Another Kind of Love (24 page)

S
he was very excited about finding Martie and watched her as she sang, feeling her pulse accelerate. Partly from homesickness, she assumed, and partly because she really had taken an instant liking to Martie and had regretted not being able to get to know her better.

Martie had evidently picked up enough French to be able to throw in some of her more “gay gags” to please the audience. She was enough of a showwoman to know that her accent didn't matter, just the fact that she was trying was all that counted. And the audience loved her. They kept applauding, and the more enthusiasm they showed, the more Martie threw herself into each song.

Finally, she finished her last song and walked down to the nearest table, grabbed the person closest to the stage, and kissed her on the forehead. The place very nearly went wild.

As beer bottles banged on the tables and everyone hooted, Pepe partially stood up—not too steadily—and exclaimed, “I must meet her!
C'est magnifique!”

Before Raoul could stop her, she had run over to Martie, pointed eloquently at their table, and had obviously talked her into coming over for a drink. As Martie drew near, her expression changed from one of professional good humor to one of genuine surprise and pleasure.

Dee hoped it would not prove to be an embarrassing meeting and that Martie would not say something including Dee in her circle of lesbian friends.

Martie was close enough to her now that Dee could hear Martie ask Pepe, “This is your friend from America?”

“Why, yes . . .” Pepe answered hesitantly.

Martie smiled broadly. She strode up to the table and stood before Dee with a diabolical smile.

“Mrs. Sanders, I presume?” she said evenly.

Dee felt like a teenager at her first prom. She didn't quite know what to do. Delighted though she was at seeing Martie, at the same time she didn't want Pepe and Raoul to get any ideas.

“What a pleasant surprise,” she managed to say. “You've met Madame Bizot. . . . This is M'sieu Bizot, my company's French representative.” She said it calmly but hoped to hell that Martie got the idea this was business, so that she wouldn't make any slips. Why did she always end up in these impossible situations?

“Sit down, please,” Raoul said, bringing another chair from an adjacent table. “What will you drink?” He carefully avoided Dee's eyes, but Pepe was unable to control her curiosity.

“But you already know each other? How marvelous!”

Martie glanced at Pepe, yet directed her reply toward Raoul. “Mrs. Sanders was once kind enough to recommend some competent photographers for my publicity pictures in New York.”

Thank God! Dee thought with relief. “We met at one of those dreadful little ‘intimate' parties downtown,” she cued.

Martie laughed as if remembering a real party. “What a night!” She sat back and lit a cigarette. “Those parties are all the same. They invite one left-wing writer, one off-Broadway actor, one beatnik, and one homosexual . . . then everyone gets drunk and thinks he is really being terribly democratic and intellectual.”

Raoul seemed to accept this explanation, and his expression softened considerably. He smiled for the first time since they'd entered the place, and put a protective arm around Dee's shoulder. “But you forgot someone, Miss Thornton. They invited one excellent photographer.”

“Doesn't count, M'sieur Bizot. Too normal.”

Pepe clapped her hands lightly. “What you call in America, too ‘in.' . . .”

“They should have invited you, Pepe,” Dee said, laughing.

“I should have arrived barefooted with a long cigarette holder. But no! A cigar would have been better.”

It was plain to Dee that Martie was controlling herself admirably yet was bursting to ask her many questions. How could she explain it to Raoul?

She only half listened as Martie drew Raoul out with conversation about his work and photography in general. Martie told him she'd always been interested in the subject and absolutely marveled at anyone who could figure out all the settings on a camera. Raoul promptly offered to explain it to her and proceeded to give her a rough breakdown of the principles involved.

Poor Martie, Dee thought. She watched Martie's face intently—mindful to shift her gaze occasionally—and once again was intrigued by her. She certainly was not pretty, but her face was so mobile, so rich with life, that it more than compensated for lack of physical beauty. She looked over to Pepe, who sat in rapt fascination with Martie.

She's got it, all right, Dee decided. Raoul is eating out of her hand, Pepe adores her . . . and me? It was a good question, she told herself. Just how did she feel about Martie? She liked her; that much she knew. But how far was she willing to go with Martie?

You pompous egotist! she exclaimed silently. Why should Martie want to ‘go' anywhere with you? She's probably got dozens of girlfriends, and if tonight's audience is any indication, thousands of propositions.

