The House of Dreams (13 page)

“No, we just felt like a quiet night in, didn't we, Dago?” The dog pricked up his ears at the mention of his name. “It amuses me that Varian thinks I am such a good-time girl. I'm never happier than when I'm by myself.” She shrugged and swirled the drink in her glass. “Besides, Raymond has been arrested.”

“Arrested?” Miriam sat up in her chair. “What for?”

“Desertion. Forging his demob papers—”

“Oh no, Mary Jayne, I warned you!”

“Please don't say you told me so.” She couldn't look Miriam in the eye. “I can't bear it. They have him locked up in the Fort Saint-Nicolas awaiting trial.”

“What will happen to him?”

“I can't let him rot in jail.”

“Please think clearly, darling—”

“I don't care what any of you think of him,” Mary Jayne challenged her. “I don't care that he's done wrong.”

Miriam whistled softly. “You're in love with him, aren't you?”

“No. I … It's madness, I know, to fall for someone like Raymond.” She sat on the edge of the bed and held her glass to her cheek. “I can't see us settling down with a white picket fence anytime soon, can you?”

“Oh, Mary Jayne…”

“I know what I'm doing.”

“No, you don't.”

Mary Jayne's mouth twitched, a small smile. “He makes me feel alive. Really alive, for the first time in years.” She took a sip of her drink. “Perhaps I've met my match.”

“No, you're better than that.”

“You are a darling.” Mary Jayne looked at her. “I know it's crazy. I feel quite mad, having sleepless nights over some boy.…” She stared down at her hands. “I can't abandon him. There's a side to him he never shows, you know. Beneath that tough-guy exterior there's a good and brave heart. I believe in him. When we are alone together…” Her words trailed off as she thought of Raymond. She felt a warmth bloom deep in her, a heat rising. Mary Jayne shook her head and laughed. “Don't you dare tell him any of this.”

“Okay, okay,” Miriam said, backing down. “You're going to need to hire a damn good lawyer.”

“I've done it already.”

“Does he know who to bribe?”

“Of course,” Mary Jayne said. “Come on. Why don't you give me a hand to squeeze this lot into my suitcases, and then I'll take you out for a late supper.”

“Wonderful. I haven't had a chance to stop for a bite all day. The office has been bedlam.” She began to neatly fold Mary Jayne's clothes, handing them to her. “Is the chest of drawers empty?”

“Yes, I think so. I never really settled in.”

“Do you ever?” Miriam laughed. “You're like a wild bird, following the snow and the sun in your little airplane.”

“God, I miss that freedom.”

Miriam slid open the top drawer. “Look, all your jewelry, and you've got a new pack of silk stockings in here!” She offered the stockings to Mary Jayne as if she were holding a priceless work of art. Mary Jayne saw the longing in her eyes.

“You take them, darling.”

“I couldn't!”

“Take them for your trousseau. Give Rudolf a thrill.” She quickly cleared the drawers, tossing jewelry boxes carelessly onto the top of the suitcase.

“If I ever get to Yugoslavia.”

“You will,” Mary Jayne said, embracing her. “Your visas will come through, and you will rescue that man of yours, and live happily ever after when you escape to America.”

“It all seems impossible sometimes.” Miriam hugged the packet of stockings to her chest. “Thank you. I love them.”

“And I'm sure Rudolf will appreciate your wedding present. Now, what am I going to wear out?” Mary Jayne looked down at her pajamas.

Miriam clipped on Dagobert's lead as Mary Jayne dressed. “Do you feel like heading out to the Pelikan to see who's around?”

“Sure. We might get a bit of news from the U.S. consulate.”

Miriam sat on the bed and opened one of the red leather jewelry boxes. A diamond brooch gleamed, light refracting across the wall. “This is lovely.”

“My grandmother's.”

“Is it safe, darling, leaving all these lying around?”

“You mean with Raymond?”

“I don't mean to pry. I'm just worried about you.” Miriam clicked the box shut and tucked it into the suitcase.

