Among the Daughters/Chapter 25

by Angna Enters

Chapter 25

SECRET PLACES OF THE HEART

B-r-r-r-ingle the telephone awakened Lucy and she heard Vida in the next room murmuring in answer. She wriggled and stretched in the warm hollow of the bed, pulled off the stocking tied round her eyes, and saw by the back light of the drawn shades it was a sunny day. Not that weather mattered on Sundays which were lonesome days anyway spent dawdling or driving with somebody or other to Great Neck or Connecticut to the same old cocktail parties where show business people got together and jabbered as if they hadn't seen each other all week. Today was special. It was the day to visit Simone Calvette. She wrapped herself in the expensive, but worth it, soft blue woolen embroidered dressing gown, a creation of the Grand Maison de Blanc, and went to see what Vida was doing.

Vida, in a rose flannel dressing gown, was reading the Sunday papers.

"Who phoned?"

"He wouldn't leave his name. I'll get your coffee. Mam'selle left because it's almost two."

"I wish I hadn't fired Cleo. She wouldn't wear a black dress and white apron unless there was company but she wasn't fussy about an extra minute. I was going to give Mam'selle that black velvet cloche I wore only twice if she would give me a French lesson today! I hate to ask her to do anything extra because she acts as if I ought to pay her extra. I'd just as soon, but I don't like her attitude. What are you going to do today?"

"Nothing special, maybe go to the Metropolitan," Vida said tentatively, hoping Lucy would invite her to go to Simone Calvette's—that is, if she went; one never could tell with Lucy.

"That's a good idea. I'd just love to go too, but I've a date."

Vida brought Lucy's coffee and her own fourth cup. Lucy warmed her fingers on the cup and took a sip. "I like this place, don't you? Apartment hotels are best. You pay rent from month to month, or week to week, and you can move any time. I'd hate an apartment with my own furniture. When Mother comes we'll tell them to bring a studio couch for you. You'll have this room to yourself. You can have my desk and we'll put the chaise longue in the bedroom for Mother so she won't disturb you when you write."

"I've been thinking I ought to get my own place."

Lucy was shocked. "What for?" she demanded. "It's silly to pay rent somewhere else. I'd miss you. And who'd take care of you? Don't you like it here?"

"Of course I like it here, and I would miss you too. But I can't clutter up your living room with my things. I haven't even unpacked the suitcase with my notebooks, and then there are all my books." She had to detail these literal objects because Lucy never seemed to understand when she mentioned the necessity for privacy to work when she felt like it.

"I'll bet you can't take care of yourself."

"That's silly. We can talk about it later. We ought to get the place in order for your mother. Why not throw out that pile of magazines?"

"I'm saving them for her. She settles down with a box of candy and reads the continued stories from beginning to end, she doesn't like to wait from installment to installment. I'd never say this to anyone else but I wish I could find some nice man for her. She deserves a nice husband to take care of her. I worry about what would happen to her if I would die or a sandbag would fall on me from the flies and I'd have to be in a wheelchair."

"Lucy, for heaven's sake!"

"I get this way on Sundays. That's my blue day, except I'm not blue today. Don't you have a blue day?"

"Not in New York, but at home Sunday was my blue day too. I used to feel closed in, as if my mother and father and all Twelfth Street were the jailers. After Sunday dinner usually I read in my room or studied—I had a lot of that so I could finish school in three years. Pa slept off his Saturday night jag and Ma sometimes went to call on her cousins in the country. To get eggs. Sometimes I went to the movies. I used to see Semy's sister there alone too. Sometimes I'd go to Clem's later and we'd have sandwiches from the delicatessen, and Henkel and Larson would come and Clem would make that good Italian coffee or we'd have red ink. But that was mostly the first year and a half after you left because after he painted Councilman Lauter's portrait he became very popular and spent week ends with the country club set or went to Lincoln or Omaha. I wonder if he really is coming here for an exhibition? I promised to write, but I've only written once. About you and the exhibitions I've seen."

"I'm really glad Clem is so successful, he's such a nice man," Lucy said indifferently. While she still felt friendly, she had no interest in him whatever. She was grateful he had helped to make New York possible and it would only be right to pretend to be glad to see him again if he came.

She went to examine her wardrobe and decide what to wear on this important afternoon. She preferred the black satin dress and matching velvet coat, but black looked better at night though on the other hand it was more formal and the sort of thing an artist of the theatre should wear. She put it on, and the black velvet cloche with its white gardenia on the brim hugging the left ear, and took a good look at herself.

Vida leaned against the door of the bedroom. "Are you going to a party after Calvette's?"

"I was just thinking myself I looked too dressed up," Lucy said and, stripping, started again, replacing the black lace panties and slip with shell pink, ending with a new pearl-grey ensemble with a matching fox collar.

"What did you have to change your underwear for?" Vida asked, impressed as always with her friend's care in dressing.

