The Other Side of Midnight (5 page)

“Thank you,” Noelle said. She set her suitcase down and walked over to a large mirror on the wall. Her clothes were wrinkled from the train ride, and she suddenly regretted her impulsiveness in coming here before freshening up. It was important to make a good impression. Still, as she examined herself, she knew
that she looked beautiful. She knew this without conceit, accepting her beauty as an asset, to be used like any other asset. Noelle turned as she saw a girl in the mirror coming down the stairs. The girl had a good figure and a pretty face, and was dressed in a long brown skirt and a high-necked blouse. Obviously the quality of models here was high. She gave Noelle a brief smile and went into the drawing room. A moment later Madame Delys entered the room. She was in her forties and was short and dumpy with cold, calculating eyes. She was dressed in a gown that Noelle estimated must have cost at least two thousand francs.

“Regina tells me that you are looking for a job,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Noelle replied.

“Where are you from?”

“Marseille.”

Madame Delys snorted. “The playpen of drunken sailors.”

Noelle’s face fell.

Madame Delys patted her on the shoulder. “It does not matter, my dear. How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

Madame Delys nodded. “That is good. I think my customers will like you. Do you have any family in Paris?”

“No.”

“Excellent. Are you prepared to start work right away?”

“Oh, yes,” Noelle assured her eagerly.

From upstairs came the sound of laughter and a moment later a red-headed girl walked down the stairs on the arm of a fat, middle-aged man. The girl was wearing only a thin negligee.

“Finished already?” Madame Delys asked.

“I’ve worn Angela out,” the man grinned. He saw Noelle. “Who’s this little beauty?”

“This is Yvette, our new girl,” Madame Delys said. And without hesitation added, “She’s from Antibes, the daughter of a Prince.”

“I’ve never screwed a Princess,”
the man exclaimed.
“How much?”

“Fifty francs.”

“You must be joking. Thirty.”

“Forty. And believe
me,
you’ll
get
your money’s worth.”

“It’s a deal.”

They turned to Noelle. She had vanished.

Noelle walked the streets of Paris, hour after hour. She strolled along the Champs-Élysées, down one side and up the other, wandering through the Lido Arcade and stopping at every shop to gaze at the incredible cornucopia of jewelry and dresses and leather goods and perfumes, and she wondered what Paris was like when there were
no
shortages. The wares displayed in the windows were dazzling, and while one part of her felt like a country bumpkin, another part of her knew that one day these things would belong to her. She walked through the Bois and down the rue du Faubourg-St.-Honoré and along the avenue Victor-Hugo, until she began to feel tired and hungry. She had left her purse and suitcase at Madame Delys’, but she had no intention of going back there. She would send for her things.

Noelle was neither shocked nor upset by what had happened. It was simply that she knew the difference between a courtesan and a whore. Whores did not change the course of history: courtesans did. Meanwhile she was without a cent. She had to find a way to survive until she could find a job the next day. Dusk was beginning to brush the sky, and the merchants and hotel doormen were busy putting up blackout curtains against possible air attacks. To solve her immediate problem, Noelle needed to find someone to buy her a good hot dinner. She asked directions from a gendarme and then headed for the Crillon Hotel. Outside, forbidding iron shutters covered the windows, but inside, the
lobby was a masterpiece of subdued elegance, soft and understated. Noelle walked in confidently as if she belonged there and took a seat in a chair facing the elevator. She had never done this before, and she was a bit nervous. But she remembered how easy it had been to handle Auguste Lanchon. Men were really very uncomplicated. There was only one lesson a girl had to remember: A man was soft when he was hard and hard when he was soft. So it was only necessary to keep him hard until he gave you what you wanted. Now, looking around the lobby, Noelle decided that it would be a simple matter to catch the eye of an unattached male on his way, perhaps, to a lonely dinner.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle.”

Noelle turned her head to look up at a large man in a dark suit. She had never seen a detective in her life, but there was no doubt whatever in her mind.

“Is Mademoiselle waiting for someone?”

“Yes,” Noelle replied, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m waiting for a friend.”

She was suddenly acutely aware of her wrinkled dress, and the fact that she carried no purse.

“Is your friend a guest of this hotel?”

She felt a surge of panic rising in her “He—er—not exactly.”

He studied Noelle a moment, then said in a hardened tone, “May I see your identification?”

“I—I don’t have it with me.” she stammered. “I lost it.”

The detective said, “Perhaps Mademoiselle will come with me.” He put a firm hand on her arm, and she rose to her feet.

