The Keeper of the Walls Page 28

  He turned the key in the lock to close up the suite. It was strange, this feeling of power over the comings and goings of a hotel. Hotels were like small, self-sufficient islands, where hundreds of servants busied themselves daily, and where patrons ate, made love, and planned their next successes and their next betrayals. Hotels had always lured him, with their promise of anonymity. When he’d gone to the billiard halls in Moscow, he’d been searching for just that kind of anonymity: to stop being, for the moment, Prince Mikhail Ivanovitch Brasilov.

  He stopped in the hallway, thinking, with sudden hunger, that it had been a long, long time since he’d been with a woman. Now, as the head of the Hotel Rovaro, he would have ample opportunity to take off a few hours to lie with someone for a brief pause in the inexorable machinery that was time, and his own life. But would that really be a pause? Time knew when people tried to cheat, and mocked them for their trouble. He realized that sweat was pouring profusely from his forehead, and he thought: I have no life. No love, no joy, no child, no mistress.

  He went slowly down the stairs, and stopped at the restaurant. There were about twenty people seated at small tables with flower centerpieces. Around them, the waiters and wine stewards were dashing about with expertise and enthusiasm. He turned away, trying not to think of how many other tables had been empty. Of the three hundred rooms, only fifty were occupied at present.

  If only he hadn’t insulted his father! He opened the door to his office, next to Philippe de Chaynisart’s. He sat down behind the desk and glanced at the pad of paper in front of him, filled with facts and figures.

  At the Rovaro the bill at Les Halles for fresh food products ran four thousand francs a day. The average take from the restaurant was two thousand gross. He twirled the pen in his fingers and chewed on the end. He thought: First of all, there are twenty-two employees that we don’t need: maids, scullery people, telephone operators. Then, the menu á la carte was superfluous: the regular menu was ample enough. The daily expenses should run no more than eighteen hundred, for Les Halles, the domestics, the housekeeping matrons, the cooks, the dishwashers, the wine cellar attendants, and the wine cellar. And the restaurant should be grossing ten thousand a day.

  How to accomplish this? In the United States, there was a growing industry called advertising. This hotel was a product, like a soap or a chocolate cream. He’d known many men and women of great wealth, and somehow there had to be a way to let them know that the hotel existed.

  I’ll have to ask Papa to help me with this, he thought, happy suddenly at the idea of his father’s face when he would realize how much his expertise was still needed. And for the first time that day, he felt the knot below his heart being released.

  Hanneliese was asleep in the servants’ quarters. The small apartment on the third floor was blessedly empty. Lily couldn’t sleep. Restlessly, she pulled open all the windows, and went to sit in the living room in the dark. The view was of the large boulevard lined with trees in bloom, occasionally illuminated by an eerie streetlamp. Cars drove by, their metal fenders suddenly splashed by the yellow glow of the tall, sculpted lamps. She thought dreamily of the time when one drove in a horse-drawn coupe or victoria, and the only sound of travel was the clip-clop of hooves on the cobblestones. She wished she had been born twenty years before, when the world had been a quieter, more civilized place, and where men were gentlemen who knew the subtle art of courtship.

  Directly below her, she could hear strains of chamber music. Wolf was playing the cello, and his friends from the Philharmonic were visiting. She’d made it her custom to play the piano with them; but when she wasn’t present, a gaunt man from the Philharmonic came to play the viola, and a middle-aged woman, always clothed in dark velvet, came with the bass; from the beginning, a small, rotund man called Felix Klein had brought his Stradivarius, and now Lily could hear the perfect notes rising. These were professionals—even Wolf, who had taken lessons from Piatigorsky some years back. She listened, bewitched, imagining a large ballroom with high ceilings and delicate moldings and fretwork, and a beautiful floor of polished oak—and lovely women in décolletage dancing on tiptoe in the expert arms of their escorts.

