The Keeper of the Walls (38 page)

She held him until they entered the car, and when he inserted his key into the lock of the apartment, he went quickly into one of the bathrooms so as not to be in her way. But when he emerged, afraid, she wasn't in the living room. He called out her name, “Lily!” and went, hesitantly, to his bedroom. She was already inside the bed, her dark hair loose about her shoulders.

And so he undressed, aware of the ticking sounds of time passing, and went to her. Under the cold sheets, he could feel the heat of her body near him. He was afraid to touch her, but the pain of death had been too strong, too wrenching, and so he moved toward her, conscious that, in the same moment, she had moved toward him.

They welcomed the strength and power of their bodies merging, warding away the terror of death and reaffirming their own pulsing life, and as he fell asleep he remembered that he still hadn't asked her what her plans were. But her head lay in the crook of his neck, and her hair caressed his chest with the softness of pussywillows, and so he let his mind drift off in peace, for the first time in many months.

God had taken someone dear from him, but had given him back a treasure he had thought lost forever.

I
t was better
for everybody to start a fresh life, and when Philippe de Chaynisart proposed to Misha that he move his family into a small suite at the Hotel Rovaro, this seemed to solve many problems at once. It would have been impossible to remain at the Avenue Paul-Doumer apartment, and to live surrounded by the mementos of Prince Ivan, knowing that he would never be with them again. Misha wasn't the kind of man to hang on to mementos: he preferred to turn the page, and thereby to accept his father's death. It seemed far better to let all his private memories live on in his spirit—and to keep only those few things that had a particular sentimental value to him. He kept the ruby cuff links, and a few other items. The rest was put up for public auction.

And, of course, the best part about the hotel was that there was no rent to pay. There were drawbacks, however. The suite was very small. In the bedroom was the big bed, and a small cot for Nicky. Kira slept on the divan in the living room. Misha marveled within himself at his wife's easy adaptability. She appeared not to miss the large apartment and the many servants. And because of her attitude, the children didn't question the arrangement, either.

Kira and Nicky had immediately gone exploring, discovering the kitchens and the multitude of servants always full of stories. They'd sat down Maurice, the old bellhop, and made him tell them all his anecdotes about the people who had lived at the hotel. There was the Pink Lady, dressed in shocking pink with boa feathers, who'd run out of her suite in the middle of the night, in a pink nightgown, screaming “Fire! Fire!” only to have the Baron Charles discover that the “flames” she'd seen had been her husband's red bathrobe left hanging in the bathroom, aureoled by a yellow light bulb he'd forgotten to turn off. And the American heiress from Iowa who'd asked Maurice why she couldn't seem to find the man she'd fallen in love with: they'd met on a ship, his name was Andre, and she'd walked up and down “Main Street” looking for him. The children loved these tales of human foibles, and the old man in his red uniform with the elegant gold braiding on the shoulders and cuffs.

Lily usually took the children by bus to their lycées, at eight in the morning, and then walked home. At eleven she would walk again to pick them up for lunch, strolling back so that they would get their exercise. They lunched at the hotel, and often Misha joined them. Lunch was from twelve thirty to one o'clock. There were days when the rotund Philippe de Chaynisart stopped at their table to drink a cup of coffee. Lily liked him; but he was not, she thought, as affable and congenial as he wanted others to believe he was. One had to stay on one's toes, but this was not a problem for the Brasilovs. He'd taken Misha under his wing, and had approved all the changes the latter had been making.

Lily had gone through her old belongings, and put everything up for auction with Prince Ivan's things. It hadn't been easy; but there was no choice anymore, and the suite was small. Claire had taken the Pleyel piano. Misha borrowed one of the smaller upright pianos from one of the lounges, where it was never used, and had it brought up to the living room. And so, twice a week, Raïssa Markovna Sudarskaya would come to give the two children their lessons, as before.

Life was cramped, and there were almost no luxuries left. Sometimes, Lily thought back on the life she had left behind in Vienna. The Steiners had wrapped themselves around her like a warm matrix, yet she had been, for the first time in her life, on her own. She felt a twinge of regret, for those moments alone, for those moments with them ...for the fact that there, she hadn't been somebody's wife, but just herself, Lily. Yet it felt good to be “home,” to sleep every night with Misha, to forget the hurts and the anguish that had separated them. She needed to be here, not just for herself and him as a couple, but to give the children a stability that they'd missed. They were completed by their father: without him, and his strong love, they'd been just a little disconnected, in spite of all the love that had come from other corners.

