that rose now, along with his pitch and volume. “And where have we been going for these delightful tête-à-têtes?” I started to answer but Scott went on, “Paris is such a marvelous city, so romantic, don’t you think? An ideal setting for intimate talks, walks along the Seine, conferences in quaint little hotel lobbies—or apartments—where doormen keep the riffraff out.”

“Isn’t that all true?” I said oh so brightly, and put my arms around Scott. His body was as rigid as his voice, but I persisted, “And so well put, darling. Of course Mikhail is a huge fan of yours, I’ve told him everything abou—”

Scott unwound my arms and set me apart from him, saying, “How do you suppose it looks, you out there alone, carrying on with men who aren’t your husband?”

My face grew hot. “There’s no carrying on, just a few of us having a coffee before going our separate ways.”

The song had ended and Sara came over, saying, “What’s this? You two aren’t quarreling?”

Scott said, “Coffee, sure. I’ll guess that’s
his
story, too.” He looked on the verge of tears. “And yours, Sara—you’ve all rehearsed this, haven’t you?”

“What is he on about?” Sara asked me, while Larionov was telling Scott, “It is nothing, all innocent—”

Now Gerald had joined us; I could hear him murmuring apologies to Larionov while Scott said, “You’ve got no business out running around Paris at all hours. I won’t have it, Zelda.” The music had stopped and his voice was now the loudest sound in the room.

“You’re hardly in a spot to complain,” Gerald said impatiently. “When are you ever home?”

Scott looked shocked. Gerald had never spoken harshly to him before. “I am the husband!” Scott yelled, poking his own chest and stumbling backward a step.

Everyone in the room was watching him, watching
us
. My face and neck and ears were so hot I thought they’d catch flame.

Abruptly, Scott sat down on the gold-and-black-patterned carpet, just plopped down like a child worn out from a tantrum. In a voice that was almost a whimper, he said, “
I
am the husband,” and started to cry.

*   *   *

The next day, he seemed to have blanked out everything except his suspicion. His first words when he joined Scottie and me at the table were “You can forget going out without me.”

“Says you,” I told him, not caring that both the cook and the nanny were in the room. I’d used up all my tolerance the night before, barely keeping my head high while Gerald and two other men practically carried Scott out to a cab. “I’m not giving up my interests just because you drink too much and have irrational jealous fits. Come along, if you don’t like me going by myself.”

“You know I can’t stand the ballet.”

“Well, I love it, so I’m going.”

“Then you’ll come straight home after,” Scott said.

Scottie popped strawberries into her mouth and watched us volley as she chewed.

I said, “When did you decide to become my father?”

“If your father had kept a tighter rein on you, I wouldn’t have to worry about your behavior.”

“Who says you need to worry in the first place?”

“You seem to be forgetting our friend Édouard Jozan.”

What defense did I have against that? Game, set, match.

But Scott went on, “They all want you, Zelda. Every man out there. What happens when you’ve had a few drinks and then some man tries to—”

“You think that doesn’t happen when you’re right there? It does. And I handle it, same as I’ve always done. You don’t need to act like some crazy, overprotective ogre.” I raised my arms and curled my hands in an ogre imitation, and Scottie giggled.

“I don’t
want
to be an ogre,” Scott said. “But what can I do? I love you beyond reason, I can’t help myself.”

Scottie tugged his sleeve. “Daddy,
you
do an ogre. Be a growly one,” she added, climbing out of her chair. “And I’ll be the princess in the forest and you
chase
me!”

“Really, can you blame me, Zelda?” Scott said, and then he went running after Scottie.

I let it go at that. It wasn’t wise to let him excuse his bad behavior with apologies and declarations of best intentions and helpless love. I knew that every time he got away with it, there was an increasing chance he’d behave badly again. I knew it, and yet I went along, as helpless to resist a bad choice as he was.

33

The next time I went to the ballet, Scott and I didn’t rehash the argument; we just made plans for me to meet
him
afterward. So when the performance was over, I left Sara and took a cab to the Dingo, where Scott was supposed to be playing cards.

The night was warm, the air scented with roasting chestnuts, and my head was aswim with the sights and sounds of
Flore et Zéphire
. The cab let me off at the corner of rue Delambre; I leaned into the window to pay, and then when I stepped away from the car, there was Hemingway walking in my direction, toward the boulevard du Montparnasse.

“The incomparable Zelda Fitzgerald,” he said, embracing me and then kissing both my cheeks. He smelled of soap and sweat and whiskey. “Fine night, isn’t it?”

“I’ll guess it has been for you. You seem jolly.”

“Yes, now that your husband has graciously lent me a hundred so that I can make a trip to Pamplona to see the bulls. We went a couple of rounds in there,” he said, raising his fists while he inclined his head toward the bar. “I almost let him win.”

“So he’s here, then. Good.” I wondered how badly bruised Scott was going to be.
What is it with men,
I thought,
that the ones who don’t instigate these stupid contests can’t seem to resist a challenge?

“He’s a real sport, your husband. Gifted. Lucky. Soused, I should add. He’s right now holding court on the bar—note that I say
on
and not
at
or even
in
.”

“My English teachers always did stress the importance of prepositions.”

I imagined Scott seated
on
the bar, legs dangling, a coterie of the also-soused grouped around him on barstools. “Where’s Hadley tonight? Be sure to tell her hello for me.”

“Insecure, though, isn’t he?” Hemingway went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. He put his hand out against the wall and leaned on it, blocking my path forward. “Obsessive. Can’t stop worrying about
Gatsby
’s sales and make progress on a new book. A writer’s life is a difficult one. He should accept this and embrace it fully. No greatness is possible without failure and sacrifice.”