The Keeper of the Walls (24 page)

“The socialists?”

“Worse: the
Jewish
socialists. Remember Marx, your Excellency.”

Lily could hear her heart beating. As quietly as she could, she set the telephone down. Her fingers were trembling. Where had she heard that name before: Taittinger? . . . “the
Jewish
socialists.” Something was strangely, disturbingly familiar.

As her hand turned the knob of her lamp, and the room grew dark, she saw them again: marching like automatons in their blue berets and blue raincoats, their boots echoing on the puddled sidewalk. The Jeunesses Patriotes. Pierre
Taittinger's
Jeunesses Patriotes. Her mother exclaiming: “You mean, you haven't heard about them?”

Yes, Lily thought, hugging her body so tightly that her ribs hurt: I've heard about them. And my husband just sent them fifty thousand francs.

C
laude wondered
, as he walked up the steep Rue Lepic, holding the small bouquet of rosebuds, whatever had possessed him, to find himself in such a place. It had all happened a few months before this balmy May evening, at the
vernissage
of an art collection. He hadn't wanted to attend, but Misha had told him that it was most important, for business reasons, not to turn down this invitation. A rich client was unveiling his carefully put together collection of Fauve paintings. Claude had protested that he knew nothing about art; but Misha had insisted. For some reason he himself hadn't wanted to go, and had thrust the obligation upon his brother-in-law.

Claude had gone, and found himself staring at Matisse oils of overweight nudes that he had felt were not worth the canvas they'd been painted on. A young woman had approached him, and with somewhat shocking familiarity, had leaned over to whisper to him, her feline hand on his arm: “It's a lot of nonsense, isn't it? To waste a fortune on these boring middle-aged nudes. Most of these fellows are just a bunch of perverts, anyway.”

He'd laughed—almost in spite of himself. And had turned to look fully into the proffered face. She'd been a strangely vulnerable street urchin, with absurd burgundy hair cut very short, and slanted amber eyes. Very thin, and with an elegant little nothing of a black dress. He'd asked: “And how do you know that?”

She'd lifted her shoulders, dropped them again. “Simple. They send their rich wives
chez
Poiret, where I work, and while I twirl before them, when the
premiere
goes away, the well-heeled ladies whisper an invitation to a private party, and slip a thousand francs into the bodice of the dress I'm modeling.”

“And? You go?”

She'd made a face. “Sometimes. You have to look reality squarely in the eye. What I make as a model hardly pays the rent. And I'm not going to stay a nobody all my life—that's for sure!”

At that point, he'd felt something: a sudden stab of recognition. She was ambitious, and self-made. And she wasn't going to stop at conventions to arrive where she'd set her goals. Although he'd never been attracted to women who were in any way outrageous, he'd liked her. But it had been her initiative to get him out of that town house and into a small bar, where they'd sat over gin fizzes, talking about their lives. He'd been touched by her candidness, and responded with a strange protective feeling he had never felt before—not even toward his sister when she'd been younger.

It wasn't that he loved her, Claude thought, ringing the doorbell of a small apartment on the top floor of an old house. He didn't like Montmartre, with its small, steep, winding streets, and its atmosphere of poverty and cheap art.

She swung the door open, and he found himself smiling, his heart beating just a little more rapidly. She really did look like a child, with her slender, vulnerable face, and her thin, athletic body. She was older than he—maybe five or six years, but somehow, he never felt the age difference when they were together.

“I've cooked for you,” she said, presenting her elfin face to be kissed. Moving with quick grace, she put the rosebuds in a small vase. She was wearing an old plaid bathrobe, and looked exactly the opposite of when he'd met her, or when, subsequently, he'd taken her out on the town. Then she'd been in the last cry of fashion, in her Poiret clothes—the only point of luxury in her life, for she received them for free. Now she looked like a somewhat rumpled child in her father's Sunday-morning bathrobe. He found this charming.

“What have you been cooking?” he asked. The small living room was filled with green plants and charcoal drawings of herself in various poses and modes of dress, but the sofa where he sat down was soft and curvaceous, the latest design. She'd received it from Poiret after the Exposition of Decorative Arts, as a bonus for her work there.

“Pot au feu,
” she answered, laughing. “You can't ask a country girl from Meaux to cook you something more tasty. You can't get it
chez
Maxim's.”

“It's funny,” he remarked, lacing his arm around her and walking into the kitchen. “Long ago, before we had money, my mother used to cook things like that. And my father's mother. I love good French food—unpretentious. My sister would never serve
pot au feu
for any of
her
guests.”

“I've seen her once or twice,” Henriette said, somewhat tightly. She lifted the cover off a large pot, and stirred the contents with a big wooden spoon.

“My sister is what one calls a
lady:
her tastes are artistic, her culture is sound, her political and economic background is nil. And she's very devout—the kind of woman who'll want to procreate because that's what the Church believes in.”

“You don't sound as though you like her.”

