Entwined (16 page)

The sergeant handed directions to Grimaldi, and left with a curt nod of his head. He'd heard what she had called him, and he smarted with impotent fury: Foreigners, they were all alike, and Detective Chief Inspector Heinz bowed and scraped like a wimp to that Jewish bitch! What kind of pervert was she to have been married to that animal on the morgue slab? She repelled him.

Ruda and Luis walked together, arm in arm. The walk was a lot longer than the sergeant had suggested. It took them over an hour to arrive at the newly refurbished Grand Hotel, and it was such a sight that Grimaldi decided they should order a taxi and have a martini while they waited. Ruda resisted at first, but then, having been told that the regular taxis were engaged at present and that there would be no taxi for another hour, she relented.

Ruda and Grimaldi walked into the foyer and headed for the comfortable lounge. They made a striking couple. Grimaldi began to enjoy himself. Guiding Ruda by the elbow, he inclined his head.

"Now, this is my style, and I think since we're here, we might as well order some lunch. The restaurant looks good, what do you say?"

Ruda looked at her wristwatch. She had to get back to rehearse and feed the cats, but still they had to wait for a taxi, so she suggested they just have a drink and order a sandwich.

Grimaldi decided this was as good a time as any to have a talk, away from the trailer, away from the circus. In the luxurious surroundings they might have a civilized conversation.

They sat in a small booth with red plush velvet seats and a marble-topped table. Ferns hid them from the rest of the hotel guests, mostly American as far as Grimaldi could tell.

They sipped their martinis in silence, and Ruda ate the entire bowl of peanuts, popping one at a time into her mouth. Grimaldi took an envelope from his pocket and opened it.

"I have been working out our financial situation, how much the act costs, living expenses, and what we will both need to live on. Maybe we should sell the trailer and each buy a smaller one."

She turned on him. "Your priority is to get back the old plinths! I can't work with the new ones."

"We've already discussed that, for chrissakes. Just go through this with me, we have to sort it out sometime."

Ruda snatched the sheet of paper, and looked over his haphazard scrawl. It was quite a shock to her that even after their closeness, he was still intent on leaving her.

"She's pregnant, Ruda, I want to get a divorce and marry her!" Ruda tore the paper into scraps. "I'll think about it." Grimaldi signaled for the waiter to bring more drinks. Ruda's foot was tapping against the table leg.

"I don't want to have an argument here, Ruda, okay?" She stared at him, telling herself to keep calm. She had to deal with things one at a time. She had dealt with Kellerman, Grimaldi would be next, but her priority now was to get the act ready for opening night. One thing at a time—this show was to be her biggest, and if she performed well she knew that with live coverage, there would be no more need for second-circuit dates; she would be an international star. Above all she wanted to get to the United States again, and win a contract at New York's Ringling Bros, and Barnum & Bailey circus.

"Ruda, we have to discuss this, Ruda!" "I'll think about it, we'll work out something!" As the waiter came by their table, passing directly behind him was a very handsome man accompanied by an attractive blond woman. They were both in deep conversation, not giving Grimaldi or Ruda a glance. They seated themselves in the next booth, and the waiter, after taking Grimaldi's order, moved quickly to the elegant couple's booth.

"Good afternoon, Baron."

Helen Masters asked for a gin and tonic, and the baron a scotch on the rocks. He spoke German, then turned back to continue his conversation with Helen in French. They paid no attention to the big broad-shouldered man seated in the next booth. They could not see Ruda.

Grimaldi had ordered two more martinis. Ruda said she didn't want another, but he ignored her. He looked around the lounge, then noticed she was playing with the bread. It always used to infuriate him, the way she would pick at it, roll it into tiny little balls, twitch it, and pummel it with her fingers.

"Stop that, you know it gets on my nerves. We'll sort out the plinths when we get back. Now, can we just relax, Ruda?"

She nodded, but under the table her hands began to roll a small piece of bread tighter and tighter, until it became a dense hard ball—because she kept on seeing the boy, Mike, wearing Kellerman's hideous black leather trilby. Mike, Grimaldi and his bloody divorce…it was all descending on her like a dark blanket, and suddenly she felt as if her mind would explode. Her fingers pressed and rolled the tiny ball of bread mechanically, as if out of her control. She swallowed, her mouth was dry, her lips felt stiff, her tongue held to the roof of her mouth. It was seeping upward from her toes…She fought against it, refusing to allow it to dominate her—not here, not in public. "No…no!"

