Chapter 4

A Mythological Force

It was noon by the time Phil DeMarco got to the office. No

explanations were necessary and none was given. His secretary looked up

at him from her desk when he walked in and said simply, “I re-scheduled your

ten o’clock appointment for next Tuesday at three. You’ve got a story meet-

ing at two. You’re screening slides at one. I’m going to lunch in five.”

Phil DeMarco smiled. It was a rare thing, he knew, to have an

assistant as bright and competent as Kate who was also extremely attractive.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Any phone calls?”

“They’re on your desk. I’ll get Susan to take over for me. Want

something from the deli?”

“Yeah, a roast beef and Swiss on a kaiser, plenty of mustard. Thanks,

Kate, for holding the fort.”

“All in the line of duty,” Kate said, hooking her purse over her

shoulder and closing the door behind her.

Phil DeMarco went into his office, walked around behind the massive

teak desk and stood looking out of the window. There it was, he thought, the

monster . . . sometimes I think this city is trying to devour me . . . but

not today, no, not today anyway. He turned away from his eighteenth-story

View of Third Avenue and Midtown and sat down at his desk, still a little

shaky from the morning’s anxiety. What a weird thing, he thought; I’ve never

experienced anything like that before. It felt good to be sitting at his

solid desk, surrounded by the familiar tools of his trade: a typewriter,

sheets of color transparencies from which the photographs in his magazine

were made, a hardcover dictionary, newspapers, magazines, the telephone . . .

One of the lines lit up on the phone. Evidently Susan was not at her post

yet, DeMarco thought, picking up the receiver and depressing the square

plastic button that was flashing at him.

“Sheik Magazine. Phil DeMarco speaking.”

“Phil, this is Hélène Bachmann . . . at the Venus Agency. I’ve been

trying to reach you all morning.”

DeMarco loved the raspy sound of Hélène’s voice; it made him think

of Lauren Bacall with a French accent. She was reputed to be a lesbian.

Too bad, he thought. “Hi, Hélène. I just got in. Haven’t had a chance to

go through my messages yet, otherwise I would’ve called you. What’s up?”

“Phil, I am having some difficulty with a client and I would

appreciate it very much if you could give me some advice.

“Why come to me? I’m not in the rag trade. My models take their

clothes off rather than put them on,” he chuckled goatishly at his own joke.

“Your business is nonetheless related. I can’t go to a competitor

now, can I?”

“I don’t know what kind of advice I can give you, Hélène. Why ask

me?”

“Well . . . because you are an American and you know what makes

Americans tick.”

“Not exactly. I just--”

“Please, Phil. Do this favor for me?”

DeMarco paused for a moment. He knew he could not say no to this

woman, not to any woman with a voice like hers. “Do you know the bar at

the U.N. Plaza Hotel?”

“Of course. The Ambassador Lounge.”

“That’s it. Meet me there at six.”

At six, Phil DeMarco was sitting on a stool at the bar of the

Ambassador Lounge drinking a Jack Daniels and soda. His left hand was moving

automatically between his mouth and a silver bowl of salted almonds and cashews

on the black glass surface of the bar. The place was dark and full of state

department people an travelling businessmen -- there was little chance that

either Hélène or himself would be recognized here. He had chosen the place

for that particular reason -- that and the fact that he wanted to stay away

from the usual beautiful people crowd at the bars he assumed Hélène frequented.

He detested the artsy-fartsy ad men types who hung out at places like Sardi’s.

The men who drank in chic bars were wimps, the women were rapacious, and the

whole lot of them were nothing more than a tribe of cannibals on the make.

They sickened him.

DeMarco ordered his second Jack Daniels and soda. I’ll give her

one more drink, he thought; hell of a way to spend a birthday. Halfway

through his second drink, five minutes later, Hélène walked in.

There was no question that she was a stunning woman. Tall,

slender, and refined, with good teeth and glinting shoulder-length blonde

hair and large smoky blue eyes rimmed with mascara, she could easily have

passed for one of her models. Phil DeMarco had spent the last five years

looking at photographs of women, mostly naked women, but he had never seen

anyone like Hélène, neither on film nor in the flesh. She had qualities

which most American women lacked -- sensuality, earthiness, and sophistication

were the words that came to mind as he tried to describe these qualities to

himself, but DeMarco knew it was more than that, he just couldn’t put his finger

on it. It had something to do with the way she looked at you, the way she

arched her back as she walked, the way she held herself, her shoulders and

neck, the way she tuned her head when she looked at you -- maybe the old

Hollywood screen stars had it, or maybe they were just made to appear as

though they had it. He’d have to examine some old film footage some time

and see if he could solve the mystery.

DeMarco stood up to shake hands with Hélène. She was almost two

inches taller than he was.

“Do you want to sit at a table?”

 “No, let’s sit at the bar,” Hélène said, sliding her left thigh

over a bar stool. Her legs were so long that she only needed the stool to

prop up her buttocks while her right leg, the one that was angled towards

DeMarco, was stretched out straight to the floor. Her satin wrap-around skirt

slipped off her thigh. She ordered a vodka and tonic.

