Goodbye, Janette (10 page)

Janette’s lips tightened. “Once you told me you didn’t want any other children.”

Tanya’s voice grew firm. “Do as I say, Janette. Go to your room. We’ll talk later when you’ve calmed down.”

Janette turned and started for the corridor connecting their two rooms.

Tanya stopped her. “Not there. Maurice’s suite has been redecorated for you.”

“And who’s in my room?” Janette asked angrily. “Maurice?”

“No,” Tanya said. “He doesn’t live with us anymore. The room is being fixed up as a nursery for the baby.”

Janette stared at her, tears beginning to well into her eyes. “Merry Christmas, Mother!” she cried bitterly, turned and ran sobbing from the room.

Tanya stared at the closed door. She heard Janette’s footsteps running down the hall. For a moment she thought of following her but then sank wearily into a chair. Janette would get over it. Later when she had calmed down they would talk, and Tanya would explain to her what had happened.

But Tanya was wrong. Janette wasn’t waiting for an explanation. Instead of going to her room, she ran out of the house, took a taxi to the train station and made the night train back to her school in Lugano.

***

“It will take two years,” Johann said. “Next year is impossible. Our entire production is already committed to our regular customers.”

She glanced at the report in front of her and nodded. “Maybe it’s just as well. It will give us more time to develop the label and publicize it.”

“I have several interesting possibilities,” he said. “There are two bottling plants on the market right now. I think we can get them for a price.”

“Get into it,” she said. “And let me know.”

“Another thing,” he added. “I think we should forget about the domestic market. We’d have to fight our way through the established wineries, and you know the French. Snobbery and tradition, they don’t like to change. My feeling is that we should aim at America. The wine market there is just beginning to open up and we can compete pricewise in their medium range. A French label there is instant status.”

“That makes sense.”

“There are several large American distributors already interested. Schieffelin, Bronfman, even Twenty-One Brands. They’re talking big money and big promotion. I feel we can even get a large enough advance from them to finance the acquisition of the bottling plant.”

“We don’t need their money,” she said.

“True,” he agreed. “But it always is better to work with someone else’s capital than your own. Besides that would free more of our own money to acquire a
maison de couture
and also to operate it. I don’t know of one that makes money, they’re constant losers. Even Chanel.”

“But she makes it all back on the perfume. Plus. We know that. After all, we can’t even supply her with all the essences she needs for the base. Sooner or later all the couturiers will be into it. I want to be there first.”

“I’m worried about that,” he said. “Operating losses on one of those houses could be a disastrous drain. And everyone I spoke to wants an arm and a leg for nothing, just their name.”

“I have one company in mind that I think we can get at the right figure,” she said. “Shiki.”

His eyes opened wide. “The Japanese? His shows were the biggest hit of the last season.
Vogue
and
L’Officiel
are filled with nothing but him. Even the papers say that he is the rage.”

She laughed. “That’s the press. His things are outrageous and they love it. But there’s no way anyone can wear his clothes. They’re just not practical and not really selling. Jacques Charelle says his ass is out and he’s in debt up to his ears.”

“If that’s the case, why do you want him?”

She smiled. “The name. If he gets the space, we can find a way to make him work. Tone him down just a little. And, don’t forget where the money is. Coco Chanel doesn’t. The perfume. If we do twenty-five percent of Chanel Number Five we make nothing but money. And after that, who knows? Maybe an entire line of cosmetics.” She took a deep breath and looked at him. “What a stupid thing it is to be a woman. There is so much to do, and here I am, pregnant.”

He nodded sympathetically. “Only two more months.”

“Seems like eternity.”

“It will pass quickly enough,” he said.

She fell silent, thinking. Finally she took a deep breath. “I’m worried.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said quickly. “You’re just fine.”

“One never knows,” she said. “I’m not as young as I was when Janette was born. There could be problems.”

He was silent.

“I’ve never made a will,” she said. “If anything should go wrong, what happens to Janette? Or the new baby? I’m still married to Maurice. He might get everything.”

“Under French law,” Johann said, “the children have specific inheritance rights.”

“They would still need a guardian or trustee until they are of age,” she said. “And Maurice adopted Janette and will be legally the father of the other. Automatically it would make sense that he would control not only his share but their share too. I don’t want that.”

