Belladonna Page 9

  “You won’t find them in Italy.”

  “No.”

  “Where, then?”

  “New York. You are going to New York right away, and you are going to find us all the space we’re going to need. I don’t care what it costs. He’d said it to us before, and he just said it again. Make them come to you. Therefore, I must create a place so desirable that everyone in the world will come to me. Here”"she hands me the sheaf of papers"”are my ideas. For a nightclub. The Club Belladonna.”

  I look at her in sheer amazement. This woman, hidden away from the world for more than sixteen years, is about to open her arms wide to it.

  She looks back at me, and I summon all my strength not to shudder at her expression.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll never let them see my face.”

  I am still amazed, but a shimmering picture is starting to form. Yes, I see it now. I know what we have to do. I will go to New York and scout out the perfect location. We will set the trap, and spring it shut. Once again, and for the very last time, Leandro has saved her, and given her purpose.

  No one will ever think the Contessa della Robbia is Belladonna. Not anyone. Certainly not the members of the Club. We will find them, and crush them all.

  Oh ho, Belladonna, the sweet sweet poison!

  The Diary

  (1935)

  LONDON AND SOMEWHERE IN THE COUNTRY, MAY 1935

  Hogarth asked for her exact measurements so he could nave her costume made. She protested, but he insisted. His treat, so she would be the most beautiful creature there.

  "Don’t tell June, he said. She’s jealous enough as it is.

  She liked him even more for saying that.

  Hogarth told her to pack enough clothes for a long weekend and to take the train up to York and he would fetch her there. A bit of a drive, he said, but it’ll be fun. Your costume will be waiting for you at the house. A surprise. He can’t wait to see her in it.

  On the drive, though, Hogarth was not his usual talkative self.

  "You seem preoccupied, she said.

  "Oh, I was just thinking about my great-uncle, he said. He used to lie in his great carved bed, with an elegant long pistol in hand, shaking with hangover, sans doute, and from his bed he would shoot flies that had gathered to eat the jam he made the footmen smear on the ceiling. The footmen stood by with strong black coffee, a bottle of champagne when my great-uncle was feeling up to it, several rounds of ammunition, and several pots of orange marmalade and strawberry jam.

  She laughed. Why are you telling me this now?

  Hogarth smiled sweetly at her. Because, my dear, I must confess that I am descended from barbarians. The Goncourts said that savagery is necessary every four or five hundred years in order to bring the world back to life. Otherwise, we would die of civilization. I do believe we’re all pagans at heart, descended from raving hordes of slobbering maniacs worshiping druidic stones and tearing hearts out of virgins in glorious sacrifice.

  "Sacrifice to what? she asked. I don’t understand. Their own desires? Or their own fears?

  "My dear girl, you astonish me. I can’t quite decide. However, whatever extraordinary circumstances may befall one during one’s life, whatever sacrifices and adventures, it should be possible for one to remain who one is, at heart. Despite everything.

  He pulled out a spotless handkerchief and wiped his nose, though he hadn’t sneezed. Forgive me, he said, I am in a bit of a mood. I shall get over it once we arrive, I assure you. Do let’s have a drink.

  He opened a picnic basket and handed her some wrapped cucumber sandwiches. Eat up, my dear, it will be a while before dinner. Then he pulled out a bottle of champagne and two glasses and twisted off the cork.

  "To the evening’s entertainment, he said soberly. I am delighted it is you here with me, and you alone.

  "Thank you, Hogarth, she said. I think June is never going to talk to me again.

  "If I may be perfectly frank, dear girl, that would be no great loss.

  She laughed. I’m so glad you think so. Poor June.

  "Why, may I ask, must you stay with her?

  "My aunt and uncle, her parents, sent me over to keep her company. I don’t have much choice at the moment.

  "What about your own parents? He didn’t tell her he knew all about her parents already. That her orphaned state would make her an even more desirable guest at this costume ball.

  "They died three years ago in a car crash. My aunt and uncle took me in, although I stayed in my boarding school for most of the year so they wouldn’t find me too much of a burden.

