Roger slammed his desk drawer closed. “Would you get away from that bed, Caroline? Everyone in that line out there would settle for a tourist visa, Paul. Rena needs two sponsors.”
“I can be one,” I said, plumping Roger’s pillow. Was that lipstick? Rockette red.
“Thank you, Caroline,” Paul said with a smile.
“Shouldn’t you be helping Pia out front, Caroline?” Roger said.
I tucked the blanket edge under the mattress.
“Has Rena booked passage?” Roger asked.
“Yes, but without a visa, her ticket expired. She’ll rebook once she has the new visa.”
Roger turned on his razor and applied it to his cheeks, cleaning up stray hairs. Left to its own devices, that beard would have swallowed his face whole. “I’m not making any promises. More visa restrictions are due any day.”
“More?” I asked.
“You know it’s not my decision,” Roger said.
I lifted the Murphy bed up and into its wall closet.
“Can’t we expedite things? This doesn’t seem fair. Paul is a prominent French citizen, an ambassador to the world—”
“I’m at the mercy of the U.S. State Department, Caroline. A case of champagne only gets you so far.”
“I may go back to France for a visit,” Paul said.
“Go back, and you’re back for good,” Roger said.
I stepped to Paul’s chair. “Why not wait until spring?”
“It will be a very different situation by spring,” Roger said. “I would go now, Paul, if you’re serious.”
Paul sat up straighter.
“Of course I’m serious.”
Was he? I’d given him the reentry forms and he’d lost them, twice. Not that I wanted him to leave.
“Then you need to apply,” Roger said.
“I can fill out the forms for you,” I said.
Paul reached over and squeezed my hand.
“You must be eager to see your wife,” Roger said.
“Of course,” Paul said.
Roger stood. “It’s up to you, but if you’re in your room at the Waldorf when Hitler decides to move on France, you won’t be going back.”
The meeting was over. Paul stood too.
“Caroline, can you stay behind for a minute?” Roger asked.
Paul made his way to the door.
“See you upstairs,” he said and left for the roof garden.
Roger closed his door. “I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into here.”
“I’ve sponsored ten applicants—”
“You know what I mean. With Paul.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. Stay calm….A tired Roger was trouble.
“Paul would be gone by now if not for you. I see what’s happening.”
“That’s unfair, Roger.”
“Is it? He has a family, Caroline. Isn’t it odd he’s in no hurry to get back?” Roger picked up Paul’s folder and paged through it.
“His new show—”
“Is more important than his wife?”
“I think they’re somewhat, well…estranged.”
“Here we go.” Roger tossed the folder onto his desk. “Pia says you two spend lunch up on the roof garden.”
“No need to overreact, Roger.” I stepped toward the door. Little did Roger know, Paul and I had crisscrossed Manhattan together many times over. Eaten chop suey and rice cakes on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village. Strolled the Japanese garden in Prospect Park.
“Look, Caroline, I know you’re probably lonely—”
“No need to be insulting. I’m just trying to help. It isn’t right he and Rena should suffer like this. Look at all Paul’s done to help France.”
“Please. You want me to get Rena out so he can stay. Then what? Three’s a crowd, Caroline, and guess who’ll be left out? He needs to do his duty as a French citizen and go home.”
“We have to do what’s right, Roger.”
“We don’t have to do anything. Be careful what you wish for, Caroline.”
I hurried back to my office, sidestepping a stray pétanque ball. Would Paul still be waiting?
Roger’s words hung in the air. Maybe I was attracted to Paul. I hoped Betty was right about men and their silhouettes. Did Paul like mine? There were worse things in life.
—
WE WERE TERRIBLY BUSY at the consulate, but Mother insisted I volunteer at the thé dansant she and her friends arranged at the Plaza. If you’ve never attended one, a thé dansant is a relic of a bygone age, a casual afternoon gathering at which light sandwiches are served and dancing is encouraged.
There were a million places I’d rather have been that day, but Mother’s thé dansant was to benefit her White Russians, those former members of the Russian aristocracy, now exiled, who had supported the tsar in the Russian Civil War. Helping these former aristocrats had been Mother’s pet cause for years, and I felt obligated to help.
She’d booked the Plaza’s neorococo Grand Ballroom, one of the most beautiful rooms in New