Scorpio Rising Read online

  The next day after school, Alex went back to Rita's as usual, and made love to her as though nothing had happened. Afterward he had a talk with her. “Rita, does anybody know about us?”

  “Don't be ridiculous,” she answered sharply as she straightened the seams of her stockings. She sat on the edge of the disheveled bed and watched him covertly.

  “I guess you'd be in real trouble if anyone ever found out. Right?”

  Rita adjusted the straps of her brassiere and paused in her dressing, long enough to light a Lucky Strike.

  “You might lose your job,” he continued.

  She took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled slowly.

  “You might even be prosecuted for—what is it—something about a minor?”

  She exhaled, blowing the smoke in his direction. “What is it you want Alex?” she asked coldly.

  He told her.

  At his next report card, Alex Ivanov was at the top of his class. He was accepted at NYU with a full scholarship; he had seven hundred of Rita's dollars in his bank account; and the pain of finding her in bed with another man was just a distant memory.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  Half way around the world, Brigitte Dartois also liked drawing. Rather than buildings, her pictures were of her family—Papa, Maman, and herself under a bright sun. Sometimes she drew trees and flowers. Her subjects were the same as any other child’s her age, but her pictures were different. They were strong, arresting.

  “Viens voir, Colette,” her father called her mother. He held up a bright drawing of a garden. “Regarde, don’t tell me our daughter is not talented.”

  Colette Dartois looked, but to her, those colorful scribbles were no better than those of any other nine year old.

  She shrugged. “You shouldn’t compliment her too much. It will go to her head. Brigitte, put that away and go do your homework.”

  Often, Colette would look at her husband and her daughter with a vague discomfort. He paid so much attention to Brigitte, and so little to her. Every day when Louis Dartois burst through the door after work, it was Brigitte to whom he opened his arms after a perfunctory kiss to Colette. Gradually, Colette’s love for her husband and daughter festered into resentment and jealousy.

  Then, when Brigitte was thirteen years old, her father died suddenly. Three months later, her mother married Lucien. “Consider yourself lucky. Not many men are willing to be a papa to an already grown girl like you. You better be nice to him.” But the girl was filled with anger, feeling betrayed by her mother's indifference. One night, when Brigitte was alone in the house with her stepfather, she was awakened by a pair of rough hands moving over her body. “This will be our little secret,” Lucien told her when she opened her eyes. “If you even think of telling anyone, I'll kill you,” he said. Then he raped her.

  Her mother worked the evening shift as a barmaid at a club down the street, and for the next three years, it became a nightly ritual for Lucien to stop in for une petite caresse, as he called it. Every night he gave her the same warning. “You tell anyone and you're dead.” Sometimes he went into gruesome details of what he would do to her if she ever told. Brigitte believed him. And she kept her mouth shut.

  Once the top student in her class, her grades began to slide, until she was close to failing. She slept at her friends' whenever she could. At home, she was silent and withdrawn. Her mother barely noticed. “What's the matter with you?” she asked. “You keep it up and you'll be kicked out of school.”

  One night, while Lucien was in her bed and forcing himself on her, the bedroom door flew open. Her mother stood in the entrance, an expression of horror on her face. Lucien jumped up and fumbled with his trousers. “It's the girl's fault,” he said, his voice coming in halting breaths. “How's a man supposed to resist. She's always coming on to me. As soon as you leave in the evening, she takes off her camisole and lets me see her body. Colette, you've got to stop her, she's trying to break us up.”

  “Get out!” Colette shouted, and her voice was like ice. The girl sobbed in relief. At last, her ordeal was over. She would never have to see her stepfather again. “You're no daughter of mine. Get out you putain.”

  In shock, Brigitte realized her mother was speaking to her. She had lost! Lucien had won! She dressed as quickly as she could, threw a few of her things into a pillowcase and slipped silently down the hall to the closet where her mother kept her purse. Sorry, but I'll need this more than you will. She took all the cash she found. Then she left.

  Two days later, a sales-help-wanted sign in a store window, caught her eye.

  * * *

  Even in his late forties, Marcel Latreille was a tall, colorless man. His road to success had been marrying the vapid Hélène Richoux, of the Richoux chain of fashion stores. For twenty-two boring years, he remained faithful to his dull wife, reminding himself regularly of the union's one important benefit. Thanks to his wife's shares in the company, he was in total control of the stores. Without her, he might still be selling ties in the men's wear department.

  Marcel Latreille was bright and ambitious. Under his tutelage, the chain grew into one of the most successful in France. Over the years, the stock doubled and quadrupled, until it was worth nearly twenty times than what it was worth on his wedding day. It was an enviable record, one that should have made Marcel a very happy man. In reality, it only served to make him feel bitter. Although, as President and Managing Director of the stores he received a generous salary, yet he owned no company shares. These remained jealously in his wife's hands.

  Although dull, Hélène Richoux was not stupid. As willing as she was to lend her husband control of the company, she never gave him the power that would provide the means for him to leave her side.

