The Secret Life of Violet Grant (28 page)

“I'll drive you, then.” He holds out his hand to her, and she takes it.

They drive in silence to Dahlem. Lionel keeps his hands on the wheel, his eyes on the road. Violet keeps to her side of the seat and crosses her hands in her lap. It's a fine day, hot and clear, and the patches of shade look unbearably inviting. “What sort of loose ends?” asks Violet.

“Oh, the usual.” He changes gears with an expert thrust of his hand. “Bidding friends good-bye. Check in with Goschen on the war situation,
see if there's any news from my regiment. Whether I'm being called back yet. And I've got to return the motor, of course.”

Violet shuts her eyes and sees him in uniform, resplendent with khaki and shining leather. The image is so alien, and yet this is his life. His profession, the genuine Lionel. “Who's Goschen?”

“Sir Edward Goschen. The British ambassador in Berlin.”

“As high as all that? What circles you move in.”

“He's a friend of my father's. He's been splendidly useful since I arrived, introductions and smoothing channels and all that.”

“Naturally.” Violet looks to the side, where the buildings slide past Lionel's borrowed automobile, giving way to blocks of abundant summer green, as Berlin drifts into the suburbs.

“Darling, what's wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says, as she might say to Walter, but then she remembers this isn't Walter. This is Lionel, and he might actually care what she thinks. “Nothing reasonable, anyway. I had a chilling sense of familiarity just now.”

“What's that?”

“My parents were very good friends with the British ambassador in America.”

“Were they, now? That would have been Bryce, wouldn't it? James Bryce.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I personally find the chap intolerable.” The white new-built edifice of the institute rises up from the block ahead, lined with young trees. Lionel breezes through the empty intersection and slows the car.

Violet laughs. “So did I.”

“You see, then?” The car rolls to a stop next to the curb. Lionel sets the brake and jumps out to open her door. “We're straight, aren't we, Violet? As you Americans say. We understand each other. You know I want you to be happy.”

His eyes are a serious gray. Violet leans forward and kisses him
good-bye, right there in the open, in front of the entrance to the institute. “I believe you.”

“I'll come for you later to take you home. Back to the hotel, I mean, to pack up. Is four o'clock all right?”

To pack up. To leave with Lionel on the morning train out of Berlin, to run away with her lover. Or hadn't she already done that? Already given up everything and crossed the frontier.

“Four o'clock is fine,” she says.

•   •   •

VIOLET CHECKS
all the offices, but only Max Planck is still there at his desk. She can see him through the glass, his bowed head and lined face. His secretary's chair is empty. Violet pokes her head around the door. “Herr Planck?”

“Frau Grant. I thought you were in Wittenberg.” He takes off his glasses, rises, and makes a gesture of welcome.

“I came back early. I . . . I regret to say that I've come to tender my resignation, such as it is.” She holds out the ridiculous piece of paper, which relinquishes her title to a post that never really officially existed.

“I'm very sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can say to change your mind? I hope it's not this wretched situation in the Balkans.” He braces his fingers against the edge of the desk. In the overbright electric light, his eyes are heavy and shadowed, his forehead lined.

“That's part of it, I suppose, but the real reason is that I've left Walter. I've left Dr. Grant. I thought I should tell you first; I don't intend to hide it.” She says all this in a rush, as a single defiant sentence.

“I see.” He looks down and fingers his glasses. “Thank you for telling me. May I be perfectly candid?”

“I hope you will.”

He looks up again. “I'm overjoyed to hear it. I hope you'll let me know if there's anything at all I can do for you. Letters, recommendations, anything.”

Violet curls her fingernails into her palms. It doesn't work; her eyes fill anyway. “Thank you, Herr Planck. I appreciate that tremendously. I'll write, of course, once I've settled what to do. I . . . I am deeply grateful for my time here at the institute.”

“No more grateful than we were to have you.” He holds out his hand. “I wish you all the happiness in the world, Frau Grant. I hope our paths meet again.”

•   •   •

VIOLET FINDS
her cramped office, her tiny desk. The space is hot and musty, smelling of rubber and old pencil shavings. Everything is in perfect order; she had already tied off her own loose ends before departing for Wittenberg. The office itself contains very little: no photographs, no personal items, only papers and journals and a few instruments. She opens a drawer and finds her familiar slide rule, the one she brought with her from New York, its paint faded from use. She fingers the worn wood and slips it in her jacket pocket, and when her hand withdraws, it holds the small leather-covered notebook from Walter's study. On the lower right corner, the number 1912 is stamped in gold.