  "I expect that June’s parents are quite similar in personality to June. He shuddered. Say no more, my sweet. Parents can be such odious creatures. Children can be Such odious creatures.

  He drained his glass of champagne and poured another.

  "Procreation is not my cup of tea, he said melodramatically. Did you know that Balzac thought so highly of his sperm that he quite hated to waste it. He always pulled out just short of, well, you know what I’m talking of, dear girl. To him, tiny replicas of his brain cells were located in his precious sperm; therefore, to lose himself was to drain away all his creativity. Once, after he had gotten carried away and forgotten his philosophy in the heat of the moment, he was quite inconsolable. “I lost a book this morning,” he cried to his friends.

  "Hogarth, you really are too much.

  They smiled in contentment and the car drove on through the darkness. She leaned back and dozed. She had no idea where she was or where they were going, but she didn’t mind.

  It was all going to be a grand adventure.

  Finally, the car turned and drove up a crunching, winding road. Nearly there, said Hogarth. We’ll go in the back way.

  The house seemed awfully dark and quiet. Where is everyone? she said.

  "Oh, this isn’t where the party’s meant to be, Hogarth said. It’s the neighbors’ nice quiet house, where we’ll be changing and sleeping. I expect everyone’s gone to the great house already. Starting on the champagne without us, the naughty buggers.

  He took her into the kitchen, where a frowning, heavyset woman, stirring a big pot of something pungent, nodded to them. That’s Matilda, Hogarth whispered. She’s dreadfully unpleasant. But efficient. Peasant stock, you know. Limited imagination.

  They hurried into a hall and up the servants’ staircase, pushing open a door leading into a wide, dimly lit hallway. Where are the bloody lights, Hogarth muttered. Bloody useless.

  He opened the door of a bedroom, finally, and switched on the light. There, spread carefully on the bed, was the most exquisite ensemble she had ever seen. She gasped at the glorious sight of it.

  "I’ll send Matilda up to lace your corset, Hogarth said. Unless you’d like me to help you. He winked lasciviously.

  "Don”t you need to change? she teased him.

  "Yes indeed. I’ll be just down the hall. Do come fetch me if you need anything. Let’s see. I’ll send the lugubrious Matilda up to you in about forty-five minutes. Plenty of time for a bath and to start dressing. How does that sound?

  "Lovely.

  He kissed her cheek and left.

  The dress came in two parts: the sleeveless bodice of emerald green satin the color of her eyes, with flowers and leaves embroidered with golden thread; the skirt was of the same green satin, full and heavy, with gold and silver flowers edging the hem. There were several layers of stiff taffeta petticoats to go underneath the skirt. She fingered the delicate lace on the smooth silk underthings. There was a pale pink corset with thick gold lacings. She held it up to her body to see how it would fit, running from just under her breasts to her hipbones. She’d never worn such a thing. She’d never seen such clothes. There were sheer silk stockings and golden garters and shoes of the same embroidered green silk, that fit her perfectly.

  What fun she was going to have tonight!

  She ran a bath and soaked luxuriously, humming with pleasure. There was an entire array of mak
eup already set up for her in the bathroom, everything she needed for her face. An intoxicating bottle of perfume and matching body lotion. A finely knit cap so that her hair could be contained under the wig. There was the wig itself, of shiny blond curls, piled high in intricate patterns and looped with pearls.

  It was all too fantastic.

  She slipped on the underthings and struggled into the corset. Matilda knocked on the door and came in. She didn’t say a word, gesturing to her to turn around. Matilda pulled the corset strings so tight that she cried out. Then she pulled them tighter still.

  "I can’t breathe, she gasped.

  Matilda said nothing, merely frowning even more severely as she picked up the bodice and slipped it on. Then she fastened the skirt in the back. The wig was placed carefully over the cap, with several minute adjustments. Then Matilda went into the bathroom, fetched the wet towels, and left.

  She was trying to catch her breath and step into her shoes when Hogarth knocked on the door and announced himself.

  "Come in, she said.

