Goodbye, Janette (8 page)

Janette looked at her. Marie-Thérése had gotten bigger. Her breasts were at least a full size larger. Staring at her friend she felt the warmth inside her growing more intense. Slowly she took off her dress.

Marie-Thérése voice was surprised. “Silk! Black silk! You sneaky thing, you never told me! Take off your slip, I want to see your panties.”

Silently Janette let the slip fall to the floor and stood there facing the poster, not looking at her friend. The warmth inside her was going into her groin and legs now.

“Black silk panties too!” Marie-Thérése exclaimed. “Where did you ever get those things? They’re so beautiful and sexy.”

Janette still did not look at her. “My stepfather gave them to me. He said he hated the cotton things I wore.”

“When did he ever see you?”

“In the summer it’s so hot I leave my door open for some air. He saw me when he walked by. One day he came in and threw a box of lingerie down on my desk. ‘From now on, you wear these when you’re home. The other things are ugly.’ Then he walked out.”

“My God!” Marie-Thérése breathed. “Did he ever do anything else?”

Janette was still looking up at the poster. She felt the warmth turning to wetness inside her. “After that, he would come to my room sometimes when my mother wasn’t home and sit down in the chair and make me walk up and down the room in these things in front of him. Then after a while he would make me take them off and give them to him and he would make me watch him while he took his thing out and jerked off into them. When he was finished he’d give them back to me, slap me hard across the face and say, “Slut! Wash these filthy rags! And walk out of the room.” She turned to Marie-Thérése. Her friend’s mouth was open, her eyes wide and round. One thing she couldn’t tell her. The intensity of the orgasms that swept through her when Maurice slapped her face left her so weak and drained that she would sink to the floor until her legs regained the strength to carry her.

“That’s all he did?” Marie-Thérése asked. “Nothing else?”

Janette laughed. “You know better than that. He’s the most famous queer in Paris.”

“Still?” Marie-Thérése wondered. Her voice was hushed. “Is it true what I heard? About the size of his thing. I mean?”

Janette nodded. “It’s big all right.”

“Bigger than Donald the flasher?”

Donald the flasher was an English boy at the school across the lake in Switzerland whom they met at the weekly dances. He was always getting the girls to go outside with him so that he could show it to them and tell them how big he was. Janette laughed again. “It made his look like a toy.”

“My God!” Marie-Thérése breathed. She began to rub herself. “I think I’m going to come. Let’s get on the bed and do it to each other.”

They moved toward the bed and began to masturbate each other to a climax. It wasn’t the first time they had done it. But this time somehow it seemed even more exciting with the poster of James Dean scowling down at them from the wall.

“Finish packing then,” Janette said into the telephone. “And I’ll come over after dinner and we’ll go to a movie.”

“No chance,” Marie-Thérése said. “The night before I leave for school I always have to stay home with my parents.”

“Okay, then,” Janette said. “I’ll meet you at the train seven thirty tomorrow morning.”

She put down the telephone and turned to find Maurice standing in the open doorway to her room. She glanced at her watch. Five o’clock. He was home early. Usually he never got home before seven.

“Who were you talking to?” he asked suspiciously, coming into the room.

Her eyes fell and she looked down at the floor. “Marie-Thérése.”

“How can you find so much to talk about with such a stupid girl?” he asked.

She didn’t answer, her eyes still cast downward.

“Where’s your mother?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“Hasn’t she come home yet?”

She shrugged her shoulders.”

“Why don’t you look at me?” he demanded.

She raised her eyes, feeling the flush creep into her face.

“Has she called?”

“I haven’t spoken to her.”

His lips tightened in an angry narrow line. “The slut’s probably fucking away the afternoon with one of her gigolo friends,” he snapped. “She’s never around when something important comes up.”

Her eyes fell again. She didn’t answer.

“If she calls and you should speak to her, tell her it’s important that I see her.”

She nodded.

“Important. You understand. I must speak to her.”

