
“What are you reading?” Isabelle asked.
Sitting in her armchair, the other woman did not answer. Marthe was fully absorbed in her book; since she’d discovered the works of Guy de Maupassant, she couldn’t stop reading his stories. He wrote so beautifully, she’d even cried when she read Dumpling. That poor woman! “You should read Dumpling!” Marthe suggested, sighing. It seemed that prostitutes had always been demeaned and undervalued, even though she knew for a fact the world couldn’t keep turning without them. They all deserved a medal for their hard work; instead, they were looked down on. At least Maupassant understood them: “No one looked at her, no one thought of her. She felt herself swallowed up in the scorn of these virtuous creatures, who had first sacrificed, then rejected her as a thing useless and unclean.” His words expressed what she felt in her heart. “Useless and unclean” was how they made her feel. Her own mother had disowned her when she found out. Her own mother who drank her days away, that grumpy old wastrel, making her feel like she was dirty and unworthy. At least she had fine clothes, she could read and write better than most people, and she had a radiant smile. For someone so unclean she wasn’t too badly off.
“I’m rich today,” Isabelle told her. That American gave me a pile of cash! He’s loaded. I’ve seen him before. He’s been here loads of times, but he never paid more than the minimum; he was never satisfied. If only you knew! We had a great time together. He’s so charming; we get on so well. He promised he’d take me to New York one day...”
“Hey, you’d better get dressed — Madame will be back soon. How much?”
“Well, it’s a lot of money — he said it was a fortune back in the States.”
“Don’t say anything, but I’m keeping most of it for myself.”
“Where did you put the money?” Marthe asked.
“It’s hidden in my panties.”
The Madame who ran the brothel entered. Isabelle had her clothes back on. The women sprang to life. The Madame never usually arrived late. One of the prostitutes took her fur coat and hung it on the coat hook.
“Madame, would you like a tea or a hot chocolate?” a young prostitute asked her.
“Avec plaisir. Did we have any visitors this morning?" asked the Madame.
“An American came and he picked Isabelle, as usual.”
“Where’s the money?”
Isabelle hopped to attention, hiding her secret. She opened the pockets of her coat. She removed two ten-dollar bills and handed them to the Madame.
“Goodness me Isabelle! Well done! You have a knack for these foreigners who come across the Atlantic to sample our beautiful French girls in our beloved Paris. Twenty dollars. I'll get this changed into francs right away so we can change the sheets in the second bedchamber,” the Madame announced. “I want to get pink sheets for it. It will be more intimate than the other rooms; we can charge more for it and put the high rollers in there.”
“That’s a great idea, Madame!” said Marthe, who had closed her storybook. And for the waiting room, I suggest we put one or two collections of stories on the round table. That will keep the Americans entertained.”
“Good idea,” Madame concluded.
Night had fallen, and Isabelle was getting undressed. She took out the wad of cash the American had given her. She counted the notes one by one, sliding them between her fingers. She wished she could stop. Stop what? Working for the Madame. But what would she do? Here in Montmartre everyone knew what she did. She was a lady of the night. She’d have liked to get away, to board a ship that would cross the Atlantic. They said that in the New World it was easy to open a hair salon. She liked French chic styles, and she could do the haircuts no problem. All she needed were some scissors and a brush, and she’d be all set! She heard snoring. Marthe had fallen asleep on her book. Isabelle looked at her tenderly. Poor Marthe; she had the heart of a child.
Alan Alfredo Geday