The House of Dreams (39 page)

“No,” he said quietly, shaking his head.

“I never want to see you again. Do you understand?” He reached for her. “I mean it,” she said, turning away. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I don't know what to believe anymore. That hoodlum Mathieu offered to bump you off, you know that? He said he wanted me for himself, can you believe it?”

“He always wanted you.” Raymond's face crumpled. “That's the only reason he gave your jewels back. He'll kill me now, for sure.”

“Well, that's your problem, not mine. I've done all I can.”

“It can't end like this,
bébé
.”

“Don't call me that. You have no right.”

Raymond took hold of her arms. “Come with me. We can run away from this place, start again.…”

“And what? Keep on running? Always looking over our shoulder in case Mathieu and his gang have found us? God only knows what you have done to cross them, but they want you dead.”

“I love you.”

Mary Jayne turned her head away. He pressed his lips to her hairline. “It's over,” she said.

“No, never. Not with us.”

“It's over,” she said again, her voice hoarse, breaking.

“I'll always love you.”

Mary Jayne unclipped her handbag, pulling out her wallet. “Write to me once in a while. Tell me about all the battles you have won, and all the women you've destroyed with that black heart of yours.” She handed him a roll of banknotes.

“I don't want your money.”

“Take it,” she said, forcing it into his hands. “Take it, and get yourself to England somehow, like you always said you would. Take it, and make something good of your life, Raymond. Prove them wrong.” Mary Jayne embraced him, her throat tight with emotion. She screwed her eyes closed, trying to stem the tears she was too proud to let him see. “Prove me right.”

 

FIFTY-ONE

G
ORDES

1941

G
ABRIEL

“I assure you, Monsieur Chagall, we love ‘cows' in New York,” Varian said for what must have been the hundredth time. I couldn't figure it out. Here we were with one of the world's greatest living artists, and they were talking about cows? I'd managed to hitch a ride with Varian and Harry Bingham out to old Chagall's place in Gordes. When I miss France, I think of that day. Chagall lived in an old girls' school, a huge, beautiful old place. That day was perfection—the almond blossom was out, and the air was drenched with perfume. I'll never forget those hills—the gray green and sage, the dark flames of cypress. I think it is what heaven will look like, and I could understand why Chagall was reluctant to leave. I'd always been a big fan of his work, but the man himself was leaving me cold.

“Meh,” he said, and shuffled toward an easel in the corner of the studio, draped with a white cloth. “I do not think I can work in America.”

“My God,” I heard Varian whisper to Harry, “it's like dealing with a recalcitrant child.”

“Stick with it, Fry.” Harry walked over to Chagall. “The thing is, monsieur, our sources tell us that soon people of Jewish descent will be rounded up.”

“The anti-Jewish laws disgust me, but I am safe. I am an artist, a celebrated artist, and a French citizen. They would not dare to touch me.” I could see from the expression on Varian's face that he thought they wouldn't think twice.

“Monsieur Chagall,” Bingham said in his measured, pleasant tones, “you must listen to Mr. Fry.”

“We're running out of time,” Varian said. “I implore you, let us help you. We can arrange everything—papers, visas, tickets.”

Chagall ignored him. He threw back the dust sheet from a painting of a young girl, flying free in space. “This is
Three Candles
.”

“Let me take a photograph,” I said, ushering Fry, Bingham, and Chagall toward the canvas. The painting was sublime. The girl reminded me of Annie.

“Please, at least come and see us at the ARC office, so we can talk through exactly how we can help you,” Varian said to Chagall. I was half listening, caught up in the beauty of the girl, flying free.

Of course, by the time Chagall came to town in April, they had started rounding up the Jews in earnest. Varian had to go storming into police headquarters and say to them, “You do realize you have just arrested Monsieur Marc Chagall, one of the greatest artists in all of France, in the world? If I make one call to
The New York Times,
you will feel the full force of the U.S. government.” Varian fought for Chagall and look how he repaid him. I can't figure out human nature sometimes. But then again, like I said to Sophie, why do people assume artists are going to behave like nice, normal people?

