DANDELIONS: L’evasion Discrète

It was true that their affair, if one may call it that, had been profitable. Although she did not actually give him money. He would not have accepted if she tried.

What he did use was her name. The House of Cadoza had millions, possibly billions. Emily herself could not say, and rather did not care. When Bobby’s Floor World wanted proof of credit, John Schatz merely showed them her Bank of America account. The answer was immediate. As long as Madam Cardoza co-signed (and she did, with Schatz kissing her neck) his credit was unlimited.

Their luggage was packed and waiting by the door. Boxes were piled everywhere. Young people taped, stacked and labeled these with black markers. Schatz typed away on a laptop propped on an eighteen century Louis XV desk. When a trim woman zipped tape from a dispenser and snapped it off, Schatz flinched.

“Sorry,” she said.

“That’s quite all right.”

He tapped and waited. Emily was nowhere to be seen. After a light lunch of strawberries and cucumber sandwiches she breezed out of the suite needing a swimsuit (“for Biarritz,”). Her chauffeur, a young Frenchman, drove her three blocks to Nordstrom’s.

It was difficult waiting for her, very. Schatz in fact dreaded her return. Not because he dreaded her. Their time together had been more than pleasant. Like lizards in the sun, they did nothing but lounge about the massive suite. One couldn’t walk to the kitchen or balcony without collapsing on an immense davenport. Being rich was exhausting.

And now Europe. It sounded wonderful, of course. Escargot under acacias. Baccarat and Bugattis. Her villa on a cliff above Monte Carlo. A private beach in Naples, where they could bathe night or day, she assured him, au natural.

But his business was in Minneapolis. He could not leave. She would be crushed. He had deceived her.

But had she not deceived him? Emily Cardoza travelled with a team of makeup artists for hair, face, legs and arms. One morning Schatz, who was no spring chicken, stumbled upon her Monaco passport. Madame Cordoza was not twenty years younger, as he imagined. But stunningly, and quite dramatically, twenty years older!

What did this mean? Nothing. Schatz was no chauvinist. And he knew all love involves deception. Even requires it. He closed his laptop. Sliding it into his canvas bag, he carefully moved aside the cashier’s check. Yes, association with this woman had been most profitable…

There was a commotion at the door. Emily swept in. She wore sleek black trousers and a mauve halter. Clapping twice, sharply, the room immediately emptied. John Schatz stood. Well, let’s get this over with.

“John, we need to talk.”

“Yes we do.”

“Regarding the flight this evening, and your bags.”

“Emily, I…”

“Allow me.” She led him to a broad davenport. Sitting, she smoothed her pants and touched the silk scarf at her throat. Her eyes searched the room. “You must not come to Europe.”

“What?”

“I’m afraid it is impossible. You see, the Count is returning.”

“The Count?”

“Count Diego de Chavroix. He’s in Vienna, for the Fencing Championships. Italy won, or so he says. He’ll be returning to San Remo this week, and you simply must not be there. He’s a jealous man. And an expert with the epaulet.”

A count? Vienna? Fencing? Schatz was no longer in a hotel overlooking Minneapolis. He was in a Shakespeare play.

Emily continued. “I should have told you sooner. But we were always so busy.”

They had done nothing for three weeks. “But our plans,” Schatz said, his pride piqued, defending something he didn’t want. “What about the Mediterranean? The jet skis?”

“Isn’t it awful?” Her great black eyes were large and sad.

This was too much. He made her look at him. No, he told her. It’s not awful at all. He was unable to go, and intended to tell her all along. His affairs were simply too pressing.

Emily was relieved. “I knew it, love. That’s why I left you alone. So you would make your exit. It’s the European thing. L’evasion discrète.

“I thought you were only shopping for a swimsuit.”

“I never wear swimsuits.”

He considered this. “Of course. How silly of me.”

“No, Juan. Nothing about you is silly.”

Schatz stood, holding her hands in his. “Shall this, then, be goodbye?”

Emily yawned, hugely. “Perhaps. But after our nap?”

In truth, he could hardly keep his eyes open. Future naps would be on a duct-taped couch in a will-call office. But not today. His time with the divine Ms. Cardoza had been pleasurable, and profitable, indeed.

Richard Donnelly

Richard Donnelly

Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. Mr. Donnelly’s first book is ‘The Melancholy MBA.’ published by Brick Road Poetry Press.