The House of Dreams (29 page)

“Are these really for me?” Her eyes sparkled. “You promise you didn't steal them?”

“I promise.” I set the mirror up against the dressing table and guided her to the stool.

“What will I say to Mother? She'll notice.”

“Hide them in your wardrobe, or under your bed,” I said, letting down her hair. I ran my fingers through it, felt the heavy weight of it. “It can be a secret.” I pushed aside her hair and brushed my lips over the nape of her neck, felt the fine strands against my cheek. “Let's play hairdressers.”

“Oh Gabriel, you're ridiculous! We're not children.”

“Okay, you do your hair, and I'll just watch.” I lay back on her bed, the springs creaking and sighing.

“Shall I put it up?” Annie turned this way and that in front of the mirror. She reminded me of Velázquez's Venus. I could almost picture Cupid hovering over the dressing table as she looked at herself.

“Why not?” I pulled my sketchbook from my rucksack. That was the first drawing I did of her, the first of thousands, as it turned out. It was quick and full of longing for her. I caught her, pinning her hair up into a chaste chignon. No, that's not quite right. There's nothing chaste about that drawing. I was weak with desire for her, my head swimming with exhaustion, the sketchbook barely concealing how much I wanted her. “Annie,” I said without looking up from the drawing.

“Mm?” she said, hairpins in her mouth.

“Darling, would you take your blouse off?” I could see the shock in her eyes. “Just so I can see the line of your body better.” I wondered if I had blown it, if she would throw me out. Night was closing in, the gray light falling outside, and a storm wind rattled the window. Annie's bedroom was small and cozy, up in the eaves of the house with its sloping ceiling. She took the pins out of her mouth one by one, holding my gaze. It was agony. Then, her fingers drifted to the little mother-of-pearl buttons on her white cotton shirt. One by one she undid them, and then, finally, she eased off the blouse. It slipped silently to the floor. She looked at herself in the mirror, her fingertips running across her collarbone, between her breasts. The thin silk camisole she wore outlined the curve of her rib cage. I was afraid to move, but I had to touch her. I was breathing hard as I marked in the final strokes of the drawing, and then I crept forward, padded silently across the room to her. I knelt behind her, slid my hand across the flat of her stomach as I kissed her neck. “Annie,” I said, my voice little more than a whisper. She turned on the stool and allowed me to nudge open her thighs. She told me later she had decided that morning that she was ready, that I was the one, but I expected her to stop me. Instead, I felt her hand on my belt, the soft white skin of her thigh above the edge of her wool stocking. And then, and then … I thought I might faint at any moment. She led me to the bed, and we slipped beneath the quilt. We dared not undress in case her parents discovered us. The thought that we might get caught … well, that only added to the illicit joy of being with her. Everything fell away—there was no war, no house, nothing beyond our mouths and our hands on each other. We were the world, and the world was in us.

 

THIRTY-SEVEN

B
OULEVARD
G
ARIBALDI
, M
ARSEILLE

1941

V
ARIAN

“Happy New Year,” Danny said, closing the door to Varian's office. “How was it in Cannes?”

“Not good.” Varian sat back in his chair. “And now the Thyssens have been arrested. Not that I care much for Nazi financiers. The net's tightening and it's bad news for our operation. If they've taken the Thyssens, what hope is there for clients of ours like Breitscheid and Hilferding? They were prominent German statesmen, but Hitler is gunning for them now.”

“It's the first arrest of many, I am sure of it,” Danny said. “Now we know the Nazis intend to use Article Nineteen.”

Surrender on demand.
“Is there any news of what has become of the Thyssens?”

Danny shook his head. “There's nothing in the press.”

“When I was up in Vichy, the first place I went was the U.S. Press Bureau. They were beside themselves—if this story broke, there would be a worldwide scandal, but the censors have stamped right down on it. I don't hold out any great hopes for them, I have to say.…”

The main door of the boulevard Garibaldi office flew open, and a young man stepped inside before Gussie could stop him. He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the ARC like a conquering hero. A stooped, gray-haired woman clasping a hard alligator handbag in both hands slipped through the door behind him and stood, waiting.