She places the diary on the desk before her and closes her eyes.

Just open it. Just look.

She has no right. She's stolen it, Walter's private thoughts, to which he has every right. If she kept a diary, a personal journal of some kind, she would be outraged to find Walter reading it.

But the suspicion will not quiet. If she doesn't answer it now, she may never have another opportunity. And isn't this her affair, as well?

She places her fingers on the smooth leather and opens her eyes.

4 January.
Fucked V in my office (desk), then again at home. What a fine snug cunt she has, very supple and muscular, lovely clipping motion when she spends (not often).

5 January.
Fucked V briskly on waking, went to laboratory in excellent humor. How she refreshes me, the eager young child. Argument with D—d on procedure for thorium isolation, the usual wrong-headed rubbish. Out to lunch. Looked for B—e at Crown, did not see her.

6 January.
Crown again for lunch (curious about B—e—is she fucking someone?). Found her in kitchen. Old N-d suspicious apparently and sent her out for errands y'day when I arrived. Took her upstairs and had a glorious uprighter in linen cupboard—ha! She spent copiously. How I love her big fleshy thighs and bum, tho my current lech is for V and her childlike little cunt. No V this evening, experiment running late. Nearly returned to Crown for B—e but went home instead. Sent note to V to come to Norham Gardens when finished.

7 January.
V arrived at ten o'clock last night, rather tired and listless, but after sweetened by brandy and kisses (kisses will warm up the coldest cunt) let me fuck her, a long voluptuous fuck as seconds are, resulting in spend for V. Arrived late at laboratory. D—d stormed into my office before lunch and said he'd had a note from a friend who saw me with V at Ritz at New Year. Assumed outraged aspect and told him he was an idiot. V busy all day but came by Nham Gdns after dark. Had her twice before midnight, very credibly, once from behind (waking her up), tho she would not spend. Slept like an anvil afterward, completely fucked out.

Violet sets down the leather notebook. She is dizzy; there are actual spots appearing before her eyes, in between her brain and the black scribble of Walter's private thoughts. Another word, and she will vomit on the institute's sanitary linoleum floor.

“Frau Grant! Are you all right?”

Violet staggers to her feet, interposing herself between the door and Walter's diary, as if to shield the world from her disgrace.

“Quite all right, thank you.”

It's one of the laboratory assistants, a young man with pale hair and earnest blue eyes. “You look white, Frau Grant. Quite ill.”

“It's the heat, I suppose.”

The young man hurries to the tiny window and struggles to open it. Violet opens her mouth to protest, but there's no voice inside, no will at all. She sinks to her seat and watches him heave at the sash, until the heat-swollen wood gives way at last and the glass jumps upward with a bang.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

“Yes, please.”

When he returns with the water, she takes a small sip, and another. She is calmer now, her head clear. She remembers that night she came home late from the laboratory, when Walter was waiting for her. January the sixth, apparently; how strange that dates only become significant in hindsight. He was so coaxing and affectionate. He had a glass of brandy waiting for her, and a bit of cake. When he made love to her, so slowly and surely, she thought for the first time that she might actually be in love with him, that this must certainly be love: a man who waited for her with brandy and cake and made love with such amorous invention.

Violet rises and circles about her cage; she braces her hands on the window frame and breathes in the hot air from the courtyard. A little gust stirs her hair. She sits down and sips her water and opens the diary, flipping through the pages until she finds April.

This time her head is sharp. She's reading about some other girl, some poor deluded fool who thinks she's so very much more clever and sophisticated than she really is.

24 April.
Delivered paper to great success. Banquet followed, excellent wine. Went out afterward with H—n and F—y, fine time. F—y knew of decent house nearby, very pleasing girls, found a jolly fleshy hot-cunted one of perhaps seventeen and fucked her twice in an hour
(feat not managed since first night with V, and before that not for a year at least—thus middle age!). Slept a little, had her again with some effort, returned to hotel at 3. V asleep.

25 April.
Woke with prick standing, by G-d. Lovely comfortable fuck, V delightfully accommodating. Managed an heroic spend. Afterward V told me she might be in a family way. The devil. Told her she should take care of it back in Oxford, she said she would not, the fool. Resolved not to try her again until condition is confirmed. There is no arguing with women in that state.

Violet flips forward a few pages.

2 May.
V returned from Dr. W—w determined to keep child. No argument would move her, the wretch. Left in fury and went directly to Dr. W—w. What the devil had he said to her? I used very forceful language to make myself clear, that I might go to authorities if he did not convince V of necessity for taking care of things. He resisted passionately. D—n all doctors.

