The Keeper of the Walls (14 page)

Inevitably, he asked her to plan a dinner at home. It was something small, intimate. She asked him to include Maryse Robinson, to bring her confidence. “Maryse knows all these people,” she explained. “She's my best friend. She's been out in society much more than I.”

“Invite Maryse. But don't see her too often alone, Lily. She's unmarried, and a bit too free for my taste.”

She couldn't help herself, and said: “You don't like her for the same reason Papa didn't: because she's Jewish.”

He raised his eyebrows and looked at her. “Not at all. I told you before, Lily: it was a prejudice founded on the behavior of some people in Russia. I haven't let it influence me here.”

“But still—you hold it against her.”

He shook his head slowly. “I hope not. Maybe I do, in my subconscious. Don't judge me, my dear. I'm trying very much to like your friend. My objections are of a different nature. I don't approve of young women of good family going all over Paris with gentlemen friends—unchaperoned.”

“But Maryse is very decent. This is 1924, darling. Mothers don't accompany their daughters anymore the way they did ten or twenty years ago.”

“If I remember correctly,” he interjected, “I never called on you to be alone with me until after we became engaged. I knew how to respect you.”

She was silent then, pleased. He'd treated her differently from his other women. As much as she tried to keep her mind clear of his past, people spoke. Be it in veiled allusions, in small
apartés
concealed behind a laugh—people spoke. They said: “You've become a good boy, Misha.” Or: “We don't see you anymore at all your old hangouts.” She heard his own laugh, hearty and full, responding. And then she felt left out. He'd led a rich, ribald life before his marriage. A life that in her wildest fancies she couldn't even begin to fathom. But she was pleased. He'd given all this up, because of her. She was happy.

Even the first dinner had gone well, and Misha had bent to kiss Maryse's hand, while she'd flirted with him in her innocent, elfin way—only once, for a split second, had Lily caught him looking at her friend with a strange, pointed stare.

But Lily noticed that whenever Maryse and Misha were thrown together after that, her small blond friend always appeared just a touch self-conscious. Oh, well, thought Lily: I must let them come together in their own way, each in his and her own good time.

And she lay back and relaxed, enjoying her life.

M
aryse Robinson slipped
the black Chanel chemise dress over her tiny body, and fluffed up her golden curls. The only thing that was missing was rouge. She dabbed some over her cheekbones, smoothed it over her lips. Then, without looking back, she stepped out of her room and half ran to the living room, where Mark was waiting for her, with Eliane.

Her mother rose, at the same time as the young reporter. “Well, dears, have a good time,” she said lightly. “Don't keep her out too late, Mark. She spent all afternoon at Lily's, and they always wear each other down with girl talk.”

Maryse laughed. She kissed Eliane on the cheek, and allowed Mark to slip a sable stole over her frail shoulders. They walked out together into the April coolness. Mark had bought a Citroën, and now he opened the door and let her into it. “I want to go to the Jockey Club,” she declared.

“Then that's what it'll be, mademoiselle.”

As they drove, Mark seemed preoccupied. Suddenly he asked: “Tell me about Lily. Is she happy?”

Maryse shrugged. “I think so. Misha's very kind to her. And she's very much in love with him, of course.” She looked sideways at Mark, bit her lower lip. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“Don't be silly. I want her to be happy. I thought perhaps I'd run into her now and then, but so far, I haven't.”

“They don't go out to clubs. Only to the theater, and society parties. He keeps her sheltered.”

“Just like her father. I wouldn't have done that, but maybe he understands her better than I. He must: she chose him, didn't she?”

Maryse let that stand, understanding the bitterness. As she had never loved anyone with great passion yet, she wondered how he must be feeling about the rejection. He'd come so close to marrying Lily, only to be thrown over for another man—older, more imposing, richer. She shivered inwardly, glad to be free of the tempests of love.

The Jockey Club stood on the Rue Campagne-Première in Montparnasse, and Maryse loved it. She'd introduced Mark to it and turned him into a regular patron. They entered, and Maryse left her stole with the hatcheck lady from Normandy. In his black tails, the owner, Hilaire Hiller, an American painter, was greeting the new arrivals. “You'll see,” Maryse had whispered. “There's always gossip to be written about here. Hemingway comes here—all the American expatriates. They brawl and they make passes and they think up their next short story.”

The Russian pianist was accompanying a jazz combo, and Mark and Maryse sat at a small table and ordered
amourettes,
the anise-flavored aperitif that was customary before the unique dish of Welsh rarebit. Slowly, their eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and Maryse laid a small hand on Mark's. “There, in the corner,” she whispered. “Zelda Fitzgerald and a man who isn't her husband.”

He smiled. He was always amused by Maryse. He looked where she had motioned with her chin, and saw a blond woman with bobbed hair drinking from a highball glass with a thin, dark man. His eyes shifted to the bar. There was something familiar about the sensual redhead who was sitting there, chatting with the bartender. She was of average height, but her silk dress clung to overripe breasts and the beginnings of appetizing calves. Colored beads were knotted midway between her cleavage and her waist. “Who's that?” he whispered to Maryse.

“I'm not sure. But she does look like someone we've seen before, doesn't she? Is she perhaps an actress?”