“Damn, I’ve had a rotten day,” Hélène said.

“That makes two of us,” DeMarco replied.

They laughed easily together. Hélène lit a menthol cigarette

and leaned her left elbow on the brown leather padded edge of the bar. She

studied DeMarco for a moment.

“You’re a handsome man. I never realized it before,” she said.

“You only met me once before.”

“How many meetings does it take?” she asked in the lower registers

of her throaty voice. “I like your Julius Caesar hair and your Mediterranean

looks.”

This is a switch, DeMarco thought.” Listen, Hélène, what is it

you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Not so fast, please. It still amazes me how quickly you Americans

want to get down to business.”

“I like to get business over with as soon as possible. It leaves

more time for other things.”

“What did you have in mind, Mr. DeMarco?”

“Humph,” he snorted, “I never reveal that to anyone.”

“You leave them guessing?”

“Not exactly.” DeMarco was silent until he realized he should say

something more. “I like to leave them thinking they’ve outsmarted me.”

“You’re a hard man.”

“Not hard enough. But I’m learning.”

Hélène paused meditatively. “When it comes to making a new fortune,”

she said without preamble, “an old fortune is a good thing to have.”

“Oh yeah? I wouldn’t know about that. I was born poor.”

“I was born twice,” Hélène asserted, “the first time rich and

the second time poor.”

She’s a strange one, DeMarco thought. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I was born into a very wealthy Parisian family, I am in

fact descended from nobility, the old country nobility, but when I decided

to come to New York to be a model -- they disinherited me. Cut me loose.

I lived a privileged life in France, but I had to start from the bottom when

I came to this country.”

“Why bother?”

“To come here? I wanted to learn English, and I had a romantic idea

of becoming a Hollywood movie star like Katherine Hepburn.”

DeMarco smiled. “I can relate. I wanted to be another Clark Gable.

Just like every other dreamy American kid.”

They mixed their laughter and the smoke from their cigarettes.

DeMarco ordered another round.

“Why don’t we take our drinks to a table,” Hélène said. “I think

it’s time to make ourselves a little more comfortable.”

They moved out into the half-filled room where three-piece-suiters

discussed the problems of nations and multi-nationals. The elegantly dressed

men interrupted their flow of verbiage to take a good look at the tall blonde

and the hefty, surly-looking guy who was with her. Hélène walked over to a

crescent-shaped table and they settled down into a concave seat upholstered

in gray velour attached to a gray column paneled half way down with smoked

mirrors. A black-vested waitress bought them cocktail napkins, a plate of

hors d’oeuvres and a clean ashtray.

“What’s up?” DeMarco repeated, leaning back into a more relaxed

listening position. “What can I do for you?” Hélène gave him a level stare

and for a moment DeMarco felt as though he were being sized up, as if his

psychological blueprint were being sketched out in Hélène’s head for present

and future reference. “Why are you looking at me as if I were a piece of

meat being marked for butchering?” DeMarco asked her.
She looked away. She didn’t like that comment. “I am about to

sign up a new model, very young -- seventeen -- and I think very innocent.

Her name is Elora Adrian. She is from Boston, or somewhere near there. Her

parents are both surgeons with Massachusetts General. They are divorced, and

she has been living with her mother in Cambridge.” Hélène paused long enough

to catch her breath sharply. “She is very, very beautiful. She has a certain

quality which only appears maybe once in a hundred years. It’s classic, and

extremely rare.” Hélène’s cheeks flushed as she spoke; her lower lip and

chin seemed to quiver. “I tell you, Phil, I get goosebumps -- I love this

word -- I get goosebumps just talking about her.”
A spark leapt in DeMarco’s dark brown eyes.” Why are you telling

me this? I thought you were having problems with a client?”

“I had to tell you something to get to see you, didn’t I? Please

have patience. Listen to what I am saying. This girl, Elora Adrian, does not

know how beautiful she is, how perfect. Her face and her figure are absolutely

extraordinaire. When I saw the test shots they took my breath away. I know

that once she has appeared in the right magazines, she will become a force.

It frightens me.”

“Could you be more specific? What kind of a force are you talking

about?”

“A mythological force, like a goddess.”

I hope it’s the liquor, DeMarco thought; I hope she doesn’t always

talk like this. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?” he said, growing ir-

ritated. He expected this kind of crap from the psychologists who wrote

articles about his magazine, not from a hard-headed business woman.

“I am afraid that once I have trained her and Put her face in the

right places, then she will leave me. It has happened before, with girls

who only had half, no, only a fraction of what she has.”

“It doesn’t sound like she needs much training.”

“It’s not just the training,” Hélène said with an angry edge to

her voice. “It’s everything. You don’t know what it’s like. These girls

are like my daughters. I give them everything. Do you understand what I’m

saying? I give them everything, and then they leave me. No, not this time.

This one is too good to lose. And she will go the minute the phone call

comes from Hollywood, I know it. She will fly the coop, as you say, and then

where will Hélène be?” Hélène cried passionately. There was a fire in her

eyes and her chin quivered. “I will be left holding the bag.”

