The Slipper (45 page)

“This gown—I could go crazy.”

“You're already crazy. I don't know why I put up with you.”

“Because I am the lovable clown,” he told her, “and I make love to you with wild abandon.”

“Maybe that's it,” she agreed.

Jean-Claude grinned and whirled her around to face him and kissed her for a long time, his hands exploring all the while. He was so expert, so engaging and completely without inhibitions. Carol pulled back and touched that lean, pockmarked cheek and ran her thumb along the full curve of that sensual lower lip. Jean-Claude caught the ball of her thumb between his teeth. She smiled, pushing him away.

“We'd better go downstairs,” she said.

“I'd rather go down.”

“You're shameless.”

“This is so. Who wants to attend a lousy screening and a lousy party afterwards? I would rather make love to you.”

“I'd enjoy that more myself,” she confessed, “but duty is duty, my pet, and Guy would kill us both if we didn't show. Besides, you look much too appetizing in your tuxedo to let it go to waste. The ladies will be weak in the knees when they see you tonight.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

“The ladies always go for me,” he said cockily, “even when I am merely the acrobat and the wrestler in purple trunks. Now that I will be the big movie star, I will have to fight them off with a stick, no?”

“With a stick.”

“Alain Delon will be green with envy.”

He helped her with her long black stole lined with white satin and handed her the small black evening bag, and they went downstairs. Most of the press had already departed for Festival Hall, stationing themselves outside in order to waylay celebrities as they entered, and the lobby wasn't nearly as crowded. Guy Masson was waiting for them, looking extremely nervous, looking tense. He wore black jeans, a black turtleneck sweater and, as usual, his perpetual dark glasses. Carol couldn't remember ever seeing him without them. The director was not very tall, skinny to the point of emaciation and full of nervous energy. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw his stars step out of the elevator and, crushing out his cigarette, rushed them outside to the waiting limousine. Traffic was congested, their progress little more than a snail's pace. Masson nervously gnawed his nails and smoked four more cigarettes before they finally arrived. They could have walked in a third of the time, but the limousine was mandatory.

Although she had seen the film a number of times, Carol had never seen it inside a theater, with an audience, and she was apprehensive now. There was a roar from the press as they climbed out of the limousine, more questions, more blinding flashes. Masson met the press with a sullen glare. Jean-Claude gave them a jaunty grin, keeping his arm tightly around Carol's shoulders. As they entered the auditorium and took their seats, there was a stirring round of applause from the far left, pro-Masson faction. Carol saw Hedda Hopper sitting a few rows ahead of them, unmistakable in pink-and-green beribboned hat, Boyd beside her. The lights went down. Carol reached for Jean-Claude's hand. The huge white screen filled with jumping, jumbled black-and-white lines, and then
Le Bois, un film de Guy Masson
, and there was another hearty round of applause and several cheers and a number of noisy “Boos!” as well, one of them from the gossip columnist in the pink-and-green hat. Jean-Claude gave her hand a tight squeeze and told her it was going to be all right.

And suddenly there she was, in tight jeans and striped jersey, walking in the park, pausing to sniff a flower, tossing a stick to a dog, the personification of fresh, wholesome innocence. The camera lingered over her face as sunlight spilled through the trees. She smiled pensively. She turned, startled, and Jean-Claude came hurrying toward her in a sleazy checked sport coat, and he grabbed her and clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged her over to a bench, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her passionately as two gendarmes passed by, obviously searching for someone, paying no mind to the two lovers entwined on the bench. Carol shifted in her seat, terribly uncomfortable. Jean-Claude had a dynamic screen presence, but she thought she looked bland and unattractive and awkward. She was even more uncomfortable when, having frolicked with him in the park, she agreed to let him hide out in her apartment, which had an American flag and a photograph of Eisenhower on the wall. Shyly, she disrobed and climbed into the unmade bed with its rumpled sheets and Jean-Claude leered and tore his own clothes off and leaped into the bed with her and they started wrestling and he finally pinned her and they made love under the sheets.