He was silent.

“You’re the only one I can trust to protect the children,” she said. “Would you be willing to be my executor if I should die?”

***

“Of course,” he said. “But we both know nothing will happen to you.”

“There’s too much at stake,” she said. “I don’t want to take any chances. Arrange for the lawyer to come here in the morning. I want my house to be in order.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said. He looked at her. “Just one thing puzzles me. What happened to your idea about taking that young man at Christian Dior’s and starting a new house with him?”

“You mean Yves St. Laurent?”

“That’s the one.”

“I gave that up for two reasons. First, Dior and Boussac won’t let him go. Second, he hasn’t established his own name yet and it could take a fortune to get him known as widely as we need him to be. I spoke to Jacques about it. Despite the boy’s talent, nothing will happen until Dior lets him come out from under his shadow. Good or bad, at least Shiki’s name is on everybody’s lips.”

“Okay,” he said doubtfully. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

She smiled at him. “I do too. I’ve spent years cultivating Charelle and learning from him. He may be greedy, but season after season, he’s picked the winners.”

“What’s he going to get out of this?”

“Director of Public Relations. At five times the money he makes and can steal from the crummy news syndicate he works for.”

Johann laughed. “You’ve thought it all out.”

“That was easy,” she said. A troubled look came to her face. “I wish it were as easy to understand Janette.”

“You haven’t spoken to her yet?”

She shook her head. “She won’t even answer my telephone calls.”

“She’ll get over it when the baby comes. You’ll see.”

“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “Janette’s a strange child. There’s something about the way she keeps to herself. I have the feeling I don’t know her at all.”

***

The little Japanese was both stoned and drunk at the same time. He held a glass of wine in one hand and a hashish cigarette in the other. “Schiaparelli, Balmain, Maggy Rouff, they’ve all had it. They’re still designing ball gowns for yesterday’s dowagers, who are growing too old to even wear shrouds. Even Dior knows when he’s had it, he admits that Yves did more than half of his last collection. Today’s women want more excitement in their clothes. There’s a whole new world coming and they want to be there first.”

The host, Juan Delgado, was in full drag. His long Schiaparelli gown trailed the floor behind him. “And I suppose you’re going to be the one who leads them there?” he asked sarcastically.

“Damn right I am,” Shiki retorted.

“Horseshit!” Juan snapped. “You haven’t even got enough money to pay your fare on the Métro.”

“That’s how much you know,” Shiki retorted with a superior air. “Just this morning I signed the papers which will make me independent for life.”

“Now, I’ll tell one,” Juan said.

“I’ll prove it,” Shiki said, looking around the room. He saw Maurice and Jerry Johnson standing near the bar. “Come with me.”

Juan followed him across the room. Shiki stopped in front of Maurice. “Juanita doesn’t believe that we made a deal. Tell him.

Maurice was puzzled. “What deal?”

Delgado chortled. “I told you you were full of shit. He doesn’t even know what you’re talking about. You have to be stoned out of your head.”

“I’m never that stoned,” Shiki said, standing on his dignity as much as his four feet nine inches would allow. He turned back to Maurice. “I signed the papers this morning with your man, Schwebel. It’s with one of your companies. Tanya Parfums or something like that.”

“That’s one of my wife’s companies,” Maurice said. “I have nothing to do with that. It’s all her affair.” He looked at Shiki curiously. “You say Schwebel signed the papers? Where was Tanya?”

Shiki was surprised. “I thought you knew. She went to the clinic last night to have your baby.”

“Last night?” Maurice was incredulous. “She wasn’t expecting for another two weeks yet.”

Delgado broke up. He turned to the room, announcing in a loud voice, “Our good friend, the marquis, is about to have a baby and his wife hasn’t even bothered to inform him.” He paused for a moment. “But, then, why should she? She never even bothered telling him that she was making a baby when she was off fucking that American.”

“You son of a bitch!” Maurice said angrily. “Why don’t you just suck my cock?”

Juan fell to his knees on the floor before him. He held up his hand in mock prayer. “Thank you, God,” he said, rolling his eyes heavenward. “You’ve just made my dreams come true.”

