| |
––––––––
WILL WAS IN PARIS. He had forwarded that Barnabus had chewed on his mask, and he needed to report to the local studio of Anna Coleman Ladd to get it replaced. It so happened that it was also his thirtieth birthday. He looked over Alexandra’s latest photographs while she inspected the damage. The prosthetic was barely marred. Any pretext that “the dog ate my face” would not excuse him from dining out. She placed it down and rummaged through a suitcase Will had brought from England. It contained her St. Moritz winter wardrobe and some letters.
Regions of Turkey would be cold this time of year.
Will passed back a photograph, amused. “The sisters look like they want to stab you.”
“Impalement was their preference. A hot, greased pole thrust up one’s rectum is no laughing matter. You must trust me on this.”
Alexandra hopped onto the bed. Cruuunch!
Will sighed. He would not have his new mask until tomorrow. He rubbed his temples as she tried to pop out the sunken portions of the malleable tin. “Cancel dinner.”
Alexandra was hearing none of it. “I set the reservations. I’ll sort it out.” She tossed on her cashmere coat and sable-brimmed Cossack hat, pushing the ends of her hair over her shoulders. “Be ready!”
Paris in springtime was incomparable. October, not so much. A cool wind swirled and thunderstorms loomed on the horizon. Over her taxi ride through the neighborhoods of Saint-Germaine-des-Prés, Alexandra read her correspondences. One was from Denys Finch Hatton, who had recently teamed with Bror Blixen in guiding British royalty on safari. He had included a photograph of himself with the Prince of Wales. Written on the back: “Dearest Alexandra—Brilliant time with our special guest.”
She filed it in her purse.
Her brief trip ended at Le Procope.
Hemmy had recommended the belle époque brasserie, as it was a favorite haunt for artists and literary types. Alexandra had reserved a private upstairs dining room but was unsure how public the trail from the entrance to their table would be. It was his birthday, and stressing Will out was not her overriding intention.
It was yet time to receive the early dinner crowd, and no one stood at the maître d’ station. Things looked promising. A brass-poled staircase wound itself to the upper floor behind the waiting area. Alexandra peeked into both main dining chambers. The vibrant rooms featured red and gold decor, crystal chandeliers, and tightly quartered tables.
She left to loiter near the entryway until someone showed.
“Vous y!” A man in a tuxedo stormed past her to take his station at the welcoming stand. He snapped, “C’est pas encore ouvert!”
“Excusez-moi?” Alexandra responded. “Do you speak English?”
“When I must.” The boorish maître d’ raised an eyebrow, smirked, and then grunted. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Under Bathenbrook.” She drew nearer. “Is there a more discreet entry to the upstairs?”
He lifted his attention from the seating chart. “Your inquiry is superfluous. It lists your table in the dining hall to your left.”
“Au contraire. I spoke with Pascal, who assured—”
“Pascal is sick. I’ve bumped you for a more notable party.”
Alexandra’s eyes turned lean and ferocious. If she were certain the French penal system served freshly baked baguettes, she would bust the man’s upturned beak. She regrouped her emotions and smiled upon recalling she was a finagler extraordinaire.
“I see. The prince will be very disappointed.”
Her statement lingered for several seconds. “What prince?”
“I don’t want to give away too much,” she told the snoot. “We’ll just refer to him as the next ‘King of England.’”
“Insense!” he scoffed. “I would know if the Prince of Wales was dining here. I follow the gossip columns about his liaisons.”
“And that is why the prince travels clandestine and does not publicize his private affairs to French maître d’s!” Alexandra dug through the photographs stuffed in her purse. “For example, you read nothing in the tabloids of his attendance at the crowning of King Zog of Albania.”
“I only see you with King Zog. Those women look like they want to show you the guillotine.”
“And do you know why...? Because the prince was taking a photo of me! Surely, you’ve heard about his trip to Africa.” She shoved a second photograph up to his nose. “Is that not the Prince of Wales?”
Beads of sweat formed on the man’s forehead as he read the back of the photo. He ran a finger to loosen his shirt collar, looked at the seating chart, and then held out a hand, seeking it to be greased.
No bribe was forthcoming. “The prince suffered a facial wound while on safari. He insists on being escorted to our table without untoward attention. Please, write your name.”
“Why do you need my name?” the maître d’ pensively inquired.
