Read Online Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 by Francine Prose - Free Book Online

exertions and the intriguingly broad behind of the sexually ambiguous, vaguely alarming female athlete.
    Another brilliant idea of mine was telling Gabor where he and his lovely patron should dine. If Suzanne and I just happened to stroll into the Café des Vosges, and if we just happened to run into them, Gabor might just mention that I was the one who told him about the athletic demonstration. And the grateful baroness might just invite us to join them.
    What a schoolboy Gabor is! Sometimes I wonder which of us is the naive American and which is the savvy European. He still seems astonished when the baroness picks up a check. How can he not understand that she will pay for the food he eats, the wine he drinks, the oxygen he breathes? She will promote his art, support him, and sleep with him, but only on her terms. Either he is truly innocent or else pretending because of some atavistic male vanity he’d be better off without. Perhaps such women don’t exist in his Hungarian backwater: older, rich, not caring what it costs to stave off boredom. But for me to tell Gabor would test the limits of our friendship. Two women could easily discuss all that and more—another reason why a man must be careful around women.
    My plan had obvious risks. What if the baroness changed her mind about where she wanted to eat? What if I convinced the snooty maître d’ that our friends were inside, and led Suzanne past all those glittering diamonds, past all those sparkly perfect teeth lightly marinated in champagne—and found Gabor and the baroness installed at a cozy table for two?
    But the gods of Paris were smiling on us, or in any case consoling us for our ruined amour . I spotted Gabor from across the restaurant. A less loyal friend might have taken a sudden interest in the potted ferns. But Gabor grinned and beckoned us over.
    In her sleek platinum bob and ermine coat, the baroness turned to watch us approach with the sleepy languor of a jungle cat. It was a relief to discover that she wasn’t my type: too bossy, too spoiled, too arrogant, too close to my own age. But most men would have fucked her in a heartbeat, as Gabor could have, if he’d wanted. Only God, or another Hungarian, could fathom why he has been so excessively respectful toward his attractive patron.
    Gabor hugged me and kissed Suzanne. Blushing, he introduced us. The baroness knew who I was and made a point of not caring who Suzanne was.
    She said, “So you are the American writer we can thank for sending us to see that pitiful girl, her tedious British Svengali, and that utterly delectable, colossal cross-dressing nun?”
    I said, “The nun was a female, I think.”
    â€œOh, really?” said the baroness. “How long have you been in Paris?”
    I said, “I want to thank you for getting us out of jail.”
    She looked at Gabor. “Jail? Why is this not ringing a bell? I really must quit drinking.”
    Gabor said, “When I took that photo of the three crooks breaking into the house . . . ? Lionel was one of the thieves . . . the one in the checkered cap . . . ?”
    â€œRight,” she said. “A faint bell. I own a print of that, don’t I?”
    â€œIn fact you do,” said Gabor.
    The baroness ran one pearly fingernail down the length of his cheek. “Now I remember. And you”—she inspected me—“the old thief, am I right?”
    After an awkward silence, Suzanne asked Gabor, “How are you?”
    â€œNever better,” the baroness told me, as if I were the one who’d asked her . She refocused the brute force of her attention on Gabor, who was looking apologetically at Suzanne, as if to say, Don’t blame me . Suzanne smiled sweetly at him, as if to say, I don’t.
    Whom exactly did I have to fuck to make someone look at me ? Should I lecture the baroness about good manners? Or whisper a warning against offending Suzanne, whose