Chapter Six
A Package for Madame La Comtesse ...
A Package for Madame La Comtesse ...
1942 - 1978
Zheekee was hot. Madame la Comtesse, how could she refuse him entry to her salon when others were invited? Surely he could present no further embarrassments at this point of their coexistence, and in such a town as this, what was it called, Riche-monde? Who could possibly care anymore? There was no doubt that everyone in the Hotel knew that she shared his suite with him, and was by his side day and night. There could surely no longer exist any shame with regard to his harem which also shared the rooms with him and Madame la Comtesse. What reasons could there be to keep doors closed?
Zheekee pressed his ear to the door to listen, but it was the same old blather about the expense of maintaining him and his Tsouk and his Amâde, and his honey-eyed Alìm. “Lamb. All they will touch is lamb; no other meat, not excellent mutton or medallions de veau do they deign to gaze upon, much less sniff at. And the lamb, oh mon cher, it must be freshly butchered or they turn up their noses in unison and regally stride away from their plates. They would far rather do without than eat day-old meat.” And on and on she went.
Zheekee didn't care anymore. Not a fig. Madame La Comtesse has nothing to hide, and certainly very little to complain about. She might very well show some discretion though she never bothered to.
The management had put up a tremendous fuss before allowing the five of them to live together at the Hotel, but the manager finally came to the same realization with which Madame la Comtesse had justified their presence: it is impossible to separate one soul already cleaving into five parts. At last they moved in, but Madame la Comtesse was required to take one of the Franklin Street Suites, the suite in the worst state of repair. And pay an additional forfait for her four Middle-Eastern companions.
“It all tires me too much to think about it, and is far too insignificant to incur my wrath,” Zheekee yawned in thought. So he stretched out on the floor in front of the salon door, knowing full well that the intruder would trip over him when he made his exit after Madame la Comtesse had thoroughly bored him with her endlessly reiterated stories.
Amâde and Alìm were sleeping on their embroidered rugs which Madame la Comtesse had provided for them; though she tried as she might to get them to sleep on woolen or feather mattresses, the four Persian émigrés would roll off onto the floor and search for their prayer rugs, noiselessly upending trunks and strewing faded satins and broken lace around hotel rooms, until they could comfortably curl up on the warm bedding they insisted upon. Madame la Comtesse had finally given in and simply pulled out the prayer rugs each time they arrived in a new town.
Tsouk was staring out the window. Looking. Searching. And finding of course too, but she knew all too well that Madame la Comtesse had forbidden them to leave the rooms. This in itself held but little importance for Tsouk; she always did precisely as she pleased. Always. But Madame la Comtesse would weep so embarrassingly that it was an infinitely simpler matter to merely sit and watch from the window. Nor would Zheekee have any kind words for her upon her return from the least conclusive of adventures, and she detested his spitting in her face and calling her a slut. The most unbearable part was Alìm's simpering laugh which Zheekee never noticed, for Alìm’s vile humiliation stopped immediately when Zheekee's gaze fell upon Alìm. Alìm would instantly start to fawn upon her Lord and Master. It was all too infuriating.
But Tsouk settled accounts. Always. And now Alìm never hazarded to sit near the cut flowers and pass her silly hours inebriated by their scent if Tsouk were in the same room. Alìm had received a nasty scratch under her right eye the last time she had been caught off guard, lost in realms of hyacinth and jonquil. Tsouk expertly licked the blood off her nails and proceeded to take her rightful seat by the window.
Amâde lifted her drowsy head off the Indian brocade pillow and cleared her throat as her gaze wandered about the room. Zheekee, her Lord and Master was stretched out in front of the door to the salon, allowing full view of his genitals. The foolish Alìm was gently sleeping at her side, a maudlin smile under her delicately closed eyes. Tsouk was at the window searching out pleasure. Her two daughters and their father. All three such empty-headed imbeciles, but well-fed and warm and free from any worry save those which they managed to create for themselves. Amâde had done well to ally herself with Madame la Comtesse early in life; it kept her little family sealed off from want and any of the other horrible providences that life can supply. It was probably for the best that Tsouk would never bear progeny again, and that Alìm could only tease Zheekee and not grant him her favors, for the presence of additional offspring, even one more addition to Zheekee's seraglio would destroy the perfect balance of vice and comfort that she and Madame la Comtesse had orchestrated down to the last gesture and mannerism. Zheekee could have his way at any moment with any of the three of them, even Alìm in her own way, although it had been months since Amâde had heard his panting at her breast. This of course, was a natural state of affairs considering the delectability of Alìm's facade of betrayed innocence or Tsouk's sophisticated passions. As long as Zheekee was satisfied, the world was right with everyone. Including Madame la Comtesse.
