Sins of the Flesh (20 page)

“How did…She told me to get off her property or she would call the police,” Philippe said bitterly. “She wouldn't get out of the car but sat there blowing the damn horn. She sat there in that goddamn beat-up car and told me she'd made sure I had a good life and had no complaints and to get out! Jesus Christ, what kind of woman is that!”

Reuben sighed. “I told you not to go out there. I told you she said she didn't want to see you. You should have listened.”

“Do you know what else she did?” Philippe blustered. “She threw these out of the window as she drove past me. Six hundred-dollar bills! I picked them up. She yelled something like ‘Give these to your father.' You Americans, you're all crazy!” Philippe yelled over his shoulder as he raced into his office.

Reuben grinned at the sound of glass shattering on the upper part of the door. He'd done the same thing years ago, but now he couldn't remember why. Time…When he glanced down at the money in his hand, he grinned again. He'd been off by a hundred dollars. “Bravo, Bebe,” he murmured. “Keep it up.”

Reuben checked his watch. If he didn't hurry, he'd be late for his appointment with the attorney Daniel had retained for him in regard to his divorce….

Forty-five minutes later he found himself sitting in a comfortable burgundy chair across from Andrew Blake, Esq., a thin, bald-headed young man with penetrating hazel eyes and a penchant for custom tailoring and footwear. Each took the measure of the other, and as if by some unspoken agreement both concurred that they would do business together.

“What I see here,” Blake said in a deep voice that surprised Reuben in one so young, “is either a messy case or a simple, cut-and-dried affair. I heard from Mrs. Tarz's attorneys several days ago.” Paper crackled as it was shifted from one pile to another. Reuben leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. If nothing else, he was here to be amused by his wife's demands. “Actually, what we have here are two proposals,” Blake continued. “First, Mrs. Tarz wants the 49 percent of the stock that was turned over to you some years ago. If you're willing to give her that, she'll agree to your continuing to run the studio at whatever salary you think is fair. She wants nothing else. The second proposal, of course, is predicated on the first. If you can't see your way clear to the 49 percent, she wants everything else. And when I say everything, I mean everything, which means you leave the studio and get a job somewhere else. I think you should know the attorneys she's hired are almost as good as I am.” This was said without conceit. “It could become a bloodbath. All your dirty linen will be aired. Now, have you given any thought to what it is you want to counteroffer?

“Oh, one other thing,” Blake continued. “Mrs. Tarz is going to take back her maiden name. She said she sees no problem concerning the children.” He sat back steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he watched the man across from him. There had been only one show of emotion—when he'd said Mrs. Tarz wanted to take back her maiden name.

This is really happening, Reuben thought. She's going through with it. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “What are my chances of keeping the studio?” he asked quietly.

Blake frowned. “Not good. She can prove that her father gave the stock to your sons and she gave it to you when you decided on a reconciliation. The studio was her father's. However, there's a way in and out of just about anything if you're willing to pay the price. You have to be the one to decide.”

Reuben stood up and buttoned his jacket. “Give her the studio. Only I'm not interested in staying on under those circumstances. I'll hand in my resignation tomorrow. As of this moment, I've just retired.”

“Mr. Tarz, do you know what you've just said?” Blake asked, sitting up in astonishment. “I think you'd better go home and think about this a little more. This…Daniel Bishop told me the studio was your life.”

“Mr. Blake, Daniel told you the truth. Therein lies the problem. I won't change my mind, so get the paperwork started. I'll have my secretary bring over the stock shares.”

After Reuben left, Andrew Blake sat for a few moments with his mouth hanging open. When he'd recovered sufficiently he picked up the phone. “Get Daniel Bishop on the phone,” he ordered. Five minutes later he was told Daniel was on his way to California. “Thank God,” he groaned. He wasn't starting any paperwork until Bishop arrived. Notifying opposing counsel was something else, however. He picked up the phone a second time, his fingers drumming on the shiny surface of his desk. He'd say it was tentative. Everything was tentative until it was signed…in blood, Reuben Tarz's blood.