  Slowly, she moved into her bedroom. It overlooked the garden, and so she leaned against the windowsill and gazed out. The manicured lawns pleased her, with their carved nymphs dripping water like the incessant tears of gods watching the erring humans. Somebody was there, walking, gravel crunching slightly beneath his feet. She knew, right away, that it had to be Mark; Wolf was downstairs, playing; and there was no one else in the house besides the servants. She watched him. He was walking in his shirt sleeves, his head bent, absorbed in thought. Lily, in her nightgown, leaned on the windowsill with her elbows. It was like watching a moving picture: the man, solitary, reflecting on his life, and maybe planning a chapter of his book. She wondered if Balzac had ever been watched this way, without his knowledge. It was strangely exciting.

  Mark turned at the gazebo, and she saw his face in the light. It was a beautiful face, the face of an angel. She’d never actually given his looks that much attention. She’d always accepted him as a total being: Mark, kind, reliable, intelligent, gentle. Perhaps he’d been right when he’d been angry with her, for simply assuming that he could not be jarred, could not bleed inside, like other people. I never really considered him at all! she realized with sudden shame. He’d been right to be angry. She watched Mark carefully now, with different eyes. What had his life become? Was there a woman now, in Paris, whom he loved?

  Surely, surely, someone with such sensitive eyes, with such beautiful hands, would make a woman want him. Not all would be as foolish as she. She could feel her heart beating. She tried to picture him with a woman: half clothed, his shirt haphazard on the bed, and his muscled torso gleaming with a thin film of perspiration. His hands on the girl’s shoulders. Bending down to kiss her, tilting back her throat. Lily realized with sudden shock which way her thoughts were taking her, and stood up, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. But her hand remained on the molding of the window, and her eyes were magnetized by the man walking alone, below her window, unaware of the emotions he was causing above him.

  The curtain, moved by the breeze of the open window, began to flap. Lily secured it in its sash. She felt weak, her pulses beating, and her movements were jerky like a hesitant young colt’s. Her elbow bumped against a bureau, and a small photograph of Kira in a silver frame slid off its support and fell to the floor. The noise it made seemed disproportionate to the size of the object, and she felt the jolt inside, frightened. But, of course, when there was total silence, any small bump would be heard as a tearing crash. She bent down to pick up the frame, straightened up—and realized that, from the garden, Mark had also been alerted by the noise, and was now looking inside her room: staring straight at her in her filmy nightgown. For at least thirty seconds, their eyes remained locked, each surprised by the intrusion of the other into what had been, for either one, a private moment.

  Prince Ivan sat in the office in his frock coat of crimson velvet, trying not to look at the papers in front of him. Two years ago, he’d been sitting in an office large as a ballroom, with paintings by Degas and Dufy on the walls. He glanced at his ruby cuff links and remembered when he’d been married, in Moscow, and had been invited to speak at a conference in London. Maria, bless her heart, had personally packed his suitcase. It had always been that way between them. She’d taken care of him with imperious protectiveness, in the area of food and clothing; and he’d protected her from the ills of life, as husbands owed it to their wives to do.

  He’d gone with Misha, a very young man. They’d taken a suite with adjoining rooms at Claridge’s. Of course, they had brought tuxedos and frilled shirts with them for the evening events. The first night, he’d begun to dress, when, suddenly, his heart had missed a beat: where were his pearl shirt buttons? Maria had packed the cuff links, the collar button, the silk pochette, even the white scarf. But not the two small pearl butto
ns that were used to close a stuffed shirt.

  He knocked on his son’s door, and said to him: “Misha: how many pairs of shirt buttons did you bring with you?”

  The young man, puzzled, had shrugged: “Just one. We’re here for two days.”

  “Your mother forgot to pack mine. I suppose you’ll have to go down alone. I can’t close my shirt.”

  Misha had thought for a moment, then rung for the bellboy. “Could you go, as fast as possible, to buy my father two buttons for a stuffed shirt?”

  “But, sir,” the bellboy had protested, “it’s seven o’clock, and all the stores are closed.”

  “Well, then, we’ll give you a fine tip if you can go from door to door, and ask if perhaps another guest might have brought two pairs of shirt buttons, and could lend one to my father.”

  It had been a good idea. After fifteen minutes, the bellboy had reappeared, triumphant. “Sir, I have two buttons here. But no one had a pair, so I had to borrow a single pearl from one gentleman, and a second from another.”

