The Keeper of the Walls Page 10

  She wanted to leave, couldn’t wait for the moment when she would go upstairs to change, to leave with her new husband for the Loire valley. Neither one of them belonged here, and both were awkward. But it’s the last time, she told herself. The last time anyone will force me to be with people I don’t care for, people who don’t care about me, but only about the name I bear. “Liliane Brasilova; Princess Mikhail Brasilov.” She loved its sound but was a little afraid of its importance.

  In the royal blue De Dion-Bouton, she sat silently, watching his hands on the steering wheel—surprisingly delicate hands, though large and strong. It was a strange sensation, to be sitting next to a man she still knew so little, but who was now her husband before God and all men. She glanced at her ungloved hands, folded together on her lap. The large diamond gleamed coldly at her. She felt for the small gold medallion of the Virgin around her neck. “Misha,” she said timidly. “I’d like to stop somewhere, in a small chapel. It would be nice, to consecrate our wedding.”

  He turned to her, and she saw the kind concern in his eyes. “If that’s what you want.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “God is always with us, Lily. Wherever we are.”

  He was stronger, more powerful, wiser than she. She’d wanted a husband like that, to protect her. She didn’t want to feel alone, battling with the world. A surge of affection filled her then. He was stopping the car in the countryside, in front of a small, dilapidated church.

  Unlike Claude, he always came around to her side to open the door for her. Next to him, she didn’t feel awkward about her size. She was still small beside him. They walked hand in hand up to the church, and he held the wooden door to let her pass inside. The church was small and deserted, grass growing between the brick of the walkway. The altar was well tended, however, with a shining statue of Christ on the cross at the rear wall. Lily plucked a candle from a sconce, and went up to the altar with it. Misha remained behind, watching her as she knelt, as she prayed.

  In a few moments she stood up, pressing out the creases in her skirt. She looked up, and encountered his eyes. Suddenly she felt embarrassed. He went halfway up the aisle to hold out his hand to her, and silently, she put hers into it. They walked hand in hand into the hazy March sunshine, timid with each other, a little uncomfortable.

  They were standing in a field, near the road, among the poppies. They were alone. Far off, sounds of mooing cows reached their ears. He cupped her chin in his hand, looked deep into her eyes. “It’s the timing,’ he said gently. “ You’re my wife, but you don’t feel like my wife yet.”

  She nodded, amazed at his perceptivity. Maybe it wouldn’t be this hard after all. He bent over, tasted her lips, and with a suddenness that took her breath away, swept her up into his arms. He strode toward a lone tree in the meadow, away from the dirt of the road, and laid her down on the soft grass. Then, to her complete incredulity, he began to take off his jacket, his tie, and then his shirt. “What . . . ?” she murmured.

  “I want you to feel like my wife,” he answered simply. “Now.”

  She would never forget their first coming together in the meadow, when she’d first felt him as a man inside her, while she trembled for fear that somebody would see them, and he laughed, gently, about her bourgeois fears. Afterward there was a new bond between them. Although she still felt that he was an iceberg, seven-eighths unknown, there was something touching and vulnerable about the sex act with him that revealed more of the man’s sensitivities than all the words he’d ever spoken to her. He called her “Lily,” and spoke in deep tones the language of his past, which had at first surprised her, because all Russian noblemen spoke French from the cradle. She supposed that at the most elemental of times, a man spoke the most instinctive tongue that came to him. But he never praised her, or filled her ears with terms of endearment. He was spare in the expression of his feelings: she’d learned that early on.

  Together, they wandered through the vast stone castles of the Loire valley, imagining scenes from the Middle Ages taking place in their gardens. They ate lunch at small taverns and drank vin du pays. He ate and drank enormous quantities, always with relish. And always he pointed out to her the things he thought would broaden her mind. For hers was a parochial mentality, carved by the nuns away from the world.

