The Keeper of the Walls (31 page)

Arkhippe returned with someone whom Lily recognized at once. It was the slim, athletic model from Poiret's. She was dressed in a thin sheath of raw silk, and wore beads knotted below her breastbone. Her makeup was pronounced, and stark: crimson lips, kohl-rimmed eyes, cheekbones outlined with red blush over white powder. Lily felt a wave of revulsion. There was something so cold and shocking about this person—she couldn't really explain it. She looked to Lily a little like a circus performer: someone always on the edge of reality, teasing life by provoking fear, and shock. Lily smiled, and said: “Please sit down, mademoiselle. As I haven't been to the Maison Poiret for quite some time . . . perhaps you'll explain to me the purpose of your visit.”

The woman didn't smile. Her eyes were beautiful, and haunting: a strange amber color, and long, like Chinese eyes. “We've never actually met, Princess,” she said, opening her small beaded bag and extracting a gold cigarette case. She took out a long, thin cigarette, and lit it with an elegant gold briquet. Her strange eyes were on Lily, not letting her go, and their pull was oddly magnetic. “My name is Henriette Rivière. I live Rue Lepic, in Montmartre. My apartment is very modest, because Poiret isn't known for being overly generous with his salaries . . . and because my lover is equally, shall we say, tight with his funds.”

Lily blinked, holding in her shock. Nobody she knew spoke in such raw terms. She was at a loss for words, and so she cleared her throat, just to cover the silence.

“I see that my bluntness has upset you,” the woman commented. “But facts are facts, so why hide them behind euphemisms? For ten or eleven years, I have had a lover, who, depending on the other circumstances in his life—his work, his family—has seen me at least once or twice a week, and has given me an allowance and paid my rent.”

Lily's irritation mounted. She stood up. “Mademoiselle,” she declared coldly, “if you've come here to expose the particulars of your private life, I'm not the slightest bit interested. I do not and never have discussed what anybody does within the privacy of his home, and I don't really
care
who pays your rent. As you said, I don't even know you! I shall have to ask you to leave.”

“You aren't curious as to why I came?” Henriette Rivière sat nonchalantly smoking her cigarette, evidently quite at home.

Thoroughly annoyed, Lily declared: “Frankly, I'd rather not know. It doesn't concern me, after all.”

“Oh?” Henriette arched her thin, penciled brows. “But my dear Princess: it
does
concern you . . . rather intimately, I'm afraid.”

Lily stared at her, profoundly unnerved. Carefully, she clenched and unclenched her fists at the sides of her thighs. Then she sat down again, knowing, all along, that it would have been better to keep her decision and throw out this person. “How is it my business?” she asked.

The other blew out a cloud of blue smoke. “Prince Mikhail, your husband, has been paying my rent for over ten years. I would think this might interest you—a lot.”

Lily felt a shot of adrenaline pump through her body. She opened her mouth, could not speak. Henriette Rivière looked her squarely in the eye. “Princess Brasilova, you have a splendid reputation. Your children bask in this reputation. How would they feel if everyone were told about your mother and stepfather?”

Lily shook her head. “My mother? I don't understand.”

“You're a devout Catholic, Madame. But Monsieur Walter is a Jew. How would the Prince, whose views are well known, react if suddenly all Paris heard that his mother-in-law was married to a Jew?”

Lily felt the wind being knocked out of her, and her heart missed a beat. Still, she said, her voice shaking: “The barons de Gunzburg, de Rothschild, are Jews.”

“Maybe so. But they don't frequent the same circles as Prince Mikhail. What do you suppose Charles Maurras or Pierre Taittinger would say? He's supported the one's newspaper and the other's Jeunesses Patriotes for quite some time now.”

“Mademoiselle,” Lily said, making a superhuman effort to keep her voice still and strong: “What do you want?”

The other smiled. “I'm thirty-eight, Princess. And I've been waiting for a long, long time. I'm expecting your husband's baby—and I intend to keep it.”

The room had begun to spin, tilting to one side. Lily clasped the arms of her
bergère
with all her strength, to fight off the nausea. Henriette Rivières voice continued, piercing Lily's malaise. “You wouldn't want your children to be destitute,” she was saying. “Prince Brasilov's business depends on a few clients who are staunch French royalists—the kind who are making an exception even dealing with him, because he isn't a national. They aren't merely giving funds to
L'Action Française
and Taittinger's groups: they are solid mainstays of all pseudo-Fascist organizations to keep France clear of any ‘tainted blood.' Mikhail Brasilov needs these clients— especially since it looks as though the slump has hit his company. You might not care about his future, or the future of Brasilov Enterprises, but I would think you'd care about your children, Madame.”

I don't believe it, Lily thought. Many women like me, with important husbands, have been approached by cheap blackmailers. I'm sure Misha doesn't even
know
her! God only knows who the father of her child is—if there is even a pregnancy. She can't touch my home.

Gripping the arms of her chair, Lily demanded: “But what exactly do you
want
from me? Even if what you say is true—you would then
know
my husband. He'd never marry you, even if I stepped out of the picture! Your child would continue to stay without a father.”

Henriette stubbed out her cigarette neatly and harshly. “Look,” she said, her voice clipped and hard. “I'm far too streetwise to expect
marriage
from this situation. But I want this baby. And whatever it takes, I'm going to make sure he has a name. I could do it nicely, without a fuss: just a quiet little talk between me and Misha. My discretion in return for his recognizing my child.
You'd
have your reputation, your children, and, I'm sure, a healthy pension; I'd have a child who was a Brasilov. And Misha would have a minimum of problems, considering how messy things could be if you don't give me what I need.”

Chilled, Lily asked: “And what is that?”

