Moonlight Over Paris(72)
Mr. Fitzgerald glared at his wife, the air between them fairly simmering, before he stood up so abruptly that his chair tipped over. “I’m going for a walk.”
“I had better go,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said, and she hurriedly kissed Sara goodnight before rushing after her husband. Together, nearly embracing, they gingerly negotiated the distance between the table and restaurant entrance, and as they vanished from sight Mrs. Fitzgerald began to cry.
“Well,” Sara said presently. “I do apologize. Poor Zelda has been feeling a little lonely, what with Scott being so preoccupied with the new book, and Nanny being so zealous in her care of the child.”
“They weren’t at their best tonight,” Gerald agreed.
“When are they ever at their best?” Agnes said abruptly. “This is the third time I’ve met them, and it’s always the same. He ends up sodden with drink, she’s miserable because of it, and the evening ends in tears. So undignified.”
“Agnes is right,” said Gerald. “I like them—how can you not like them?—but they do have a way of wearing you down.”
“I know,” said Sara, “but they’re so young, and—”
“Remember how they woke us all up, even the children, in St.-Cloud last spring? That’s what I mean.”
Sara sighed, remembering. “We scarcely knew them—I think we’d met them once or twice before, but that was all. And then one night—”
“One morning,” Gerald corrected.
“One morning, it must have been three o’clock at least, there they were, in our garden, tossing pebbles at the bedroom windows and shouting at us to come down, come let them in. Come get dressed and go out with them. And something about their being booked to sail on the Lusitania? So silly. Of course it woke the children, and all the servants, and then the dogs started barking . . .”
“I’ve known people like that before,” Agnes said, her expression suddenly grave. “Always their own worst enemies.”
“Who, Auntie A?”
“Dimitri’s relations. And look what happened to them. First against the wall when the revolution came.”
AS DINNER CAME to an end, the Fitzgeralds still hadn’t reappeared, and Gerald declared himself tired of waiting.
“We’re off home to change. We’ll see you there.”
It was a short ride to the Théatre de la Cigale in Pigalle, where the ball was being held. Neither of them spoke much on the fifteen-minute journey, and Helena could only suppose that her aunt was, like her, feeling a little exhausted by the Fitzgeralds’ carryings-on at dinner. It had been a strange, somewhat fractured evening so far, and she could only hope it improved once they arrived at the theater.
Helena hadn’t thought to ask Agnes who was hosting the ball—it wasn’t the Comte de Beaumont, who was known for the extravagance of his parties, and it wasn’t any of the other artistic or literary luminaries in her aunt’s circle. She didn’t recognize anyone in the crowd that was milling about the entrance, and compared to Agnes’s usual set of friends it seemed rather a young crowd.
Very likely it was a student ball, then, for that would explain the incredibly risqué costumes on many of the guests. One young woman who passed by, shivering, was naked apart from a layer of gold paint and a few strategically placed feathers.
Without quite meaning to, Helena found herself separated from her aunt, but there weren’t so many guests that she’d never be able to find her again. Instead she wandered around the theater, which had been cleared of seats for the occasion, and discovered étienne and Mathilde in a matter of minutes. étienne was dressed as the Sun King, Louis Quatorze, and looked terribly handsome in his golden suit and powdered wig.
“Where on earth did you get that costume?”
“I’ve a friend who’s a dresser at the Opéra. Isn’t it perfect?”
“It is. I especially like the—”
The compliment died on her lips, for just then, at the very periphery of her vision, she caught sight of a flash of auburn hair. She turned her head, and her heart stuttered in recognition.
It was Sam, wearing his ordinary clothes, without even a mask or funny hat to offer the appearance of fitting in. Sam, standing with strangers, one of them a young and fashionably dressed woman. She was laughing at something he’d said, her hand clutching at his jacket sleeve, and though her eyes were hidden by a silly little mask Helena could tell the girl was gazing up at him adoringly.
Of course it was no business of hers that he was here. There was no reason, even, for their paths to cross. He had his friends, and she had hers. She would not allow herself to be jealous of the woman who stood at his side and touched his arm in such a familiar, knowing way.
“Will you dance with me?” she asked étienne, and he took her by the hand and led her to the front of the theater. Onstage, a band was playing American jazz music, and though the rhythm was infectious the dance itself was unfamiliar to her.
“It’s the Charleston!” étienne shouted in her ear. “I’ll show you what to do!”
He took her left hand in his and set his left hand at her back, and then he showed her how to step back and forth, then kick from side to side, then pull away so their arms were outstretched and there was room enough for diagonal kicks between them. All this was accomplished lightly and speedily, with turns at each rotation, and in no time at all she had mastered the basic steps and was dancing as gaily as anyone else there.