  She tried to ask him about his life. Whenever she touched on the subject of Varvara, he closed himself off. It was visible, this closing off. His eyes became remote, he raised his head in proud rejection. But he described to her with amusement the things he’d done as a youth, and some facets of his father’s business. Lily felt that she’d entered a world greater than life. He was a giant among men. She whispered to him: “I love you, I love you.” to make him happy and to chase away the past. But he simply held her head against his chest, and never answered her. It was all right: she could survive without the words, she could learn anything to please him, to make him smile.

  In the early spring, she felt herself grow into a woman beside this man whom six months ago she hadn’t even known. He never let her far away from him. He liked to touch her, to link his fingers with hers, to surround her shoulders with his arm. Lovemaking was a strange experience. He was so smooth in his nudity, his chest muscled but hairless, with the two round brown areolas of his nipples flat and strong against the boyishness of the hairless chest. He was like a statue, every muscle finely delineated and visible. She always knew when he was aroused, she always felt it was something so incredible, a man excited. He was careful not to hurt her, not even to embarrass her. He kept himself above her, moving in and out smoothly, letting her feel him inside her. Nobody had ever told her what to expect from sex, but she liked it.

  She said to him, once, over a candlelit dinner in a small inn: “I’m glad you’ve lived a full life before me. Women often worry about their husbands’ fidelity. But you’ve had your fill of women—haven’t you?”

  He smiled. There was always something a little sad about his smile. “I’ll never dishonor you,” he said.

  “And I’m—enough?”

  Again the little smile. “I’m here, Lily. With you.”

  He wanted her to understand by half words, by facial expression. If she’d hoped to learn much more about him during their honeymoon, she learned it from the tone of his voice, from his body language. But somehow she felt that he loved her, that she would be protected forever.

  It was with regret that she entered the De Dion-Bouton to return to Paris. She realized that never again would they be so totally alone, so completely at peace together.

  The next few weeks took care of themselves. Lily went to the Rue de Paradis with her mother, and bought everyday dishes; to the Galeries Lafayette, where they purchased all that a kitchen would need. Claire came every morning by chauffeured car, only it was Lily who sent the car for her: a metallic Rolls-Royce that was a present to the young woman from her father-in-law. They spent the day shopping, taking tea at La Marquise de Sévigné, and at six o’clock Lily sent her mother home again. It gave her just enough time to bathe, brush her hair, and be dressed and ready for dinner with her husband. Often, Prince Ivan came along, and they would dine as a threesome.

  She slipped without too much trouble into the role she realized he wanted. All her life she had been afraid of confrontations. The idea that an entire household depended on her management had at first frightened her. But after a few weeks she knew that her authority had been established: that her gentle ways had made inroads with everyone.

  She met, one by one, all the great hostesses of Paris: the Baronne d’Oettingen, the Vicomtesse Marie-Laure de Noailles, the Marquise Casati, the Princesses Murat and de Polignac. They were kind to her because she was so young, and by nature she was a quiet one, listening and learning. The nuns had taught her well, giving her a solid foundation in the classics. And twice a week she and Misha went to the opera, the ballet, or the theater. She came to know Gabrielle Dorziat, Cécile Sorel—the foremost actresses of the day, hostesses in
their own right. And the languorous Anna de Noailles, poetess and patroness, and Misia Sert, who had helped the careers of many famous poets and painters.

  Inevitably, he asked her to plan a dinner at home. It was something small, intimate. She asked him to include Maryse Robinson, to bring her confidence. “Maryse knows all these people,” she explained. “She’s my best friend. She’s been out in society much more than I.”

  “Invite Maryse. But don’t see her too often alone, Lily. She’s unmarried, and a bit too free for my taste.”

  She couldn’t help herself, and said: “You don’t like her for the same reason Papa didn’t: because she’s Jewish.”

  He raised his eyebrows and looked at her. “Not at all. I told you before, Lily: it was a prejudice founded on the behavior of some people in Russia. I haven’t let it influence me here.”