And Mark? Lily didn't have much free time for reflection, except when she was walking back and forth to the lycées. But then, watching the frostbitten trees, she would sometimes think back on that lovely spring, on the moments she had been with him, simply talking, or silent with memories. But Mark, like her own self-sufficiency, was part of the past—a stolen moment of friendship, of awakened hope, of . . . ? She couldn't tag a name to the sentiment.

The morning of February 6, 1934 began with a sharp, gray wind. After she had taken the children to school, Lily went to the Stock bookstore. When she came home, Claire telephoned and asked her to join them for dinner at the Hotel Crillon. A veterans' parade had been planned for the evening, but rumor had it that this would be the excuse to launch a massive riot to oust Premier Édouard Daladier and the other lame politicians whom the French Right was blaming for the Stavisky scandals. “I don't know if I should leave the Rovaro,” Lily said hesitantly.

“Aunt Marthe is here, darling. You can't
not
come. She's very old now and only comes to Paris once or twice a year. Last year, and the year before, you were in Vienna.”

Aunt Marthe Bertholet was Paul's father's sister, and was at least seventy-three. She had married a man who had become an electrician, in Nantes, near the Loire. He had worked hard, and developed an invention dealing with storage batteries. Eventually he had patented this and opened a large factory, becoming quite wealthy. Then he had died, leaving his widow a considerable fortune. When one traveled through the fields of France, posters still greeted one's eye, saying
bertholet batteries,
at least as many as those that advertised the newspaper
Le Matin
and that other staple of the French marketplace, Amer Picon.

She was tall, thick, with a bull's neck, a head that was round like a marble, with half-closed eyes and a potato nose that emerged from fat cheeks, and her mouth was crooked. For some reason, she had always believed that she was an irresistible beauty. Her husband, Uncle Alfred, had died twenty years before, and she had often wondered, out loud, why no rich and fascinating young man had presented himself in the interim. Lily found Aunt Marthe the most disagreeable woman she knew; but, once a year, she came to Paris and insisted on seeing her “beloved family.” If she could avoid it, Lily skipped this rendezvous, and very rarely took the children. But Claire, out of a sense of duty because the old woman was alone in the world, always made it a point to meet with her and act as her companion during her week's visit. She always stayed at the Hotel Crillon, at the Place de la Concorde, midway between the Champs-Élysées and the Ile de la Cité across the Seine River. It was a stately mansion built in the late eighteenth century by the architect Gabriel, and Aunt Marthe felt that it was the only hotel in Paris good enough for her patronage. “A
lady
can entertain so well there,” she would announce for all to hear, in her nasal voice.

Lily now said: “But if there's going to be a demonstration, I won't bring the children. I'll just drop them off at the Rovaro after school, and come to the Crillon by métro.”

“That's just as well. Tell Misha that he's welcome, of course, but I know he doesn't enjoy meeting Aunt Marthe. You can spend the night with us: the Ritz is within walking distance, and if there's a riot, it would be good to have you near us.”

Lily passed her tongue over her dry lips, and asked: “Claude isn't coming?”

This had always been the delicate point between them, now that Lily had returned to Paris. Lily, for a motive unknown to her mother, had made it very clear that she would never, under any circumstance, socialize with her brother's wife. When Claire, bewildered, had pressed the point, Lily had said to her, quietly but with intense emotion: “It's a subject best not delved into. I'm happy Claude seems content with his marriage, and I wish the three of them well. But Henriette and I had words long ago, and I will never again be in the same room with her.”

Reluctantly, Claire accepted the situation.

In the afternoon, after the children had come home, Lily took her bath and put lotion on her hands. She trimmed her cuticles and polished her nails. Under no circumstance did she want her mother and Jacques—and above all, Aunt Marthe—to guess how strained the Brasilov finances really were. She pinned her hair up in a pompadour, and selected a simple bias-cut dress of dark blue velvet, with shoulder pads. Then she pinned a cameo at her throat and put a blue felt halo hat at the back of her head, to frame her face. “Where are you going?” Kira demanded.

“To have dinner with Aunt Marthe, at the Crillon.”

“Papa said there will be a riot,” Nicky said.

“Don't worry. I'll stay close to Grandpa Jacques. And you two will take your baths and eat your dinner with Papa, downstairs.”

On the ground floor, she went to find her husband in his office. He was standing in front of his desk, deep in conversation with the Baron Charles de Chaynisart. Philippe's brother was a few years older, a few pounds slimmer, and had a sharper set to his features. But the baby blue eyes were the same. “Well, Princess,” he declared. “You are without doubt the most elegant woman in Paris.”

