Alex in Wonderland (The Wonderland Series Book 1) (3 page)

"Which is what?"

"What I told you earlier,
about mothers always knowing things. Why, sometimes we even know best."
She pecked his cheek affectionately. "Now run along before your father
figures out we two are up to something."

Alex beamed. "We two?"

"Yes, dear. We two. Now go on
and skedaddle!"

4

Seeing
Red

With his mother signed up as
co-conspirator, Alex gave her Jolie's phone number, grateful but not surprised
when she didn't ask about this "good friend" he'd never mentioned before.
That done, he tossed a couple of Gucci bags in the car and headed downtown. He
felt exhilarated as he raced past the clanging streetcars plying St. Charles
Avenue and crossed Canal Street into the French Quarter. Leaving behind his
father's stifling dictates and the Garden District's leaden social obligations
was like breaking out of prison. Alex knew there would be consequences for this
daring deed, hell to pay in fact, but once again he deferred to Scarlett
O'Hara:
I'll think about it tomorrow.

As he turned onto Royal Street, he
phoned Jolie to ask him to open the gate to the carriageway alongside the
house. He enjoyed another emotional rush when the heavy iron gate clanged shut
behind him, physically and symbolically sealing him from the outside world.
Alex felt better still when he heard his Creole nickname from somewhere deep in
the courtyard.

"I'm back here,
bébé
."

"Hot stuff coming
through!" Alex called back as he wound his way through the carefully
orchestrated landscape of palms and bamboo, fountains and lotus pool, all
designed to give the impression of well-manicured jungle. Jolie was fond of
telling everyone that it inspired the fabulous garden Tennessee Williams
described in
Suddenly, Last Summer
.
Naturally he couldn't be bothered with the fact that the play was set in the
Garden District, not the Quarter, or that it was written before he met the
playwright. Because of Jolie's passion for illusion—the grander the better—Alex
thought he would have been wiser claiming to be the inspiration for Blanche
DuBois, the heroine of
A Streetcar Named
Desire
, since she famously professed, "I don't want realism. I want
magic!"

Jolie just never lets facts clutter
up a good story, Alex thought with a smile. Lord knows I learned that the first
time I laid eyes on the guy.

As he plunged deeper into the
luxuriant garden, Alex recalled their first meeting at a Twelfth Night party
two carnival seasons ago. He was wearied to the bone of dragging old ladies
around the dance floor to the drone of a hopelessly dated band and was plotting
escape when he was cornered by the one person he'd avoided all evening.
Overdressed, half soused and older than his mother, Margarita Sanchez bore down
on him like a galleon under full sail, ruthlessly intent on plastering her
tired, half bared knockers against his chest and groping his butt. Once
Margarita caught his eye, there was no escaping, but just as she moved in for
the lecherous kill, Alex was enveloped in a cloud of Jean Patou's Joy when a tall,
fiftyish woman materialized from nowhere, slipped effortlessly into his arms
and spirited him away. An infuriated Margarita was left in the lurch with only
her hot hands and perpetually damp panties for company.

As he swept his mysterious dance
partner across the floor, Alex took inventory and remembered seeing the lady
earlier. Her slender body was elegantly swathed in vintage black silk Chanel,
and she was the only woman wearing black opera length gloves and a hat with a
fashion veil tucked under her chin. An enormous ruby sparkled on her finger,
and it occurred to Alex that he had never seen a ring worn over gloves. He was
also aware that everyone in the room was watching them.

"I don't know who you are,
ma'am, but thanks for rescuing me from a fate worse than death."

"You're most welcome."
Her voice was heavily accented. "I am Tatiana Yussupov, late of St.
Petersburg." She cleared her throat. "And I do not mean
Florida."

"Russia?"

"Russia."

"Your last name sounds sort of
familiar."

"Perhaps you have heard of my
great-great-half-uncle, Prince Felix Yussupov. He killed the monster
Rasputin."

