The Chameleon (49 page)

Claire laughed aloud. The infamous Pam worried about reputations?

“But Pam, you always said you were
above
the bourgeois business of morals.” Hadn't Pam just generously loaned the Bentley to Louise de Vilmorin for a tryst with Orson Welles? And she wasn't a bit perturbed when it had come back with cigar holes in the leather seats. But then again, Louise's social credentials were impeccable.

“A little adultery isn't the same as a shooting. If you had just winged him, he would have gotten the point and you wouldn't have lost your caché.” Coming from the woman who kept the world's richest husbands keeping her, Pam's rejection bordered on the comical, but as this was just the most minor in a series of grave disappointments, Claire squared her shoulders and put down her teacup. She knew now that any hopes of counting on old friends were as farfetched as a shop girl's daydream.

Some mornings were better than others. One day she had fight and resolve. Others she could barely climb out of bed. Today was one of the dark days. Gloriously bright and sunny, the sky was like an artist's bright blue canvas before he had introduced the realism of a cloud. It was the worst kind of day for Claire, because it reminded her of all of Six's unrealized days. All morning long she had seen him impishly exiting a revolving door, hurrying around a bend, out of the corner of her eye the way a widow might see her husband standing beside her or someone who has lost his leg feels his missing limb. Twice today she sensed Six beside her. Was he beckoning her to follow him or encouraging her to stay? She was by herself for the first time in weeks. Lorenza was off on a picnic with her cousin, the sous pastry chef, and his eligible friend, the meat chef. After all, Lorenza hadn't lost her life or misplaced her loved ones. She was very young, only twenty-three. Her life was ahead of her. She shouldn't have to baby-sit Claire.

At thirty-two, Claire felt she'd seen too much. One child dead, another stolen away. She'd spent the whole day wandering around the city of light and had waited until dusk to take the long solitary walk across the bridge. She stopped to search into the dark water, but the Seine only stared back at her, cold and uninviting, not even throwing back her own reflection. She continued on over the Seine toward the little chapel on the Left Bank where the priest always welcomed her. The fall wind blew and she quickened her step, squaring her shoulders against each heavy gust of wind. The smell of chestnuts in the air, dinner wines being uncorked, different mixtures of hot fish stews and braised meats filled her nostrils. She walked past low houses that afforded her a view of a low-slung moon in the blue sky while daylight still danced around the darker, orange-streaked twilight. She missed Six. She felt more alone than ever as she listened to her solitary footsteps on the cold cobblestones. Claire hesitated in front of the old church, so small that most people missed it as they hurried by. But she was in no hurry. Vesper services were just beginning.

She lit her candles and walked heavily to her spot, a hard, wobbly bench on the aisle. She always went to the same pew. She recognized the same disheveled man who always hogged the pew in front of her; out of habit she nodded to him and he grunted back.

She smelled the lady behind her before she turned around. Her sense of smell had been so keen lately. The woman smelled good, like autumns in Maine and warm clothes that had been in the closet all summer and just pulled from their cedarwood storage for their first chilly outing.

When she finally turned to put a picture with the friendly smells, she had to smile back, as the woman was already smiling at her. She was suntanned and weathered, with tousled hair and bright teeth. Claire knew at once she was an adventurer. She looked more closely as the services began in the candlelit church. Was it Amelia Earhart? Her heroine, who by just a casual contact in the store, taught her independence and inspired her to go places? The flying lady's shining spirit had seen her through two births, both times Claire hallucinating that Amelia was flying her to safety. Maybe she had returned to wing Claire far away, to take her to Six. Claire turned back to the altar but the lady leaned over her shoulder to speak into her ear.

“Claire, I'd like to talk to you.”

The words were spoken so calmly that she had to listen. She couldn't be real. Not with a lovely voice like that.

“Claire. Perhaps I can help you through this.” Claire knew she must be dreaming, but she gave herself up to this gentle hallucination.

“How? Have you suffered too?”

“Oh yes.” The soft voice had a twang, but was somehow privileged. “I lost a little boy, too. He was killed. Murdered. But I didn't have him as long as you.”

Claire turned to face the woman.

“Do you still miss him?”

“Every day.”

