***
Adrienne Rivet was born on a backwoods Louisiana bayou, to a father thwarted out of a fortune, and a mother made bitter on account of the thwarting. She’d never known her own father, and there was no hope of a fortune from that side, so no one was ever really very happy in the Rivet house.
Adrienne had one brother, two years older – and a younger sister who died in infancy. Her mother hadn’t treated her badly, before little Alice died. But afterwards, it seemed that she resented her for being the girl-child who survived, and she doted on her brother Alphonse.
Of course, Alphonse didn’t like that his sister was treated so poorly, but he was too small to do anything about it. Daniel Rivet was overworked, and he was very tired; and Nicole Rivet was fond of drink. Eventually, she forgot who she liked and who she didn’t, and she began to beat everybody, her husband included. But he was usually too weary to do anything about it. He just drank his beer, and watched the television, and thought of how his brother David had got the fortune that might have been his own.
Life’s a strange thing, after all. There are kisses, and beatings, and promises – and no one ever remembers anything but the money.
It’s very strange.
So far as money went, though, Adrienne Rivet (or perhaps we should call her Tellier, now) soon got used to having more of it than she’d ever had before. If Debussy’s enterprise had been profitable before she came into the picture, it was even more so now. Her presence was like the hand of Midas; the endeavor of the “bed and breakfast” became the envy of every brothel in the Quarter.
The business was booming; and Adrienne Tellier was pleased. She was even glad that she had agreed to pose as Frederick’s wife. It protected her from the advances of the clientele, who clamored after her relentlessly. She turned them all away with cold remarks, wanting them to understand that she wasn’t like the other girls in the house. She was their queen, if you will – not their comrade.
Soon, everyone began to know her as the steely, flint-eyed madam of Frenchmen Street. It suited her, though, because she didn’t have to pretend to be someone she wasn’t. Her personality was naturally cold – it had grown even colder since Beulah’s death – and she wasn’t in the mood to feign amiability.
But she had to admit, Frederick was a stalwart protector. He was like a loyal bulldog, snapping at the legs of those who annoyed her, and making it clear that she wasn’t for sale.
She went to bed with him every night – but he never touched her. She had worried about it for a while, and had thought about the best way to handle it, but it turned out that she needn’t have troubled herself over it. When they went into their room at night, they undressed quietly, and then lay down in the bed. Frederick nodded at her appreciatively; and then he turned out the light.
They only had five girls in the house, but it seemed that five was just the right number. No one was ever unoccupied in the evening, and sometimes there was even a small queue of gentlemen down in the parlor, each of them waiting for his turn with his favorite girl. There was no shortage of lady visitors, either.
Of the five girls at DuPont’s, Ferdinande was probably the most popular. She was your typical blonde bombshell, long legs up to the Milky Way, and enough makeup to choke a test-lab rabbit. She had a bad attitude, too. She could be sexy, when she wanted to be – but usually, she just wanted to be unpleasant. None of the customers seemed to mind, though. Some of them even enjoyed it.
The second-most-asked-for was Raphaelle – a young, beautiful woman from a Jewish family in France. But they were all dead, and Monsieur Debussy, she said, had been kind to her. Her black hair was always covered with sweet-smelling pomade, her high cheekbones painted with rouge. She liked to read, and men often walked into her room to find her devouring Maupassant. She’d always make them wait until she finished the paragraph she was reading. Then she’d stick a stub of paper in the book, and fling herself back on the bed.
This young woman had a strange relationship with Madam Tellier. The two had a sort of camaraderie, friendship at the least, perhaps more than that.
While Beulah Landon had fascinated Adrienne with her resemblance to Bette Davis, Raphaelle was smaller, thinner, and even darker. Adrienne thought she looked like Marion Cotillard. Maybe she watched too many movies.
Raphaelle was like a willow reed that blew in the breeze, not caring which way she bent, and usually wanting to be left alone. But, for some reason, she didn’t seem to mind being close to Adrienne. She shied away from everyone else – except for paying customers, of course – but with Adrienne, she seemed to feel a sort of familiarity, a kind of comfort that no one else provided for her. The two women spent many an early morning together, alone in the parlor, when the large room was still pure with the ghostly light of dawn.
A third girl was called Rosa the Jade. She was a little roll of fat, nearly all stomach, with very short legs. But her lack of physical beauty was more than made up for by her willingness to do things that the other girls wouldn’t. Everyone else had their limits – but it didn’t seem like Rosa had any. She was a dear little pastry puff, the men all said: soft as a cotton ball, and filled with fluff.
The last two girls worked together. From time to time, they could be found separately – but more often than not, where you found Louise, you also found Flora. They were specialists in the ménage à trois, and they brought in nearly half of the building’s revenue. They each had a particular costume, and they hardly ever altered it. Louise was dark-haired, and she dressed as an Egyptian goddess, with a dark sash, heavy eyeliner, and prolific gold jewelry. Flora was a redhead, and she arrayed herself in the attire of a Spanish gypsy, with a rainbow-colored linen shift, and a roll of coins that jangled in her curly hair.