"I like to feel everything goes together, and besides you never know!" Lucy replied mischievously, and sprayed herself generously with her favorite perfume. She looked sidelong at Vida and laughed. For an eighteen-year-old girl Vida was very inexperienced, even about clothes. That was because she was a nice sensible girl, interested in studying. It would be wonderful to know as much as Vida about books.

"I shock you, don't I? I just meant, what if I were in an accident and had to be taken to a hospital. Black pants would certainly look funny with pale grey and you can't wear a black slip under grey chiffon, even if it is double and accordion pleated, so don't always expect the worst of me."

"I'm just jealous," Vida said uncomfortably, determining to try and be as uninhibited as Lucy. A necessity for anyone who wanted to write.

"That's a hot one! Here I am jealous of you because you know so much. I'd like to be like you so I would know what to say to people, like you talked about Simone. I thought that very interesting. Nobody ever takes me seriously."

Vida laughed hollowly. "Oh beat it, before you break my heart! What time will you be home?"

"Six or seven. We'll go and see the Douglas Fairbanks picture. I like him, he has such narrow hips."

As it was such a sparkly day and only three thirty, Lucy chose to walk. It would give her time too to think of things to say to Simone who, after all, wasn't Vida to whom you could say anything. It was wonderful Vida being with her, like having a sister, a kind of second self to talk things out with. You couldn't do that with Mother because she was such a baby. She smiled and a blue pinstripe thought it was for him and she stopped smiling. The October air felt good way up into her head. She wrinkled her nostrils and her toes tingled to step it down the street. Funny, when she felt like this it was always a jazz step she wanted to do. Jazz made you want to dance all over, but tap dancing looked better for men because they had no breasts that bobbed, and narrow hips. New York was beautiful on Sunday afternoons, especially at Central Park and Fifth with the hansom cabs and Rolls Royces and people walking across to the Park. It was silly not to walk in the Park sometimes instead of lying around until time to go to a party. What an unbecoming muddy-brown suit and green hat with a red feather! Simone could wear an Iris March green hat, not this lumpy woman. Oh boy, daggers! She hates me! A black cutaway with striped pants knew who she was. Thirty-five? No, forty-five. Men like that know how to take care of themselves. The couples holding hands were cute. They couldn't afford the things they looked at in the windows but they were in love so it didn't matter.

First the worst,
Second the same,
Last the best
Of all the game.

Why only three? It took more than that to find out what love was about. Or did it? Supposing you can't be sure it's the last and best but you think maybe? That fool, wearing a top coat on a day like this. Thinks I'm flirting. What would I do if men didn't think me pretty? Looks are funny. In Denver I was a dandelion with a fuzzy top. After that my hair dangled like springs of yellow satin ribbon. When I met Clem I combed it out softer, like the girls in his French magazines. Looking at the pictures in Mode in Denver and Congress I never thought a première danseuse would walk up Fifth Avenue on Sunday by herself. The trouble with me is I'm too old-fashioned, 1 always think I have to be in love. What's important is to be an artist. You can't be a real star unless you can sing and say lines. Maybe I ought to take singing lessons. I don't know what Paul Vermillion meant when he said you can't be taught to be an artist unless you teach yourself. What is that secret artists have, as if they know what makes the world go round? Or is it an act? If love is only like what I've known, why my goodness, it's an awful fuss about something that's fun but not something you can't live without. Sherman Moses' music is wonderful, like making love mixed up with New York. When he looked at me I was sure he wanted to make love and then all he did was to play his music on the piano for hours and was he surprised when I said I really have to leave now! I know now that is how he thinks he has to impress a girl. I guess it's like Vida's poets, they're talking the girls into it, when it isn't necessary at all. When Simone sings you can tell she knows something, I don't know what, but it works up the whole audience. Maybe it's because she's a woman who not only has been loved but has felt love herself. When she stands against the piano in that orchid light, her hands clasped across her breasts, it gives you a funny feeling, as though it's Love singing.

It took a moment to adjust her eyes to the garnet light of the Athenée lobby. New Yorkers loved foreign names for hotels and restaurants, she thought. The elevator mirror reflected circles under her eyes. The elevator boy with the black eyes in a dark-red monkey suit had ideas but didn't dare. In the corridor her high heels sank noiselessly in the thick blue carpet with the giant curled design. At a mahogany door she paused, listening for voices, before pushing a grey suede forefinger on the button.

An exasperated "Entréz!" penetrated the door. She opened it and walked through a narrow hall. Below three-quarter-drawn shades apricot light screened through a gauze onto a stagnant haze of tuberose scent and cigarette smoke in an almond-green room. Behind a barricade of green, yellow, and white bulbous and angular bottles and on the Empire arabesque of an old-gold brocade chaise longue lay Simone, flat as a fish, in black satin pajamas. Her triangular face, pale as the inside of a lemon rind, was turned expectantly, its lips a scarlet gash, its eyes narrowed in antagonism at an intruder.

An ink blob of a man, in a chair at her feet, bent toward Simone, and Lucy wondered whether it was a doctor. Then he rose and turned and it was Jacques.