Alex wasn't too keen on Russian
history, but he was a serious movie buff, and when he watched
Nicholas and Alexandra
for the costumes,
he inadvertently learned about the wanton monk who helped bring down the House
of Romanov. He ran through his cinematic repertoire and mentally screened the
scene when Prince Yussupov (Martin Potter) tries to seduce Rasputin (Tom Baker)
with a gypsy transvestite (uncredited) before poisoning, stabbing and shooting
the monk to death. Alex had always wondered if the flamboyant prince was gay.

"Really?" he said
finally.

Tatiana waved a gloved hand in
dismissal. "Is nothing," she purred.

They danced in silence while Alex
racked his brain to find a conversation topic. In desperation he mentioned
Margarita who glowered every time he and Tatiana waltzed by. "I take it
you know Margarita Sanchez."

"That peasant insulted me once
in her tacky art gallery when I expressed distaste for those dreadful red cat
paintings." She rolled her eyes. "My God! The blue dogs are bad
enough." She glared daggers through her veil. "Lecherous old
dipsomaniac."

Alex chuckled. "Well
put."

When they ended the dance and began
another, Tatiana picked up the conversational gauntlet and told Alex about her
former hometown, occasionally lapsing into Russian and French when she wanted
to make a point. He didn't follow every detail but was fascinated nonetheless,
mostly because he'd never met anyone with such exotic provenance. She was so
captivating, in fact, that Alex forgot about the cute red-haired cocktail
waiter who had been suspiciously attentive. He told himself it was just as well
since he had an ironclad rule: Never cruise in uptown society, especially if
it's help.

Or as Jolie so genteelly put it:
"Don't shit where you eat."

"Dance me toward the door,
dear boy," Tatiana whispered, "and we'll both flee this dreadful
wake."

Ever mindful of manners, Alex
asked, "Shouldn't we say good-bye to our hosts?"

"Of course not. They're even
more boring than their party."

Alex chuckled. "Then why did
you come?"

Tatiana shrugged. "Friends
were adamant."

"So you're not alone?"

"Only because I insisted that
they leave with other young people about an hour ago. And what brought you to this
wake?"

"It was important to my
parents." Alex thought a moment. "Where do you live?"

"These days I'm staying with
my brother Jacques Menard. Perhaps you know him. He lives on Royal Street in
the French Quarter."

"I don't know anyone in the
Quarter," Alex confessed, "but I'd be happy to drop you off. It's
still early and I was thinking about heading downtown for a drink."

"You're very kind."

"Great." Alex glanced
around the room and spotted his mother. "I'll tell my parents I'm leaving
and be right back."

"What a dutiful son,"
Tatiana said admiringly. "Perhaps I can persuade you to stop in for a
nightcap. I have some divine
pertsovka,
that's
pepper vodka, and I promise I'm a White Russian, not a Russian Margarita."

Alex smiled as she squeezed his
arm. "I'm sure you're not."

Tatiana smiled back. "
Bon."

As they walked to his car, Alex
remembered he hadn't introduced himself. "Please forgive my bad manners.
I'm Alexander Sumner, but everyone calls me Alex."

"I know all about you, young
man. I don't sweep just any stranger onto the dance floor. Oh, don't look
surprised. I chatted earlier with your parents and they pointed you out. Quite
proudly, I might add. Your father is a rather…uh, imposing personage. I would
say he has a great deal of power and influence, dare I say too much for his own
good?"

Alex was impressed. "You read
him like a book."

"Some people are name
droppers," she explained. "Your father is what I call a 'power
dropper.' I've never heard so many politicians and CEOs jammed into a couple of
sentences. I'm amazed he hasn't run for Governor."

"He'd consider it a step
down," Alex explained. "Especially in the power department."

Tatiana's penciled eyebrows rose as
she considered the remark. "I must say he makes quite an impression."

"That's Daddy." Coming
from most sons, it would've been high praise, but the comment was leaden with
defeat and disappointment. Tatiana said nothing, only clasped her gloves in
delight when she saw his car.

"What a splendid automobile! A
Jaguar, isn't it?"

