The House of Dreams (6 page)

“Letter?” I make my hand tremble as I rub my brow. “I'm sorry, dear. I get a little confused these days.…” It's working. I see her face soften. She was expecting an angry old man of art, but I've got a few surprises of my own.

“This isn't personal, Mr. Lambert, I want you to know that. The editor commissioned me to write the article because of my great-aunt Vita.”

“Vita?” I say vaguely.

She bites her lip in impatience, but her voice is steady. “I just want to get my facts one hundred percent straight. I promise, I won't take much of your time.”

Facts? Silly girl, there are no facts in a situation like this, only opinions, old memories, and they change over time like a painting fading in sunlight. The girl tries to peer through to the shadows of the cottage, but everything is thrown into darkness by the bright rectangle of light from the open terrace overlooking the sea. Maybe she can make out the Flos Arco lamp curving over the table like an attentive servant or our two old Jacobsen chairs overlooking the sea, the tan leather shaped to our bodies like eggs to chicks. Annie is there. I feel the certain, reassuring weight of her presence behind me, the south to my north like the counterweight of a compass needle.

“You
are
Gabriel Lambert?”

I hesitate. The trouble with telling lies is you have to remember them. They don't come naturally to you like the truth. You have to hold all the strands together. “Who wants to know?”

“I'm Dr. Cass.” She offers me her hand, and grudgingly I take it. It's as slight as a bundle of reeds. “But please, call me Sophie.” Of course. Sophia, the wise one. She thinks she's wise, you can see that. She's young enough to think she knows everything still. Life hasn't knocked her edges off yet. Give her time. Pretty soon she'll realize that true wisdom is knowing that the more you learn about life, the less you realize you know. I feel stupider now than I ever did at twenty, and she can't be much more than that.

“Well, ‘call me Sophie,' you don't look like a doctor.”

“Of art history,” she says. “I write arts and culture stories for
The New York Times
.”

“So you're a hack?”

“I prefer investigative journalist.”

“Do you have a card? You can't be too careful.”

“Of course.” I was hoping she'd pick her bag up so I could lock the door in her face, but she doesn't budge. “As you know, the paper plans to run my piece on you…” Her voice trails off as she squats down and shuffles through her bag. She hands me her personal business card—expensive, engraved, naturally. The letters of her name are like Braille beneath my fingertip. As she looks up at me, I notice her knee is poking through a hole in her black stockings, I see smooth white skin and torn flesh.

“What did you do?”

“Sorry?” She hooks a hank of blond hair behind her ear. There's a sharp chrome spike pinning it in a bun at the nape of her neck. “Oh, my knee? It's nothing. I fell over on the road up there.”

“You should take them off.”

“I beg your pardon?” She squares up to me, full of righteous indignation.

“I only meant you should get some sea air on your skin, wash off the blood.” I kick her bag clear and pull the screen door shut. “You've had a wasted journey.”

She slams a manila envelope up against the screen. She's written on it:
Vita, last paintings
. “Like I said. I won't take up much of your time.”

Fear chills me, I feel goose bumps as the hair rises at the nape of my neck, on my arms. Vita. One glance at the triumphant look on the girl's face and I know if I shut the door on her, she'll still be there on the porch come twilight, so I edge the screen open and take it from her.

“I just want to ask you what you remember about these photographs,” she's saying as I slip the thick, glossy black-and-white images she's probably sneaked out of some art history library from the envelope. Sure enough, there's an official-looking stamp on the back:
Do Not Remove
. Naughty girl. “All I know for sure is that Vita was with you in the Languedoc during 1939 to '40, and these photos were taken before the fire.…” She's clever, this kid, coming at the subject sideways, not saying overtly what she knows and I know.

An old drinking buddy of mine told me a story once about a guy who turned around to him in a bar on Canal Street and punched him in the throat. No rhyme or reason, no warning, just wham. That's how I feel right now as I turn over the photographs and see what Sophie must have seen. Oh, dear God, it's happened. I close my eyes. I've feared this moment my whole life.

