A/N: Many things about the Hôtel Ritz are true (such as the champagne in the teapot, the flowers, and the color schemes) and many things I am basing on a few pictures and movies. And I like to leave out translations for several reasons: to torture, to have (some) of my audience just as in the dark as the other characters, and because there are some phrases that cannot be properly translated into English (but mostly to torture). Insert maniacal laughter here.
(www . youtube . com/watch?v=ADm_PM1uMTQ)
Inspired by Dierks Bentley, Eartha Kitt, Gigi, and Love In the Afternoon.
VIII. Long Trip Alone
so maybe you could walk with me a while
maybe i could rest beneath your smile
War had torn through Paris like a rabid animal. Ron hadn't noticed, really. The Eiffel Tower was there and the sidewalks were crowded with people and the saccharine aroma of café au lait. How, he wondered, was it any different from the pictures he saw in magazines or the backgrounds he saw in movies? But Lorena could feel the difference as soon as she stepped off of the train. There was a tension in her beloved city. The women were less fashionable and the men were not dressed in suits, but in class A uniforms, which instantly took away from the magic. Lorena, in her own uniform, took Ron's offered arm as they walked along the platform to the open air. From there, it was a sea of olive drab and a rainbow of patches and pins on chests and garrison caps. Lorena could feel her heart breaking.
"So, where to first?" Ron asked, trying to distract her and loosen her grip.
Lorena tried to shake the feeling, inhaling deeply and catching the scent of black tea and cedar on the air (which must have been Ron since she intimately knew Paris through her senses). She slowed down, thinking back to the days, long before the war, when she would yank on her father's hand, hoping to pull him in one direction or the other. We have plenty of time, Lorena. There is no need to rush. Enjoy Paris for what it is. Remember, you must check in first. Then, pick your restaurants. After that, you nap. It is always better to be well-rested whenever you are in a foreign city. That way, you cannot be tricked out of half of your money by the locals. Then you decide your itinerary, but not until after you have met all of your necessary needs first. Remember that, cherie. It will be important one day.
"The hotel," she said dryly.
"I heard about one close by that's supposed to be decent price-wise. Not sure how the inside looks, but… why are you shaking your head like that?"
Lorena laughed. "Nothing. That sounds fine. The Eiffel Tower isn't far from here. We'll meet there."
"Why the hell would we meet there when we'll be at the same hotel?" (Not that Ron had planned on getting lucky or anything, but he assumed that when he asked her there, she'd be within walking distance. Lorena, though, had other plans.)
"Because, clearly, we're not if you're going on about one close to here," Lorena admonished.
"Well, where are you going?" Ron stepped away from her, letting her arm slip out from his.
Lorena straightened her posture, which, for the moment, had gotten too relaxed. "The Ritz," she said defiantly. Perhaps she was a bit spoiled when it came to certain things, such as the food she ate and the clothes she wore and the hotels she stayed in. But old habits died hard and Lorena had been taught at an early age to exclude all things from her life that did not offer complimentary champagne in exchange for her patronage.
"The hotel?"
"No, Ron, the cracker. Of course, the hotel."
"Those rooms are expensive. How the hell are you going to pay for it?"
Lorena tilted her head and scoffed. "I'll put it on my father's tab. He'd insist, you know."
She didn't see what all the fuss was about. Charles Carlyle had been staying at the Hôtel Ritz since it opened in 1898 and all throughout the late 1920s and 1930s, Lorena had spent her summer nights deep beneath the cool, plush coverlets, dreaming of clouds and flying. It didn't make sense for her to go anywhere else. But as she looked at Ron and his appalled expression, she realized that it wasn't normal to go to the Ritz and drink champagne from teacups and order caviar from room service.
Then, it dawned on her… With a small smile, just a hint of one, she inhaled sharply and prepared herself with the sensation of skin against akin as she boldly grabbed his rough hand. She pulled him through the crowds, weaving through expertly. Ron dodged the other uniforms and the civilians that had been knocked out of the way by Lorena who was obviously in a hurry. He kept a stoic look on his face, just to make him appear less pathetic. But Lorena was leading him as if he were a small child at a county fair. He was two seconds away from demanding where the hell they were going, until she came to a full and sudden stop near an intersection. Taxi cabs lined the road, the drivers waiting for someone to come along. Lorena pulled the first door open and slid in. She motioned to Ron, who stood motionless on the sidewalk.
