The Keeper of the Walls Read online

  Jean-Paul’s voice said, faltering: “‘Small miracles’? But what could these people possibly want, at eight thirty in the morning? The bread is ready. With coddled eggs, or soufflés, or at most sugared crêpes, they ought to call themselves lucky! Why, your Excellency, we were up till four, baking brioches and croissants and small chocolate breads. Tell me what other miracles they might have in mind?”

  Misha stifled a laugh. “Oh, wait and see, mon cher. But to start with, I’d say you had the kitchen well in hand. The only item missing from the menu is the brilliant man to put these foods together. You wouldn’t want us to rely on Aristide now, would you?”

  He heard the door being savagely pushed out, and watched as Jean-Paul, outraged, stepped forward. “Aristide?! Your Excellency wishes the Carlton guests to die of food poisoning at eight thirty in the morning? If you please, let me through to wash my hands. Just to think of that little lame-brain touching my pots and ladles! I don’t want to get an attack of the runs!”

  Misha patted him twice on the shoulder, and made his exit. He walked through the lobby, exchanging greetings with the desk clerk, and went into the main lounge. He wanted to examine the new paneling that had been put in, and the new frames he had ordered for the paintings of President Lebrun and Raymond Poincaré, dead two years now, whom the owner of the Carlton still felt to have been France’s greatest statesman. Misha peered now into the plain, somewhat dour face, and thought: How far astray has your great nation swerved, Raymond . . . how divided it lies. There was no longer a Bloc National, with its solid centrist majority. The conservatives had turned fiercely to the extreme Right; and the Left . . . well, one hardly needed to document its ideals. The Popular Front, composed of Radicals, Socialists, and Communists, had swelled to such a point that in the April elections, it was likely to win a majority against the National Front.

  Misha suppressed a rising disgust, and turned to scrutinize the fine oak woodwork. He was glad of his selection. The paneling had the look of age, including the right patina. But it was new, and therefore a lot less costly. A team of young carpenters he had known had given him, in fact, a fine rebate.

  “I beg your pardon, your Excellency—but this man is insisting to speak with you. . . .” Émile, the desk clerk, elderly, myopic, and full of decorum, was trying, by the look on his face, to convey to Misha his deep apologies. At his side stood a bailiff in uniform, erect and inscrutable as befitted his profession.

  Misha started, then recovered his composure. What other money did he owe that he had now forgotten about, and that had now come to haunt him at his new job? He felt a moment of complete anguish, but said: “Thank you, Émile. I can handle this matter, I’m sure.” But in reality, he wasn’t so sure. He felt years older than his forty-five calendar years: older, more tired, and less in control.

  When the old man had departed, Misha extended his hand for the papers that the process server was holding out to him. “You must sign here,” the man said, pulling out a ledger from a thin briefcase. Misha complied, grimly. France, bureaucratic and punctilious, appeared to be embodied in the person of this ramrod-straight public official. One couldn’t hate him: he was merely doing his job. But when he had turned his back to leave, a terrible nervousness took possession of Misha. He wanted to be alone to see what this was about, and when, finally, he saw the bailiff disappear into the front lobby, he tore open the envelope with fingers that shook.

  Misha read the form once, twice, then leaned against the oak paneling and read it through again. He couldn’t believe this. His stomach was tight as a knot, and he could feel his scalp tingling, as if a million tiny needles, touched with fire, had been dancing over the thin skin under his hair. Very quickly, he tried to think over his last few months at the Hotel Rovaro. For it looked as if Charles de Chaynisart had instigated legal action against him, for theft. Theft. Misha knew that in forty-five years, he had never committed a single act of theft. Only the lowest of the low committed theft. Like the Rabinovitches. Men reared in the slums, devoid of any basic values. He felt outraged, revolted—and horribly humiliated, that any man would dare to call him a thief.

  He thought for a moment of going home, to that miserable room that was the only home he had at this point, and of telling Lily what had happened. Then he rejected this idea. She’d suffered enough. It had never been his style to tell his wife of his business problems, if it could be avoided. It was up to him to protect her—not to burden her.