“La jeunesse, ah ouais, la jeunesse! Mais, ou sont les printemps d'antans? My faded youth!”
Zheekee turned and smiled at Alìm, who never failed to perk up at the sound of jeunesse, for you see Madame la Comtesse was particularly attached to Alìm, because as she said, “Alìm is my jeunesse. Les fleurs, la gaieté, l'amour simple et heureux. La jeunesse, ah ouais, la jeunesse!”
Tom Wharton had not the faintest idea of what this elderly woman with bleached hair was talking about, although he imagined it had something to do with the four rather controversial guests. Hopefully Lucille would be able to manage the front desk until he could unhook himself politely from the senile discourses of this misplaced Countess, or the Blonde Witch of 258, as she was referred to at the front desk.
It was to be said that she was fascinating. From the snippets of reference here and there, Tom had managed to piece together a lively past, at the Opera of Paris, nightclubs in the White Casbah, and the fatal meeting with Monsieur Le Comte at a society ball given in the Lobby of the Hotel in the thirties. Then there was the rushed proposal of matrimony over the alligators in the Jefferson Court, and her apparent exile from Europe, while the Count and Countess played an elaborate game of Russian Bank, waiting to see who would expire first, monetarily and sentimentally freeing the other.
“Ma'am, I do have to get back to the front desk.”
“Youth, silly impetuous youth, with flowers and gaiety and the happy hours of unperturbed love. Go young man, depart but remember these days of youth. La jeunesse, ah ouais, la jeunesse!”
Alìm gazed at the flowers, and then her father Zheekee. How could anyone be so well provided for? Her father, so sweet and dedicated and respected in their native land as a great doctor, often compared to Hippocrates. He had always cured everyone that came to his door, as long as they had known the road to the exclusive clinic he ceased operating years and years ago, due to the arrival of the Fascists. Oh, how could anyone be more in love, better cared for, or so jealously protected? Alìm had such a carefree existence and unblemished past. The shadow of her one bitter memory darted across Alìm's brow as that horrible, ugly wound broke open again at the thought of her lost male heir.
She had been having difficulty with her mother when she reached the first budding of her own maturity, for Zheekee had turned all his attentions to Alìm. “You are yet too young, and you must not tease your father,” so ran Amâde's admonishment, but Alìm had been too youthful to grasp her mother's meaning. She understood it now.
At the time it had all been too engrossing, too entrancing even to whisper, “Hold back, hold back for five minutes.” Zheekee was endowed with an instinctive, bestial animation for youth with its lithe limbs, innocent stares of credulity, and the simple acceptance of all love’s pains. At the time, Alìm had been beyond compare. There had never been spun silk that could match the sleek touch and smoldering glow of Alìm's locks, which together with her glittering, dewy eyes, rendered her absolutely irresistible to Zheekee’s atavic sensibilities. Amâde could only look askance at the whole matter, hoping to prepare Alìm and restrain Tsouk. As the then favorite, Tsouk took every opportunity to undermine Alìm's character, but even Tsouk realized that her own charms were no competition for the delicacy of Alìm's table manners, or willowing, developing legs.
Alìm had not foreseen the complications of her sister's jealousy. When these complications appeared, her comprehension was already clouded by the burning desire to consummate her passion with Zheekee. He would protect her, she knew that, and he had been saving her so that he would rightfully take her first, and deflower her with tenderness, withholding her possible suitors until what had to be done was done as their tribal tradition demanded. The moment finally arrived, though Amâde would permit nothing more than fond caresses until Alìm's first flows of fertility. Then the moon had risen, full and white and innocent and Alìm left her first childhood for the simple pleasures of her second age.
Once Amâde had assured herself of all matters she would say nothing more, for hers now were the duties of birth and familial harmony. Tsouk would certainly not be easy to contend with, but this too would be taken care of.
At the following full moon, Zheekee was prepared, and unwitting Alìm had accepted. The closeness, the intimacy of contact and the ecstasy of physical love were at last hers. Tsouk and Amâde watched from their prayer rugs, neither daring to move for fear of waking Madame la Comtesse high on her ridiculous mattress. Snores from Madame la Comtesse, a low tear grumbling in Tsouk's throat, and impassive silence from Amâde accompanied the cries of first love’s ecstasy and mature love’s joy in rediscovering that ecstasy all over again. Thus among the silvered shadows of the full moon that night, the first of the new generation was conceived.
