Tempting Fate (32 page)

So you’ve got the vote now, too. Well, at least you do when you’re old enough. Looks as if the Suffragettes were right all along. You better start paying attention to everything those men in Washington are saying. You’re going to need to keep up with it, or they’ll keep on giving themselves carte blanche to everything they want. And I’m not making that up, Audrey.

The Hungarians have some hard feelings about the way the Treaty of Trianon has turned out. The whole country was chopped up and parceled out, so that there’s only about a quarter of it left that’s still called Hungary. So far there haven’t been any serious repercussions, but that’s exactly the kind of high-handed thing that will bring about a lot of bitterness.

That war is still going on in Russia, and we’ve been told that they’ve also got famine. What a terrible thing for those poor people. They just get out from under the Czar, thinking that there’s a chance for a better deal at last, and every crackpot from the Ukraine to Siberia starts trying to swipe a bit for himself. With famine they can’t afford to keep fighting. I hope they don’t try.

Crandell tells me that there’s a group of men in Pittsburgh who want to start a radio broadcasting station. That sounds really exciting. There’s going to be a lot of radio used in the future, at least it looks like that to me. People like radio, or the wireless, as the British have been calling it. Give it time, and it will expand a lot. Remember, forty years ago, everyone thought automobiles were nothing more than dangerous toys and no one would ever find a real use for them.

When I’m back in Paris, I’ll pick up some perfume to send you. There’s a new one out called Chanel No. 5, and according to one woman I talked to, it’s wonderful. How would you like real French perfume for Christmas? You’re getting old enough for that by now. The way things are going, you might not have it until Easter, but I’ll try to send some off to you. You can tell me what you think of it.

The desk just buzzed me. I’ll finish this later.

de Montalia

September 19, 1920

It’s been six days since I wrote to you. I did intend to come back to the room, finish the letter, and put it into the mail. But there was a telegram for me, in answer to one I’d sent. It was an invitation to visit this estate, not just to do a piece on it, but for other things.

You’ve got to keep this part of the letter private. Burn it if you think you won’t be able to. I know I shouldn’t be telling you anything about this, but if I don’t tell someone, I’ll fall apart. And who else would even want to understand?

The woman who owns this place—there’s a château and a good-sized bit of land attached to it—had me here once before. Had me, that’s apt. She’s from an old family, obviously aristocrats. Not that she plays that up; in fact, she says very little about it. Her name is Madelaine. I might have mentioned her before. She looks to be about nineteen or twenty, but she says that she’s older, and though she has that young face, I believe her. She knows too much for a kid.

You know how we used to talk, years ago, about what it might feel like to make love to someone? I don’t think I was more than eleven then, but I had to be, didn’t I? You’re ten years younger than I am, so I had to be almost fifteen when we talked. Neither of us knew much except from watching the cows being serviced. I’d heard some things from other guys, but even then I didn’t believe too much of it. And then, at the end of my junior year in high school (I never told you about this) I finally got Becky Hartford to let me have her. We were pretty careful, and damned lucky. Nothing much happened from it, and after a little while she decided she didn’t like me. Don’t go spreading it around that I was first with Becky; her husband wouldn’t like to hear that about his wife, and I don’t think she’d be the kind of woman I’d want to sleep with now. Anyhow, since then, I’ve been around a bit. Don’t worry. I don’t make a practice of seducing virgins. There’ve been a fair number of women, but none of them until now was what you’d call special. Most of them were just efficient, if you follow me.

God, I wish there was someone other than you to tell about this. You probably don’t want to read about me and Madelaine. But I can’t talk to the journalists I know: they wouldn’t believe me, for one thing, and for another, most of them would laugh at it, and I couldn’t stand that.

