The Keeper of the Walls (35 page)

When the servants came to serve coffee in the study, three-year-old Nanni came running in, in her nightgown and slippers. Kira picked her up, and somehow, it was Mark who was granted the privilege of bringing her back to her governess. “But I'll get lost in this vast house,” he said. “Can't somebody show me the way?”

Nanni bit her lip. “Auntie Lily can. She smells the nicest.” In the general laughter that ensued, Lily felt her cheeks warm and red, and her heart in her throat. Wolf said: “Go on, then, the three of you. The rest of us want to proceed with our coffee.”

The small girl scampered ahead, and Lily found herself on the stairway beside Mark. They were silent. Outside Maryse's apartment, the Fräulein was waiting. Lily deposited Nanni in her arms, and kissed her. “Good night, darling. See you tomorrow.”

“And will I see the nice man tomorrow?”

“The nice man promises to be here,” Mark replied.

“Well, then, thank you, Princess, and Herr MacDonald.” The Fräulein, Nanni in hand, closed the door. Mark found himself finally face-to-face with Lily. She could feel him looking at her; she knew, without any outward sign, that he, like Wolf and his father, appreciated the way she was dressed. She hadn't felt a man's eyes on her for so many months! And who better than a trusted old friend?

“I'd like to see the garden by starlight,” he said to her, taking her arm. “Do you suppose we could just slip out and take a walk?”

She nodded. She wasn't afraid, being alone with him. As they made their way to the back door of the house, Lily remembered what Claire had told her: that friendship was the most important part of marriage. Somehow, she'd missed that with Misha. They'd been lovers—they'd been parents. But never really friends.

“You have a funny look on your face,” he said as they strolled along the graveled pathway to a small gazebo. The Steiners kept their garden well lit, but the stars were like a shimmering mantle of diamonds protecting them. Sculpted Muses and Graces stood along the path, dripping sprinkles of clear water into granite bowls shaped like giant, scalloped shells. They reached the gazebo and sat down in wicker chairs.

“I was feeling pain,” she answered, averting her eyes. “It comes on me, now and then. Memories, like an old lady.”

“It's been hard for you, hasn't it?”

She raised her eyes. “It still is.”

“You know, he's had to give up the third floor and half the second, at the Rue de Berri. He's been in one hell of a mess.”

“Please,” she whispered, “don't speak about him. It's over. The sooner the divorce comes through, the sooner I can begin to put my life in order.”

Mark lifted her fingers off the armrest, and played with them. She felt the warmth of his thumb and forefinger over her joints and knuckles. A friend, caring. “It seems to me that it's already in order,” he commented.

“Not really. I can't stay forever dependent on Wolf and Mari, and Wolf's parents. This life—it's been like a healing rest. But soon I'm going to have to think about making a living. They've taken care of me and my children long enough.”

“You're not afraid?”

She smiled, sadly. “Of course I am. But what else can I do?”

His face, so serious, was where it belonged, among the Grecian statues: his small, sculpted nose, his curls, his clear hazel eyes. It was a nice face, and he'd aged somewhat, dry lines showing around his eyes. After all, it was normal: he was thirty-three. “And you?” she asked. “No Hollywood film deals?”

“I'm not through with Paris yet. It's the most fascinating place to be. I've written a third book, and Scribner's has it. Let's hope I don't have to make too many editorial changes.”

She laughed. And then, hearing her own laughter, she suddenly stopped. She looked at him. Slowly, he placed his hands on the sides of her face, and brought his own face closer. She knew, of course, that he was going to kiss her; she knew, and didn't pull back. It felt right, somehow, that he should kiss her, and so, when it happened, she closed her eyes and felt the kiss, his lips upon her own, with quiet satisfaction. Something hard was melting inside her heart.

Then she felt him draw back, and realized that she was weeping, that the tears had fallen on his hands. “What's the matter?” he asked quietly.

She stood up, shaking her head. “I don't know. It's just that . . .”

He stood up too. He'd never been much taller than she, and she liked the fact that they could look directly at each other, equals, “
Is
it over?” he asked.

She let her shoulders rise and drop. “You don't know,” she said, “what happened between us. But yes, it's over. Because I want it to be. And maybe because he didn't need me as much as I'd thought, and didn't love me as much as I'd hoped. I don't think about it anymore all the time, the way I used to. Wolf helped me overcome that: the need to rake the wound.”