Through the hazy vision of last night's bella donna Simone saw it was the girl who had been with Paul at the Chennonceaux and whom she had invited, but was it for today?

"Come in, come in, how pleasant of you to call. Do sit down." Lucy obeyed as a gilded French clock, between the wilting tuberoses and a small Buddha on the mantelpiece, chimed only four, only four, only four.

"I guess I'm too early."

"Not at all. What will you have? There is cr&me de menthe, gin, Scotch, Pernod?"

"No, thank you, I just got up."

The laconic words charged the antennae of Simone's nerves with a resurgence of the despair which an hour of wrangling with Jacques had lulled. Was it not Paul who had made bed irresistible? How vicious to come from him here. How stupid one had been to believe his words meant he would be waiting for her at the hotel when it had been a message to this méchante one.

A scratch of mouth parted, as if slashed in a crime of passion, and amber eyes widened to observe the insensitive creature in cloudy greys, a cocotte's effect to accentuate youth so prized by men. If youth was what Paul wished—Contract or no contract she would return to Paris. New York's kneeling at one's feet could not blind one to its arid Park, stabbing towers, and streets crawling with vulgar girls in cheap Chanel copies parading their spurious youth. Jacques, enamored with New York, could remain. She turned upon him and spurted withdrawal of the promise he had extracted that she would remain.

To Lucy they seemed to be fighting and she wondered whether to take off her coat or leave at the first pause. If she left she might not be invited again and so lose the chance of learning from the source what made Simone so special. So as not to appear to listen, even though she did not understand, she looked about. The little fat Buddha was no help. He just grinned at his navel. Simone was drinking a mixture of gin and crème de menthe, straight. Her short hair, henna tinged, was a mass of angry coils. Black satin pajamas was a good idea, and those pointed mules with gold embroidery were exotic. Maybe it would have been better to wear the black ensemble. More sophisticated. The Sunday papers lay in drifts, along with a paper-covered French book. Near the bedroom door on the grey-green rug lay a black kid glove. Only old ladies wore that kind except the woman in the black cape who had come to the dressing room and talked as if she owned Simone. Lucy thought of Miss Shaver. But that's crazy, because how about Vermillion? No, it wasn't possible Simone was like Miss Shaver and her cat-eyed friend. She shifted impatiently. Four thirty, complained the French clock.

Jacques sighed, raised his two arms in resignation, and prepared to leave.

About time! thought Lucy, smiling sweetly.

At the door he turned back, bethinking a new argument.

I'll bet he'll never leave, she sulked, and settled back determined to outstay him. Probably business they were discussing but just the same it was impolite not to notice a guest.

Five o'clock, banged the French clock, and the last tinge of sun flopped out the window. Simone, recalling her guest, stood abruptly and Jacques took the hint.

Now that he was gone, she chose to let him convince her it would be unwise to leave her success in New York so soon. Naturally he was mistaken in saying that she had been unkind to Paul. There may have been a careless word precipitated by fatigue in singing to a foreign audience, but it was his place to understand. Paul was too easily offended in that amour propre of men and one must give him time to forgive her. Nevertheless a little revenge is good for the spirit and this girl, so impressed with Simone Calvette, must be led to reveal how he had spent the past few months, especially the last few days.

She poured herself a restorative drink of gin and crème de menthe, extolling its curative powers to Lucy. "But come, you still wear your coat! That is better, we shall have a good visit, you and I alone. First, you will excuse me while I refresh myself."

Her Moroccan mules smacked her bare heels like a resounding kiss as she shuffled toward the bedroom. Halfway she spied and picked up Maxine's black glove and waved it at Lucy.

"My masseuse is perhaps wondering where—" She laughed suddenly, thinking it so apt a description of the avid Maxine.

She's a liar, Lucy thought, smiling back. "I'd rather lose two gloves than one."

"You are as myself—all or nothing."

Lucy considered the possible innuendo. She would have to watch herself here, like backstage where if you opened your mouth it had a double meaning. She felt easier though and placed her coat on another chair, pulled up her garters, looked to see if she needed powder, and waited.

Simone closed the bedroom door and threw the glove into a drawer. The millionairess was a bore with her protestations of adoration. If Maxine believed one so great an artist, why did she not give the jewels instead of dangling them as future payment? The bed was still unmade as her rising hour did not coincide with Sunday hotel service. With sudden energy she made it, pummeling the cushions with the fury she felt against the Irish day chambermaid with whom she was feuding. At home chambermaids were more sympathetic, though hélas, in the end service everywhere depended upon tips. One had heard in Paris that Chicago was more America. The aspect of New York was truly formidable, of an originality unlike any city in Europe. Yet in this new world the taste of the people of means and pretensions was to be "European." Especially French in the aping of couture, hotel rooms, cuisine. Always to be offered crepes suzette. Next they will discover moules marinières. Their name alone made one wish for Marseilles and Le Vieux Port where they lie on the quay, succulent fruits of the sea in nests of clinging seaweed. And the slimy cobbles on which one slid and crawled at night up the narrow passage to Honore's as though on giant snails. Ah well! In New York it is the originality for Americans not to be American, and, it would seem, speaking words to strangers that should only be uttered intimately, children delighting to make peepee in public. The Claudel is not chic, but one does not ask chic of the Medici Venus whom she resembles, but with the straightness of American girls. This cannot have escaped Paul, but even if he has painted her there would be something of me in her portrait. She is unlike the other American girls observed, a child who always has been a woman.

