The House of Dreams (8 page)

“It's essential that we help André Breton and his family,” Miriam Davenport had said during the last meeting, leaning forward into the lamplight. “He's more than a poet, and the leader of the surrealists. He's the epicenter of an entire generation of European intellectuals.…” Varian listened quietly as she argued André Breton's case with passion, her left hand beating the palm of her right. He was proud of Miriam, how the young art history student had learned to make her voice heard among the men. She had been one of the first to join his staff, only two weeks after he arrived. When the Paris universities had closed their doors after the German invasion, she had made her way to Toulouse. There, a refugee had told her the only chance for them was “to be wrapped in the American flag.” Miriam resolved to do just this and hurried to Marseille to help any way she could. Her good nature and intelligence had proved invaluable to Varian, and it was thanks to her introductions that he had recruited several key staff, including Mary Jayne. Miriam had been afraid to speak up at first, until Beamish took her aside one night and said, “Listen, these guys don't know any more about relief work than you do. If you don't argue for your clients, they are going to be shipped off to the concentration camps or killed.” After that, she fought for every case.
Meeting her was a lucky break,
Varian thought. He had needed someone with languages to help with secretarial work and interviewing refugees. Now, she was indispensable, even putting her academic skills to work discerning which of the would-be clients really were artists and which were hoping for a lucky break.

As Miriam read on from Breton's letters of recommendation, Varian looked around the crowded table. Among the many faces, he searched out those he relied on the most. Daniel Bénédite handed the secretary a pile of files as she tidied up for the day; Danny's attention was on Miriam, and Varian could see he was digesting her case with the sharp focus of a man used to working in the prefecture of police in Paris. The Bénédite family were friends of Mary Jayne's, and she looked on Danny as a brother. When the Bénédites had fled to the south of France after the Occupation, Danny, his wife, Théo, and their small son headed to Marseille. Tall, slim, and dark, with intelligent, kind eyes that missed nothing behind his thick glasses, Danny ran the ARC with incredible efficiency. Just as Beamish was Varian's closest friend and ally in the more clandestine work of the organization, Danny was relied on to run the official work of the center, giving aid and advice to refugees. Behind him, Varian could see another of Mary Jayne and Miriam's recruits. Justus Rosenberg, or “Gussie,” as they affectionately called him, was the fourteen-year-old office boy the girls “adopted” as they fled south to Marseille. His innocent face had proved useful messengering documents across the city. Now he sat guarding the entrance door with Charlie.

They were all adrift, Varian realized, all on the run themselves, yet they were risking everything to help people whose work had changed the world.
Whose work
will
change the world,
he corrected himself.
I'm going to get every name on that list out of France if it kills me.
Some days it felt as though it just might. But then, with his team, every day miracles seemed possible.

“I have another recommendation,” Miriam said, sorting through the files. “Mary Jayne interviewed a chap—Gabriel Lambert. A highly respected painter, more art deco than avant garde.…”

*   *   *

Even Mary Jayne,
he thought now,
whose sheer privilege and …
Varian frowned as he tried to pin down what it was that annoyed him so much about the beautiful young American heiress. Was it her money? Her taste in men?
Goddamn that punk Couraud.
The thought that Mary Jayne's boyfriend could betray them at any moment, could bring too much police attention to the organization, troubled him. He bit the inside of his lip as he walked on. He had to admit, even Mary Jayne had been invaluable.
She's given freely of her fortune and her time.
Thanks to her, a second list—the Gold List—had been drawn up, and the $7,000 she had given to the rescue committee had saved hundreds of lives already.
She risked her own, too,
Varian had to admit. He had been impressed that she managed to get four prisoners of war out of the camp at Vernet.
Though I'd rather not think how she persuaded the camp commander.

Now, as he wove through the back streets toward the station, he thought not for the first time that the city was half cesspool, half asylum. Varian marked off in his mind the brothels and fleabag hotels where their refugees were hiding out, waiting for visas and passports. Brothels were safe because the police were bribed not to raid them. Elsewhere in the city, the refugees had to take their chances.

