Parisian Promises (20 page)

The concierge had not turned on the light in the courtyard of Madame's
hôtel particulier
, and both women had to slow their pace on the uneven surface of the paving stones, squinting at the ground. They could hear feet scurrying and a door closing. As they passed the concierge's tiny apartment, they heard her giggling.

“Oh, my prince,” they overheard the concierge saying. “You make me feel like a young milkmaid again!”

Lola covered her ears in mock-shock. “Far out!” she whispered, pulling Monica out onto the street. “Even the old ladies are getting nookie tonight.”

T
he red awning stopped Monica dead in her tracks. Its cheerful fluttering, which once seemed to be welcoming her to Paris and forecasting smooth sailing for her year abroad, now resembled a bloody cape ready to engulf her. She backed away from the entrance, sick to her stomach.

“I can't have a drink at this café, Lola,” she muttered. “It brings back too many memories.”

“Stop with the melodrama. The last time I saw you there,” Lola pointed to an outside table, “you were lovey-dovey with a handsome French guy.”

“Ugh.” Monica hid her face in her hands.

“Okay, so it didn't turn out well with him,” Lola conceded, with a spirited toss of her curls. “So what? Go back to the viscount, or forget about him as well. Let's go dancing and meet new guys. Geez, look in the mirror, would ya?” She pointed to their images. “We're total foxes.”

When Monica didn't move, Lola pulled her past the people waiting to be seated inside the café, and stalked right up to the
maître d'hótel
. He gave her an icy look.

“We wanted to ask you about some of your customers …” Lola began.

“I'm afraid to tell you that I have not seen the gentlemen in question in days,” he snapped.

“Are you sure you know who I'm talking about? “Lola shot Monica a bemused look. The
maître d'hótel
raised an eyebrow.

“But of course I know of whom you speak. Those gentlemen
were
our frequent customers, but we have not seen Monsieur Charles or Monsieur Bertrand for days. They, like so many others, enjoyed our hospitality and now have moved on––that goes without saying.”

“What about Jean-Michel?” squeaked Monica, clutching Lola's arm.

“He did stop by very briefly to let us know that our employee, Rémy, had returned home to Perpignan or some such village. We have replaced him with a seasoned local waiter; one who does not attempt to fraternize with the clientele.” The
maître d'hótel
looked down his long nose at them, and then he ostentatiously consulted his watch. “I'm afraid we are completely booked tonight. Please excuse me.” He dusted invisible dandruff from his black blazer, and took long strides away from Lola and Monica before they could ask any more questions.

Lola approached the hefty doorman at Le Sept as though they were old friends, and she and Monica were waved in right away. On the dance floor Lola spotted some of the same models and fashion designers she'd seen here last time, when she showed them all her dance moves. They greeted her effusively, signaling to her to join them. After surveying the crowd and not finding Charles or any of his friends, Lola asked some of the dancers if they had seen him. One by one, each provided a piece to the puzzle of the missing Charles:

“Shh, don't even mention his name around here!” said a nimble dancer from New York. “There's been lots of fuzz here asking about Charles and his friends.”

Another man in tight trousers and a flamboyant scarf added, “Some say they're involved in some kind of communist plot. At any rate, they're all missing.”

“Power to the people,” squeaked a tall, pinheaded model. “Right on! It's far out if they want to stick it to the man, as long as they don't blow up Le Sept.” She laughed, leaning her long neck back as she shimmied her bony shoulders.

“No, you have it all wrong,” her dance partner shouted over the music. “They're really neo-fascists, like those right-wing Italians who blew up the train in August.”

A short, bespectacled fashion designer pulled Lola to a crowded corner of the dance floor. “You didn't hear it from me, darlin',” he gabbled in her ear, “but they say that the whole bunch of ‘em are dead. You did hear about the latest explosion, right?

“What? Where?”

“The one at the
château
in the Loire Valley. A man died in the explosion.”

“A man? Not Charles?” groaned Lola.

“Shh! Let's boogie. All eyes and ears are on us.” The designer jumped back into the crowd and danced frenetically before bumping up against Lola. “Meet me at the Café de La Paix by L'Opera in one hour. I'll tell you more.”

At the Café de la Paix, it took Lola and Monica a few minutes to find the miniscule designer. He'd picked a corner table partially blocked by flowing drapery and two of the café's many pillars. When they finally spied him, he pointed to the chairs next to him.

“Darlins, I'm headed back to my mama in Dallas before I get back to work in New York. I've had all the crazy fun I can take. If I stay in Paris any longer I'm going to blow up”––he pointed to his inflated belly––“in more than one way.”

“Why couldn't we talk back at Le Sept?” Lola asked, waving at the waiter.

“Cuz, darlin', you don't know who's who anymore. In case you two haven't noticed, all of Europe is in a state of tension. One day one crazy group bombs a train in Bologna and then another group of lunatics hijacks a plane. The fuzz arrests the leaders of one group, like the Baader-Meinhof bunch, and then the Italian
Brigate Rosse
kneecap and kidnap dozens at random. I ain't walkin' with a limp and I'm not waitin' to go up in smoke. That reminds me.”