Simone creamed and wiped her face and in the mirror regarded the unadorned image upon which she began to construct Simone Calvette. At least I have created for myself an interesting character since youth has left me, she concluded philosophically. At her age I too must have been beautiful. And of a naivete, with my voice so carefully placed, and fresh from the Conservatoire. Yet it was not my pure girlish tones that made me a success but my lost voice. She brushed her hair vigorously, training its waves over a finger. Then she took from a jeweled patch box in her purse a small folded paper, from it she tapped a tiny snowy mound onto the back of her hand, and inhaled deeply, shaking her head back. Humming lightly, she tidied the dresser top.

Perhaps I will take her with me to Paris. Now in the Rond Point strewn with autumn leaves fat black and white Bretonne nursemaids and lean navy-blue English nannies are hurrying home well-bred charges. The populace from the workers' districts and small shopkeeper suburbs are withdrawing thoughtfully from their Sunday glimpse of the high life and soon it will be twilight and the many moons among the trees will illumine only what is around their fluted bases.

One can see in her eyes that the girl is amenable. When was it I first became amenable to this substitute for love? At dinner with Andre at Fouquet's, with myself as his final truffle. He was of a tiresomeness unendurable, and across the room the girl sat with another Andre. Our eyes met in a caress. I never saw her again. Paul, Paul, you have made other men impossible for me. The little Claudel will be I and I will be you loving me.

The wave of despair again washed through her. What indescribable pleasure to feel oneself falling from the great height of this window. No, no—that is an impulse when bored, when not even anger or unhappiness roused any feeling and one craved an ultimate in sensation. For that I am not quite ready.

She opened the door with a frown of disapproval at the disorder, flung open a window, threw the wilting flowers into a wastebasket, turned on three lamps and one off, emptied ashtrays, gathered up newspapers, and arranged chairs with housewifely verve. When all was in order she brought from the bedroom an atomizer and sprayed the room with cologne. "Phui! I cannot abide disorder and the stench of smoke. You must sit in this chair, it is more comfortable," she ordered Lucy who wondered whether Simone would never settle down. At last she did, after rinsing out the glasses and ordering more ice.

Five thirty, struck the clock, happily signaling the visit to begin. Lucy accepted the iced minted gin and agreed it was refreshing.

"And good for the stomach as well," Simone said, wagging a corroborating finger. She tinkled the ice in her glass and then drank, looking into Lucy's eyes in an intimate way. The look made Lucy feel shy and hot. For goodness sake, she thought, blushing at my age.

"Tell me about Chicago."

"Chicago!"

"Yes. In Paris someone said, Simone, you must visit Chicago. New York is not America, only in Chicago you will find it."

"I've only been in Chicago long enough to change trains when I was coming to New York. I didn't like it. It looked dirty."

"Sometimes one enjoys what one does not like. You are not from New York?"

"I'm from out West, but I'm a New Yorker now."

"Ah yes, the West and cowboys. They must be most attractive?"

"I never saw any, except in the movies. I lived in Denver, that's another big city, and then Mother and I lived in a small town just long enough to earn money to get to New York. You see, I always wanted to be a dancer," Lucy recited, wishing she did not sound so childish.

"And so now you are a première danseuse, and so young. But it is such a hard life. All work, practice, and no play, no?"

"Oh," and to Simone the child smile in the slanting blue precocious eyes became disturbingly knowing, "I have plenty of fun. To tell the truth, I don't practice as hard as I ought to."

"Indeed?" A premonitory fear dried Simone's throat as she examined the girl's contented expression. Fun meant only one game. How much of this game was played with Paul? She took a sip to loosen her voice and decided to approach Paul through another route. "Since you do not know Chicago you have not met Capone. Capon! What a name for such a strong man! Him I should like to meet. It is said he is the true ruler of America?"

"I don't know about that. Of course, he's the head gangster, but Piselli is the Capone of New York."

"Oh Piselli! I find him bourgeois, always talking of his sons becoming gentlemen, and how he would like to visit his old mother in Castiglia."

"He may be a mother's boy in Italy but, oh boy! what a bastard he is here. At that, he's better looking than Capone who is a big ape. I've seen him."

"The appearance of a man is not of a final consequence."

Lucy considered this. "You said it. I don't care for men who have nothing but looks."

Simone lit a cigarette. "You mean they must have something of substance as well?"

