Paris: The Novel

if she had English connections, and she smiled.
    “My parents were English, in fact. Highly respectable. My father was a banker. Fortunately they can’t see me now.”
    “So that’s why your French is so pure. You learned it.”
    “I did. In the valley of the Loire.”
    Were her parents still alive? he asked.
    “They were killed in a car accident, I’m afraid. Driving in the mist.” She shrugged sadly. “A long time ago.”
    She could see he was intrigued by her creative efforts. She showed him the Wild West room next. Then a room draped as if it were a tent, with a low bed and many cushions.
    “It’s like something from the Valentino movie:
The Sheik
,” he cried.
    “Of course. It’s quite popular. We have one man—he comes once a week, always the same girl, always this room. He’s tall and handsome. They’re both into role-playing. They really get into it.”
    Charlie admired the Oriental room, and the Spanish room. Recently, Louise had created a German room, modeled after the romantic castle of Neuschwanstein. “I wanted music for this room,” she said. “You know: Wagner. It’s difficult to arrange it short of having a full orchestra in the house. I tried a gramophone playing
Carmen
in the Spanish room, but it didn’t really sound right.”
    By the time she had shown him all the rooms, almost half an hour had passed.
    “That’s everything?” Charlie asked.
    “There was a girl who wanted to make a dungeon in the cellars. You know, chains … everything. But I said no.” Louise shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll change my mind, one day.”
    Did she ever take on any of the customers herself? he ventured to ask.
    “Absolutely not,” she answered firmly. “In fact, I haven’t had a lover for quite a while. It would have to be someone who interests me.”
    “And may I ask what your next design is going to be?”
    “I’ve got a girl—very beautiful—from Senegal. I want to make an African room for her. But I haven’t yet decided how to do it.”
    He accepted her offer to take a little tea, in the English manner, in her apartment. She asked a few questions about his life. He was intrigued to know how she came to make such a transition from upper-middle-class England to being a madam in Paris.
    “The transition was not as great as you might think,” she said. “I wassent to France. I liked it. I modeled for Chanel. I became the mistress of a rich man, then another. I inherited a little money.” She shrugged. “But I didn’t marry. And I wanted a business.”
    “But you hadn’t lived the life of the streets.”
    “No. I had a friend—he’s not a friend anymore now—but he knew everything there is to know about Paris, from the richest houses to the low life of the streets. He was very helpful to me. But as you know very well, a business like this is as far removed from the poor prostitutes in the rue Saint-Denis as your own house is from a slum.”
    “I’ve often seen them. Can’t say I ever felt any attraction.”
    “Don’t go near them. But most of those girls are just trying to survive. Put food on the table. They can’t charge much, so to make any money at all they have to do maybe ten tricks a day. To do that you have to turn yourself into a machine, just to survive. And it’s physically dangerous too.” She shrugged. “Paris is the romantic capital of the world. But there’s nothing romantic about the underside of any great city.”
    He nodded.
    “Funnily enough, you remind me of my stepmother,” he remarked.
    “Why?”
    “She ran a business, with a lot of imagination. She’s very capable.”
    “Stepmothers have an evil reputation.”
    “Not this one. I love her. And she makes my father happy.”
    “I’m glad to hear it.”
    “I have another question. I noticed a picture when I came in. It looked a bit like you.”
    “It does, doesn’t it? That’s just a coincidence, though. I bought it from a dealer because it came with two preparatory sketches, which you don’t often find.”
    Louise stood up and went to the window. It was an October afternoon. The sky was clear; the sun was still shining over Paris. She loved the autumn season, yet she often felt a strange melancholy on Sunday afternoons.
    “Would you like to go for a walk?” she suddenly said.

    They walked down the old rue du Renard, crossed the big open space in front of the Hôtel de Ville and then crossed the Seine to the Île de la Cité. The sun was in the west, the light on the Seine was