“And the man himself? Do you still think of him?”

Lily thrust her fingers through her hair. “Sometimes.”

He put an arm around her shoulders, held her against him. “Come,” he said softly. “Nicky and Kira will be wondering what Nanni and I did to their mother.”

A
t breakfast
, Prince Ivan wasn't hungry. It was drizzling outside. Since he had vacated his own apartment on the Rue Molitor and moved into his father's (now the street had been renamed the Avenue Paul Doumer), Misha had let the servants go, and now there was only the daily maid, Suzanne, to serve, cook, and clean. The old man looked around at the naked walls, marked by clear spots where all the paintings had hung. They had all been auctioned off. Soon it would be time to move to a smaller apartment in a less elegant neighborhood. He had never had to experience anything like that in all seventy years of his life. Even after the exodus, it had been different. He'd known exactly what to do, and he'd had the sugar beets to work with. Now, what did they have? One failure after another: the domino effect, started by the Aisne debacle.

He wondered briefly what his wife, Maria, would have thought, and was glad that he'd been able to spare her this defeat. Prince Ivan didn't like to go out anymore. He was afraid of reading pity in someone's eyes, or perhaps disdain. He was baffled by what had occurred. Somewhere at the back of his mind, an uneasy sense of distrust had built up.

Misha walked into the dining room, and sat down. Suzanne came in, her slippered feet flapping on the hardwood floor. “M'sieur want some coffee?”

Misha reared his head and gave her a cold, piercing look. “Suzanne,” he said. “In this house you wear your uniform, and decent shoes.”

“O
ui
,
m‘sieur.
” Prince Ivan could tell that she would open the back door later that day, and, her hands on her haunches, would recount, with derision, her employer's comment. Nobody was more cruel than a servant, when ill fortune came.

“Aren't we supposed to receive the Michelin-Citroën commission soon?” Prince Ivan inquired.

Misha put the newspaper down, and said: “I called yesterday. They were arguing over the percentage again.”

“But I thought it was all in writing. A legal contract.”

Misha picked up his cup, and saw the film of yesterday's coffee on the rim. He pushed it away. “It was a strange contract, Papa. You see—I was to receive a certain sum of money contingent upon a particular agreement. As it was, the two parties did agree; but their merger was effectuated on somewhat different lines from what I had suggested; and so now they're saying that they'll pay me a finder's fee, but not the agreed-upon commission.”

Prince Ivan narrowed his eyes, and the fingers around the china cup began to shake. “They really know when a person's desperate.”

“But with the Rovaro, we'll make ends meet. The De Chaynisart brothers are serious people who don't fool around with their money. And the hotel is sound. We should be able to make the restaurant work, too.”

Prince Ivan sighed. “I don't know what you need me for,” he murmured. “I sit in that small office day in and day out, and I'm accomplishing nothing.”

Misha sat back, thoughtful. All his life, Prince Ivan's small, wiry frame had seemed to him the most imposing figure in the world; and his perceptive, sharp mind, the most intelligent. In a word, his father had signified power. The sort of power that turned a small man into a giant, and allowed an older man to stay young forever. Now there was a hunch to the small shoulders that suddenly seemed frail; and a querulous tone to the resonant voice that said to him: This is an old man. Misha was filled with intense compassion and, immediately after, with deep, abysmal shame. He'd let his father down. In one short year, he'd let everybody down.

It was so easy to feel self-pity. The world had maligned him. When he'd come into success, he'd given work to many of his old friends from Moscow and Kiev, so many of whom had landed, like the Brasilovs and sixty thousand other White Russians, in Paris. The duck-liver factory had been given to Banov, a destitute middle-aged count, to manage; the Metallurgy Works had been assigned to Lipavsky, a billiard player like himself and a companion from the old days. Banov had retired, and was living well with his new French wife. When life was good, everybody jumped on the bandwagon; and when it was bad, the rats jumped first off the sinking ship.

“Papa,” Misha said. “Why don't you start coming with me to the hotel? Philippe de Chaynisart has set up an office for me. You can help me try to make a profit for them. And I could use your help, to tell you the truth.”

“Soon it will be June. Tourists will begin to come.”