The lighting was dreadful, the film grainy, the camera angles bizarre and confusing, but the scene was still potently erotic and seemed to go on forever and Carol was embarrassed. As Jean-Claude finally fell limp atop her and she wrapped her arms around his naked back, the camera zoomed in for a close-up of her face, a triumphant smile on her lips, then zoomed over for a tight shot of the American flag and a grinning Eisenhower. My God, Carol thought, it really
is
political. Later on, after they have quarrelled, after he refuses to give up his way of life in order to accommodate her own, the girl tearfully confides in a jaded newspaper friend who in turn calls the gendarmes and they burst into the bedroom and the petty thief is led away in handcuffs, a close-up of his shackled wrists, a close-up of the girl with a sad smile on her lips, a close-up of the American flag and then
FIN
in huge block letters.

Hedda Hopper leaped to her feet. “It's a scandal!” she shrieked. “Communist filth! The film should be burned!” Her outcries were drowned by thundering applause. Pandemonium prevailed. They had to fight their way out of the theater and to the waiting limousine, people swarming over to pound Masson on the back and pump his hand or jeer at him and wave their fists. Carol kept her head lowered, sheltered against Jean-Claude's shoulder, his arm protecting her. She felt dreadful. She felt sick. She felt she had betrayed her country.
Le Bois
was indeed anti-American, vehemently so, and she had never realized it until tonight. Her spirits had hit rock bottom by the time the limousine reached the private villa above Cannes where the reception was being held tonight. Spotlights bathed the red-white-and-blue French flags draped across the white marble portico. There was more applause, and a band started playing the French national anthem as they entered.

The party was very festive, very elegant, by invitation only. Anouk Aimée looked stunning in a flame-colored Balmain sheath. Jean-Pierre Aumont was handsome in his tailored tuxedo, wife Marisa Pavan demure in silver-gray silk. At least three hundred people were here, and while there were dozens with famous faces, the majority were important executives and distributors, the wheeler-dealers who kept the international film industry awhirl. Carol was amazed to learn that a score of the most important and powerful distributors in America were already fighting for distribution of
Le Bois
. With that curious masochism that seemed a national trait, Americans ardently embraced anything that criticized them, perhaps in order to show their open minds and tolerance.
Le Bois
was clearly destined to be a great success in the country it so zealously denounced. Carol smiled and downed champagne and accepted compliments on her performance, wishing she had never heard of Masson or his film. Federico Fellini made his way over to her, beaming, exuberant, Giulietta Masina beside him in gold-spangled yellow silk. The Italian director was one of Carol's idols,
La Dolce Vita
her favorite film. After her bravura performances in
La Strada
and
Le Notte di Cabiria
, the petite, dumpy, waiflike Masina was considered by many the world's greatest actress.

“Bravo!” Fellini roared, seizing her hand, lifting it to his lips. “You forget these wearisome Frenchmen with their dreary politics. You come to Rome with Fellini! He will make you a great star!”

“I would love to work with you,” she said.

“These French! No color, no imagination, no showmanship, no verve. Just tedium. Me, I put you in a splashy fantasy with stupendous sets. I star you with Mastroianni. I make the whole world sit up and take notice!”

Carol smiled. It was cocktail-party talk, she knew, but it was flattering nevertheless. Giulietta Masina grinned her waif grin, shook Carol's hand and told her she had enjoyed the film although she wasn't sure what it was all about. The Fellinis moved on and Carol talked to a Hungarian director who had just made a movie about falcons and had her photograph taken with the Aumonts. She received more compliments, had another glass of champagne, smiled politely and pretended to be enjoying herself and longed to escape. Guy was surrounded by money men eager to exploit him. Jean-Claude was dazzling the ladies and delighting select members of the press with outrageous stories of his adventures as a wrestler. Carol moved into the spacious foyer and sat down on the stairs with her glass of champagne, and it was there that Jean-Claude found her twenty minutes later. His hair was tousled, his brown eyes asparkle, a wide grin on his lips.

“This is something, no? They all think Jean-Claude is a riot. That lady in red satin, the director's wife, she tries to feel me up and begs me to take her out to the parking area for a quick bang in the backseat of her husband's Bentley. This lady is in her fifties.”

“Charming,” Carol said.

“I tell her I am not that kind of boy. The lady in red satin says a very ugly word and gives me the finger. Is this nice? I smack her bottom. She is outraged. Everyone laughs.”

Carol downed the rest of her champagne. She was more than a little tipsy and felt wretched. Jean-Claude's eyes filled with concern.

“You do not feel well?”

“Get me out of here,” she pleaded.

“This I will do.”

