12

MÉNAGE À TROIS (OR DINNER FOR THREE)

The Excelsior is an expensive place. Dark gleaming mahogany walls with subtle accents of beige—or would they call it “ecru”? Gilt-trimmed mirrors reflect the diners and the Renaissance-style dark paintings hanging above them. If some wealthy bride and groom happened to arrive, these diners would be perfectly dressed for the occasion. I hear champagne corks popping hither and yon. And those tablecloths—whiter than white. Cloroxed and starched into crackling crispness. Exquisite huge bouquets overwhelm every available surface. Voices are hushed. Chandeliers shimmer, winking down at us with the perfect amount of flattering light. I notice all of this as the maître d’ leads us to our table, a cash register cha-chinging in my head, calculating how much it will cost us to help keep this place rich and snobbish.

When we reach our table, Jack immediately comes to my chair, to pull it back for me to be seated. At that same moment, we both see Michelle standing, tapping her fingers along the back of her chair. I see the indecision on Jack’s face and I practically throw myself into my satin brocaded armchair. Jack rushes to Michelle just as the maître d’ reaches her. A clumsy moment as neither moves away. Finally Jack lets the maître d’ take over and seats himself between us. The maître d’, infatuated with this exotic creature, lifts Michelle’s napkin, snaps it open, and places it delicately on her lap. She thanks him with a dazzling, practiced smile.

As quickly as I can, I toss my napkin onto my lap to prevent this from turning into a scene out of a Charlie Chaplin comedy as both Jack and the maître d’ are about to charge toward me. Whew, that was close. I could imagine them fighting over who gets to play “snap-the-napkin” with me.

A waiter introduces himself as our “wait person, Charles,” as he places the wine list in front of Jack and announces the “specials,” overwhelming us with fancy names and exotic ingredients for twelve different dishes—most of which are covered in heavy sauces and undoubtedly fattening. By the time he gets to “Pompano Papillote with freshly squeezed lime and an outrageous spiced mango sauce, with the slightest drizzle of aglio e olio,” my eyes have glazed over. Michelle seems to absorb every word of every delicacy.

Charles bows and positions himself slightly away to give us time, all the while ogling Michelle’s décolleté. Low-cut sounds so much sexier in French.

Jack examines the wine choices. I see him furrow his brow and I bet the prices are staggering. So much for our having an inexpensive dinner tonight.

Michelle reaches out toward the wine list. “May I?” she asks. “While living with the winemakers whom I tear apart in my next exposé, I learned a great deal.”

Jack hands her the four-sided laminated card. “Be my guest.”

I almost shout “Don’t!” I shudder. Doesn’t he realize she’ll pick the most expensive bottle?

And indeed she does. The highest-priced French champagne they have. Jack winces when she points it out to our waiter, who simpers immediately to her side.

And so it goes. When it’s time to choose an entrée, Michelle waves to her “Jacques” and requests he choose for her. He always knew what she liked. Oh, boy, talk about double entendres. Another choice French expression. Under my breath I hum to keep from speaking.

I choose quickly. The very cheapest thing on the menu, a small appetizer. I explain I’m not too hungry. Jack gets my message. At least my part of the bill won’t bankrupt us.

Michelle waggles a naughty finger at me. “Now, now, Gladeze, that is not a good way to diet. It’s not the amount of food you eat, but the ingredients.”

So now I’m fat. I take a deep breath. It’s time to mentally chant Evvie’s mantra. I will take the high ground. I will not throw my tiny ounce of champagne in her face. I took only enough to wet my lips, leaving the rest for her, and she does guzzle most of it. I only pray she doesn’t order another bottle (I might have to kick Jack under the table to stop her). Nor do I retort with a snappy quip about the size of her hips. No, not I. Nor do I respond when she “congratulates” me on my clothes, for being thrifty and for shopping prêt-à-porter.

“That refers to department stores,” she translates.

“I know,” I tell her. “I saw the movie.”

She sighs. “If only I had a shape that could wear clothes off the rack, but, alas, they never fit right.”

Not one word from me, but oh, how I’m tempted.

She yaks on. “I’m forced to have all my outfits made especially for me.”

“How sad for you,” I say, hardly hiding my sarcasm.

“But, however, I have lucky genes. I can eat all I desire and never gain weight.” This she proves by ordering a fat-streaked steak and garlic mashed potatoes.

She looks to Jack. “I haven’t gained any weight at all since you saw me last, have I?”

“Look the same to me.” His response is bland.

For some reason, Jack seems oblivious to her antics. And he isn’t saying much. She chatters away about her life in Paris, her darling petite maison with its six bedrooms and five baths in the charming part of the seventh arrondissement with its lovely view of the Eiffel Tower.

Wanna bet that’s the wealthiest neighborhood of Paris? No takers?

She prattles on and on. The people she knows. An endless list. She dredges up how much Jacques adored going to the Sorbonne with her. He just loved Montmartre and the Centre Georges Pompidou. The modern art museum. “But I think our favorite was the drive down to Chateau de Versailles.” She nods to Jack; he parrots a nod back.

I tune her out. Jack listens as if mesmerized. I eat quickly, hoping to rush things along. It’s already been two lengthy hours and I want out! But not Michelle, she lingers over every bite of every course.