No one knew whether these two were friends or lovers. Oftentimes, someone would walk into the parlor on a Sunday morning, and find them lying naked together on the red divan, reciting Shakespearean sonnets. But sometimes they didn’t speak for days.
It was odd.
Despite so many eccentricities under one roof, however, it all came together to make a profitable business. The girls took their jobs seriously, and Adrienne and Frederick made a strangely efficient team. Adrienne had never considered herself above cleaning – in fact, she’d spent a large part of her evenings sweeping and scrubbing that rathole in the alley, trying to make it feel just the smallest notch above rancid – and she kept the house in perfect order. Frederick had a head for figures, but Adrienne’s was even better, and she often went over the books when he wasn’t looking.
Aside from the suites upstairs, the liveliest room in the house was the parlor. Everyone gathered there to talk, smoke, drink, and play cards. Sometimes, the men even asked for a couple of the girls to come down to them there, and pay attention to them while they got drunk.
It was a particularly pleasant, serene evening in February, and the hosts of the house were sitting in the parlor with three especially loyal customers. Raphaelle and Rosa had come to join them; Rosa at the special request of Mr. Tourneau, who had a love for big-boned women, and who liked for her to sit on his lap while he played cards. It was a little hard to understand, since he only weighed one-hundred-and-fifteen pounds, had osteoporosis, and was arthritic. But he liked for the big girl to sit there, just the same. It made him gasp a little, when he talked, but he never stopped smiling.
Mr. Pushkin was fond of Raphaelle. He was a tall Russian gentleman, middle-aged, with dark hair and eyes. He looked like someone who’d know how to slit your throat without anybody noticing, if he was particularly in need of the contents of your wallet.
He sat with one of his long legs crossed over the other, and Raphaelle was perched on the arm of the chair in which he sat. She didn’t shirk in her duties of paying attention to Mr. Pushkin, but she glanced at Adrienne occasionally, and seemed to feed off of her soft smiles, as if they somehow made up for Mr. Pushkin’s greasy hand, which was lying flat against her back beneath her white T-shirt
.
Their last guest was Mr. Valentine. He was a thoroughly American gentleman, with a light Southern accent – from Texas, Adrienne thought she remembered him saying.
It was no secret that he was in love with the lady of the house. He came almost every evening, just to sit in the parlor. He made the special request that Madam Tellier would come and talk with him – and that was all he asked. When he was offered half an hour’s diligent attention paid him by one of the girls, he politely declined. He just gestured for Madam Tellier to take a seat, and smiled in a very gentlemanly way. Then he went on to talk about politics, or books, or music, or any number of things. He was an intelligent man, and undeniably handsome. He was sort of like Cary Grant, minus the British accent.
On this particular night, there were these three guests in the parlor, and four others upstairs – one with Ferdinande, and three with Louise and Flora. Three women had come in asking for two of the house’s girls. They didn’t care which – but of course Madam Tellier thought it prudent to give them to the professionals.
Every now and then, strange sounds drifted down through the ceiling. The people in the parlor didn’t pay them much mind, but every now and then, an especially loud noise made them look up. In a business like that, one always had to keep an eye out. Pleasure could turn to violence in a surprisingly short space of time.
Frederick and Adrienne sat in armchairs side by side. Mr. Tellier was scrutinizing the daily newspaper, and Madam Tellier was reading a copy of Albert Camus’s Caligula. Rosa sat on old Philippe’s lap while he played solitaire. Every now and then, Mr. Tourneau sucked in a sharp breath, his respiration interrupted by the plump mass of woman that was seated on his knee.
Dmitri Pushkin was folded into his deep armchair, with Raphaelle still poised on its left arm, leaning down to kiss the long Russian every once in a while. Adrienne kept glancing at her from beneath her golden eyebrows, examining the expression on her face. It was a look caught between indifference and misery. At that moment, Adrienne would have liked to push everyone else out of the room, and just sit down next to Raphaelle on the couch beneath the windows, so that they could talk about something that had nothing to do with anything at all.
“What’s that you’re reading, Madam Tellier?” Mr. Valentine asked, sitting forward in his chair, and raising his black eyebrows.
“It’s Caligula,” Adrienne replied blandly.
“Do you like it?”
“Very much.” (She made this answer in the same absent tone.)
“You don’t sound like you do,” Mr. Valentine said with an uncertain smile.
“Ah,” Adrienne returned with a sigh. “That’s only because I never really seem to care for anything. That’s what everyone says about me, isn’t it?”
Everyone in the room looked mildly uncomfortable.
“Ah, well,” Adrienne said, sticking a piece of ripped paper between the pages for a bookmark. “It’s no matter. Life is very similar to literature, after all. Whatever your feelings about it may be – they don’t change the outcome any.”
The discomfort ebbed away, and everyone nodded in concession.
“Very true, Madam Tellier,” Mr. Tourneau said. “I used to think that my life would be a lot like Romeo’s – Romeo Montague, that is. I thought it would be very romantic, to find a girl I couldn’t be with, and then die alongside her for the sake of our forbidden love.” He sighed mournfully, and took a sip of his decaffeinated coffee. (Poor Mr. Tourneau couldn’t drink. His health wouldn’t permit it.)