Anyway, I owe Chagall. That painting changed my life. I knew now what I must do. On the drive back down to Marseille, all of Provence unfurled beneath us, rolling green hills spreading down to the sea. Through the open window, I could hear cicadas humming. The sunlight through the window of the car was warm, and the leather seat was comfortable. I stretched out on the backseat, dozing as Varian and Harry talked in the front. Maybe their goodness was catching. On that drive I decided to do the first selfless act of my life, and there was a peace in that. I reconciled myself to my fate, and perhaps that made me appreciate the beauty of the countryside, the company of two good men, even more, because I knew it was all about to end. I'll never forget that drive—I felt a rare contentment the like of which I was not to feel again for years.

Varian dropped Harry at the American consulate, and we drove on in companionable silence to Air-Bel.

“Is everything okay, Gabriel?” he said, parking up on the drive. “You haven't said a word on the way back.”

“I was just thinking about Chagall's painting.”

“Beautiful, wasn't it?” He turned the engine off and stretched out his arms. “You know, some people said to me in New York, ‘Why on earth are you risking your life to save artists? Why are they more important than ordinary men and women?' When you look at a painting like that, you just know it's the manifestation of everything good in a civilized society. If we don't keep the flame of culture burning bright, then what will we have left when the fighting is done?” He took off his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “My friend Alfred Barr says that art exemplifies freedom. A painting like that is a symbol of freedom.”

That was exactly how I felt when I looked at Chagall's painting—free.

 

FIFTY-TWO

B
OULEVARD
G
ARIBALDI
, M
ARSEILLE

1941

V
ARIAN

The outer door of the boulevard Garibaldi offices was splintered and dented. “Thank God we changed the locks recently,” Varian said to Gabriel as they let themselves in to the ARC. “If they'd have got through this door, they could have torched all the files.”

“Who do you think did it?” Gabriel said.

“Probably those Vichy fascist kids Gussie noticed hanging around the last few days.”

“They're just trying to scare you.”

Yeah, or their bosses are,
Varian thought,
and it's working.
The frequent searches, the suggestions that they would not be at all surprised to find Monsieur Varian Fry floating in the harbor with his throat slit, were all beginning to take their toll. “To hell with them, we've got work to do.” Varian flicked on the lights as they walked through. “Morning, Gussie,” he called.

“Morning, boss.” Gussie swung his legs around from the cot in the kitchen and stretched, yawning.

“Quiet night?” Varian glanced at him and noticed the iron bar beneath the camp bed.

“Not exactly.” He slid on his shoes. “I didn't think it was worth waking you all unless they made it through the street door. I don't think they'll bother trying again.”

“Good chap.” Varian peeled off a couple of notes from his money clip and gave it to him. “Listen, go get yourself some breakfast and head up to Air-Bel for a rest. We can hold down everything here.”

Varian flicked on the gas stove and ran a kettle of water. “Right, we've got a busy day ahead,” he said as the staff began to file into the office. He spoke to one or two of them and handed over the most urgent files. Finally, he turned to Gabriel. “Okay. Why don't you tell me what the hell is going on? I thought everything is in order? You're sailing on the
Paul Lemerle
with the Bretons.”

“No. There's been a change of plan.”

Bloody artists,
Varian thought.
It's terrible to say it, but when some of the most troublesome ones get picked up, it's almost a relief not to have to deal with them.
The kettle whistled on the stove, and Varian frowned as he poured the steaming water over coffee grounds in the jug.

“Look. We have little time left, and much to do.” He poured them each a cup of coffee.
At least there's some good news. Who knows why, but the Bernhards have been released and they are on their way to Lisbon. Thank God,
Varian thought, offering up a silent prayer of thanks.
Out of Hilferding, Breitscheid, and Bernhard, at least we managed to get one of the three out.
Varian slumped down in the chair at his desk and sipped at the scalding coffee. His mouth tasted metallic and his head was thumping. The thought of the day ahead exhausted him. They had stayed up until the early hours celebrating the news that the Bretons' French exit visas had come through, and Varian had drowned his guilt about Danny's arrest in drink after drink.