Lucy cocked her head and looked at Simone out of the corner of her sparkling eyes. "I don't mean what I think you mean. Everybody likes money. It's fun, if you haven't had it, to buy things, but after you've got the things then what? All you can do with money is spend it, but you never seem able to buy what you really want. It sounds silly, I know, but I don't want things, like furs and diamonds, from a man. I'd rather buy my own—I'll never be a good gold-digger. I like a man who can teach me things, someone who does things himself. If I weren't a dancer and if I had a lot of money and time I think I would keep on going to school, because there are so many things I'd like to learn."

She is telling me of Paul, thought Simone unhappily, and with an effort said as lightly as she could, "Of course money does not make one happy, but it is good for the nerves. What a charming student you would be. And what would you study?"

"Well, for one thing, I'd like to be an artist."

Simone was startled. "A painter!"

"Oh no, I couldn't draw a straight line if I tried. I'd like to be an artist of the dance."

"You are not that now?"

"Not the way I mean. I don't even know how to get to be one. I know you are an artist but I don't know why. All I know is that the artists I know seem to get more out of life, have a special way of understanding, if you know what I mean."

"My dear, that is an illusion. It is true that artists make new worlds out of this old one, according to each special talent, but that they get more out of life is not true. It is only a way of passing the time. No matter what they make, the old world remains and is as incomprehensible to them as it is to those who do not make art. It is all a substitution, a manner of not seeing the real face of the world, dressing it up—as you and I use lipstick. For women and men the most important thing to know and have is love. And so, my child, I presume to advise you not to bother your beautiful head with such trivialities. To love, and be loved, is the only art that matters."

Lucy looked at Simone's sad face, and her lips parted to utter an objection but she couldn't think of one. Vermillion too had told her not to concern herself with art: it was as if they were keeping something from her. Naturally love was important, the most important thing, but what did that have to do with becoming an artist? Anyone could see Simone was unhappy because of Vermillion, but not about being an artist.

"Well, you know how it is, a person thinks about these things. People always think blondes have nothing in their heads. You never hear anyone say 'a dizzy brunette' only 'a dizzy blonde.'"

Simone made an inconclusive gesture of denial, put out her cigarette, and poured them each a drink. "Perhaps you have not known many artists—composers, writers, painters—that is why you romanticize," she said restlessly, wearied of the chatty detour.

"Some. I know Sherman Moses, the composer for some of the best shows. He's not much of a talker and is always nervous unless he's at the piano. I said to him I think you're awfully bashful for a great artist and he blushed. I liked that. It's a funny thing, on Broadway the composers and writers are modest, it's the actors and actresses, even showgirls, who are stuck-up and they're always 'on.' My friend Vida Bertrand is a writer. Not for Broadway, serious. She's a very intelligent girl, but she thinks the way you do about art. We talk about it often. Then I have several friends who are painters. I think I've learned most from them."

Simone perked up. "Yes, I forgot, you are a friend of Vermillion's." She forced her voice to be casual.

"Yes, in fact I think he is the most interesting person I've ever met," Lucy said, surprising herself with a judgment heretofore unformulated and, observing Simone's face tighten, added quickly, "and you of course."

Six o'clock, interrupted the French clock.

"Oh my, it's six, I ought to go," she said hesitantly but not making a move. It was hard to tell whether Simone wanted her to stay.

Simone rose, controlling with an effort the seething jealousy. What brazenness to flaunt mock-innocent confirmation of her suspicions. The girl was more complex than appeared but not clever in concealing the feeling in her voice. It would be a happiness to mar that deceitful face, to destroy its confident composure.

"I am sorry you must leave, I had thought perhaps you would remain to dinner," she said uninvitingly.

"Well, if I'm not taking too much of your time, I'd love to," Lucy accepted enthusiastically. She stretched her arms, wiggling her fingers, and confessed, "I'm glad you asked me because I feel we could be very good friends. I've really looked forward to this afternoon."

"And I," Simone said coolly. She ordered by telephone, without consulting her, Lucy noted. Broiled chicken, asparagus, and then she turned, saying with a faint smile, "For dessert, crepes suzette?"

"That'll be grand," Lucy accepted, though she preferred ice cream.

Waiting, Simone paced the room, switched on the overhead chandelier, opening, then closing, a window, drawing the shades, pouring her another drink which Lucy declined with, "Not if we are having champagne. I'll be drunk, I feel giddy already."

"You are too cautious." Simone sounded irritated.

"Well then, just a little sip," Lucy said to be agreeable.

"Good!"

What a funny smile, noted Lucy, like when a man is trying to get you drunk. "I love your black pajamas. When I'm home I walk around in my underwear," she chatted.

"Ah! It is so clever of you to wear grey. Most blondes believe it chic to wear black, but black is only for those of nondescript color, like myself."

"I certainly wouldn't call you nondescript," Lucy said admiringly, giving up the black ensemble.

Yes, the girl was a méchante. It would be a satisfaction to seduce her from Paul. Revenge could not heal wounds but it was a solace. "How then do you see me, my dear?"