He fetched her wrap and led her outside. The night air was cool. Below, the Côte d'Azur was like a string of gold and silver spangles tossed against a velvety backdrop. Moonlight spilled down in milky rays. Dozens of cars and limousines were parked on the broad expanse beside the villa, the drivers in a huddle, smoking, talking, passing a bottle around. Jean-Claude looked at all the limousines, bewildered, and then, choosing one at random, opened the front door on the passenger's side and helped Carol in. A liveried driver came running over, shaking his fist violently.

“This is my car!” he yelled. “You cannot do this!”

Jean-Claude gave him an amiable shove. The driver reeled backward, crashing to the ground twenty feet away. Jean-Claude climbed into the limo, closed the door, discovered keys in the ignition, and they were soon on their way down the hill, ten drivers on foot in hot pursuit. They were left behind after the first curve. Jean-Claude was laughing, delighted with himself. Carol stared moodily through the windshield. He asked if she wanted to go back to the hotel and she shook her head and suggested they just drive around for a while. Jean-Claude was enjoying handling the huge car and pleased by her suggestion. They drove around the hills, through sleepy villages, past luxurious private villas. It was well after midnight when they finally reached the hotel, Jean-Claude casually leaving the limousine out front for the doorman or someone to attend to. Carol felt somewhat better, although she was still deeply depressed. The early edition of tomorrow morning's papers had just come out, and as they walked past the newsstand a blazing headline caught Carol's eye:
GABY ALMOST KILLED IN CAR CRASH
.

“My God!” she cried, clutching Jean-Claude's arm.

Jean-Claude snatched a paper, tossed the vendor a bill and quickly scanned the front-page article. Carol was much too upset to read it. She was wringing her hands, utterly distraught.

“It happened this afternoon,” he told her. “She was on the outskirts of Paris. It was raining hard. She was driving ninety-five miles an hour and the car leaped over the curb and overturned and crashed into a tree. They took her to the hospital immediately. Several bones are broken and she is still unconscious and there may be brain damage, may be internal—”

“I've got to go to her!” Carol cried.

“Of course,” he said calmly.

“There—My God, there's not a flight out until eight o'clock in the morning, and—”.

“This is no problem,” Jean-Claude told her, all traces of the merry clown gone now. “Come, I take you up to your room. You change, pack a few things in a small bag. I will take care of everything.”

He was as good as his word. He was marvelous. An hour later he returned, wearing tan trousers, a rust-colored turtleneck, a brown leather jacket, and he drove her to a small private airport where a plane was waiting. Carol was wearing a beige Chanel suit and a white silk blouse and carrying only her purse and a small tan overnight case. She was startled to learn that Jean-Claude was going to fly them to Paris himself. It shouldn't have surprised her that he had his pilot's license. For all his cocky bravado and boyish shenanigans, he was a highly accomplished, extremely competent man who knew precisely what he wanted and went after it with cool aplomb. Sitting beside him in the tiny cockpit, Carol felt a lurch in her stomach as the small plane lifted, but the flight itself was as smooth as it could be, Jean-Claude handling the controls with practiced ease. Carol smoked half a pack of cigarettes, trying to maintain some semblance of calm. The velvety black sky turned to ashy gray and faint pinkish stains had begun to glow in the east as they landed in Paris. A car was waiting for them, another example of Jean-Claude's efficiency, and forty minutes later they were in the hospital waiting room.

Gaby was in intensive care. They were not allowed to see her. Carol met Gaby's parents for the first time, a respectable middle-class couple from Rouen who, while supportive and loving, had always been somewhat bewildered by the exotic creature they had brought into the world. Her brother Georges, whom Carol had met before, was a husky blond with Gaby's brown eyes who looked like a soccer player. He was a lawyer in Rouen. He informed them that Gaby's skull had been split open but there was no apparent brain damage. Her left leg was broken, her right arm and three ribs, one of them almost puncturing her lung. They had performed surgery twice. She was still in a coma, and they were monitoring her vital signs. At this point it was touch and go, although the doctors were optimistic about a complete recovery, barring any unforeseen complications. It was futile for them to remain at the hospital, but Carol insisted. By late afternoon her Chanel suit was rumpled, her white blouse limp. She had drunk innumerable cups of coffee and, at Jean-Claude's insistence, had had an indigestible lunch at the hospital cafeteria. Gaby's parents were numb. Georges had kept busy fending off the press, begging for a little privacy.