He didn't like the idea of her taking control. Sure, he had asked her to show him around, but he still figured that he'd hold some power. But Lorena had told him months ago that she buried her obedient side with Parker Hollis and apparently wasn't lying. She stared at him expectantly, impatiently. She would not be ignored. Ron slid in the cab next to her, inhaling the musk that had seeped into the leather seats from years of use.
"15 Place Vendôme, s'il vous plaît," she told the driver, a lilt in her voice.
"Where are we going?" Ron asked, no longer amused.
Lorena smiled fully, showing off the dimples in her cheeks. Paris, regardless of how different it seemed, made her feel alive again. "Where's your sense of adventure, Lieutenant?"
"Hellva time to decide to be adventurous," he said. As soon as the words left his mouth, he had forgotten what he had said. Between her wide grin and her breasts, eye-level with his slouching form, Ron had lost all consciousness of anything else.
"Of course, because jumping from planes is so dull and boring. Please, Ron, just shoot me now. I'd rather not have to go through the motions of my monotonous life any longer," she said, flailing herself dramatically against the seat.
Ron glanced at her sideways through narrowed eyes. "I will, you know."
"Hmm. Then I guess we're a rather well-matched pair," Lorena said, smiling again.
Ron had heard about the Hôtel Ritz on a few occasions, but not enough to give the size of the building any thought. Standing inside of, though, he started to understand the scope and grandiosity of the world that Lorena had been raised in. Even in his freshly pressed officer's uniform, he felt wildly out of place, and he was beginning to regret his impromptu decision to ask Lorena along. Orchids and the distinctive smell of French perfume filled the lobby, as if to remind foreigners that they were in Paris, just in case they had forgotten. The chandeliers, Ron was sure, were real crystals and the furniture was gold-plated. It was all too bright and too spacious and too elegant. He could feel his head spinning in a million direction at once until someone said Lorena's name, forcing him to turn around sharply.
"Lorena Carlyle, you coquette! I have not seen that beautiful face of yours in ages, cherie," said a small Frenchman in a black suit. He was, in Ron's opinion, stereotypically French. From his heavy accent to his moustache to his upturned nose. It was if the man were an actor, playing a role.
"Phillipe! It's been too long," she said, shaking hands. She wished that she could embrace him, but her fears pushed him away.
"I see that this war has brought you to Paris," he said, eyeing her uniform. "Fighting the Germans, are you?"
"No, no. Simply writing about the boys fighting them, such as the lieutenant here."
Ron straightened up at the man settled his small eyes on him. He could see the judgment and feel the contempt. Ron wanted to slug him square in the nose or smash his smug face into one of the crystal vases, but then thought against it. He'd take it out on a Kraut later.
"Oh, I see. So, cherie, I suppose you will be needing one room then?"
Lorena panicked, though her face remained unchanged. She didn't breath for a moment, didn't move. Could everyone else see the lust she felt for the man that stood so awkwardly behind her? Was it obvious? She laughed politely, she way she used to at cocktail parties and luncheons and other forced social engagements.
"Two rooms, Phillipe. I've sworn off men for a while, especially under these circumstances."
"Ah, oui. I understand perfectly. C'est la guerre," he said before leading his new guests over to the reception desk.
Ron followed Lorena, feeling weaker and stupider by the minute. He was in a position of submissiveness now and it made him ill. He leaned close to her and whispered, trying to prevent the little elf at the desk from overhearing him.
"Lorena, I can't afford this place."
She rolled her eyes and leaned toward him, forcing her face dangerously close to his.
"Will you stop worrying about it? You asked me to show you around Paris and that is exactly what I intend to do."
"I don't like you paying for it," he said through gritted teeth, his jaw set too tight.
Lorena squared her shoulders. "Why? Because I'm woman or because you're a control freak?"
His nostril's flared, but he didn't answer.
