Days of Winter (19 page)

“We’ll start tomorrow at ten,” he said.

They worked six days a week. And during the four months they worked together, Camail grew to admire Magda more and more.

Camail was not especially given to liking women. When his work failed to exhaust his energies, he usually made commercial arrangements with a number of women. Transactions, actually. What he admired most about Magda was her strength of conviction, her air of emancipation. She spoke little, was never temperamental, never late. She took directions as though she had modeled all her life.

One day he said, “The canvas is almost done. Will you come for supper tonight?”

“Yes.” She said it at once.

She arrived not one moment early, not one moment late. She was filled with curiosity as he led her into the salon. It was the first time she’d seen it. The grandeur took her breath away. It was filled with treasures from all over the world. The furniture was covered in silk and velvet, in a variety of colors, from cyclamen-pinks to light lemon-yellows. …Aubusson rugs … the ivories, jades, porcelains. …It was a fabulous room, a fabulous house. …Her eyes took in every object. From time to time her hands gently touched the surface of some object she found irresistible.

“I love it,” she said finally.

“You have good taste, Magda.”

“And the bad manners to admit it. …”

“Shall we have dinner first, or shall we make love?”

“Dinner first … I’m usually very hungry after.”

Magda lay back against the pillows and sighed with content. Camail outlined her cheeks … her nose … her lips, with the tip of his finger.

“You’re painting, Camail. Lie back and relax. …”

He obeyed. “Did you know I’d make love to you?”

Magda’s smile was borrowed from the Mona Lisa. “Did you think I’d resist?”

“Do you also read minds?”

“When they’re transparent.”

“But you love your husband …?”

“With
all
my heart.”

“Yet you’d still sleep with me?”

“What does one have to do with the other …? I have an affection for you. …But this is the first time I’ve slept with anyone since Rubin went away. …If he were home I would not be in your bed.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because my husband happens to be a very good lover who satisfies me. …Why should I look elsewhere? I’m a very sensual woman who has been without a husband for over a year.”

“And you’ve been able to abstain for that long?”

“Yes. I admit it hasn’t been easy. …” Magda started to the bathroom.

Camail continued. “This will be the beginning of a new—”

“This will be the beginning of nothing. But at least I had the
good taste
to choose you for my one infidelity. …” She closed the bathroom door. Camail laughed at and appreciated her candor—not to mention, damn it, her good sense.

I
T WAS THE NIGHT
Magda had waited for … a night to be savored like honey in the comb. She took one last look at herself in the triple mirror Camail had given her as a souvenir. …What she saw more than pleased her. The black satin coat was long and flowing but the dress beneath was strapless … molded to her body, eight inches off the floor. She and Mademoiselle Françoise had secretly plotted what a sensation it would be … perhaps beginning a new trend. Attaching the pearl choker around her neck, adjusting the diamond and emerald clip, Magda could scarcely take her eyes away from the elegant simplicity. Onto her wrist she slipped a diamond band, an emerald, then another diamond. She wore the large emerald ring, surrounded by diamonds, on her right hand, and on her left, below the gold wedding band, she placed the diamond and platinum band Rubin had bought her after their marriage. But the crowning glory was the black toque, encrusted with crystal beads in various sizes, which covered her hair completely. Each bead had been hand-sewn. As she shook her head gently from side to side, they seemed to dance with excitement.

She looked at herself once again. She’d never quite felt this way before. …Taking out the jeweled case from her evening bag, she filled it with gold-tipped cigarettes.

“Magda, you are
divine
.” It was Solange, in her four-year-old Mainbocher. She had refused to try to outshine Magda, knowing it was impossible in any case.

Before leaving, Magda went into the nursery and kissed her
petite poupée
. She held the child above her head as Jeanette kicked her legs. And as Magda lowered her back into the crib, she looked at the innocent eyes of her child. “Your mother, darling, is going to let all of London know we’re here. …”

Invitations to Camail’s private showing had been sent to the most important patrons and buyers in the art world, including royalty. The guest list was not as long as it was selective. And, of course, included were Hacks and Sassoons.

