The Keeper of the Walls (34 page)

And then there was Claude. After the birth of the child, Misha had felt Claude becoming a shade more arrogant, and, at the same time, more distant, if that were possible. The words between them now dropped like icicles from their lips, Claude's hatred barely veiled, and insolent in the fact that he no longer deemed it necessary to camouflage his feelings. They'd named the child Alain, as French a name as possible. He wondered if Rirette had told her husband of their former connection—and if Claude held this against him for Lily's sake, or for Rirette's. But perhaps she'd held her tongue, and Claude knew nothing of this. She'd been yet another of his own mistakes, he thought wryly.

Now that Brasilov Enterprises were floundering, Misha thought he sometimes detected a certain smugness in his brother-in-law. And yet, the Bruisson assets had been absorbed into Brasilov. If the latter failed, then Claude would find himself penniless too. He and his bride had moved into his apartment on the Avenue Kléber, and he'd heard that Rirette, after the baby's birth, had been going the rounds of antique shops. It seemed highly unreasonable; but then, Claude had probably saved while Misha had been entertaining lavishly. Misha couldn't help but wonder, too, at Claude's unexpected choice for a wife. Of all people . . . Rirette, who'd been
his
mistress. It made Misha uncomfortable. Too many questions posed themselves.

He'd left his father at the office, now just a small suite on the second

floor of the Rue de Berri building, to deal as best he could with a series of creditors. Prince Ivan's reputation for cool judgment was exactly what was needed today. The sugar refinery in the Aisne would have to be liquidated; already, he'd put his lawyers to formulate a certificate of bankruptcy; Verlon would get to keep his little house, but the main buildings would be dismantled, and the land sold. Money was owed because the Brasilovs had been expecting a normal harvest, and had paid for materials with promises of funds that would come from the profits.

Of course, this was what had stopped the wheel from turning. Misha had always put money from one affiliate into another, borrowing from Peter to pay Paul; but before, his expectations had always been met, because reasonable. It hadn't been reasonable to foresee that the German materials would prove to be a swindle; and so, always one to take a calculated risk, he hadn't been prepared. His other affiliates hadn't been expecting a failure of such proportions in the Aisne deal. Prince Ivan had grown thinner, like a small reed, and his hair was almost completely white, and sparse; this downfall had been such a blow to him that it had felled him far more than the advent of Bolshevism in his motherland, and the consequent exodus.

Misha tried not to think of what his life had become. He'd always been attracted to the glitter and the luxury of the beau monde. Now he had to live like a Puritan. He felt such hatred toward those who had brought about this state of affairs: those Jewish bastards in Germany, the Rabinovitches; and whoever had spoken to Lily. They'd ruined his life.

Varvara, caustic, had shaken her head and said: “Oh, no. You ruined it, my boy.” But he'd almost hit her then. Hit her in his helplessness—the way he'd wanted to hit Lily when he'd thought that she'd had an affair with Mark MacDonald.

He thought, overcome with anguish, that he might have been wrong; Lily would never have slept with another man. And the idea that he might have caused his own baby to be aborted tormented him. Sadly, he acknowledged that he had created the first chink in the armor of their marriage.

A balding young man came out of the inner offices, and said to him: “If monsieur will follow me ... Monsieur le Baron will see you now.”

It was two thirty. Misha tugged on the edge of his lapels, and was ushered into a clear, bright office decorated with brass and Cordoba leather. Philippe de Chaynisart was short, stocky, with bright blue eyes like a baby's. He was fiftyish, but with such cherubic men age was always hard to tell. Misha thought that there was no gossip surrounding the old, distinguished name; if anything the brothers De Chaynisart lived too much in retreat, minding their own business and the management of their old, old money. He could recall nothing else.

“Sit down, sit down,” De Chaynisart said, gesticulating toward a comfortable leather armchair.

Misha complied, crossing his legs. “I was most intrigued by your letter,' he stated.