"Either way, Ron, your only option is to change your reaction."
They both stared at each other, neither wanting to look away first. It had become a power struggle, a fight for who was more stubborn. Phillipe spoke before they could determine a winner.
"I am afraid that we only have one room available. We are very busy this month, cherie." He dropped his voice to a low whisper. "After La Libération, many of our regular guests returned, including your father, and we get hundreds of guests that spend the Christmas season in Paris. But this year, they told me, they are making the trip early so they can be at home with their sons. Very sweet, no?"
"It is," she lied. Lorena had seen the way that the Germans had fought at Eindhoven. They would not give up as easily as the Allies liked to think. "So, if there are no rooms, I'm guessing that there are no suites available either."
Phillipe flipped through the pages of his large, leather-bound book; running his fingers along the neat cursive writing. "Actually, cherie, we do have a suite available. A two room suite, in fact! What luck for you both!"
Ron shifted his weight. A suite at the Ritz was worse than a room: instead of being separated by multiple walls, they would only have one to keep them apart. Lorena looked back at him, having a similar thought. He was married. She told herself this time and time again, but then her evil twin would consume her and she'd just stop caring all together.
"Garçon!" Phillipe shouted at a bellhop, snapping his fingers. "Take their bags to the Executive Suite. Call if you need anything, cherie. Enjoy your stay, Lieutenant."
Ron nodded (curtly, rudely, American-ly, Ron-ly) and walked alongside Lorena, who was following the boy up the all too familiar steps. She could feel the clock turn back as her heeled feet met the soft, thick carpet. Her scars vanished and the geniality returned to her eyes. She didn't fear a man's touch. She had a wider range of emotions. She was young and carefree. She was in love with the world. She could feel the weight of her life shed off of her shoulders and chest. Then, Lorena heard the definitive click of the door closing behind her and the years rushed back to her body and her spirit. She tipped the bellhop and listened as his light footfalls faded down the hall.
Ron watched her with a quirked eyebrow. She was still again, lost in a daze of memories and sophistication. Her thick wavy locks fell wildly around her face, dusting her high cheekbones and black eyelashes. Her lips, stained a crimson, were parted slightly, taking in her surroundings with shallow breaths. And with her dark hair and her dark eyes and her dark clothes and her dark heart, she looked as absurd as Ron felt in the pastel-toned yellow sitting room.
A couple of quick knocks at the door snapped Lorena out of her trance, bringing her back to solid ground. Paris. Furlough. December. 1944. She spun around and opened the door to welcome in a valet, pushing a tray.
"Champagne, mademoiselle?" he asked, his hair gleaming like a string of black pearls in the Tiffany's window.
"Oui," she said softly. "Merci."
Ron had made himself comfortable on the floral-print sofa and had tossed his garrison cap to the side. He ran his fingers through his hair again as the valet set a teapot and two cups on the table, alongside a vase of orchids. Lorena hovered in the background; moving, pacing, nearly dancing. The valet left, tip in hand, leaving her no choice but to regain her slipping composure. She sat down in one of the plush chairs opposite Ron and took a deep breath.
"Well, my dear lieutenant, it seems we've gotten off on the wrong foot," she said, glancing out the window at the gardens.
"Yeah, just a bit," Ron said.
He stood up and walked toward the large window. People strolled through the garden below him: women in colorful chiffon gowns and men in gray day suits. It was as though there were no war at all.
"What do you say we have a drink, then go out and see the city? I can't promise that I won't lose my mind again, but I'll certainly try not to."
Ron scoffed, then turned around to look at her. She wasn't smiling, but there was a light tone to her voice that comforted him. He nodded and jerked his chin towards the table.
"I think I'll skip the tea," he said.
Lorena rolled her eyes and laughed. "You have so much to learn if you think that they serve tea in teapots here. First of all, they know all of my personal preferences and tea is not one of them. I could have gone anywhere to drink hot water. Secondly, they know you are an officer and this is simply a part of their new policy."
"Champagne in teapots?"
"Don't worry. I don't understand the Parisians either."