  In this instant, he missed his father with an acuteness that pierced through him with its poignancy, and he had to steady himself against the wall. Who, then? Because he knew he had to talk this through, to try to comprehend. There was only one person, of course. And so he put his coat on and told Émile not to worry, he had a pressing engagement outside but would return before lunch.

  Outside, Misha felt the nipping cold and pulled the collar of his overcoat up to protect his neck. He began to walk, briskly, in giant strides, down the Champs-Élysées. It wasn’t that he was trying to economize on bus fare; but the exercise helped to clear his mind. Before he knew it, he had reached the Place de la Concorde and was making his way east along the Quai du Louvre. Colorful little stalls displaying old books and water-colors met his eye, distracted him for the breath of a second, and then he sank his gaze into the murky, gray-green Seine, drowning his sense of helpless despair in its age-old waters, as the disconsolate had been doing for time eternal. Soon he had reached the Pont Louis-Philippe. He checked his watch: he had been on foot one and a half hours. He crossed the bridge, and soon had reached his destination, the elegant stone mansion on the Quai de Bourbon built by Le Vau in the seventeenth century, which had come to be known as the “Maison Dalbret” in the Paris vernacular.

  Dragi, the Negro butler, gave him a wide, bright smile as he let him in. Misha felt his heart lift a twinge, in this incredible palace that seemed, like the Taj Mahal, to belong to a different world from that which had brought him down. But it amazed him, too, to consider Varvara. She was fifty now, and yet she still held Parisians enthralled, on the edge of their seats as they watched her perform, whether an outrageous comedy by Georges Feydeau, or as Medea, in the grand tragedy by Corneille. She’d done it all alone, easily moving from revue dancer to a dramatic actress of strength and talent. Probably, if he’d treated her as a real wife, she wouldn’t have had the need to become an actress. So he had, by his own neglect and injustice, done her an enormous favor. He smiled, wryly, wondering if Lily, left to her own devices, would have risen to the occasion, like Vava, and become one of France’s most renowned pianists.

  He was led once again to the red silk bedroom, where he found her in front of her vanity, an intricate piece of Chinese lacquered wood, surmounted by a huge mirror with a spotlight. Behind her, an effeminate young man sat trimming her red curls, and he stepped back, his face appalled by the sudden intrusion. “It’s all right, my pet,” Varvara said to the coiffeur. “Dragi will take you to the kitchen, where I’m sure the cook will find something wonderful to feed you. You can come back in an hour.”

  With the door shut upon the backs of Dragi and the hairdresser, Varvara stood up, and shook off the hairs that had fallen all over her shoulders and neck. She smiled, and said: “Il faut souffrir pour être belle—right, Misha? But for God’s sake: what’s wrong?”

  He sat down on one of the Chinese chairs, and replied, steepling his fingers: “I’m not exactly sure. Charles de Chaynisart has accused me of grand theft, and is bringing me to trial. But I don’t understand where he could have gotten his ammunition. He claims I stole ten thousand francs. I don’t even recall taking such an amount from the hotel safe. It was always in smaller or larger doses, but uneven ones, as befitted the occasion.”

  “And you received no explanation on the notice?”

  “Of course not. By Napoleonic law, anyway, a man is guilty until proven innocent—an odd process, to be sure.”

  “I know him a little—your Baron Charles. He’s a strange, perverted
man. Likes to hire whores to enact little scenarios for him: you know the type. But always impeccable to the outside world. Few people are aware of his depravities. But think, Misha. What did you ever do without his knowledge, that he could now legally hold against you?”

  Misha said, “But I always dealt with Philippe—almost never with Charles. As a matter of fact, the last thing that Philippe ever told me was to pay myself. I took eighteen thousand francs from the safe, and left him a memorandum on his desk, as was our custom.”

  “And you made a note of this in a ledger?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Tell me,” she said, “these memoranda—they were specific, detailed? The last one, for example. What did it say?”

  He shrugged, irritated. “Vava, Philippe and I had no reason to distrust each other. I can’t recall the exact wording. But it went something like this: ‘As per your instructions of today, I removed eighteen thousand francs, to reimburse myself.’ “

  “No greater detail, Misha? To reimburse yourself for what? For when?”