Lily couldn't help feeling that the smooth compliment had been intended as an ironic slight. She didn't know why, but she was uncomfortable, and blushed. “Thank you, Baron,” she answered. And then: “I'll be going now, Misha.”

“I'd rather you skipped that,” her husband said, his voice tight. “I don't want you out tonight.”

“But I promised. And I'll be with Jacques, and Mother.”

Charles de Chaynisart's lips curved into a sliver of a smile, and he said to Misha: “My dear man, women today are so ... independent. They aren't at all like our mothers and grandmothers. They fly over oceans, work in laboratories, and know all about Monsieur Stavisky's dark past. Let her be! Do not clip her wings, they are too pretty to watch.”

“I'm sorry, but Lily is my wife. I can't allow her to go out into what is certain to be one of the most dangerous mob riots of our precarious times.”

“Well, then, I have an idea. Why don't you let me escort your fair lady to her destination? I was planning to leave shortly, anyway. There's a card game tonight, and I must go home to freshen up beforehand. My chauffeur can deposit the Princess on our way.”

Lily shook her head, confused and embarrassed. “No, no. I can go alone, by métro—”

“Nonsense. I wouldn't hear of it.” Charles de Chaynisart grabbed his fitted overcoat from the back of an armchair, and put his hand on Lily's elbow. She turned, looking at Misha, and saw him nod imperceptibly. But there was a strange, closed look about his face that troubled her.

Charles de Chaynisart's car was a magnificent imported silver and blue Duesenberg Model J, spanking new. Lily stepped inside, all at once conscious of the shabbiness of her three-year-old suede shoes, and of the small bag that matched them. She could recall, eons ago in another life, sitting at a fashion show at the Maison Chanel, circling the numbers of the many gowns, dresses, and suits she was selecting. An unseen woman a few rows back had whispered audibly to her companion: “Look! There's the Princess Brasilova. Isn't she a beauty? And so rich she could buy every outfit in this collection!” She thought, wryly, that perhaps God punished those who accepted their wealth without a thought to the millions of poor who didn't have enough to make ends meet in their daily lives.

The trim chauffeur started up the motor, and Charles, impeccable in his gray overcoat and gray homburg, was bending slightly in her direction. “Frankly, Madame, I won't be a bit sorry if there
is
an outburst tonight. Our country is going to the wolves—and to
Gospodin
Stalin. I say, let's get them all out: Daladier, Chautemps, and Blum, of course. He's the worst of the lot!”

“But you can't put the first two in the same category as Blum. They're Radicals, middle-of-the-roaders. He's a much more definite individual, less likely to compromise.”

“That's what makes him even more dangerous than the others. If the government should ever go socialist, I'll move to Italy. I rather like that little dandy over there—Mussolini. At least he knows how to be a man! He knows the meaning of strength.”

Lily couldn't help herself, and asked: “And Hitler, Baron? Do you like him, too?”

He threw back his head and emitted a gurgle of leonine laughter. “Adorable! I must say, you are adorable. . . . Herr Hitler? He's an efficacious man, a leader. I wish we had someone like that in France. He knows how to get things done. Having admitted this, I do have to add that he strikes me as a touch too humorless. Life without humor can fade into dullness very quickly—don't you agree?”

“It depends in which sense you mean it. If the humor doesn't hurt others, and if it's gentle, it can be the most healing agent in life. But there is also cruel, abusive humor. The kind that wounds so deeply, that sometimes the butt of the joke never fully recovers.”

They were slowing down near the Café Marignan, on the Champs-Élysées. It was five thirty, and the demonstration was not expected for another hour and a half. But already the sidewalks were congested, and the streets guarded by a battery of uniformed policemen. Lily shuddered, and was sorry she hadn't stayed with Misha at the hotel. This would be worse than what she had imagined.

Charles de Chaynisart picked up her gloved hand in one of his own, and turned it over. She felt a moment of electric shock, and wanted to remove it at once; but the pressure of his fingers was so slight, that she chided herself for reacting like a prude. He was the kind of man who toyed with any object that came into his line of vision. She'd seen him pick up pencils, feel their tips with momentary curiosity, then set them down, only to seize a paperweight next to them and idly fondle its smoothness. There had obviously not been any thought on his part when he had turned her hand over so cavalierly, as if it had been a card left behind on somebody's sofa.