3 May.
Devil in it. Message from D—d and trustees this morning. Met with them directly after lunch. That b—d Dr W—w has apparently told them all. Am to marry V and tender resignation; they will assist me in finding place on the Continent if I comply. Marriage!!!! D—n Dr W—w.

4 May.
Went to see V last night. Secured her agreement, then hard and satisfying fuck on floor, tho she did not like it. Still in bad humor so went to Crown afterward but B—e out. D—n all women.

Violet puts one hand to her hipbone. In the morning after Walter's proposal, she had found two large bruises, one on either side, from the repeated concussion against the hard wood. She remembers viewing
them in the mirror with pride: the sacrifice she had made for Walter's pleasure.

8 May.
Morning at Tuileries. Feeling rather better about V as wife. She is an excellent companion, helpful at work, no ill humors in bed as most women, has never once refused me except when poorly. In afternoon, made first pot of tea for V according to receipt. Watched her for any reaction; none. Resolved not to have her tonight, just in case.

Violet's head remains clear, so clear she can hear the deep thud of her heart as it smashes into her ribs.

11 May.
Morning at Versailles, V very affectionate. Excellent dinner at hotel, tho V left twice to visit lavatory. V continued affectionate in evening, so managed short fuck before bed. Examined prick carefully afterward; nothing. Continuing tea with 2 additional grains.

Violet turns a few pages with her cold fingers, until she reaches Berlin.

18 May.
Success!!!! V complained of pain in morning. Blood on sheets. Called doctor; confirmed miscarriage at five o'clock. V very low. Made her comfortable, poor thing. After dinner, went to Mme G—d's, had two bottles of champagne and fucked dear little P—e until she could not stand!! By good chance met General von M—e there on way out, made appointment for tomorrow aftern . . .

Violet closes the book. This is all she needs to know; to read any more would be little better than common espionage.

She places the notebook in her pocket, closes the window, and leaves the office.

I
hadn't set foot inside Lenox Hill Hospital since the day my nanny carried me out of it with my Baby Girl Schuyler tag still swinging from my ankle. I hadn't missed much, it seemed.

The feel of the place was familiar enough. God knew I'd spent more time in hospital waiting rooms (well, one in particular) in the past few weeks than in the rest of my twenty-two years combined. I sniffed the Lysol and floor wax, the bouquet garni of overcooked food and effluvia, and I'll be damned if my shameless glands didn't start churning out a Welcome Doctor Paul cocktail of desire. All this while I was hurrying down corridors and scrubbed blind alleys in a frantic hunt for my comatose great-aunt.

“Coma. There's Mums for you,” said Pepper, when I screeched to a huff-a-puff halt in front of the door marked
HADLEY
. (Half my trouble at the reception downstairs was remembering which ex-husband had come last.) “She knocked her head on the way down, and she hasn't come out of it. The doctors are rather bored about it, really.” But Pepper's face was long and grave. She looked like a different woman without her lipstick.

“Did she hurt anything else?” I tried to peer through the oblong window on the door.

“Ribs and things. They had to stitch up her forehead. She's not going to be happy about that.”

“Nothing her plastic surgeon can't handle, I'm sure.”

The door swung open, and my parents sallied forth. “Vivian! There you are at last!” Mums took me by the shoulders and burst into tears, as if Aunt Julie were her own mother instead of an in-law with whom she traded regular volleys across the DMZ of Madison Avenue.

I patted her back. “There, there. Everything will be all right.”

“At least your legs are covered,” said my father.

“Your concern for your aunt steals my breath. Speaking of which, how is she?”

“The same,” sobbed Mums. “Just lying there. With that bandage.”

A doctor detached himself from all the boys in white coats. He held a clipboard in one hand. Thanks to Doctor Paul, I knew how to read a chart (oh, you dirty thing, you thought we spent all our time in bed?) and I snatched it from him with professional aplomb.

“Hmm,”
said I, clicking a ballpoint pen thoughtfully, next to my ear. “You must be a little concerned about that blood pressure.”

“I understand her blood pressure is normally elevated. We're keeping an eye on it.” Was that amusement?

I pointed the pen at him. “Don't get sassy with me, young man.”

“No, ma'am.”

“Other than that, her vitals seem stable.” I handed back the clipboard. “Why is she still unconscious?”

“It could be a number of things, but the most likely explanation is that the brain is simply healing itself. She sustained a concussion, a serious one, but we've found no sign of a depressed fracture or intracranial bleeding.”

“What about fluid pressure?”