"Porsche."

"I didn’t know they came in
red."

"They do if you have a rich
father," Alex muttered. He was embarrassed by his sarcasm. "I'm
sorry. That was a tacky thing to say."

"Nonsense, young man. You're
entitled." Tatiana slid onto the supple leather seats with a smooth
whisper of silk. "My family was rich too before the communists ruined
everything for people of quality. In fact, I've hated red for as long as I can
remember." She glanced around the deluxe interior and hastily added,
"Unless it comes in Porsche, of course."

5

Très
Jolie

As they drove downtown, Tatiana
entertained Alex with vibrant tales about a privileged Russian childhood and
the drastic changes since the collapse of communism. She made the short drive
seem even shorter, and before he knew it Alex was parking the Porsche before a
grand 1840s Creole townhouse wrapped in lacy iron galleries. Gaslights
flickered alongside a front door flanked by slender Ionic columns. More
splendors loomed behind an ornate gate that gave charming but necessary
protection in a neighborhood that could turn ugly in the wee hours.

"We've both done good deeds
tonight," Tatiana said, taking his arm as they climbed three steps to the
front porch. "I rescued you from Margarita, and you've been kind to your
elders."

Alex was about to insist she was
hardly elderly when Tatiana handed him the keys to the gate and door. Her
old-world manners and behavior reminded him of something from a black-and-white
film, and thoughts of old Hollywood lingered when she flipped a switch. A
towering chandelier bathed the foyer with golden light, stunning Alex with the
sort of dramatic opulence usually confined to movie sets. The vestibule was a
sumptuous dream with gleaming marble floors reflecting the chandelier, gold
walls and twin, life-sized blackamoors guarding a staircase that swept up to
darkness.

"Welcome to
La Garçonnière
," Tatiana said.

Alex gave her a strange look.
"Isn't that an old Creole term for a 'house for unmarried men'?"

"Aha! So you Garden District
denizens do know something about the French." Tatiana sounded pleased.
"You're absolutely right. It's what you Americans used to call a 'bachelor
pad.' The Creoles built them on their plantations, for stashing lusty male
adolescents and unmarried gentlemen and thus protecting any unmarried ladies in
the Big House." Tatiana winked. "Theoretically anyway. They were
never built in the Quarter of course. I just liked the name." She flipped
another switch and a smaller chandelier blazed in the front half of a double
parlor. She indicated a marble-topped mahogany table groaning beneath a forest
of decanters. "The pepper vodka is on the far left. Its label is red, like
your sweet little car. Please help yourself while I freshen up." She
paused on the staircase. "If my brother Jacques is home, I'll send him
downstairs to entertain you. He can be
très
amusant
."

"Uh, thanks."

Alex had never tasted pepper vodka,
and he wasn't sure he liked the burn until after the third sip. He wandered
around the room for a few minutes, examining a costly art and antiques
collection, until a deep voice floated from the vestibule.

"Alex?"

"Yes?"

Alex faced a tall, slim man in
slacks, crisp white shirt and loafers without socks. Watch, belt, shoes and
glasses were unmistakably Prada, and a magnificent emerald gleamed on his left
hand. He looked bald until he moved underneath the chandelier and revealed a
mostly shaved head. His exact age was elusive, but Alex spotted a clue in the
silver chest hair.

"I'm Jacques Menard, Tatiana's
brother. She'll be back down in a moment." He shook Alex's hand and nodded
at the vodka. "I see you've made yourself at home. Good. I think I'll join
you."

Oddly enough, Jacques was shorter
than his sister, but they shared the same high cheekbones and fine features. He
also displayed Tatiana's elegantly continental grace as he poured a shot of
vodka, lofted the glass in Alex's direction and said,
"A votre santé!"
He downed it, poured another and sat, a
signal for Alex to do the same.

"Tatiana said you met at the
Palamara's Twelfth Night party." Alex nodded. "Dreadful bores, and
where in God's name do they find those antiquated orchestras? I swear those
musicians are too old for Preservation Hall!"