“Here we are, Miss Palmer,” the man said. He marched across to Lena's desk and, ignoring the young refugee family talking with her, thrust out his hand. “Jay Allen of the
Chicago Tribune,
and now the ERC.”

Lena pursed her lips. “How may we help you, Monsieur Allen?”

“Why, New York has sent me to take over this place,” he said. “Haven't they cabled?”

“They said something about sending a replacement,” Varian said coolly. He strode across the office. “How do you do?” His handshake was firmer than strictly necessary. “Why don't you come through where it's quieter?”

“Excellent idea, old boy.” Allen turned, searching for the woman who was still cowering by the doorway. “Miss Palmer,” he bellowed, beckoning to her.

“Everything okay?” Danny said as he slipped by.

“It will be,” Varian said quietly, ushering Allen and Miss Palmer through.

He closed the door behind them and gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. He opened his mouth to speak, but Allen interrupted.

“I was expecting more of a welcoming committee.”

“There's a war on. Banners and balloons are hard to come by.” The men glared at each other. “Let me introduce you to everyone—”

“That won't be necessary.” Allen leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head. “This is how it's going to work. I will not be coming into the office myself. I will be continuing my work for the North American Newspaper Alliance, and Miss Palmer will be taking orders directly from me, running the day-to-day goings-on in the office.”

Varian glared at him in silence, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“If I may, Mr. Fry,” Miss Palmer said, her voice little more than a whisper. “New York has asked that we tail you for a few days, see how the office operates.…”

“A few days? It will take more than a few days.”

“Well, that's no good,” Allen said. “I've got to get back up the country. I have a story to—”

“Hold on a minute.” Varian leaned toward him. “You think you can just waltz in here—”

“Listen, I'm the foreign correspondent for the
Chicago Tribune,
and—”

“I know perfectly well who you are, but you surely don't mean you intend to continue working for them and running the ARC?”

“Why not? I'm not afraid of hard work or tough situations.”

Jumped-up, would-be Hemingway,
Varian thought, and chewed his lip.

“Besides,” Allen went on, “as I said, Miss Palmer is going to be my eyes and ears here when I'm not around.”

“You fool. You have no idea about the work we are doing here.” He leaned closer and spoke clearly, quietly. “We are working eighteen-hour days, often seven days a week—you think you can do that part-time?… Well, do you?”

“Yeah, well, we'll see about that.” Allen stood, his wooden chair scraping back on the boards.

“This is ridiculous. I'm not leaving.”

A slow smile formed on Allen's lips. “Varian the contrarian. You've been asking for someone to take over this joint for months.”

“That was early on.”

“Changed your mind, have you?”

“The situation has changed, not me.”

“Mr. Fry,” Miss Palmer cut in, “you asked for someone to relieve you.”

“Someone capable.”

“You stuck-up son of a bitch.” Allen thumped his fist on the table. “I'll show you. Whether you like it or not, Fry, I'm here to stay and you are heading out on the next boat or plane home.”

*   *   *

“Who was that?” Danny said to Varian once Allen and Miss Palmer had gone.

Varian reached for the bottle of cognac on his desk. “My replacement.”

“I thought you wanted to go back to America? Haven't you been saying for weeks how worried you are about your job, and Eileen?”

At the mention of his wife's name, Varian paused pouring his drink, then doubled the measure. “It's not that simple anymore. With Beamish gone…” He hesitated. He'd always hidden much of the clandestine work from Danny and the others. “I'm damned if I'm going to leave the office in the hands of that fool and see all we've worked for go to hell.”

Danny stared at him, held his gaze. “Boss, if you ever need help, you just have to ask. We all know how much Beamish did.”