Just as it seems there's a glimmer of hope,
Varian thought.
My poor, poor Danny. Kourillo's to blame.
He paled at the thought of the lost gold.
The crook's an agent for the police and the Gestapo, I'm sure of it.

“Danny's lawyer came in yesterday,” Gussie said, shrugging on his coat.

Varian beckoned to Gussie to follow him to a quiet corner, away from Gabriel. “Is he formally under arrest?”

“They've booked him for trading in gold, and transferred him to the Prison Chave.”

“Oh God, no,” Varian said, raking his hand through his hair. “Did anyone from here manage to speak to Danny?”

Gussie shook his head. “His lawyer saw him for ten minutes. He told me that Danny took the first case of gold, and Kourillo was waiting for him at his hotel on rue Thubaneau for the pickup, just like you arranged. Kourillo took the two thousand dollars in gold, and handed over the francs. When he came with the second case, Danny thought he was being followed, so he tried to walk on by, but Kourillo rushed down the steps and shook his hand. That's when the flics picked Danny up. Three guys jumped him.”

Judas,
Varian thought. “You're sure he has been charged?”

Gussie nodded. “They've thrown the book at him.”

“Damn, damn, damn,” Varian said under his breath. “Right. This is what we are going to do. I will go down to the station and take responsibility for it myself.”

“You can't do that, boss,” Gussie said quietly. “The office depends on you. Danny knew the risks.”

“Damn it, we have to do something.”

“Danny cooked up a story,” Gussie said. “He's told the cops that some of our grateful, wealthy clients have paid us in gold.”

“Did they believe him?”

“I doubt it.”

“Damn them to hell,” Varian said, and balled his hand into a fist, pressing it against his forehead. “I pass that prison twice a day walking to and from this place. I hate to think of Danny in there.” He fell silent, his shoulders hunched. “Right. I'm going to see Vinciléoni. I'm going to make it known that we want a hit put on Kourillo.”

“Are you sure, boss? Do you really want his blood on your hands?”

“They won't kill him. I just want to scare him out of town. Kourillo is one of their own. Vinciléoni will just tell him to get lost. I simply want to send a message that they are not going to mess around with us again.” Varian strode past Gabriel to his desk and reached for his hat. “People disappear in Marseille all the time—only last night some English guy, Quimby, turned up in an alley with his head bashed in. It was in the papers this morning.”

“An English guy?” Gabriel interrupted.

“Yeah,” Gussie said. “I doubt they would have bothered to cover the story if it was just the usual Marseille ruffian, but they are speculating he was some kind of spy.”

“Look, Gabriel, we'll have to do this later. Can you book a time with Lena?… Say, are you okay?” Varian looked properly at Gabriel for the first time. “What happened to your face?”

Gabriel touched the gauze taped to his cheek. “Nothing. I looked at a guy the wrong way in Snappy's bar.”

Varian shook his head. “I tell you, you'll be glad to get out of this place. Nobody's safe anymore.”

 

FIFTY-THREE

V
ILLA
A
IR
-B
EL
, M
ARSEILLE

1941

G
ABRIEL

“Did you kill him?” Annie whispered to me, closing the Bouchards' back door behind her. I could hear her parents talking in the house—it wasn't safe for me to stay long.

“Of course not.” I hoped my face didn't show a thing. “Quimby had it coming. I bet I wasn't the only person he was swindling. They're saying he might even have been some kind of agent, or spy.”

“At least you won't have to spend your whole life looking over your shoulder, now.” When she looked up at me, her expression reminded me of an old stray dog who lived on our street in the Marais. He must have been thirteen or fourteen, a grizzled, charming old thing. We'd give him scraps if we could, which he accepted with all the grace of a down-on-his-luck nobleman. I came back from school one day to find him locked up in the back of the warden's van. We all knew what that meant. The man wouldn't budge, wouldn't let him go. I railed against it, banged the bars, but the old dog just stuck his nose through and nudged my hand. He looked at me with exactly the same brave expression Annie had.