Lorena and Ron walked all over Paris, her hand in his. In any other place, it would have been impossible for her to touch him like that, but there was something new and reassuring in the roughness of his large hands. And she liked the way his eyes sparked at the sight of the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, which she imagined was partially because of the magic of standing in front of Da Vinci's masterpiece and partially because of the shock of realizing how small she was. And Lorena felt as though she could dance to his melodic laugh, the one that rose from his throat and bubbled forward through his perfect lips and made her twisted heart skip a beat. But most of all, she liked the way he didn't complain when she dragged him to see Oscar Wilde's grave. He watched her, bewildered when knelt down and placed her hand against the cool stone effigy; against the lipstick that stained it. Ron stared up into the face of the Sphinx, a gray squinting figure. He stood, waiting for it to open its eyes. Uncomfortable, he turned away from it and looked at Lorena, who had her lips pressed to an empty space, leaving a red ring. He listened when she whispered, "Vous êtes mon inspiration." And he waited while she dissolved into a world that was all her own.
The skies darkened with an imminent storm and the cold December wind blew the leaves around their feet. Lorena took Ron's hand once again and led him through the solid black gates through which they had entered the Père-Lachaise Cemetery, the oppressive heaviness lifting from him and the lightness of her memories moving her along. They hurried into the refuge of a café as the raindrops started to fall, where they ordered strong coffee and croissants and, for the first time, openly spoke of their lives.
"Beatrice was three months along when I met her. Her husband -- late husband, I guess -- was in the RAF. They said he got shot down somewhere over Germany. His plane crashed and burned. There was no sign of him. She was only a few weeks pregnant when she found out. I don't know why I married her, really. I just did. I wish I could say that something deep down told me to, but I just sort of jumped."
"I can't say I know how that feels," Lorena said, staring into her wavy reflection in the cup.
"What about Parker Hollis?" Ron asked before taking a bite of his pastry.
"Oh," she said. Goosebumps appeared on her arms and her legs, and luckily, Ron was too busy looking at her lips to notice. "That doesn't count."
"How doesn't it count?"
"That was self-defense."
"Exactly. That was jumping."
Lorena sighed and raised the white, bone china cup to her lips. "Perhaps."
They drank and ate in silence, the both of them listening to the conversations around them (some of which Ron couldn't understand a word of), to the rain on the concrete, and to the sound of each other's breathing. Lorena set the cup down and touched her napkin to her mouth, her eyes drifting toward the open door. Ron followed her dreamy gaze, wondering; just wondering.
"Lorena…" he began.
"Yes, Ron?"
He paused, debating. "Tell me about your mother."
Lorena's eyes flicked back casually to his face, a motion so quick that it was almost unnerving. She wanted to ask him why, but knew almost instantly that it would be useless. The word, "because," was likely to be the next thing out of his mouth if she uttered that simple, three-lettered inquiry and she desperately wanted to spare herself the aggravation of hearing it.
So, instead, she leaned back in her chair, against the decorative metal back (most Parisian-like), and asked, "What do you want to know?"
Lilla Fanciullo was born in 1896 a village not far from Palermo in Sicily. Her father worked as a messenger for Don Luciano Petrillo, a job that paid good and supported a growing family of five. At the age of nine, Lilla's mother died in childbirth, leaving her, the oldest, to raise the rest (including the infant that had survived). But by the age of eighteen, Lilla had lost two brothers, a sister, and her father (the latter only a month after her last birthday in Italy). The don, who had admired Giovanni Fanciullo for his hard work and loyalty, took pity on the two remaining children and paid a hefty sum for their passage to America. In 1914, Lilla and her nine-year-old sister Sophia found themselves in Boston, Massachusetts: alone, scared, and unable to speak the language of the people around them.
Lilla took the extra money that the don had given them and paid for three months' rent for a small room in a bordering house in the North End, where all the Italian immigrants went. In the summer of 1914, Lilla took a job as a seamstress, patching and altering men's shirts. She worked for mere pennies, day in and day out, not bothering to complain (no one could understand her broken English anyhow). Autumn came, then winter (when she lost her young sister to pneumonia), then the new year, and then spring. And the spring of 1915 proved to be a break for nineteen-year-old Lilla Fanciullo, with her dark eyes and her dark hair and her dark skin and her dark, broken heart.