There was a silence. Misha said: “The Jews from Germany are flooding into the city.”

Prince Ivan blew his nose, and covered the moment. Every time there was a mention of the Jews of Germany, Misha's mind went to the Steiners of Austria. And of course to Lily. Now his father asked, in a soft voice: “If they decide it's getting too close for comfort,
she'll
have to come home.”

Misha stood up abruptly, and reached into the inside of his jacket. He extracted some folded papers, threw them on the table. “You think so?” he said sarcastically. “I don't think she'll ever ‘come home.' She's young, and she's a remarkable beauty. Do you suppose I believed for one minute that she went to Vienna to be with
Maryse?”

Prince Ivan blinked, taken aback. “Why else? Her heart was broken, and she had to find comfort somewhere.”

Misha made a grimace of disdain, and his face took on an ugly countenance. “All women are the same,” he declared. “She's signed all the papers, for the divorce. Nobody's pride is so intransigent.”

“What do you mean?” Prince Ivan demanded.

“That she's no different from all the rest! She didn't leave because of principles. She left because there was somebody else: another man.”

Horrified, Prince Ivan sat shaking his head from side to side, breathing in and out vociferously. At last he said: “You're wrong. For once in your life, don't try to pin the blame on someone else! Lily is not responsible in any way, and you know it!”

Misha seized the papers on the table, and, with a savage noise in his throat, tore them into halves and then quarters, and threw the remains on the parquet floor. He cried: “So now even my father's turned against me!”

Suzanne, her mouth open, a dishrag in her hand, watched goggle-eyed as the tall man thrust open the front door, then banged it shut behind himself. A small Delft figurine teetered on its wooden stand, and came clattering down, splitting in two. She crossed herself, and looked at Prince Ivan.

“I guess m'sieur's gone alone to the office?” she asked.

Prince Ivan smiled, folding his napkin. “It's all right, Suzanne,” he stated. “A little bit of rain never hurt a man my age. I think I'll take the bus: the exercise will do me good, and I like the leisure of the ride past the Palais de Chaillot.”

But when she had turned her back, shuffling into the kitchen, he pressed his hands over his heart.

A
fter the first night
,
Lily thought with relief that Mark had only kissed her to be kind, and that he, realizing she was not ready, had put the whole episode behind them both, forging ahead with a friendship they both wanted.

It promised to be a month of peace and pleasure. The late May weather was warm and scented with the blossoms of many varieties of flowers. Kira and Nicky went with Maryse and Nanni and the Fräulein to the old castle in Tobitschau, and young Herr Krapalik followed, so no one would lag behind in his lessons. But Lily stayed behind, with Wolf and his parents. Mark MacDonald went to Tobitschau for two days and returned, declaring that he'd missed the symphony and hadn't come to Vienna to shut himself away in the country, however beautiful it was. And then Lily wondered again about him.

Lily's already abundant mass of dark, lustrous hair had grown to the middle of her back. She liked to walk in the Prater with her hair free, floating about her shoulders. Somehow, with the children gone and Maryse out of earshot, she felt singularly free, too. Isaac and Mina Steiner went to their weekend house in Baden, to take the waters, and Wolf took advantage of everyone's absence to begin research for a monograph. The first few days, Mark spent most of his days sight-seeing. And so no one intruded on Lily.

All her life, she'd lived surrounded by people, ruled by other people's needs. Her father's, the nuns', later Misha's, and, finally, the children's. She wondered guiltily if she had a right to be so happy. After all, the divorce was well on its way, and she was looking ahead to a most uncertain future; Kira, in particular, would cause her many problems; and she was a woman alone in what was still a man's world.

Yet she was content. She awakened with joy, her heart soaring with the birds. She walked everywhere, begging the driver to wait for her at the edge of the roads or streets. She stopped in the coffeehouses and ate ravenously, and, more and more, she saw single gentlemen turning to look at her, and sometimes tipping their hats in her direction. She laughed. Maybe this wasn't being very bold, by the standards of 1933; but for her, it seemed that way.

Her life was free, open, for the first time. Every time she thought of Misha, she remembered the constraints; how he'd never really understood her, never really listened—never really cared. He'd thought about his own problems and had seen the world from his own limited viewpoint. A man of black and white, whereas the real world was different shades of gray.

