The Keeper of the Walls (25 page)

I
t was a wonderful
, warm day, and Lily felt good as she walked out of the Galeries Lafayette, holding the small parcel. There were always things there for the children. She'd bought a nightgown for Kira, and a little sailor suit for summer, for Nicky.

She'd told François to come back in two hours, and now there was still an hour to go. She was glad, hugging her time alone like a precious commodity. She'd always enjoyed walking alone along the boulevards, like a common, everyday French bourgeoise. It was like an escape from being, twenty-four hours a day, the Princess Brasilova, who was only allowed to do certain things. It was a small rebellion, but, Lily thought, one that made her feel good.

She strolled along, stopping to look in shop windows. She wasn't showing yet, but she was constantly aware of the new pregnancy. She hadn't told Misha yet, and wondered why. Perhaps it was because, for a few weeks, she'd wanted to be the only one to know. How different from the first time!

“Lily,” a voice called, and she turned, surprised at the voice she hadn't heard in so many years. Beside her on the sidewalk stood Mark MacDonald, in a light raincoat. She felt a sudden wave of warmth, and her heart beat quickly.

He took her hands. “You haven't really changed,' he said. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere in particular. I just had a free hour. I'm glad to see you, Mark.”

“Would you like to stop for a cup of coffee? I have some time, too. I'd like to catch up with you.”

For an instant only, she hesitated. Why was it that she never really dared take an initiative, sensing always a presence behind her, looking over her shoulder? She nodded, feeling squeamish. She was indulging herself in a perfectly legitimate pastime, catching up with an old friend—but still, the odd guilt persisted. He had taken her arm and was walking with her across the street, to a small outdoor café that beckoned invitingly. She realized that Mark's reassuring presence was like the answer to a prayer. She hadn't felt so happy to be with someone since Maryse and Wolf had gotten married, moved away, and deprived her of the joys of their companionship.

They sat down, and all at once, Lily was afraid to look up and encounter his eyes. She could feel a wave of heat and a concurrent tightness in her stomach. This is ridiculous, she thought, and resolutely forced herself to look at him.

His hands had folded over some cutlery, and he was twirling a fork through his fingers, seemingly concentrating on the movement of the silver tines. So he, too, was somewhat embarrassed. She saw, for a few brief seconds, a replay of the last time they had met, when she'd sent for him at the Villa Persane, and he had promised to stay her friend, adding that he'd have to keep away for a while because of his pain.

“Your book's doing well,” she remarked, to break the silence.

He smiled. It was a smile tinged with a certain ironic sadness, which touched her. Lines had developed between the sides of his nose and the corners of his lips, and she had to admit that she liked this sign of maturity. “I'm pleased with the sales,” he said. “I've quit the
Clarion,
and haven't even had to touch my trust fund. No, professionally speaking, I can't complain.”

“And . . . otherwise?”

Why was it she was hoping that his face wouldn't light up, that he wouldn't suddenly reveal the name of a new love? She was being unfair. She'd rejected him, and had never really been in love with him. He deserved to be happy with another woman. Why, then, was she selfishly willing him to still care? He'd told her that men who pined for long-lost loves were, in his opinion, fools.

His hazel eyes opened warmly to her, gold flecks like sunlight over green waters. “Otherwise? I've kept up old friendships, and met some new people. You'd be surprised how the world flocks around a man when he's been lucky enough to have had one minor success.”

“It wasn't minor, and people always knew that you were special. Don't put yourself down, Mark.”

He laughed. “I used to tell
you
the same thing.” Slowly, the amusement seeped from his face, and he asked, softly: “And ...did marriage bring you what you wished for? Fireworks, like my character Theresa?”

A sudden cloud seemed to fall over her spirits, which she tried to ignore. “Well . . . fireworks tend to burn out, don't they? A nice warm hearth seems more enduring—don't you think? For real people?”

“Perhaps.” He was silent then, a bit withdrawn, his eyes far away. Abruptly, he looked at her again. “I hear you have two children. That's nice.”