The Sassoons, however, could not attend. Harry Sassoon had died only a week before. Strangely enough, it wasn’t his heart; a chicken bone had lodged in his trachea. The Hacks, though, were not only eager to go to Camail’s showing but also genuinely wanted to see his latest works—they already owned four of his paintings. It was a gala affair.

No one knew the real Camail. He was many things to many people. He was in turn flamboyant … a man of mystery … a private person … a public person … an eccentric … an aristocrat. …He made shocking statements about art … and insulting statements about the people who bought it. He could be charming … unaffected. …No one seemed to know when he was pretending and when he wasn’t.

Camail had begun his career as a pauper from Belgium, with barely enough money to study in Paris. He was a renegade. He did things most artists wouldn’t do, both in his art and in his private life as well. Camail did not feel it was necessary to starve and suffer in order to create. Just the opposite …

God smiled upon some artists, and Camail was one of them. He wanted to be a fine painter, but he also wanted to be rich and famous, so he decided to live in London. His charm and ambition brought him into the most important homes. His sponsors were the old, influential dowagers of London. If he had to oblige them with a brief
affaire de coeur
he was only too happy to do so—so long as they supported his work. In a reasonably short time Camail was in demand. His work proved him a man of great talent; his fortitude made it pay off. Paintings by Camail brought enormous prices. He had become a master showman. He would sell only to those people who loved his work, thereby raising his price ever higher.

Yes, this affair was indeed fashionable. The white-gloved waiters moved among the guests with trays of champagne. One could almost forget the war. …All the paintings were splendid. However, one painting, not mentioned in the catalog, was shrouded in mystery. As the guests circulated, it was hidden from view by curtains.

The director of the gallery stood on a small platform and clapped his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, we welcome you to this show of paintings by Camail. One painting, however, was completed too late to be listed in the catalog. May I direct your attention to the artist, who will unveil it now …?”

Dressed in formal cutaway and white tie, Camail stepped onto the platform, smiling and bowing to his patrons. It was the moment everyone had been waiting for, the unveiling of a treasure. For one long moment, he paused, heightening the tension. The gallery was absolutely still. Then he pulled the silken cord. The blue satin draperies were drawn apart. In a simple gold-leaf frame, Magda’s perfect likeness came to life in the triple mirror, her back to the viewers. A collective gasp came from the spectators. …It was, quite simply, the most beautiful portrait in London. The audience was dazzled, stunned.

Then everyone began to talk at once. “She’s mine!” shouted a wealthy baron. “I’ll have her at any cost!” Other prospective buyers spoke up.

With perfect timing, Camail gestured for the real Magda to step out of the shadows, and she came proudly to Camail’s side. Taking her hand in his, he announced, “This is my model … the real Magda. …”

The spectators applauded, gasping once more. There could be no doubt Magda was sensational, in life and in art. The other Hacks were in shock. Sylvia had fainted. She was carried out by Maurice, followed by Matilda and Phillip.

Magda smiled at Solange. This is my revenge … my triumph, her eyes seemed to say. The painting is magnificent, it can hang in the Louvre. …But Solange wondered for a moment what Rubin’s reaction would be had he been there … except, of course, he wasn’t … and Magda had surely endured enough to be entitled to her triumph. Revenge …

The picture was to be placed in the window; the nameplate beneath it would read “MAGDA.” A spotlight would illumine it perfectly.

Camail was giving a small party at the Savoy. Tonight Magda was certain she would not be turned away … neither tonight nor any other night. She had not made “high” society, but the society she had made was good enough for her. She was seated between Camail and Count Alexis Maximov.

“… Camail and I met in Paris, more years ago than I care to remember.”

“Why are people so sensitive about age? How can a man be exciting and under forty?”

The count beamed; he was forty-six. “You are too young to know,” he said.

“I’m twenty. Why should I deny it?” She smiled back.

“When you’re … say … forty, then we’ll see.”

“When I’m forty, I’ll improve with age, like wine. Look at my aunt, the Countess.”