You know, when I came here the first time, Madelaine showed me a lot more than simple hospitality. No, that’s not right. It sounds like something that takes place in a cheap French novel, the kind they won’t let you send through the mail, and it wasn’t anything like that at all. I’ve never had an experience like the one with her. It wasn’t only that she knew what to do in bed, but there was so much more to it. You read a lot about the tricks Frenchwomen know, and there are always rumors about very exotic practices. Madelaine has a few maneuvers I never heard about before. That still sounds as if she’s one of those proficient, athletic women who treat their beds as some kind of private circus. She’s not that kind at all. Her skills are the way she makes the rest of it more wonderful.

When I’m with her, she’s all there is in the world. Nothing else is real. Nothing else matters. It isn’t just a question of feeling happy, or spending so completely that it’s as if you’re in heaven, or taking hours and hours to find out how a touch truly feels, and what it does to you. It’s much more than that. Telling you the colors in it and the subject matter doesn’t show you the painting, and that’s an easy task compared to this. I can’t begin to explain it—what a terrible confession for a journalist to make.

As you can see from the heading, I’m back at her estate now, and since I’ve been here, she’s come to my bed twice. She refuses to spend every night with me, though I’ve pleaded with her to do so. She says it would not be a good idea, and that if I persist, she’ll ask me to leave. I can’t bear the thought of not being here again, being with her. If you knew what it was like to be loved this way. And honestly, Audrey, I hope you do. I hope with all my heart that someday you find someone who can banish the world with a kiss. That looks corny, doesn’t it? But that’s the way it can be. It’s that way with Madelaine. Our mouths touch, a little bit open, and she melts up against me, her head not even up to my shoulder, she’s such a little thing. There’s nothing else but the two of us then.

Last night she let me carry her up to my bedroom (and you should see the place; I feel as if I’m in a royal suite). Holding her in my arms as I walked, I could have gone around the world. It was like floating, or being joyously drunk. She’s not a featherweight, of course, but a real woman, one you can get a hold of and know you’ve got something. The way her body fitted next to mine, it was better than a chorus in harmony. She never hurries, or complains, or draws back. When we’re together in bed—completely together—she does such things to me that often I’m afraid I’ll faint or become so totally happy that I’ll go crazy.

She’s been away from France for almost a year. Believe it or not, she’s an archeologist, and spends a lot of time digging up ruins. As you may have heard, there’s been more trouble in the Middle East, and her expedition was sent home as a precaution. I know that she’s planning to go again as soon as she has the opportunity, and I dread the day that happens, because it will be months, perhaps years before I can see her again. I wish I could talk Crandell into letting me go with her, and report on what it’s like to go out into the middle of the desert and dig up a ruin.

This morning she scolded me because I was forgetting all the things I have to do, all my plans. She’s right; I know that. Sooner or later (and it had better be sooner if I want to keep my job on this side of the Atlantic) I’ll have to go back to interviews and stories. The
Post-Dispatch
doesn’t want a journalist hiding out in the mountains making love all day.

It’s so wonderful being with her, seeing the way she smiles. Her eyes are the color of violets. She’s got dark brown hair, about the same shade as strong coffee, and the glints in it are yellow as topaz. I can’t help writing about her this way, and I wouldn’t change if I could. She’s the sort of woman who
should
have poetry and music written to her, and flowers named after her.

Her butler is going down to Digne to send off some packages, so I’d better finish this and let him mail it for me. Remember, this last part you’ve got to keep to yourself, Audrey. I hope it doesn’t shock you too much. If it does, I’m sorry. Whatever you do, don’t show it to your parents. I don’t think they would understand. I wrote them a letter a couple of weeks ago, so they’re pretty much caught up on me, except for this last part. They probably won’t have too many questions. If they do, read them the first part, and leave it at that.

You take care of yourself. No more sprained ankles now that school’s started, all right? And don’t worry so much about your grades; you’re smart. You’ll do fine.

I wish I could stay here forever, but my next letter will probably come from Genoa. C’est la vie.

Your loving cousin,

James

5

For the last three days it had been raining; the steady, unrelenting downpour washed the mountains, filling the brooks with mud-tinged water, finding new runnels everywhere. The forest smelled of loam and mold and wet. Only on the higher peaks was there the first dappling of snow, and it made itself felt far into the valleys in the breath of the wind that came off it. Everywhere there were fears of a severe winter, for although the rain was quite usual for November, the snow was not.