She nodded again without looking at him.

Angrily, he slapped her across the face. “Look at me when you answer me!”

She looked at him, feeling the trembling in her legs.

He slapped her again. “It’s important. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice tight in her chest. “I understand.”

He stared at her balefully. “Someday you’ll all have to pay for what that whore has done to me.” He turned and went out of the room, slamming the door angrily behind him.

She sank trembling into the chair, the beginning shudder of her orgasm sending the wetness down her shivering legs.

***

Jacques Charelle saw her as she came through the doors of the Relais Plaza. The room was crowded at cocktail hour, the hum of conversation filling the room as if a swarm of bees were passing. He got to his feet, gesturing.

Tanya made her way to his table, nodding to several acquaintances as she moved through the room. Jacques kissed her hand politely, held the table so that she could sit on the banquette, her back to the window, facing the room while he sat down opposite her.

“You look absolutely radiant, my dear,” he said. “You grow more beautiful every day.”

She smiled inwardly at that. What was it they said, women never looked more beautiful than in the early days of their pregnancy? “
Merci
, Monsieur,” she said. “It does not get easier as one grows older.”

He laughed. “Some women never grow old. You’re one of them. And how was your day?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “
Comme ci comme ça.
” She looked up at the waiter. “A martini, please.” She turned back to Jacques. “And what did you find out?”

He made a subtle gesture at the table next to them. She looked and saw one of the directors of Balmain’s salon seated with three other people. “Not here,” he half whispered.

She nodded. She could understand his caution. Overtly Jacques was a fashion reporter for one of the news syndicates, but his real money came from his private occupation as a sort of fashion spy. Somehow he managed to know before anyone else what each designer would come up with for the next showing and who would make it that season or not. He had been on her payroll for the last three years and the information he had supplied had been invaluable. “We’ll have a quiet dinner,” she said.

“Tonight at my apartment,” he said. “I have a beautiful
côte d’agneau
I can do for you, with
herbes de Provence
I just received this morning from my mother in the south.”

She almost agreed, then remembered. Tonight was Janette’s last night before leaving for school. “I can’t tonight,” she said. The waiter placed the martini before her. “How about tomorrow night?”

“My editor is in town tomorrow,” he said apologetically.

She took a sip of the martini, then remembered the doctor’s instructions. No alcohol. She put down the glass. “Damn!”

He was sympathetically silent.

“I guess it will have to be tonight then,” she said. She looked at him. “But I can’t say late. My daughter’s leaving for school tomorrow and I want to spend some time with her.”

“You’ll be home by ten o’clock,” he promised.

The waiter came to the table and placed a calling card in front of her. She glanced down at the German gothic print on the card, then up at the waiter. “The gentlemen who gave you this card,” she asked, her heart suddenly beating rapidly. “Where is he?”

Still holding the card in her hand, she got out of her seat and almost ran out the door. A taxi was just pulling away from the curb but she could not see who was in it and the street was almost empty. No one she knew was there. She looked down at the card again.

She turned the card over. Johann’s precise handwriting never changed. “I will be at this number at 0900 tomorrow. Please call me. J.”

Slowly she walked back into the Relais Plaza. Jacques was standing. “Is there anything wrong?” he asked in a concerned voice.

“No,” she answered, taking her seat. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just someone I hadn’t seen for a long time and I would have liked to see him again.”

“An old lover?” Jacques smiled.

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“Take my advice, my dear,” he said with typical French sagacity. “Never chase an old love. They are never like what you remember when you catch them.”

She looked at him. Suddenly the information she sought from him wasn’t that important anymore. “Look,” she said. “I’ve thought it over. Let’s skip tonight. I think it’s really more important that I spend the evening with my daughter.”

***

It was slightly after seven o’clock when she arrived home. Henri opened the door. “
Bon soir
, Madame.”

“
Bon soir
, Henry,” she said. “Any messages?”