Maybe she'd changed; hadn't Maryse always accused
her
of acting on absolutes? And hadn't Wolf practically said the same thing when he'd tried to explain to her Claire's motivations, and the need for her to accept another human being's limitations? She'd learned that nothing was “right” or “wrong,” but simply right for some and wrong for others. She'd finally forgiven herself for her part in the abortion, understanding that when it had occurred, her need for the marriage had superseded her desire to have the child.

Mark said to her: “I was thinking of taking a drive to the forest, tomorrow. Wolf's friend Hans von Bertelmann has an estate a few hours from here, and he's given Wolf the key while he's away in Switzerland.”

Lily had met Count von Bertelmann on several occasions. He was a member of the oldest Austrian aristocracy: an elegant man, a gentleman. She was not surprised that he would so generously have left his manor open to his friends. And so she smiled, thinking of his kindness, of his good taste. And she felt curious to see his property.

When she had first arrived in Vienna, she'd been aware that the tall, fair-haired man who had been Wolf's university friend had looked at her as a woman. She'd felt his keen blue eyes resting on her, gently but with steadfast pressure. But she hadn't felt like a woman then, and had treated him as no more than a pleasant acquaintance. She'd appreciated the way he'd taken her lead, and acted the perfect platonic companion on the next occasions when they had seen each other. “I'm glad you've had a chance to meet Hans,” she said to Mark. “He's one in a million.”

And when Mark suggested, casually, that she come along for the day, she paused only a moment before nodding her agreement. Wolf sat smiling to himself: Lily had definitely made moves to heal her scars.

The next morning, Mark was standing outside her door, waiting. Wolf's car was outside, its top down. She slipped her goggles on and wound a scarf around her hat, to shield her hair from the dust. Silently, he helped her inside, then took the wheel. She realized that they had never, even in the old days, taken a drive together.

On the way, Mark spoke about his new book, and about some of the ideas he had, and she listened, grateful for the impersonal quality of this subject. She had always been an avid reader. She told him about some of the books Wolf had lent her:
Show Boat,
by Edna Ferber, whose style hadn't always appealed to her; and Andre Maurois's
Byron,
which had. He praised her judgment. Then they didn't speak. He drove on the open road, dust rising in motes, which bothered her more than him. For he sat humming the Brandenburg Concertos in the sun.

The old manor looked poetic, its balconies a bit run-down, its gables washed an opaque hue. The servants had prepared a splendid luncheon, and Lily, laughing at her own hunger, ate until the last bite. Mark teased her. “One would think you were ... in that condition.'

She turned red, lowered her eyes. “I'll never have another child,” she murmured.

They stood up together, and began to walk on a winding path that went into the woods. Soon the sun was partly hidden through the twisting branches of saplings and young trees, and fell through to the ground in dotted patterns. Mark said: “I've missed you, Lily.”

Something knotted her throat. He continued, his voice filled with tenderness: “You left a terrible void in my life. There's no one else I've ever wanted to marry.”

His hand was on her elbow. She half turned, looking at him. His face was grave, and showed the passage of the years. He was no longer so ... “cherubic.” His regular features were somehow sharper, and there was less of the angel's softness in the line of his chin, now definite and masculine. All these small, half-related thoughts passed through her mind like quick, abrupt wildfire, as she took in the
proximity
of him—the sudden sensuality of him.

Dozens of strange men had smiled at her on the street, and she'd felt an odd stirring. Now Mark was standing so close that she could literally breathe him, and he was touching her.

In the narrow path, he bent over, and touched her lips with the soft fullness of his own. She could feel her heart hammering. She'd never responded like this in Paris. Why now? Why Mark?

And then, just as she felt his mouth on hers, the fear came. She drew away, her eyes wide with panic. It was ridiculous, there was no earthly reason to feel this nameless sense of fear—but yet it had risen like a wild thing between them. “What's wrong?” he asked, blinking his surprise.

“I don't know. I didn't . . . expect—”

“You didn't expect to like it,” he finished for her. Thrusting his fingers through his tousled hair, she saw him struggle to regain his self-control. The flush on his face showed he'd been excited, and it frightened her.

“Look,” he said, his voice somewhat ragged, not looking at her. “I know nothing about why you're divorcing Brasilov. And I don't care. While your marriage was going on, I lived my life. I stayed away, didn't I? But now there's no reason to shut off our feelings, is there, Lily? I love you; I want you. So ... it's up to you.”