“A bit above what we'd like to see. We're monitoring it carefully.”

“How many sutures in her forehead?”

“Twelve. Quite a gash, really, but superficial. She also broke three
ribs, as you may have heard. When she wakes up, she'll be in a great deal of pain. I've prescribed something to help with that.”

“Have you, now? She'll like that. Intravenous, of course?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“When can I see her?”

He gestured to the door. “Now, if you like. We've just finished checking her. Back in half an hour for further assessment.”

I gave him the Vivian special. He'd earned it. “Excellent, Doctor . . .”

“Miller. James Miller.”

“Dr. James Miller.” I widened my smile. “I'm Vivian Schuyler. That will be all for now.”

“Any time, Miss Schuyler,” he said, meaning
any time you like, you just crook your little finger, ask for me by name, I'll be right there like Buck Rogers in hyperwarp
.

And that, I thought with satisfaction, would ensure my great-aunt Julie the finest care available at the Lenox Hill Hospital this dark November night. God knew, she would have done the same for me.

Only then did I become aware of the awestruck faces surrounding me. “What the hell was that?” said Pepper, as we filed into the room.

“Oh, just a delightful little trick known as flirting for favors,” I said.

“Well, that much was obvious. I meant the intracranial jabberwocky and the fluid pressure. What sort of Greek is that?”

“Dear Pepper. Don't tell me you've never slept with a doctor before.”

But I sobered up at once at the sight of Aunt Julie, just lying there (as Mums had promised) with that bandage. The room had been darkened, and the gauze glowed a dim white just above her left eyebrow, or what had been her left eyebrow, sculpted and spidery, before the doctors had shaved it. Poor Aunt Julie. She'd be appalled when she woke up and looked in the mirror. No makeup, her hair flat and matted against her skull, her fashionable clothes replaced with the indignity of a blue open-back hospital gown. No cosmetic barrier of any kind against the unkind eyes of the world around her. She didn't look old, exactly. Just tired.

I touched her forehead with my fingertips. “It's Vivian, Aunt Julie. Vivian's here. I've given your doctors a good grilling. They're going to take excellent care of you. Back on your feet in no time.”

Not a whisper of a reaction, not a flicker.

“She's been like that for four hours now,” whispered Pepper.

“Sleeping Beauty,” I said. “You're like Sleeping Beauty, aren't you, Aunt Julie? I'll go round up a prince to kiss you. I'm sure you'll have plenty of volunteers.”

Don't humor me, young lady
. I could almost hear her say it.

•   •   •

IN THE WAITING ROOM,
Mums had regained her composure and was handing Dad a cup of coffee. He accepted wearily. Mums turned and watched me settle in a chair like a horse to the knackers. “Where were you all this time, Vivian? We were trying to reach you for hours.”

“I was at the Lightfoots' house. Dinner.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

She poured the coffee from the urn in the corner and gave it to me. I was surprised that she knew I liked it black. I took a sip. “It was an engagement dinner for Gogo, in fact. You'll never guess whom she's marrying.”

Mums sat down next to me. “I can't imagine. Wasn't she seeing that nice young man, what was his name . . .”

“She's marrying Doctor Paul, Mums.”

She plucked an invisible speck from her dress, next to the knee.
“Your
Doctor Paul? From the post office?”

“That's the one.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand.”

I drank my coffee and considered how much to tell her. “So sorry. I can't divulge the sordid details, Mums. Let's just say that if you and Mr.
Lightfoot had ever married, the two of you, you'd be living in the White House by now.”

“I see.” You could have cracked an egg on those two words.

“Well, you know how it is, Mums. You win some, you lose some.” I stretched my arms above my head, coffee and all, and smothered a yawn in my throat.

“Is that so.”

It occurred to me, as I absorbed the message in those three frigid words, which might best be summed up as Very Bad News for Mr. S. Barnard Lightfoot III, that maybe Mums wasn't such a bad sport after all.

A tiny smile elbowed its way past the wreckage of the past six hours to prop up the corner of my mouth. A
smile,
of all things. Horrors. Up with the coffee cup, on the pronto.

“Why are you laughing?” asked Mums.

I gave her a shove, shoulder to shoulder. “I was just thinking. You as First Lady.”

•   •   •

AT TWO O'CLOCK
in the morning, Dr. Miller walked into the waiting room. Our slumped bodies snapped to attention.

“Vivian Schuyler?” He looked at me. His face hung with fatigue, but he was smiling. “She's asking for you.”

•   •   •

AUNT JULIE WAS PALE
and blinking and smelled of medicine, but she was awake.

