My bosom friend Betty Merchant chose a gray, late November day to stop by with her donation. I heard her arrive and issue orders to Pia for hot tea that would never come. Betty forged her way into my office, dressed in an indigo bouclé Schiaparelli suit and a hat adorned with indigo and scarlet feathers, a folded newspaper under one arm. In one hand she carried an old wedding present from a New Jersey couple, a three-foot-high money tree made of sixty one-hundred-dollar bills folded into little paper fans on a wooden base. In the other she balanced a tower of nested shoe boxes.
Betty set the money tree on my blotter. “I brought this for your French babies. That should buy some tinned milk.”
It was good to see Betty, but I was behind schedule, and case folders were stacking up. In the French tradition, our office was closed for lunch from twelve-thirty to three, and I’d allocated that time to eat canned tuna at my desk and regroup for the afternoon onslaught.
“Thank you, Betty. Good to see you, but—”
“And shoe boxes, as promised. I only brought the French ones so those babies would feel at home.” Betty’s shoe habit provided the vessels for the comfort boxes I sent abroad, and I knew there’d be a steady stream to come.
Betty closed my office door. “I’m closing this on account of Miss Big Ears out there.”
“Pia?”
“She listens to everything, you know. Desperate to know where we’re lunching, of course.”
“I’m swamped and not hungry either, I’m afraid.”
“You can’t sneak in a bite? There’s nothing like a martini to stir up a lazy appetite.”
“How can I take lunch with that crowd waiting? I just had a couple from Lyon who haven’t heard from their daughter back in France since June. Both sobbing.”
“Honestly, Caroline. You’re a volunteer and you can’t even take lunch.”
“These people need me.”
“That elevator boy of yours—Cuddy?—maybe I’ll take him to ‘21.’ There’s something about a man in uniform.”
Betty looked in her compact mirror, checking herself for imperfections. Finding none, she shrugged, disappointed. Betty was often compared to Rita Hayworth, for she was blessed with an abundant head of hair and curves that once caused an elderly fellow in a wheelchair to stand and walk for the first time in years. She wasn’t always the prettiest girl in the room, but it was hard to take your eyes off her, like a train accident or a dancing bear.
“You need a break, Caroline. Why not be my bridge partner?”
“I can’t, Betty. Things are crazy here. With Hitler throwing his weight around, half of France is trying to get out, and the other half is desperate to get back in. I have sixty comfort packages to assemble. You’re welcome to help.”
“I do love the French. Seems you do as well. Saw that new boyfriend of yours yesterday, on his way to the theater.”
A few snowflakes fell outside the window. Was it snowing at our house up in Connecticut?
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Unfortunately, too true, though I saw Paul often that fall and early winter. He would stop by the consulate before rehearsal, and we’d share a brown-bag lunch up on the French Building’s roof garden, no matter the weather.
“You seem to find time for him. Mother told me she saw you step across to Sardi’s. ‘Tête-à-tête at lunch with a tall European.’ Her words. The whole town is talking about it, C. Seems he’s become your best friend now.” Betty lobbed a folded newspaper onto my desk. “There’s a blurb about you two in the Post. Did you know he was voted World’s Most Handsome Man by Physical Culture magazine?”
I wasn’t surprised but was somehow flattered by that. Who even voted for those things?
“One lunch,” I said. “Really. Giving him notes on his show—”
Betty leaned across my desk. “You deserve a lover, Caroline, but keep it quiet, darling. Does it have to be a theater person? And one so, well, public? I know you’re still smarting from David. If I’d known my brother was—”
“That’s over, Betty.”
“I can run interference for you, but once a reputation’s tarnished, there’s no polishing it. Evelyn Shimmerhorn is enormous. Can’t leave the house.”
“Would you leave Evelyn alone? I don’t care what people think.”
