Last Dance with Valentino. Daisy Waugh
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cry.
‘I am trying to believe you, Blanca,’ he replied, briefly touching her dark hair. ‘I should love to believe you. Or – no, I don’t mean that. I mean to say – I should love to believe that we were even friends at all . . . ’ Gently, he stepped away from her, so she had no choice but to take back her head. ‘Only I’m not even certain you understand what is meant by the word.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘In any case you have friends everywhere, Blanca. Lovers, friends . . . Wherever you are. People fall at your feet. The English gentleman this evening, the portrait painter, for a simple example. He can’t take his eyes off you. And I know you will deny it but even your husband – he looks over to you even while he is dancing with Joan.’
She waved it aside. ‘You don’t adore me, though,’ she said.
He laughed aloud. ‘Self-preservation, Blanca! I know you well enough. In any case,’ he added, ‘I’m only the dance tutor. It’s not my place to adore you.’
‘One can adore a woman from any place. From her bed, in particular. I seem to remember.’
‘Yes, perhaps.’ He pulled out his cigarette box. She watched him tapping on it nervously. I watched him, too. ‘I want to help you,’ he said. ‘Of course I want to help you. Except I’m convinced you only ask me as a sort of – test. A proof of your power, as a woman. Regardless of what the consequences to me may be.’
‘Oh, Rudy, that’s ridiculous.’
‘Only because I won’t fall at your feet, like all the other men.’
‘You fell into my bed!’
‘We fell into your bed together. And it was hardly – frankly – it was hardly as if I were the first. Or the second. Or the third . . . ’
‘But you were!’
‘Ha! Which, Blanca?’
Her lip trembled. ‘You are too revolting,’ she whispered – and he seemed to relent a little. He stroked her hair again, with affection and tenderness, until she recovered.
‘I am poor, and Italian, and an immigrant. Your husband, with half Tammany Hall behind him – he would cause nothing but trouble for me. Have me thrown in jail. Have me returned to Italy. God knows . . . ’
‘Don’t be absurd, Rudy,’ she said carelessly. ‘Of course not.’
‘At very least,’ he said, ‘I will lose my job. You know it.’
‘Does our friendship mean so little to you, then? That you wouldn’t even sacrifice that?’
‘I would sacrifice it and much more – and for any friend – if I believed it was truly necessary. But it is not. There are so many others, with nothing to lose, who would be perfectly willing – Ruth, for example. She would do it for you! She adores you! And she’s richer than Croesus. Your husband couldn’t harm her. He wouldn’t want to and he wouldn’t dare. Why don’t you go and ask her – now? Right now, while your husband is still dancing?’
‘I don’t want—’ she started angrily, but stopped herself. Sighed a small sigh, light as little feather. ‘Rudy, darling Rudy, you are mistaken. Ruth is not a friend! I despise her! I despise them all! You, Rudy, are my only friend. Whether you are willing to acknowledge it or not. Tell me – truly – who else can I ask?’
‘We go over it again,’ he sighed, ‘but you don’t listen. I said to you last time I could write a list of ten or more names. And I will even ask them for you. They would be willing to give evidence for you . . . People who have nothing to lose by it, who would be more than happy to help.’
She continued in the same pitiful voice as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I am alone, Rudy, far away from my family . . . far away from everyone I love . . . And I know you know what it is to be alone. You have told me so. You know what it is like to yearn for home . . . ’
‘I do.’ He sounded weary.
‘And you have seen me crying my heart out . . . ’
‘I have.’
‘And yet still you refuse me? Even though you understand my torment . . . and the others don’t . . . Oh, I long for my home, Rudy. I am sick for it. You don’t have children. You can’t imagine . . . how a mother feels.’
He gave a burst of laughter. ‘What on earth does that have to do with it?’
‘All I ask is that you attest to something in a courtroom which you know to be true . . . Is it so much to ask?’
Her small white hand was back on his shoulder. She was edged so close to him, and in the long, warm silence that followed, I swear they might have kissed. But just then a loud voice came from the drawing room: ‘Blanquita? . . . Blanca, darling? . . . Anyone seen my wife?’
‘She’s on the loggia with the wop,’ we heard His Grace declare, ‘having a smoki-poo or some such . . . Wish I could persuade her to have a smoki-poo with me . . . ’
A moment later, in time for Rudy and Mrs de Saulles to step apart, her husband was at the french windows. ‘Sweetheart,’ he said, ignoring Rudy and not noticing me, still flattened between window and wall, barely two foot away from him, ‘why don’t you come dance, sweetie? I should so love to dance with you.’
‘I’m very tired,’ she said.
‘Just a quick dance?’ he said, stumbling slightly, as he stepped towards her. ‘Please? With your admiring husband . . . who so entirely admires and adores you?’ He was very drunk.
She turned away. ‘I’m not certain I can imagine anything I should like to do less,’ she said. ‘Besides, I can see Joan over there, looking awfully hopeful. I’m convinced she’s longing to dance with you again . . . ’
And with that she hurried away, leaving my employer and his not-quite-guest in uncomfortable silence. They looked at one another, Rudy with some dislike, I think, Mr de Saulles with something much closer to anger. He hesitated, as if on the point of saying something, but then seemed to think better of it. Without another word he spun around and followed his wife’s path back into the house.
And still I stood there. Rudy turned back to the position he’d taken before Mrs de Saulles had interrupted him, and snapped open his cigarette box. It glinted in the moonlight . . . I watched again as flame and cigarette connected, as the light of the flame played on his face, and the smoke rose from his lips. I watched him gaze out into the darkness, deep in thought. And once again I was amazed by him – his elegance and grace.
After what felt an unendurably long pause, during which I’m quite certain I neither moved nor breathed, he suddenly said, ‘It’s all right, by the way – you can come out now. It’s quite safe.’
I didn’t. I clung to my wall, and to the forlorn hope that he might perhaps have been talking to someone else. But then he turned and looked directly at me. ‘I’ll step away from this spot, shall I,’ he said, ‘to a spot over here, where we can’t be seen? Come out and tell me why you’ve been standing there all this time.’ He smiled at me. ‘Spying on us . . . ’
‘I wasn’t spying.’
‘What else could you call it?’
‘I was stuck.’
‘Ah.’
By then he had travelled to the far end of the veranda, out of view of the french windows. He turned and beckoned for me to join him there so, with some reluctance, I edged from my hiding place to be beside him . . . And we stood in silence, quite close to one another, with the music from the Victrola seeping out through the warm night air, and with me wondering at nothing, in spite of all I had just witnessed, but the richness of his voice . . .
He seemed to be waiting for further explanation and I felt an irresistible urge to fill