It was the legs that kept his gaze riveted to her. He'd seen
them
before. But it didn't matter. He turned away and raised his hand to signal for the waiter.

They picked at their food, talking of this and that. It distressed him that Maryse didn't seem to care about making a future for herself. She just wanted to have a good time. “Lily always talked about wanting to be a concert pianist. What's become of that?”

Maryse shrugged. “With
him,
what do you expect? Sudarskaya comes three times a week. She's a small Jewish woman with the worst taste in clothes, but she plays like a dream. Of course, he can't stand her. Lily takes pity on her—she has so little money—and has sent her some students. Whenever Misha's retained in town for a business dinner, she keeps her to eat with her. Lily only invites her when she's alone. Like tonight. He had something or other to do—a meeting with a commissioner—”

“But he doesn't want her to reach the stage.”

Maryse laughed. “Are you joking?
Princess
Brasilova?”

He held out his hand to Maryse, and she rose to join him on the dance floor. A tango had begun.

Over the head of his small partner, Mark looked about. The stunning redhead at the bar was turning around, smiling. She had wide, sensuous lips painted a carmine red. A man was striding up to her—a tall, massive, well-dressed man in a dark silk suit. He, too, looked familiar. The man took the woman's outstretched fingers, brought them to his lips, but she laughed, and closed both arms around him in a single fluid embrace. It was then that the man turned and that Mark caught his full profile. He froze on the dance floor, and Maryse stepped on his foot and stopped, bewildered. “What on earth's gotten hold
of you?”

“Look,” he breathed into her ear. “That's Misha Brasilov.”

Maryse turned around, and saw them. She shook her head. “But—the meeting with the commissioner . . .”

“Let's sit down before they see us,” Mark said tightly, taking her arm in a strangely viselike grip and leading her back to their table.

The rarebit had gotten cold. There were lines around Mark's mouth. She was suddenly a little afraid of him. She'd always thought of him as the gentlest man on earth, but now she could feel something else—a sort of fierceness.

“Look,” he was saying. “It's none of our business, is it?”

She looked at him, appraisingly. “But
you
think it-
is
... just as I do. You're still on Lily's side. You still love her.”

“That's neither here nor there. But I don't like what I've just seen. If I'd been lucky enough to have just married Lily—”

At that moment, a waiter holding a drink tray moved deftly behind Maryse's chair. On an impulse, she turned, and touched his arm. He stopped in his tracks, bewildered. “Madame?”

“I was just wondering if you could tell us who the redheaded lady at the bar might be. We both felt we might have met her before, somewhere—only we can't quite place her.”

The waiter smiled. “Oh, you'd have seen her on the stage. She's called Jeanne Dalbret, and she's become one of Mistinguett's best support dancers. Many people feel she'll be ready soon to form a revue of her own.”

“Thank you,” Maryse answered. Then, when he had left, she pressed her lips grimly together.

“Jeanne Dalbret is Misha's ex-wife,” she stated. “Her real name's Trubetskaya—Varvara Trubetskaya. I guess ... he still likes her.”

“Let's go home,” Mark said, reaching for Maryse's hands across the table. “It's best neither of them sees us.”

“
D
on't you
see
?”
Maryse cried. “He lied to you!”

“He must have had his reasons,” Lily said in a low voice. “I respect Misha. He wouldn't ever do anything improper.”

“But he was with
her!
Don't you even care?”

“He has to pay her money every month. Maybe he was giving it to her last night. It's his business, Mari. Let it be.”

“He lies to you and goes out with another woman, and you don't
give
a damn?”

Lily closed her eyes. She could feel the room spinning and spinning, her stomach lurching. She'd felt this way all yesterday, all the day before. It came in waves, the nausea, the dizziness. Now she simply whispered: “Mari, please go home. I'm so tired. I just have to sleep.”

It was the first time she'd ever sent her friend away, and she felt a twinge of remorse. But really, everything was too much. She couldn't be bothered with Maryse's feelings when she felt so dismally bad. She felt Maryse's kiss on her cheek, held out her hand. “I'll see you Thursday,” she said in a strange, muffled voice. Then she heard her friend's footsteps, and knew she was alone. She curled into a small ball on the sofa, and fell asleep at once.

When she awakened, her whole body was drenched in perspiration. Madeleine was standing over her, sponging off her forehead. “I've called the doctor,” she stated.

“No, Madeleine, you mustn't.”

“But it's the middle of the day. Monsieur le Prince won't be home for several hours. You should really be examined, Madame.”

“It's probably just strain, or a small case of the grippe.”

Madeleine peered at her, sternly. “I think I know what it is. But the doctor needs to confirm it. How long has Madame been married?”

“Almost two months,” Lily answered.

She allowed Madeleine to lead her to the boudoir, to change her clothes for a loose, soft housedress of green silk. Then the doctor came, and told her to lie down on the bed. He examined her and she felt the stirrings of shame, as always. Madeleine hadn't left the room. As the doctor poked and prodded, she thought again of her conversation with Maryse. Why had Misha lied to her? And if he just needed to pay Varvara, why hadn't he just had Rochefort send the check? She remembered bits and pieces that she'd put together. He'd known Varvara a long time. Maybe he was, as Maryse suspected, still interested in Varvara as a woman. Oh, God, she thought. It would be too horrible—too painful and humiliating. . . .