Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 by Francine Prose Page B

minutes after the appointed hour. On time, by the standards of our town. Rudely late in the sixteenth arrondissement, where the guests were already sipping champagne. Who would have guessed that French aristocrats are as punctual as Germans?
    I should have asked the baroness what to wear. I was crazy to consult Lionel and to listen when he said that socialites love rubbing shoulders with filthy smelly artists. He said it gives the chronically bored a thrill to think that their home has been invaded by a dangerous lunatic. Why did I imagine that the poorest writer in Paris could tell me how to turn myself into the plaything of the rich?
    I asked Lionel, “Are you sure? Her brother-in-law hates Hungarians.”
    Lionel said, “Armand de Rossignol won’t even know you’re there. He is addicted to opium, and those dinner tables are long. Your baroness will seat you as far away from him as possible.”
    I felt a vague unease as I tied a red scarf around my neck and pulled a gangster’s cap down on my forehead. Late or not, I should have gone home and changed when the butler who answered the door asked to see my identification.
    He stood close, prepared to tackle me, while I searched my pockets and in the process knocked over a vase that didn’t break but only—only!—spewed water, lilies, and slime across the marble floor.
    A servant appeared and fixed the problem with a nimble flick of the mop, a sleight of hand that took long enough for him to hiss, “Ming Dynasty, you ignorant fool.”
    I sidled into the conservatory scented with tropical flowers, rumbling with the bassos of men in evening dress, punctuated by the sweet tremolos of women with arms too smooth to keep their spangled dresses from spilling off their shoulders.
    When I entered, the conversation stopped. Everyone stared, or so it seemed.
    I saw the men patting their pockets and their wives clutching their evening bags. It is how we Hungarians act when a Gypsy boards the tram.
    The baroness swanned out of the crowd, swooping down to save me. How happy she was to see me and how lovely she looked. Her silk dress fit her like a coating of lilac liquid gleaming with silver bugles. If I’d brought my camera, I might have broken our unspoken agreement and insisted on taking her picture. She handed me a glass of champagne, brushed cigarette ash off my jacket, and hooked her arm through mine.
    Shouldn’t this have signaled that I wasn’t threatening or contagious? Yet when the baroness introduced me, her guests’ smiles flickered and died. My name meant nothing to them, but their names were the names of wines, perfumes, and banks. Mr. Brandy, Miss Cologne, Mrs. Laundry Soap, and quite a number of Mr. and Mrs. Luxury Automobiles.
    A servant hit a silver triangle, turning the guests into obedient zombies. They shuffled beside the servants who showed them to their places at the candlelit table set with crystal, china, heavy silver, sprays of peonies and camellias.
    The baroness patted my arm and left. I had no choice but to annoy everyone, leaning in to read the cards until I found my seat between two women closer to your age than mine. You will understand what kind of dinner it was when I tell you that the lady on my right was a cousin of Prince Yusupov, the murderer of Rasputin, while on my left was the duchess on whom Proust modeled a character whose name Papa would recognize, if I could recall it.
    The Russian looked like a close relation of the mad monk’s assassin. Proust’s ancient muse seemed marginally less disturbing. I introduced myself to her as a friend of the baroness’s, a photographer and a writer. She seemed to think we’d met before, and said something I didn’t catch. Apparently she believed I’d recommended a doctor for her cats. The veterinarian had worked miracles. I told her she was welcome. What did I like to photograph? I said I’d just been shooting in an opium