  "My word, you look magnificent, he said. Positively breathtaking.

  He was dressed like a courtier of the seventeenth century, in a bright white satin frock coat with silver buttons marching down the front, and matching satin pants that came to his knees. His stockings were also spotlessly white. His shoes were embroidered with silver curlicues and his silver-white wig came cascading down over his shoulders. He’d rouged his cheeks and his lips and put a black beauty mark on his cheek. He had a silver-topped cane in one hand and his other hand hidden behind his back.

  "I can’t breathe, she said.

  "Matilda is a beast, he said. But your outfit fits you most perfectly. I can loosen your corset if you wish. It would be my pleasure.

  "I’d laugh if only I could breathe.

  "You’ll get used to it, he said. Now close your eyes and hold out your hand.

  "What is it?

  "Close your eyes.

  She closed them, then felt a long, thin box being placed in her hand. She opened her eyes, and then the box. Inside was the most ravishing necklace she had ever seen, a thick choker that must have been laced with hundreds of emeralds and diamonds.

  "I can’t possibly wear this, she said.

  "Why ever not? Hogarth asked as he fastened it. It’s as divine as you are.

  "I feel like a fairy princess, she said.

  "You are, my darling. A fairy princess for the evening. The most entrancing creature in our kingdom. He stepped away and examined her with a critical eye. Yes, I think you’ll do. You’ll do very well indeed. Now come with me.

  He took her hand and led her down the hall, back down the stairs to the kitchen, where Matilda was nowhere to be found, and into another hall. Then he pushed open a door, and she gave a little cry of delight.

  They were in a huge empty ballroom, lit only by candles burning in dozens of candelabra lining the mirrored walls. The mirrors reflected the light in crazy patterns, and she felt as if she’d stumbled into an enchanted world.

  Hogarth went over to a small table in a dark corner and turned on a phonograph there. A waltz started to play, and she laughed. Then he came back with two glasses of champagne and beckoned to her. He was standing with his back to an immense marble fireplace.

  "Drink it all at once and make a wish, he said. Then he threw his champagne glass over his shoulder, toward the fireplace. Close your eyes and make a wish.

  She drank it all, closed her eyes, and threw her glass. She laughed again in pure pleasure at the sharp sound of it breaking.

  "May I have this dance, milady, Hogarth said. He offered her his hand and they began to waltz, dwarfed by the immensity of the empty ballroom. Slowly at first, Hogarth turning her carefully, as if she were made of crystal as fragile as the glasses they’d just smashed. Then faster and faster. He was a smooth dancer, Hogarth. Of course he would be, the dapper thing. She was so excited, so happy, so thrilled to be alive. This was going to be the most wonderful night of her life.

  They were whirling faster and faster around the ballroom. The room was spinning, and she stopped suddenly. She couldn’t catch her breath, she was so dizzy. Her skirt was terribly heavy, pulling her down. Her feet felt frozen. Her legs, frozen.

  Hogarth had a worried look on his face. What is it, my darling?

  She looked at him, perplexed, but didn’t reply, then swooned into a dead faint.

  PART II

  The Red Toenails

  of Andromeda

  (1951–1954)

  Belladonna had a dream

  Smiling like a cat with cream

  Smiling oh so satisfied

  followed by her secret spies

  Belladonna watch you die

  4

  The Mask of

  black Lace

  “Did you see her nails?”

  “Whose nails?”

  “Andromeda’s, of course.”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re a bright, shiny crimson, you fool. The color of blood. It’s a disgrace.”

  “But, my dear, I don’t understand. Look at my nails" they’re a bright, shiny crimson.”

  “Not those nails. Her toenails.”

  “My toenails are crimson, too.”

  “You don’t know anything, do you? The dog. The dog’s toenails are crimson. So is the drink.”

  “What drink is that?”

  “The Belladonna, of course. The house drink. It’s a bloodied martini.”

  “The martinis have blood in them?”

  “Can you ever stop being a fool? Of course not. They’re colored red, like the dog’s toes.”

  “Whose dog?”