“So, I was right.” Sophie smiles, her gaze clear and sly. I see it, shimmering there in my mind's eye like the Cheshire Cat's. “Where shall we begin, Mr. Lambert? The Château d'Oc?”

“I can't … I don't want to talk about that, not yet.”

“We can come back to Vita.” Her words whisper around my mind the way the wind runs its invisible fingers through the trees. The years tumble away like dry leaves on the breeze.

“Why don't we begin with Marseille, then? Tell me about Varian Fry, Gabriel. Tell the story of how you met Annie.”

Marseille, of course. It all began in Marseille.

 

SEVEN

M
ARSEILLE

October 1940

G
ABRIEL

It was October 1940 when I arrived. As I close my eyes, I can see it again, the gray hills, the lush green of the palms. I'd paid some guy in Arles for the name and address of the American angel all the refugees were talking about. When I got to Marseille, I discovered I could have found him for free—everyone knew Varian Fry. Someone told me he had moved offices. He said I should head up to the American consulate and ask there. So I did. It looked like a castle. You could tell you were heading in the right direction because the closer you got, the fuller the tram became of refugees. I'd sold Vita's car the morning I arrived, because I didn't want to draw any attention to myself, driving around in some cute little red cabriolet. How I made it from the Languedoc to Marseille without having an accident, heaven knows. Sometimes I think I have a guardian angel watching over me.

I stood up to give my seat to an old woman on the tram. It was packed by the time we reached the consulate, people hanging on to one another. There's nothing more pitiful than seeing good folks trying to keep their standards up. Men and women who haven't had a decent bath or meal for weeks, who still button up filthy shirts and pin down crushed hats on hair that needs a wash. I don't suppose I looked any better.

It was beautiful out there, with the plane trees and the sound of the sea. There was water rushing through the ditches. To be surrounded by such beauty in such desperate circumstances was worse, almost. The consulate was like a castle in a fairy tale, and you could see the hope in people's eyes as they traipsed up the white steps. I stood in the blue shade of a café awning—I think it was called the Pelikan—and let the crowds go ahead. Each face bore the same expression. Everything—all the fear of arrest, of concentration camps and the Gestapo, of every machine-gun bullet dodged on the hundreds of miles they had walked—had led to this. They were paralyzed with fear at the thought of staying in France and terrified by the notion of leaving.

As luck would have it, just as I was asking some hard-looking receptionist at the front desk for information about Fry's organization, the American Relief Center, I noticed a tall, kindly-looking man watching me. The ARC had a near mythical reputation for the way they could help refugees escape to safety, and my desperation to get there must have been written all over my face.

“The consulate has no connection with the ARC,” the blonde was saying. She was chewing gum and I caught a glimpse of bubblegum pink between her canine teeth. Her hair was brittle and bleached. Blue streaked her eyelids—she couldn't even be bothered to look me in the eye. She wore a tight sweater, and she had the kind of conical breasts that looked like they could do you an injury if you dared go in for a clinch.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” I said, and started to walk away.

“Say…” The man pointed a sheaf of papers at the folding easel strapped to my bag. “Are you an artist?”

“Yes, sir.”

He ushered me outside, past the snaking queues of people. “Pay no notice to her,” he said. “Miss Delapré does a hard job fielding all these people day after day.” He smiled down at me. He had an unusual face for such a big guy—apple cheeked and radiant. Stick a white beard on him and he could have been Santa Claus. I guessed he must be around six feet four, six five. His thick, round glasses caught the sunlight as he turned and pointed back down the hill. “Why don't you head down to rue Grignan? You can't miss the ARC—”

“Just follow the queues?”

He smiled and shook my hand. “You're catching on. The reception is open Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. Tell them the vice-consul, Bingham, sent you. Good luck.”