“Well. It's become rather a mess. This hotel, I mean. My brother Charles and I sank a lot of money into it; as you shall see, it's the latest modern touch, and it's in the perfect location. But somehow ... we aren't making the profit we'd expected.”

“This is interesting, my dear Baron. But why have you come to
me?
I am not a hotelier.”

De Chaynisart smiled. As he did so, he stuck a small white cigarette between his teeth, and motioned to light it with a solid silver lighter on his desk. The smile, therefore, had a certain subtlety that didn't escape Misha. “True: you are not specifically a hotelier. But I've heard and read about you. Your business acumen has stretched over such multiple ventures that nothing, really, is beyond the scope of your possibilities.” De Chaynisart paused, puffed a moment on his cigarette, then laid it carefully on an ashtray of clear, cut crystal. “And there's another thing. All Paris has heard of your, shall we say, stroke of bad luck. Pierre Taittinger was telling me about it a few months ago. You know Pierre quite well, don't you? A splendid fellow who knows the world goes around on action, not just pretty words. Your bad luck has touched the hearts of some of the hardest sons of bitches in this fair city. We all know how you were swindled.”

Misha sat very still, making sure that his face did not betray him. He felt shocks of surprise. Raising one eyebrow, he inclined his head with a sardonic half smile. “I hadn't realized that my misfortune was common knowledge.”

“Of course it is. As is my own—and my brother's. We're making a failure with this hotel. It was built in ‘27, and should have drawn all the rich young American expatriates who have come flocking to our shores. Perhaps you, better than we, will be able to determine why. I would like to hire you, Brasilov. If any man can, you can turn this enterprise into a profit for us.”

“And may I ask? What's in it for me?”

De Chaynisart chuckled. “I was attracted to your work when I learned of the success you'd had bringing together Michelin and Citroën. You're a good middleman. Now, if you can pull us out of the red, I shall pay you a fine commission—the same way the auto men did. Shall we say ... fifty thousand francs?”

Misha smiled. “That depends. If my work will take six months, that sum would suit me beautifully. But if I'm forced to stay over a year . . . that could be small payment for a lot of trouble, during which time I should not have been free to pursue other, more lucrative endeavors.”

“Very fair. Shall we agree on fifty thousand for up to one year, and, if the job lasts longer, the terms could be renegotiated?”

He was holding out his small white, porky hand, with its perfectly trimmed fingernails. Misha hesitated for three seconds; then he shook the hand in his own strong one. “Agreed,” he declared.

T
he horse chestnut
trees were in full bloom outside Lily's window. She sat in the parlor, reading
The Crowned Fool.
Maryse had thrust it at her the week before, exclaiming that it was the most fascinating book she'd read in years. Lily thought that the author, Cabanès, had told an interesting story from a historical viewpoint; but there were too many sexual details. She'd much preferred
A Sister's Story,
by Madame Augustus Craven, née de la Ferronays: fragments of diaries and letters reconstituting the life of an entire family from 1830 to 1848. How lucky were those who had the gift of words and plot!

For a moment she was wistful, and set the book down. The front door opened, and Maryse peeked in. “Am I committing lèse majesté?”

“I was reading,” Lily said, smiling.

Maryse, who still looked like a twelve-year-old elf, dressed in outrageously stylish wisps of nothing and high heels, came to perch on the edge of her armchair. “You don't like it?” she asked, picking up the book.

“The sex part . . . bothers me.”

Maryse made a face. “For God's sake, Lily! You always make me think of poor Héloïse in her abbey, waiting forever for Abélard. I don't want that for you, you know. Wolf would say it isn't healthy, but I'll just say it's a damn shame.”

“What are you talking about, Mari?”

“About sex, of course. A woman like you should have a lover. A marvelous, exciting, romantic lover. To sweep you off your feet.”

Lily burst out laughing. “But it just isn't like me,” she said.