Schloss Saint-Germain, its exterior repairs and extensions completed, was snug enough and kept pleasantly warm by Ragoczy’s ingenious arrangements of flues and fireplaces. When, on this Thursday morning, Simeon Schnaubel ventured to compliment him on it, Ragoczy dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand.

“You forget that I lived in Russia for a considerable time, and there the winters are markedly worse than here. You will find houses there with walls more than a meter thick and three ranks of narrow windows. I learned much from the Russians, not the least of which was how to keep a house warm in the most frigid weather.” He did not add that most of what he had incorporated into his Schloss was a system that he himself had developed and had shared with his Russian friends.

“I may try something similar with my own house,” Simeon remarked as he reached for his muffler, looking a trifle sheepish because his brief visit had run far longer than he had anticipated. “It would make such a difference just now. Poor Olympie has a cold—she’s very susceptible to them—and Amalie … well, you know what women are when they’re pregnant.” He stopped, recalling that he was talking to an unmarried man. “That is, you might…”

“My dear Simeon, although I have no wife, nor children of my body, I assure you that I do indeed know what women are like when they’re pregnant. How long will it be until she is delivered?” They were in Ragoczy’s library, near the large fireplace so that they could take advantage of the two huge logs blazing there. A silver coffee service stood on one end table, and there was a single used cup balanced on the arm of the chair Simeon had just vacated.

“Three more months. Her physician believes it will be in the first week of February. After four children, I shouldn’t be apprehensive, but…” He wrapped his muffler around his neck and reached for his overcoat, which was draped over the back of one of the other chairs. “I suppose no father is ever completely sanguine at these times.”

“Very likely not, unless he has no feeling for the woman, or the child,” Ragoczy said, rising to walk to the door with his guest. “You’re really very fortunate in your family, Simeon.”

“Yes,” he agreed with undisguised pride.

Ragoczy opened the door and held it while Simeon stepped into the hallway. “You mentioned that you had a cancellation of work. Would you care to tell me about it?”

Simeon stared, surprised. He had told his host a bit about this most recent difficulty when he arrived but purposely had not dwelled on it. “It’s a misunderstanding, Mein Herr, nothing more.”

“Perhaps you will allow me to be the judge of that?” He fell into step beside Simeon.

“Oh, it’s not that important…” Simeon began, trying to change the subject.

“Then you should not object to telling me about it.” Ragoczy gave Simeon a wry smile. “Yes, I am fully aware that you would prefer not to tell me, but believe me, I do not ask merely to cause you embarrassment. Just as you are regarded as a foreigner by some because of your religion, so I am regarded, because I am. You will do me a service if you will let me know what happened.”

Simeon spoke awkwardly. “You make it sound as if refusal would be churlish. Very well. I had been commissioned by the Gletscher Gipfel Gasthof to design an addition to their inn, keeping the style in the traditions of Bayern. They wanted the balconies and the turned wood balustrades, the deep-set windows … you’ve seen the mountain houses, you know what they’re like. This would be more of the same, but on a larger scale. We had progressed to the stage of secondary designs, and I assumed we were in accord, but when I drove up to the inn last week, Herr Steilufer informed me that he was not convinced that I would be able to do the job that was wanted, as my family came from Hesse. He said that he had been in contact with another man from München, and they were discussing plans.” He was astonished to hear how angry he sounded. “I beg your pardon, Herr Ragoczy. I had no justification to speak to you in this way.”

“You had every justification,” was the calm answer. “I share your indignation, since I am sure that neither of us is naive enough to assume that Herr … is it Steilufer? spoke the truth.”

“I have no proof that he had any motive but the one he gave me. I cannot fault a man for regional pride.” He said this as if to convince himself, as he had several times already. “It may be that the remarks of the men who drink at the Hirsch Furt have upset me more than I know.”