Part of her willed for him to try again, to take her in his arms; but something was still paralyzing her. She didn't want to decide now. This had come too suddenly. She hadn't had time to think it through . . . the new feelings, the old. And her fear of being betrayed, still an open wound from her years with Misha, made her feel distrustful and wary.

His fingers rose to touch her cheek, and she shook her head. With a small cry, she moved away from him, running back along the path toward the house. He inhaled, let out the air, clamped his teeth together. “Damn it,” he muttered, turning to follow her. But he didn't run. Instead he took his time, and when he emerged into the garden, he found her seated in the car, goggles on and scarf tied. He opened his own door and stepped in without a word, his jaw set.

M
isha glanced into the suite
, making sure that all the light fixtures were working, and then made a note that truly, the Hotel Rovaro was in top condition. The accommodations were ultramodern. Rooms, suites, studios, gleamed with new paint, and the bathroom plumbing was adequate and hygienic. The curtains were of soft cottons and linens, and the light fixtures were tastefully set up, and handy to use. Every room had a pleasant view, and well-chosen reproductions on the walls.

He turned the key in the lock to close up the suite. It was strange, this feeling of power over the comings and goings of a hotel. Hotels were like small, self-sufficient islands, where hundreds of servants busied themselves daily, and where patrons ate, made love, and planned their next successes and their next betrayals. Hotels had always lured him, with their promise of anonymity. When he'd gone to the billiard halls in Moscow, he'd been searching for just that kind of anonymity: to stop being, for the moment, Prince Mikhail Ivanovitch Brasilov.

He stopped in the hallway, thinking, with sudden hunger, that it had been a long, long time since he'd been with a woman. Now, as the head of the Hotel Rovaro, he would have ample opportunity to take off a few hours to lie with someone for a brief pause in the inexorable machinery that was time, and his own life. But would that really be a pause? Time knew when people tried to cheat, and mocked them for their trouble. He realized that sweat was pouring profusely from his forehead, and he thought: I
have
no life. No love, no joy, no child, no mistress.

He went slowly down the stairs, and stopped at the restaurant. There were about twenty people seated at small tables with flower centerpieces. Around them, the waiters and wine stewards were dashing about with expertise and enthusiasm. He turned away, trying not to think of how many other tables had been empty. Of the three hundred rooms, only fifty were occupied at present.

If only he hadn't insulted his father! He opened the door to his office, next to Philippe de Chaynisart's. He sat down behind the desk and glanced at the pad of paper in front of him, filled with facts and figures.

At the Rovaro the bill at Les Halles for fresh food products ran four thousand francs a day. The average take from the restaurant was two thousand gross. He twirled the pen in his fingers and chewed on the end. He thought: First of all, there are twenty-two employees that we don't need: maids, scullery people, telephone operators. Then, the menu á la carte was superfluous: the regular menu was ample enough. The daily expenses should run no more than eighteen hundred, for Les Halles, the domestics, the housekeeping matrons, the cooks, the dishwashers, the wine cellar attendants, and the wine cellar. And the restaurant should be grossing ten thousand a day.

How to accomplish this? In the United States, there was a growing industry called advertising. This hotel was a product, like a soap or a chocolate cream. He'd known many men and women of great wealth, and somehow there had to be a way to let them know that the hotel existed.

I'll have to ask Papa to help me with this, he thought, happy suddenly at the idea of his father's face when he would realize how much his expertise was still needed. And for the first time that day, he felt the knot below his heart being released.

H
anneliese was
asleep in the servants' quarters. The small apartment on the third floor was blessedly empty. Lily couldn't sleep. Restlessly, she pulled open all the windows, and went to sit in the living room in the dark. The view was of the large boulevard lined with trees in bloom, occasionally illuminated by an eerie streetlamp. Cars drove by, their metal fenders suddenly splashed by the yellow glow of the tall, sculpted lamps. She thought dreamily of the time when one drove in a horse-drawn coupe or victoria, and the only sound of travel was the clip-clop of hooves on the cobblestones. She wished she had been born twenty years before, when the world had been a quieter, more civilized place, and where men were gentlemen who knew the subtle art of courtship.