The Keeper of the Walls (5 page)

“
T
here isn't
any reason why you shouldn't try for a career as a concert pianist,” Mark said. They were walking in the gardens of the Tuileries, their collars up to ward off the freezing cold of the bleak January day. In

the distance, Maryse was romping in the snow, a small ball of fur among the statues.

“You heard me play Brahms. I'm not so good.”

“You're beyond-this-world good. Why don't you have more confidence in yourself, Lily?”

She stopped, hugging herself in her wool coat with the full skirt and large sleeves that let in the wind in great, bone-chilling gusts. She stood facing him, her long hair blown away from her face, her cheeks stung red. “I'm not sure what I have that should give me confidence. I play for my own pleasure. In concert halls the artist is dramatically good—not just agreeable. And then, I was taught that self-importance is a great sin. Jesus was humble.”

He started to laugh. “You believe such things?”

She shrugged, embarrassed. “In the United States, people don't have faith?”

“Some do, some don't. I'm a confirmed skeptic.”

“But a person can't ignore the Bible. It's such a beautiful testimonial to God's love for his people.”

Mark MacDonald reached for her gloved hand, and brought it to his lips. He remained holding it, looking into the velvet brown eyes of the young woman in front of him. “You make me want to be young again,” he said softly, mild humor in his hazel eyes.

“But you
are
young. Why do you say that?”

“Because I'm a journalist. My job has been to print facts, and most of the time, facts are ugly, raw, crude. I used to work on world news. It disgusted me what countries can do to one another. Then they put me to head the society column. I had to go to all the fine houses in Charlotte to interview its leading citizens, the women with their diamond rings and their fur coats, the men with their three-piece suits and shining spats. What exists among members of the same family is far, far worse than anything you can imagine.”

“Not so far,” Lily whispered.

“But you are unchanged. You are like a lost illusion.”

“No,” she said, her tone stronger. “It's just that I'm waiting. I'm not sure what exactly I'm waiting for, but there's a life outside that must have some meaning. My mother says that life is composed of compromises. Maybe I can't become a great pianist. But I know that
they
think I'm worth something. Even if Claude criticizes me without stop, even if he doesn't like me—he knows I'm worth something. So I have to wait.”

“I'm not quite sure I understand.”

“They think I can make their life good for them. I just want to make sure that they don't hurt my mother. I'm not like them, and neither is she.”

“Who else is ‘they' besides your brother?”

“My father. He never knew I was alive until my
début.
And now he sends me for fittings twice a week, and makes sure my shoes aren't scuffed.”

“Poor little Lily,' Mark said affectionately, squeezing her hand. “We shall have to give you a better existence.”

“No,” she said. “I have to learn what exactly I want, and then I'll make my own decisions.”

All at once Maryse Robinson bobbed up between them, her fur hood dotted with snow. “What a great day!” she cried. “And what have you two serious people been talking about?”

“World revolutions,” he said, letting Lily's hand go. “Come on, let's go to the Marquise de Sévigné for a triple order of hot chocolate.”

T
he sumptuous offices
of the Brasilov Enterprises stood on the second and third floors of a large granite mansion on the Rue de Berri, just off the Champs-Élysées, on the other side of which rose the elegant Hotel George V. Mikhail Ivanovitch Brasilov occupied the second largest office, which had once been the sitting room of a French duchess. Its walls, white and clean, met the high ceiling with a scalloped piping, and when Mikhail had to think out a complex problem, his eye inevitably fastened itself on the geometric design, so pure and so repetitive, which drew him like a magnet.

But the room had long since become strictly masculine. It was decorated in gleaming Louis XIII ebony and rich mahogany, and the desk was adjusted to the large proportions of the prince. On the walls hung only two paintings, both oils, both framed in simple, understated gilt wood. One represented the Princess Maria Brasilova, Mikhail's mother, done by Jean Édouard Vuillard according to a tiny photograph that had been smuggled from Russia; the other was a pastoral scene executed by Manet, all frivolous colors of the rainbow. Apart from these two testimonials to Mikhail's love of beauty, the room was functional, and spare.

He sat now, this January morning of 1924, with a series of legal documents in front of him, not looking at them, but thinking. The government of Raymond Poincaré, the Bloc National, was about to be changed; this he could predict. Poincaré had been the answer in ‘22; then, he had heralded a new prosperity, and his conservatism had matched the nation's. He had been a middle-class premier in a country dominated by the newly rich bourgeoisie. But now, especially after last year's ill-thought-out expedition into the Ruhr valley, the franc was devalued. France seemed to be turning to a more plebeian leadership. This would mean changes, in the economy as well.