I brushed her hair away from her bandage. “Don't do that again, all right?”

“Goddamned stairs.”

“What was that, Aunt Julie? I can't hear you. Something about watching your step next time?”

A raspy harrumph.

I smoothed my hand over her sheets, white and crisp as any good hotel. “How do you feel, Aunt Julie? Do you want more morphine?”

“Yes.”

“Rephrase. Do you need more morphine?”

Her eyes were fluttering shut. Dr. Miller stepped forward with a penlight and did his thing.

“All right. I'm all right.” Her voice was only the dry husk around the usual Aunt Julie snap and crackle.

“You should rest, Aunt Julie. You need to heal. We're just glad you're back with us.”

She made an impatient movement of her chin. I couldn't blame her. I'd have done the same thing if she said that to me.

“Max,” she said, or something like it.

“What's that?”

“Her. Vivian. I mean Violet.”

I leaned in. “What did you say?”

“Violet.”

My heart delivered a few hard smacks against the wall of my chest. I stroked Aunt Julie's hair with my fingers, nice and slow. I counted to three, and I said: “What about Violet?”

“Max. Maxwell.”

Dr. Miller, soothing voice: “I know you mean well, Miss Schuyler, but we really shouldn't encourage her to talk just now. She's not thinking clearly anyway. It's probably just nonsense.”

Only I, simpatico, could have caught the flash of indignation in Aunt Julie's eyes.

“Never mind, Aunt Julie. You can tell me later.” I leaned forward, making busy with the tucking and the stroking, and as I brushed past her ear I said: “Maxwell who?”

Aunt Julie's pale and cracked lips moved: “Institute. Paris.”

•   •   •

I STAYED
with her a long while, as the others filed in and back out again. When I returned to the waiting room, everyone was asleep except Dad, who sat in a stiff chair with Mums's head in his lap. He was stroking her hair. He turned his head as I entered and raised his finger to his lips, and I thought, that's odd, he looks ten years younger.

I knelt next to him and spoke in a whisper. “She's fine. Resting now. But I think she'll be all right.”

Dads nodded. “Thank you.” He mouthed the words.

I rose and kissed the top of his head and went to my own chair. I gathered up my coat and gloves, my hat and pocketbook. Dad cast me a curious look. I pointed to my watch and whispered, “Work.”

I opened the door and bumped straight into Lily Greenwald. “Vivian! I just found the telephone message. How is she?”

“Awake now, thank God. Gave us a little scare. They're all sleeping now.” I nodded to the room behind me.

She pressed her hand to her chest. Her cheeks were all flushy-peach, all luminous Lily. “Oh, thank goodness. The note said something about a coma. Scared me to death.”

I laughed. “That's just Mums. She had a knock to the head, but she'll be just fine, if I know Aunt Julie. Go wake up Pepper. She'll clue you in.”

“Where are you going?”

“I'm going to London, Lily.”

Her head made a satisfying little jerk. “London!”

“Research, you know.” Sophisticated working-girl wave of the fingers. “I've decided it's time to find out more about this Lionel Richardson.”

“I see.”

I laid my hand on her blue-woolen arm. “You'll take care of them while I'm gone, won't you?”

Lily took the hand and squeezed it. “Don't worry about a thing. I'll keep you posted. Just . . . well, enjoy yourself.”

“Enjoy myself?”

“If that's the word. You're so young, Vivian. Just try to step back a bit and enjoy yourself.”

A trolley clattered behind us, a murmur of voices. Rounds of some kind. I breathed quietly and allowed Lily's dark blue Schuyler eyes to draw me in, to connect with me. “I will, Cousin Lily.”

“Good, then.” She smiled and gave my hand a last squeeze.

“Oh. Wait. Lily. One thing.”

“Yes, Vivian?”

“The Maxwell Institute. Paris. Ring a bell?”

The brow wrinkled. The eyes squinted. “Maxwell Institute? I don't think so. Why?”

I hoisted my pocketbook on my shoulder and smiled my Mona Lisa. “No reason.”

•   •   •

I STEPPED
outside and found that dawn was breaking all over Manhattan, the kind of fragile pearly pink sunrise that makes you want to climb on board a jet airplane and start a brilliant new life.

I looked down at my shoes, sensible old sneakers for once, the first ones that had come to hand when I left my apartment in a blurred rush seven hours ago.

Maybe I'll walk home, I thought. Five or six miles of therapeutic New York City sidewalks, as good as an afternoon with a shrink. I could buy my airplane ticket on the way.

A long walk. Just the thing.