*   *   *

It's amazing, looking back, how people queued without question. We were all terrified, jittery, and yet everyone waited with the dull resignation of sheep. I've seen animals herded into stalls on the way to a slaughterhouse—one whiff of blood and they panic, scrambling over barriers, crushing the weaker ones beneath their feet. It wasn't like that at all, not yet. People queued to save their lives like they were waiting in line at the baker's. I waited all morning to get an interview at the ARC office, and I can tell you the atmosphere was benign, even calm. There was a young American guy on the door. He had some uniform on, but he looked more like a matinee idol. When there was a bit of pushing and shoving, he'd hold up his hands and say in a southern drawl: “They-ah now. Take it eas-eh, fellah. Evrabody gets his turn.” His French was worse than my English at that time, but he made himself understood, and his uniform looked official enough. He was charming and at ease with himself—the French say
bien dans sa peau
. Once in a while he'd step out onto the pavement for a cigarette or to blow a few bars on his trumpet. Just as I shuffled to the head of the queue, he appeared, the mouth of the instrument swinging into view from the dark doorway like a golden halo. He leaned back against the doorjamb and crossed his right leg at the ankle. I nodded along as he played, and he glanced across at me, his fingers working the valves.

“Cigarette?” I said, offering him one when the tune finished.

“Thanks.” He cupped his palm around the flame of my lighter. “You play?”

“Me? No, I just like jazz.”

“Man, I've played with some of the greats.…” I liked Charlie—that was his name. One of nature's gentlemen. I found out later he'd been a professional wrestler in the States, so when he ended up in Marseille after leaving the American volunteer ambulance corps, Fry took him on to keep order at the ARC. Seemed to me he could just as easily have earned a living as a performer. He told me about jamming with musicians who were like idols to me. “And Louis Armstrong said to me: ‘Charlie—'”

“Blow, man, blow,” a blond girl cut him off. She stepped out onto the pavement with a clipboard.

“Heck, Mary Jayne.” He frowned. “That's the best bit of the story.”

“And we've all heard it a hundred times,” she said. “Are you next?” Her gaze was direct and unnerving. I noticed her hands—they were surprisingly large and strong for a young woman. I had the feeling she didn't suffer fools.

“Yes,” I said, and stubbed out my cigarette on the pavement. I slung the bag over my shoulder and followed her inside. Each desk was full, young men and women talking in hushed voices to refugees. The office was cramped, but through the door at the end I could see a farther room. A young man, taller than the rest, with thick dark hair was pacing up and down. He was one of those people who seem to spark with energy. In a chair at his side, a blond man lounged, his arm resting on the desk, his fingers leisurely tracing the pattern of the wood as he talked.

“Please sit down,” the girl said. “Why don't you start by telling me your name?”

“My name?” I blinked. “Gabriel Lambert.” She wrote it down. “I need to see Varian Fry.”

“So does everyone,” she said with an edge to her voice. “May I see your papers?” From my jacket pocket I pulled out my documents. She flicked through them, her gaze traveling from the photograph to my face. I felt the saliva in my throat dry. “Fine,” she said, jotting down some notes. She handed them back to me, and I took a breath.

“Now, what makes you think you qualify as a client of the ARC?”

“I am an artist,” I said. “Perhaps you have heard of my work?”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately, my colleague Miss Davenport is not here.” She leaned toward me. “Miriam has the best eye around here. She was studying art history, you see.” She sat back and folded her arms. “Do you have some work you can show us, perhaps?”

“Of course.” I had taken the precaution of bringing a few satirical sketches and clippings from an exhibition catalog. I handed these to her.

“These are lovely,” she said, looking at the paintings. I saw her smile grimly as she looked at a cartoon of Hitler. “Forgive me, though.” I caught the tiredness and impatience in her voice as she tossed the clippings onto the table. “We have rather a lot of people coming through here, pretending to be who they are not. Would you mind terribly doing a quick sketch? The Vieux-Port, perhaps? Miriam always asks people to go and sketch the boats.”

“May I?” I said, taking the pen from her. She offered me a sheet of paper. “I am known for my figurative work,” I said, glancing at her before deftly sketching her face. My hand was shaking. “I don't do boats.”

“Really?” She bridled at my arrogance, but I saw her lift her chin a little as she realized I was sketching her.