  “But still—you hold it against her.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I hope not. Maybe I do, in my subconscious. Don’t judge me, my dear. I’m trying very much to like your friend. My objections are of a different nature. I don’t approve of young women of good family going all over Paris with gentlemen friends—unchaperoned.”

  “But Maryse is very decent. This is 1924, darling. Mothers don’t accompany their daughters anymore the way they did ten or twenty years ago.”

  “If I remember correctly,” he interjected, “I never called on you to be alone with me until after we became engaged. I knew how to respect you.”

  She was silent then, pleased. He’d treated her differently from his other women. As much as she tried to keep her mind clear of his past, people spoke. Be it in veiled allusions, in small apartés concealed behind a laugh—people spoke. They said: “You’ve become a good boy, Misha.” Or: “We don’t see you anymore at all your old hangouts.” She heard his own laugh, hearty and full, responding. And then she felt left out. He’d led a rich, ribald life before his marriage. A life that in her wildest fancies she couldn’t even begin to fathom. But she was pleased. He’d given all this up, because of her. She was happy.

  Even the first dinner had gone well, and Misha had bent to kiss Maryse’s hand, while she’d flirted with him in her innocent, elfin way—only once, for a split second, had Lily caught him looking at her friend with a strange, pointed stare.

  But Lily noticed that whenever Maryse and Misha were thrown together after that, her small blond friend always appeared just a touch self-conscious. Oh, well, thought Lily: I must let them come together in their own way, each in his and her own good time.

  And she lay back and relaxed, enjoying her life.

  Maryse Robinson slipped the black Chanel chemise dress over her tiny body, and fluffed up her golden curls. The only thing that was missing was rouge. She dabbed some over her cheekbones, smoothed it over her lips. Then, without looking back, she stepped out of her room and half ran to the living room, where Mark was waiting for her, with Eliane.

  Her mother rose, at the same time as the young reporter. “Well, dears, have a good time,” she said lightly. “Don’t keep her out too late, Mark. She spent all afternoon at Lily’s, and they always wear each other down with girl talk.”

  Maryse laughed. She kissed Eliane on the cheek, and allowed Mark to slip a sable stole over her frail shoulders. They walked out together into the April coolness. Mark had bought a Citroën, and now he opened the door and let her into it. “I want to go to the Jockey Club,” she declared.

  “Then that’s what it’ll be, mademoiselle.”

  As they drove, Mark seemed preoccupied. Suddenly he asked: “Tell me about Lily. Is she happy?”

  Maryse shrugged. “I think so. Misha’s very kind to her. And she’s very much in love with him, of course.” She looked sideways at Mark, bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Don’t be silly. I want her to be happy. I thought perhaps I’d run into her now and then, but so far, I haven’t.”

  “They don’t go out to clubs. Only to the theater, and society parties. He keeps her sheltered.”

  “Just like her father. I wouldn’t have done that, but maybe he understands her better than I. He must: she chose him, didn’t she?”

  Maryse let that stand, understanding the bitterness. As she had never loved anyone with great passion yet, she wondered how he must be feeling about the rejection. He’d come so close to marrying Lily, only to be thrown over for another man—older, more imposing, richer. She shivered inwardly, glad to be free of the tempests of love.

  The Jockey Club stood on the Rue Campagne-Première in Montparnasse, and Maryse loved it. She’d introduced Mark to it and turned him into a regular patron. They entered, and Maryse left her stole with the hatcheck lady from Normandy. In his black tails, the owner, Hilaire Hiller, an American painter, was greeting the new arrivals. “You’ll see,” Maryse had whispered. “There’s always gossip to be written about here. Hemingway comes here—all the American expatriates. They brawl and they make passes and they think up their next short story.”