Varian switched his suitcase to his other hand and shouldered his way through the crowd outside a bar. Demobbed soldiers jostled on the pavement—a group of Zouaves in Turkish trousers and Senegalese fighters in bright turbans was arguing. He saw the flash of a knife and skirted around, adrenaline pulsing through him. His stomach lurched with hunger at the sight of a woman spooning bouillabaisse from her bowl. He thought of his empty hip flask and checked his watch. There was just time to get it refilled, so he pushed his way through to the bar.

 

NINE

M
ARSEILLE

1940

M
ARY
J
AYNE

Mary Jayne Gold and Raymond Couraud danced close, lost in one another on the crowded dance floor. She felt the pressure of his hand at the base of her spine, the warmth of his palm through the thin silk of her blouse. His cheek was smooth against hers, freshly shaven, and she breathed in the scent of him. The small room was dark and busy, figures pressed up against the bar, a hum of conversation, the chink of glasses and bottles punctuating the jazz.

“Don't let's ever get old, Raymond,” Mary Jayne said, watching a gray-haired couple sitting in silence at the edge of the dance floor, their slumped backs twin c's of defeat.

Raymond followed her gaze. “We won't ever be like that,
bébé
.” He glared at a young man with black hair and pale blue eyes watching them from the bar, staring at him until the man downed his drink and left. Raymond eased her closer to him, his lips grazing her jaw, her neck. “We'll still laugh, and fight, and make love. There will always be passion. I'll love you forever with all my black heart.”

“Forever is a terribly long time,” Mary Jayne murmured. “What if we don't have forever, Raymond?”

“Then we have now, we have tonight.”

“Sometimes I think that's all I am to you. A good time, a meal ticket—”

“You're my girl, it's as simple as that.”

“And you're my bad, bad boy?” Her laugh was rich, throaty.

“I think you like that, Mary Jayne. I think you like it that your friends say I'm no good for you. You like a little danger, no? Something your money can't buy.” She felt the lean muscles of his shoulder, his back, flex beneath her hand. “Tell me you love me.”

“You underestimate me, Raymond. I see what you are capable of, I see the strength and the bravery hiding in that black heart of yours. You're my ‘diamond in the rough,' and I know plenty about diamonds, trust me.” Mary Jayne laid her head against his collarbone. “I adore you, darling boy.”

“Tell me you love me.”

“Not here.…”

“Why won't you ever say it?”

She lifted her head, gazing into his eyes. “Darling, it's impossible for us to be together, you know that. Now you've left the Foreign Legion, you shall go off to Britain with de Gaulle and fight with the Free French, and I shall…” She paused, wondering what the future held for her, for them. It was such a short time since she had met Miriam in Toulouse, since they had traveled to Marseille together and met some young Americans, and Raymond. There was a dangerous, masculine energy to him that had drawn her the moment they met, a self-assurance verging on arrogance. She felt the intensity of his gaze now, as he waited for her answer, and a heat rose in her, responding, helpless to resist him.

“You will go back to America, and forget me.” Raymond pulled away from her, the dim light gleaming on his dark hair, glinting on his round glasses.

“You can write to me,” she said, stepping close in the crush of the dancers. Her lips brushed his ear. “You can tell me about all the battles you have won, and all the hearts you have broken.”

“You will marry some rich idiot—” He wouldn't look at her, his hands clenching into fists.

“Why would I marry?” Mary Jayne laughed, a breath against his neck. “I don't need a husband. I have money of my own.”

“Then marry me, for love.” The raw passion in his gaze caught her off guard, and Mary Jayne felt her stomach free-fall.

“I told you, I don't plan ever to marry,” she said lightly, hiding the effect he had on her. “I shall travel the world with Dagobert for company.”

“You love that dog more than you love me.”