“No, Madame,” he said. “But Monsieur le Marquis is already at home.”

She nodded. “And Janette?”

“She is in her room, Madame.” he paused for a moment. “What time would Madame like dinner?”

“Eight thirty,” she said, starting up the staircase. She walked down the corridor and stopped in front of Janette’s room. Quietly she knocked on the door.

Janette opened it. She smiled. “
Maman!
”

Tanya leaned forward and kissed her daughter, then followed her into the room. Quickly her eyes took in the closed valises standing near the door. “You’re all packed?”

“Ready to go,” Janette said. “Seven o’clock in the morning.”

Tanya smiled. “Anxious to get back to school?”

“In a way,” Janette answered. “Truth is, I’m getting tired of vacation. There’s nothing really much to do around Paris in the summer. Most of the girls were away.”

“Maybe next summer I won’t be so tied up. Then we can go away too.”

“Maybe,” Janette said. “By the way, I forgot to tell you. Maurice came home early. He was looking for you. He told me to tell you it was very important that you speak to him right away.”

“Okay,” Tanya said. “I told Henri to have dinner ready at eight thirty. Is that all right?”

“It is with me,” Janette said. She looked at her mother. “Just the two of us? Or is Maurice eating with us too?”

“Just the two of us if that’s what you want,” Tanya said.

“I’d like that.”

“Just the two of us then,” Tanya said. She stared from the room. “I’ll call you when it’s time.”

She walked down to the other side of the hallway and stopped in front of Maurice’s door. She knocked, and at the muffled sound of his voice coming through the closed door, went into the room.

Maurice was sitting in a lounge chair, a half-empty cognac snifter in his hand. He stared up at her balefully without getting up. “Where the hell have you been all afternoon?”

She ignored his question. “You wanted to see me?”

“Whose prick were you sucking this afternoon?” His words were slurred.

“If I were,” she answered, “it wouldn’t matter to you anyway. It would be someone who definitely wasn’t your type. Now, you either have something important to tell me or you haven’t. If not, let me go and take my bath.”

His voice was angry. “You’ll never guess who called today.”

Suddenly she knew. Even without his telling. She was silent.

“Johann Schwebel,” he snapped. He studied her face. It was expressionless. “Aren’t you surprised?”

“Should I be?” she asked ingenuously.

“Maybe that’s the wrong word,” he said. “Concerned should be more like it.”

“I see no reason for that either,” she said. “We’ve kept the books honestly. Wolfgang’s share is intact.”

“You’re stupid,” he snarled. “What if they want to take over? Take everything back? Then where will we be?”

“Did he say that?” she asked.

“No. He merely wanted to arrange an appointment with the two of us. I told him to call back tomorrow at eleven o’clock.”

She looked at him. His face was flushed with liquor and she knew that he never drank that much in the daytime unless he was upset. “You could have called him back and made an appointment.”

“He said he would be moving around too much and would call us.”

She nodded. “That’s possible. After all, we don’t know what other business he has in Paris.” Johann had to have a reason for what he did. He knew about the call at eleven, yet he had asked her to call him at nine. She started from the room. “At any rate we’ll know more tomorrow.”

He rose to his feet. “I was only waiting to give you the news. I’m going out to dinner. Will you be using the car?”

“No. Take it,” she said. “I’m having dinner in tonight with Janette.”

***

Johann came out of the Georges Cinqu and waited for a taxi. Paris. It never changed. Not even in all the years since the war. Like the French themselves. Selfish, expedient, demanding, egotistical. Standing there saying, Look at me. Am I not beautiful? The most beautiful in the world? And the trouble was that it was the truth. The truth, if you had the price to pay for it.

The doorman opened the door of the taxi, managing to pocket the five-franc coin and tip his hat all at the same time. Johann gave the driver the address, then settled back into the seat and took a folder out of his briefcase and opened it.

Inside were credit reports gathered for him by his bank on the French companies. He glanced at the top sheet.