“They have sentimental value, more than anything.” Mary Jayne looked at her reflection in the mirror. “Daddy gave me most of them, before he died.” She adjusted the neckline of the blue wool dress she had chosen, tucking the silk strap of her slip away. “It's funny, isn't it, how unimportant things become when you are running for your life. When we fled Paris after the invasion, I left most of my luggage on the side of the road to Toulouse. I can't even remember now what was in the trunks.”

“Some of us didn't have much to leave behind in the first place.”

“Just you wait, once all this is over I'm sure you will have a darling home full of beautiful things, and hordes of children.”

“So will you.”

“Me?” Mary Jayne picked up a hairbrush. “No, I don't think so. I can't imagine choosing a life like that.”

“You know you're going to have to make a choice, though, don't you?”

Mary Jayne brushed out her golden hair and put a slick of red lipstick on, rubbing her lips together. “A choice?” she said, spritzing Chanel No. 5 into the air and walking through the mist. “Come, Dago,” she said, taking the lead from Miriam.

“Varian and the committee can't risk someone like Raymond having any connection with their work here. It's too dangerous.”

“You mean I'll have to choose between Raymond and the ARC?” Mary Jayne locked the door and tossed the key into her clutch bag.

“Darling, it's extraordinary how much you have helped with the Gold List, but if you stay with Raymond, you know the committee will just see you as some kind of gangster's moll. You know the types he's involved with.”

“I'd rather that than be at Varian's beck and call.” She marched ahead, Dagobert trotting at her heels as they walked out into the corridor and down the sweeping staircase to the lobby.

“Do think about it. The work we are doing here counts. It really counts. I'd just hate to see someone like Raymond taking advantage of you.” Miriam took her arm as they reached the lobby. “Do you really love him that much?”

“Perhaps I don't know what love is,” Mary Jayne said finally. “But this is turning out to be quite some year for a nice girl from Evanston.”

 

SIXTEEN

F
LYING
P
OINT
, L
ONG
I
SLAND

2000

G
ABRIEL

“Gabriel,” Sophie says. “Gabriel.” She tugs at my sleeve and I snap back to now, to the clear blue sky above me and the white sand beneath my feet. “I read that after the New Year's party in Paris you and Vita were inseparable. Is that when your relationship started?”

“I suppose you could say it was.” See, it's not a lie, as such.

“You don't look so good. Are you getting tired?” Sophie asks me.

“A little.” My hand's shaking as I reach for my breast pocket. Damn, I've forgotten my tablets, too. I'd wanted to enjoy a last lunch with a clear head before we closed up the house for the season, and I didn't want to feel woozy looking after the little one. The kids have decided that we are too old to spend another winter out here. What do they know? I can still walk to Marv's place or heat up a can of soup when we're hungry. Which isn't often these days.

The sun is dazzling on the sea, the white deserted sand. We must look like a couple of chess pieces walking along—the white king facing the black queen. Some days, when the beach is empty like this, the sense of space is so infinite, I swear you can see the curvature of the earth on the horizon, the suggestion of a perfect circle. Maybe that's why my paintings lately have all been arcs and lines inscribed on empty fields of blue. It takes me days to prepare just one canvas, finishing each with a single white dot in a fractionally different place from last time. There is every color in white light, did you know that? To capture this luminosity, that's what I've been chasing, the weightless sensation of being on our deserted beach, the white sand beneath your feet, the limitless cold blue air arcing over you.

Once photography came along, there was no point in rendering real life. I wanted to capture raw experience, sensation, to make people feel. There is nothing more difficult than simplicity. Oh, the critics will have a field day with my new work, coming up with some theory or other, when the reason, the inspiration, is here in front of them. I love this place. It's breaking my heart thinking of leaving, of being a guest in my son's home in the city. This is ours. All of this is ours.

Sophie notices the sign by the steps. “Why don't we head up to the café?”

“Good idea. I'll buy you a soda.”

“I'll pay, Mr. Lambert.” She folds her arms across her rib cage.