Finally, she daintily pats her mouth with her napkin and beckons her very own Charles and asks for the dessert menu. She explains to me, “Ever since I wrote my latest book, Bonbon, Non Non! I’ve become an expert on chocolat.”

I stand up. I’ve had it. “I don’t want any dessert, Michelle. No need to order for me.” I head for the ladies room, muttering, “The high ground, the high ground.”

Jack is startled as Michelle suddenly grasps his hand. She seems mortified. “Oh, Jacques, what have I done? Your Gladeze is upset. I have insulted your fiancée.”

“Michelle, Gladdy is a mature woman. I’m sure she isn’t insulted.” Oops, that wasn’t the right thing to say. Now he’s insulted Gladdy for being old and Michelle for being a child. I feel like I’m on a high wire, he thinks. I’m going to lose either way.

She sighs. “Too long have I lived alone. Too long have I made my own decisions. You had picked out a sweet small restaurant, non? But I make you go along with my plans. So selfish. I pick the restaurant. I pick the wine. The dessert. Me, me, me. That’s who I think about. But I was trying to please you and selfishly did not think of her. What should I do? Apologize? How can I undo my bad manners?”

Jack smiles at her. “It’s all right. I promise Gladdy will be fine.” He hopes. “She’s a wonderful woman if you had time to get to know her.” Why didn’t he make it clear to Michelle how much he loved Gladdy? Suddenly he couldn’t get words out of his mouth through dinner? That’s gonna cost him.

“Will you give her my apologies? I feel such an inconsiderate fool.”

Jack is touched. This is the Michelle he once knew.

The Snake looks up and down the hall. So far, so good. No one is on her floor. His waiting is finally paying off. The maid parks her cleaning cart in front of the redhead’s suite.

He waits a little longer, hoping the woman will clean one of the bedrooms first. He plans to hide there until she finishes her cleaning and leaves.

But he decides it’s too risky to wait out in the open much longer. When he enters the suite, he passes the vacuum cleaner sitting in the middle of the living room rug. He hears sounds coming from the master bedroom. The Snake tiptoes around the corner and looks in. The maid is standing in front of the closet mirrors. What is she doing? Aha, she is trying on Mme. duBois’s clothing, specifically a scarlet cocktail dress and a diamond necklace. He scowls. To him the maid is a homely middle-aged hag. A too-fat stomach bulges out of the outfit, so it stays unzipped. Her black, frizzy hair is unkempt and the snood she must wear on her head doesn’t help, either.

What to do? She hasn’t seen him yet. He can just grab the laptop and sneak back out. Amazing that the woman forgot it. She always has it with her. He cannot miss this opportunity. But his plan is to make it part of a robbery, so it will seem like the laptop was just one of the stolen goods. A common occurrence in hotels. He could come back and try later—kill his mark at the same time. But he hesitates. What if she brings her guests back to the suite? This might be his only opportunity.

He watches the maid enjoying seeing herself dressed in such expensive clothes; doesn’t she realize what a pig she looks in them? Now she tries on a black silk gown. He shudders at the lumpy body in her cheap underwear. Doesn’t she have other rooms to clean?

Enough! He has not yet had his dinner. He will linger no longer. He pulls on a pair of leather gloves and walks boldly into the bedroom.

“What is going on?” His voice reeks of cruelty.

The maid gasps. She gropes for words. “I didn’t mean anything, honest.” Half hiding behind the closet door, she rips the gown off and quickly hangs it and the other outfits back in the closet, apologizing all the while. “Please, I’ll lose my job. I need this job … ”

She throws the necklace back on the dresser and dresses hastily in her uniform. She stands, paralyzed, waiting to find out what he will do. She inches slowly toward the door, but he moves right with her. From the change of the look on her face he realizes she has understood the situation. Her hands go on her hips, indignant now.

“Who are you? This is not your room. You are not a guest here. You don’t work here. You’re old!” She starts to laugh. “You’re crazy.”

“Shut up, you cow,” he shouts at her. Nobody disrespects The Snake! He sees her freeze at the sight of a knife appearing in his gloved hand.

The maid falls to her knees, begging. “Please, don’t hurt me. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I’ve seen nothing. Nobody. Do what you came for. Let me go.”

“And you think I believe you won’t run to the manager immediately?”

Her hands are shaking and she can’t stop them. “I wouldn’t tell him, because he would fire me for going through guests’ private things. You couldn’t tell them about me. That way, we are both safe. I promise I’ve never seen you.” She climbs back up, clumsily, never taking her eyes off him. Panting, not daring to move.

“Say au revoir.” He moves menacingly toward her, angling the knife.

The Snake waits for the expression that always comes to his victims when they know death is near. Terror first, then their eyes roll back in dazed acceptance.

But merde, not this one. She runs for the door, screaming.

For a ninety-year-old, The Snake has fast reflexes. She never makes it. He catches her by her uniform apron string. But she still doesn’t give in. She fights for her life. He smacks her. She grabs onto his pocket so as not to fall. He doesn’t notice that his glasses case has fallen out in the struggle.

As he walks over her dead body toward the door, he wonders if the café down the street has the calf’s liver special again. He must remember to tell them to leave the bacon off to the side.