“And the pain …”

“It never goes away. But somehow you shutter it away inside you. Pretty soon it's just your private sorrow and no one comes around to pay condolences. The world likes to remember glory, not loss.”

The woman tossed her head, her short hair different dusty colors in the candlelight.

“Stay alive, Claire, and live well. Only you can keep his real memory alive. You mustn't lose his glory.”

Together they prayed from the little French service book. Prayed for Six and her lost boy. The woman put her hand on Claire's shoulder and she could feel its weight. It struck Claire that no one had ever touched her in a dream before.

“I sensed you were in trouble. Steer by your own stars, Claire, and take this time to carve out another life for yourself. You can't have the same one back again. It won't be easy, but it will be worthwhile. You'll try, won't you?”

“I will. How did you know I was in trouble?”

“I was there. A long time ago. This is the hardest part now. When part of you wants to go on and the other part wants to hang on to the past. And when your face is flashed around the world it makes it hard to find a quiet place to heal.” The woman reached into her pocket. “You can call me sometime. To talk, if you like.”

“I didn't know angels had telephone numbers.”

“I'm just a woman who lost a child. I felt you might want another person nearby who's suffered that way too. For a long time I was jealous of women who hadn't known my kind of sorrow. It's easier to swallow compassion from someone who's been there. But it's always a bitter taste.”

The woman pulled up the hood of her jacket. Evidently the dream was over.

They shook hands at the church door, not quickly, but holding each other's hand the way women friends do.

“Good night, Claire.”

Claire stopped under a street lamp to read the card. If it hadn't been her, if it had been just an ordinary woman, it would have had the same impact on Claire. She would have been equally grateful. But she was touched nonetheless that it was a woman world-famous and yet invisible who had reached out to her. She turned and watched Anne Morrow Lindbergh retreat into the shadows.

Slim, spruce in a yellow linen suit, gustily threw open the heavy draperies.

“Up, up!
Vite!
It's noon, a bit warm, but a lovely day.” Slim was thrilled to be living the bohemian life in Paris. At last. She put her hands on her boyish hips and surveyed the sun poking around the vegetable garden in the courtyard of Hotel Emilon.

“It's Sunday.” Claire pulled the sheets over her head. She had negotiated an affordable rate on a furnished apartment on the fifth floor of Emilon's hotel, in the less desirable back rooms facing the courtyard. The only decor she had added were her framed photographs and the Georgia O'Keeffe. In her bones she knew her situation was temporary. This little warren of rooms was just a cocoon from which she would reemerge a different Claire.

“We've got to get you ready.” Slim, not even a little out of breath from the five-story climb up the hotel's ancient stairs, threw open the armoire where Lorenza had neatly hung all the pretty things Claire never wore. “Get up. We're gainfully employed.”

“As what?” Claire lifted her tousled head from the pillow. For the last two months she had been working at a private antique shop on the Pont du Carousel, for the trade only. So far no former dinner guests of hers had barged in to demand she be fired. But Pamela Churchill, antiques consultant in tow, trooped into the shop weekly. She bought exquisite Louis XVI bureau
plats
and eighteenth-century doorknobs, letting Claire have the commission as long as she got a kickback on all the pieces Baron de Rothschild purchased for her.

“We're going to be costume consultants! You're going to show a young actress how to walk like a great lady. It's Hollywood in Paris!” Slim fanned herself with a copy of
Vogue,
a panoply of fashion whizzing by as the colorful pages whirred into a homemade cartoon. “I'm so excited. They're making a film of Colette's novella
Gigi.
”

“The one about the young French girl raised by her auntie to be a courtesan? I think I've seen that movie.” Or lived it, she thought.

“Oh, it's going to be so romantic. Maurice Chevalier is starring. Did I tell you it's a musical? Put this one on. It's gray. You've been in black for a year.”

“What are we supposed to do? Are they paying us?” She swung her feet over the side of the rumpled bed. Violet's daughter was ever mindful of her lack of money.

“Gobs. Sacks of francs.” Slim tossed a slip and two silk stockings over her shoulder like a striptease artist. “Cecil Beaton is designing the sets and costumes. And guess who's directing?”

“No idea.” Claire pulled a stocking onto one of her long legs. The silk felt odd against her bare skin. She hadn't bothered to dress since she got off work on Friday. Paris was sweltering. The hottest spring in years had segued into the steamiest summer in decades.