“You’ll care when you’re not called up for get-togethers. Why not let me fix you up? Honestly, David may be my brother, but he has his faults, God knows. You’re better off without him, but don’t rebound with some Frenchman just to spite him. Every man has a silhouette, you know, of the woman he’ll end up with. We just need to find a suitable man with yours in mind.”
“You must have better things to think about, Betty.”
Betty had been my biggest supporter since our first day at then-coed Chapin, when a boy in French class called me le girafon and she ground the heel of her white kid boot into his foot.
“If it were up to me, I’d have you and Paul both stark naked atop the Chrysler Building, but I’m trying to protect you, dear.”
To my great relief, Betty said she had to run. I followed her to the reception area, where she took the money tree and dropped it on Pia’s desk.
“I hope you don’t expect me to deposit this,” Pia said, leaning back in her chair, Gauloise in hand.
“Won’t you be a sight on Fifth Avenue? By the way, do you own a bra, Pia dear?”
“The word is brassiere.”
Betty tossed a dollar on Pia’s desk. “Take this, and buy yourself one. They’re cheaper in the children’s department.”
As Betty left the reception room, Paul bounded off the elevator, brown bag in hand, and held the door for her. Betty just gave me her best “I told you so” look and headed on her way.
Paul had come that day to iron out his visa issues with Roger, and I elbowed in on the meeting. I wanted to show my support for Paul, for it would surely convince Roger to help him stay. Roger had installed a Murphy bed in his office, and he’d left it down, the bed linens balled atop it like used tissues. It had not been productive sleep.
“I need to get Rena out of France,” Paul said.
Roger pulled an electric razor from a drawer and set it on the blotter. “We can try. The U.S. visa is a hot item. You saw the line. Even French citizens with U.S. visas are stuck in France. So few boats.”
“Rena’s father is Jewish,” Paul said. “Will that complicate things?”
I went to the Murphy bed and unballed the linens.
“Since Washington changed immigration quotas in ’24, everything’s harder now,” Roger said.
“She’d settle for a tourist visa.”
Roger slammed his desk drawer closed. “Would you get away from that bed, Caroline? Everyone in that line out there would settle for a tourist visa, Paul. Rena needs two sponsors.”
“I can be one,” I said, plumping Roger’s pillow. Was that lipstick? Rockette red.
“Thank you, Caroline,” Paul said with a smile.
“Shouldn’t you be helping Pia out front, Caroline?” Roger said.
I tucked the blanket edge under the mattress.
“Has Rena booked passage?” Roger asked.
“Yes, but without a visa, her ticket expired. She’ll rebook once she has the new visa.”
Roger turned on his razor and applied it to his cheeks, cleaning up stray hairs. Left to its own devices, that beard would have swallowed his face whole. “I’m not making any promises. More visa restrictions are due any day.”
“More?” I asked.
“You know it’s not my decision,” Roger said.
I lifted the Murphy bed up and into its wall closet.
“Can’t we expedite things? This doesn’t seem fair. Paul is a prominent French citizen, an ambassador to the world—”
“I’m at the mercy of the U.S. State Department, Caroline. A case of champagne only gets you so far.”
“I may go back to France for a visit,” Paul said.
“Go back, and you’re back for good,” Roge
r said.
I stepped to Paul’s chair. “Why not wait until spring?”
“It will be a very different situation by spring,” Roger said. “I would go now, Paul, if you’re serious.”
Paul sat up straighter.
“Of course I’m serious.”
Was he? I’d given him the reentry forms and he’d lost them, twice. Not that I wanted him to leave.
“Then you need to apply,” Roger said.
“I can fill out the forms for you,” I said.
Paul reached over and squeezed my hand.
“You must be eager to see your wife,” Roger said.
“Of course,” Paul said.
Roger stood. “It’s up to you, but if you’re in your room at the Waldorf when Hitler decides to move on France, you won’t be going back.”
The meeting was over. Paul stood too.
“Caroline, can you stay behind for a minute?” Roger asked.
Paul made his way to the door.