  Prince Ivan recalled how joyful he had felt, until the boy had opened up his hand. On his palm lay, indeed, two pearls: but one was gray and the other white. “I can’t wear them,” he had groaned.

  “But yes, you can,” Misha had contradicted. “At the table, no one will notice; and in the reception hall, we shall be standing, and no one will see that the buttons are different. You’d better hurry up and finish dressing, Papa, because we’ll be late.”

  Prince Ivan hadn’t felt reassured; but he’d traveled so far, that to stay in his room would have seemed preposterous. He’d returned to his room to put the finishing touches on his toilette. Then he had left with Misha.

  Downstairs, waiting to be let into the banquet hall, groups of men had gathered together in the reception hall. Prince Ivan had been approached by a British dignitary whom he knew. As they spoke, Prince Ivan had noticed that the other man’s eyes were drawn, irresistibly, to his shirtfront. Instead of his losing countenance, a brilliant idea had entered his head. “I see you’re looking at my buttons,’ he’d declared. “In Moscow, this is the latest fashion. We’ve started to wear unmatched buttons with our dress shirts. But the fashion is so new, I see it hasn’t yet reached London.”

  “What an original idea,” the Englishman had said. “It does give you quite an elegance. . . . Look here,” he’d cried, stopping a passing friend. “This is the new Russian fashion, to wear shirt buttons of different shades. Isn’t it nice?”

  “Very,” the other had asserted. “One gray, one white. Looks most distinguished. The man who launched this had a great idea. Tomorrow, I’ll purchase a gray pearl to put with my white.”

  A third gentleman had come up to them, intrigued. “I beg your pardon, but I overheard your conversation. May I see?”

  Prince Ivan, and Misha too, had enjoyed themselves thoroughly. When it had been time to give his speech, the former hadn’t felt the least bit embarrassed. And, to make matters more amusing, when he had been invited to the British Consulate in Moscow for a formal dinner some three months later, he’d seen a remarkable sight: three of the guests, fresh from London, had been wearing different shades of pearl buttons on their shirts. Princess Maria’s forgetfulness had started a trend. But she’d felt guilty, and, to make up for having caused her husband a problem, had ordered a special pair of ruby and gold cuff links for him from the jeweler Fabergé.

  Now that she was gone, Prince Ivan often wore them, never without being reminded of how he had begun an international fashion trend. He picked up a paper, dropped it listlessly again. Why bother to read what was obviously just another list of expenditures that went over budget, or an itemized bill that would require a dexterous juggling act to hold off the creditor? Lately, he’d caught himself thinking, more and more, about the past, especially about his wife. He was growing old; no: he’d grown old. His mind no longer was as sharp as it had been even a few years ago, and his morale was down, down, so that it wasn’t possible for him to discuss facts and figures with Misha the way they’d always done, since he had taken the boy in as a partner.

  There was a discreet knock on the door, and he answered, his voice poised and dignified: “Come in.”

  Rochefort stuck his head in, always conscious of protocol. “There seems to be a problem out here, Monsieur le Prince,” he said hesitantly.

  “Oh?” Prince Ivan wondered if another creditor had come for his due. He rose, on faltering legs. Lately, his knees seemed weaker, less stable. He went to the door and the secretary held it open deferentially. From the inside of his office, he could see two female clerks hovering near the staircase, and a man about ten years his junior, with a haggard expression and eyes that protruded oddly from his long, well-shaped head. The man looked ill, and agitated. “It’s Verlon,” Rochefort whispered. “The ex-manager of the Aisne refinery. He said he was looking for Prince Mikhail, but . . . something’s wrong.”

  Prince Ivan took a few steps into the hall, and smiled. With kindness, he motioned for the tall man to come up, and held out his hand. “How do you do, Monsieur Verlon,” he murmured. ‘I’m Ivan Vassilievitch Brasilov. How can I help you?”

  Henri Verlon walked up, his stride jerky and abrupt, and Rochefort hovered near the Prince, a frown on his face. “He wouldn’t tell me why he’s here,” he whispered to his employer.

  “It’s all right,” Prince Ivan said. “Come in, monsieur. You’ve just come from your house in the Aisne, I presume, and you must be tired.”