Maryse set the book down, and picked up Lily's hand resting on the other chair arm. The diamond and emeralds of her ring gave off blinding sparks. “Isn't it time you had these reset?” she asked.

“Why should I, Mari? They were with me for nine years. Maybe I deserve to keep something from that time.”

“You have the children.”

Maryse jumped off, and went to the window. Looking out, she said: “Guess who's in town? Mark MacDonald. He's coming to dinner tonight. Mama and Papa Steiner haven't met him yet.”

Lily folded her hands together, and breathed in. “Mark. Why is he here?”

Maryse turned, and shrugged: “You can ask him yourself, this evening. But I suppose I don't believe his explanation. He said he came to visit Salzburg, which he didn't know—and decided to hook on over to pay us a call. What
I
personally think is that he came to see
you.”

Lily chewed on her lower lip. Maryse declared: “In any case, I don't want you to find some excuse not to eat at Mama's. She'll be expecting you

at eight o'clock, as usual.” She started to walk away, wheeled about, and said: “Wear something soft. I don't like the way you look in matronly things.”

She exited, closing the door delicately behind her. Lily sat thinking. Mark. What, exactly, had she ever felt for him? She'd been flattered; she'd liked him. She'd felt good around him. But in some way, she supposed, she also held him partly responsible for the abortion. Why had he gone to her home?

But the question really was: Why had she never contacted him again, to let him know what had ensued between her and Misha, following his visit? She'd been afraid that if she had, the door would have been opened to a tremendous explosion, which would have caused exactly the kind of scandal that Misha had threatened. And Mark would have been privy to her shame, and her children's. And so she'd buried Mark's visit with her engagement to him, keeping it sealed in the coffin of the past. She'd been sure she'd never see him again—that their paths would never cross, now that Maryse, the link between them, had settled in Vienna.

In a crystal bowl, cut gardenias sat on the small table by the window. Lily bent down and inhaled the sweetness of their centers. It promised to be such a good spring. She went into her room and lay down for a nap. But she couldn't sleep. The trees made strange shadows over the bedspread, teasing her with their velvet softness. After a while she went into her closet and pulled out a simple vaporous dress of apricot chiffon. She thought: It's absurd. But it's true, I'm dressing for Mark. I haven't dressed for a man in a year; and he's my friend. It felt good, thinking about it. There was nothing ugly in this simple recognition.

The children didn't know him. She made sure that Hanneliese dressed them simply but carefully, and then, holding each one by the hand, she went out to the stairway and down to Mina and Isaac Steiner's high-ceilinged, large apartment. “Mama, you look so pretty,” Nicky said. “Like a movie star.”

When she walked in, everyone was already having cocktails. She felt a moment of acute embarrassment. Isaac Steiner was regarding her with lifted brows, and she could read, in Wolf's eyes, the same appreciation. “Our little princess is here,” Isaac remarked. “With our Dauphin and small Infanta.”

Mark stood up. “Hello, Lily. It's nice to see you.”

She pushed Nicolas and Kira in front of her, and said: “You've never met my children. These are Nicky and Kira—Mr. MacDonald.”

In a pleasant, easygoing fashion, he greeted them and had them sit beside him on the sofa. Lily felt the moment pass, and moved toward Isaac to accept a glass of sherry. It was almost as if no stranger were among them; but she felt him behind her, even as she chatted with Wolf and his father, and she could hear him entertaining her children.

During the dinner, Wolf told funny Viennese stories and Mark answered with Parisian anecdotes. They spoke of the Radical cabinet of Edouard Daladier, and of Schiaparelli's mounting offensive against the Maison Chanel. Carefully, the men avoided the topic of Hitler; and the women, in their relief, laughed openly, Lily too. Yes, he was her good friend, and she'd missed him; for who, in her life, had really been her friends? Just the Steiners, and Mark. And she'd lost Mark because of her marriage, understanding that Misha would never have tolerated him around her.