Tempting Fate (53 page)

“Then, to the good ship
Seabird
,” Phillippe said, and raised his glass to Irina.

“To the
Seabird
,” she echoed dutifully, and sipped with guilty delight. It was, as Madelaine had warned them, not very good champagne, but the sharp taste was welcome in the warm afternoon. The bubbles skittered in her nose, making her fear she might sneeze.

“Thank you, Madame,” Phillippe said to Madelaine as he lowered the glass. He had barely touched the wine, not wanting to offend his hostess. She was so young to be serving them, he decided. If she were his age, like Madame Ohchenov, then it would be easy to accept the hospitality that Madelaine was offering. “I’m not used to wine in the afternoon.”

“And you a Frenchman,” Madelaine teased him. “All the more reason to enjoy it. If you don’t, Sophie will probably get tipsy on it.”

“That’s true,” Irina said unexpectedly. “Sophie is a fine maid-of-all-work, but she does like her wine.” She stared down into the glass and then hastily lifted it to her lips and let the champagne fill her mouth.

“I wonder if what the
Seabird
carried in her hold was half as refreshing as this,” Phillippe said in what he hoped was a playful tone.

“Probably not,” Madelaine said. “From what I understand, the Greeks and the rest of them used resins in their wine then as they do now, and I doubt there was much aging done. Saint-Germain would probably know,” she added.

Irina stared at her. “Why should he know that?”

Madelaine realized her error at once, and let herself be flustered. “He knows so much,” she said with some confusion. “I’ve rarely seen him at a loss.”

“Who is this?” Phillippe inquired as he downed the last of his glass and considered asking for more.

“By all means, Monsieur Timbres,” Madelaine said with a nod toward the wine bottle. “It won’t keep.” Then she answered his question. “Saint-Germain is … a blood relation.”

“An all-knowing uncle?” he suggested as he poured out another glass and refilled Irina’s. He feared he was being unwise, but could not bring himself to leave the house. How had Madelaine contrived to remain so youthful? She had suffered great privations during the Great War, he knew that better than many. At the very least she was approaching thirty, and still she had the look of a schoolgirl. The questions continued to nag him, and he wished that he knew Madame Ohchenov better and was able to discuss the matter with her.

“Not precisely,” Madelaine said. It was possible to envy Irina. It had been so long since she had gone to that room in Hôtel Transylvania!

“Are you troubled?” Irina asked, as Madelaine got up impatiently from her chair.

At once she remembered herself. “No, of course not I am anxious to get to work on the tablets. No, not yet. You are tired, and so am I. In the morning our heads will be clearer and we will start fresh. It is not wise to rush these things.”

“My head will certainly be clearer,” Irina declared recklessly. “And possibly it will be sore as well. I’ve got out of the habit of drinking.” Her tone was now oddly chastened. “The champagne is lovely.” There was very little left in her glass, and she doubted it would be wise to have more.

Phillippe was almost as cautious as Irina. “The bottle is almost empty. Would you mind if we did not drink.…”

Madelaine shrugged. “Do as you wish. I hardly intended the wine as a penance. It is for you to enjoy.” There was a touch of sadness in her face as she spoke, and then she got to her feet From the faint color in Irina’s face, the champagne was affecting her. Madelaine went to the door and opened it “It’s growing cooler. The sun is going down.”

“So soon?” Irina said, her Russian accent blurring with her French.

“It is getting on,” Phillippe agreed as he consulted his pocket watch. “In half an hour at the most, I must be gone.”

“I hope you will come again another time,” Madelaine said as she looked at him steadily. “And it may be you will bring us good luck again.”

“If that is what you want of me,” Phillippe murmured as he set down his wineglass and bowed over Madelaine’s hand.

She did not answer him and her smile was enigmatic. When Phillippe released her hand, she went to Irina. “Let me take the glass.”

“It may be best. I fear it’s gone to my head.” The heightened rosiness of Irina’s complexion gave witness to this as well as dispelling the pallor that had become so much a part of her. Her eyes sparkled and there was a lightness about her that had been missing for a very long time.