Saved by the bell, Lucy thought as the waiter rolled in the table, and wondered whether she already was drunk because Simone reminded her of the way Miss Shaver looked at her and then kissed her when they were alone after school in Denver. Maybe it was because Simone made her feel younger than ever before in her life. So much so that even to herself she sounded childish and unable to find words for what she felt. After all, she was a woman now, not a schoolgirl. Perhaps Simone only had been polite in asking her to stay. You couldn't tell because her moods changed. She'd be pleasant and the next minute she seemed to hate the sight of you. But that must be imagination. Why would Simone hate her? It was exciting though, as if one were on the verge of an important discovery.

They sat nervously awaiting forgotten butter. Simone decided to open the champagne herself. The effort expended to release the cork relieved her tension and, discovering the wine Piselli had sent unexpectedly good, she became gay. But, after declaring herself famished, she ate almost nothing. Lucy always marveled at how people wasted food in New York, especially those of Figente's world. The surfeit of Figente's table never failed to arouse her wonder of the world in which food was not sustenance but something to toy with. She and Mother often had squandered earnings on luxuries but wasting food, as some people did in cutting off the crusts to make sandwiches, was a sin. She ate, chewing slowly because it was good for you.

"Have you ever noticed," she said, to say something, "that restaurant and hotel tablecloths are always more full of crumbs than at home? I guess it's the hard French rolls."

"Ah, but they are not French. What you call French here is not French at all," Simone defended la cuisine Française. "Me, I prefer here the so soft bread. I find it quite delicious—but not grilled as it is for the breakfast. Toast I abhor." This sentiment transferred itself to the waiter who at last arrived to perform the ritual of the dessert. "Even," she accused, "crepes suzette are not properly prepared. Too heavy."

The waiter who was from Bordeaux looked at her sullenly. The guests he preferred were Americans, they feared waiters. They were not fussy and moreover, like the Texan in 912, were not above offering a drink with a big tip. Only a compatriot would think to keep her liquor locked. "Mademoiselle is an artist," he said obsequiously, vowing to spit in her soup the next time she made trouble.

"These are delicious, aren't you going to eat yours?" Lucy asked when he had left.

"No, I have not the stomach for such richness," Simone said as, refilling their champagne glasses, she added the green mint to hers. Her fingers tapped the table. "Don't hurry, child," she said, though the girl's slowness was getting on her nerves. "In Paris we have desserts more delightful than this," she said, with a ravishing smile.

She doesn't mean food, thought Lucy. "Are there?"

"If you visit me in Paris I will make for you such sweets as you never dreamed of."

"I can't imagine you cooking."

"And why not! Every Frenchwoman knows about the proper preparation of food."

"When I think of a kitchen I think of my Aunt Mabel, she's a good cook."

"So!" She was getting nowhere. The girl either was too cautious or stupid. Simone jumped up. "Are you quite finished?" And, scarcely awaiting a reply, rolled the table out into the hall and closed the door.

Seven o'clock, time to get on with it, fussed the clock.

Simone thought of going to the bedroom to telephone Paul. But what if he would refuse to come? She could not face this evening alone.

"Now then, you lie here, it is more comfortable," she said, and plumped the cushion on the chaise longue.

Lucy stretched out with a replete sigh and waited for what Simone Calvette had to teach. Her hands fell into the valley below her navel and she thought of asking Simone about Manet's "Olympia," but reconsidered and clasped her hands behind her head involuntarily.

Simone bent down and unbuckled the straps of Lucy's new patent leather sandals and slipped them off. "There now, isn't that more comfortable?" Her voice was maternal.

"Yes, I always make the straps tight so I won't turn my ankles."

"You have a reason for everything?"

"Haven't you?"

"I think so, but I have been accused of being unreasonable."

"I'll bet you have a reason for everything. I'll bet when you are singing with your eyes almost closed you don't miss a thing."

"You believe it affectation?"

"Oh, I meant it to be a compliment. I think you are wonderful. What I would like to know is what you do think about when you sing. When I dance I think about keeping time and about the steps—you know, technique—but I also think about other things. Things that have nothing to do with the number—like whether a rip has been mended in the stage floor-cloth or who someone is in the audience. And of course about what I am supposed to interpret too. Do you do that, or do you only think of the meaning of the words, and does that make you sing the way you do? Do you express yourself, or is it technique?"

Simone sat in the bergère at Lucy's feet and poured them each a drink. The girl truly was a child, irresistible, she was not to blame for Paul's being a man. She now felt a desire to protect the beautiful girl, to pamper her and not tell her anything that would, if understood, change the enchanting naturalness. On the other hand she would be quick to sense evasion and one owed it to one's art not to minimize it.

"How old are you?" she asked gently.

"I'll be nineteen in June."