Work never bothered Mikhail Ivanovitch. As a child, in Kiev, he had so rapidly absorbed his tutor's teachings that at the age of twelve he had already surpassed them. His father had moved the family to Moscow and sent Mikhail to a gymnasium. At fifteen he had graduated, passing his baccalaureate examinations with a series of unsurpassable 5's. He had entered the university with a special dispensation from the czar, because he hadn't reached the normal age; there he had entered two faculties at the same time: that of law, which all businessmen had to master, and that of history, which was his passion. Within three years he had obtained both degrees, where other young men took four years to complete a single course of study. And then his father had put the eighteen-year-old boy at the head of most of his enterprises.

The Brasilov Enterprises had stretched over a vast continent, and had comprised diverse businesses. Prince Ivan, Mikhail's father, had a nose for where the money lay. He bought all businesses that he thought could prosper; if they were failing, he saved them; if they were already successful, he tripled their gains. He owned a great number of sugar refineries in Kiev; windmills; mines of semiprecious stones in the Urals; lands in Siberia; a boat company on the Volga; and a tramway business in Odessa.

Prince Ivan paid his son a million rubles in gold per annum. This represented an enormous sum of money, especially for one so young. Mikhail—Misha to his intimates—began then to spend all his nights out, to entertain himself with the mad passion of the “golden youth,” and to spend a small fortune. His father wasn't exactly happy with this, but left him alone. First of all, it was his own money, not even money received through gift or inheritance, but money earned through his own work. Misha had the right to do what he pleased with his money. Furthermore, he furnished the business with an enormous load of work. Sometimes he didn't arrive home until seven in the morning, just in time to bathe, change, and read the newspaper in an armchair to freshen his mind. But never did his nights of sleeplessness prevent him from arriving at the office at nine on the dot, the first one there, his mind lucid, ready to make complicated calculations and solve difficult problems.

Then came the Bolshevik Revolution. Being so phenomenally rich, the Brasilovs started in Kiev, then went to Odessa, and finally ended up in the Crimea, once the summer paradise of many aristocratic families. From there, father and son were able to leave for Constantinople.

But, like many emigrants, they weren't able to take their fortune with them. Prince Ivan took only what he judged to be most important: four sacks of sugar beets. Arriving in France in 1921, he bought sugar plantations in the departments of the North and the Oise, and sold seeds to be planted. The sugar that resulted was far superior to the French sugar, and in 1923, Prince Ivan was awarded the French Legion of Honor for having bettered the French sugar beet by breeding it with the Russian. Then he and his son began to expand their business. They founded a Metallurgy Works that built large garages, storage areas, and factory hangars. Then they bought a sardine cannery in Brittany, a duck-liver factory near Bordeaux, a factory of silk stockings in Troyes, and a paper factory. Now they were solidly established, and, once more, money flowed through their pockets.

Like many entrepreneurs, the Brasilovs had benefited from the government policy of repaying for the war damages in the north and east of France. The business of buying and selling war-damaged properties had become a most complex affair. At each moment rules were modified, others withdrawn. Articles of law mounted up in the large register of the Ministry of Finance. Those who were interested consulted this ledger, and having reached the article they were looking for, stopped there. In the middle of building they suddenly found themselves in trouble with the government, for they hadn't known about modifications added after the article they'd supposed would be the last change.

Misha Brasilov was a thorough researcher. He read the ledger from A to Z, and studied it. If he needed Article 59, he continued beyond it. Often, at Article 123, he saw that the latter contradicted number 59 and erased it without even referring to it. With his prodigious memory, Misha kept all the articles on the tips of his fingers and never experienced difficulties. He and his father rebuilt two sugar refineries in the North and the Pas-de-Calais, and one in the Oise. He bought land to replant sugar beets. And this was how Prince Ivan came to receive the Legion of Honor. It gave the two men much cause for laughter, but nevertheless the head of the Brasilov Enterprises never failed to pin the distinguished red ribbon on his lapel when he was in full dress.

Now, Mikhail Brasilov was examining a paper containing the facts surrounding a newly purchased building damaged by war. They would have to reconstruct a sugar refinery in Ribécourt, in the Department of Oise. Because of some intricate specifications, they would have to use German material. In view of the huge war debt that Germany owed France according to the Treaty of Versailles, the French government had agreed to help put back in motion some of Germany's industry. But, Misha knew, there were few French contractors willing to go to Germany to bring back the raw materials. He pressed a button on a panel on his desk, and soon the door to the office opened and a middle-aged man in nondescript black clothes appeared.

“Your Excellency rang?”

“Yes, Rochefort. I'm stumped on the factory in Ribécourt. None of our usual suppliers will do. Any ideas?”

The secretary scratched his chin thoughtfully. Finally he said: “We don't deal with them usually, but perhaps this time ... I was thinking of Bruisson et Fils.”

Misha looked up, alert. “Bruisson? I've heard the name recently. Tell me about the firm.”