Grimaldi looked at her, was not sure what she had said. He leaned closer. "Ruda? You okay?"

She repeated the word "No!" like a low growl. He could see her body was rigid, and yet the table shook slightly as her fingers pressed and rolled the tiny ball of bread.

"Ruda!…
Ruda
!"

She turned her head very slowly, her eyes seemed unfocused, staring through him. He slipped his hand beneath the table. "What's the matter with you? Are you sick?"

Grimaldi held her hand, crunched in a hard knot. She recoiled from him, pressing her back against the velvet booth.

"I have to go to the toilet." She rose to her feet. "I'll meet you outside, I need some fresh air."

Grimaldi made to stand, but she pushed past him and he slumped back down in the seat, watching as she walked stiffly toward the foyer, hands clenched tight at her side. She brushed past an elaborate display of ferns and then quickened her pace, almost running to the cloakrooms. There was only one other occupant, a tourist applying lipstick, examining her reflection in the mirror. Ruda knocked against her, but made no apology, hurrying into the vacant lavatory. She had no time to shut the door, but fell to her knees, clinging to the wooden toilet seat as she began to vomit. She felt an instant release, and sat back on her heels panting; again she felt the rush of bile, and leaned over the basin, the stench, the white bowl—she pushed away until she was hunched against the partition.

"Are you all right? Do you need me to call someone?" The tourist stood at a distance, but was very concerned.

Ruda heaved again and forced herself once more to be sick into the lavatory bowl.

"Should I call a doctor?"

Ruda wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and without even looking up snapped: "Get out, just get out and leave me alone…"

Ruda slowly rose to stand, pressing herself against the tiled wall, then crossed unsteadily to the wash basin. She ran the cold water and splashed it over her face, then patted herself dry with the soft hand towels provided. She opened her purse and fumbled for her compact. Her whole body tingled, the hair on the backs of her hands was raised, the same strange, almost animal warning at the nape of her neck. Was it this hotel? Something in this hotel? The white tiled walls, the white marble floor—had she been here before?

She seemed to be outside herself. What was wrong? And then, just as she had always done, she began to work to calm herself, talking softly, whispering that it was just the whiteness, it was the white tiles…it was seeing Tommy, it was nothing more. It was a natural reaction, it was just shock, delayed shock at seeing him, seeing Tommy.

Ruda crossed the large foyer, her composure restored. She paused, wary, as if listening for something, to something, but then she shrugged her shoulders and headed toward the main revolving doors.

As Ruda stepped outside, Hilda was scurrying toward the staff entrance, a small hidden door at the side of the hotel. She stopped in her tracks, seeing the tall woman standing on the steps. For a moment she thought she was seeing the baroness, but then she shook her head at her stupidity; this woman was much bigger, her dark hair long. Still, as she continued through the staff entrance, she wondered where she had seen the woman before. She unpacked her working shoes and slipped them on, carefully placing her other shoes into her locker. As she closed the door and crossed to the mirror to run a comb through her hair, she remembered. The circus poster. It was the woman from the circus poster, she was sure of it and rather pleased with her recall. She wondered if she was staying at the hotel; perhaps, if she was, Hilda could ask for her autograph.

A chambermaid coming off duty called out to Hilda, and scurried over to her. She asked if it was true that the baroness was insane; rumors were rife and she was eager to gossip.

Hilda refused to be drawn into a conversation, and the young girl was forced to change the subject, moving on to other news. A dwarf had been found murdered in the red light district just behind the hotel, his body beaten. They had first thought it was a child, his body was so small. She knew about it because her boyfriend worked with the Polizei. She came close to Hilda and hissed: "He was a Jew!"

Grimaldi left the Grand Hotel, unable to find Ruda. He walked awhile, then caught a bus back to the circus.

Baron Marechal and Helen remained in the hotel bar. The baron apologized for having left Helen to wait for so long. She said no apology was necessary, because if he needed to speak with Dr. Franks alone, he should be able to do so. He kissed her hand, saying that her understanding never ceased to amaze him.