"So were most of the
guests," Alex offered.

"Which makes me wonder why a
young man such as yourself was there."

"My family." Alex shook
his head. "Sometimes I could choke on all the requisite
noblesse oblige
."

Jacques's eyebrows rose. "Do I
detect a note of resentment?"

"I just get really tired of
the same routine, and don't worry because I'm not going to bore you or myself
with it." He glanced toward the staircase. "I certainly see a
resemblance between you and your sister, but why are your accents so different?
You sound American."

"I'm half. Our father was an
American soldier in World War Two and Mother was a Russian war bride. They met
after the Siege of Leningrad and he brought her to the States. They divorced
when I was eleven and Tatiana was nine. I stayed here with him, but Mother took
Tatiana back to Leningrad where she still had family. It's St. Petersburg now
of course. Anyway, Tatiana hated the communists and became obsessed with the
Russia of the tsars. Mother was too young to even remember the Romanovs, but my
sister made it a personal cause to keep their memory alive. She was ecstatic
when they found the last tsar's bones and felt obliged to attend services when
the family was buried in the Peter and Paul Cathedral."

Alex was confused. "Maybe her
obsession is because you're kin to that prince who killed Rasputin."

"Did she tell you about
that?" Alex nodded. "Well, I adore my sister but I'm afraid she has a
rather vivid imagination. Our ties to the Yussupovs are questionable at best.
Mother has a distant cousin related to them, and that was apparently enough for
my sister to ignore her given surname and present herself as a Yussupov. I
suppose it does no real harm, but I find it a bit embarrassing at times. I feel
much more American than Russian and have never regretted growing up in this
country."

"What brought you to New
Orleans?"

"Amtrak," Jacques said
with a twinkle in his eyes.

Alex laughed. "Sorry. I didn't
mean to pry."

"I was only kidding."
When Alex took another sip of vodka and made a face, Jacques said, "That's
meant to be tossed down in one gulp. It goes down much easier that way."

Alex tossed the rest back and
rolled his eyes. "I'm feeling it already."

Jacques frowned. "Go easy,
young man."

They made small talk for awhile,
and Alex forgot about Tatiana. Jacques was as entertaining as his sister promised
and captivated Alex with naughty stories about his world travels. Alex hung on
his every word, quietly relishing tales about this outrageous Bangkok bathhouse
or that decadent Parisian club for men only. He was especially intrigued when
Jacques spoke of being gay as though it was a given and envied the man's tale
of "a dashing Hungarian hussar who literally took my breath away and
spirited me off to a seedy Left Bank hotel where we shattered any number of
commandments."

Alex's yearning for Jacques's worldliness
and contentment with his identity made him want to confess the truth about his
secret sexual preferences, but paranoia threw up the familiar roadblock. He
tried to shrug it off, telling himself that this was the French Quarter, not
the Garden District, and that he'd probably never see this man or his sister
again.
He also told himself to relax,
but another shot of vodka only triggered more frustration and confusion.
Feeling the onset of a foul mood, he glanced at his Rolex.

"I'd better be going."

Jacques looked with annoyance at
the staircase. "I'm afraid my sister has no concept of time, but I know
she'll be disappointed if she doesn't get to say good-bye. Will you wait a
moment while I get her?"

"Actually, I'm supposed to
meet some people for a drink," Alex lied. "I'm already late."

"May I ask where you're
meeting them?"

Alex wasn't drunk, but the vodka
tangled his thoughts as he said, "Lafitte's."

Jacques smiled and probed the
telltale revelation. "Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop or
Lafitte's-In-Exile?"

"I…I don't remember."

Jacques pushed the envelope.
"Of course you know one is a gay bar, and the other is not."

Alex was instantly on the
defensive. "No, I didn't."

Of course he knew the difference.
He had been to the gay bar exactly twice and spent both nights cowering in a
dark corner, terrified he would be recognized. He swore he would never return,
but he was drawn again tonight by a force he couldn't control. He vaguely heard
Jacques continue the conversation.

