The Adored (12 page)

“Sweetie, you should stay on for a few more days after this is over. The more you see of Paris, the better designer you will become.”

“Can I,” she squealed, again the schoolgirl. “You won’t mind if I stay?”

“I’ll miss you, but we’ll get along. “I’ll pay for the hotel; everything else is on you.”

“No, Paulo, it will be part of my vacation. But thank you anyway,” Santa concluded.

“You bring me the bill when you come home or you’re fired. This is a tax deductible investment in the best young designer in New York. The more you observe everything here, the better you’ll be at what you do so well.”

Simon Lancaster had been quiet during this exchange among the “girls.” He worked for Paulo because Paulo needed him, but also Paulo had a hot name and a lot of financial backers. But damn, Lancaster thought, he’s such a girl. Even farther gone than Schwarzenegger would say: girly, girl. And this type of adoration between Paulo and Santa only served to tell Lancaster that his days were numbered.

Santa knew it also. Lancaster was a wonderful mentor to her. For the past two years, he had taught her how an idea makes it from a designer’s head to a woman’s back. He showed her the processes, the upstream and downstream parts of Seventh Ave, from the buyers who bought wonderful fabrics in from Egypt to the wholesalers who helped you break even, even when one of your creations failed.

All the angels and saints are well represented on the streets of Paris, and on their final night together in the City of Light, Paulo Cartino hosted a wonderful dinner for the three at Café Bolivia on Rue St Martin, a right angle between Rues St Germain and St Andre de Arts. At 10 p.m. Paulo paid the check, which was engorged by the two bottles of champagne and three bottles of wine consumed over three hours of gastronomic delights. “You two are on your own,” Cartino said. “I’ve got a 6 a.m. flight back. Simon, you’re taking a 10 o’clock flight?”

“Yes, ten, Paulo. So, see you back home,” and he rose to hug the boss.

“And Santa, I’m glad you were able to change reservations.”

And she also rose, raising her arms with a wide smile, “Paris, three more days in glorious Paris. Thank you, Paulo.” And she kissed him on the cheek, as she caught herself, a bit tipsier than she realized.

“OK then, see you. You two behave yourselves,” he smiled.

“We’ll be along shortly,” Lancaster added, “We can’t let this good wine go to waste.”

“And it is wasting,” Santa held her glass out. Lancaster poured, “But not for long.”

Paulo left, Lancaster plotted. He had admired this wonderfully bodied beauty for well on the two years they worked together. Her style of dress was always in high fashion but always revealed just a little too much thigh or a little too much breast. It was one element of style he constantly fought over with both Paulo and Santa. The Latins liked the flash of flesh, and while he agreed, there was a line you did not cross. Ladies, especially ladies in the city, trusted their designers to keep them in check. You wanted style, not sex. There was a difference.

But when it came to her personal style of dress, the young beauty did cross the line, and it was sex that persisted. Lancaster had had the thought a hundred times. And while he was older, he knew Santa was intrigued. He was after all, six foot three inches tall, with a perennial tan, perfectly put together both physically and sartorially. He had a Halston formality about him that attracted women.

They left the restaurant arm in arm, strolling the streets of Paris in the evening, eventually back toward the Hotel St Andre de Arts. At a corner, as the street darkened, Simon Lancaster stopped and put his arm around Santa Alba’s shoulder. She reached up and kissed him. Their hands began roaming over each other, groping, searching. Lancaster grew frantic, he thought, right here? Alba was hungry, almost growling.

A small, older couple, he with beret, she with a rectangular boxy purse, walked by and seeing the lust before them said something in French.

Pausing, Lancaster looked at the old man and asked the Latin linguist, “What did he say?”

Santa smiled a sweet, slightly drunk smile and said, “He said ‘Pigs.’ He called us pigs.” She started laughing and said something in French to the old man.

“What did you say?” Lancaster laughed.

“Never mind, it wasn’t nice,” she said.

And now the spell was broken. Lancaster came at Alba, and she put her arms up. “No, Simon. That was fun. But it would be trouble for both of us.”

Lancaster, still in heat, said, “Santa,” and moved toward her again; this time pinning her against the grey stucco building.

“Simon,” a transformed Alba said firmly, “No, I like you, but we’re going no further.”

Frustrated, hot, in a bad way, he relented.

“Come on,” she said taking his hand, “Let’s go to bed.” Then realizing what she said, added, “Separately!”

“OK, I get it,” he smiled, painfully.

The truth was she could not believe she had let herself get to that position. She had maintained absolute professional relationships with everyone along the design process—in and out of Cartino Fashions, no matter who tried coming on. And they did. Designers, buyers, distributors, retailers, presidents, and delivery boys. Men and women. They all tried with zero success. Santa Alba was not easy. Only a man she was willing to marry would she sleep with. And that had happened on two occasions with young men she dated over the past three years. And each time she hoped he was the one, especially the beautiful Irish actor from Atlantic Theater Company. But he was only here for six months with a visiting production from the Irish Repertory Company.

Upon waking to begin her mini-vacation in Paris, she felt a bit of a headache. She would be in this city for three more days all by herself. Never had she thought of such solitude. A city of six million people, and she didn’t know a soul but for a few brief introductions at Fashion Week.

She had a list of what to do. It included all the normal sites: Notre Dame, the Pantheon and Victor Hugo’s burial place, the Eiffel Tower, the museums, Montmartre and Sacre-Coeur. But first, a run along the Seine would clear her head.

Along this run on a bright, brisk spring day she passed by vendors on the bridges across the Seine. On the side of one artist’s stand was a flier for “Carmina Burana” at St. Chappelle. Louis XIV’s own chapel, she had read about it on the flight over. Since it was close to Notre Dame, she added it to her list. The flier noted that musicians from the Sorbonne would be performing. She noted the time was 8 p.m. Perfect after a long day, although she did not know the music of “Carmina Burana,” she thought it would be exciting nevertheless.

