The Keeper of the Walls Page 19

  He’d laughed—almost in spite of himself. And had turned to look fully into the proffered face. She’d been a strangely vulnerable street urchin, with absurd burgundy hair cut very short, and slanted amber eyes. Very thin, and with an elegant little nothing of a black dress. He’d asked: “And how do you know that?”

  She’d lifted her shoulders, dropped them again. “Simple. They send their rich wives chez Poiret, where I work, and while I twirl before them, when the premiere goes away, the well-heeled ladies whisper an invitation to a private party, and slip a thousand francs into the bodice of the dress I’m modeling.”

  “And? You go?”

  She’d made a face. “Sometimes. You have to look reality squarely in the eye. What I make as a model hardly pays the rent. And I’m not going to stay a nobody all my life—that’s for sure!”

  At that point, he’d felt something: a sudden stab of recognition. She was ambitious, and self-made. And she wasn’t going to stop at conventions to arrive where she’d set her goals. Although he’d never been attracted to women who were in any way outrageous, he’d liked her. But it had been her initiative to get him out of that town house and into a small bar, where they’d sat over gin fizzes, talking about their lives. He’d been touched by her candidness, and responded with a strange protective feeling he had never felt before—not even toward his sister when she’d been younger.

  It wasn’t that he loved her, Claude thought, ringing the doorbell of a small apartment on the top floor of an old house. He didn’t like Montmartre, with its small, steep, winding streets, and its atmosphere of poverty and cheap art.

  She swung the door open, and he found himself smiling, his heart beating just a little more rapidly. She really did look like a child, with her slender, vulnerable face, and her thin, athletic body. She was older than he—maybe five or six years, but somehow, he never felt the age difference when they were together.

  “I’ve cooked for you,” she said, presenting her elfin face to be kissed. Moving with quick grace, she put the rosebuds in a small vase. She was wearing an old plaid bathrobe, and looked exactly the opposite of when he’d met her, or when, subsequently, he’d taken her out on the town. Then she’d been in the last cry of fashion, in her Poiret clothes—the only point of luxury in her life, for she received them for free. Now she looked like a somewhat rumpled child in her father’s Sunday-morning bathrobe. He found this charming.

  “What have you been cooking?” he asked. The small living room was filled with green plants and charcoal drawings of herself in various poses and modes of dress, but the sofa where he sat down was soft and curvaceous, the latest design. She’d received it from Poiret after the Exposition of Decorative Arts, as a bonus for her work there.

  “Pot au feu,” she answered, laughing. “You can’t ask a country girl from Meaux to cook you something more tasty. You can’t get it chez Maxim’s.”

  “It’s funny,” he remarked, lacing his arm around her and walking into the kitchen. “Long ago, before we had money, my mother used to cook things like that. And my father’s mother. I love good French food—unpretentious. My sister would never serve pot au feu for any of her guests.”

  “I’ve seen her once or twice,” Henriette said, somewhat tightly. She lifted the cover off a large pot, and stirred the contents with a big wooden spoon.

  “My sister is what one calls a lady: her tastes are artistic, her culture is sound, her political and economic background is nil. And she’s very devout—the kind of woman who’ll want to procreate because that’s what the Church believes in.”

  “You don’t sound as though you like her.”

  “I don’t. The fact is,” he said, surprised at his own vehemence, “I really detest that husband of hers. He can convince her of his inherent goodness—but in reality, he’s a selfish bastard. He took our company under the awning of his large firm, and gave me a general vice-presidency. Lily thought that was so generous on dear Misha’s part—he made sure she’d think that. But he didn’t fool me: he wanted to control us, to skim the profits legally. How else do you think he’s made it so big? He’s been absorbing smaller companies from the start—threatening to ruin them in the competition if they didn’t sell to him. And then he’s bilked them dry.”

  “You have no proof of this, do you?” She was bringing soup plates and ladling the stew into them, little by little.

  “No. You see, darling, he’s very smart. He won’t do anything illegal. What he does is just one millimeter within legality. So he’s never gotten caught.”