 

Bebe was pruning a prickly rosebush when the kitchen phone rang at fifteen minutes past six. It was her attorney. She listened, her face registering shock. “He said that! He's willing! Not even an argument? Fine, I accept.”

In a daze she walked back to the garden and immediately sliced her finger with the pruning shears. Back in the kitchen she held her bleeding finger under the cold-water tap. It had to be some kind of trick. Reuben would never…last night she'd thought Reuben would never…and he had…She wrapped her finger with the end of a dishcloth and placed a call to her brother Eli.

“I don't want any part of that studio, sis,” he told her when she gave him the news. “It's all yours. I guess I should offer my congratulations. Maybe Pop will stop spinning in his grave now that Fairmont is back in the family. And I do mean family.”

Bebe frowned. “What are you talking about, Eli?”

“You and Philippe now own the studio, that's what it means. Don't tell me you didn't think about that!”

Bebe sat down on a kitchen chair, her face drained of color. “No, I never thought of that. My God, I can't…I don't want…Eli, I never…What am I going to do?” she wailed.

Eli's voice grew thoughtful. “I don't know, Bebe. Do you really want the studio, or do you just want to get back at Reuben? You don't know the first thing about running the place, and I doubt the boy knows anything. If Reuben has resigned, where does that leave things? He's giving you what you want. You shouldn't have…Listen, Bebe, why don't you think about all of this for a few days. I don't see any real big hurry to make a decision right this minute.”

“Eli, there's more. I didn't tell you everything.” In a shaky voice she told her brother about Reuben's visit and their lovemaking. Then she rushed on and told him about her early morning meeting with Philippe. “Eli, are you still there?” she asked when there was no response.

“I'm here, sis. You still love Reuben. And you love the boy, or you wouldn't have sent him away. It's all right to love. I know you're afraid of getting hurt again, but that's what life is all about. If you can't love, you can't feel. Do you want to go through the rest of your life anesthetized? Right now you're filling your hours with busy work and I'm not negating any of it. You could, if you wanted to, take an active part in the studio. You're far from stupid. You'll probably make some mistakes, lose some money, but you'll learn. Reuben was green when he started. You'll have the advantage now, no one but your son will be there watching over you. Do you want my advice?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Go for it. Call your attorneys and tell them you agree to the studio as your share of the divorce settlement and you regretfully accept Reuben's resignation. Make sure you use that word, Bebe,
regretfully.
Resign from all that busywork you've been doing and take over the studio. I don't think the boy will fight you, but if he does, simply put him in his place. Motherhood has a lot of rank, if you know what I mean. Use it to your advantage. Learn the business from the ground up; do your homework. You'll be surprised at how much you're going to remember. Don't forget how in the old days we used to hang out there whenever Pop would let us. Things aren't all that different, but whatever you do, don't fire anyone till you know what the hell is going on.”

“Eli, I'm a woman, who's going to pay attention to me?”

“Everyone, as long as you sign the paychecks. Remember that.”

“Do you really think I can do it?” Bebe asked fearfully.

“I
know
you can do it. Look, do you want me to come down for moral support?”

“Yes, I do…but, no, I don't want you to come. What I mean is, if I'm going to…do this, I'll do it myself, and if I fall flat on my face, I won't have anyone to blame but myself. How far behind are you on your commissioned paintings?”

“Two years,” Eli said ruefully.

“Right,” Bebe laughed. “And you're going to come down here and wet-nurse me.”

“Yes, I would.”

“Thank you for that, Eli. I needed to know that someone I love is in my corner. Thanks for listening to me. I'll probably be calling you every day for a pep talk.”

“That's what I'm here for. Take care, Bebe, and good luck.”

“Bye, Eli.”

 

Five days later
Variety
screamed to the movie industry:

 

HOLLYWOOD'S WONDER BOY RESIGNS!

GIVES STUDIO TO WIFE!

 

Reuben Tarz grinned when he read the headline. Bebe Tarz fainted on the front steps of the Benedict Canyon house.

