Leper Tango (5 page)

After, for what seemed a long moment, I propped my hands flat against the damp wall, stared at it. She smiled.

Placed her finger in the nucleus of her pursed lips, indicated silence. I peered outside the mausoleum onto the grounds outside. The old man mourning his wife had departed. A Maghrebian gardener, pushing a small cart with a shovel laid flat inside, walked by on the main pathway leading upwards.

Later, we visited a number of tombs of celebrities.

She seemed to have a pre-set itinerary, and I had the impression she had done the routine before. Not that it made any difference, but even then, she didn't strike me as someone who lost a lot of sleep over others' suffering.

But, the headstones made good props for her performance. When she described Chopin and Balzac as cuckolds, or cried at Michel Petrucciani's grave, who she said had been a friend, it was purely a favour for the deceased. Gracing them with her presence so to speak. She stopped in front of the tomb of Abélard and Héloise.

“What should we inscribe on our tomb, Franck?” “What makes you think we will be buried together?” She examined me briefly.

“I hope it's not all talk, Franck.” “What?”

“I hope you have what it takes.”

The wind was strong, billowing her gauze scarf into bubbled shapes. I felt a sucking pressure pulling on me from my lower torso, as if I had a taut, shredded ligament linking it tentatively to the pituitary gland.

“I want to reveal something to you, Franck.”

Even through the wind, the sun burned harshly. We were passing the Monument to the Dead. The road circled upwards, overlooking the Eastern portion of the city. We sat down on a bench on a promontory, near the tomb of Apollinaire. She walked to the edge of the promontory, leaned over a wrought-iron railing, protecting walkers from a twenty metre sheer drop.

I briefly considered the option of pushing her over, and watching her body and head smash onto the pavement below. She turned around, her eyes probing me, as if detecting something she had been looking for. Then walking towards me, the outside contours of her hips undulating, reminding me of another time, a forgotten déjà vu
.

“Do you believe a woman can be fucked by God, Franck?”

The heat of the sun had become unpleasant. Chafing, abrasive. A vapour emanated from the moss clinging loosely to the Monument of the Dead. “I don't believe in God.” She looked away from me.

“I have a recurrent dream, Franck. It is so real, I wonder whether it might not have happened in a way. A spiritual way. I see something. A person or a presence. But the contours and individuality of the person are not distinct. Like an angel, Franck. Carrying a burning sceptre of sorts. The tip of the sceptre is red-hot, molten iron. The angel approaches me, and plunges the sceptre right into me. Here, Franck.”

She placed both her hands flat on the upper portion of her loins.

“Right into my entrails. The pain, Franck, is absolutely unbearable, yet exquisite. An irresistible force. What do you think it means, Franck?”

“Death.”

“You do understand, don't you, Franck? It
is
death.”

She paused momentarily.

“Death doesn't seem such a bad place.”

When she said it, death seemed like a good place. At least good for the two of us.

“Let's go back,” I said.

We walked down to the
rue du Repos
in silence.

IV

A couple of days later, we were exiting the revolving doors of the Hotel Crillon onto the crimson-carpeted steps leading onto
Place de la Concorde.
She was saying something like:

“You have no idea how to treat a woman, Franck Robinson.”

And, I was responding with something like: “Don't get me wrong. It's been a great weekend. But, it's a little early for diamonds, Sheba.”

I watched her theatrically wiggle that tantalizing ass of hers past the valet and park it on the front seat, driverside of her Audi. And, I recall thinking that this was pretty well too good to be true. Absolute top-shelf cunt, spoil her rotten for a weekend, watch her throw a tantrum or two and then
pfft,
gone forever, like a spring breeze. I was finally figuring out a basic equation of life.