  He found himself with a soup plate in hand, and followed her into the tiny dining room, where the table was set. They both put their plates down and sat down. She put her elbows on the table and held her head up with her hands. “Claude,” she said. “You know, I was involved with him for a while.”

  He stared at her, astonished. “With Mikhail Brasilov?”

  “Yes. When he was still married to Jeanne Dalbret. She was a nice woman—let him do what he pleased. Then he divorced her to marry your sister.”

  “Did you like him?” Claude asked.

  She began to attack the stew before her. “Mmm. I liked him a great deal. He was ...an adventurer. He adores women. A lot of women. I never imagined a man like that could ever be happy with a person like your sister.”

  “They do seem a rather ill-matched pair,” he agreed, starting to eat. “But maybe not . . . Lily inherited a sort of queenlike demeanor from my mother.”

  She said: “Don’t let’s talk about them! There are so many fascinating things and people for us to discuss! Let’s let them be, okay?”

  “Were you in love with him, then?”

  She shrugged. “I just wanted to tell you about us, that’s all. So you’d hear it from me. People in this town have such big mouths. . . . And then, of course, you might decide to have me investigated!” She sat smiling at him, still holding her glass up. Tilting her head to one side, she asked, seriously: “Tell me the truth, Claude. You’re such a ...well, distrustful person . . . and you’ve told me a bit about the way you work. Have you already had me investigated?”

  His fork poised midway between his plate and his mouth, he shook his head. “No. Not you. Somehow, I had the feeling that . . . how can I put it? ...you’d tell me your own story.”

  She set the glass down. “Well,” she declared. “I did, didn’t I? I haven’t been a saint, like the immaculate Lily—but then, I’m not married, and I’m almost thirty-four. A girl has to survive, in a tough, ugly world where good guys almost never win. And for sure, not good girls.”

  “You’re not such a bad girl,” he said, reaching across the table and covering her hand with his. And then, clearing his throat during a moment of embarrassment, he added: “And you’re my girl.”

  “And you’re the only serious man I’ve ever known,” she answered.

  In the stillness that ensued, Claude thought, almost with awe, that this conversation was the closest he’d ever come to a declaration of love with anyone, including his family. This small room, with its slightly discolored wallpaper, with the warm, familiar smell of the pot au feu, and the girl, with her long amber eyes and that tattered bathrobe, felt more like home than any place he’d ever been. Maybe, then, he was in love with her after all.

  Jacques Walter’s suite at the Ritz was all subdued opulence, like the man himself. At fifty-eight, he was tall, erect, well dressed, his silk shirts always impeccably pressed, his silk ties a marvel of hues to match each one of his suits. He had a long, well-sculpted face, topped by a head of white hair that shone like a silk bonnet. His eyes were a sharp blue, his long, aquiline nose aristocratic. Now he stood before Claire and put his hands squarely on her shoulders. “I don’t see why we have to get married out of town,” he declared.

  “It’s the only way of avoiding a public wedding.”

  He passed his tongue over his upper lip. “You mean, it’s the only way of having a quiet Jewish wedding without your family.”

  She
looked away, fumbled uncomfortably with her rings. “Jacob,” she murmured, “I’ve tried to explain it to you. You and Lily are the only two people besides Julien Weill who know the whole story. Even Eliane doesn’t know all.” She whispered, not looking at him: “I’ve told the children you’re ... a Protestant, like many Swiss people.”

  He burst into short, hard laughter. “To go with my lean and hungry face. But darling—isn’t it time all this stopped? I can understand how things were for you, when Paul was alive. But now—”

  “I have to protect Claude. And Lily, too. Misha would never be able to accept a Jewish—or half-Jewish—wife. Even a Jewish stepfather could be held against Lily.”

  He sighed. “I can’t argue with you. I know something of Prince Brasilov. He and his father were not exactly Semitophiles in their country.”

  “Misha’s a good man, Jacob.”

  “I’m certain of it. But nevertheless, you’re afraid to tell him the truth.”

  She said, wringing her hands: “Please don’t force me to! I’m just asking you to lead a quiet life, the way you’ve always done, even in Basel. To be discreet—for my sake.”