  “For the money he owed me by our original contract, plus a sum of ten thousand he should have paid me after that, along the way, for services rendered. He hadn’t paid me for months, and actually owed me far more than this.”

  “But not by any signed agreement.”

  “No. He’d kept stalling. I think his brother was to blame for that.”

  Varvara sighed. She stood, unpretentious, in a white terry-cloth robe that enveloped her totally, hiding the feline curves of her body. But her unpainted eyes, clear blue and wide, were arresting in their beauty, so that no one noticed the small creases at their edges. Her neck was perfectly smooth, her skin translucent. There were some lines on her forehead, but these were in no way unpleasant tributes to the passage of time. She announced: “Misha, that’s the crux of the problem. You aren’t going to have an easy time proving you were entitled to this money. And don’t forget: we shall always be foreigners, my love. The French are chauvinists. To them, you and I are ‘exotic,’ when they want to use us; but when we’re the ones in need, we’re pure and simple outsiders. A court of law will give De Chaynisart the benefit of the doubt, not you—no matter how plausible your story sounds. The De Chaynisart name is old, and full of nobility.”

  Misha stood up, trembling, and cried: “Then what you’re advising me to do, between the lines, is to leave France, because I won’t get a fair trial here?”

  She thrust her fingers through her hair, then stretched. “I’m not giving you any advice. I’m not an attorney, Misha. You need a good attorney.”

  “I am an attorney.”

  “Were, my pet. You’re not a member of the French bar. Get yourself someone good. Someone who’ll settle out of court, preferably.”

  He said, outraged: “But I can’t afford a good lawyer! And I can’t afford to settle out of court!”

  She raised her thin, arched brows. “Look, Misha. Find yourself a lawyer. There are always . . . friends . . . who will help you to pay him—or her. You’ve helped enough people in your day for them to want to help you now. And you’ve had your share of crocodiles nipping at your shirttails.”

  He took this in, and fell silent, acutely embarrassed. She was offering to come to his rescue . . . like Jacques Walter, earlier. He’d never been in a position to accept anybody’s charity. Suddenly, he asked her about something that had been on his mind for a while: “Why do you think that Claude is doing so well? Brasilov Enterprises completely collapsed. I smell a rat.”

  Slowly, Varvara inhaled, then exhaled, turning around on tiptoe. She turned back to Misha, her face oddly set, composed. “How many years did it take you to realize this, darling?” she demanded. “The facts stared you right in the eye. Who was it that made the initial connection between you and the Rabinovitches? Claude. Who was it who went back, trying to find them, and reported that they’d vanished into thin air? Claude. Who was it who lived like a successful businessman when you were falling to ruin? Whose wife wears all the new Schiaparelli outfits, and vacations in the palace hotels? I’m asking you.”

  Misha’s lips parted, in an ashen face. “You think Claude actually stole from me? That he was partners in crime with the Rabinovitches?”

  Varvara yawned, and covered her mouth with the back of her hand, a sensual animal. “I’m just an actress. I can only suppose, like any half-wit, from the facts that you presented to me, years ago.”

  “Then, if Claude did this, he, along with these Jews, wrecked the Aisne project and catapulted us into ruin. He ruined his own sister. I can’t believe it.”

  She said, firmly: “Believe it. He was envious of you, and envious of Lily. As long as you were necessary to his own success, he played your game. It’s what I told you: when you ceased to be essential, he saw you as an outsider, and threw you out. He used Lily, too, to hook you with. But now he couldn’t care less about her, because she’s just the wife of a poor man. Go home, Misha. And tomorrow, find yourself a good solicitor to handle your affairs. Don’t spare expense. There are those who will help.”

  When he departed from the Dalbret house, he was conscious of a pang of hunger, and looked at the sky. It was already late afternoon. Exhausted, baffled, at his wits’ end, Misha hailed a bus and got into it. But he didn’t know what he would tell Lily when he got home. For what was worse? That Charles was suing him, and had labeled him a common thief, or that her only brother had helped destroy her husband.