It was an ominous silence, almost as ominous as the first pale gray slices of dawn, for none in the farmhouse knew what the new day would bring, nor did they know what would happen when the silence was shattered by the arrival of their leader, code-named Pier. Pier, the partisans were told, was a burly giant, more a bear than a man. His body, whispered one partisan, was as thick as a hundred-year-old tree; his arms like huge cut-off stumps; his hair like moss grown wild; but his eyes—
Mon Dieu!
—they could see all the way through to one's soul. His ears, the partisan confided, could pick up sounds miles away. He and he alone had killed more Germans than any other member of the underground.

Mickey leaned back against the quarry stone, relishing the feel of the coolness against her weary body. If only she could strip off these filthy clothes and have a bath. If she had a kingdom, she would relinquish it right now for a cake of soap and some toilet paper, things she'd taken for granted for years and never thought she would be without. The urge to scratch her body was so commanding she dropped forward to her knees and then stood up. Lice. Everyone had lice except herself and Yvette. From the beginning they'd tied their heads in scarfs, and in the early dawn they'd crept off by themselves and inspected each other's heads. The moment Yvette pronounced her head clean of the hateful creatures, she would heave a sigh so loud she thought it could be heard in the next province.

She was so proud of Yvette these days. Her friend had become so expert at thwarting the Germans and so incensed with killing them, she had become a force to be reckoned with. At some point, and Mickey wasn't sure how it happened or when it happened, Yvette had taken control and proved to be a worthy partisan. Mickey was the only one to hear her friend whimper in her sleep and see the tears roll down her cheeks.

Mickey sat down next to her friend, wrapping her arms around her bent knees. “I am so hungry I think I could eat one of my own fingers,” she grumbled.

“Don't think about food, Mickey, it just makes you hungrier. As starved as I am, I know I could not eat another red beet. Ah, my stomach has turned over at the thought. I've been thinking—wishing, really—that I were back at the farm having an argument with Henri. There are times when I think I can actually smell the barnyard and see the dogs and cats and chickens. I was so happy, so blissful, back then. A warm bath at night, making lusty love with Henri, sleeping next to him…that was happiness, Mickey. Why is God doing this to us, why did He take that away from me? I will never understand. Never!

“And you, Mickey,” she continued, “all you do is think about Philippe and Reuben. You, too, are like a machine. How much longer are we going to…”

Mickey wrapped her arms around her friend. “Until we are a free people again, that's how long,
chérie
.”

“Did you have the leaders send your signal?” Yvette asked.

“No. I know I should have. Well, yes, I did, but it didn't happen the way we thought it would. They told me…actually, what they said was that my code name would go in and only one department and one English-speaking man would know that I am Chapeau. It is for our own safety. Did you ever in your wildest dreams think that our Paris gendarmes would join forces with the Germans? No one can be trusted. So Philippe and…and Daniel will pray for our safety and continue to call our friends in England and will be told the same thing: they know nothing of our whereabouts. It breaks my heart, but there is nothing I can do. I will make a confession to you, old friend. I am keeping my sanity by thinking of Reuben. I force my mind to go back over the years when I was younger and in love with him. I relive each and every moment. In here”—she tapped her head—“I have my own time clock and calendar. I tick off each memory, and when I have a moment to myself, I think of the next one. You, on the other hand, are dealing with your loss the only way you can. We are a sorry team, are we not?”

Yvette nodded solemnly. “Twenty years is a long time to love a man, a man you haven't seen in all that time. I've always envied that love because it was so constant. It never wavered, not even when you found out about Philippe.”

“It keeps me going, Yvette. The poets say hope springs eternal. If I don't see him in this life, then perhaps in the—”

“Stop it,” Yvette hissed. “We talk only of Germans and death, not ourselves. Remember that!”

“Yvette, we are mere mortals. How we've managed to survive so far is a mystery to me,” Mickey said sadly. She wished Pier would arrive with their assignments so she could get some sleep. These whispered conversations with Yvette were beginning to take their toll on her. More than anything she wanted time to relive her memories, to remember how it was when she was happy and in love and living in a world that didn't include Germans and survival and killing. Just for a little while, so she could wake and…and kill again and again and again.