And at that moment someone took her other arm and said, “Sorry I’m late, cherie, but you know how those damned cocktail parties are. You have to blast your way out. Been waiting long?”

Noelle swung around in astonishment to look at the speaker. He was a tall man, his body lean and hard-looking, and he wore a strange, unfamiliar uniform. He
had blue-black hair with a widow’s peak and eyes the color of a dark, stormy sea, with long, thick lashes. His features had the look of an old Florentine coin. It was an irregular face, the two profiles not quite matching, as though the minter’s hand had slipped for an instant. It was a face that was extraordinarily alive and mobile so that you felt it was ready to smile, to laugh, to frown. The only thing that saved it from being femininely beautiful was a strong, masculine chin with a deep cleft in it.

He gestured toward the detective. “Is this man bothering you?” His voice was deep, and he spoke French with a very slight accent

“N-no,” Noelle said, in a bewildered voice.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” the hotel detective was saying. “I misunderstood. We have been having a problem here lately with…” He turned to Noelle. “Please accept my apologies, Mademoiselle.”

The stranger turned to Noelle. “Well now, I don’t know. What do you think?”

Noelle swallowed and nodded quickly.

The man turned to the detective. “Mademoiselle’s being generous. Just watch yourself in the future.” He took Noelle’s arm and they headed for the door.

When they reached the street, Noelle said, “I—I don’t know how to thank you, Monsieur.”

“I’ve always hated policemen.” The stranger grinned. “Do you want me to get you a taxi?”

Noelle stared at him, the panic beginning to rise in her again, as she remembered her situation. “No.”

“Right. Good night.” He walked over to the stand and started to get into a taxi, turned around and saw that she was standing there, rooted, staring after him. In the doorway of the hotel was the detective watching. The stranger hesitated, then walked back to Noelle. “You’d better get out of here,” he advised. “Our friend’s still interested in you.”

“I have nowhere to go,” she replied.

He nodded and reached into his pocket.

“I don’t want your money,” she said quickly.

He looked at her in surprise. “What
do
you want?” he asked.

“To have dinner with you.”

He smiled and said, “Sorry. I have a date, and I’m late already.”

“Then go ahead,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

He shoved the bills back into his pocket. “Suit yourself, honey,” he said.
“Au ‘voir.”
He turned and began walking toward the taxi again. Noelle looked after him, wondering what was wrong with her. She knew she had behaved stupidly, but she also knew that she could not have done anything else. From the first moment she had looked at him she had experienced a reaction that she had never felt before, a wave of emotion so strong that she could almost reach out and touch it. She did not even know his name, and would probably never see him again. Noelle glanced toward the hotel and saw the detective moving purposefully toward her. It was her own fault. This time she would not be able to talk her way out of it. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and as she turned to see who it was, the stranger took her arm and propelled her toward the taxi, quickly opened the door and climbed in beside her. He gave the driver an address. The taxi pulled away, leaving the detective at the curb, staring after them. “What about your date?” Noelle asked.

“It’s a party,” he shrugged. “One more won’t make any difference. I’m Larry Douglas. What’s your name?”

“Noelle Page.”

“Where are you from, Noelle?”

She turned and looked into his brilliant dark eyes and said, “Antibes. I am the daughter of a Prince.”

He laughed, showing even, white teeth.

“Good for you, Princess,” he said.

“Are you English?”

“American.”

She looked at his uniform. “America is not at war.”

“I’m in the British RAF,” he explained. “They’ve just formed a group of American flyers. It’s called the Eagle Squadron.”

“But why should you fight for England?”

“Because England’s fighting for us,” he said. “Only we don’t know it yet.”

Noelle shook her head. “I don’t believe that. Hitler is a Boche clown.”

“Maybe. But he’s a clown who knows what the Germans want: to rule the world.”

Noelle listened, fascinated, as Larry discussed Hitler’s military strategy, the sudden withdrawal from the League of Nations, the mutual defense pact with Japan and Italy, not because of what he was saying but because she enjoyed watching his face as he talked. His dark eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he spoke, blazing with an overpowering, irresistible vitality.

Noelle had never met anyone like him. He was—that rarity of rarities—a spendthrift with himself. He was open and warm and alive, sharing himself, enjoying life, making sure that everyone around him enjoyed it. He was like a magnet pulling into his orbit everyone who approached.