  When he walked into the room at the boardinghouse, Lily came toward him, her hair disheveled, and tears running from her eyes. His first thought, as he closed his arms around her, pressing her close, was that somehow she already knew. But then, realizing this impossibility, he stepped back, his eyes questioning.

  “Léon Blum is in the hospital,” she said. “Some King’s Servitors and people from the Action Française forced him from his car, beat him up, and left him for dead. Some workmen found him and took him to a clinic— but he’s very bad.”

  “You’re weeping for Leon Blum?” he asked, disbelieving.

  She shrugged, her face contracting, “I’m crying because I’m afraid, because people have lost their heads, because Eliane and David Robinson have packed their bags to move to the United States with their son, to join David’s sister. They’re afraid to stay here. Last year, Jacques said that he still had faith in the French—that they would never go completely mad, like the Germans and the Italians. But now, when a man can’t feel safe to proclaim his ideas, when some impassioned savages can break into his car and nearly kill him—I think Jacques was wrong. And these were your people, Misha. People you paid for, to fight against normal, decent men like Blum, who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Completely taken aback, he stammered: “I never paid anyone to hurt another human being. You know this as well as I do, Lily. You’re being unfair.”

  “I’m being unfair? You paid them, Misha! Enough money for us to have lived quite well on for two or three years. I heard you, on the telephone, years and years ago—giving away money to this Fascistic organization, to this man Taittinger. And now look what’s happening to France!”

  He shook his head, speechless. He couldn’t remember ever having seen her so distraught. His cool, composed Lily, falling apart over a man like Blum—a Socialist, who could bring France to its knees.

  “You hate him because he’s a Jew,” she was saying, accusingly.

  “I don’t really hate him. I never wished personal harm on him. And I’d dislike him just as much if he were a Christian.”

  “That isn’t true. You hate all Jews.”

  He cried out then, after the day he’d had, with all his rancor and desperation: “It was the Jews who did me in, Lily! The Rabinovitches! They started the whole ball rolling, and now we’re here. Don’t ask me to be a Jew-lover: I can’t be, that’s all.”

  And then he left the room, slamming the door behind him, not trusting himself to keep silent about Claude’s part in their downfall, and about the lawsuit. H
e could hear her crying in the room, but he didn’t go back in. No, he hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone—not even a political menace like Blum. He’d thought Taittinger would keep France from going the way of Moscow, that was all. And now, on top of Charles, on top of Claude, there was his wife, who held him responsible for all the ills that had befallen France. Where, then, might he turn? And where was the justice he’d always believed in?

  On April 26, in the pouring rain, the French voted the Popular Front into office. The elections had underscored the polarity now existing in French politics. The Popular Front was elected by over 5.5 million votes, while the right-wing National Front received 4.5 million. Although the French Communist party, which had doubled its membership to 1.5 million members, refused to participate in the new government, Leon Blum, who had recovered from his injuries, decided to accept the post of premier, even without the majority he had always felt he would need if he were to head a cabinet. The threat of Fascism had made him drop his earlier reservations.

  Yet France still closed its eyes in the matter of Hitler. Jean Dobler, the French Consul in Cologne, repeatedly sent dispatches about the rearming of Germany, and the way its airfields were increasing. The Quai d’Orsay ignored his alarm. On March 7, Hitler’s Reichswehr had penetrated into the Rhineland, which had been declared a demilitarized zone after Poincaré’s troops had left in 1923. But the French, cowering behind their Maginot Line, refused to strike back at this obvious offensive. And now, with the first Socialist premier voted into office, France let loose its energies only in the matter of internal affairs.

  Misha didn’t comment about the election of Leon Blum. He was too preoccupied with his personal problems to be able to think about the world’s. When Lily told him that Wolf and Maryse were having problems convincing his parents to leave Austria with them, he merely shrugged. He didn’t care about the Steiners. Because, in the middle of April, the owner of the Hotel Carlton had told him that he would have to relinquish his post as manager. People had begun to hear about Baron Charles’s allegations, and the latter were hurting business at the hotel, where a manager accused of theft was a black mark held against it.