“So when the prince is negotiating new terms to divide German war reparations with President Gaston Doumergue, he can irately state, ‘This maître d’ has upset me. It is why England demands five billion additional gold reichsmarks once destined for the French treasury!’”
Patrons were filtering in. The maître d’ gulped. “An innocent error. I have secured your table. What else do you need from me?”
Alexandra laid out her demands, concluding, “The prince will be incognito to veil his identity and facial scar. Our dinner must be kept secreted from the press. His man will remain in our limousine. He tells the king everything... I mean everything that we do together.”
“It shall all be as you wish,” the maître d’ promised.
“Then Eight o’clock it is. Ta!”
Alexandra took in a satisfied breath of chilly air once hitting the street. She pondered where it was best to shop for two small British flags and a somewhat fashionable sack.
—‡—
WILLIAM BATHENBROOK, the unbeknownst next King of England, sat trying to see through the small holes cut into the black velvet handbag covering his head. It was of high quality and rested on his shoulders without being overly droopy. He did not know how it had come to this. He suffered mightily, but quietly. The yellow Rolls-Royce Phantom sported a black top, grille, and trim, with a late addition of small Union Jack diplomatic flags to each side of its headlights. Will gazed through the raindrop-tainted window at the lights of Paris, which did twinkle peacefully in his mind. He was pleased with the gray wool trench coat Alexandra had gifted him. It fit him well and their only debate had been if wearing a hat over his head bag would look peculiar.
Will looked across at her. She sat humming a jazzy tune with the complete glam and confidence of a Muscovite fashion model. For the first time in his life, he placed partial trust that his sister knew what she was doing.
Alexandra patted down his white shoulder scarf. “By the bye, everyone will treat you as if you’re the Prince of Wales.”
“Why?” he asked, though his preference was not to know.
“Because I fibbed you were the next ‘King of England’ to get a private room.” She finished touching up her lips and folded her monogrammed silver compact. “Walk in head held high and regal-like.”
It was worse than he feared. “I’m much taller than the Prince of Wales. Everyone will notice!”
“Don’t be daft,” she tittered. “They’ll be too distracted by the sack over your head to take notice of your height. Place your fake hand inside your coat pocket and I’ll guide you in, nice and slow.”
Will exhaled. “For once, don’t jerk about and rip my arm off.”
Léon, the chauffeur, guided the car to a parking spot at the entrance. The rain was keeping pedestrian traffic low along the cobbled lane. Two burly men dressed in upscale liveries rushed out with umbrellas. Will stepped out first, Alexandra looped her arm within his, and they were escorted inside. The restaurant was abuzz with raucous merriment.
An attendee helped to remove Alexandra’s jacket. She elected to keep on her Cossack hat, as it meshed flawlessly with her silver jeweled evening dress and provided a touch of bohemian chic. Will kept his coat. They were ushered up the stairs, with one bouncer remaining below and the other at the top of the steps. One private room was filled with artsy, bright young thing wannabees having a gas, while the others held more curmudgeon groupings. Will finally relaxed upon stepping into their dining chamber. It looked like a library furnished with historic relics and a candle-lit table for two.
“See! Without a hitch,” said Alexandra.
Their chairs were attended to, and they took seats. The head waiter passed over menus. The wine steward awaited a decision.
After looking things over, Alexandra said, “The prince appreciates your discretion. He shall remember it. We will start with a bottle of Château Margaux gran vin, 1921.”
“You look lovely,” said Will.
Older brothers never truly surrendered their watch over the safety and fidelity of their younger sisters. It seemed to Will that over her recent travels, Alexandra had matured from an unfailing calamity into a sophisticated woman, exotic in her allure and more sensible in scruples. The dress she wore was elegant, her makeup subtly captivating, and he felt it would be unfair to begrudge any man resting festive eyes upon her.
He asked, “How am I to eat with this on my head?”
“Garçon!” she called out. “J’ai besoin de ciseaux.”
“Très bien, mademoiselle.”
The scissors arrived before the wine. Alexandra cut out an oval. Will was relieved not to lose a nostril. He ordered an appetizer of garlic-buttered snails, a bowl of lobster bisque, and steak tartar for himself, along with onion soup and coq au vin for Alexandra.
The wine arrived, and its cork popped. Alexandra smiled, smelling its bouquet. “This girl you’re looking for in France. Noel, perchance?”
