Last Train to Paris by Michele Zackheim Page A

even more miserable. “I don’t want to talk about it, R.B., it’s too upsetting.”
    So neither of us spoke—two sad people, elbows on a wine-stained tabletop, drinking wine without a name.
    I was lost in thought when I heard Andy. “This is stupid,” he said. “I’m going to Madame Beloit’s.” And he stood, obviously drunk. “Come with me, R.B. It won’t hurt for you to see another side of life—especially from a woman’s point of view. It’ll make a good story.”
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    Madame Beloit’s brothel, La Petite India, was above a bookbinding shop on the rue de Rosiers in the Marais. It was primarily frequented by journalists and men from Les Halles, along with a few tourists looking for a story to take back home. It opened at midnight, closed at seven in the morning, and was run by the firm, bejeweled hand of Madame Beloit.
    I tagged along, feeling ridiculous, but also curious. We climbed the stairs to be met by Madame herself. “No women, Mr. Roth,” she said in a husky voice. “You know better.”
    â€œI’ll leave,” I said, embarrassed.
    â€œNo, I need you to stay. Just sit here.” He pointed to a chair in the corner.
    â€œMy friend, here,” he said to Madame Beloit, trying to stand straight and look presentable, “is a famous writer and it would behoove you to let her sit for a while. Yes?”
    â€œYes,” Madame agreed, with a glint in her eyes.
    I took out my notebook and officiously flipped it open.
    Madame was a huge woman with many chins, dressed in billowing black taffeta, with white lace over her bosom, and just a bit of nipple showing. Her face must have been pretty at one time and she still had startlingly beautiful blue eyes. Before taking more than five steps into her house, a client had to place the mandatory francs into Madame’s fat, outstretched hand. The parlor smelled as if someone had sprayed an entire bottle of Shalimar in the air.
    The electric piano was playing “You’re Driving Me Crazy,” adding a slice of mournful humor to our evening. The room was almost proper in its furnishings, except for small pictures that had been cut out of a magazine and placed in cheap frames. They depicted (I counted) fifty-seven positions of the Kama Sutra.
    Lounging on the deep red velvet sofas was an array of women waiting to be chosen by the leering men. They were dressed in transparent yellow or red saris that left one breast exposed, in keeping with the theme.
    â€˜That’s my favorite,’ Andy whispered, poking me in the side. ‘Her name’s Effie–reminds me of the Rocky Mountains.’
    â€œBut, Andy,” I whispered, “I thought you were true to Ruby,” and he turned and looked at me as if I was born yesterday.
    Effie was much taller than a typical Frenchwoman, and thin and wiry—like a ranch hand. “Every time I see her,” he said, “I’m reminded of lassoing steers and half expect her to slap her thighs, do a jig, and sing, ‘I’m an Old Cowhand.’”
    â€œCome on, handsome,” Effie said to Andy.
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    â€œNo Berlin, Mr. Ramsey,” I said firmly, while leaning against the doorjamb. “I won’t go back. Go ahead and fire me. I don’t care.” I waited for an explosion.
    And it happened.
    But coldly. Seriously. Without space to move. “I don’t give a good goddamn what your reason is, Miss High-falutin’. You’re going back.” And he brought his furious pink face right up to mine. I could hear chairs scraping behind me.
    â€œLet her be!” I heard a reporter yell.
    â€œYeah,” boomed the chorus of employees.
    â€œDon’t you dare touch me, Mr. Ramsey,” I said quietly, while feeling my lip snarl like a fox’s.
    He stepped away, grabbed a beer from someone’s desk, took a swig, then slammed the bottle on a table, sending glass shards and beer