“You dear, sweet boy.” She pouted, imitating him. “Don't sulk.” He kissed her then, claiming her, his hands in her hair. Mary Jayne broke away, placed her fingertips on his lips as she glanced around, self-conscious. “Darling, stop. Not here.”

“I want you,” he said, holding her close. “And you want me, I know you do.” Raymond took her hand in his, kissed the palm, his gaze not leaving her. He laced their fingers together, and they danced on, cheek to cheek. She felt alive with him, her body coursing with desire. “Will you forget me? Will you forget what we have?”

“Never. How could I?”

“Stay with me tonight.” His lips brushed her ear, but Mary Jayne didn't answer. She was looking toward the bar, where the waiter was handing Varian his filled hip flask.

“Good heavens, what's he doing slumming it down here?”

Raymond frowned. “Probably looking for a whore.”

“Don't be so beastly.” Mary Jayne sauntered over to Varian.

“Mary Jayne?” he said in surprise. “What are you doing here? It's not safe.…”

“She is safe with me,” Raymond said, slinging his arm over her shoulder.

“Good evening, Couraud,” Varian said. The silence strained between them like an overtightened violin string.

“Darling, would you get me a glass of wine?” Mary Jayne said finally to Raymond.

“Sure,
bébé
.” His eyes narrowed. “Dance with my girl, Monsieur Fry, feel free. I will look after your little bag.” He gestured toward the dance floor and took Varian's valise and hat, tilting the homburg onto his own head. Varian clenched his jaw.

“Don't,” Mary Jayne whispered, pulling him toward the dancers.

“Why do you let him talk to you like that, like he owns you?”

“No one owns me.”

“Bet that's the last I'll see of my case,” Varian said, taking her in his arms. They moved easily to the music, his hand resting lightly on her waist.

“Oh, stop it.” Mary Jayne sighed. She was pleased to see him. At least with Varian she was on home ground. She knew him, knew his type, there was no need for explanation. In spite of their differences, they were both Americans abroad, and his directness was a relief.
There are cat and dog people,
she thought, glancing over Varian's shoulder to watch that Raymond still had the suitcase.
Raymond is a cat, and Varian is a dog, definitely. Confident, direct …
She watched Raymond chatting to a pretty young brunette at the bar.
Loyal.

“What are you doing in the Vieux-Port?” she said.

“Just felt like a stroll before my train to Tarascon.”

“Nonsense. I know you boys are up to something. You think you're all being so cloak-and-dagger, and trying to keep Miriam and me out of it, but we could be useful, Varian. I mean with the clandestine work, not just the ordinary relief cases.”

Varian glanced around him to see if anyone was listening. “Keep your voice down. You and Miriam are doing excellent work, but there are some things that are just too dangerous—”

“For a woman? What about Vernet? Wasn't that dangerous?”

“Mary Jayne, I'm grateful for all you are doing for the ARC.”

“But?”

“But I can't in good conscience involve you with some of the more delicate work while you are … while you're…”

Mary Jayne realized he was talking about Raymond. “While I'm sleeping with Killer?” She wanted to shock Varian, provoke him. She saw a slight tremor pass over his face, but he didn't rise to the bait.

“What do you see in him?”

“Something that everyone else doesn't.”

“He's a hoodlum, Mary Jayne, a petty crook, and God knows I bet he got his nickname for killing more than the English language.”

“It's just a joke that Miriam and I came up with. His accent's appalling.”

“You could do—”

“I could do better? You really are trotting out all the bourgeois clichés tonight, aren't you, Varian?” She tossed her blond hair back and looked him straight in the eye. “You want me to be with someone suitable, like you?”

“Would that be such a disaster?”

“Careful, Varian, you're a married man. Anyone would think you're making a pass at me.”

“I didn't mean me, you silly girl.”

“Girl? We're practically the same age.”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“You need to consider your position. Who's buying dinner tonight, Mary Jayne? Who's going to pay for the hotel room?”

“Stop it.” Varian's words had shaken her, but she wasn't going to show it. “Just stop it.”