It was easy, just so long as nobody got inside the inner enclaves. Stick to hotels and whores, Franck, and everything will remain incredibly cool for the duration. After the Audi spun around the
Place de la Concorde
twice, then evaporated into a cloud of exhaust on the
Quai des Tuileries
, I looked to the left, lit a Marlboro, then scoped out the situation stage right. A CRS type, standing outside his van near the
Palais de l 'Elysée
, had obser ved the whole thing played out. I shrugged my shoulders. He laughed. He'd probably seen the scene played out three or four times that morning. Suddenly, I recalled that I was within walking distance of some old cronies who never ventured further than Wee Willie's Bar up on the
rue des Petits Champs
on Sunday afternoons. Wee Willie only caters to wine traders,
charcutiers
and local restaurateurs. Last time I'd frequented the place, Willie the Wee in person was handing out Louis X III cognac, and
Hoyo de Monter rey
s gratos to a l l present. The best way to finish off a Sunday afternoon in my books was a little visit at the Vincennes track, a few
Quinte
and
Quarte
bets, preferably with some shortskirted tart carrying a tray in her left hand filled with 51
or Calvados. In short, the slate was being cleared and, as I crossed the arcade of the Palais Royal, things were looking more than up, and time stretched out into an infinity of low accountability and high-grade sensorial enjoyment.

I was working my way towards the
Galéries Vivienne
, the idea being to pick up some champagne and
Medoc
for the post Wee Willie's phase. I casually reflected that I was within walking distance of the
Madeleine
, a neoclassical temple erected by the French to honour a whore. It was a private joke and I was glad to be alone. Then, I looked up and there she was again. The first thing I noticed were the tears running down her mascaraed eyes.

“Oh, is it really you, Franck?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” “Me, can't a woman take a stroll in Paris, it's still a free country and, what a coincidence, how did
you
show up here? For all I know, you were following me.”

Dab, dab with the handkerchief, she went, paying her dominical respects to the gods of hubris and artifice.

“How could you have hurt me so?”

She stopped short, recalling something. Her tears now yielded to a slight smile, as if there was still slight recompense in a world of injustice and unspeakable pain.

“By the way, I had a little discussion with the
con
cierge
during our brief separation, Franck. Olivier of
course recognized me, he knew you were being unkind to me, so he, at least, was
correct
enough to give me your plane ticket, passport and a few other items. You know, Franck. Bank cards. Mementoes. I think there might have been a few pictures too. You know the ones, Franck.

If the law society ever saw them, I wouldn't want to be in your position. All of which, of course, I have stored in a safe place until I decide what to do with them ... Frank, one of these days you must learn how a real French woman
deserves to be treated.”

The anglicism oozed out in a stipply gallic roll, as if she were Kiki of Montparnasse herself stepping onto stage, back in the nineteen tens, pre-American invasion, and not a late millenial whore who spoke a very creditable version of Kensington English whenever she put her mind to it.

One thing you should never do if you've decided to break with the past and devise your own life plan is introduce people from past lives. But, I didn't want her any where near Wee Willies. That was sacred territory.

On the other hand, I had a dinner date with Laraine Sandusky back in the Flore towards the end of the day.

I had fucked Laraine one night in her New York condo while her accountant husband was sleeping upstairs, and felt bad enough about it to avoid her unless absolutely necessary. On the other hand, Laraine always had some scheme up her sleeve which involved easy profits. The agenda was rapidly evolving, and some decisions had to be made. I invited Sheba to come along for the ride, thinking she might be a good deflector if Laraine got any funny ideas on the personal level. Sheba magically produced my wallet, and suddenly the world was a brighter place. Not quite as good as ten minutes previous, but not bad.

As Sheba and I entered the
Flore
, Laraine was creating a made in New York moment, railing at the waiter in her brassiest Manhattan moxy for passing off
Bleu de Gex
for
Fourme de Montbrison
. I recognized the waiter, Cédric, who sodomized by night, and made the general public pay for his excesses during daylight hours. But Laraine had the type picked off on sight, and, either for her own amusement or as a sideshow for us, performed her usual number on him with extra flair, punctuating her moral outrage with a piercing scream until Cédric volte-faced and heeled it back to the kitchen to ricochet Laraine's wrath onto the cheese cutter.