It was not an easy pregnancy. Early on, Alìm started to have difficulty keeping anything down other than milk; meat was out of the question. Still, Amâde insisted that Alìm suffer in silence and eat regularly at all meals, leaving her rug to sit and dine with the others. Every time Alìm ate, chewing her food so thoroughly that it was already half digested before it reached her stomach, she would afterward peremptorily vomit. Amâde insisted that she finish digesting what she had started. So Alìm would hover over the viscid mass and when her sense of smell finally deserted her, she cleaned her plate the second time, as it were.
“No daughter of mine shall fulfill her duties as mother by being tended to by others, and she will act as a proper lady does, leaving her rug at all meals, adequately bathing herself with her own means, and sleeping in a dignified position. There shall be no grumbling, no whining and no complaining. Motherhood is not for the weak or the spoiled. A mother of any age is an adult and must behave accordingly.”
The few times that Amâde laid down the law, no comments issued from anyone. Obeisance to the letter was understood. Tsouk was overwhelmed with malicious joy, delighting doubly in Alìm's wordless suffering and Zheekee's renewed interest in her favors, since any further attempt at love naturally abhorred Zheekee, given Alìm's unclean state and Amâde's stern eye. Amâde clung unflinchingly to her precepts while Alìm adored her mother all the more for just such discipline and intransigence. Alìm’s only real consolation were the smiles and caresses of the barren Madame la Comtesse who appeared ignorant of everything. Alìm knew that this was the time to ingratiate herself to Madame la Comtesse inasmuch as the then benevolent lady would probably find but small pleasure in any new face to add permanently to the small cosmos that had been lovingly created for Madame la Comtesse and her four companions.
As the minuscule life deep in her womb developed and she became sicker and sicker, Alìm found yet another solace in the male heir she felt growing inside her. Even Amâde, through mysteries unknown to the Occident, confirmed her conviction that Alìm’s progeny was to be male. Zheekee, reassured by Amâde that he was to have a male heir, began once again to show Alìm small gallantries and distant gazes of affection. Alìm was overjoyed at the smallest of attentions and began to accept her uncomfortable lot with greater serenity. But, she was getting sicker and weaker by the day. Amâde insisted that none of her stern rules of conduct be infracted. The long awaited day had arrived. Alìm had rested the entire morning, not even stirring when Madame la Comtesse brought in fresh flowers and caressed her head while she pretended to sleep. Luncheon was served and after a simple severe glance from Amâde, Alìm somehow managed to arise and go eat. They sat around their gleaming Imari bowls on the floor as was their wont and custom, waiting for Alìm's arrival before commencing. Before Madame la Comtesse had started to ration out portions of lamb of decidedly uncertain quality, Alìm stood up. The convulsions deep in her abdomen were finally coming. Her feeble brain was ripped asunder by primordial pain raging down into her legs, and the unspeakable joy of loosing the difficult life she had long been nourishing. As Alìm plunged into the white chasm between pain and exaltation, the physical and the spiritual, she squatted over her bowl and pushed.
“Behold the new generation.”
Amâde was too dismayed to even flicker out a wince. She prayed that Alìm would simply defecate in this apparent delirium since her pregnancy was little more than half terminated. She did not, however, defecate.
Madame la Comtesse, who had been serving Zheekee, only saw Alìm trembling over her plate, haunches shaking, and a low moan in her throat.
“Alìm! Cochonne! You must not soil your dishes like that! Go immediately...” and then Madame la Comtesse gasped and fainted. Tsouk turned and looked at Madame la Comtesse stretched out on the floor and then turned to stare Alìm in the eye.
“The Lord does not pay every Sunday, but when he pays, he pays well. You know what you must do now.”
Amâde and Zheekee nodded their assent. Alìm stared down at the results of her love and effort: it was male.
Amâde touched Alìm's shoulder.
“My daughter, we have spoken of this eventuality. You know what you must do, as Tsouk has reminded you. Now, finish your business quickly before Madame la Comtesse revives.”
When Madame la Comtesse awoke, there was nothing left in Alìm's Imari bowl and the lamb Madame la Comtesse had been serving had disappeared from the serving platter. Zheekee was in his usual position in front of the door and Tsouk was looking out the window. Amâde and Alìm were resting on their rugs.