  Verlon, without a word, entered the office. Prince Ivan went to his desk, prepared to sit down. Rochefort had not left the room, but was standing awkwardly by the door. And suddenly, without warning, the tall, gaunt man moved his right hand into the inside pocket of his coat, and came out with a gleaming metal revolver. Prince Ivan’s eyes widened with shock; his face turned white, and he clutched the edge of his desk. “Monsieur,” he cried. “Put that thing away—”

  Rochefort jumped forward, but too late. Verlon, without warning, aimed at Prince Ivan and emptied the barrel of his gun into the small man’s stomach. Prince Ivan collapsed in a pool of blood, his hands over the wounds, his mouth absurdly open. Rochefort fell on Verlon’s back, but the other, though older, shook him off. At last he spoke.

  “Don’t come any closer!” he shouted, and whipped out a second gun as fast as he’d withdrawn the first. Rochefort began to run out. The two young girls had gathered on the threshold, and were screaming. Rochefort fell against them, slipped, and landed on the floor.

  Then Henri Verlon turned to face him, pointed the revolver at his own temple, and fired.

  When Lily received the telegram from her mother, she was struck with shock. It seemed so unbelievable . . . dear Ivan Vassilievitch, whom she’d always loved, hanging between life and death in the hospital. Henri Verlon? Misha had spoken quite highly of him. What, then, had really happened?

  She envisioned Misha now, watching his father dying, as, seven years before, she’d watched her own. But Misha had always adored his father. Prince Ivan had been his best friend, his partner, his confidant. Where was the justice in life? She forced herself to actually see Misha’s features: the pain, held back but poignant—the sense of despair. She got up from her table and went to the large closet in the hallway, and pulled out a suitcase. All her nerves were set on edge, and a tremendous restlessness had taken her over. It wasn’t a time for thinking. You had to do what you had to do—that was all there was to it.

  For Misha, the days were continuing in defiance of the fact that the world had stopped moving, that every human process—feeling, acting, thinking—had ceased. By the time he arrived at the Hôpital Beaujon, his father had been transported to the emergency ward, and he was only able to glimpse him from a half-open door. He rushed out to telephone the physicians he knew: Lebovici, Fildermann, and Simkov. When they arrived, he didn’t even see them. They were immediately whisked away into the operating room.

  He waited outside, on a hard bench, gnawin
g on his cuticles. After one and a half hours, Dr. Basset, the chief of surgery, came out to tell him that his father had endured the operation quite well. They had put the patient under chloroform, and found eight intestinal wounds, three of them serious. One had to wait three or four days to be able to make a prognostication.

  At eleven in the evening, exhausted and drenched with perspiration, Misha went home.

  The next day the ground was frozen, and patterns of November frost had left designs on the windshield of Misha’s car. He had always meant to exchange the De Dion-Bouton for a more modern car, but instead, a few years back, he’d merely had the engine replaced. As he drove to the hospital, his eyes hurting from a sleepless night, he wondered how much he might be able to obtain for a car that was ten years old. It was better to think about the car than about his father; Misha couldn’t bear to imagine his pain—or, worse, what might happen in the days to come. One had to drum up something—anything—to fill the cavities of one’s mind: anything not to think, not to live in the absurd, cruel, senseless present.

  Faces out of nowhere ballooned out at him, disconnected from reality: Rochefort; Claire and Jacques Walter; old friends from Russia who still loved Prince Ivan. If it was any consolation, his father had bound the people in his life to him, by his wisdom and kindness. But, oddly enough, it didn’t matter. Nothing at all mattered, it seemed.

  He went into the postoperative room, which was large and white, and filled with iron cots where patients of all ages lay, some moaning, others so silent that they presaged death. At the back of the room, two cots lay hidden, each behind a screen. Misha was directed to one of them, and drew back the screen. His father’s eyes were open, and when he took the limp hand on the coverlet, he saw that the eyes had recognized him. He sat holding his father’s hand until the nurse gently removed it, so that she might check the patient’s temperature. It wasn’t good: 38.8 Celsius, with a pulse of one hundred twenty beats. She gave him water and told Misha that his tongue was dry.