They arrived at the party, which was being given in a small flat on the rue Chemin Vert. The apartment was filled with a group of laughing, shouting people, most of them young. Larry introduced Noelle to the hostess, a predatory, sexy-looking redhead, and then was swallowed by the crowd. Noelle caught glimpses of him during the evening, surrounded by eager young girls, each trying to capture his attention. And yet there was no ego about him, Noelle thought. It was as though he were totally unaware of how attractive he was. Someone found a drink for Noelle and someone else offered to bring her a plate of food from the buffet, but she was suddenly not hungry. She wanted to be with the American, wanted him away from the girls who crowded around him. Men were coming up to her and trying to start conversations, but Noelle’s mind
was elsewhere. From the moment they had walked in, the American had completely ignored her, had acted as though she did not exist.
Why not?
Noelle thought. Why should he bother with her when he could have any girl at the party? Two men were trying to engage her in conversation, but she could not concentrate. The room had suddenly become unbearably hot. She looked around for a means of escape.

A voice said in her ear, “Let’s go,” and a few moments later she and the American were out on the street, in the cool night air. The city was dark and quiet against the invisible Germans in the sky, and the cars glided through the streets like silent fish in a black sea.

They could not find a taxi, so they walked, had dinner in a little bistro on the place des Victoires and Noelle found that she was starved. She studied the American sitting across from her, and she wondered what it was that had happened to her. It was as though he had touched some wellspring deep within her that she had never even known existed. She had never felt happiness like this before. They talked about everything. She told him about her background, and he told her that he came from South Boston and was Boston Irish. His mother had been born in Kerry County.

“Where did you learn to speak French so well?” Noelle asked.

“I used to spend my summers at Cap D’Antibes when I was a kid. My old man was a stock-market tycoon until the bears got him.”

“Bears?”

So Larry had to explain to her about the arcane ways of the stock market in America. Noelle did not care what he talked about, so long as he kept talking.

“Where are you living?”

“Nowhere.” She told him about the taxi driver and Madame Delys and the fat man believing she was a Princess and offering to pay forty francs for her, and Larry laughed aloud.

“Do you remember where the house is?” “Yes.”

“Come on, Princess.”

When they arrived at the house on the rue de Provence, the door was opened by the same uniformed maid. Her eyes lit up as she saw the handsome young American, then darkened when she saw who was with him.

“We want to see Madame Delys,” Larry said. He and Noelle walked into the reception hall. There were several girls in the drawing room beyond. The maid left and a few minutes later Madame Delys entered. “Good evening, Monsieur,” she said to Larry. She turned to Noelle, “Ah, I hope you have changed your mind.”

“She hasn’t,” said Larry, pleasantly. “You have something that belongs to the Princess.” Madame Delys looked at him questioningly. “Her suitcase and purse.”

Madame Delys hesitated a moment, then left the room. A few minutes later the maid returned, carrying Noelle’s purse and suitcase.

“Merci,”
Larry said. He turned to Noelle. “Let’s go, Princess.”

That night Noelle moved in with Larry, to a small, clean hotel on the rue Lafayette. There was no discussion about it, it was inevitable for both of them. When they made love that night, it was more exciting than anything Noelle had ever known, a wild primitive explosion that shook them both. She lay in Larry’s arms all night, holding him close, happier than she had ever dreamed possible.

The next morning they awoke, made love, and went out to explore the city. Larry was a wonderful guide, and he made Paris seem a lovely toy for Noelle’s amusement. They had lunch in the Tuileries, spent the afternoon at Mal Maison and spent hours wandering around the place des Vosges at the end of Notre Dame, the oldest section of Paris, built by Louis XIII. He
showed her places that were off the beaten track of the tourists, the place Maubert with its colorful street market and the quai de la Mégisserie with its cages of brightly hued birds and squeaky animals. He took her through the Marché de Buci and they listened to the din of the hawkers, pitching the merits of their bins of fresh tomatoes, their seaweed-bedded oysters, their neatly labeled cheeses. They went to the Du Pont, on Montparnasse. They had dinner on the Bateau Mouche and finished up by having onion soup at four in the morning at Les Halles with the butchers and truck drivers. Before they were through Larry had collected a large group of friends, and Noelle realized that it was because he had the gift of laughter. He had taught her to laugh and she had not known that laughter was within her. It was like a gift from a god. She was grateful to Larry and very much in love with him. It was dawn when they returned to their hotel room. Noelle was exhausted, but Larry was filled with energy, a restless dynamo. Noelle lay in bed watching him as he stood at the window looking at the sun rise over the rooftops of Paris.