“Would you like me to walk to the corner with you?” Madelaine asked, unable to subdue the impish smile that plucked the corners of her mouth and nudged two small impressions that were not quite dimples into being.

“I’m able to manage,” Irina said grandly.

Phillippe caught the quick request in Madelaine’s eyes and intervened. “I will be happy to walk to the corner with you, Madame Ohchenov. I am going that way in any case.” He was rewarded by the increasing warmth in Madelaine’s eyes.

When Irina and Phillippe were gone, Madelaine sat in her darkening living room, her head resting on her arm, which lay on the back of the sofa. She told herself that she was waiting for Phillippe, although she doubted he would return that night. Was it kindness that had led her to force the other two into each other’s company, or was it caprice? Saint-Germain had warned her of how disastrously easy it was to think of humanity as toys, things to amuse you with their clever antics. She did not think that was why she had served the champagne and watched Irina and Phillippe fall under its spell. Yet her motives, she admitted, were not entirely noble. It had been entertaining to see how those two rudderless lives had responded to the opportunity she provided; that was true enough, but her feelings were not derisive. That lightness of spirit Irina and Phillippe had experienced was not entirely due to the wine, and, recognizing that, Madelaine felt her alienness acutely. She could, if she tried, still remember what the warm glow of champagne felt like, but it was far in her past and it was beginning to fade.

She leaned back and stared out through the window at the dusk-blue sky. She could feel the giddy pulse of Paris begin to race, filled with a thousand kinds of drunkenness. Madelaine longed for the company of Saint-Germain, as ultimately unsatisfying as it was. His hard-won compassion would give her comfort she had from no other, and her profound sense of separateness would be forgotten for a while.

There was soft laughter from one of the buildings across the street: Madelaine turned to listen to it, to the abandon of it, and wished, briefly and searingly, that she could share the intoxication of the lives around her.

There was, she reminded herself as she got up from the sofa, one rapture, one delirium left to her. She hoped it would sustain her.

Text of a letter from James Emmerson Tree to his cousin Audrey.

La Caccia, near Pisa

Italy

July 4, 1924

Dear Audrey:

I’m staying at a very pleasant inn today, and tomorrow I am supposed to leave for Rome, that is assuming that I have permission to travel and the proper credentials, I had to ask Crandell for special letters in order to convince these people that I’m not going to do anything to their precious Bennie. The Fascisti take this all very seriously and I don’t have much choice but to go along with it. There’s just been some sort of law passed that imposes strict censorship on the Italian press and I suppose they’re trying to make it stick for foreigners as well. If that’s the case, this could turn out to be a wasted trip. What Crandell is hoping for is a new slant on the murder of Giacomo Matteotti, and since the chances are pretty good that the Fascisti did it, they probably won’t be very helpful. Matteotti wrote a book about the Fascisti, exposing their various illegal and violent acts, and they’re the ones who have the most reason to shut him up. Now that they’re in power, they’re not going to let bad news out. That Mussolini is an odd one. Half the time he struts around like a turkey cock that no one would ever take seriously, and the rest of the time he maneuvers like Machiavelli.

After I leave Italy, which could be in a couple days, the way things are going, I’m going to try to get into Austria and Germany. Everyone’s holding their breath about the new German currency. This Dawes Plan, if it works, could make the difference there, but I don’t know that simply renaming the money will make that much of a change. The plan will go into operation in September, I think, and so far things appear to be fairly stable, but it’s really too soon to tell. They’ve boosted the taxes outrageously, and I don’t know if the German people will be prepared to keep paying so much, especially after what they’ve been through the last few years. I understand that last year it cost 400,000 marks for a streetcar ticket. The Rentenmarks have been accepted so far, and once the Reichsmarks come in, they might be able to make it stick. I know that some of the government is all for investing in the synthetic-petroleum program that the Farben cartel is sponsoring, among others. There’s a man named Bosch at Farben who is all for it, but investments right now are very dicey, as my British colleagues say. Still, there’s no doubt that they’re at the top of the chemical heap, and they’ll probably stay there unless they run out of money.