It was the first meal Alìm had managed to keep down since the beginning of her pregnancy.
Madame la Comtesse rushed to take off her pajamas, slipped into her most stylish pants suit, le tailleur Dior violet, and made a hasty telephone call. She requested the front desk clerk to carry Alìm down to the Lobby where the taxi driver awaited. When she returned without Alìm, the other three understood what had happened. Tsouk and Amâde had already made similar visits earlier in their lives, to the room of tile and stainless steel. Now there would be no further danger of a sixth wheel interrupting the precarious balance of the five lives in hotel rooms.
Tsouk grimaced. Her sister had been a silly fool, giving into the heady pleasures of love too young to enjoy all the ensuing small raptures that followed later in life. Alìm was now doomed to loving Zheekee as she had failed him so miserably. To be chained to just one lover for life, simple and deluded forever, without any will, taste, or decision; without independence of action: what ennui!
Tsouk always had Zheekee to contend with: a good lover, well, excellent even. But somehow there was no excitement left in loving Zheekee, for though familiarity is said to breed contempt, its first offspring is inevitably tedium. With Zheekee there was left not the faintest hint of romance, and Tsouk far preferred romance to love; it had so many more advantages. Romance had been right there, across the street. Sitting in the window of the house on the far corner of the street, was a new conquest. Tsouk turned to see if Amâde or Zheekee were paying her any mind, but they were far too absorbed in their own indolence to bother with Tsouk. Tsouk turned around again and looked. This time he was looking at her. In the instant that the glance took, all was understood. Tsouk looked back at Amâde and Zheekee again. Napping. The door was open. Madame la Comtesse was in the bathroom. Tsouk tiptoed across the room and out the door. The side stairs proved the best escape, across the Mezzanine where no one sat at that hour, and down the stairs to the side street. No one in the Lobby could possibly have seen her, and of course Madame la Comtesse was bound to be distraught at her absence, but the desire rose from Tsouk’s toenails up, emboldening her decisiveness and fueling her courage. Down she went.
Once in the street she went to sit on one of the unused stone benches in front of the north facade. He was not in the window any more, Tsouk's gaze scanned the street, then the side street, and finally the alley. There in a parked car with the windows rolled down, there he was in the alley. She crossed the street and it was done.
When she returned, Madame la Comtesse gave her the requisite scolding followed by effusive forgiveness and she received cold glances from Zheekee and Amâde who could smell that she had been with an Infidel. Zheekee, whose appetite had been growing in his sleep was so repulsed that he turned to Amâde to indulge in his earthly pleasures; Amâde had been too wise to refuse as a matter of honor. It didn't bother Tsouk in the least. Her red-headed lover had satiated her. So she bathed and then stretched out on her rug, watching Zheekee and Amâde couple until it lulled her to sleep.
Despite all Madame la Comtesse's efforts, Zheekee and Amâde prevented her from eating that evening. Alìm was compassionate at the time, too young to understand what had been going on. Tsouk knew that they couldn't keep up this starvation treatment for long, because Madame la Comtesse would protect and defend and most importantly, feed her personally. So she went and sat by the window and waited.
In the following weeks, Tsouk discovered that the most convenient solution was the Tuscan loggia on the roof, easily reached, completely deserted, and economical as regarded time. There was a tacit understanding that any time she appeared at the window and he was able, they would meet on the left Tuscan loggia shortly thereafter. Tsouk had her little romance.
Naturally, Amâde and Zheekee knew what was going on, so Zheekee turned all of his attentions to Amâde, which made the whole situation far less tense for Tsouk even if it did take away a certain edge of suspense. Tsouk was so careful about her post-coital toilet that she was rarely reprimanded now for her unexplained absences. The only problem was that she was clearly pregnant and far along the path to motherhood. But her lover was not in the least repulsed being a Westerner, and breaking a taboo as strong as the prohibitions imposed on pregnancy gave Tsouk’s passions a ferocious bent. Tsouk was so healthy and sturdy that it was not until much further along that her gravid state began to present the smallest of problems, and but one displeasure. Her desire had finally been annulled. The day of serious problems had arrived.
No one but Madame la Comtesse was the least bit pleased. The others refused to eat with her, but Madame la Comtesse took care that Tsouk was properly fed, lots of protein, the most succulent morsels of lamb and Tsouk even took to sleeping on the bed of Madame la Comtesse, where she was completely safe from Zheekee's wrath.
