Free Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 by Francine Prose Page A

brother’s political views?”
    â€œAh, my husband. Didi is a different story completely.”
    The baroness flapped one hand at the waiter and told him he had forgotten the brandy. He returned with four snifters. He was sorry. The management was sorry. The Armagnac was on the house. Should he leave the gentlemen’s glasses? The baroness waved him away.
    Where were Gabor and Lionel? I finished my cake and brandy. As the baroness rooted around in her purse for more cigarettes, I switched my glass with Lionel’s and drank his brandy too.
    When the men came back they seemed disappointed that the baroness and I weren’t talking. Had they imagined that any two women will become intimate friends the minute the boys leave the table? Our silence was infectious. Gabor drank his brandy. Lionel picked up his empty glass and looked at me but said nothing.
    â€œWhat now?” the baroness asked. “You’re the racy young crowd. Wait. I have an idea. Gabor promised to take me to that cross-dressers club. What a perfect conclusion to our day at the Vélodrome!”
    â€œIt’s Tuesday,” said Gabor. “The Chameleon is closed tonight.”
    â€œPity,” the baroness said.
    After another long silence I said, “I know about a party.”
    â€œ Whose party?” Lionel asked.
    None of your business, I thought. After tonight I would never again have to find a way to subtly communicate the fact that the friend I was going to visit was female or homosexual: not a sexual threat. Another boyfriend used to say, “Your lover’s jealousy knows you better than you do.” That statement will not be included in my encyclopedia of misinformation I’ve gotten from men.
    â€œRicardo and Paul,” I said.
    I’d met Ricardo and Paul at the language school where I taught and where they’d enrolled to improve their French. Ricardo was a medical student from an old Argentinean family. His lover Paul was a Malaysian sculptor who’d stowed away on a steamer from Singapore. Ricardo was tall, handsome, reserved, Paul an extroverted sprite. They were opposites in every way, but what they shared was a generosity of spirit: Ricardo gave freely of his money and time (already he diagnosed and treated half of Paris for free) while Paul lavished unlimited energy on their parties, and on changing his appearance—his hairstyle and outlandish costumes—to amuse their friends.
    It was through them that I’d met the painters and poets who’d admitted me into their circle—mostly because I was pretty, I knew, but that was how it was. Beauty and money were the only keys with which women could open the door to that locked room. I’d gone to meet Paul and Ricardo in the Café Voltaire on the night I met Lionel, the night he’d spoken so movingly about Rimbaud. He should never have told me—later—that he only did it for the free drinks.
    â€œYou know this Ricardo?” the baroness asked Gabor.
    â€œSlightly,” Gabor said.
    â€œEveryone goes there,” I said. “Sometimes there are costumes. Sometimes Kiki and Man Ray get into a fight.” Why was I talking them into this? Was I showing off? Or did I want to lure the baroness into my territory, where we would see who had more power?
    Gabor said, “My papa is a passionate fan of Kiki’s.”
    â€œEven in Hungary?” said the baroness. “How marvelous. Do you know her too?”
    Gabor said, “I’ve seen her at parties. But only with her clothes on.”
    The baroness said, “I collect Man Ray’s work. I have from the beginning.”
    Watching her, I could see the prospect of fun battling her reluctance to visit a kingdom where she wasn’t yet the queen.
    I said, “Picasso came to one of their parties, dressed as a toreador.”
    â€œPicasso?” That magic word trumped whatever doubts the baroness might have had.
    No bill was presented.