Pepe was, surprisingly enough, the one to break it all up. “Raoul, darling, you have bored Miss Thornton enough with your talk about cameras.”

“On the contrary, madame, it's been very interesting, and I intend to go out tomorrow and buy a camera.”

Raoul laughed. “You see?” He nodded smugly to Pepe. “If it were not for an important appointment, I would gladly go with you and help you select one.”

Martie said nothing but smiled pleasantly at Pepe.

“But, Dee, you could help Miss Thornton, could you not?” Pepe asked enthusiastically.

“Oh, I wouldn't want to put you to that trouble,” Martie answered quickly.

“There's nothing too pressing for you tomorrow, Dee,” Raoul collaborated. “You could take off during the afternoon.”

It's fate, Dee decided. Don't fight it.

“It's no trouble, Miss Thornton . . . if you really would like me to tag along.” Signed, sealed, and delivered. Amen.

“In that case,” Martie grinned broadly, “why not meet me for lunch? There's a crazy little place on the Rue Bassano.”

“No need for that,” Dee smiled. “Besides, I thought perhaps Pepe might like to come along.” She mentally crossed her fingers and waited.

“Ah . . . I would have loved to, Dee. You are sweet. But I could not. My sister-in-law is coming in from Saint Ouen tomorrow, and I must have lunch with her and take her shopping.” She threw a mildly reproaching glance at Raoul.

“Then I insist!” Martie said politely. “It's the least I can do to repay you.”

Dee decided she had put up enough of a display battle, and agreed. The appointment was arranged, Martie excused herself, and shortly after, they left the club and headed for home, accompanied by the constant chatter from Pepe praising Martie.

They arrived home tired but in good spirits. Raoul opened the front door, followed by Pepe, who stopped to bend over and pick up a white envelope.

“Dee, it is for you,” she said, and handed it to her.

The Photo World address had been crossed out, and Dee's home address was written below it in Karen's neat handwriting. “Thank you,” Dee muttered, and put the letter nonchalantly in her purse.

“I will never understand the diabolical mind that can receive a letter and not open it immediately,” Pepe laughed as they proceeded up the stairs. “Would you like a nightcap?”

“No,” Dee answered quickly. “No, thank you anyway.”

She headed for her room only half hearing Raoul's comment to Pepe that Martie did not seem as offensive as most of the lesbians one sees on the street.

Dee let her hand rest for a moment on the chest-high door handle to her room, then opened it and went in. There were this morning's flowers, arranged carefully in a slim blue vase on her chiffonier. Every morning Pepe put fresh flowers in her room—in almost every room, in fact. It was her firm belief that a home without flowers was a home without love.

Dee threw her purse on the high four-poster bed, crossed over to the louvered windows, and opened them wider. She could just make out the illuminated tip of the Obélisque from her room in between the night-shadowed Paris rooftops and chimney stacks. Street sounds drifted faintly up to her over the dull, constant hum of the city at night.

She had to admit she did not want to open Karen's letter. She didn't know why—just a premonition. She stood for a long while at the window.

Instead of feeling elated, the drinks of the evening had left her very depressed. Her feelings were disturbingly mixed about meeting Martie the next day. She didn't know how wise it was to have agreed—after all, Martie was a notorious lesbian. She didn't want any gossip starting when she was the houseguest of the Bizots.

Open the letter, Dee! she told herself aloud.

Sighing, she walked back to the bed and picked up her purse from the white chenille spread. The letter lay on top, the contents folded in quarters. Dee had the feeling of timelessness as she took it out, the stiff paper making the only sound in the room.

She tore the envelope across its side and pulled out three neatly folded sheets of company paper. Karen's familiar script began with
Dearest Dee
.

One or two paragraphs about how everyone missed her and the office was the same and it was hotter than blazes in good old New York and hoping she was having a good time and why hadn't she dropped her a card.

Cho-Cho-San and she had become good friends after the cat had become drunk one night when she had left a glass of vodka and tomato juice in the living room while she had gone to check how her dinner was doing. She had been worried the next morning when Cho-Cho had overslept, but everything was fine now.

Phil had come by several times. They were having some difficulty, though. She didn't know how to say it, but one night the previous week, while Phil was there, Mrs. Evans had shown up unexpectedly. Quite drunk—and quite upset.

