The Keeper of the Walls (3 page)

But—he was a prince. Princes belonged in fairy stories. A Russian prince. She said: “You do belong here. Why do you reject your peers?”

“Because they're not. I came from Russia with my father, a little man with a pointed beard and the best mind this side of Asia. We lost my mother to the Bolsheviks. We came here penniless—not like Felix Yussoupov, or even Felix Litvinne, the diva. But we brought with us four sacks of sugar beets from our plantations in Kiev. And because we were hungry, because we couldn't be satisfied with anything less, we built from these four sacks our own empire. I got up at four thirty this morning, mademoiselle. I was at the office at six. If I danced all night, or spent it with a
chanteuse de café-concert,
that is nobody's business but my own, and my work was not affected by it. ... No, I am not at home with those who waste their life in cognac and coffee conversation.”

He'd spoken in a rush of words, and as she looked into his face, she was struck by the passion of this man. There was something savage about him. He had a large face with strong cheekbones, a large nose, and big white teeth. She caught herself abruptly, surprised at the turn of her thoughts. His green eyes, under the soft arch of their brows, were appealing to her, suddenly vulnerable. He was everything she didn't know, everything foreign, everything male. Not at all like her father, with his plump stomach hanging ridiculously over his belt—or like her civilized, cut-and-dried brother, Claude. Lily was afraid and fascinated, at the same time.

He had stopped a valet with a tray filled with small sandwiches, and was saying to her: “What is your preference? Foie gras? Smoked salmon? Caviar?”

She wasn't sure. At home Mama gave pastries for tea, and sometimes small pieces of round bread covered with a cheese pâté. At school, tea had been even simpler: a brioche with hot chocolate. This wasn't tea, it was evening, it was . . . cocktails? She wanted to make sure this man wouldn't desert her when he learned how simple she was, how backward. “I'll take anything,” she said. “Thank you.”

He took the tiniest sliver of smoked salmon on pumpernickel, and held it before her. “Open your mouth, Cinderella.”

She laughed. He listened, delighted. Then he popped the tiny morsel into her mouth, and watched her astonishment. He laughed too. It was a moment she thought she would always remember: The Russian prince feeding her and laughing with her in the midst of a crowd of elegant people, in a strange town house, waiting for her brother.

And then the magic bubble burst; Claude was at her elbow. “We've met before, my dear Prince. At the Baronne d'Oettingen's costume ball, six months ago. . . .”

“Yes, yes,” Mikhail Brasilov muttered, barely acknowledging the hand that was thrusting itself at him.

“We spoke then about the government contracts to repair the war damage in the north—and how our firm could be useful to you.”

“Perhaps we did,” the Russian said, already beginning to look over Lily's head into the next reception hall. “I really couldn't say. . . .”

Lily felt waves of mortification washing over her. A young woman was coming near them, her hips flat, her hair cut short, chin length. Her lips were outlined in carmine red, and her cheeks were dotted with rouge over white powder. Rows and rows of long strands of pearls were knotted over her small, perky breasts.

“Misha, darling, where have you
been?
We need your counsel. Tessa says the best Negro jazz club is Le Boeuf sur le Toit, but I myself prefer—”

Mikhail Ivanovitch Brasilov smiled, laid a finger over the painted girl's lips, and took Lily's hand. “Mademoiselle,” he stated, raising it to his lips. “It's been a pleasure. Perhaps we'll meet again. . . .”

No, we won't, Lily thought. You've met my brother, and now you know exactly who I am, where I come from. And she was furious with Claude for bringing her here, for letting her meet a man who would laugh with others behind their backs, who would say: Guess who came to la Béhague's reception? They didn't belong with the cognac-and-coffee set, with the fast set and the cream of French society. No matter how well she dressed, she'd never be comfortable with these people, who weren't her kind, weren't her people.

“Bravo, my dear sister,” Claude was whispering. “That's the richest bachelor in Paris. He's of the oldest Kiev aristocracy.”

T
he Villa Persane was
, to Lily, a monument to bad taste and the desire to flaunt new money. And the worst part about it was that its location was superb. The Boulevard d'Auteuil began in Paris, a block or so away from the Porte d'Auteuil, and in Boulogne-sur-Seine there were houses only on one side, all with gardens. Only the Villa Persane had its gate on the boulevard. In front stretched the nursery of the Bois de Boulogne. Why Paul Bruisson had insisted on creating a Persian monstrosity amid such typically French surroundings was beyond his daughter's understanding.

The vestibule was flanked by the kitchen and the garage, and on the first floor were the reception halls; on the second, the family bedrooms; on the third floor were the laundry and the servants' quarters. Paul had fixed the windows with heavy velvet drapery, but the reception rooms were furnished in the style of the First Empire. Every piece was encrusted with mother-of-pearl inlays, with curlicues and complicated drawers, and had

borders of carved bronze representing swans and cupids. Lily thought them hideous. She never went into the living room if she could help it; and for meals, she sat erect in the dining room, trying to avoid looking at the enormous oil painting of her grandfather in frilled shirt and curled hair— her grandfather Bruisson, who'd been a carpenter in Lille and had never worn a frilled shirt at any time in his life.