Thayer was over last month, and we had dinner in Paris. I’ve mentioned him before—he’s the guy who acts as Crandell’s courier. He bought one of those new Oakland automobiles and says it’s fine. He’s been offered a job with that new paper in New York, the
Herald Tribune,
and he’ll probably take it. After a bottle of good young Beaujolais, all he wanted to do is sing “Yes, We Have No Bananas” at the top of his lungs, so I’m not much up on what’s been happening back at home. Those magazines you’ve been sending me help a lot, and if I haven’t thanked you for them, I ought to. I’m glad you’re sending me fiction magazines, too. If you can pick up a few more copies of
Weird Tales
, I’d really like those.

Speaking of newspapers,
Le Figaro
is being bought by François Coty, a Corsican. You know the kind of luck France has had with Corsicans. I don’t know about that guy. He sounds a lot like Mussolini and those right-wing Germans.

You might not have been following what’s happening in Russia since Lenin’s death. They’ve got a triumvirate going on, in the old Roman fashion. Stalin, Kamenev, and Zinoviev are the three. It’s too soon to tell how that will turn out, but as I recall, the triumvirate didn’t fare too well in Rome, Russia may look like it’s settling down, but I wouldn’t bet on it, not until Trotsky is either in power or out of the picture completely. This latest ploy with China will bear some watching. Much as I want to be first with a big story, Russia is one place I’m in no hurry to go to get it.

I don’t know if you’ll get a chance to see
Greed,
but if you can, do. Renoir knows what he’s doing, and I liked this a great deal. It’s better than Munrau’s
Nosferatu
I told you about last year. I haven’t seen Leni’s
Waxworks
yet. I’ll let you know about it when I do. You said that you don’t get too many European flicks in Denver. That’s a pity. Griffith is okay and Ford looks pretty good, but they do things differently over here. There’s a wider range. That means when they’re awful, they’re hideous, but when they’re good, they’re amazing. Some of these directors pull off a triumph one year and fall on their faces the next, and it doesn’t seem to change things. Can you picture Walsh doing
Doktor Mabuse?
It’s possible that one of the reasons is that filmmaking isn’t centralized in Europe and it looks as if it’s turning out to be in America. And when you think of how little Europe is, the diversity is impressive.

How are things going toward rounding up the Ashley gang? We keep hearing rumors that they’re almost caught, and the next thing you know, they’re playing hell with Florida again. I was told—Thayer told me before he got onto the Beaujolais—that this time they really are going to be put out of business.

Who is this Jerry you’ve been seeing? He sounds to me a bit too slick. If he’s all that attentive, what does he expect? And if he doesn’t expect the usual thing, why is he doing it? I know this looks as if I don’t want you to enjoy yourself, and after what I’ve told you about Madelaine and me, you probably think I’m a spoilsport. But it’s because of Madelaine and me that I’m warning you. Look, Audrey, there are a lot of men in the world who don’t know that they can have more than one kind of relationship with a woman. Most of the men I know take something offered. Or they buy it. And they don’t always go to the professionals to buy it. You tell me that Jerry always brings you presents, and they’re expensive presents sometimes. What does Jerry want in return for his presents? Does he want to marry you, and he thinks you have a purchase price, or he has to impress you that he’s well enough off to afford a wife? Does he want to make love to you, never mind marriage? Those aren’t easy questions to ask you, and you probably don’t want to answer them, but better now than later. Does he think that if he gives you enough, you won’t be able to ask anything but presents of him? You say he won’t allow you to do anything for him: well, Audrey, honey, that isn’t as flattering as you seem to think it is. Does this Jerry really think you’re helpless, or does he want to make you that way? You say that Bella Jennings is jealous. Why?

You’re probably ready to tear this letter up, and I guess I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I make a fine example, don’t I? I’m almost thirty-one and still single, running around Europe for a living. And, of course, having an occasional mistress who’s part of the old French nobility. That makes me a fine one to give you advice, doesn’t it? But believe it or not, I might be the best person to talk to. Don’t let this guy bribe you or railroad you into something you don’t want. You can tell him no, Audrey. Let me ask you one last, very crude question: do you want to lie down and let this Jerry inside you? Because if you don’t, it might be better to look around for someone else. And if you tell me that sex isn’t on his mind, then you ought to find out what is.