Will was yet comfortable sharing his suspicions about their deceased sister. After sampling the wine, he informed, “Yes. I hope she is well.”
“If you do not get over her soon,” Alexandra warned, “I shall help you along. A high-end escort might appear at your door someday, and utter, ‘Hello, William. Alexandra sent me.’”
“I’d prefer you did not.” Will spotted an odd-looking fellow peering in from the doorway.
Alexandra said, “I take your father’s side on this issue. One day, you will be a baron. You must marry and carry on the Bathenbrook name. You would find my alternative plan unsettling.”
“Our father.” Will could tell by her tone the truth had cut deep.
The upstairs bouncer scurried the interloper away and took a stance in the doorway. A tray of snails arrived. Alexandra tasted one and shrieked, so Will polished off the rest.
“Excusez-moi, I must speak with the lady. Scusa mi intrusão.”
Will again looked over. The man was now jumping up and down, trying to see into the room. He was a lean chap with slicked-back hair, dressed in a loose-fitting jacket and flashy tie. By his springiness, his shoes may have held rubber heels.
“He’s dining the next room over.” Alexandra waved him in.
“I am Dalí!” The man sauntered in, taking loping strides while pressing down the ends of his thin mustache. He was an intensely bug-eyed character, and if one were to guess his profession, most would settle on “over-caffeinated hypnotist.”
Dalí set out his hands and merged his thumbs as if lining Alexandra up for a photograph. He popped his lips with a palm. “Yes! I must paint you naked from behind.”
“From behind what?” Alexandra asked, amused. “Do you always paint in the nude?”
“Jag précis meine descrizione... Sei nudo!” Dalí scurried to the window. He rested one hand high on the sill, the other on a hip, pushed out his buttocks, and glassily looked off into the night. “Exactamente! ‘Luna adorada av la nacht.’ It will be minha meisterstück!”
Will was unsure how many languages Dalí had mixed into so short of a statement.
Alexandra gasped. “Mon cuerpo desnudo skall vara dein musa?”
Dalí tossed his hands in the air, overjoyed. “Finalmente! Someone who spricht meine língua!”
“Por fin!” She ran from her seat and kissed Dalí on both cheeks.
Will could not believe it. Alexandra had found the only other person in the world who spoke and understood her childhood international gibberish. As the soup was served, he sat back in his chair, trying to ignore their nonsensical tongue-twisting of Occidental languages. It was impossible.
Alexandra relayed, “Salvador wants to paint me standing at a window in the nude.”
“That’s the only part I understood,” Will noted. He had read about a young Catalonian who was setting the art world ablaze. He dropped his spoon into his lobster bisque and wiped his sack’s oral hole. “You cannot pose. He’s famous.”
“What?” Alexandra asked, squinting. “It’s difficult hearing you with that bag over your head.”
Will broke open a stick of warm bread, violently. “He’s famous! Do not agree!”
Alexandra turned back to Dalí, shaking her head as they continued their mutant speech. Dalí rushed to the table. “I beg your indulgence, sir. I must paint her. I feel it in my loins.”
“No doubt, but I can’t tolerate her naked image hung in a gallery stirring too many loins.”
Dalí turned to Alexandra. “What tragedy has befallen your master that he veils himself?”
“He incurred a wound,” she explained, a tad upset. “Je me suis assis sur son visage.”
“Sacré bleu!” Dalí pounded his chest, needing to restart his heart.
“I must pass, Salvador,” she said. He kissed her hand and bid his farewell. Alexandra retook her seat. “My bum was to serve as his muse. Anyhoo, my onion soup smells delicious.”
They enjoyed the main course without interruption.
Alexandra relished seeing Will dine elsewhere than his cottage, in a foreign city, even with a bag over his head. She sensed great things in his future, and if he failed to seize them, she would be there to jam them down his throat.
She poured the last of the wine.
“Garçon! Macarons and coffee for dessert.”
“Très bien, mademoiselle.”
She asked, “What are your plans? I would like to visit Thomas.”
Will was yet ready for such a trip. “Bourlon Wood is Zone Rouge. You won’t get near it.”
“I’ll find a way,” she said, determined. “At least I must try.”
They talked of lighter things. One letter he had delivered to her was from the National Geographic Society, requesting an interview. Alexandra confessed that seeking this opportunity had driven her every step since leaving Montana, and how nervous she was that she would muff it up. “Anyhoo,” she concluded, “I’m forbidden to drop in until after the presidential election.”