“I can relate,” DeMarco said. “But what can I tell you? Those

are the chances you take. Every line of business has its risks.”

“Granted, but I believe in protecting myself. I prefer to take,

let us call them, precautions for the fixture.”

Hélène smiled mischievously. The smile fit her face perfectly.

DeMarco felt a prickle of sexual desire. He knew in advance that he would

do whatever she asked him to do.

“What kind of precautions did you have in mind, Hélène?”

“I want you to take photographs of her for your magazine.”

“Are you kidding?” DeMarco sat upright. “She’s only seventeen!

C’mon now, Hélène. Be serious.”

“You don’t have to use them, just take them.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I just want the photographs on file in case I have to use them.”

“What do you mean, have to use them?”

“Don’t be dense, Phil. I mean, the photographs will give me a weapon,

something to threaten her with when Hollywood calls.” DeMarco looked startled.

“Yes,” Hélène went on, “I could teach you a lot about being hard.”

“I could be sued.”

“Not if she signs a release. But in any case I’ll cover all your

expenses.”

“When does she turn eighteen?”

“I’m not sure, but I can find out.”

DeMarco was looking away, pondering his next move, considering all

the consequences like a good chess player. He was in conflict. His antennae

quivered. His conscience suggested to him that it was not right, but his

business sense told him it was a damn good maneuver. There were many possibi-

lities in this scheme. He would need time to think them through.

Hélène squeezed his hand. “These photographs will be my security,”

she said, “and I will be able to sleep at night. If you are wondering how

you will profit from this, and I’m sure you are, rest assured that in exchange

for this favor you will have a good line of credit with Hélène.” She patted

his hand and gave him a leer like the madam of a French whorehouse. “I will

provide you with the choicest morsel you have ever tasted.”

“I need time to think about it.”

“Fine, I need time to make the arrangements.”

“How will you get her consent?”

“Don’t worry about that. She does not know how beautiful she is.

And she is willing to do anything to get into modeling,” she lied.

Phil DeMarco and Hélène Bachmann looked at each other and smiled.

“Power is a wonderful thing,” Hélène said, raising her glass.

They finished their drinks.

DeMarco looked at his watch. “I’ve got to run,” he told her. “Which

way are you heading?”

“That’s all right, Phil. I’m going to have another drink and then

call my chauffeur.”

“You do live well.”

“The Spanish say it’s the best revenge.”

DeMarco stood up. “I’ll call you in a few days.”

Hélène nodded. “Good night, Phil.”

“See you.”

Phil DeMarco left the Ambassador Lounge via the hotel lobby. The

night had turned wet with a drizzle of rain. He flipped up the collar of his

blazer and waited under the portico for a cab. He didn’t have to wait long.

He was going to get some dinner and then he had a business meeting with a

film producer. He would not be home in time for the birthday phone calls

from his family. Just as well, he thought; I don’t feel too good about myself

tonight.

Some Notes on the Novel and How It Came to be Written

ELORA, a Goddess was originally written in 1981-82, when I was living in New Haven, Connecticut. It was accepted by Diane Cleaver of New York's Sanford Greenberger Literary Agency. She represented the book for a year and half (1982-83) and was unable to find a publisher. Although there was keen interest, the ending proved to be problematic. In my youthful hubris, I refused to change it, believing everything I wrote at the time was "perfect." It was foolish of me, I know, and now with age has come wisdom, as they say, but after re-reading the novel I realize I was right not to violate the artistic integrity of my vision. The passage of 30-odd years has brought the opportunity to publish the book myself with the original ending intact, just as I wrote it back then when I was a callow youth. I have been waging war on corporate publishing ever since that first rejection, and in 1995 I founded Lorenzo Press to bring out my own books. My list has grown to over 20 titles.

The story of ELORA, a Goddess is set in Manhattan in the early 1980s. The pre-internet world it depicts no longer exists and is now a part of America's cultural history. It paints is dark picture, where innocence is quickly undermined by cynicism and young people are corrupted by their pursuit of success at any price. I believe the story is a mirror for today's rampant mainstream materialism and consumerism, both of which are hastening the destruction of our natural environment.

The story does not have a happy ending, but I hope it has the emotional power of a Greek tragedy, with a catharsis for the sensitive reader. In allegorical terms the central character is a symbol of the death of American culture, which I believe began in the 1980s. Too subtle perhaps but it might work on a subconscious level for some. Many readers will want to see good triumphing over evil, and it does in the sense that the villains in the book are punished by what I believe to be divine justice.

The book was inspired by my experiences as a year-long resident of Manhattan. I knew several people involved in the fashion business -- stylists, models, photographers -- and learned the details of the business from them. The details about the men's magazine run by Phil DeMarco is based on my first-hand experience as an editor of a Canada's only men's magazine in Montreal in the 1970s.

On a final note, I began writing the book as a challenge from my roommate at the time I was living in New Haven. Mitch was a Yale graduate student in architecture and was having trouble getting started on his master's thesis. We held long discussions on art, architecture, fashion, sex, and American culture in general. These discussions provided the impetus we both needed to get started on our respective projects.