"It's certainly none of my
business, young man, but I'm guessing you don't really know which bar you
want."

"You're absolutely right, Mr.
Menard," Alex said with exaggerated formality. "It's none of your
business. Let me correct that. It's none of your
fucking
business!"

"Whoa there, partner! Did I
hit a nerve?"

Alex ignored the question and got
shakily to his feet. "I'm outta here." To his surprise, Jacques
demurred.

"As you wish." Jacques
opened the front door and swung the gate wide, but Alex's feet took him no
further than the foyer. He froze and faced his host with a desperately lost
look. "Are you alright, Alex?"

"No," Alex confessed.
"I'm not."

"Would you like a cup of
coffee?"

"Yes, thanks. I believe I
would.
 

Afterwards, Alex could never
explain why he stayed for coffee or, more significantly, why he spent the next
two hours confessing things to a stranger he'd never been able to admit to
himself, a lengthy, painful litany of fears and anxieties about being
homosexual.
All he knew for sure was
that the more he talked, the less frightened he was and the more relieved he
felt. At fifty-two, the world-wise Jacques had enough experience to be a solid
father confessor with all the right answers. He was also tenacious and wouldn’t
budge when he believed Alex was being evasive or dishonest. Although utterly
sympathetic, he kept hammering away at Alex’s tightly-sealed Pandora’s box
until the air swarmed with all sorts of nasty gay bugaboos. Certainly all of
the old emotional dilemmas weren't resolved in one night, but Alex acquired a
much clearer idea of who he really was and what he wanted from life.

For that he would be forever grateful to Jacques Menard.

Alex had been so totally immersed in his unexpected confessions that he
forgot how he had gotten there until Jacques walked him to the door. “Whatever
happened to Tatiana?”

Jacques chuckled. “I always told her she’d be late for her own funeral.
Wait right here.”

Alex watched Jacques race up the grand staircase and disappear behind
the glittering chandelier. When Tatiana returned, he squinted in an effort to
focus and wondered if the coffee had sobered him after all.

“What the—?”

“Hello, darling!” Jacques called in his best Russian accent. He was
poised midway on the stairs with black hat and veil back in place. Chanel pumps
restored a height Alex noticed when they met. “Tatiana Yussupov. Late of St.
Petersburg, and I don’t mean Florida, honey.”

A smile crept across Alex’s face as he realized he’d been had.
 
“Well, I’ll be double damned!”
 

Jacques curtsied grandly and blew him a kiss.
 
“No more secrets, eh,
mon ami
?”

Alex shook his head, fuzzier than ever from the pepper vodka. “So
Tatiana doesn’t exist and no one lived in St. Petersburg?”

“Or Paris, although I’ve spent
beaucoup
time in both places.
That helped with the research.” Jacques tossed the hat and veil aside. “The
truth is most of my friends call me Jolie.”

Alex’s head was exploding with questions. “So you went to the Palamara
party… dressed as a woman?”

Jolie grinned. “You can call it drag if you like. It’s something I do
occasionally to amuse my uptown friends. Not all of those Garden District folks
are stuffy, you know. Some of them are great fun, in fact, and this is our
little way of making a harmless tweak and having a royal good time. They love
taking me to snotty parties and introducing me as an obscure Rumanian Grand
Duchess or Lady Edwina Pomegranate-Jones-Hyde-White or some such silliness.
There’s always some bourbon-soaked dowager or her pompous prick of a husband
who wet their pants at the thought of meeting nobility, and I absolutely adore
playing the role.” When Alex still looked baffled, Jolie said, “There’s also
another reason I do it, of course.”

“What’s that?”

“The same reason a dog licks himself, dear boy. Because he can!” He
roared at his own bad joke before adding, “The truth is I’m just a plain old
Cajun lad, and to paraphrase Auntie Mame’s bosom buddy Vera Charles, ‘When you
come from Bellefleur, Louisiana, you have to do
something
!’”