Cancans, Croissants, and Caskets Read online

  It was ten in the morning in Paris, but my body clock was still back in New Jersey and set at four a.m. I was jet-lagged. I conked out on the twin bed in the room I shared with Gini. The last thing I saw before I drifted into sleep was the framed historic map of Paris hanging on the opposite wall. Oh, you beautiful city, I thought. For one week you are mine.

  We woke up ravenously hungry and headed across the street to the Select café for omelets and coffee or tea—and hot chocolate for me. Paris bustled by us on this glorious morning in July.

  “What time do we dance tonight, Tina?” I asked.

  “At eight-thirty, but we have to check in at our bateau this morning and find out who’s in charge, what kind of music they have, what else we have to do,” she said.

  Well-fed and fairly presentable-looking, we headed for the nearest Metro station. “Let’s get a carnet,” Gini said.

  My French is limited to “oui,” “non,” “bonjour,” “combien?” and “Ou est la toilette?” so I asked Gini what a carnet was.

  “A booklet of Metro tickets instead of one ticket at a time,” she said. “It’s much cheaper.”

  We checked the map for the nearest stop to our boat, bought carnets, and jumped on the Metro car that had just arrived. It was a lot cleaner than the subways in New York, but then, what isn’t? It was also a lot easier to find our way because of the easy-to-follow maps everywhere in the system. I love New York, but the subway system could use a lot of help.

  Our Bateau Mouche was anchored a short distance from our Metro stop. It was a long, sleek boat with glass windows all around the lower portion and an open deck at the top. Several other Bateaux Mouches were anchored in front of it. The river teemed with other sightseeing boats gliding by during the holiday week in Paris.

  “Bonjour,” the woman behind the ticket desk said. “Je regrette, mais il n’y a pas un bateau cette après-midi.”

  Even those of us who don’t speak much French understood that she was telling us there was no tour that afternoon.

  Gini explained to her in French that we were looking for Henri Fouchet, the person in charge of the bateau. That we were the Happy Hoofers, the entertainment on the dinner cruises for the coming week.

  The woman pointed to the ramp leading to the boat and told us to ask for Monsieur Fouchet when we boarded.

  We could hear the music as we walked onto the boat. Waiters were setting up the tables lining both sides of the boat, each one next to a floor-to-ceiling glass window so the passengers could see the monuments in Paris during the evening cruise. Each table had red, white, and blue flowers. Stuck in the middle of the bouquet was a little French flag with its wide blue vertical stripe on the left, a white band in the middle, and a red one on the right. There was a stairway leading from this enclosed part of the ship to the open deck on top.

  “Bonjour,” one of the waiters said to us as we made a couple of twirls in time to the music we could hear from the prow of the bateau. You couldn’t help it. I couldn’t, anyway. It was an Edith Piaf song, “Padam, Padam, Padam,” the beat so strong you had to move your body along with it. I was really getting into it, when Tina put her arm around my waist and led me toward the prow. “Save it for later, Jan,” she said.

  Four men were sitting on simple wooden chairs. One played a trumpet, one a cello, one was on keyboard, and the other on drums. They segued into a lively version of “New York, New York” and played even louder when they saw us. We linked arms and swung into a tap routine that showed off our bodies to their best advantage. Dancing is one of the best ways to stay in shape, and we were definitely toned. We were wearing halter tops and jeans and sandals in the summertime heat. It was our kind of music.

  The men played faster and faster, and we kept up with them. Finally, with a triumphant blast of sound they ended the song and applauded us as we bowed to them.

  “Bonjour,” the man on trumpet said to us. “Vous êtes les Happy Hoofers de New York, n’est-ce pas?” He was in his forties, his hair rumpled, a stubble of beard on his chin making him sexy.

  “Oui,” Gini said. “Do you speak English? I speak French, but my friends only speak English.”

  “Of course,” he said. “We have to know English because a lot of our passengers are from America. Welcome. I’m Jean.”

  The other musicians introduced themselves. The drummer was young, in his twenties, his eyes bleary. His name was Yves. “Hey,” he said.