  The day Brigitte walked into Richoux's main store on the rue du Faubourg St. Honoré, was a particularly distressing one for Marcel. That morning, over breakfast at the George V with his chum Aurèl, he noticed that the server did not smile at him the way she did at most of the other customers in the room. Even when he tried to flirt mildly, the woman simply ignored him. Later, on his way through the store to the office, he walked by a mirror and was jolted when he realized that the drab looking person he saw reflected was himself. My Lord, I have finally turned into a male version of Hélène. It was a depressing thought.

  Marcel Latreille was forty-seven, an age when a man should feel in the prime of his life. Instead of taking pleasure in his success, he felt bored and empty. If he didn't do something soon, his life would be over before he ever enjoyed it. If only I wasn't stuck with Hélène. At that moment, he walked by the human resources department and his eyes fell on the pretty young girl filling out an application form. Although she was tall, thin, and curved in all the right places, it was the pain in her eyes and the desperation in her voice that attracted him. When he reached his office, he called the woman in charge of personnel.

  “Who is that girl, filling out the questionnaire?” he asked.

  “There's nobody here at the moment monsieur Latreille.”

  “Yes, of course there is. I just saw her. A young woman, red hair, about twenty—she was standing at the counter a minute ago.”

  “Oh! That one. I didn't keep her application. She's only sixteen and has no experience.”

  “What did you do with it?” He was surprised to hear himself yelling. That was something he rarely did.

  “I threw it in the garbage. Just a moment. I'll fish it out.” She picked up the phone a moment later. “Here it is. Her name is Brigitte Dartois. There's no telephone number or address.”

  “Stop her before she leaves the store. I want to see her in my office now.” He slammed the phone into the cradle.

  Brigitte was nearing the main exit when a burly guardien stepped in front of her. “Sorry mademoiselle. You'll have to come with me.”

  “Why? I haven't done anything wrong.” It flashed through her mind that her mother must have pressed robbery charges against her.

&nb
sp; “Marcel Latreille wants to see you. He's in charge here.”

  Heart hammering and faint with fear, Brigitte entered the large wood-paneled office.

  “Mademoiselle Dartois is here to see you,” the officer said.

  “Show her in. Have a seat, mademoiselle. Brigitte, isn't it?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She sat and nervously smoothed down the folds of her skirt. She still could not understand why she had been summoned.

  From his seat behind the desk, Marcel Latreille studied the girl with curiosity. With a knowledgeable eye, he noted that, in spite of her unflattering attire, she was lovely. She has the face of an angel and a body made for pleasure. What a beauty she would be with the right clothes. The thought intrigued him. “You're looking for a job,” he said. “What kind of work would you like to do?'

  “Anything sir. I have no experience, but I can learn fast.”

  “How would you like to work in the cosmetics department? With a face like yours, women will be begging to know your beauty secrets.”

  Brigitte nodded.

  “Fine. You're hired.” He pushed the intercom button. “Jeanne, could you come in here for a minute please? There's a young lady I want you to meet.”

  Jeanne walked in. With her upswept hair, expertly applied makeup and well-tailored suit, she looked every bit the sophisticated and capable corporate secretary. She glanced at Brigitte with curiosity and looked at her employer.

  “Jeanne, meet Brigitte. She and I need your help. Here's the situation.” Marcel quickly explained what he wanted and Jeanne jotted down a few notes. Once in a while, she glanced at him in surprise. “So, what do you think?” he asked finally.

  Jeanne tapped one perfectly manicured fingernail against her notebook, and inspected Brigitte with a critical eye. “You're right. It's an exciting idea, but you're not giving me much time.”

  “Two days. No more. What I want is discreet elegance, nothing flashy. And I want her to get to work as soon as possible.”

  “I'll do my best.” Jeanne smiled to Brigitte. “Are you ready?” The feelings of revulsion Jeanne felt were carefully suppressed. It was clear to her that Marcel Latreille had more on his mind than training a new employee.

  “Yes Madame,” replied Brigitte eagerly.

  Jeanne had forty-eight hours to do a total makeover. What the girl needed first was a proper wardrobe. Jeanne took her to the young-designer section on the fourth floor and began rummaging through the sales racks under the girl’s expectant eyes.

  “So which one do you like?” asked Jeanne. She pulled out two blouses and held them up for Brigitte to inspect.

  The young girl was overwhelmed. “I don't know. They're both so beautiful.”

  Jeanne glanced down at the blouses. Both of them were silk. One had raglan sleeves and a Peter Pan collar. The other was a more tailored style, almost like a man's shirt. “You're right,” she said. “You really need more than one. We'll take both.” Why not, she thought. If Marcel Latreille has designs on this child, he can bloody well pay for two silk blouses.

  “Oh, but I didn't mean…”

  “I never imagined you did,” she said. “Now let's not waste time. We have a lot to do.” Next, Jeanne selected a classic brown wool skirt. With it, she chose a matching hound's-tooth jacket. “This is perfect.”