Santa arrived early and was able to purchase a ticket at the door. At seven thirty she was allowed in. This gave her the opportunity to see the stunning stained glass windows. As she walked around the long rectangular chapel, she noted seating was by individual chair. No seats assigned, first come. As other patrons were taking their seats, she walked to the sixth row, as close as she could get to the altar, where apparently they would perform. She sat in the second seat from the aisle.

No sooner had she sat down and the seats began to fill up across the aisle and behind her. Mainly couples. The single seat next to her sat empty, and she placed her coat on the chair.

A man appeared, and said, “Bon nuit,” in an American accent.

“Good evening,” Santa replied to the tall, well-dressed man.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked.

“No, please,” and she pulled her coat off the seat.

“You’re from the US?” he asked.

“Yes, Santa Alba,” she said smiling, reaching up to shake hands.

“Hi, Edward Wheelwright,” he said taking her hand, adding, “Have you heard Carmina Burana before?”

“No, I really came to see the Chapel. Is it good?” she asked.

Confidently, and noting the beauty of the young woman next to him, he straightened and said, “It’s music from God.”

“That good. I can’t wait,” Alba said, noting for the first time how handsome Mr. Wheelwright was and how impeccably dressed he was. “I guess that’s why everyone is coming in so quickly. “Doesn’t look like there are enough seats,” she said as people had started to stand along the rear of the Chapel walls.

“I don’t know, but I think this is going to be tight. In fact,” he said looking across the width of the chapel at about thirty feet and the depth of the altar at about forty feet, “I don’t know what to expect.”

“I guess we’ll find out in a few minutes.”

And now leaning toward Santa Alba and smelling the sweetness on the person next to him he said, “No, what I mean is, I was in San Francisco in February. Carmina Burana was at the symphony, and I was alone that night also, so I went to see it. There was a full orchestra of about one hundred and a chorale of about one hundred and seventy. There wasn’t an inch of space.”

Santa looked at him and said, “I read the flier; it said ‘presented by the Sorbonne.’ I didn’t see much other information. Maybe the price of the ticket should tell us something,” she smiled.

“I’m an idiot. I should have thought of that. For twenty-five francs, what can we expect?”

And at that moment they found out just what they could get for twenty-five francs as four individuals walked out of the side sacristy to applause. There were two middle aged men with beards, a young man of about twenty-five, and a young woman about the same age. With them they had two instruments each.

Fear ran through Wheelwright, amazement through Alba.

The beard with the glasses began a dialogue for the two hundred or so gathered.

“Can you understand what he is saying?” Wheelwright asked.

“Yes, he says they’re going to play Carmina Burana on baroque instruments.”

And then the other beard began with a series of guttural tones. Wheelwright recognized the tune but not much else.

After forty minutes there was an intermission.

Wheelwright and Alba moved together to the back of the chapel. “This is not at all what I expected,” he said.

“It is rather terrible,” Alba added.

“Thank you,” he smiled. “Would you like to get out of here? I mean, are you with anyone or meeting someone?”

“Yes and no. Yes, I would like to get out of here. And no, I’m not with anyone,” she answered with a smile.

As they walked out of the Sun King’s chapel into the Parisian spring night, Santa Alba thought Edward Wheelwright could be one of those boys a girl takes home to her mother.

They went for a late evening bite to eat at a café filled with young couples on Rue St. Germain. Paris was the ultimate people-watching city; all of the couples were facing the street, making note of who was passing by. A couple of young men poked each other as Santa Alba entered. Alba and Wheelwright soon joined the gawkers, doing less gawking and more sharing of their lives. She lived in New York; he worked in New York but lived in Greenwich. She worked in New York but came from Coamo, Puerto Rico. Many of the young couples seemed to be just passing time together, but apart, as they faced the street, having separate thoughts on who passed by. Santa and Edward faced the street; neither noticing who passed by, who came to the dimly lit café, or who left. Each element of personal history became important, a revelation. Santa awaited every new detail of this young stranger’s life; Edward longed to learn more about this beautiful creature beside him. As they faced the street from the café, they sat next to each other. With each intimacy shared, Edward and Santa leaned a little closer to one another until their shoulders, arms, hips, and thighs were touching. She felt fused to Edward; he wanted to kiss her more than he had ever wanted to kiss another woman. He was so close it was searing; she was near enough to inhale. They talked till two in the morning.

After the café owner flashed the lights and several couples rose to leave, Edward asked Santa, “How long are you here.”

“Another two days. During the fashion shows, we only got to see models and clingy dresses. So I took another three days.”

“Brave girl, staying by yourself. This isn’t the safest city,” he said, now protectively, “I’m here for four more days. I only have one meeting in the morning, perhaps I could join you on some of your visits tomorrow afternoon?”

“I’d like that very much,” Santa said.

Edward Wheelwright walked Santa Alba back to the Hotel St Andre de Arts and as they stood looking, beholding each other, he said, “I really enjoyed meeting you tonight.”

“Me too, Edward,” Santa replied, hoping he would try to kiss her. She told herself this time she would not protest.

“Should we meet here, right on this spot, at twelve thirty?” he asked.

“We should.”

He hesitated, looked at her and smiled, “Good night, Santa.” He took her hands in his, raised her right hand and bent his six-foot-two-inch frame to kiss her right hand. Not a long kiss, rather quickly, but she liked it. She liked him.

In the next two days, they lived through the centuries of builders, of writers and of artists. They saw where they were born, they saw their work places, and they saw where they were buried. They visited more churches than must exist. Edward thought, Paris has more churches than New York has bars.