Dee put the letter down for a moment and lighted a cigarette with trembling hands. What had Rita said to them?

There was a smudge on the next line, which read:
Please believe me when I say nothing will ever be repeated about what was said.
She cut short the events, but it was sordid enough for Dee to know the occasion had not been pleasant.

Rita had asked who Karen was, and when Karen replied, she had thrown back her head with laughter, saying she had figured Dee was having a side affair with her. Then she had looked intently at Phil and, with a cruel smile, commented on how she was pleased to see that she had not been the only one unfaithful to Dee.

Phil asked her what she meant, but Rita refused to reply. She had simply laughed—yet the way she laughed had been more revealing than any words could have been.

As a parting shot, Rita leaned against the door dramatically and exclaimed in front of Phil that if Karen ever got tired of Dee, Rita might find time for her . . . show her some educational variations.

Poor Karen! Dee thought, what must she think? Karen closed the letter telling Dee not to worry and that she would write again as soon as she could get things straightened out in her own mind. She had been more than mildly shocked . . . and Phil had made quite a scene of his own, demanding that she move immediately.

P.S.: she wasn't going to move until Dee got back.

P.S.S.: something should be done about Mrs. Evans before she really got Dee into trouble.

The wages of perversion are fear, Dee mumbled and threw the letter on the bed.

D
ee picked a table in the shade the next day and ordered an extra-dry martini while she waited for Martie to show up. She glanced around furtively and hated herself for being such a hypocrite. She could “pass” easily—if she weren't seen with an obvious lesbian.

If word got around about her, she would probably lose her job. And more than likely not get another in the same field. It was stupid, of course, but that's the way the world was. People at the office who had been her friends would turn their backs, or titter, or worse yet, try to be understanding when they didn't understand at all.

It certainly would be Rita's fault—it takes two to have an affair—but Rita didn't have to be such a blabbermouth. Of course, there was no indication that Rita would say anything to anyone else—no real reason for her to. Rita had been drunk and shocked to find Karen there, had naturally jumped to the conclusion that Karen was her new love, and had behaved with illogical jealousy and spite.

Dee fished the onion from the bottom of her glass and carefully placed it in her mouth. The day was uncomfortably warm. She wished she had worn something lighter.

She looked up to see Martie walking toward her—wearing a dress, thank heaven. Actually, Dee considered, if one didn't know better or recognize Martie, one might think she was simply the athletic type.

Martie weaved between the tables and extended her hand to Dee before she sat down. “Mrs. Sanders, I'm glad you could make it,” she said loud enough for a one-mile radius of eavesdroppers.

A conspiratorial curl came to her lips as she sat down gracefully. Unlike her nightclub personality, she was careful to wait for the waiter to come up to the table rather than simply signal him. She gave him her order through a pleasant, feminine smile. “Another?” she asked Dee, pointing demurely to her empty glass.

Dee hesitated.

“Please,” Martie suggested. “I so hate to drink alone.”

Dee hid a smile at the feminine use of the word “so” coming from Martie. She was sure Martie would have preferred to use four-letter words in a positive command. “All right.”

The waiter nodded and walked away. Dee wasn't too sure what she should say now that Martie was facing her. But Martie took the lead.

Without changing her expression she said softly, “You're a no-good bitch! Why didn't you tell me you were coming?”

“How? You didn't give me an address,” Dee laughed.

“Come off it! I told you that you could reach me through my agent.”

“Who the hell thought you meant it?” Dee asked, still smiling.

“I don't exactly have a reputation for making idle polite suggestions.” She sat back in her chair as the last remaining couple seated near them stood up and left. “Where's your friend, Miss Professional Torrid, or whatever her name was. She come with you?”

“No,” Dee said slowly. “We . . . split up.” She was under no obligation to tell Martie, and it did place her on the “open market” list and she knew it. But why not? She was tired of being so damn careful about everything, worrying lest someone find out or see her in a gay bar. She was thousands of miles away, and Paris was a city large enough for anyone to get lost in.

“I see. . . .” Martie said and fell silent.

Dee waited and watched her. Martie's short blond hair was combed with a slight wave—in Dee's behalf, she was sure—and softened with tiny bouquetlike earrings. She was really very touched by Martie's pain not to cause her embarrassment and appreciated it.