“See you upstairs,” he said and left for the roof garden.
Roger closed his door. “I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into here.”
“I’ve sponsored ten applicants—”
“You know what I mean. With Paul.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. Stay calm….A tired Roger was trouble.
“Paul would be gone by now if not for you. I see what’s happening.”
“That’s unfair, Roger.”
“Is it? He has a family, Caroline. Isn’t it odd he’s in no hurry to get back?” Roger picked up Paul’s folder and paged through it.
“His new show—”
“Is more important than his wife?”
“I think they’re somewhat, well…estranged.”
“Here we go.” Roger tossed the folder onto his desk. “Pia says you two spend lunch up on the roof garden.”
“No need to overreact, Roger.” I stepped toward the door. Little did Roger know, Paul and I had crisscrossed Manhattan together many times over. Eaten chop suey and rice cakes on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village. Strolled the Japanese garden in Prospect Park.
“Look, Caroline, I know you’re probably lonely—”
“No need to be insulting. I’m just trying to help. It isn’t right he and Rena should suffer like this. Look at all Paul’s done to help France.”
“Please. You want me to get Rena out so he can stay. Then what? Three’s a crowd, Caroline, and guess who’ll be left out? He needs to do his duty as a French citizen and go home.”
“We have to do what’s right, Roger.”
“We don’t have to do anything. Be careful what you wish for, Caroline.”
I hurried back to my office, sidestepping a stray pétanque ball. Would Paul still be waiting?
Roger’s words hung in the air. Maybe I was attracted to Paul. I hoped Betty was right about men and their silhouettes. Did Paul like mine? There were worse things in life.
—
WE WERE TERRIBLY BUSY at the consulate, but Mother insisted I volunteer at the thé dansant she and her friends arranged at the Plaza. If you’ve never attended one, a thé dansant is a relic of a bygone age, a casual afternoon gathering at which light sandwiches are served and dancing is encouraged.
There were a million places I’d rather have been that day, but Mother’s thé dansant was to benefit her White Russians, those former members of the Russian aristocracy, now exiled, who had supported the tsar in the Russian Civil War. Helping these former aristocrats had been Mother’s pet cause for years, and I felt obligated to help.
She’d booked the Plaza’s neorococo Grand Ballroom, one of the most beautiful rooms in New York with its mirrored walls and crystal chandeliers, and commissioned a Russian balalaika orchestra to provide the music. Six of the tsar’s former court musicians, in white tie, sat ramrod straight on risers at one side of the ballroom. Each held his triangular three-stringed balalaika on his knee, waiting for Mother’s cue. Though these world-class musicians had been reduced to playing at thé dansants, they seemed happy for the work. The assisting hostesses, committee members Mother had strong-armed and a few of my Junior League friends, went about the room setting up in traditional Russian dress. She’d even convinced a sullen Pia to join our ranks.
I told no one outside of my fellow hostesses that I volunteered at these gatherings, for it was humiliating beyond belief to be seen in Russian dress. As an actress I’d happily worn every species of costume imaginable, but this one was too much, for it included the sarafan, an elongating black trapeze-like dress embroidered with bright red and green stripes and a puff-sleeved white blouse adorned with crewelwork flowers. Mother also insisted we all wear the particularly embarrassing kokoshnik, the high headdress embroidered in gold and silver, set with semi-precious stones, and festooned with long strings of river pearls. As if I weren’t tall enough already, the headdress made me resemble an only slightly shorter Empire State Building draped in pearls.
Mother slid an empty Russian gilt-and-enamel donation bowl onto the front table and then placed one hand on my embroidered sleeve. This sent a lovely wave of perfume my way, the one her friend Prince Matchabelli, a displaced Georgian nationalist himself, had made just for her, with her favorite lilac, sandalwood, and rose notes. He and his actress-wife, Princess Norina, sent Mother every one of their fragrances, resulting in a colorful city of cross-topped crown bottles atop her dressing table.