He lit up his cigarette while Lola and Monica ordered their drinks, as though he didn't want to say another word in front of the waiter.

“When are you leaving?” Lola asked him.

“In the morning. Which is why I'm giving y'all the skinny on your Latin lovers, as adorable and rich as they are––or were.” He exhaled slowly for dramatic effect. “‘Cuz everyone says they're either dead or they're the bad asses behind the bombings and bank robberies.”

Lola shook her head in disbelief. “You're just bugged out! These guys aren't bombers. They're rich intellectuals who hang out at the best cafés and nightclubs. They don't fit the profile.”

“No, they're bad news! Can you dig it?”

“Is it possible,” Monica dared to ask, toying with the ashtray rather than look the others in the eye, “that their cause is, uh, noble?”

“Now who's trippin'? They ain't cruel but cool…they're just plain CRUEL. Sure, some of the left-wing student groups want to reform the capitalist structures they believe harm society. But hey, guess what? They kidnap and torture business executives––and in the process they kill innocent bystanders.”

He blew smoke in her face, and they all sat in uncomfortable silence while the waiter placed their drinks on the table.

“I don't believe Charles is capable of killing anyone,” Lola hissed after the waiter had gone. “You're wrong. Maybe they just meant for some of their acts to be theatrical or symbolic acts of violence.”

“Tell that to the dead people on the train they blew up,” snorted the designer.

Monica cleared her throat. “What, uh, what does it mean when someone says that he, uh, or she, is committed to the anti-imperialist struggle?”

“Honey, you need to go home or get yourself a Parisian sugar-daddy. You need some protection from yourself. You're a babe in the woods!” The designer stubbed out his cigarette and instantly lit up another.

“I've lived a pretty sheltered life, that's true,” Monica admitted. “But suppose someone or some group wants the world to know about people suffering in other countries, or about governments taking away their rights to speak their language or practice their religion, and nobody listens. Isn't he, uh, or she justified in––”

“Sorry, darlin', I gotta cut you off. Got a plane to catch. If you're referring to the Irish IRA or the Basque ETA, that's a whole different can of worms. They want to create their own independent states. I can't explain it to you. I went to design school, you know, not law school.”

He slapped money on the table to pay the bill and stood up. “Stay here for a while, would you? I want to be seen leaving alone. Then I'm going to pick up my suitcases and head to the airport. Do me a solid, darlins? If you can't forget about these guys, then go home. You're too beautiful to end up dead. Don't be LaLa's!” Lola pulled him back down into his seat. “We may be from L.A., but we're
not
airheads. What do you mean ‘end up dead?' Tell us everything––now.” “Here's the lowdown,” he whispered, glancing nervously around the room. “We all knew a German model with a killer body. She started shacking up with Jean-Michel. She was mondo cool, but had loose lips and told some of the girls that she was gunrunning for him. One night, one of the girls was drunk as a skunk, and she asked Jean-Michel if she could be his next gunrunner. He was livid! He dragged that German model out of Le Sept as though he was the nastiest bouncer in town. We never
ever
saw the German girl again.”

“That doesn't mean he killed her,” Monica protested.

The designer stood up again. “Honey, there are lots of other examples I could give you, but you don't want to believe me, do you? France and all of Europe are in a state of fear because of random attacks by people from inside their own cities and countries. Call it transnational terrorism or whatever. All I know is that the left-wing insurgents are going to strike, and the right-wing paramilitary is creating fear to discredit the militant left. Either way, them suckers are going to attack––and your missing boyfriends are somehow involved in this hotbed of politics. If I were you, I'd stop asking about Charles, and I would stay away from Jean-Michel––if he shows up.” He pointed at Lola. “Would you knock some sense into Monica? Peace, out.”

He scurried out of the café before they could ask him anything else.

“What an ass,” Lola complained to Monica. “Was he implying that Charles is a lost cause, or that he's dead?”

“How did we ever get ourselves in this mess?” Monica slumped against the table.

“I'm not in a mess, Monica. I just fell for a dud, a revolutionary dud, and now I'm over him. Period.”

Monica swirled her glass of wine as if trying to hypnotize herself. “How can you just forget someone? You were intimate with Charles and––”

Lola burst out laughing. “You gotta be kidding me. Haven't we had this conversation before? It's 1973 and we can have sex with whomever we choose––and just because I had sex with Charles doesn't mean I was in love with him. It was a simple crush and now it's over.”

“But what if he's dead?”

“Gee, I'm sorry. But it's nothing to do with me.”

Monica's tears ran down her cheeks. “But, uh, what if

I might have had something to do with the, uh, explosion at the
château
?”

“Don't be such a spaz!” snapped Lola. Monica twirled her glass again, not noticing when she spilled her wine on the table. “Look, tell me what you did and then we'll figure out what to do, OK?”

“But what if what I did makes you hate me?”

“Then I'll hate you!” Lola punched Monica playfully. “But remember I promised to look out for you, right? So out with it.”