Five minutes later, I was in my beautiful suite, with its plush four-poster canopy bed and regal French furnishings. I quickly shed my clothing, my lingerie the last to go. I could still smell Jaime Zander on me. The memory of him ravaging me on his conference room table replayed in my head. And then the sight of him kissing Vivien kicked that memory out of the ballpark. A mixture of rage and self-loathing coursed through my veins. I shoved all of my undergarments into the waste can by the sink, and then hopped into the shower to wash away the memory of this deceitful man. No matter how hard I scrubbed, his face lingered in my mind.
I towel dried myself and readied myself for bed, slipping into Gloria’s Secret iconic pink and white striped cotton PJ’s—made for sweet dreams. Enfin! I crawled into the luxurious duvet-covered bed and turned off the light. Unconsciously, I rubbed my fingers over my scar as tears leaked from my eyes. The words of my beloved Madame Paulette swirled around in my head. It eez better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. In my heart, I mourned the loss of my cherished mentor and scorned the loss of Jaime Zander. My heavy, teary eyes couldn’t fight gravity. At last, sleep triumphed over sorrow, but sweet dreams were not to be had.
My wake-up call sounded at six forty-five the next morning. As in any hotel I stayed at, a subsequent knock at my door, signaling the arrival of my coffee, forced me out of bed. I was groggy, a victim of a restless toss and turn sleep and jetlag. After unlocking the door, a jovial mustached waiter set a tray with a pot of steaming coffee along with a pitcher of steamed milk on a small table. It was a welcome blessing.
After draining the strong café au lait, my mind re-activated. I wasn’t looking forward to the sad day ahead. A long, hot shower followed. Under the pounding water, I plotted what I was going to wear to Madame’s burial. I wanted to look elegant and dignified; I owed her that.
Rifling through my neatly packed Louis Vuitton garment bag, I came upon the perfect black dress—an almost knee-length Dior with a scooped neckline and three-quarter length sleeves. It was one of my favorites and was glad that I’d packed it. From my other suitcase, a piece of matching luggage, I pulled out my one-piece black lace merrywidow, designed with an underwire and adjustable garters, and the matching v-string panty. After donning the undergarments, I ferreted through the pocket of the suitcase for a pair of black silk seamed stockings. The ones I settled on were my lucky stockings—I took them everywhere I flew, believing their magical powers could protect me from danger, especially a fatal accident. They came from Paris. Madame Paulette had bestowed them upon me on my eighteenth birthday—the first of many pairs she would send me in the years afterward. As I carefully rolled them up my legs, I heard her deep raspy voice. “Love eez like a fine pair of silk stockings, ma chérie. One snag and it can all unravel.”
The image of Jaime Zander crept back into my mind. Grabbing my purse and an overcoat, I slumped out of the room, tears threatening to fall.
The cemetery where Madame Paulette was being buried was located on the outskirts of Paris. Tombstones with both crosses and Stars of David dotted the verdant pasture; many dated back to the nineteenth century. A kindly-looking rabbi, with a graying beard and skullcap, met me at the gravesite and introduced himself. Rabbi Rosenberg. As he took both of my gloved hands in his, my eyes darted to the tombstone of Henri Lévy. My French was good enough to understand the epitaph beneath the etched Jewish star: “Noble hero and devoted husband of Paulette Lévy.” Soon his beloved would be by his side again. A chill in the air shot through me.
“She was a special woman, beautiful both inside and out,” the rabbi told me. He spoke perfect English. “I knew her well.”
I was surprised the rabbi knew her and asked how. It turned out that Madame Paulette attended Shabbat services at his synagogue on Friday nights on her buying trips to Paris.
“She spoke highly about you. You were like a daughter to her.”
“Merci,” I said in French, tears welling in my eyes. From the corner of one of them, I saw a dozen or so men transporting her casket toward us. My breath caught in my throat.
“A minyan from our congregation,” said the rabbi, knowing I wasn’t Jewish. “They will help us bury her in her final resting place.”