That left the four of us with nothing to do but get to know each other. Laraine, her executive secretary, me and one of Paris' rising whores on the subterranean StDenis human stock exchange, commodities division, where day-trading in harlotry was booming, in fact one of the few
core businesses
in France which hadn`t yet been submerged, or merged into an American conglomerate, because the
French touch
just had a twist to it that not even the franchisers could figure out. And, now Laraine's semi-quizzical amused glance, as if asking, Franck, what the fuck are you doing with this trollop at your side? She looks like Jeanne Moreau in one of those cheapo
film noir
things you were always plaguing me with while I was recuperating from my last bout of cosmetic surgery in the solarium of my Boca Raton condo. And, what the fuck are those rings doing on your fingers, Franck? Have you really gone wacko this time? And that hat? Are you Alain Delon in
The Samurai
? Are you Peter Coyote in
Bitter Moon
? I am not cutting any more deals with you, Franck, until you come clean and tell me what the fuck is going on here. Her bulging, blue friendly eyes, and straight ahead ruthless New York facelift were all shouting it louder than any
pronunciamento
ever could. But, all that is coming out of her mouth is:

“Delighted to meet you, Ms. Sheba.”

She articulated the name as if it were an earthenware tajine being discounted at a
souk
, or the name of a lost toy Pekinese scheduled to premiere in the spring dog show. Sheba smiled.

“I have never encountered an American woman. Of course, I have heard a lot about them. From American men.”

“New York, honey. Nowhere further from America on this planet.”

They scrutinized each other for a moment.

“Sheba, you may be wondering where Franck and I fit in
, so to speak. Let me reassure you. It's always been
strictly business. Although, for a time, Franck did fuck me in my marital bedroom while my ex romped in the rec room with his new boyfriends. Right, Franck?”

Laraine swivelled a hundred and eight y degrees, stabbed with the memory of something.

“Where the
hell
is my goddam cheese!!”

Sheba emitted a low whistle of appreciation. America one. Gaul zero.

“Now, Franck, if you don't mind me getting to the point.”

“Be my guest, Laraine.” “You recall the Channel First people, Franck, don't you?”

“Chanel, chanel, are we talking perfumes and the like here?”

“Speaking of fucking, Franck, you fucked me roundly on that file.”

“Correction, Laraine. They asked me what I thought of your accountant.”

“Stanley Kirsk is no worse than any other Manhattan Jew, Franck. Or for that matter, any Lebanese Christian, or Amsterdam diamond dealer, or anybody who's any good at business. And, you torpedoed him, Franck. Him, and my own deal. Now, can you assist me on this IPO or not, but make up your mind. And quit harassing me with your goddam conflict of interest. Nobody even knows what it means anymore. By the way, do you mind if I tape this conversation? Just so there's no confusion on the terms of any agreement. We've got the money, but I want this to work this time. Which it can, if you don't go into sabotage mode.”

Laraine was Big Apple brassy with a nose for cash and connections, which was common enough, but she enjoyed spreading the wealth, and that made her special enough for me, and good to stay close to. Laraine knew everybody from Trump to Robert Dole to the junk bond dealers, and from the sounds of the preliminary sketches of her
business proposal
, this information had come right from the inner circle. In fact, it had insider scam written all over it. A no-brainer, hit-and-run job on the NASDAQ , and an easy skim of illicit profits before the man in the street got in and lost his hard-earned cash.

The setting was fitting enough. Sunday afternoon in the Flore. Spielberg, Quincy Jones and their wives at the next table. Inès de la Fressange f luttering around. Looking for a new sponsor or a new boyfriend. Bohringer ostentatiously lounging his feet on the table in front of him. Gainsbourg weaving his way down
St-Germain
, providing ringside seats to a preview of his upcoming funeral. Even from inside the
Flore
, you could see his breath streaking the air like a piece of cheap streamer graffiti. He was carrying a Mexican hairless under his left arm, and escorting a weedy-looking, middle-aged 60s leftover with oversized, capped teeth. But, as far as Laraine was concerned, I was the only celebrity in attendance. She was giving me the twice-over, like a plaintiff 's lawyer in an asbestos litigation trial, occasionally tilting her head in Sheba's direction with a convincing “why should being fucked by Franck prevent
us
from being friends” smile, then back to riveting me with relentless, head-shaking cruelt y. Sheba stood up.