Yvette straightened up and glanced at Mickey. Her eyes held concern and worry that her friend of so many years was slowly losing touch with reality, preferring to slip in and out of her past at will. Her disturbing thought was shattered as the rough wooden door burst open.

The others were right, Yvette decided, the man did look like a bear. From her position she noticed two things immediately—his hands, which were as big as ham hocks, and round eyes the color of muddy coffee that saw everything at a glance.

There were no greetings; there never were. The man simply dropped to his haunches and spread out a map. Yvette nudged Mickey to wakefulness. The man's voice was hoarse and croaky, his eyes never leaving the map spread out at his feet. A stub of a pencil drew lines and made deep gouging X's with the speed of a cat in flight. Mickey shuddered.

“Chapeau and Maman, identify yourselves,” he rasped. Mickey raised a finger, as did Yvette. He nodded. “Pay careful attention. You will take the children this way. We—” There was a long pause, so long that Mickey found herself holding her breath. “We expected perhaps thirty or so children. There were…there were that many when they started out. You will be in charge of eight of them. Hopefully, all eight will arrive tonight after dark. The youngest is five and the oldest is eleven.”

“Mon Dieu!”
Mickey and Yvette whispered in unison.

“He's not helping this time around,” the bear said gruffly. “That's why there are only eight left. Their survival depends on both of you. You, Maman, will have charge of the wireless. You,” he said, addressing Mickey, “remove your boot and stocking. I'm glad you have big feet, madame,” he said as he busily traced a map on Mickey's foot with waterproof dye. “You,” he said, addressing Yvette, “will be the one to refer to this map, as Chapeau will be unable to decipher it under her toes. Clever, eh?”

Yvette thought it stupid but kept quiet. Did this man have any idea how much time it took to unlace a boot, pull off socks, and stare at feet? And then it took twice as long to shove the same swollen foot back into the sock and boot.

“Look at it now, Maman, so it is fresh in your mind. The first leg of your journey only and the first two safe houses.”

“Are they boys or girls?” Mickey asked.

“Does it make a difference?” rasped the man.

“To me it does,” Mickey replied coolly.

“Five boys and three girls. The oldest is a girl and the youngest is a boy.”

“When do we…when do we leave?” Yvette queried.

“As soon as they arrive tonight. It promises to be a dark night, possibly some rain before morning.”

“They will be tired, and there's no food here,” Mickey pointed out.

“You are wrong, madame, they will be exhausted, not simply tired, but they understand what is at stake. They also understand empty bellies. You will act as their guide, not their mother, is that understood?”

“Perfectly,” Mickey replied, her eyes cold. Yvette nodded.

The bear looked uncertainly from Mickey to Yvette. Was he making a mistake? If so, he would have to live with it. The others, experienced men with knowledge of ammunition and explosives, were needed here.

As the bear's voice droned on to the men in the circle, Mickey rose to stretch her legs, and Yvette did the same. Both of them itched to poke about in the canvas carry-bag Pier had dumped on the table, certain it contained food and possibly a jug of wine and some cigarettes. It wasn't much considering that there were ten of them all told, eleven with the bear.

“The transmitter?”

Yvette stiffened at the bear's words. “Here,” she said, dragging a heavy case across the room.

“You've been using this?” When Yvette nodded, the respect in the man's eyes brought a smile to her lips.

“This is the one you'll be taking with the children.” From inside a valise he withdrew a small, compact transmitter. A finger as thick as a sausage tapped the green coils of the antenna, the key she would use to transmit her messages. The stubby finger poked at several small compartments. “Your extra quartzes are stored here.” They were the size of a small matchbox, and by changing to a new quartz the operator was able to alter the broadcasting frequency. “Keep changing and the Germans will have difficulty locating you. Never transmit for more than ten minutes without changing your quartz,” the bear said harshly. “Eight minutes is even better. In an emergency, never, ever transmit for more than thirty minutes. If you have the least inkling that you're in some serious trouble, get rid of this case. As with your other transmitter, the keys to the codes are wrapped in a silk scarf underneath. We even have a strap for this little baby; it will go right on your back like a book bag.”