"Just a little more than eighteen! When I was your age I wanted to be an opera singer. I was at the Conservatoire in Paris. My voice was high, clear, and light. Coloratura, but not truly operatic. In one sense I was fortunate. I already knew something about music—many singers do not—as I had had piano lessons at the convent. It was my father's intention I should teach piano in Pau where we lived, unless of course I married. But always I wanted to sing in Paris. My father died, my mother having died long before, and so, being alone, I went, after persuading the family avocat, the lawyer in charge of my dowry, to the Paris Conservatoire. The dowry was little, so he agreed I might as well do this as it was unlikely to attract a suitable young man. After a year I had a patron who was connected with the Opéra Comique and so that was where I sang for some years. The roles were not much varied from year to year and I found it most tiresome. Also my patron. So when I had the opportunity to sing in an operetta, that, I thought, I would enjoy, especially as by now my patron and I no longer agreed on anything. For several years I sang in operetta, in London as well as Paris, and then I lost my voice, which never had been strong. For three years I did not sing a note. I traveled with this friend and that, Greece, Turkey, Italy, always in the South, except when I visited Petrograd. But that is another story. One day in Fez I was so homesick for Paris that I told my then protector, who was in the government, I wished to visit Tetuan in Spanish Morocco, and from there I went by way of Spain to Pau where a few family possessions still remained in care of the avocat. These I wanted to sell; as I now had no protector I was quite poor. I did not get them but that too is another story. However, in Pau I again heard the songs of my childhood and it was as though I had composed them. When I got to Paris I was so poor I must do something to eat as I had departed from Tetuan without telling my protector."

"I guess that's what they mean by 'French leave,'" contributed Lucy.

"Exactly." Simone smiled. "So I said, Simone, when you are alone you sing these childhood songs for yourself; if you must do this at least do it where people will pay for you to sing to yourself. And so fortunately I got a job in a small café where I need pay attention to no one and I worked hard because I discovered I was not singing to myself but that each song was singing to me, telling me things which I knew and many I did not until I was told by the music and words. I had to invent personal methods of singing to make up for my lost voice. Now no one remembers Simone Calvette of the Opéra Comique and I tell you it is just as well, because when I go there now I can not distinguish one Fille du Regiment from another save for the name on the program. And now let us have a fresh drink."

The one-sided light from the lamp seemed to age her face on which the pores of her skin pierced her makeup like inked periods in her life, though, as she told the story, she became more fascinating than ever, thought Lucy entranced.

"That was a wonderful story and though, because I don't know a thing about music, I don't understand about the songs singing to you and telling you things, I do sort of feel what you mean and I think it would be good for me to take music lessons so I would know more about what I should express. I want more than anything else to be an artist, like you. I wish you would talk some more."

"We artists of the theatre shall help each other," Simone said cryptically.

Eight o'clock, told the clock to itself as no one would listen.

Lucy straightened the dress bunched under her.

"You are not comfortable. Come, take off your dress. I have a robe that would suit you."

"Well," Lucy said doubtfully, but could not resist seeing what Simone would produce.

A wide-sleeved magenta satin, gold-encrusted Moroccan robe was held open, and she let herself be folded into it. She sniffed its folds. "It's beautiful and it smells good too, like some kind of tea or incense, what is it?"

"Oh, some sachet," Simone said, not wishing to mention hashish.

Her voice was unsteady from the sight of that pearly body against the pomegranate lining. Perhaps she would give the robe to her and later the gold earrings to go with it. The girl was looking at her, wondering what next, but Simone, controlling herself, merely gave her a matter-of-fact pat on the stomach as though she were a baby.

"I would like to take you to Paris when I return. I will ask Cocteau to write a ballet for you and one of Les Six to compose the music. I will dress you in fine white muslin with a huge blue sash. Lanvin will make it, and you will have a large leghorn hat with roses. You will be a grand success. You will drift in a boat in the Bois lagoon at night and there will be Japanese lanterns to light the way because the stars are held back by the trees overhanging the banks. Or, if you prefer, you will drive slowly in a carriage in the velvet light of the chestnut blossom candelabras. You will put your head on your beloved's shoulder and the only sound will be the clop-clop of the hooves."

She's thinking about Paul Vermillion, thought Lucy. She's done that with him.

"Perhaps," Simone continued, "you will want lights and music, say that of the mad Russians of whom there are many in Paris, or you will wish to sup at Maxim's, all red and gold and silver, or—" "Stop, stop! I can hardly wait!"

"You will be the rage of Paris. The artists will paint you—"

"You mean in patches and points and heavy black lines?"

One could see why the girl, playful, gay, would be irresistible to Paul. With a sudden fury of longing for him, she assailed with violent caresses a startled Lucy from whom came a small scream, as that of a bird pounced on by a cat.

After the initial shock, Lucy observed Simone's insidious assaults as though it were a demonstration in dance by Master, wondering apprehensively whether she would be marred by the small sharp teeth. Involved caresses that came to no real conclusion. I don't like this, I don't like this at all, it's silly. A woman, acting like a man without being a man.

Her tensity relayed unresponsiveness and Simone jumped up. "You are just a child. I thought differently." Her tone was insulting.

Nine o'clock, cooperated the understanding clock, and Lucy stood up.

"Oh my goodness, I forgot. I really have to go, I've an appointment."

"Stay—telephone."

"I can't—there isn't any phone there."

The girl was a poor liar. Paul was probably waiting and would hear of this. She lit a cigarette and switched on all the lights. "A pity."