I wave my hand dismissively, that word my great-grandchildren seem to love so much on my lips:
Whatever.
This girl has destroyed my peace, and now she's getting smart with me? I'm not going to show her that she has me rattled. I'm going to stick with the “angry old man of art” act and hope she won't see past that.

“I'm sorry,” she says, at my side again as we walk up the next flight of wooden steps and head across a half-empty car park toward the small café. It hasn't changed in thirty years. Marv's only concession to progress is the satellite dish up on the roof of the old cabin for the cable TV and Internet for all the whiz kids who can't leave their work behind on their summer weekends. I catch a couple of surfers, wet suits peeled down from their torsos, staring at us as we talk, checking her out. Perhaps she's cuter than I first assumed.

“Hey, Marv,” I call across to the owner, and settle with relief into the booth by the window, my booth. Most places are already closing for the season around these parts, but Marv stays open all year. He says the locals and the odd surfer or dog walker are enough to keep him ticking over through the winter, and what else would he do? This place is his life.

“Haven't seen you for a few days, Gabe. You okay?”

“Me? I'm fine,” I say.

“Okay, okay. Just asking.” He sets a jug of ice water down on the chipped yellow Formica. As he leans down, the lamplight gleams on his bald head like polished mahogany. “D'you hear the Knicks have traded Ewing?”

“Yeah. I remember when he came in as the number one pick in the '85 draft,” I say, pouring two glasses.

“Fifteen years, man. It's sure a good trade for Seattle,” Marv says as he shuffles away, shaking his head.

“You like basketball?” Sophie asks as she sips her water.

“What, you mean just like a regular guy?”

“You're kind of touchy, aren't you?”

“Just had my fill of people who seem to think all artists live on ambrosia.” The water is good, I'm thirsty. “It's a mistake to think artists only want that.” I lean toward her. “You really want friends who'll talk about the weather, or how they're building their boat, or trade you recipes for beans.”

“Don't disillusion me.” A smile is playing across her lips. “Next thing you'll be telling me is you do your own tax returns, and the washing up.…”

“And diapers. I've changed more diapers than you can imagine.” I try not to smile at the disbelief on her face. “Between all the years of kids and grandkids, and puppies and kittens, I seem to have spent half my adult life picking up caca.”

She laughs and settles back into the booth. “Maybe people waste a lot of time trying to pin their ideas on artists.”

“Are you talking about yourself?”

“I was thinking about a book I'm reading on Duchamp.”

“Ah, the master. He taught me that your life can be a work of art, kiddo.”

“Do you always talk like a bad gangster movie?”

“I learned English watching Humphrey Bogart and Jimmy Stewart.”

“It shows.”

Back in the day, I'd have snapped at her for being so bold. Now it doesn't seem to matter. “You hungry?”

“Oh, no. I haven't—”

“My treat.” My guess is she's one of those career girls who don't even stop for breakfast, just tank up on coffee. “Do you like pancakes? Marv, get us some of your blueberry specials.”

“Whatever you say, Gabe.” Marv slings a white cloth over his shoulder and goes through to the kitchen, whistling along to the Shirelles on the jukebox: “Will You Love Me Tomorrow.”

“How long have you been coming here?” she says.

“Forever.”

“Tell me what you like about it.”

“Listen, kid, I like normal. Jeez, if you had to live with my mind…” I rake the heels of my hands across my temples. “If you had to live with that, you'd like normal, too. I like logs piled up for the winter, and Annie's laundry room, and this beach when it's empty. I like a pile of clean white plates on the kitchen table, and the tick of the longcase clock in our hall.” I look her in the eye. “I like order, and peace. God knows that's not what I have in my head.”

See, I have a theory about artists—their heads are like a basin with the tap running. Once in a while they have to let the plug out and set free a painting or a book, or there'll be a hell of a mess. When you get to my age you are better at regulating the flow, but it hasn't always been so easy. Maybe that's where my reputation comes from.

“Have you always lived here?” she says, tracing a line in the condensation on her glass.

“Always? Pretty much a lifetime. Annie and I shared a studio in Brooklyn for a while, but as soon as we could we headed out to the coast.”