Yvette nodded. “Did you bring any food?” she asked brazenly.

“Some potatoes and some carrots. A few cigarettes, no wine.” His voice was almost apologetic. “When I arrived I saw a well in the back, the kind the farmers store food in. I expect it was dark when you arrived and you didn't see it. Check it out, you might find enough food for some soup.”

“I'll do it,” Mickey volunteered. Twenty minutes later she was back, her arms full of wilted turnips and withered onions. Each pocket of her shirt bulged with small cabbages. “There might be enough for the children if we don't eat too much,” she said quietly. “Is it safe to make a fire in the stove?”

“Don't stoke the fire,” Pier replied. “We've posted a lookout. Let the food simmer.”

It was the middle of the afternoon when the bear gathered his maps and gear together. There were no good-byes, no handshakes. He and the man he traveled with would leave as silently as they had arrived. At the door he turned to Yvette. “You have the most dangerous job of all. If you are caught, there is nothing any of us can do for you.” His eyes swept over to Mickey. “Take care of the
enfants,
mademoiselle.”

The moment the door closed behind him, Mickey doused the fire. Carefully she measured out the thin soup into dusty bowls. “Can we save some for the children?” she asked apologetically. Ten gaunt-eyed men nodded. Mickey's hand trembled as she slammed the lid tightly onto the soup pot. Under cover of darkness she would retrieve the small sack of dry, withered apples that were at the bottom of the small well. Children needed nourishment.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, a man whose code name was Fish motioned to Mickey. It was her turn to sleep. Over the past few months she had learned how to sleep at odd times of the day, but lately her sleep wasn't restful. Instead, it was tortured with memories, memories she deliberately dwelled upon, the way she would do now when she settled herself in the corner of the farm kitchen.

The rag rug was her mattress, her knapsack her pillow. If she didn't think about Reuben, she would fall asleep instantly. She knew she should close her eyes and blot everything else from her mind, but if she did that, Reuben would start to fade from her mind and her heart. Now that she had a sense of her mortality, it was crucial to remember every little detail of their love.

Her head in the crook of her arm, Mickey forced her thoughts back to the past. Her tired brain sifted and shifted the happenings in chronological order. The last time she'd slept, she'd gotten as far as Reuben and Daniel's arrival at the château and the game she'd played with Reuben, teasing him in her own way, tantalizing him until she could hardly bear the ache within her.

She'd gone to her room early that evening to hide from her desires and emotions….

First, she'd turned off the lamps, remembering how good the darkness felt. One could hide in the darkness of a room or in the darkness of one's mind. One could hide from the world in any number of ways, and that world would pass by.

She was feeling sorry for herself. In the whole of her life she'd never felt this way. That large world out there was full of emotional cripples, it didn't need one more. Go after him, take what you want. Give what you want but never give all of yourself, for when it's time to walk away there will be no reserve to carry you through. She smiled wickedly. All right, Reuben Tarz, you shall have 90 percent of me. Right now!

Her room was bathed in moonlight, the bed turned down, her silky white nightgown folded neatly on her pillow.

She ripped at her clothes, fingers feverish in their haste. The silky nightgown rustled softly as it fell about her. She looked in the mirror to see how much this night had ravished her. With lightning-quick motions she removed what little makeup remained, washed her face, and applied a light dusting of powder. She washed her mouth as well as her hands to rid herself of the smell of nicotine and wine. A light spritz of her favorite perfume, and she was finished.

All the lamps were off with only the thin remnants of moonlight streaming through the windows, creating silver shadows everywhere. The room looked exquisite, she decided, perfect for making love.

Impatiently she waited until the sounds she heard outside her door were right. Then, feeling as giddy as a schoolgirl, she stepped down the hall to Reuben's room. Softly she opened the door. His room was also bathed in moonlight, which lay across his bed in a giant beam. It seemed to Mickey that the young American glowed in the near darkness. She wondered fleetingly if it meant anything, if it was a sign of some sort. In the end, she simply didn't care.