"She is so much better, Louis, did you notice? Perhaps tomorrow she will be able to see Dr. Franks; sooner than we hoped."

The baron sipped his drink, placing it carefully on the paper napkin. "He knows that the present situation cannot continue."

The manager approached their table, and excused the intrusion. The baron half rose from his seat, his face drained of color. "Is it my wife?"

The manager handed the baron an envelope containing a number of faxes. Helen saw the relief on Louis's face as he tipped the manager lavishly, opening the envelope. He read through the five sheets, passing them on to Helen.

There was no record of a Vebekka Lynsey in Philadelphia. The woman who had once run the modeling agency that had employed Vebekka confirmed that her name was Rebecca. Checks on Rebecca Lynsey in Philadelphia produced no results. Two women who had once modeled for the same agency had been tracked down. They did recall Rebecca, and one thought her last name was Goldberg, but could not be absolutely sure. She had shared a room with Rebecca, and remembered her receiving letters addressed in that name.

A Mr. and Mrs. Ulrich Goldberg had subsequently been traced in Philadelphia, and although they had no direct connection to the baroness, they were able to give further details. Ulrich Goldberg's cousin, Dieter (David) Goldberg, had run a successful fur business until 1967. David and his wife, Rosa, had arrived in Philadelphia from Canada in the late fifties. They had one daughter, Rebecca. Was Rebecca Goldberg Vebekka Lynsey? Ulrich Goldberg, when shown recent photographs of Vebekka, was unable to state that they were definitely of her, but admitted there was a great similarity.

According to Ulrich Goldberg, Rebecca was last seen in January 1972 at her father's funeral. She had been distant and evasive, speaking briefly to only a handful of mourners, and had departed very quickly. No one had heard from her since. A number of photographs taken when she was about ten or twelve years old were being forwarded by Federal Express.

Mr. and Mrs. Goldberg had arrived in the United States from Germany in the late 1930s. They knew that David Goldberg's wife was born in Berlin, and that she was or had been a doctor. When she had married and emigrated to Canada was something of a mystery. Although the two Goldberg families were related, Ulrich admitted that he and his wife had not been on close terms with David Goldberg—and found his wife a very cold, distant woman.

The baron finished reading the last page and handed it to Helen. She read it in silence, then folded the fax sheets and replaced them in their envelope. The baron lit a cigar, and turned to her.

"This could all be inaccurate. These are not from a detective, he's my chauffeur!"

Helen paused, and then chose her words carefully. "The date of the funeral, is that when Vebekka left Paris?"

The baron frowned, but after a moment nodded.

Helen spoke quietly. "First you have to deal with the cover-up or lies. For reasons we don't know, she simply didn't want you to know anything about her family, but if she is Rebecca Goldberg, and her mother was born in Berlin, we can do some detective work of our own. Maybe there are relatives still living here, or someone who knew them. We could try to trace them."

The baron pinched the bridge of his nose; all this was too much for him to take in.

"Perhaps the reason, or a possible reason, was that your family were against your marrying Vebekka," Helen suggested. Would Vebekka's Jewishness have been one of the reasons why the baron's family disapproved of the marriage? She decided not to broach the subject. She sipped her drink. Perhaps, as Louis had said, this was all a misunderstanding. But if Louis was hesitant to check out this Goldberg connection, there was no reason why she shouldn't.

♦ ♦ ♦

Hilda had almost finished a sleeve and was beginning to check the measurements when Vebekka opened her eyes. Slowly she turned to face Hilda and smiled.

"Have I been sleeping long?"

Hilda nodded, said it was after two, but that she needed sleep. Hilda helped her from bed, and wrapped a robe around her thin shoulders. She walked her to the bathroom, where big towels were warming on the rails. She had to help her into the bath, but Vebekka slid into the soap- and perfume-filled water with a sigh of pleasure.

Hilda gently toweled Vebekka dry when she was done, feeling protective and motherly as the thin frame rested against her. Vebekka seemed loath to let her go, clinging to her as they returned to the bedroom. Then the baroness sat in front of her mirror and opened one of her vanity cases.