  “All right,” he stated, stopping in his tracks. “I’ll meet your Misha, and I’ll do what you ask. For the time being,” he added.

  “Then,” she whispered, kissing his cheek, “we’ll go to the Riviera, and be married there. I’d like that, anyway. It’s infinitely more romantic than Paris.”

  It was a wonderful, warm day, and Lily felt good as she walked out of the Galeries Lafayette, holding the small parcel. There were always things there for the children. She’d bought a nightgown for Kira, and a little sailor suit for summer, for Nicky.

  She’d told François to come back in two hours, and now there was still an hour to go. She was glad, hugging her time alone like a precious commodity. She’d always enjoyed walking alone along the boulevards, like a common, everyday French bourgeoise. It was like an escape from being, twenty-four hours a day, the Princess Brasilova, who was only allowed to do certain things. It was a small rebellion, but, Lily thought, one that made her feel good.

  She strolled along, stopping to look in shop windows. She wasn’t showing yet, but she was constantly aware of the new pregnancy. She hadn’t told Misha yet, and wondered why. Perhaps it was because, for a few weeks, she’d wanted to be the only one to know. How different from the first time!

  “Lily,” a voice called, and she turned, surprised at the voice she hadn’t heard in so many years. Beside her on the sidewalk stood Mark MacDonald, in a light raincoat. She felt a sudden wave of warmth, and her heart beat quickly.

  He took her hands. “You haven’t really changed,’ he said. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere in particular. I just had a free hour. I’m glad to see you, Mark.”

  “Would you like to stop for a cup of coffee? I have some time, too. I’d like to catch up with you.”

  For an instant only, she hesitated. Why was it that she never really dared take an initiative, sensing always a presence behind her, looking over her shoulder? She nodded, feeling squeamish. She was indulging herself in a perfectly legitimate pastime, catching up with an old friend—but still, the odd guilt persisted. He had taken her arm and was walking with her across the street, to a small outdoor café that beckoned invitingly. She realized that Mark’s reassuring presence was like the answer to a prayer. She hadn’t felt so happy to be with someone since Maryse and Wolf had gotten married, moved away, and deprived her of the joys of their companionship.

  They sat down, and all at once, Lily was afraid to look up and encounter his eyes. She could feel a wave of heat and a concurrent tightness in her stomach. This is ridiculous, she thought, and resolutely forced herself to look at him.

  His hands had folded over some cutlery, and he was twirling a fork through his fingers, seemingly concentrating on the movement of the silver tines. So he, too, was somewhat embarrassed. She saw, for a few brief seconds, a replay of the last time they had met, when she’d sent for him at the Villa Persane, and he had promised to stay her friend, adding that he’d have to keep away for a while because of his pain.

  “Your book’s doing well,” she remarked, to break the silence.

  He smiled. It was a smile tinged with a certain ironic sadness, which touched her. Lines had developed between the sides of his nose and the corners of his lips, and she had to admit that she liked this sign of maturity. “I’m pleased with the sales,” he said. “I’ve quit the Clarion, and haven’t even had to touch my trust fund. No, professionally speaking, I can’t complain.”

  “And . . . otherwise?”

  Why was it she was hoping that his face wouldn’t light up, that he wouldn’t suddenly reveal the name of a new love? She was being unfair. She’d rejected him, and had never really been in love with him. He deserved to be happy with another woman. Why, then, was she selfishly willing him to still care? He’d told her that men who pined for long-lost loves were, in his opinion, fools.

  His hazel eyes opened warmly to her, gold flecks like sunlight over green waters. “Otherwise? I’ve kept up old friendships, and met some new people. You’d be surprised how the world flocks around a man when he’s been lucky enough to have had one minor success.”

  “It wasn’t minor, and people always knew that you were special. Don’t put yourself down, Mark.”

  He laughed. “I used to tell you the same thing.” Slowly, the amusement seeped from his face, and he asked, softly: “And ...did marriage bring you what you wished for? Fireworks, like my character Theresa?”

  A sudden cloud seemed to fall over her spirits, which she tried to ignore. “Well . . . fireworks tend to burn out, don’t they? A nice warm hearth seems more enduring—don’t you think? For real people?”