Varian sensed that he knew what was going on. “Allen has no idea of the gravity of the situation. He thinks he can just handle all this work on the side as he continues to send reports home.” He knocked back his drink. “Well, let's just see how much he can handle, eh?” He flipped through his diary. “I'm going to Nice tomorrow to see Gide, Malraux, and Matisse. Those idiots in New York think it's just a question of saying: ‘Well, hello, Mr. Matisse, would you like a one-way ticket to New York? Oh, you would, splendid. I'll just chat with the nice visa people, and we'll put you on the next boat out of here.'” Varian swirled the drink in the bottom of his glass.
They have no idea,
he thought.
No idea about the fake passports, and visas, of the constant fear everyone is living in.
“They think everyone will just jump at the chance of going to the promised land. Half the artists of Picasso and Matisse's stature think they are untouchable, and the other half would rather die on French soil than leave.”

“Boss, you seem awfully tired. Are you sure it's not time for you to go home?”

“Hell, no.” Varian raised his dark-ringed eyes and looked through to the main office at the queue of refugees snaking out the door and onto the pavement. “The ERC wants Matisse and his like to leave France immediately? Let's just show Mr. Allen how difficult this job is.”

*   *   *

Miss Palmer flinched as a parakeet swept across the palms. Water dripped somewhere in the conservatory, the sound muffled by the green leaves blocking the light from the vast glass windows. Up ahead, Matisse shuffled along the tiled path, leaning on a cane. At his side walked Varian and a doctor. He wore a red velvet dressing gown and a purple paisley turban. His orange leather slippers flapped gently as he walked.

“Are you sure we can't convince you?” Varian pleaded. “I am most concerned about your health.”

“Thank you, young man,” Matisse said. “Monsieur Fry, it was most thoughtful of you to bring a medic with you.”

Varian took Matisse's arm and helped him back into the wicker bath chair set up beside his easel. Specially adapted brushes on long bamboo sticks sat in a jar at his side, and an unfinished nude in india ink was pinned to the board on the easel. Around the legs of Matisse's chair, Varian saw multicolored offcuts of paper strewn across the floor like confetti. A large pair of silver scissors sat on the table beside him, resting on a stack of cerise and orange paper.

Matisse caught his breath. “I am not a well man, as you say. I have no interest in leaving my home, my birds.” He pointed up at a pair of yellow cockatiels. “Who would feed my birds?”

“You may not be able to feed your birds yourself, soon,” Varian said.

Matisse laughed, a light gasp of air. “The Nazis cannot scare me. Why would they be interested in an old man who paints dreams?” His head rolled to the side, and he looked at the empty champagne bottles on his desk filled with wildflowers. “They call me a degenerate, but all I have ever done is paint the beauty in the world. Is that a crime?”

“No, far from it. It's why you have so many friends in America who wish to see you safe.”

Matisse reached up and patted his hand. “Tell my friends I thank them from the bottom of my heart, but I will not leave my home.”

*   *   *

“Stubborn old coot,” Varian said, pulling his hat down over his eyes as they stepped onto the bustling Nice street.

“For intellectuals they are either brave or naïve. Gide, Malraux, Matisse—we couldn't make any of them see sense.” Miss Palmer shook her head. “I don't know what to report back to Mr. Allen.”

Told you so,
Varian thought to himself. “It's a tough job, Miss Palmer, but I'm sure you're up to it.” He glanced over his shoulder at her as he tipped his hat. “I'm sure you're both up to it.”

“Of course we are.” Miss Palmer's eye twitched as she buttoned her coat against the biting January wind. She pulled up her collar. “Have you booked your ticket yet?”

“Lena's taking care of it.”

“Good.” Miss Palmer's face betrayed her suspicion. “I'll see you in the office on Monday, Mr. Fry.”

Varian strode away through the town. He headed toward the Promenade des Anglais in silence, his thoughts rolling round and round in time with his footsteps. Varian jogged down the steps to the beach and sat down to take off his shoes and socks. He rolled up his trouser legs and walked on across the cool beach. He stood at the shoreline and gazed out to sea, curling his toes against the sand.
So,
he thought,
the Foreign Policy Association won't keep my job open editing at Headline in New York any longer, the Emergency Rescue Committee has stopped my salary here because of Allen, and my wife is threatening to leave me.
He took a deep breath and sighed.
But I have this. I have all this, and there is much to do.
The winter sun broke through the clouds, glittering on the horizon. He realized, in spite of everything, he had never felt more alive.