“Oh, yes,” Will muttered. “The Coolidge Incident.”
Alexandra left for the ladies’ room before dessert arrived. On passing his dining room, she waved to Dalí. He sprang from his chair and followed. She sauntered down the staircase.
A sudden burst of flash powder halted her descent.
By the partially blinded look of things, she could only conclude that word had leaked the Prince of Wales was dining upstairs.
The mob of reporters rushed to the stairs.
The burly bouncer, Jacques, had spoken English earlier. He held the line, extending his arms from wall to rail. Léon, standing outside by the limousine, was likewise besieged.
Alexandra pushed aside her concerns, half in the tank. “Bonsoir, messieurs!” She posed stylishly, and their cameras clicked away.
Three waiters rushed over to reinforce Jacques. Patrons left their seats and gathered to check in on the fanfare. The supercilious maître d’ looked ill.
“Qui êtes-vous...? Es-tu l’amant du prince?” a reporter shouted.
It presented a good and free publicity opportunity. “I am Alexandra Illyria Bathenbrook. Photographe d’aventure!”
“How was the prince injured?” one yelled in English.
“A rather madcap mishap,” she laughingly proclaimed, “suffered when I sat on his face.”
It was as if a bomb exploded.
The audience burst out in beguiled commotion. They gasped, laughed, and some applauded. Dalí bit his hand. It was clear it would be impossible to get to the car and lingering might inspire a riot.
Alexandra stepped down to Jacques, who struggled fiercely to keep the reporters at bay. She took a roll of francs from her purse and placed a fat tip in his pocket. “In the heroic words of your General Nivelle at Verdun, ‘They shall not pass.’”
“On ne passe pas!” Jacques yelled out to his colleagues holding the line. “Vive le Prince!”
“Vive le France!” shouted Alexandra, blowing a kiss to the crowd. She ran up the stairs as further bedlam erupted. She tipped the upstairs bouncer. “Merci! On ne passe pas!”
“On ne passe pas!” the huge man shouted before heading down to buttress the barricade.
Those dining upstairs peered out of their rooms at Alexandra. Dalí followed, sketching her arse. He gasped upon being caught. “The exquisite curve. A flawless inverted heart. I must paint you in the nude!”
She liked the thin, slope-shouldered Catalonian. “Would you like to touch it?”
“If it was part of me, I’d do little else.” Dalí closed his eyes and squeezed. “Ay Dios mío!”
Alexandra reentered her dining room. She tipped the wine steward and sent him off to battle. She was relieved that dessert had arrived via the dumbwaiter and sampled a purple macaron.
“Garçon. Is there a way to exit from upstairs?”
The head waiter walked to the window and opened it. “Fire escape, Miss Bathenbrook.”
“Please ask the artist who visited if he has a car I can borrow.”
“Très bien, mademoiselle.”
He left and soon returned with Dalí. The Spaniard rushed in and knelt, begging forgiveness for his previous impertinence.
Will gestured for him to rise. “You may confer with my mistress.”
Alexandra shared her idea in gibberish.
Dalí departed.
Will said, “I hope his painting doesn’t hang in the Louvre.”
“You’ve seen the works of these surrealists and cubist types. I’ll not even look human.” Alexandra dropped a small fortune to settle the bill while the waiter placed on her jacket. She handed him a fat roll of francs and said, “Merci, pour une soirée memorable.”
“Oui, mademoiselle. Good luck, and God save the King!”
She joined Will, who was already one foot out the window. They descended the slick metal steps and tracked the headlights of a Citroën automobile cruising down the narrow alleyway. It came to a halt, and they rushed over.
There was always one reporter cannier than the rest. Alexandra detected such a jackal emerge from the shadows an instant before the flash powder ignited. She jumped in front to shield Will and hustled him into the car. The back door slammed, and they were off.
Dalí applauded. The older driver crashed into a trashcan before turning onto the bright and misty thoroughfare. He eventually turned his head.
All he said was, “Picasso.”
“The prince will remember you always!” Alexandra nudged Will’s shoulder with her elbow, tickled he was laughing. “I told you we’d pull it off with no problems. I haven’t had this much fun since watching Hemingway run naked down Duval Street.”
Dalí looked back, his mouth agape and eyes somehow even buggier. “Ernesto...? Do tell!”