“You’re the only woman in this room.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind. …Tell me about your meeting with Camail.”

“We met at a ball in Paris. But let me take you to lunch tomorrow and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“No, I think not. But thank you for the invitation.”

“Will you forgive a very personal question?”

“Perhaps …”

“Are you Camail’s lady?”

“No. I am my husband’s lady.”

“I see. …You will forgive my boldness?”

“You’re forgiven. …Would you like to come to tea tomorrow?”

The Count beamed again. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Four o’clock?”

“Four o’clock.”

That night Magda lay awake and dreamed. …A whole new life had begun. …

The next morning the most important critic called
Magda
a masterpiece. The second most important critic called it a piece of pornography. The other critics were about equally divided.

Camail’s telephone rang early. It was Maurice Hack. He wanted to buy the picture. Price was no object. Quite simply, he had to have it. Camail was amused. He knew Maurice Hack would burn it. He assured Mr. Hack that this was one piece of art no one could buy.

Maurice persisted. “Everything has a price.”

“You’re mistaken, sir. …The truth is, I no longer own the painting.”

There was a long, long pause.

“To whom was it sold?”

“It wasn’t sold. …It was given away.”

“To whom? Perhaps the party would be willing to sell it … for a large profit. …”

“Would you sell a gift?”

Maurice responded quickly, “You’re right, of course. It’s just that my wife wants it so much—”

I’ll bet she does. …
“The painting I call
Magda
is a painting every woman would want … and every man. …Women will see themselves reflected in the portrait. …Don’t you agree?”

Maurice was not in a position to disagree, but he swore he would never buy another Camail painting. “I hope the recipient is deserving?”

“Oh, quite deserving … I gave the painting to my model. It was the least I could do. …Don’t you agree?”

But Maurice didn’t answer. He had turned white.

Camail hung up, laughing.

M
AGDA SAT WITH CAMAIL
to her right, Alexis to her left and Solange next to him. Across the table, Peter Scott’s mistress Pamela was seated between Camail and Peter. No one sat in Rubin’s chair at the head of the table. His name card was placed in front of the service plate, as were the others. It was New Year’s Eve, 1916.

Magda had received a letter from Rubin that morning. It had upset her so much her mind was still distracted.

“Delicious salmon, Magda,” said Alexis.

She saw him through a haze, having drunk more than usual.

“What’s delicious?” She started to get up.

“What can I do for you, Magda?”

She looked at him blankly, then intently. She was having trouble focusing her eyes. “What can you do for me? Can you bring my husband back, Alexis?”

He almost whispered, “I wish I had that power.”

“Then you can’t help me, but thank you for the offer. …Here, Alexis, let’s drink to your health.”

“To being your friend … when you have need of one.”

“I’ll drink to that,” she said, clinking glasses. “One always needs a friend.”

The mantel clock rang in the New Year … 1917. They hugged one another, kissed and wished each other the best of everything and a speedy end to the war.

Magda went in to see Jeanette. She whispered, “Happy New Year, my precious. …” When would Rubin ever get to see her? She lingered for a moment, then walked out to join her guests.

They listened to music on the victrola and drank champagne until three. Solange was the first to excuse herself. Then, gradually, the other guests left. Magda was hardly aware of what she said as she wished them all good night.

She shut the door and leaned against it, staring up at the ceiling. Then she took off her shoes and went to the kitchen to get a new bottle of champagne and a glass to take back to her room. On her way, she saw Alexis. For a moment, she couldn’t remember. Why was he still here? Hadn’t he left with the others …?

“I hope you don’t mind my staying on?” Alexis said.

“No … I’m grateful not to be alone. You’re my friend, and I need …Fix up the fire while I change. …”

“Would you like me to come to you?”

She looked at him. “No, that’s not necessary. You’re already here.”

She changed into a loose-fitting peignoir. Barefooted, she came back into the drawing room. Alexis was seated by the fireplace in the large brocade chair. Magda sat down on the floor beside him. “Tell me about your father and his boyhood friend, Count Leo Tolstoy. I love to hear stories about royalty. …”