  Claude, the cellist, was clean-shaven, with neatly combed, long brown hair, and dark brown eyes that looked us all over and came back to me. He saluted me and said, “Later.”

  While the cellist and I were looking each other over, the keyboard guy grinned and said, “Where you from?” He was a little overweight but cute anyway. He had a mischievous smile and twinkly eyes, longish hair. Something about him made me think he wasn’t French.

  “New Jersey,” Gini said. “You’re not from here, are you?”

  “How’d you guess?” he said. “I was born in Brooklyn. I’m Ken.”

  “How long have you been here?” she asked.

  “A couple of years,” he said. “I’ll go home one of these days. But not yet.”

  Looking at him, I knew he’d never go back. Once Paris gets a hold on you, you don’t want to leave.

  “Is Monsieur Fouchet around?” Tina asked.

  “He should be here any minute,” Jean said. “You want to give us an idea of what kind of music you need? They just told us you tap-dance.”

  “We thought we’d dance to the music made famous by different French entertainers each of the five nights we’ll be here. Edith Piaf, Yves Montand, Charles Trenet, Juliette Gréco, and Charles Aznavour.”

  “You’re really going back there, aren’t you?” Jean said.

  “Too far back for you?” Tina asked.

  “No, most of the people who can afford this dinner cruise are old and rich,” Jean said. “They come here for the music they remember from the two weeks they spent in Paris when they were young. We can play that music with our eyes closed.”

  “Allo,” a husky woman’s voice called to us. “You must be the Happy Hoofers,” she said with an adorable French accent.

  We turned around to see a slim, brown-skinned woman with short, dark hair and large brown eyes that dominated her face. She reminded me a little of Rihanna. She was wearing a sleeveless, flowery dress and carrying a blond shih tzu with black ears. It was impossible to guess her age. She could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five. She looked so French, I expected the band to strike up “The Marseillaise.”

  “Bonjour,” Tina said. “We are the Happy Hoofers. You must be Suzette Millet. You’re going to sing while we dance, right?”

  “Oui,” she said. “I will do the French songs from the fifties. First night, Edith Piaf? Ça va?”

  “Très bien,” Tina said. “Will you do ‘Les Feuilles Mortes’? That’s my absolute favorite.”

  “How could I not do ‘Autumn Leaves’?” Suzette said. She put her little dog on a chair nearby and started to sing the song that I had heard many times about two lovers who separate and their love fades away like footprints in the sand. It always makes me sad to hear that song. It did so now as I listened to a voice that was an echo of Piaf’s. Strong, rolling her r’s, passionate.

  When she finished, she said, “But that’s too slow for you to dance to. How about ‘Milord’? That would be perfect.” She sang it, first full-voiced and Edith Piafian on the chorus, then slower and sadder for the verse. We linked arms and time-stepped and mini-grapevined to this story-song of a lost gentleman, comforted by a French woman of very little virtue but much compassion, as she invites him into her room away from the cold and loneliness. Shuffling and step-stepping, we told the story with our feet and our arms and our love of this song, so French, so Piaf.

  “Great song, Suzette,” Tina said. “But let’s do that one second. I’d rather start out with ‘Les Grands Boulevards,’ if that’s OK with you. I love Yves Montand�
�that was his song. Let’s work out a program and we can practice on this stage. It’s small, but big enough for us to move around on, I think.”

  “ ‘Les Grands Boulevards’ is absolutely parfait,” Suzette said. “One of my favorites.” She looked up and her whole face changed, became livelier when she saw the man who had just boarded the bateau.

  “Oh, Henri. Allo, mon cher,” she said. She greeted a man with dark hair and sexy eyes who kissed Suzette on both cheeks. “Ça va, chérie?” he said. He was casually dressed in a white shirt open at the neck and black pants. Except for a slight paunch, he was in excellent shape.

  “Ah, the Americans have arrived, I see,” he said when he could tear himself away from Suzette. “Bonjour.”