  “Belladonna’s dog.”

  “Andromeda is a dog?”

  “Well, who else could Andromeda be?”

  “But why does the dog have nail polish on her toes?”

  “Unbelievable. You are hopeless. Andromeda is the dog outside the Club Belladonna. The only club anyone ever talks about. The most exclusive, wonderful club in the whole world, and it’s run by that damn dog.”

  “What kind of dog?”

  “How should I know? Some horrible, hairy, slobbery, overgrown mutt. They say her collar is real, all those diamonds on a dog collar, but nobody’d dare steal it because the dog would take your arm off. If those awful doormen next to her didn’t first.”

  “No.”

  “The dog’s always out there with those awful doormen, with the masks on. She always has a mask on inside, so they’re just the warm-up to get you ready for her, if you can catch my drift. All you see are their eyes, those awful doormen, and a hint of their lips. They hardly ever say a word to anyone, on account of that dumb dog. Especially the chubby one. He gives me the creeps; you feel him looking at you from behind his mask like you’re some blithering idiot, but he never says anything. Just stares. Anderson told me it’s because he’s only got half a tongue.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “Anderson says he got it chopped off when some duke surprised his wife by coming home early, walked in on him when he was … you know …”

  “No. That’s ghastly.”

  “He stands out there, rain or shine, next to the dog. If she barks, you can’t get in. Why, she barked at the Duke and Duchess of Windsor"can you imagine! He used to be the king of England! And to top it all off, the bitch had the nerve to bark at us last night"I was with Anderson and Digby, and it was most annoying. My evening was absolutely ruined.”

  “Maybe if you brought her a nice bottle of pink nail polish she might like you better.”

  “Who?”

  “The dog.”

  “Unbelievable. You really are pathetic.”

  How I love the delectable smears of gossip clogging my very pores! Poor Andromeda. She really is a nice, well-trained poochie, discriminating and patient. She barks only in response to nearly invisible hand signals from Matteo, ones I’m certain none of our socially obsessed patrons would recognize even if they were bit
ing the hands that fed them. They are fearfully preoccupied with mounting an assault on the door. It’s not marked; there’s no brightly lit sign on Gansevoort Street saying THIS WAY, WORLD, THIS IS IT. There’s only a dark crimson door. Two taciturn doormen, one small, one large. One barking Irish wolfhound. And several hundred people on the street, desperate to get in. They simply must, darlings! How dare the police shoo them away! How inconceivable that they can’t bribe their way in, so accustomed are they to buying everything they want. Why, that damn dog barks at the merest sniff of a well-palmed Franklin. The bitch!

  Naturally, anybody who is somebody has already stepped over the threshold into the enchanted realm of the Club Belladonna. Anybody who is somebody who hasn’t, well, having to deal with them is so boring. It’s their sense of entitlement that gets up my nose. I watch them sometimes through one of the peepholes and laugh and laugh. Deprive them of their expected evening’s entertainment and watch their tongues flap as wildly as the wings of Petunia, our parrot, when she gets startled. I’m training her to say a few select phrases for their benefit.

  First, of course, they have to make it past the divine Andromeda. I’m sure she’s the only wolfhound in New York with Cherries in the Snow on her nails, but it’s a dog’s life, isn’t it? Soon all the bitches we meet will be crimson-colored and barking, if they aren’t already.

  And why not? Serves them all right.

  I find the location three days after I arrive in New York. Or rather, I find the block. Down where the nighttime revelers are not prone to crawl nor respectable rich contessas likely to live; only burly cigar chompers with bloodstained aprons shouting to one another as they haul huge dripping slabs of beef from cold rooms to waiting trucks. Around the corner from the desolate cobblestoned streets of the meat district is a huge FOR SALE sign on what used to be the Kiss-Kiss Kandy factory, taking up nearly all the block of Gansevoort Street between Greenwich and Washington streets. Even better, there is a row of derelict brownstones around the comer on Horatio Street, whose back windows face the factory and are no doubt encrusted with the grimy remnants of spun sugar.