Days of Winter (2 page)

In spite of the bitterness in her voice he repeated, “Yes … you are the most magnificent looking woman I have ever seen.”

She pursed her lips. “You’ve already imagined how magnificent I would be in bed … yes?”

Rubin ran his tongue around dry lips. “I’ve imagined all sorts of things this evening since I saw you for the first time.”

“You’ve been here all evening?”

“Yes …”

She laughed. “You found the vintage wine and the singing so exciting, so fascinating that you could not find the power within yourself to leave without paying me the homage all great artists deserve, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” she goaded him, “but you also have nowhere to go, you are lonely. Let me guess … you are a painter or a writer who has not been able to sell your work. You feel that I could help you through the night, am I right?”

“You are wrong. I am none of those things. My name is Rubin Hack, and my home is in London. I’m on holiday, and I have a room—”

“Ah,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “you have a room, you are English and speak French better than me. So I guessed wrong, it won’t be the first time. Life is full of little surprises.”

“You’re quite right, mademoiselle. If I had not wandered in here this evening, merely by accident, I might never have had the joy of seeing you perform—”

“However, you didn’t stay just to pay me compliments, you stayed because you thought it would be easy to share my bed … Don’t lie to me, I’ve known too many men since I was twelve. I pick and choose with whom I sleep. I’m not a whore, you know.”

Rubin bit his lip and looked away from the anger in her eyes. “I’ve obviously offended you, and I haven’t meant to. Forgive me. Please.”

She searched his face. When had anyone last begged
her
forgiveness? “Sit down, Rubin Hack.”

She looked at him as he sat across from her. There was something very different about this one, in spite of the studied Bohemian pose. He was not like the pigs she had met in her travels. She took a sip of wine. “I’m like a million other girls in Paris who have more than their voices to give … or sell. Tell me, Rubin Hack, honestly, why me?”

“If I did, would you believe me?”

She shrugged.” Perhaps … maybe your lies will sound more sincere than most—”

“I simply couldn’t leave without meeting you … speaking to you … hearing your voice for my ears alone—”

“Ah!” She laughed. “You are a poet.”

“No, I’m a barrister, and I have never been so affected by any woman in my life.”

She pursed her lips. “And what does that mean?”

“It means I was to be in Paris for a fortnight, but I am going home as soon as I can book passage.”

“Really? And why would you do that?”

“Because I can’t risk seeing you again.”

This time their eyes met. She had known men too long not to believe him. …He was more than fascinated with her. But then her eyes grew soft and for the first time she let down her defenses. …Rubin had evoked a feeling foreign and unknown to her.

More gently she said, “Out of simple curiosity, why, may I ask?”

“For the very unsimple reason that if I see you again I may not find the power inside myself to leave.”

“And what would prevent that? Are you married with ten children?”

“No, but I’m to be married,” he answered seriously.

“And your moral principles would not permit an
amour de coeur
.”

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s it.”

“And with your English upbringing you have never had an affair with a woman?”

“Not since my engagement, no. But at this moment, the decision not to see you goes beyond any principles.”

“Really?”

“Yes … in my fantasies you’ve already been in my arms, I’ve made love to you. But even when the fantasy passed I realized that what I wanted was to have you with me, I was jealous of the men who …It’s crazy, I don’t even know your name …”

She appraised him carefully. “My name is Magda. …Magda Charascu. I am Rumanian, a Jewess from Bucharest, and I wish to apologize for being so rude and sarcastic.”

“Please … please do not apologize. It is I who should do that, but in my desire to speak to you and my … well, I have been presumptuous.” The words tumbled out painfully.

Was it possible he did respect her? He certainly seemed to. But how little he knew about her. Magda laughed bitterly to herself.

She was playing the same game she had played a thousand times. The verbal fencing to keep a man from thinking that she could be taken easily … or cheaply. But Rubin had affected her physically. She
wanted
to sleep with him. She had from the first moment she had seen him. But
love
… hardly …Behind her façade she loved no man, no man was worth loving. But love had nothing to do with lust, of course not, so she took only from those she chose, and threw back the others—

Pierre coughed and cleared his throat. “It’s three o’clock, Magda.”