Maurice shoved him and he rolled backward on the floor, laughing, while Maurice, followed by Jerry, stalked angrily from the party.

It was two o’clock in the morning when they got out of the car in front of the small private clinic. They crossed the deserted sidewalk and pressed the night bell. Maurice tried the door impatiently. It was locked. He put his finger on the bell and kept it there.

A few moments later a sleepy concierge opened the door. “Monsieur, Monsieur,” he protested. “Patience. There are sick people in here.” He looked around behind them. “Where is she?”

“She?” Maurice asked. “Who?”

“The patient,” the concierge answered. “This is a maternity clinic. Only expectant fathers ring the bell like that at night.”

“My wife is already here,” Maurice snapped. “I want to see her.”

The concierge began to close the door. “Impossible, Monsieur. Visiting hours are finished at ten o’clock. Come back in the morning.”

Maurice put his foot in the door, blocking it. “I want to see her now. I insist. I am the Marquis de la Beauville.”

“I don’t care if you’re Charles De Gaulle,” the concierge said. “You come back in the morning.”

A banknote appeared in Maurice’s hand. “If you would be kind enough to speak to the head nurse,” he said in a more reasonable voice, “I would appreciate it.”

The banknote disappeared in the concierge’s pocket as quickly as it had appeared. “If Monsieur would be kind enough to wait. I will return in a moment.”

The door closed, and Maurice and Jerry stood there. “Maybe we should come back in the morning,” Jerry said.

“No. We’ll see her tonight.” Maurice’s voice was tight.

The door opened again. This time a gray-haired nurse in a heavily starched uniform stood next to the concierge. “I am sorry, Monsieur,” she began to explain. “But the rules—”

Maurice interrupted her. “I know the rules, Sister. But please take mercy on a poor man who just at this moment arrived back in Paris and longs only for a moment’s glimpse of his wife and child.”

The second banknote in Maurice’s hand disappeared into the pocket of the starched uniform. “Very well, Monsieur,” she said, admitting them into the hallway. “But we must be very quiet.

They followed her down the long hospital-smelling corridor and stopped outside a room. She turned to look at them. “Madame la Marquise had a very difficult labor. We have given her very heavy sedation and she is sleeping. You can look in from the doorway but please do not enter.”

Maurice nodded. The nurse opened the door. There was a very dim light in the room. He peered past her. Tanya was lying in the bed, her eyes closed. Even in the small light, Maurice could see her face was pale and drawn. He stepped back and turned to the nurse. “And the baby?” he whispered.

“The nurse closed the door softly. “Follow me, Monsieur.”

They walked down to the end of the corridor and turned right. They stopped in front of a large double-paned window. Looking through the window they could see about seven or eight tiny cribs on small wheels, a baby in each.

Maurice looked at the nurse. “Which one is mine?”

“Just a moment, Monsieur,” the nurse said. “I will go into the room and hold her up so that you can see her.”

“Her?” Maurice’s voice was incredulous. “You mean it’s a girl?”

The nurse smiled. “Yes, Monsieur, the most beautiful girl you ever saw. Golden ringlets of hair the color of the sun, the bluest eyes that sparkle like aquamarines and will be blue all through her life. Wait just a moment, you will see for yourself.”

She left them to enter the nursery. But when she came to the window with the child in her arms, they were already gone.

Maurice drove wildly through the deserted streets. “The bitch!” he swore angrily. “The bitch! She couldn’t even do that right!”

“Take it easy,” Jerry said. “Or you’ll get us both killed.”

“The least she could have done was have a boy.” Maurice was still angry. “Someone to carry on the name. But no, another fucking cunt! Blond and blue-eyed on top of it all. Paris will break up with laughter. There has never been a blue-eyed blonde in the seven-hundred-year history of my family.”

“What difference does it make?” Jerry asked. “Everyone knows it’s not your child anyway.”

“That makes it even worse,” Maurice said. “They all know the only reason I stayed with her was to get a son.”

He raced across the small bridge over the Seine to the Ile Saint-Louis and down the narrow streets to a stop in front of their apartment. He got out of the car and slammed the door angrily. “The bitch!” he swore again. “I’ll make her pay for this. You’ll see.”