Charles Gerald Carlyle, CEO of LC Glass Co., had been to all of the best seamstresses in Boston and each one of them had failed him. One of the floor managers, a bullish man named Giuseppe Curiali, had mentioned a tiny shop in the North End who were, besides dirt cheap, the absolute best. At first Charles dismissed it, but it had seemed that the more money he had spent, the more unsatisfied he had been. So, Charles took the suggestion of the floor manager and, on a bright April morning, found himself walking into a dark little building, filled with sewing machines and needles and pins and fabric and women who were beyond shocked to see him there.
"Mr. Carlyle," Angela Antonella, the owner, cried in a thick Boston accent, jumping a mile in her own skin. "Sit down, sir. Would you like a cup of coffee, sir? What can we do for ya, sir?"
"I need these shirt sleeves hemmed desperately and no one else in this city appears to be capable of doing so correctly, but I have heard that you and your associates are particularly skilled."
"Yes, yes, sir," Angela said, nodding although she had no idea what the man had just said. Based on his tone, though, she assumed that "Yes, sir," was the right reply. "Maria, get the spools on those machines. Lilla, get Mr. Carlyle's measurements."
Lilla nodded, her motions fluid and graceful, unlike the women around her that rushed and ran and crashed into each other. Lilla took the tape measure and stretched it along the length of Charles' thick arm, then removed the pencil from behind her ear and wrote down a number. Charles watched her, intrigued. He was 40-years-old at the time and had been in charge of LC Glass for many, many years. And for those many, many years, everyone he knew had been nagging and pushing him to find a wife and raise a family. This girl may be the one.
"Hello," he said, his voice just above a whisper.
Lilla did not stop her work, but looked at him with her large, round eyes and smiled. "Hello," she said, her accent heavy in the single word.
From then on, Charles Carlyle stopped into the shop more and more and bought extra long shirts and pants just as an excuse to see his darling Lilla again. He would take her on long walks, out to lunch, out to dinner, to the movies, to brunch, to church, to his home. By the winter of 1915, Lilla Fanciullo had become Lilla Carlyle, wife and mother-to-be.
It turned out, though, much to Charles' surprise, Lilla Fanciullo and Lilla Carlyle were not two different women. True, Lilla Carlyle was more educated, had less of an accent, and was a part of the major Boston social scenes, but she was also strong, hard working, witty, and every bit as tempestuous as Lilla Fanciullo had been. And Lilla Carlyle refused to let her Italian roots die with her family's name.
"Lorenzo. Lorenzo Liam Carlyle. For my brother and your father. I think that is a fair compromise don't you?"
"I do, my love. But I surely regret teaching you that word."
Her son was spoken to in English and Italian from the time he was born, ensuring that he would learn both. Charles argued that French was more practical, but Lilla gazed at him with cold eyes and her husband didn't bring the subject up again until their children were older. And as much as Lilla had advocated that her son learn to speak Italian, she was adamant that her daughter, her pride and joy, know it better.
"Our little Lorena must be brilliant, Charles."
"Lorena?"
"Yes. Lorena Giovanna. For her brother and my father."
"Another fair compromise."
Lilla and Charles watched their children grow, watched them laugh and love, watched them run around Paris and Rome and London. They watched Lorenzo graduate salutatorian and prepare for Harvard. But before they both got the chance to watch Lorena set the world on fire, Lilla became sick… too sick. Lorena, only sixteen, saw her mother deteriorate right before her eyes and saw her father go crazy with grief.
On her deathbed, Lilla took her daughter's freckled hands into her clammy tan ones and smiled. "Lorena," she said, "I want you to promise me something. I want you to promise that you will be strong when you feel pain. That you will carry on. And not for me or for your brother or for your father, but for you, bella mia. You must promise to be strong for you. Because when you can be strong for your own self, you can handle the pain and the hurt. You can do more than get through a day. You can thrive in it and you can make a life out of it, not just an existence. Promise me, Lorena. Promise me…"
"So, I promised and I tried to keep it the best I could," she said in a calm, steady voice, although she was suffocating from the tears on the inside.