  “Monsieur Fouchet?” Tina said. “I’m Tina Powell, and these are the Happy Hoofers, who are going to dance on your bateau this week.” She pointed first to Gini, who shook his hand and rattled off a long speech in French that seemed to please him.

  “Your French is excellent, madame,” he said. “Where did you learn it?”

  “I studied here when I was young,” she said.

  His attention shifted to me. His eyes widened. “And who is this?” he asked. I detected a little too much interest in his eager expression.

  “Janice Rogers,” I said, moving back a few steps before he could welcome me to the boat with a kiss.

  “Enchanté,” he said, kissing my hand.

  Tina had to prod him gently to introduce him to Pat and Mary Louise, who were trying not to laugh. They’ve seen this happen a hundred times, and for some reason, they don’t resent me for it. Pat once said to me, “Your looks are a fact of life, and we get more jobs because of it. Anyway, we love you.”

  “We are very pleased to have you with us this week,” Henri said, addressing all of us. “As you know, your first performance will be tonight, le quatorze juillet. One of our biggest holidays. We have fireworks, celebrations, songs, dancing, and we fill every seat on the Bateau Mouche on this night. You will be the perfect entertainment.” His eyes fastened on me again. I thought I saw Suzette frown. She looked away quickly and hugged her little dog closer to her.

  “Tiens, tiens, tiens,” a low, rather growly voice said. We turned to see a woman with a face that could only be French. Her complexion was flawless, her makeup subtle but perfectly applied to show off her blue-green eyes. She had a longish nose, high cheekbones, thin lips, and an expression that said, “I am here now. Don’t mess with me.”

  “Ah, chérie,” Monsieur Fouchet said. “Come meet our Happy Hoofers, who arrived today. Hoofers, this is my wife, Madeleine.”

  She did not smile, just looked at each of us, deciding whether she approved of us or not.

  Tina took over in her graceful, charming way, holding out her hand to Madame Fouchet. “We are so happy to be here, madame,” she said. “We love being in Paris, and we are grateful to have the chance to perform on this Bateau Mouche.”

  Madame Fouchet took Tina’s hand and her expression softened slightly. “I look forward to seeing you dance,” she said.

  Tina introduced her to the rest of us. Madame paused before she shook my hand, her eyes appraising me coldly. “You are quite beautiful,” she said, surprising me.

  “Thank you, madame,” I managed to say. “That’s very kind of you.”

  She walked over to Suzette, kissed her on both cheeks, and patted the shih tzu. “Bonjour, chou-chou,” she said, moving on to greet her husband.

  “Alors, Henri,” she said, “you are coming with me to arrange the flags on deck?” It was not a question.

  “Mais oui,” he said. “Mesdames,” he said to us, “you will be here by seven tonight? The guests board at seven forty-five, and our bateau sails at eight-thirty. We tour until eleven and then anchor near the Eiffel Tower to watch the fireworks on the top deck. Entendu?

  “We will be here,” Tina said.

  Madame Fouchet glanced briefly at the musicians. I thought she looked a little longer at Jean, the trumpet player, but I was probably wrong. She took her husband’s arm and headed for the stairway to the upper deck.

  “One more time,” Ken, the ex-pat keyboard guy, said, smiling at me and swinging into “Auprès de Ma Blonde.” Even I knew that meant “Next to My Blonde.” Things were looking up.

  Janice’s Fashion Tip: Don’t wear shorts in Paris unless you’re sixteen with gorgeous legs.

  Chapter 2

  Fireworks

  We worked out a routine with Suzette and the band and left the boat to explore Paris before we had to return to the apartment and dress for our performance that night.

  Mary Louise and Tina headed for the Champs-Élysées and shopping. “July is the best month of the year for sales,” Tina said. Gini wanted to take photos of the children riding the carousel in the Tuileries. Pat said she would find the nearest café and watch the people go by. “Don’t worry, guys,” she said, “I’m only drinking lemonade.”

