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

No money changed hands. The smiling maître d’ hoped to see us again.
    The baroness’s red Delage sedan was waiting for us outside. She sat up front with the driver. Her cigarette smoke wafted out and back in through the windows. Wedged between the two men, I was conscious of their thighs against mine. Lionel pressed against me: forceful, possessive, hopeless. My contact with Gabor was more tentative but eloquent, nonetheless.
    We pulled up in front of Paul’s atelier, where we pushed our way through the partygoers overflowing onto the street. A turbaned genie guarded the door, his brawny arms folded. Pussycat was the password, as the whole city knew.
    Tonight’s guests had been instructed to dress as famous sculptures. Medieval kings and queens had arisen from their tombs. Several women had come as the Venus de Milo, powdered white, in white drapery, their arms pinned behind their backs. Two American boys were pretending to be cowboys à la Remington, riding the backs of two other boys wearing horses’ heads. Sure enough, there was Kiki, in an extremely short toga. She kept on announcing that she was The Dying Gaul ; then she’d lie on the floor and giggle until a man helped her up.
    Paul and Ricardo had sprayed themselves silver and were nude but for loincloths made of peacock feathers. I kissed them and told them how marvelous they looked. The musicians were on break, so we could hear one another.
    â€œAnd who are your feathered friends?” the baroness said, with a laugh.
    When I introduced them, Paul said, “I believe I’ve met your husband.”
    Ricardo slapped the back of Paul’s hand.
    â€œI’m sure you have,” said the baroness. “What sculpture are you supposed to be?”
    Ricardo said, “In Buenos Aires there is a fountain on which there is a statue of two splashing lovebirds.”
    â€œI’ve been to Buenos Aires,” the baroness said. “I don’t remember a fountain like that. If I go back, will you tell me where to find it?”
    â€œNext time,” said Paul, “we will take you.”
    Gabor said, “I’d like to photograph you two in those costumes.”
    â€œImpossible,” said Ricardo. “My family would disown me.”
    The baroness said, “Masks would do the trick. Not even your own mother will recognize you.” She rested her hand on the small of Ricardo’s back, just above his silver ass. “The four of us can have dinner. We will eat and drink well. Then Gabor can set up the shot. And we’ll take it from there.”
    The band couldn’t have chosen a better moment to start playing.
    â€œThey just performed for the German ambassador,” Ricardo shouted in my ear.
    I said, “I saw them last month at le Jazz Cool Club.”
    In fact it had been two months ago, the last time Lionel had money. I looked around for Lionel, but I couldn’t see him.
    â€œThey’re playing for us for free,” said Paul.
    â€œOh, are they?” the baroness said. “In that case, we should show our appreciation.” She grabbed Gabor’s hand and led him onto the dance floor. I was surprised and saddened by how gracefully they moved together. Lionel danced terribly. The only time we’d gone dancing, he pretended it was funny to stumble and drag me across the room.
    Ricardo nodded at Paul, who led me out among the dancing couples. Paul was quite a bit shorter than I, so at first it was awkward. But after I’d had a few pulls from his brandy flask, the difference in our heights seemed amusing, as did the fact that my partner was not only silver but naked except for a few strategically placed feathers.
    Someone cut in, another medical student who must have imagined that a Roman helmet and an armored breastplate would be irresistible to the ladies. It was infinitely resistible, but he too had cognac in a flask. By the time the song ended, I was grateful for the