“I suppose I should say I'm sorry. But to be frank, I didn't like her looks.”

Dee had to laugh. “Not many people had
that
complaint.”

“You know what I meant; don't be facetious. She looked like a first-class selfish, egomaniacal shrew.”

“Your vocabulary is slipping,” Dee said with a broad smile. She didn't know Martie well enough to use poker-face humor yet.

Martie grinned. “You won't believe it, but I have an M.A. from NYU. I put myself through singing in clubs in the Village.”

“You're full of surprises, aren't you?” Dee said it in an offhand way, but she really was surprised. She'd never thought of Martie as being particularly literate or academic—more in the school-of-hard-knocks way. “What was your major?”

“Music,” she answered with an
of course!
nod. But I minored in English.”

Their drinks arrived, leaving Dee an opportunity to change the subject. “How long are you going to stay in Paris?”

“That depends on you,” Martie said cautiously, sipping her drink. “I've another four days at this club and then a week before my next engagement in Munich. I had planned on leaving right away, but . . .”

“You're putting me on the spot,” Dee said slowly.

“Are you tied up with anyone?”

Dee ignored the sudden flash of excitement in her body. She suddenly realized that she was just a little afraid of Martie . . . but she wasn't sure why, unless perhaps it was the meeting of a new challenge. “I'm not tied up . . . but I'm not looking to be, either. And I do have some obligations while I'm here.”

“Certainly. So do I. But is there any reason why we couldn't get together a few times and enjoy a couple of drinks? I'm not officially on the make, you know. It'll just be for kicks.”

“You know,” Dee said, feeling terribly adventurous, “I believe you.”

“Shall I plan on staying, then?”

“If you think you can stand me . . . yes.”

“Well, then,” Martie laughed, “let's stop jawing and order something to eat. I'm famished.” She picked up the huge menu, glanced at it, and put it down. “Can't make head or tail of all that jazz there. Even if I could read French, the handwriting is always so damn fancy you couldn't make it out anyway. But I can recommend their duckling here. They put it in a casserole and do something absolutely perverse to it.”

“So be it,” Dee smiled. They placed their order along with one for another drink, and Dee felt the martinis relaxing her—even though they only made her feel warmer.

“Do you really want to buy a camera today?” Dee said. “Raoul will never know the difference, you know.”

“Of course I want to. Whoever went to Europe without a camera? But I expect private instruction from you,” she said with a wicked glint. “Purely an educational advance, you understand.”

“Certainly,” Dee smiled. “We can start this afternoon. I've got my Leica in my purse and I've been dying to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Are you game?”

“Only if we can have dinner together . . .”

“I'll have to make a phone call and give some excuse to the Bizots.”

“Phone . . .”

“After lunch,” Dee replied. She couldn't remember ever meeting anyone like Martie before. This was going to be quite an experience.

 

 

Dee called the office from the restaurant after lunch and wrote down the name of the closest camera store where they would give her a discount. She picked out a Petri 2:8 for Martie; an inexpensive but adequate light meter; and three rolls of black-and-white film.

They stopped at a sidewalk café and sipped Cinzano while Dee explained how to operate the camera and meter and supervised Martie while she loaded it. Then they began to walk and walk and walk, stopping frequently as something would catch their eye as being typical of the area, laughing at Martie's initial clumsiness with the camera, comparing light meter readings, or discussing the best approach to the picture.

Dee honestly forgot for most of the time that she was a lesbian on a date with another lesbian. It was just two women friends enjoying a foreign country and a common interest. She had relaxed considerably since lunch; her first mixed reactions to Martie had been calmed.

They didn't reach the Eiffel Tower until late afternoon and enjoyed a cocktail in the Tower restaurant, watching the warm sun surrender to night, speeding long shadows across the twisted, fascinating Paris streets and long-ago-turned-green copper roofs everywhere.

“I think I will always remember Paris,” Martie said softly, “as a horizon of rooftops and chimneys.”

Dee looked up at her quickly. Her own thoughts had not been too dissimilar. It was strange to be with someone she could actually communicate with. So unlike Rita, who usually replied with an undisguised “Huh?” or a bored “Uh-huh.” Of course, she was always able to talk with Karen, but it was a strain to be careful not to say something that would give her away. There had been many times when she had felt so at ease with Karen she had almost slipped and said something incriminating. But Rita had solved that little problem for her.