The contractions came. Zheekee and Amâde exchanged glances before hurrying over to Tsouk who was beside herself with pain. Since Amâde had never intimated to Tsouk the most insignificant of the procedures during her first ill-timed and even worse-begotten pregnancy, Tsouk placed complete trust in her mother. They helped her get to her feet, and then walked her out the door, and notwithstanding the waves of regular paroxysm, they escorted her up the side staircase to the roof, the Tuscan loggia on the right, and got her settled.
After waiting patiently, being coaxed her with long forgotten kind words from her parents and caresses on her neck and belly, Tsouk brought forth a robust, red-haired male. Zheekee and Amâde exchanged a second glance. Then Zheekee slapped her across the face while Amâde bit the umbilical cord in two.
“Slut! You have not bothered to heed us earlier, but now you will do as we say.”
Tsouk was too terrified and confused to disagree when they took her back downstairs. Madame la Comtesse greeted them as they entered the room, and wild with anxiety, got Tsouk into a taxi to go to the room with the white tiles and stainless steel. But there was nothing but a broken placenta on the doctor's rubber-gloved hands.
“Ou est ta petite? Where is your little one?”
Tsouk closed her eyes and turned her head, for although she and Zheekee and Amâde and Alìm understood French and English well enough, they could only speak in their strange personal dialect, a mixture of Persian and Arabe Marocaine which Madame la Comtesse, hard as she tried, could never make heads nor tails of. Amâde was far more secure if her husband and daughters never learned to communicate with Madame la Comtesse apart from glances or grunts. Tsouk bitterly regretted it all now, thinking of her small red-headed offspring slashed by the winds on the roof, suffering through the last hungers and shivers prior to death, if the pigeons hadn't found him.
Before leaving the room, Madame la Comtesse motioned to the doctor.
“I will sign all the necessary papers as I am the legal guardian. Fix Tsouk so that a similar incident will not happen again. These births are such a stress on my soul, and it disrupts their lives as well. I shall call for Tsouk tomorrow afternoon. She should be able to take a taxi back to the Hotel if I accompany her. It is a good idea, n'est-ce pas?”
As she left, she caressed Tsouk's head and bent down to kiss her on the cheek. I do so adore you, though I often don't know why. Ma petite. Ma pauvre petite. Méchante, mais adorable.
This unpleasant incident with Tsouk had brought to mind the horrible last time that Amâde had attempted to give birth. It had been so awful. Uhgghh! And to think she had had so little trouble bringing Tsouk and Alìm to the light of day.
Amâde knew that Madame la Comtesse would try to take her to the hospital as she had done for Alìm and Tsouk, and so Amâde hid when the contractions began. Amâde, who been such a fount of serenity for the happy hours of the day, so calm and gentle, absolutely refused to be taken to the hospital. Madame la Comtesse had been out shopping, a rare enough occasion, and Amâde had been doing her best to bring about parturition before Madame la Comtesse returned. But it was no use, for Madame la Comtesse arrived just as the first of the twins emerged.
“Amâde. Pauvre Amâde and the hideous beasts she conceived. The first had a face but no features. Just skin pulled taut over the bones of his face. No eyes, no mouth, no nose. Just two pointed ears. Of course he died immediately since he could not breathe. And then his sister with a beautiful face, perfectly formed, fine hair to match Zheekee's, and the horror of a stomach which was not covered by flesh. The bare, naked intestines pulsating and white, gleamed in a bloodless hole that ran from her poor heart down to her thighs. No, Amâde had certainly been too far advanced in years to even consider such a thing, but the instinct towards motherhood was too strong. She left them both there alone to die; it is their way, you know.”
“But I simply couldn't bear for them to live the little life granted them without some comforts. So I wrapped them up and laid them together in a makeshift crib of clean bath towels where at least their few moments of life were not entirely cold and heartless. But they did die quickly. They could not have been expected to live more than an hour or two.”
The phone rang.
“Allô!”
“Excuse me Countess, but is Tom Wharton still up there with you by any chance?”
“Why, yes of course! We were just having a small tête-à-tête. He is such a charmant young man. So, so fresh and young and polite.”
“Well, if you don't mind, could you get me Mr. Prince Charmin’ on the line please?”
“Hello Lucille. I'll be right down.”