The secretary cast his eyes to the side, embarrassed. “They aren't so well thought of. Before the war, they were hardly known. The son—Claude, I believe his name is—he was very young then—served as a pilot during the war, and speaks fluent German. They've made a pile of money from war damages. I quite believe they'd be the ones for us to send to Germany. They have . . . few . . . scruples.”

Misha laughed. “Well, business is business. We don't have to invite them to dinner. Claude, you say? Young, fairly attractive? A social climber of the worst pretension?”

Rochefort half smiled. “Quite so, your Excellency. Though naturally Madame Rochefort and I do not associate with them personally.”

“I'm sure you don't. Not to worry. No one will force you to be seen in his company—Claude's. Nevertheless, get me the number. I shall ask him to come to the office. He'll be here within the hour.”

Rochefort executed a small bow, and departed. Misha shook his head, and chuckled. Then he laced his fingers together and laid his chin over the lacing, remembering. A beautiful, surprisingly beautiful young innocent—the sister. It had been a long time since he'd encountered that type. He'd thought he'd forgotten her, but now the memory returned.

Rochefort knocked on the door, and came in. He was holding a piece of paper. “The telephone number, your Excellency.”

“Thank you infinitely. It was a brilliant suggestion.”

Rochefort regarded him skeptically. “Brilliant, sir?”

Misha sighed. “A good idea. Send a memorandum to my father. . . .”

P
aul Bruisson was
of average size, but his embonpoint filled out every crease of his elegantly tailored navy blue suit. His double chin pressed out over his stiff collar, and his stomach strained the buttons of his white silk shirt. So, Misha thought, our contractor is the image of the prosperous French bourgeois. He didn't stand up, but motioned with a flip of his hand for the two men to sit in the large Louis XIII armchairs facing his oversize mahogany desk with its piles of neatly stacked documents.

Paul Bruisson was all smiles. He had a double chin and a fleshy mouth. Claude, however, was serious, almost somber. Dressed in a dark gray suit with vest, he appeared tall and brooding. His dark eyes were like his sister's, Misha thought, but without the kindness, the compassion. This man was hard.

Misha was fighting a strong desire to give in to the revulsion he was feeling. As a child, of the oldest Kiev nobility, he had been arrogant, and his mother had reprimanded him gently, but not too severely. “Let the boy know his place,” Prince Ivan had cautioned her. Later he had trained himself to overcome his antipathy for the lower classes. One had to work with them. One had also to work with the greedy old Jews from the Pale of Settlement, who would gladly have sold their mothers for a hundred rubles. Misha liked the cleanness and directness of his father, who smiled only when something pleased him, and who seldom made pretenses of anything. He was honest to the last kopek, to the last sou. But when he was angry, a towering, burning fury erupted from him. He wasn't a man of compromises. Prince Ivan was his son's best friend, and his exemplar.

On the other side of the human scale was Paul Bruisson. Misha was not a Frenchman, but he hated the Germans because of the stupid war that had killed millions of Russian men and made his own nation weak enough for the Bolsheviks to take over. He had seen the devastated lands in the north and east of France. How could a French patriot ever agree to go to Germany, then, even for the cause of business, after what that country had done to his people? Misha looked at the Bruissons cautiously, not to give away his feelings. He tried never to give them away. They were the only treasures worth holding on to.

The door swung open, and the erect figure of Prince Ivan appeared. Then Misha rose. His father was small, thin, angular, with a trim gray Vandyke beard, and, unlike Paul Bruisson's, his suit, made on Savile Row in London of the purest dove-gray flannel, fit exactly to the measure. His gray pearl cufflinks gleamed, matching the pin on his thin silk tie. “Gentlemen,” he said.

Immediately the Bruissons rose, proffering their hands. Prince Ivan ignored them, and chose a small chair near his son's desk. “My son tells me that you could handle the building of our factory in Ribécourt,” he said.

Paul Bruisson, his face red and beginning to show beads of unwelcome perspiration, nodded. “Our firm has built quite a few factories, of all types,” he said. His voice was sweetly unctuous.

Prince Ivan nodded. “I have seen the records. And whom would you send to Germany for the materials?”

Claude cleared his throat. “I would be the one, your Excellency. I speak fluent German.”

Misha was chewing on the left side of his lower lip, listening. “And you can select the best materials?” he asked.

Claude turned to him, and Misha was surprised to see the smug look on his face—almost a look of silent triumph. “Oh, most certainly, my dear Prince.”

Misha heard the words as if they were chalk grating on a blackboard. “My dear Prince.” It wasn't the first time Claude had called him that, instead of “your Excellency.” He'd used the words in front of the girl, at la Béhague's party. He focused his green eyes fully on the young man, and smiled. He knew how to make his lips smile alone, and the effect was chilling. “We always check,” he said evenly. “Nobody's word is good enough. If the factory is built wrong, we can lose a harvest. If we lose a harvest, we can lose a season. It's a game of dominoes. Don't ever forget that when dealing with us, Bruisson.”