“But it wasn’t to be,” he went on, in the same desolate voice. “Instead, I met someone who actually wanted to marry me. I didn’t love her, of course – she was like something out of a horror movie – but it wasn’t as though I had many options. Unlike dear Romeo, I wasn’t very handsome.”
“Ah,” Rosa exclaimed, in her high-pitched Latin accent, “don’t be silly, Señor Tourneau! You are very handsome. To me, you are the most handsome man in the world.”
She chucked his chin up with her chubby finger, and planted a wet kiss on his wrinkled mouth. He took hold of her with his thin, sinewy arms, and pulled her close to him. They got a little more excited, moment by moment – but everyone else just looked away, and paid no attention, when Rosa’s voluminous blouse flew away towards the dark fireplace.
Meanwhile, Mr. Pushkin was growing more amorous with Raphaelle. He was tugging at her T-shirt, and trying to mess with her skirt, though she’d told him that they’d need to go upstairs for all that. She was muttering to him, and trying to get him to calm down, when Mr. Valentine said to Adrienne: “Will you tell us more about Caligula?”
“Well, that depends,” Adrienne replied. “Have you ever read it?”
“In college, I suppose,” Jim Valentine said. “I don’t remember much about it, though.”
“When I first read it,” Adrienne said quietly, “I thought it was one of the greatest things ever written. I don’t know why.”
“No idea at all?” Jim Valentine asked playfully.
Frederick was looking from Adrienne to Valentine, seemingly disturbed by their conversation. It was no secret that he disliked Mr. Valentine; just as it was no secret that they were both fond of Madam Tellier. The only thing was, Frederick wasn’t sure what to do about it.
Adrienne looked up with a more purposeful countenance, and held the book upright in her lap. “Caligula had a desire for the impossible,” she said. “He wanted the moon. He didn’t really want the moon, of course – he just wanted what he couldn’t have. Everyone wants what they can’t have. He didn’t think he wanted love, but that’s just because love never panned out like he hoped it would. If it had – he would have been a different person. But it didn’t, so he was a mad tyrant.”
“Well,” Jim said, smiling thoughtfully, “I’m sure I’ve never heard it put quite like that before.”
“Probably not,” Adrienne returned in a disinterested tone. “What does it matter, though? It’s just a silly idea. When you think about it, that’s all life really is. A mess of silly ideas.”
“True,” Jim said. “I’m still interested in your opinions, though.”
“Caligula didn’t know what he wanted,” Adrienne said simply. “The basis of his misery was that men died: and that they were unhappy. But it seems as though there are any number of solutions to such a problem. God; or love. Maybe they’re the same thing. In any case, it’s probably never the right idea to go around killing everyone you meet. It’s hard to understand how that can make up for a loss of love.”
“That’s a good point,” Jim said. “You know, I haven’t read that play in a long time. I’d like to read it with you sometime, and have a little discussion about it.”
“You can talk to Madam Tellier about anything you like,” Frederick said suddenly, in a dry, flat voice. “As long as you pay her for it.”
Mr. Valentine met Frederick’s gaze, not seeming deterred in the least. He even looked amused.
“Of course,” he said simply. “I know better than anyone how valuable Madam Tellier’s time is.”
“Perhaps not better than anyone,” Frederick said quietly, glaring venomously at Jim.
It seemed as though things might start getting a little uncomfortable, when suddenly the silence was broken by Raphaelle’s shrill, raised voice.
“Stop it!” she screamed, leaping away from Pushkin’s chair, and standing alone in the middle of the room, tearing at her long, dark hair. “Won’t you just stop it?”
“What’s the matter with you?” Pushkin cried. “You’re acting like a lunatic! I’ve paid you well. Now you tell me I can’t touch you?”
Raphaelle had fallen to her knees on the carpet, and looked as if she were about to have a breakdown. Adrienne got up from her chair, and went over to her, kneeling down beside her, and holding her against her breast.
“Shhh,” she murmured. “Calm down, girl. It will be all right. Just calm down.”
Raphaelle leaned against her, a
nd her madness seemed to abate. But still, her ragged breath was the only sound in the room.
“Please excuse us,” Madam Tellier said, dragging Raphaelle up with her off the floor. “It’s been a long night – and the poor thing is tired. Mr. Pushkin, if you’d like a refund, Frederick will be more than happy to oblige you.”
Despite her words, of course, Frederick didn’t look happy at all. He looked from Adrienne to Mr. Pushkin, frowning severely, and seeming to be in very dire need of a drink.
“It’s all right, Raphaelle,” Mr. Pushkin said smoothly, throwing himself back in his chair. “I’ll wait for you, my dear.”
Raphaelle burst into tears, and sank down against Madam Tellier, as the older woman led her from the room. It wasn’t much of a difference – Adrienne’s thirty years to Raphaelle’s twenty-five.
But in this world of ours, five years can make a world of difference. It can sharpen the line between cruelty and goodness; and it can blur the line between madness and reason.