“Oh, come on. Play along. Guess who's directing
Gigi.
I'll give you a hint” She pointed to the window, from which Claire could see the spire of Notre Dame.

“Quasimodo?”

“Vincente Minnelli.”

“Uncle Vin?” All the male visitors to the Windermere had been Uncle Something or Other, but the name Vincente Minnelli brought a smile to even Claire's rigid lips. He had been the clever young window display designer at Field's, the one who had made the custom canopy with the fairy-tale trappings for Claire's bed. Now he was directing musicals. And movies.

“Hurry up.
Dépêche.
It's the month of
Août.
The antique shop is closed for three weeks. What else did you have planned for today?”

“Write Sara letter number seventy-six.”

“You can do that when we get home. Who knows what will happen? After all, it
is
Paris.”

The opening and closing shots of
Gigi
had been set up in the leafy Bois de Boulogne. The twenty-four hundred acres of city park in the sixteenth Arrondissement, with its shimmering ponds and well-mannered gardens, were abuzz with activity in the midday sun. The mood was fun and fast-paced. There was a festive frenzy around these creative folks making a fairy tale come alive with their zoom lenses and melting extras. And it was a fairy tale Claire could relate to: the story of a poor, fatherless girl who was trained to be a rich man's companion and hostess. Admittedly she knew a thing or two about the process of going from schoolgirl to society doyenne in the space of a week. At any rate, it was good to hear English spoken again, along with a peppering of French, as Claire led the way through hammering and construction in the quiet gray Dior dress that Lorenza had, as Slim put it, “saved from the fire.” They wound their way in the stifling heat through the crew of actors, technicians, and carpenters, and giggled like schoolgirls as costumed cocottes, strapped into their constraining corsets, fainted dead away in the heat, fake trees collapsed, and Maurice Chevalier without his glasses mistook Claire for Her Serene Highness Princess Grace and congratulated her on winning last year's Oscar for
The Country Girl.
Claire, suddenly feeling very lighthearted, nodded regally to the famous French singer rather than explain. Lorenza joined the game, following behind Claire as if she were her lady-in-waiting. The world of make-believe and Hollywood—even on the Seine—felt very free and inviting to Claire.

And the scandalous Claire Harrison Duccio held some appeal for these movie folk. She was greeted with more respect than curiosity by both the director and producer, the latter grateful that at last now there was someone on set who could teach Leslie Caron ladylike deportment and “real regal posture.” And Minnelli, after eyeing her cool brand of pale beauty, inquired if she would like to play an extra, one of the turn-of-the-century aristocrats in the Maxim's scene. Claire politely declined—she couldn't even imagine what Anita Lace would write about her if she appeared in Technicolor décolletage—but certainly she'd help in the scene where the auntie teaches Gigi how to tell a fine jewel from a bad stone.

Lorenza was dispatched to sew black feathers on a white ball gown and Slim was assigned to Cecil Beaton's costume trailer. They would all be paid for their work. They felt neither their heat fatigue nor the weariness when ten hours later they all trooped home, humming “Gigi, la-la-la-la, do-do-do-do, la-la-la, Gigi,” and Claire finally had something fun to put in her letter to Sara.

On the set over the next week Claire was completely distracted from any thoughts of her own circumstances as she instructed Leslie Caron, showing her how she should balance books on her head in the good posture scene, holding out her hands the way she had been instructed as a child in order to acquire aristocratic carriage along with a gliding walk. Delight shone on her face as she remembered how the Field's models and salesladies had applauded her so long ago when she finally got it right.

She held the lighting men and several costume ladies captive when she charmingly demonstrated to the young actress how to choose a cigar for a gentleman, holding it up to her ear to listen for the moist sound of freshness, lightly waving it under her nose for a whiff of its age and tobacco blends, just as she'd learned in Field's cigar shop and had done for Harrison. She showed her how to shake her head coquettishly as she refused one, putting it back in its box, saving the man from a cigar that hadn't been properly kept in a humidor, and say, “No, no. I wouldn't let you smoke that one, dear. It's all dried out and won't draw well.” And both the actress and Claire burst out laughing.