  “Perhaps.” He was silent then, a bit withdrawn, his eyes far away. Abruptly, he looked at her again. “I hear you have two children. That’s nice.”

  Still trying to sort out her feelings, and to shrug off the cloud, she burst out, “And I’m expecting a third!” and then immediately wanted to bite her tongue at the foolishness of having revealed this.

  “Oh?”

  “But—nobody knows yet. Misha ... I haven’t told him the good news. It has to be a special moment, a—”

  “Yes, of course, I see.”

  “I’m so sorry we lost touch, Mark,” she then stated, her voice unexpectedly warm. “You were speaking of having kept up friendships . . . yet with me . . .”

  “It wasn’t quite the same, Lily, was it? You were never just another Maryse for me, nor a Claire. I’ve seen her a few times, by the way—your mother. And I’ve met Jacques. What a fine man he appears to me! I think they’ll have a happy life together.”

  Glad to be once again on neutral grounds, and to be able to give free vent to her feelings, she relaxed. “I agree. He’s exactly what Mama needs—what she’s always needed. But I do wish they hadn’t planned to elope to Saint-Paul-de-Vence. I’d hoped to be ... well, her matron of honor. And now I feel like a mother whose eloping daughter has cheated her out of a wedding!” She laughed, nervously. “Perhaps it’s because I didn’t have a formal wedding either. I’d counted on Mama to have one in my stead!”

  Mark sat chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip. “I might be entirely wrong,” he said, “but somehow I’d gotten a vague impression that Jacques Walter’s a Jew. And if so, you’d have to understand why they wouldn’t want a religious service. People of different faiths very often prefer to be quietly married by a justice of the peace.”

  Demitasses of coffee had been placed in front of them, and Lily’s hand, halfway to her mouth, put down her cup. “But—that’s not true. Jacques isn’t Catholic, but I think Mama said he was some kind of Protestant—Lutheran or something. And . . . and . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she found herself trembling.

  Puzzled, Mark asked: “Would you object to Jacques’s being a Jew? I don’t understand.”

  “But . . . you aren’t sure,
you said? It was never actually discussed?”

  The intensity of her pleading stare shocked him. “No. He never mentioned it to me. And it’s quite likely that I could be wrong. But, Lily: I still don’t see why it would make a difference to you one way or the other. You never cared before about other people’s religions.” His eyes narrowed: “Unless, of course, your husband’s well-known ideas have finally gotten to you.”

  She heard the unmistakable bitterness in his tone of voice, and sat back, as if slapped. She could sense tears forming, and starting to push behind her eye sockets. “Damn it, Mark,” she cried, “it isn’t that at all! After all these years—after the time we spent together, when you said you loved me—you should know, better than anyone, that I’m not anti anything! It’s just . . . just . . . that you don’t understand!”

  The tears had finally spilled out, and suddenly she stood up, almost knocking over her cup of coffee. Mark half rose, but she had already left, her footsteps quick, almost panicky, as she made her way to the corner of the street. His lips parted with bewilderment, he sat down again, his own breath raspy.

  It was only five minutes later that he realized she’d left her package on the seat. Strangely troubled, he picked up the wrapped box, and fingered the ribbon. Maybe this was an omen.

  “There’s a Monsieur MacDonald in the study, waiting to see Madame la Princesse,” Arkhippe said to her.

  “But—I don’t really want to see him.” She felt a surge of nervousness, almost anger. “Why did he come?”

  “He says he’ll wait, but he must see Madame.”

  “Thank you, Arkhippe.”

  She stood uncertainly, wondering. She really wished he’d stayed out of her life. She’d been so glad to see him—until he’d mentioned that about Jacques. No, she wasn’t going to think about it. It wasn’t fair—the whole thing wasn’t fair. Claire should have told her about it before, not let her hear it from someone else. Another truth withheld from her.

  She walked, unsteadily, into the study. Mark stood up when he saw her, and she saw the package. She felt a wave of relief. “Oh,” she said, “thank you. I’d forgotten it, hadn’t I?”