“I don't. The fact is,” he said, surprised at his own vehemence, “I really detest that husband of hers. He can convince
her
of his inherent goodness—but in reality, he's a selfish bastard. He took our company under the awning of his large firm, and gave me a general vice-presidency. Lily thought that was so generous on dear Misha's part—he made sure she'd think that. But he didn't fool
me:
he wanted to control us, to skim the profits legally. How else do you think he's made it so big? He's been absorbing smaller companies from the start—threatening to ruin them in the competition if they didn't sell to him. And then he's bilked them dry.”

“You have no proof of this, do you?” She was bringing soup plates and ladling the stew into them, little by little.

“No. You see, darling, he's very smart. He won't do anything illegal. What he does is just one millimeter within legality. So he's never gotten caught.”

He found himself with a soup plate in hand, and followed her into the tiny dining room, where the table was set. They both put their plates down and sat down. She put her elbows on the table and held her head up with her hands. “Claude,” she said. “You know, I was involved with him for a while.”

He stared at her, astonished. “With
Mikhail Brasilov?”

“Yes. When he was still married to Jeanne Dalbret. She was a nice woman—let him do what he pleased. Then he divorced her to marry your sister.”

“Did you like him?” Claude asked.

She began to attack the stew before her. “Mmm. I liked him a great deal. He was ...an adventurer. He adores women. A lot of women. I never imagined a man like that could ever be happy with a person like your sister.”

“They do seem a rather ill-matched pair,” he agreed, starting to eat. “But maybe not . . . Lily inherited a sort of queenlike demeanor from my mother.”

She said: “Don't let's talk about them! There are so many fascinating things and people for us to discuss! Let's let them be, okay?”

“Were you in love with him, then?”

She shrugged. “I just wanted to tell you about us, that's all. So you'd hear it from
me.
People in this town have such big mouths. . . . And then, of course, you might decide to have
me
investigated!” She sat smiling at him, still holding her glass up. Tilting her head to one side, she asked, seriously: “Tell me the truth, Claude. You're such a ...well,
distrustful
person . . . and you've told me a bit about the way you work. Have you already had me investigated?”

His fork poised midway between his plate and his mouth, he shook his head. “No. Not you. Somehow, I had the feeling that . . . how can I put it? ...you'd tell me your own story.”

She set the glass down. “Well,” she declared. “I did, didn't I? I haven't been a saint, like the immaculate Lily—but then, I'm not married, and I'm almost thirty-four. A girl has to survive, in a tough, ugly world where good guys almost never win. And for sure, not good girls.”

“You're not such a bad girl,” he said, reaching across the table and covering her hand with his. And then, clearing his throat during a moment of embarrassment, he added: “And you're
my
girl.”

“And you're the only serious man I've ever known,” she answered.

In the stillness that ensued, Claude thought, almost with awe, that this conversation was the closest he'd ever come to a declaration of love with anyone, including his family. This small room, with its slightly discolored wallpaper, with the warm, familiar smell of the
pot au feu,
and the girl, with her long amber eyes and that tattered bathrobe, felt more like home than any place he'd ever been. Maybe, then, he was in love with her after all.

J
acques Walter's
suite at the Ritz was all subdued opulence, like the man himself. At fifty-eight, he was tall, erect, well dressed, his silk shirts always impeccably pressed, his silk ties a marvel of hues to match each one of his suits. He had a long, well-sculpted face, topped by a head of white hair that shone like a silk bonnet. His eyes were a sharp blue, his long, aquiline nose aristocratic. Now he stood before Claire and put his hands squarely on her shoulders. “I don't see why we have to get married out of town,” he declared.

“It's the only way of avoiding a public wedding.”

He passed his tongue over his upper lip. “You mean, it's the only way of having a quiet Jewish wedding without your family.”

She looked away, fumbled uncomfortably with her rings. “Jacob,” she murmured, “I've tried to explain it to you. You and Lily are the only two people besides Julien Weill who know the whole story. Even Eliane doesn't know all.” She whispered, not looking at him: “I've told the children you're ... a Protestant, like many Swiss people.”

He burst into short, hard laughter. “To go with my lean and hungry face. But darling—isn't it time all this stopped? I can understand how things were for you, when Paul was alive. But now—”

“I have to protect Claude. And Lily, too. Misha would never be able to accept a Jewish—or half-Jewish—wife. Even a Jewish stepfather could be held against Lily.”

He sighed. “I can't argue with you. I know something of Prince Brasilov. He and his father were not exactly Semitophiles in their country.”

“Misha's a good man, Jacob.”

“I'm certain of it. But nevertheless, you're afraid to tell him the truth.”

She said, wringing her hands: “Please don't force me to! I'm just asking you to lead a quiet life, the way you've always done, even in Basel. To be discreet—for my sake.”

“All right,” he stated, stopping in his tracks. “I'll meet your Misha, and I'll do what you ask.
For the time being,
” he added.

“Then,” she whispered, kissing his cheek, “we'll go to the Riviera, and be married there. I'd like that, anyway. It's infinitely more romantic than Paris.”