She liked her mother's boudoir. At forty-three, Claire Bruisson was still a handsome woman. She was tall, like Lily; but with the years her figure had grown more ample. She had dark eyes in a beautiful cameo face, and wore her dark hair in a topknot at the crown of her head. She dressed simply but tastefully in greens and reds, which went with her somewhat sultry coloring. Light hues didn't enhance her looks. But in the boudoir she had selected walls of beige raw silk, a Louis XV
bergère,
a small secretary with delicate, unobtrusive inlays of lighter woods, also Louis XV, and a pale green and pink and beige silk, hand-painted, for her bedspread and canopy.

Lily felt at home with her mother. They didn't have to talk to feel each other's moods. Lily sometimes took a book into the boudoir, and read there while her mother embroidered. Claire was a quiet person, reserved, contemplative, and rarely talked about her childhood, about the parents who were now dead. But Lily remembered her grandfather. He'd been from Brussels, where he'd owned and managed a small business. Lily didn't know, and perhaps had never known, what that business involved. But she'd been told that Claire had been an only child. Lily couldn't remember her grandmother, and thought she'd died before her own birth.

Knocking on the door to the boudoir, Lily hugged her shawl closely around her. Claire told her to come in, and she did. At once the feeling of constriction around her throat eased off.

“Claude tells me you were quite the belle of the ball,” her mother said, smiling. She was sitting on the
bergère,
repairing a lace napkin.

“It wasn't a ball, and I was by no means a belle,” Lily replied crossly. She drew up the hassock near her mother's armchair, and plopped down. “Claude humiliated me. He has a horrible way of insinuating things . . . of . . .”

“Claude has ways about him that are disconcerting. I've never quite understood him. But darling, don't
mind
him so! If you're a lady, nobody else can bring you down. And besides—I'm sure he means well, taking you out and showing you to society. That's what your father wants.”

“And you?”

Claire's shoulders rose and fell, and she sighed. “I want to see you happy. You were cloistered for too many years. You've forgotten what Paris is like. But it's your home; you have to fit into it. I know you didn't enjoy the ball your father gave for your
début
in the fall. But sometimes, Lily, you must make an effort to do what's expected of you.”

“I didn't like the ball because I didn't know a single soul there. And Papa wouldn't let me invite Maryse.”

Claire kept her eyes on her work. “Maryse Robinson is always welcome here. I know you two have loved each other since before you left for Brittany. But your father has his ideas about this—about Jewish people.”

“That's ridiculous! Maryse's family is the real thing, not like Papa's absurd pretensions! They live in a palace, almost, and they've had money and servants and fineries for generations. What does it matter if they're Jewish, or Protestant—or Buddhist, for goodness' sake?”

“It's just how your father feels.”

“But it's unjust. Papa's never been religious. It's all just another one of his pretensions.”

“Lily, he's your father.”

Their eyes locked. Lily asked, almost in a whisper: “And you never disagree with him?”

Claire laid a long smooth hand over her daughter's. “In my head and in my heart, I'm free to think what I like. But marriage is a compromise. Your father has been good to us all. He works very hard to give us a life of ease and comfort.”

Lily knew that her mother was closing the subject. Claire never really spoke her intimate thoughts. Lily stood up, conscious of all the unresolved, unanswered questions. Her mother was looking at her. “You didn't tell me about the Russian,” Claire said softly.

Lily wheeled about, her cheeks red. “I didn't tell you because it didn't amount to anything. I met a man—a Russian prince. There are thousands of them roaming the streets of Paris. He couldn't wait to get away from me. And I don't blame him. Claude standing there, as if waiting for a handout—and then the pretty girl who came along, who
belonged,
not like me! Maybe Claude's right: I
am
six years behind the times. Her hair was bobbed, and she wore makeup—outrageous makeup. I'd die if I had to look like that. But
he
liked it. He didn't even really say good-bye—”

“But you'd like to see him again.”

Lily said, her hands clenched so tightly that the knuckles shone white: “I hope I never see him again. My brother's never going to sell me for thirty pieces of silver!”

Claire's eyes, so large and dark, stayed on Lily's face until the passion wrung out of her, the young woman sat down again. I'm never going to have another outburst, she was thinking. I'm never going to lose control because of someone else's behavior.

And then, as she watched Claire resuming her needlework: I'm never going to be like my mother, trapped into a marriage that isn't right.

M
aryse Robinson was
small and very frail, and wore her short ash-blond hair permanented in tight curls around her pixie face. Lily always felt awkward and big when she was with her. They'd met ten years before, when they'd been eight, at a ballet school where their mothers were sending them. Maryse had been the best student, executing all manner of steps, but she'd also been the class clown, losing points for bad behavior. Lily adored her. Only with Maryse could she feel free of the oppression that hung around her, from the sadness brought on by living in a house dominated by a strident, self-important man like her father, and by her brother, whom she didn't trust.

Sometimes Claire came with her to the beautiful apartment in the Avenue Henri-Martin, where the Robinsons lived. Claire liked Maryse, her mother, her young brother. Claire laughed, easily, the worry lines around her mouth and eyes disappearing for a few hours during these visits. David Robinson, Maryse's father, was the most important confectioner of sugared biscuits in France. His family had started this business generations ago. Maryse remembered being told that Czar Nicholas II and Queen Victoria had ranked among her grandfather's preferred customers.