A couple came lumbering happily through the crowded bar; the man was gigantic and dressed in a tight Tyrolean costume of patterned shirt, short breeches, stockings and a small feathered cap; the woman, large herself, was dressed in typical French peasant style, her tilted-eared cap rising high over her golden hair, her blouse pleasantly filled, her full skirts falling in ruffled folds to her sabots. She was pulling the man along behind her boisterously; they bumped through the tables, heading for the bar. They were squeezing past Ari’s table when the man suddenly pulled up short, causing the woman to stagger.
“Strauss!” she cried in a half-drunken giggle. “Come on! I want a drink!”
“Herr Busch!” Strauss cried, tightening his grip on the woman’s hand and dragging her back to the table. “What a pleasure!” His eyes were already bright with the effects of drink, and the effects of Carnival spirit. Ari attempted to pull himself to his feet, but the pressure of the crowd was too great. “Jeanne!” Strauss cried. “I want you to meet an old friend of mine!” He looked about. “Here. Take this chair; I will get another!”
The woman sat down at once, immediately reaching over for Ari’s aperitif and drinking it down in one gulp. Strauss swung a chair neatly from beneath the noses of the occupants of the next table and fell into it before they could complain. He enfolded Ari in a great bear hug, calling loudly to the waiter at the same time. Ari was overwhelmed.
“Carnival, Carnival!” Strauss cried in a gay voice. “It is wonderful, no? Yes?” He paused, considering which had been correct, then dismissed the whole thing, remembering his duty. “Herr Busch, this is Madame Richereau. Jeanne, an old friend, Herr Busch.” He spoke in French; they fell into the same tongue. In the cacophony of sound that arose like a wave from all sides, every language of the civilized world could be heard.
“I want a drink!” Madame Richereau’s sudden announcement was made in a belligerent tone. She stared at Ari archly. “You wonder, perhaps, where is M.
Richereau? I will tell you; during Carnival, my sweet, we go our separate ways. It is the custom.” She hiccuped gently, then stared at Ari blankly and continued vaguely, “Yes, during Carnival it is the accepted custom...” Then she turned, waving wildly at a waiter and returning her attention to Ari all in one gesture. “Monsieur Busch, you are cute. Strauss, my sweet, Monsieur Busch must come to my party tonight. I insist. It is an order!”
Strauss lolled back in his tiny chair happily. “Your orders, Madame, are my commands!” He suddenly laughed at the idiocy of this, turning in his chair to Ari for appreciation of the mot.
Ari laughed delightedly. “I should love to come, Madame, but I am afraid that I have no costume.”
“No costume? It is of the least!” She dismissed this excuse with a negligent wave of her jeweled hands. “It is nothing! I have at least three left over!” She hiccuped while considering her arithmetic. “No, four. No, no! Three.” She turned swiftly even as she spoke, catching the arm of a waiter with predatory skill, and ordered three drinks.
Turning back, she blinked at Ari carefully. “Where was I? Oh yes, you want a costume. What would you like to be?” Her head perched to one side, looking at Ari birdlike. “A sultan?” She shook her head. “But I’m afraid that one would be too big; you would drown in it. I know! A woman! A beautiful, sexy, rounded woman!” She collapsed with laughter, clapping her hands. “I have a delicious can-can for you; you will be a riot!”
Ari laughed with her; her sudden guffaw was infectious, booming through the bar. “Please, not as a woman,” he said, giggling helplessly. “Anything but that!”
“But you would be lovely as a woman,” she said, pouting prettily. “I’m sure you must have beautiful legs.” She bent over, peeking beneath the table. Ari continued to giggle.
“I’ll take the third,” he said, “whatever it is!”
Madame considered this statement and found it puzzling. “The third what?” she said. Enlightenment suddenly came. “The third costume!” She clapped her hands at her own cleverness, and then her face fell. “But it is a comic prisoner,” she explained sadly, “all striped, like in the penitentiary. Last year everybody had one; this year they may be a trifle déclassé.”
“It will do fine. I shall be a comic prisoner,” Ari said, happy for her that the problem had been finally resolved.
Madame Richereau suddenly climbed to her feet, and then mounted her chair, supporting herself with one hand against the chair back, her other hand pointing wildly. “Strauss!” she cried. “Our waiter gave our drinks to that table over there! Call him over! Make him give us our drinks!” She suddenly stepped down from the chair and started plowing her way through the crowd. “If you won’t, I will!” she called back determinedly over her shoulder. Strauss rolled with laughter.
“A character, no?” he said, gasping, wiping his eyes. “Yes?” He thought about it and resolved not to get in that trap again. “And her parties are famous; you will love it!”
“She won’t forget the costume?” Ari asked with an anxious smile.
“She forgets nothing!” Strauss cried. “Except her husband!” He laughed so hard at this that he was forced to bold onto the table for support. Madame fought her way back, gripping a waiter firmly by the arm. “I don’t know what you would do without me,” she said archly as the waiter set their drinks upon the table. She turned to Ari with forced gaiety. “Now don’t forget! Nine o’clock at the Fasano Roof! You must ask for my table!” She swallowed her drink in one gulp without sitting down, leaning on Strauss in a possessive fashion, smiling brightly at Ari. “You’ll have your costume delivered tonight, so don’t worry,” she said. She eyed him pensively. “Although I still think you would make a delicious can-can girl!”
“No, no! A prisoner will be fine,” Ari said, laughing.
“One thing,” she said, eying him critically, “at least it will fit you better.” She turned to Strauss impatiently. “Drink up! We have lots of bars to visit yet.” She waved goodbye to Ari and began leading Strauss away, bellowing with laughter, waving weakly behind him.
Chapter 5
The costume was delivered at eight o’clock that night; Ari had almost given up hope of its arrival. He stood in the bedroom with the door locked and undressed slowly. The long tight sleeves of the costume covered his scarred tattoo mark adequately, but the cuffs were a trifle short and for some reason suddenly worried him. He stripped off the blouse and put on a long-sleeved undershirt with tight cuffs beneath the gaudily striped prison jacket; it was warm, and the ends of the undershirt sleeves extended a bit beyond the uniform, but he felt safer. The rest of the costume followed rapidly; when he was all dressed with the little striped beanie on his head, he stepped before the mirror and reviewed himself critically. He slipped on the small domino mask and studied himself again, suddenly doubling over with laughter. For one night at least, he thought, I shall forget this terrible business and have myself a good time. This time, he said to his image in mock severity, I really don’t know who you are. He tapped the striped beanie, firming it at an outrageous angle on his head with comic authority.
He made sure that his wallet was in the rear trouser pocket of the uniform, and then stepped outside into the corridor, locking the door behind himself carefully. He was sure that he would excite no comment in the elevator; going up to his room from the bar he had found himself in the company of a bosomy Pierrot, a chorus girl complete with cigar and mustache, a squat Indian whose accouterments included tennis shoes as well as bow and arrow, and a heavily made-up Chinese. Even the elevator operator had bowed to the spirit of the occasion by wearing a little organ-grinder-monkey’s cap, held beneath his chin by a wispy elastic which he snapped back and forth at each floor.