Magda got up, took one last sip of wine and said, “Come along, Rubin Hack, you may walk me home.
Bon soir
, Pierre, and turn off the light when you leave.”

“You tell me that every night.”

“And if I didn’t you’d forget.” Laughing as she left, with Rubin following, she first unlocked the front door, then shut and secured it behind them.

They walked six blocks in silence, then turned onto a narrow cobblestoned alley. After another few steps Rubin found himself walking up four rickety flights to Magda’s room. The door was unlocked. Opening it, she turned on the bedside lamp. A clothesline was stretched from one corner of her small disheveled garret to the next. She yanked down the line hung with stockings, a camisole, sheer panties, chemises, and threw them into a corner. Without apologizing for the unmade bed, the dressing table layered with dust, the cheap perfume and cosmetics, she motioned Rubin to sit in the battered, torn red velour chair.

Out of habit rather than modesty Magda stood behind the cheap silk printed screen and undressed, throwing her stockings, skirt and blouse over the top. Seconds later she emerged, dressed in a sheer wrapper through which Rubin could see the silhouette of her exquisitely slim body. Her breasts were firm and provocatively ample, with delicately distended nipples. It was impossible for Rubin not to look. She seemed so casually unaware, almost like a naïve child. She had the ability to make her body a natural thing, as unself-conscious as the statue of a Greek nude he had been so affected by at the Louvre. However, she was not a statue. …She was flesh and soft, and he wanted more than anything in his life to feel her suppleness yield underneath his body. To touch her, to explore the inner depths of her passion. Out of fear that he would be premature, he sat rigidly, holding himself back with all the discipline of which he was capable.

He watched as Magda went to the small cupboard and took out two glasses. “What will you have, absinthe or wine?”

“Wine.”

She handed the glass to Rubin, then lay down on the brass bed, propping the pillows as she sipped. There was an awkward silence between them. Finally Rubin asked, “How long have you lived in Paris?”

“For five years now, since I was fourteen.”

How incredible, Rubin thought, a child, a mere girl alone in a place like Paris. Of course, he had guessed how she had survived but it seemed that life had never touched her. Life is an illusion anyway, Rubin thought. We see what we want to see. …What’s real and what’s not lies in the eyes of the beholder, like beauty.

As though she were reading his thoughts, she said, “Don’t be curious about my life. It is no different from a million others. If you become hard enough you become strong enough not to let life beat you. Tomorrow or the next day you will be gone. What contribution could I make to your memories?”

“But you’ve already done that. I will never forget that I have met you.”

“Yes,
of course
.” She pursed her lips. “You will remember me as you remember what you had for dinner last Tuesday. I don’t feel like playing games this early in the morning. Do you have a cigarette?”

Rubin walked to the bed, sat on the edge and flipped the package. Magda took out a cigarette and put it in her mouth. She waited for Rubin to light it. He struck the match. His hand trembled. Magda watched the performance, then took his hand and guided it. She inhaled deeply, blew out smoke, clouding her face like a veil. “Do you want me so badly that you must act like a schoolboy visiting a bordello for the first time?”

“I want you as I have never wanted anything … or anyone in my life,” he told her, and meant it.

She reached for the ashtray and snuffed out the cigarette. Unhurriedly, she opened the front of her sheer wrapper and slipped out of it. Then she pulled the sweater over Rubin’s head, unbuttoned his trousers and slowly undressed him until he lay alongside her. Passionately, hungrily, he kissed her … explored her. And for Rubin it was as though he was entering a bottomless ocean of pleasure. The waves covered him with love, dissolving his want and need, and then … the sea became calm and serene, and the whole world was a nineteen-year-old woman named Magda.

She lay still beneath him now, her body damp and clinging, her face and hair moist with perspiration. She had given him all she had. It was enough. It had taken him beyond the stars.

