The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(31)
When the curtains finally closed, there was a standing ovation, and then endless bows and curtsies, with Maggie clapping especially hard for Sarah’s group. As the velvet curtains at last closed, and the houselights came up, Chanel looked to Maggie. “We will meet everyone at Maxim’s,” she announced as the audience began to disperse, smiling and laughing.
“Will Maestro Boulez be there?”
“Of course, my dear—anyone who’s anyone these days goes to Maxim’s.”
—
Chanel and Maggie were taken to the famed restaurant in the same long black Benz that had brought them to the ballet. Maggie didn’t ask how Chanel managed a car and driver in the midst of such deprivation. Most likely thanks to the same someone who got her papers to be out past curfew, Maggie decided. A high-ranking Nazi lover?
“Your jewelry’s beautiful,” she told Chanel, when the silence felt strained.
“Can you tell if it’s real or faux?” the couturiere challenged, fingering a necklace. Maggie shook her head. “It’s best that way. A woman should mix fake and real, I feel. I adore fakes because I find such jewelry provocative, and I find it disgraceful to walk around with millions adorning your neck simply because you’re rich. The point of jewelry isn’t to make a woman look rich but to enhance her own beauty. It’s not the same thing.”
Maggie had no idea what the designer was talking about, but she smiled and nodded all the same. The streets between the Palais Garnier and Place de la Concorde, lit by moonlight, were nearly empty. A few people hurried by to make it to the Métro before curfew as the occasional vélo-taxi pedaled swiftly along. Maggie could see the anxiety and fear on the faces of those people they did pass. The Germans are clever, she realized. The curfew wasn’t only a security measure; it was a form of psychological control.
As they were helped from the car by the fawning doorman at 3 Rue Royal, Maggie saw the distinctive golden font of Maxim’s on the silk awning by the glow of the headlights, while tacked onto a streetlight was a government poster warning that cat meat was unsafe to use in stews. Across the street, in the shadows, a prostitute with a heavily made-up face and pushed-up décolletage posed against a wall.
Inside, the restaurant was a smoky scene from Franz Léhar’s operetta The Merry Widow. The main dining room was a flamboyant Art Nouveau salon in gold and scarlet and jewel-like stained glass, where all lines curved, and lamps with red silk shades flattered every complexion.
Everywhere were huge and fragrant displays of burgundy roses, creamy carnations, and sheaves of gladioli in every color from mauve to canary. The waiters were dressed for French formal service in white coats, towels over their forearms. And in a dim corner, a balding pianist with half-moon glasses played “C’est mon gigolo.”
“Coco!” came a man’s cry over the chattering of the crowd. He was lean and taut, with striking dark looks and almost feline grace.
“Serge!” Chanel replied as she made her way over, offering both rouged cheeks to be kissed. “This is Mademoiselle Paige Kelly, here from Ireland by way of Lisbon. And this, my dear, is Serge Lifar.” The designer’s smile broadened. “The Serge Lifar.”
“Enchanté, Mademoiselle Kelly,” Lifar purred, bending low to kiss Maggie’s gloved hand. She almost let out a hysterical giggle despite her omnipresent fear; the charismatic premier danseur and choreographer bowed to her so theatrically that she actually felt, for an instant, like a prima ballerina herself. At his table, Maggie recognized famous faces: the artist Jean Cocteau, the actress Arletty, and the playwright Sacha Guitry. Like Boccaccio’s Florentine youths and maidens, who fled to the hills and spent their days playing the lute and telling stories while plague ravaged their city, Maggie thought.
Arletty, a dark-haired beauty and film star was saying, “My heart is French, but my ass is international!” The actress wore a low-cut Chanel design with a black velvet bow and diamonds—real or fake, Maggie couldn’t say—and a flirty birdcage veil.
“My dear!” interjected Guitry, whose good looks and elegant ease gave him the air of a boulevardier. “Naughty, naughty!”
Arletty smiled, her lips moist and scarlet against gleaming teeth. “Well, if you Frenchmen hadn’t let the Germans in…” She pushed a piece of baguette around her empty plate to soak up every last drop of buttery sauce. “I wouldn’t be sleeping with them!” She popped the bite in her mouth with a satisfied look.
Her voice had carried. “Paris welcomed us with her legs open!” crowed a passing Nazi officer, drinking straight from a bottle of beer, despite the horrified looks of some of the French diners. He staggered. “It’s not as if we burned the city, the way Napoleon did to Moscow,” he added by way of an apology.
One of the German officers at the table rose and went to Chanel. “I’m so glad you could come, darling,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks.
“Ah, here he is, our gracious conqueror,” she murmured in reply. Maggie watched their body language and guessed the officer and the designer were lovers. It occurred to her that, for some of the society ladies, the Occupation offered a certain kind of excitement that far exceeded any enjoyments or luxuries from before the war, as the “Nordic heroes” arrived.
Chanel turned to Maggie. “Let me introduce Baron Hans Günther von Dincklage—but feel free to call him Spatz. We all do.”