“There will be low turnout,” Mother said. “I feel it.”
Though I was reluctant to tell Mother, low attendance was inevitable, for Americans had become increasingly isolationist. The poll numbers showed that our country, still smarting from huge casualties in the First World War and from the Great Depression, was opposed to being swept into the new conflict. New Yorkers were in no mood for thé dansants that benefited anyone outside our forty-eight states.
“With the war on in Europe, your White Russians are no longer a priority, Mother.”
Mother smiled. “Yes, think of all the poor displaced Europeans.” She looked at charitable opportunities in the way some eyed a plate of pastries.
Our cook Serge stepped across the ballroom, a pleated toque on his head, his chef’s jacket dusted with flour. He cradled a silver bowl of tvorog in his arms, a Russian peasant dish of farmer’s cheese infused with blackberry syrup. Born Vladimir Sergeyevich Yevtushenkov, Serge was descended from some sort of Russian nobility, which Mother had always been vague about. Having Serge live with us was like having a heavily accented, much younger brother who spent every waking hour thinking up new things to flambé for Mother and me.
Serge’s appearance caused Pia to approach, like a crocodile sliding into the water, crystal punch cup in hand. “That looks delicious, Serge.”
Serge blushed and wiped his hands on his apron. Lanky, sandy-haired Serge could have wooed any girl he wanted in New York City, but he’d been born with a crippling shyness that kept him in the kitchen, happily salamandering his crème brûlée.
“Maybe booking the Grand Ballroom was a mistake, Mother,” I said.
The chances of filling over four thousand square feet with merrymakers were slim. I stole a piece of Mother’s khachapuri, buttery bread cut in triangles. “But you advertised it in the Times. People will come.”
Mother’s orchestra played a passionate version of the Russian folk song “The Ancient Linden Tree,” incompatible with any modern-day dance step.
Mother gripped my elbow and pulled me aside. “We’re selling Russian tea and cigarettes, but leave them alone. Pia says you’ve been smoking them with your French friend.”
“He’s not—”
“Your social life is your affair, but we need to make a profit.”
“I know you don’t approve of Paul, but we’re just friends.”
“I’m not your minister, Caroline, but we both know how theater people are. Especially married actors away from home. But you’re a thirty-five-year-old woman—”
“Thirty-seven.” br />
“You don’t need my approval. But if you ask me, one or two from the orchestra might make suitable beaux.” Mother tipped her head in the direction of the band. “Once the toast of Russian aristocracy.”
“There isn’t one under sixty.”
“The picky bird goes hungry, dear.”
Mother wandered off to drum up donations, and I finished readying the room. I was on a ladder adjusting a spotlight to shine on the orchestra, well aware that being up so high only increased my conspicuousness, when Paul appeared at the ballroom door. He stepped straight to the ladder.
“Roger told me I could find you here.”
The grand room suited Paul, the cream-colored walls with gold accents a fine contrast to his dark good looks. I felt a wave of la douleur, one of the many French words that do not translate into English well, which means “the pain of wanting someone you cannot have.”
“Delightful,” I said, climbing down the ladder steps, pearls swaying. Could he not at least suppress the smile?
“I’m on my way to the theater, but I need your signature for Rena’s visa application. If this is a bad time—”
“Of course not.”
Mother approached us, and the orchestra picked up their tempo.
“Mother, may I introduce Paul Rodierre?”
“Lovely to meet you,” Mother said. “You’re in The Streets of Paris, I hear.”
Paul gave Mother one of his best smiles. “Just one of a hundred.”
Mother seemed immune to him. To the untrained eye, she appeared perfectly cordial, but after years of watching her in society, I could detect the chill.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to see about refreshing the khachapuri. Someone seems to be eating it all.”
Paul turned to face Mother. “Khachapuri? My favorite.”
“It’s for the paying guests, I’m afraid,” Mother said. “Not that there will be many of those tonight.”