She hoped Karen would not recoil from her now, and that she would not lose her friendship. It was going to be such a goddamn relief not to have to be constantly on guard.

They finished their drinks, and Martie led her away from the Tower grounds, down a quiet, narrow street through which even the French cars would not have been able to maneuver. She refused to tell Dee where they were going.

An inconspicuous doorway with a small wooden sign overhead was their destination. Dee only knew she was somewhere on the Left Bank, but had long ago lost track of their exact direction now that the sun was gone. Dee's navigational attempts ended with the fact that the sun always set in the west.

Martie led the way through the Dutch door, obviously hundreds of years old, into a dark, wood-paneled oblong room. A marvelous room. Dee could feel the spirit of the Three Musketeers, Madame Defarge, Napoleon . . . the history of the entire city within its four walls dank with the smell of serving as a pub throughout the centuries. She doubted that the bar had changed in all the years it had stood, initials carved upon initials. The plank floor was worn hollow where it had received the most use, and polished brass spittoons still sat lined against the bar rail. There was only one small difference.

It was a gay bar now. There were no chairs or stools. Clusters of women stood separated from the boys, with rare exception. Draught beer or red wine seemed to be the order of the day despite the fact that the cabinet behind the bar was lined with a complete stock of liquor. But here there was no pretense of a caste system, separating the fems from the butches. They could have been shop girls or university students belonging to a mutual club.

Dee delighted in the unevenness of the room, the ceiling high with beams at one end, then sloping to an uncomfortable low for anyone over five feet six. Electricity had been added, Dee noted sadly, but at least it had been done without removing the old fixtures. The owners at the time had simply converted the glass-covered gas jets to preserve the atmosphere, or perhaps to save money.

“I thought you'd be intrigued,” Martie grinned. “Your eyes have turned into a goddamn twin reflex.”

Dee laughed. “Listen to the amateur! But you're right. I'm fascinated. Where did you ever find this place?”

“Ah, the advantages of being a successful lesbian. The gal that owns the club where I'm working clued me in about this crazy pad.” Martie waved to an old woman across the bar. “That's Madame Journet. Her family has owned this joint for the last four generations—but I doubt that it was gay all that time,” she snickered.

“Is she a member of the clan?” Dee asked curiously.

“No,” Martie replied simply.

Dee was pleased that Martie had not made any of the common guesses like, “She says no, but I think . . .” or, “She must have been at one time. . . .” Looking at her, the woman was probably in her sixties—bent over with rheumatism. She wore a drab ankle-length dress with a faded green, loose-knit shawl around her shoulders tied in a knot at her breast.

Madame Journet's unkempt hair was a dull brown, hastily pulled back in a bun with enormous hairpins hanging perilously from all sides. Her face was relatively unlined, and she had a bright expression despite the fact she didn't seem to have a tooth in her mouth. She waved them to approach closer and, as she did, placed two glasses of Cinzano on the bar for them, her hands a light brown with thousands of freckles, the knuckles swollen with years of work.

“Mademoiselle Thornton, how glad I am to see you, and not alone.” Her voice half lilted and half croaked out the words.

Martie pulled Dee closer to the bar. “My friend from New York. She has just arrived in Paris, and I couldn't let her go another minute without meeting you . . . and certainly not without tasting your wonderful food.”

Madame almost blushed with pleasure, then leaned forward secretively. “Tonight . . .
boeuf a la Bourguignonne.”
She rolled her eyes heavenward and pursed her lips. “If this pleases you?” she added hastily.

“Anything you cook pleases me,” Martie answered promptly.

“I make onion soup this morning, also. My father's recipe—not like this city's
avortement.
He learned it from his mama, who was from the provinces.”

Dee's mouth was beginning to water. She felt as if she were about to be introduced into a ceremonial rite rather than simply have dinner.

“Is the dining room crowded, Madame, or can we go up now?”

“No, no. It is still too early for the French to eat. All the better for you—the food has not been overheated.”

“Then if you will make up a pitcher of six martinis, I will carry them upstairs for you. We will finish our Cinzano while you make them.”

Madame smiled broadly. She looked at Dee a long time. “Always considerate, this one. Always a way to save me work.” She winked merrily, then turned back to Martie. “I like your friend. Strong, good face.”