  Pat hadn’t had anything alcoholic to drink for about a year. We worried a little that Paris and all that wine would lure her back to drinking again, so we were relieved to hear the word “lemonade.”

  I wanted to go back to Montmartre to relive some of the memories of my honeymoon there with Derek. I hopped on a Metro, got off at Abbesses and walked up the steep, winding street that led to the Place du Tertre just below the Sacré-Coeur at the top.

  As I climbed up that hill, I remembered the day Derek and I made the same trek when we were in Paris on our honeymoon. It was a beautiful, warm day in June. We were holding hands and stopping to kiss every few yards. We were so in love. I met him when we worked together in a play off Broadway. He seemed to be fine with my having a little girl. It wasn’t until we got back home that he made it clear that he didn’t want her around.

  But on that day in Montmartre we were halfway up the hill when some music drifted out of an open window. I think it was “April in Paris.” Derek took me in his arms, and we danced right there in the middle of that little street. We felt like we were the stars in a romantic movie. I thought we would be in love in that way forever. But I’ve learned that “forever” doesn’t exist in my life, no matter how much I think it’s going to.

  On this day, twenty-five years later, I was all alone. No one to dance with. No one to tell me I was the most wonderful woman in the world. No one to kiss me and dance with me in the middle of the street. I sat down at an outdoor table at one of the cafés and breathed in the feel of Paris. I missed being in love.

  “What would you like, madame?” the waiter said. He was a thin, dapper man with a carefully trimmed mustache.

  “A glass of white wine, please,” I said. “A sauvignon blanc. And a mushroom omelet.”

  “Certainly, madame,” he said, smiling at me. “Right away.”

  I was totally absorbed in the scene in front of me. The square was surrounded by cafés and shops, with an outdoor art exhibit in the middle. I watched people poking around among the paintings, some pretty good, some not. Lots of pictures of the Sacré-Coeur, Notre-Dame, the Eiffel Tower. Souvenir paintings to take home. My table was close to the narrow path that circled the square, and I could hear snatches of German, French, English, and Italian. A man stopped at my table, blocking my view.

  “Want some company?” he asked.

  It was Ken, the keyboard guy from the Bateau Mouche.

  “Oh, hello,” I said, surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard you tell your friends you were coming up here, so I decided to follow you. Do you mind?”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” I said. And I really didn’t. He seemed like a good guy, and I wanted somebody to talk to. “Come sit with me.” He pulled a chair over to my table and sat down next to me.

  “When I saw you from across the square just now, you looked sad,” he said. “Are you sad?”

  “Not seriously,” I said. “I was just remembering my honeymoon here.”

  He looked disappointed. “You’r
e married?” he asked.

  “Not anymore. I don’t have much luck with husbands. But the honeymoon was great.”

  “How many husbands have you had?” he asked.

  “Three,” I said. “Either I have lousy taste in men or a short attention span.”

  “I know what you mean,” Ken said. “I was married once.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “She didn’t want to live in Paris. Once I came here, I never wanted to leave. She wanted to stay in Baltimore. I kept coming back here for longer and longer visits, and finally I just stopped going home. She got a divorce. No hard feelings. She comes to see me in Paris once in a while.”

  “What is it about this city?” I asked him.

  “It’s so beautiful, for one thing,” he said. “Everywhere you go, there’s something that takes your breath away. And French people are so different from Americans. Their whole attitude is ‘If you like me, fine. If you don’t, who cares?’ I love the food and playing on the Bateau Mouche.” He looked at me and smiled. “And meeting you. You’re so lovely. You belong in Paris.”

  “Thank you, Ken,” I said. “I do feel at home here. One of the places I loved was a little boîte near Sacré-Coeur called the Lapin Agile. “The best musicians played there. We used to sit on the floor because it was always crowded and click our fingers instead of clapping. It was so cool. I don’t suppose it’s still there.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Ken said, “it’s still there. It’s famous all over the world. Sort of a legend. They always have the best musicians. It’s still cool. Want to go there tonight?”

  “Ask me again later,” I said. “Let me see how I feel after dancing.”