  The Russian pianist was accompanying a jazz combo, and Mark and Maryse sat at a small table and ordered amourettes, the anise-flavored aperitif that was customary before the unique dish of Welsh rarebit. Slowly, their eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and Maryse laid a small hand on Mark’s. “There, in the corner,” she whispered. “Zelda Fitzgerald and a man who isn’t her husband.”

  He smiled. He was always amused by Maryse. He looked where she had motioned with her chin, and saw a blond woman with bobbed hair drinking from a highball glass with a thin, dark man. His eyes shifted to the bar. There was something familiar about the sensual redhead who was sitting there, chatting with the bartender. She was of average height, but her silk dress clung to overripe breasts and the beginnings of appetizing calves. Colored beads were knotted midway between her cleavage and her waist. “Who’s that?” he whispered to Maryse.

  “I’m not sure. But she does look like someone we’ve seen before, doesn’t she? Is she perhaps an actress?”

  It was the legs that kept his gaze riveted to her. He’d seen them before. But it didn’t matter. He turned away and raised his hand to signal for the waiter.

  They picked at their food, talking of this and that. It distressed him that Maryse didn’t seem to care about making a future for herself. She just wanted to have a good time. “Lily always talked about wanting to be a concert pianist. What’s become of that?”

  Maryse shrugged. “With him, what do you expect? Sudarskaya comes three times a week. She’s a small Jewish woman with the worst taste in clothes, but she plays like a dream. Of course, he can’t stand her. Lily takes pity on her—she has so little money—and has sent her some students. Whenever Misha’s retained in town for a business dinner, she keeps her to eat with her. Lily only invites her when she’s alone. Like tonight. He had something or other to do—a meeting with a commissioner—”

  “But he doesn’t want her to reach the stage.”

  Maryse laughed. “Are you joking? Princess Brasilova?”

  He held out his hand to Maryse, and she rose to join him on the dance floor. A tango had begun.

  Over the head of his small partner, Mark looked about. The stunning redhead at the bar was turning around, smiling. She had wide, sensuous lips painted a carmine red. A man was striding up to her—a tall, massive, well-dressed man in a dark silk suit. He, too, looked familiar. The man took the woman’s outstretched fingers, brought them to his lips, but she laughed, and closed both arms around him in a single fluid embrace. It was then that the man turned and that Mark caught his full profile. He froze on the dance floor, and Maryse stepped on his foot and stopped, bewildered. “What on earth’s gotten hold of you?”

  “Look,” he breathed into her ear. “That’s Misha Brasilov.”

  Maryse turned around, and saw them. She shook her head. “But—the meeting with the commissioner . . .”

  “Let’s sit down before they see us,” Mark said tightly, taking her arm in a strangely vise
like grip and leading her back to their table.

  The rarebit had gotten cold. There were lines around Mark’s mouth. She was suddenly a little afraid of him. She’d always thought of him as the gentlest man on earth, but now she could feel something else—a sort of fierceness.

  “Look,” he was saying. “It’s none of our business, is it?”

  She looked at him, appraisingly. “But you think it-is... just as I do. You’re still on Lily’s side. You still love her.”

  “That’s neither here nor there. But I don’t like what I’ve just seen. If I’d been lucky enough to have just married Lily—”

  At that moment, a waiter holding a drink tray moved deftly behind Maryse’s chair. On an impulse, she turned, and touched his arm. He stopped in his tracks, bewildered. “Madame?”

  “I was just wondering if you could tell us who the redheaded lady at the bar might be. We both felt we might have met her before, somewhere—only we can’t quite place her.”

  The waiter smiled. “Oh, you’d have seen her on the stage. She’s called Jeanne Dalbret, and she’s become one of Mistinguett’s best support dancers. Many people feel she’ll be ready soon to form a revue of her own.”

  “Thank you,” Maryse answered. Then, when he had left, she pressed her lips grimly together.

  “Jeanne Dalbret is Misha’s ex-wife,” she stated. “Her real name’s Trubetskaya—Varvara Trubetskaya. I guess ... he still likes her.”