“I have to have some money. I'll soon be losing my figure, and in my line of business, that's my livelihood. That's where
you
come in, Princess. You'll help me, I'm certain, because you wouldn't want a scandal any more than Misha. But I wouldn't want to ask
him
for that. He might react in some unpredictable fashion, and then
all
our lives, all our reputations, would go down the drain. That's why I thought it infinitely more
civilized
for you and I to deal with this small aspect of the affair.”

Horrified, Lily held on to the arms of her chair to keep the room from spinning chaotically around her. She forced herself to concentrate on the red line of Henriette's lips. At length, the storm inside her body began to subside, and she found that she could breathe again without that wild sensation of shipwreck racking at her insides. “No,” she stated. “You're not going to tell my husband
anything.
I'll do what I can to get rid of you, but beyond this, you're not going to touch us! And if you go against my wishes, and expose your dirty secret, I'll see to it, mademoiselle, that no
couturier
in this city ever hires your services again. Threats can work both ways.”

Henriette smiled, but not with her odd, amber eyes. “My child has really put the fear of God into you,” she remarked. “What is it about this small Brasilov that makes you so insecure?”

“Your child,” Lily said, “is not and never will be a Brasilov. Whatever Misha has done to dishonor his name, is nothing to the disgrace that would come to it if my children were to be kin to yours. We have nothing in common, mademoiselle, and you had better understand this
now.
” Trembling, her fingers rose to her throat, and touched a heavy strand of pearls and emeralds. They moved to the clasp, and unfastened it. In one swift, almost violent movement, she thrust them at Henriette, and said: “I ...don't have access to cash. But these are worth a small fortune. They were a present from my father-in-law, and were purchased at Van Cleef and Arpels a few years ago.” She pulled a ruby ring off. “Take this, too! But now leave me alone, and don't ever come back!”

Smiling, Henriette Rivière pocketed the jewels, and stood up. “This is very little for the maintenance of a prince,” she murmured. “We'll see how far it takes us, shan't we, Princess?”

Abruptly, she was gone. Lily felt the room closing in on her, and a sick, dizzying nausea pumped through her body, drenching her with acrid perspiration. She really didn't know where to turn.

During the hours that followed, time stopped for Lily. She thought frantically about confronting Misha, about going to her mother and stepfather. If the Rivière woman's story was true, then it would be impossible to continue to live with Misha. She wondered about the eight years of their marriage. If, during all that time, he had been keeping this person in Montmartre, then their family life, their lovemaking, their entire relationship, had been a lie. To have lived over twenty years with a mother who had lied about the most fundamental part of herself, and after that, to find out one's whole marriage had been nothing but a sham, was overwhelming, mind-boggling. She could now forgive Claire. But what of Misha?

Maryse tried to warn me, she reminded herself, unrelenting. She tried to tell me he was seeing his ex-wife—when I was pregnant with Nicolas. And I refused to think about it. It wasn't that I refused to
believe
it: I hid my head in the sand and simply
refused to think!
I never asked him where he was, why he was sometimes late, why he didn't always keep appointments with me—why there were so many business conferences at night. I didn't see! But now that I've been forced to look at it, I do see. In color. He was with this woman. And what about Varvara-Jeanne? Had he been with her too, all these years?

“Mama, I got a nineteen out of twenty on my geography test!” Nicky was exclaiming. She jerked herself up, blinking at her son. Of course. It was Saturday, and school only went for half a day.

“Where's Kira?” she asked. She wondered how her face looked, and if the children would detect that something was wrong.

“Madeleine took her to the kitchen for some bread and butter.”

In spite of her pain, Lily smiled. “Well,” she remarked. “That was good news about your test. But you always do well.”

“I'm just like Papa,” Nicky said. “He reads something once, and knows it. But if he wants to remember it, he'll read it two or three times.”

“That's fine,” she said, feeling her heart beginning to beat erratically.
I'm just like Papa.
Damn him—
damn
Misha!

“What's wrong, Mama?” Nicky was asking.

“Nothing, sweetheart. I was just thinking that it would be nice to take a trip: you, Kira, and me. Would you like that, Nicky?”

Nicolas looked up at her, perplexed. “And Papa?”

She smiled, her hand on the crown of his head. “No. Papa has to work”

He asked: “For the summer holidays?”

“Yes,” she answered. “For the summer. Now go to the kitchen and ask Annette to make me a cup of tea.”

W
hen Misha came
home from work, he found his wife sitting in semi-darkness in the living room. He bent down to kiss her. Her skin felt cold—but moist, as if she'd perspired and the sweat had dried on her. “Where are the children?” he asked.

“Madeleine took them by bus to see Mother. They'll stay for the night.”

He stepped back. “Oh? Why?”

“I thought it would be good for them,” she answered.

He heard the dullness in her voice, and touched her forehead with the back of his hand. She wasn't running a fever. He sat down, and turned on a light. She was sitting slumped over, her hair somewhat disheveled. “Is something the matter?” he asked.

Suddenly she sat up, and he saw how brightly her eyes were shining. “Everything's the matter,” she answered in a low voice that shook as if from fever. “You've been lying to me for years, cheating all the years of our marriage. I've heard—about an affair you've been having since before our wedding. And it's not the first time I've heard rumors of your other women.”

Shocked, he could only stare at her, the blood slowly draining from his features. Finally, he said: “But rumors, Lily ... At some point, every marriage is bothered by its share of rumors.”

“Only this time, I know it was the truth. Don't tell me
how
I know. I just do. Just as, deep in your heart, you always knew that nothing whatsoever could have passed between me and Mark MacDonald, because I would have been incapable of betrayal.”