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

started a literary magazine called Tomorrow . Or Today . Or Right Now . Not Yesterday, she was sure of that. Who would call an avant-garde journal Yesterday ? When she sobered up and remembered, she would give the address to Gabor. Lionel should submit his work.
    The desperation with which Lionel wanted to be published in this magazine whose name the baroness couldn’t recall was painful to behold. I had long since lost my Catholic faith, but I still believed that I would be punished for my sins: crimes of heartlessness, mostly. The crime of not loving someone who loves you. The crime of making a man suffer. But I didn’t love Lionel. There was nothing I could do. A quick ending was more merciful, a clean cut would heal faster.
    He said, “On Sunday nights I sometimes read my work aloud at the Café Dôme.”
    The baroness said, “Oh, really? That must be wildly entertaining.”
    The look that passed between Gabor and me was like a conversation in which we tried to decide who would wade in and save Lionel from drowning. Which of us would convince her that this crude American was the real thing? I believed in his talent, and so, I knew, did Gabor. But my opinion was not the one that would persuade the baroness.
    Looking at Gabor, I felt the first stirrings of that attraction, let’s call it desire, that can spark up out of nowhere when a woman and man can communicate without words. I felt guilty that the subject of our silent exchange was the imperiled dignity of Gabor’s friend and my soon-to-be-ex-lover. Why had I never noticed how beautiful Gabor’s eyes were? Because he had never looked at me the way he was looking at me now.
    Before Gabor could speak, the baroness said, “I felt so sorry for that poor girl in the Vélodrome, that unfortunate creature whose body they’d deformed so she could do tricks. Like one of those beggar children whose legs have been broken, or those dwarf Japanese trees. Imagine running and throwing a spear in that unflattering outfit.”
    Lionel said, “With a face like that, there’s not much you can do.”
    It’s over, I thought. I’m leaving him. I’m telling him tonight.
    The baroness said, “There is always something a woman can do.”
    I said, “Maybe it was her idea. Maybe she wanted to break the record.”
    The baroness could not have seemed more startled if an oyster had addressed her from its shell.
    â€œWhy would a woman want that ? Is your little friend a feminist?” she asked Lionel.
    â€œSuzanne’s a toughie,” Lionel said. “Watch out.”
    â€œI too am a toughie,” the baroness said.
    â€œHot!” warned the waiters, settling down ramekins at our places. I leaned into the tendrils of garlicky steam curling up from the ceramic.
    â€œEat,” the baroness said. “Go ahead. I’ll just finish this cigarette.”
    Parsleyed cream dripped from the snails I speared with my tiny trident. In a trance of pleasure, I forgot the others and scrubbed my dish with bread. Lionel too cleaned his plate. The baroness laughed, or semi-laughed, semi-amused by our ravenous hunger. Our empty dishes disappeared, and the lamb steaks arrived.
    The baroness said, “ Bloody means nothing anymore. Bloody means incinerated . Didn’t I ask for them bloody? Are these rare enough for you?”
    â€œExcellent.” Lionel’s mouth was full. I didn’t want to look at his mouth.
    While we ate, the baroness smoked and drank. Every time she tapped her cigarette, the ashtray was whisked away. When it was slow in returning, she made a trough for her ashes in the mashed potatoes she wouldn’t let the waiters remove.
    Buoyed by the delicious food, my spirits began to lift. Pretty soon I liked everyone. The waiters, the other diners, even Lionel and the baroness. Especially Gabor. How witty they were. Lionel told his joke about limiting himself to one glass of wine per