"Then what happened?" Ron asked, holding out a cigarette.
Lorena took it and lit a match. "I got married and I forgot. I wasn't strong for her, for me, for anyone… not even my baby."
Ron's cup dropped to the table with a crash, spilling onto the floor and splashing his boots. Lorena suddenly felt out of breath, as though all of the air had been sucked from the room. She passed her napkin to Ron and watched as he wiped the coffee away, his eyes wild. Thunder crashed and rain poured; the world was listening to her mind, her body, her soul. Crashing and pouring, crashing and pouring. Ron looked down at his hands with a new sense of what stupid felt like. A kid? She's got a kid? She's been here for months and she didn't say anything until now. What the fu--
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice cracking. Don't cry. They know how to hurt you if they see you cry. "I don't usually speak so candidly about it. I don't know why I said anything."
"It's not like you should have to hide it."
Lorena raised her head to look at him. "I shouldn't?"
"No," he said, making eye contact as well. "You've got a kid. So what?"
Lorena scoffed and then shuddered as a single, cold tear fell and raced down her cheek. "Ron, I think on two different trains of thought."
Ron stared at the tear, watching his reflection in the bare thread of emotion. He forced himself into the back of the chair, the metal leaving imprints on his skin. He wanted to push the table away, to take her in his arms and remove the shimmering streak with his lips, to kiss her until she agreed to let him inside of her fully, deeply, honestly. But he took deep breaths and sat rigidly in the chair, wanting to cry himself.
And, as usual, Lorena took his stiffness as rejection. She wiped the moisture away and swallowed hard. "You know," she began, "it's not important."
"No, it is." He was leaned forward, almost reaching for her. Then, he did something he never expected to do in his lifetime, he pleaded. Yes, Ron Speirs pleaded… with a drowning woman in a Paris café. "Please, Lorena. It is."
Crash. Crash. Crash. Pour. Crash. Please. "I found out I was pregnant in the summer last year and I was terrified. I knew I was never going to be able to leave Parker once he found out. He'd never let me out of his sights ever again. The more time went on, the more I started resenting the thing growing inside of me until I hated it. I absolutely hated it, but then I felt this strange fluttering and I was in love. I was in so love."
Her vision clouded. Water splashed into her coffee and soaked her croissant.
"Then, one day, Parker came home angry about something. I don't remember what. All I remember is tumbling down the stairs. I had bruises. I had a few cracked ribs. I had a fractured wrist. But what I didn't have anymore was a baby. That man took everything from me. He just took everything. He took her."
Lorena, who had only been crying up until that point, started to feel as though the walls were closing in on her. Her breaths became more labored. Her heart raced. Her pain felt immensely real. Ron threw a few coins on the table and went over to her, placing his hands on her upper arms to help ease her out of the chair. But his hands on her body only made the panic attack more severe. I was pregnant, Parker. You killed her. You took her from me. And now it's only right that I take something from you. She pushed Ron away and into a neighboring table.
"Don't touch me, you bastard. Don't touch--" She swayed and went limp.
Ron grabbed her by the arms, much like he did the night she finally learned his name. He found her bag and slung it over his shoulder, then slipped his arm beneath her knees, cradling her against his body.
"Pardon," he said to the crowd before turning and walking out of the door into the lessening rainstorm.
Ron pushed through the throng of umbrellas and stares to a cab stand, a stoic expression on his American face. He slid Lorena's cold, wet body into the backseat and ignored the look he received from the driver.
"15 Place Vendôme," he said, calm and slow .
"Oui," the man said, his voice shaking.
Ron leaned back and sighed. He turned his head lazily and watched Lorena breathing calmly. He stretched out his arms and ran his fingertips over the smooth, silver scar at the base of her neck. He pushed a drenched lock of hair out of her face, revealing a new web of metallic blemishes. His eyebrows narrowed and he pushed the curls back into place, getting the feeling that she was hiding them for a reason.
Ron lifted her lifeless hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against it, knowing that was about as far as he was ever going to get with Lorena Giovanna Carlyle.
Ta da! Reviews are love.