  Brigitte agreed enthusiastically.

  “Now you need shoes and accessories.” In the shoe department, Brigitte immediately spotted her favorite pair—simple pumps with a small heel. To her joy, Jeanne pointed to that very pair and asked the salesman to bring them in Brigitte's size. A few scarves and silk stockings later, the shopping spree was over.

  “I've never owned such beautiful clothes,” said Brigitte, so overwhelmed she thought she might burst. Visions of herself dressed in all her new finery danced through her mind. “Is monsieur Latreille so nice to everyone here?”

  “He's being very nice to you,” replied Jeanne, eyebrows raised and mouth pursed. “Very nice indeed.” She hesitated for a moment, and then continued. “Brigitte, if you ever need to talk to someone, don't hesitate to come and see me.”

  Brigitte looked at her, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “I only mean that you're very young and that if you ever need the expert advice of an old lady like me...”

  “Oh, Jeanne, you are so beautiful. You are probably the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my entire life.” Brigitte's admiration was sincere.

  Jeanne smiled. “Thank you. That's nice of you to say.” She sighed deeply and patted Brigitte's hand. “But enough of this chit-chat. We still have a lot to do.”

  Next, Jeanne took Brigitte to see Olivier. The hairdresser, a tall skinny man with a thin black mustache, took one look at Brigitte, put the fingers of his right hand to his mouth a made a loud kissing noise. “Beautiful,” he exclaimed. “And just look at all that hair. It will be a pleasure working on you ma jolie.”

  “Olivier,” said Jeanne. “Monsieur Latreille wants something classic and easy enough for Brigitte to maintain by herself.”

  “Trust me.” Olivier was walking around Brigitte, touching her hair and rubbing the strands between his fingers. “So thick,” he said to himself. “So shiny, and with a face like that, anything will look good on her.”

  “Olivier,” repeated Jeanne in a warning tone.

  “Oui, oui, j'ai tout compris. Come with me my lovely.” He guided Brigitte to the sink and ordered an assistant over. “Louisette, give her a shampoo. Finish with a touch of cream rinse, then bring her over to my chair.”

  A few minutes later, Brigitte sat in Olivier's chair and watched as he ran his fingers through her hair. He picked up a pair of scissors and began to clip.

  When Brigitte emerged from the salon, she looked like a new person. Instead of the gawky teenager of a few hours ago, she was a beautiful and elegant young woman. Her new clothes were simple and well cut, emphasizing her tall and slender silhouette. Her red hair was trimmed to shoulder length and tied off her face by a simple twisted silk scarf, knotted at the base of her neck.

  Jeanne stared at her in shock for a moment. Finally she recovered enough to speak. “Mon Dieu, who would have believed. Monsieur Marcel has a good eye. Every one of our customers will want to look just like you. Come. Our boss wants to see you.”

  * * *

  “So how do you feel?” asked Marcel. The girl stood in front of him, staring at her feet.

  “Like Cinderella,” she answered. Marcel burst into laughter. Jeanne felt her heart sink.

  “Jeanne, you did a tremendous job. She is beautiful.” Marcel looked at Brigitte again. It was difficult to believe this was the same girl who stood trembling in his office only two days earlier. “Now, I think she's ready for some training.” He nodded his dismissal, and Jeanne and Brigitte turned to leave. Just as they walked out the door, Marcel called out after them. “Brigitte, do you have a place to stay?”

  The girl blushed. “I haven't had a chance to start looking,” she stammered. She had slept huddled inside a Metro station for the last few nights.

  “Do you have money for an apartment?” Before she had a chance to answer, he continued. “Jeanne, see that she has an advance on her salary. As a matter of fact, why don't you take a few hours to help Brigitte find a place to stay?”

  Brigitte could not believe her luck. If not for Marcel Latreille's generous help, God only knew what would have become of her. She smiled at her benefactor gratefully. “Thank you so much monsieur Latreille. If there is anything I can do for you…anything,” she said innocently. “How can I ever pay you back?”

  “That's very sweet of you my dear,” replied the man vaguely. His eyes ran over her body as she left his office. A body made for pleasure, he thought again.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  Although all he had done was cross a bridge, Alex felt like an immigrant arriving in New York for the first time. He walked steadily through the streets in disbelief at the immensity of the city around
him. Manhattan! The city of his dreams. With evening coming on fast, he headed back toward the apartment he had noted on East Forty-Fifth. “One-room apartments, cheap,” the sign had said.

  Nothing was cheap in Manhattan, not even the broom closet he rented as an apartment. It was far from perfect, but it would do. There was a bed and a small table tucked under a window that looked directly into a neighbor's bedroom. He opened the old refrigerator and the stench nearly knocked him out. He quickly closed it again. Not exactly the Plaza, he told himself, but at least I'm in Manhattan.