Still trying to sort out her feelings, and to shrug off the cloud, she burst out, “And I'm expecting a third!” and then immediately wanted to bite her tongue at the foolishness of having revealed this.

“Oh?”

“But—nobody knows yet. Misha ... I haven't told him the good news. It has to be a special moment, a—”

“Yes, of course, I see.”

“I'm so sorry we lost touch, Mark,” she then stated, her voice unexpectedly warm. “You were speaking of having kept up friendships . . . yet with me . . .”

“It wasn't quite the same, Lily, was it? You were never just another Maryse for me, nor a Claire. I've seen
her
a few times, by the way—your mother. And I've met Jacques. What a fine man he appears to me! I think they'll have a happy life together.”

Glad to be once again on neutral grounds, and to be able to give free vent to her feelings, she relaxed. “I agree. He's exactly what Mama needs—what she's always needed. But I
do
wish they hadn't planned to elope to Saint-Paul-de-Vence. I'd hoped to be ... well, her matron of honor. And now
I
feel like a mother whose eloping daughter has cheated her out of a wedding!” She laughed, nervously. “Perhaps it's because I didn't have a formal wedding either. I'd counted on Mama to have one in my stead!”

Mark sat chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip. “I might be entirely wrong,” he said, “but somehow I'd gotten a vague impression that Jacques Walter's a Jew. And if so, you'd have to understand why they wouldn't want a religious service. People of different faiths very often prefer to be quietly married by a justice of the peace.”

Demitasses of coffee had been placed in front of them, and Lily's hand, halfway to her mouth, put down her cup. “But—that's not true. Jacques isn't Catholic, but I think Mama said he was some kind of Protestant—Lutheran or something. And . . . and . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she found herself trembling.

Puzzled, Mark asked: “Would you
object
to Jacques's being a Jew? I don't understand.”

“But . . . you aren't
sure,
you said? It was never actually discussed?”

The intensity of her pleading stare shocked him. “No. He never mentioned it to me. And it's quite likely that I could be wrong. But, Lily: I still don't see why it would make a difference to you one way or the other. You never cared before about other people's religions.” His eyes narrowed: “Unless, of course, your husband's well-known ideas have finally gotten to you.”

She heard the unmistakable bitterness in his tone of voice, and sat back, as if slapped. She could sense tears forming, and starting to push behind her eye sockets. “Damn it, Mark,” she cried, “it isn't that at all! After all these years—after the time we spent together, when you said you loved me—you should know, better than anyone, that I'm not anti
anything!
It's just . . . just . . . that you don't
understand!”

The tears had finally spilled out, and suddenly she stood up, almost knocking over her cup of coffee. Mark half rose, but she had already left, her footsteps quick, almost panicky, as she made her way to the corner of the street. His lips parted with bewilderment, he sat down again, his own breath raspy.

It was only five minutes later that he realized she'd left her package on the seat. Strangely troubled, he picked up the wrapped box, and fingered the ribbon. Maybe this was an omen.

“There's a Monsieur MacDonald in the study, waiting to see Madame la Princesse,” Arkhippe said to her.

“But—I don't really want to see him.” She felt a surge of nervousness, almost anger. “Why did he come?”

“He says he'll wait, but he must see Madame.”

“Thank you, Arkhippe.”

She stood uncertainly, wondering. She really wished he'd stayed out of her life. She'd been so glad to see him—until he'd mentioned that about Jacques. No, she wasn't going to think about it. It wasn't fair—the whole thing wasn't fair. Claire should have told her about it before, not let her hear it from someone else. Another truth withheld from her.

She walked, unsteadily, into the study. Mark stood up when he saw her, and she saw the package. She felt a wave of relief. “Oh,” she said, “thank you. I'd forgotten it, hadn't I?”