Lucy looked at the drawn face and blank eyes and dressed hastily, chattering to cover her confusion. It was her first glimpse of tragedy, and she wanted to put her arms around Simone and kiss her to show she was not offended. She felt woebegone as though losing a friend and, oddly, a mother more understanding than Mother.

"I'm really sorry I have to go. I hope you will let me visit you again because I do value you highly as a real friend. This has been a wonderful evening for me. I'm coming to see you again soon at the Club. Will you sing the Annette song then?"

Simone shrugged at the stilted words. "Why not? I usually do."

They looked at each other, Simone expressionless, and Lucy came forward and kissed her awkwardly on the cheek. "Thank you."

"Not at all. Thank you for coming." She made no movement to accompany Lucy to the door but stood motionless, her arms dangling, wilted stems, a grimace cracking her face straining to smile politely.

"Don't forget, until the next time then," Lucy strove to reassure and closed the door softly.

She pities me! Oh Paul, Paul, save me! She stood motionless for a long moment, switched off the lights, and went into the bedroom to take blessed sleep-bringing pellets.

Under the hotel marquee Lucy breathed the fresh October night and wrapped her coat around herself protectively. The Park was a black cut-out stagedrop green-tinged by streetlights, as if by a feeble stage pilot-light after the show. At this play though she had been the audience. Countercurrents streamed the Avenue with sibilant whispers, and the city lay cuddled in its man-made roseate glow off toward Broadway. She got into a taxi but could not go home until she thought things over. "Drive around the Park first, about to 86th and back."

She felt as if she had been in a foreign land. Simone's hands were like a hot parchment shade. For a woman to have to love women is tragic. If only she doesn't think I'm mad at her. I like her more than I thought I would but I am very very sorry for her. She's not like Miss Shaver at all. Miss Shaver really preferred that girl, and could hardly keep her hands off me. But Simone really didn't want me. That was a good idea, about the songs singing to her. I wonder what would happen if I listened to music that way? Maybe I would get an idea. I would like to do something nice for Simone to prove I'm her friend. But what? She knows what love is but she's unhappy. That doesn't seem to make sense. I never thought that you could be in love and not be loved back. I've never felt like that about any man, not even Carly whom I liked best. Maybe I'm better off not being in love. One thing is sure, I'll never be in love except with a man. The other way is like a dead-end street. Going nowhere fast. Several times I thought she wanted to ask me something. That's a funny thing, you can talk and talk with people and never say what you want to even if you try. The words won't come. Even with your best friend. You guess about them and they guess about you, it's a kind of double talk in which no one says what they are thinking. I would like to have a long talk with Vermillion and see if I can find out what he's really like. I'd hate to be in love with him though. He strikes me as a very self-centered man. I don't get it about him and Simone. They say Hindus know all about love. Ranna, Master of dance, Master of love. Not bad! I don't seem very serious, but I am. What I want most is to be an artist of the dance, that's why I'm going to Ranna's Tuesday.

London, Paris, any European city could be painted in oils. Not New York. New York had to be drawn, emerging from washes of its depths. It was a throwback to Doric Greece and Egypt despite its Gothic towers. Its pyramided body lay as an obelisk-horned Sphinx clawing the river and bay with its many docks. A new many-pawed multi-horned God. Save that New York was the least mysterious of the world's great cities. Perhaps it was the revealing light that did it.

Vermillion looked at his New York on a large thick sheet of rough water color paper thumbtacked to the wall. From two massive darks where the city disappeared within its core it emerged in a code of nervous black dashes and dots made by a sputtering quill pen into a single monument, scintillating in its complex grandeur against the white paper which was the sunlight.

I've hit it this time, but can I go back to the beginning and do it freshly or better or will it become a formula? How difficult to retain that flashing moment when landscape, figure, flower or fruit, real or fancied, revealed its essence. A moment when growth and movement halts at the acme of its perfection, as a reaching hand drawn by Leonardo continues on the instant one looks away and in memory one has seen it come and go.

Two russet pears lay on the table, waiting to be eaten, and seeing how they lay, touching like contented lovers, he could not help but paint them. For three days he built up their richness, his brush loving the compliant canvas until they were all but the real pears which he then ate.

The next day revealed an aspect he had missed in the intensity of painting. The pears had no individual life of their own, only the literalness of their model. He remembered the fruit had had, because of its colors, a Pompeian fresco aspect, an idea worth improvisation. He prepared a canvas with the translucent color of pear flesh and let it dry to a receptive state. His plan was to exaggerate the pears' planes with thick strokes of ochre and terra cotta to accent the Pompeian resemblance. His hand refused and contrarily brushed in high key the simple form. Desperately with a brush point he set in black and sepia cuneiform a record of the salient weights and characteristics and, depressed, put the canvas aside.

The next day he looked to see where he had failed. To his amazement the pears had become the essence of what he had seen at his first impulse to paint then. It was curious, he thought when calmer, how a new language had come to him. A language which seemed always to have been waiting to speak all this time.