“What in the name of Sam Hill you been doin' up there? The darn switchboard's lit up like the Christmas tree at Schwarzchild's, Daddy B is relivin' Pearl Harbor all over again, and Mae is waitin' here pattin' her foot like she was Glenn Miller for you to come take the lunch money. I just hope she gives you a big tip for whatever you did with your 'tets'. Or did you do it with hers?”
“I'll be right down Lucille.”
Tom motioned and turned to leave. As he opened the door, Zheekee moved his legs so that his genitals belonged no longer to the public domain.
“Be careful! Don't awaken Zheekee!”
“Don't worry. If you need anything, just call.”
“I will. Merci. Ooooh, le pourboire.”
She extended a five dollar bill.
Tom hesitated. Well, I'll take it this time and refuse it the next. Between this and Alice Saunders' quarter, I guess the tips even out to the correct amount.”
“Thank you. Good-bye.”
“Au revoir.”
The front desk wasn't quite the shambles that Lucille had so vividly depicted, and after a few minutes, Tom managed to relax and smoke a cigarette, sitting in the switchboard room with Lucille.
“Now, you know Daddy B takes a very dim view of front desk personnel making whoopee with the guests.”
“Oh Lucille, go on. She was just talking and I couldn't get away.”
“Well, there's more'n one way to catch a man I guess. Tongue's 'bout as useful as any other part of the 'natomy. And I do wish you'd tell me 'bout that tettatet game. I could use it sometime I bet. Did you hafta take your shirt off or not?”
Madame la Comtesse smiled at Daddy B and gave Tom a sideways glance that intimated he means very well of course, but he is an utterly, utterly clueless little man. She gathered up her wares and sailed back to the elevator.
“Lucille, tête-à-tête means to talk, with your clothes on.”
“Well, what on earth were you up there talkin' 'bout for the better part of a half hour?”
“Everything I guess, but mainly about her family and the problems of motherhood.”
“She ain't got no chilluns.”
“I know, but there are those four...”
The bell sounded at the front desk.
“I have a package for a certain Madame la Comtesse De...”
The Miller and Rhodes delivery man knew the word was French, but that was about it. Tom took the package and thanked the man, relieving him of the embarrassment of trying to pronounce the name.
“Lucille, get me 258 please.”
“Ain't you had enough of her for today? Or are you just warmed up now, big boy?”
“Lucille, just get me 258 please.”
“Yes, your package is here. If you wouldn't mind coming down to get it. I can't leave the front desk.”
“Well, it 'pears she hasn't had enough of you. Is her hineyness coming down to fetch her package all by her lonesome?”
Tom ignored the comment and continued to smoke his cigarette. Just as he finished, the Manager came up to speak to him.
“Son, where in hell you been for the last 45 minutes?”
“258, Daddy B.”
“You mean up there alone wid de Blonde Witch of 258? Oh, hello Countess.”
Fortunately Madame La Comtesse hadn't made out Daddy B's unkind remark. She was far too nervous, as she only rarely left her rooms. Madame la Comtesse had even dressed for the occasion. An oriental housecoat commanded a regal air over men's blue pajamas.
“Now, what have I ordered? I'm certain I don't recall.”
“Here you go Ma'am.”
She poked her head inside the bag and exclaimed.
“Les Parfums de Guerlain! Les Meilleurs! And I was almost certain that I would never find them in Richmond.”
“What?”
“Perfume. The best perfumes, the very best. Here, look: voilà!”
She pulled out gilt boxes and then from the boxes produced four extravagantly worked and tasseled bottles of pale yellow liquids.
“Voilà: Jicky! My father's favorite. He would wear nothing else, and I always insist that Monsieur le Comte douse himself with it for those rare occasions in which we must meet. I keep it for him. Shalimar. Shalimar and debutantes and white dresses with Belgian lace. Mitsouko, for a woman who is completely femme. That's to wear when I go to the tea room. And there, the happy hours of my days in my own little apartments, poured into a bottle of Chamade. What life is worth living if you aren’t scented as divinely as the mood you are in?”
“You know Countess, I bet you could do real well if you signed up with the Avon people.”Madame la Comtesse smiled at Daddy B and gave Tom a sideways glance that intimated he means very well of course, but he is an utterly, utterly clueless little man. She gathered up her wares and sailed back to the elevator.
“Po' ole thang. She should 'least consider selling that Avon stuff, 'least here in the Hotel. She needs something to keep her busy.”
“Daddy B, between her memories, trying to outlive her husband, and those four Persian cats of hers, she already has more than she can handle.”
“I guess you're right son, I guess you're right.”