She held his face in her hands, then ran them smoothly through his thick black hair and looked into his eyes. “Now you will have at least one memento to take home. I hope your bride will appreciate the fact that she is marrying a very extraordinary lover. Now go home, Rubin Hack. I’m tired and quite content—”

“I
love
you, Magda, please understand!”

Closing her eyes and moving away from him she said, yawning, “It’s like the measles. You’ll recover.”

“Magda, I know it’s too quick, but it’s time, I—”

Half opening her eyes, she looked at him, then smiled. “Go home, Rubin Hack. Not even God is worthy of instant love.” Rolling over onto her stomach, she fell into a deep sleep.

Rubin watched her for a long time. Then, unhurriedly, he quietly slipped out of bed. He glanced around the shabby room, overcome that this beautiful girl he had fallen so incredibly—yes, incredibly, but nonetheless true—in love with must live out her life in such a place. With sudden anger he opened the door, hating the injustices of the accident of her birth, and of his. That was all it was. Even God was partial … preferential. He gave so much to some, so damned little to others. What had Jocelyn, for example, done to deserve
her
abundance? Or Magda, to be thrown like so much garbage onto the heap of discarded humanity. …

Rubin walked in the gray-mauve dawn past the now deserted café, past Nôtre Dame cathedral, down the steep stone steps. Turning right, he followed the Seine, looking below at the derelicts sleeping along its bank.

It was a bitter, frustrated Rubin who unlocked his door. Once inside, he stood against the door and stared up at the ceiling. Turning, he pounded on the door until his knuckles were raw. Finally he went to the washbasin in the corner and stuck his head under the water tap.

When he felt the anger subsiding, he wiped his face and dried his hair. Lying down, he put his arm across his eyes, but the face of Magda was still there. Remembering, recalling the feel of her body next to his, was almost equal to the reality. Now that he had known her, how could he possibly leave? Where could he find the reservoir of strength never to see or touch her again? He buried his head in the pillow. Spent, exhausted, he fell into a restless sleep.

Later, opening his eyes, Rubin was startled to find that it was dusk. Though he had slept for many hours, he awoke with the same heavy fatigue. His first conscious thoughts were sequels to the other ones—all of Magda. Still, he knew there was no out for him, no other course for him but to go home … it was his only salvation before he became too self-involved … if he stayed in Paris, there would be absolutely no turning back. …He was not a man of middle ground. With all the will, tenacity, he was still able to command he quickly got up, washed, changed clothes and packed, simply throwing his belongings into the valise. His hand poised on the door knob, he took one long look around the room and thought of the last few days. …

He had arrived in Paris with the love of one woman. A woman he thought he loved, or at least had sufficient affection for to take as his wife, to be the mother of his children. But now he was leaving with a deep, crazily obsessive love for another woman.

He had never, of course, thought of Jocelyn in terms of great passion. She was simply a lovely young woman, altogether worthy of bearing the Hack name, perhaps adding to it. She fit so well into the pattern of his preordained life. The prospect of taking her as his bride had never been questioned in the past. But time had nothing to do with falling in love. He knew one thing: in his life he would never forget Magda nor love anyone else that way. …He picked up his valise and hurried out, taking two stair steps at a time, until he reached the street.

After paying the driver, Rubin got out of the taxi in front of the Gare du Nord. He walked into the station and bought a ticket. Sitting down on a wooden bench, he waited for the train that would take him to Calais, where he would board a ship to cross the channel to Dover, then take a train to London where his journey would end at Victoria Station. And Magda would be lost.

Rubin sat, his body wrapped in numbness, watching but not seeing the travelers coming and going. A sudden thought nudged him back to reality. He had not only neglected to write Jocelyn, but his family as well, so they would not be expecting him to arrive home until Thursday of next week. Looking at his watch, he found there was time to send a cable. Getting a form from the clerk inside the small enclosure, he began to write an inane, contrived message to explain why he was leaving so soon. He knew they would be surprised at his rapid departure, since Paris had always been his joy and a holiday he looked forward to each year. Reading the cable to himself, he knew it was impossible, tore up the message, and walked hurriedly out of the station, forgetting about the ticket he had just purchased. He hailed a taxi, which led him back to Magda. …