“Yes. I'm sorry to intrude on you. But—”

To prevent him from mentioning yesterday, she began a breathless monologue. “Just a nightshirt for Kira, and a sailor outfit for Nicky. You don't know my children—they're so cute. I'll have to ask Zelle to bring them in—”

“Lily,” he interrupted. “I couldn't sleep last night. I didn't understand. What's wrong? I came to tell you that if you need someone to talk to. . . I'm here. I don't want you to feel alone, Lily. Please forgive me for coming here—but I simply had to. As your friend, who cares.”

She was weeping, her hands laced before her face. He put an arm around her. “Lily—you must tell me what's troubling you. Maybe I can help.”

She lifted her face from her hands, and looked at him. Maybe he was right. She'd always felt that she could trust him. Long ago, she'd voiced all her intimate thoughts to him, all her hopes and insecurities, and he'd repaid her with his steadfast kindness and understanding. Pushing aside some of the awkwardness of their meeting the previous day, she concentrated instead on her tremendous need for honesty, for coming clean with someone. She needed to unburden herself, to let everything spill out—and providence, it seemed, had just happened to throw Mark back into her life. What better confidant than he?

“Look,” she said. “It's a very private thing. I don't want
anybody
to know about it. You must swear to me.”

“I'll swear anything you like. Of course.”

“My mother's . . . Jewish. It's something she had to hide, when Papa was alive. And now—she knows she has to continue hiding it.”

“Why?”

She passed a hand over her wet face. “Because. Claude, Misha. They'd reject her. And—Misha would reject me, too. And . . . our children.”

Mark was standing next to her, shaking his head in complete disbelief. “It's incredible. Even in the South—in the United States—no one is that anti-Semitic. I think you and Claire are exaggerating.”

“I hardly think so. Just these past elections, the Jeunesses Patriotes were beating up members of the Socialist and Communist parties.”

“That's a different story.”

She asked, tentatively: “Do you think so?”

“Sure. Look, Europe's in a state of flux. The economy's improved since Poincaré came back, in ‘26. The French aren't so afraid of Germany anymore. It looks as though, finally, war reparations will be paid. But there's a lot of fear of the Russians.”

“But in
L
'
Action Française,
Maurras is perpetually haranguing his readers against the Communists
and
the Jews.”

He raised his brows. “You read this garbage?”

“No,” she admitted. “But Misha does. I've glanced at some of the articles.”

“Well,” he said soothingly, “Maurras is an old fool whose time is past. But perhaps the French are making a mistake, with the Russians. I don't like the fact that in Germany this man Hitler is growing in strength.
There's
a man who's bad for the Jews. The Russians haven't been asked to join the League of Nations. And now Germany's refusing to recognize the Czech and Polish borders. Perhaps more efforts should be made to put away fear of the Reds, to build a wall against the Huns.”

“But—Briand won the Nobel peace prize. Nobody wants another war—do they?”

Mark sighed. “I guess not. However—French people aren't an anti-Semitic bunch, like the czarist Russians. I really don't believe the rioting in the streets has had anything much to do with anti-Jewish feeling, so much as anticommunism. You and Claire shouldn't worry.”

She said, with so much feeling that he was caught aback: “But don't you understand? Misha and Ivan Vassilievitch
are
czarist Russians! You must promise me, Mark, never to let anyone know what I've told you. It's just—I had to tell someone.”

“And I'm glad I just happened to be the one. You mustn't be afraid, Lily.”

He came near her, and put his arm around her shoulder. She leaned against him, feeling exhausted. It was this way that Misha first came upon them when he returned home from work. Surprised, he stopped in the shadow of the open door. The scene, somehow, was so intimate. He stared, angry at his own inertia, and waited, anxiousness pressing against his heart. He'd never expected this—Mark MacDonald! All these years.

“You don't think so?” she whispered.

“No. But sooner or later, you'll have to break the news to Misha.”

She jerked her head up, her face white and taut, and cried: “No! You know I can't.”

“But it's the only way.”

“He'll never know,” she said fervently. “He'd never be able to forgive me this. You don't know my husband—but I do.”

“I can't believe he wouldn't understand.”

She pushed Mark away, and stated: “But he wouldn't. It's just going to have to be my secret. And now, yours.”