The Keeper of the Walls (13 page)

Lily felt the kiss descending to her throat, and was afraid. If he continued, she knew that she wasn't going to stop him. But after a while it was he who gently disengaged himself, and she was relieved, first, and then a little disappointed.

“Princess Liliane Brasilova,” he said. “You're a wind of madness.”

T
he wedding had been set
for March 4, 1924. In the short intervening weeks, Lily had much to prepare. Claire ordered several outfits for her honeymoon, at Lanvin. For the wedding, Lily picked out an apricot lace dress with a small toque hat of egret feathers. For in the matter of a formal wedding, Misha had stayed firm.

But Paul prevailed in one area. He wouldn't hear of his only daughter's getting married without any festivities. He insisted on a luncheon party following the wedding. This was something Lily herself could have lived without.

On the morning of her wedding day, Lily got dressed quickly, donning the apricot dress and the small hat. She'd insisted on Maryse as a witness, and her brother was imposed on her by Paul. Oddly enough, she hadn't felt a great enthusiasm on Misha's part for her best friend. She'd asked him why. “I can't really explain it,” he told her. “It's just that in Russia, most Jews we met were uneducated and greedy—totally without finesse.”

“But Maryse's just the opposite! They're the finest people I know!”

“Perhaps you're right. But it's difficult to overcome one's basic feelings, Lily. It may not be generous, and it may even be unfair: but in Russia, Father and I never had Jewish friends, and for good reason.”

She was sure that in time, he would see she was right about the Robinsons, and so she didn't argue any further. Claude and she drove to pick up Maryse, and from there it was only a few minutes to the city hall of the Sixteenth Arrondissement. She stepped out of Claude's car into the building, and was met by Misha, Prince Ivan, and Rochefort. He'd asked his secretary to stand up for him—not even one of his friends. She felt the slight shock but said nothing. Even if this wasn't how she'd dreamed of getting married, this was still her wedding.

Afterward he kissed her, and she knew that they were bound together for life, and that they now belonged to each other. It wasn't important how they'd gotten married. She was his wife now.

In the Villa Persane, Claire had prepared a splendid luncheon. Misha was at first taken aback. He hadn't anticipated so many people in attendance. Lily helped her mother pass the sandwiches, and she thought: It's the last time I'll be doing this in this house. She passed the food and heard the compliments and felt the soft rush of blood to her cheeks, every time someone called her “Princess Brasilova.” It was really true: he'd married her, he hadn't changed his mind before the wedding. Maybe he loved her. She knew for certain that she loved him, that she wanted to feel his arms around her, his lips upon her.

She wanted to leave, couldn't wait for the moment when she would go upstairs to change, to leave with her new husband for the Loire valley. Neither one of them belonged here, and both were awkward. But it's the last time, she told herself. The last time anyone will force me to be with people I don't care for, people who don't care about me, but only about the name I bear. “Liliane Brasilova; Princess Mikhail Brasilov.” She loved its sound but was a little afraid of its importance.

In the royal blue De Dion-Bouton, she sat silently, watching his hands on the steering wheel—surprisingly delicate hands, though large and strong. It was a strange sensation, to be sitting next to a man she still knew so little, but who was now her husband before God and all men. She glanced at her ungloved hands, folded together on her lap. The large diamond gleamed coldly at her. She felt for the small gold medallion of the Virgin around her neck. “Misha,” she said timidly. “I'd like to stop somewhere, in a small chapel. It would be nice, to consecrate our wedding.”

He turned to her, and she saw the kind concern in his eyes. “If that's what you want.”

“Don't you?”

“God is always with us, Lily. Wherever we are.”

He was stronger, more powerful, wiser than she. She'd wanted a husband like that, to protect her. She didn't want to feel alone, battling with the world. A surge of affection filled her then. He was stopping the car in the countryside, in front of a small, dilapidated church.

Unlike Claude, he always came around to her side to open the door for her. Next to him, she didn't feel awkward about her size. She was still small beside him. They walked hand in hand up to the church, and he held the wooden door to let her pass inside. The church was small and deserted, grass growing between the brick of the walkway. The altar was well tended, however, with a shining statue of Christ on the cross at the rear wall. Lily plucked a candle from a sconce, and went up to the altar with it. Misha remained behind, watching her as she knelt, as she prayed.

In a few moments she stood up, pressing out the creases in her skirt. She looked up, and encountered his eyes. Suddenly she felt embarrassed. He went halfway up the aisle to hold out his hand to her, and silently, she put hers into it. They walked hand in hand into the hazy March sunshine, timid with each other, a little uncomfortable.

They were standing in a field, near the road, among the poppies. They were alone. Far off, sounds of mooing cows reached their ears. He cupped her chin in his hand, looked deep into her eyes. “It's the timing,' he said gently. “ You're my wife, but you don't
feel
like my wife yet.”

She nodded, amazed at his perceptivity. Maybe it wouldn't be this hard after all. He bent over, tasted her lips, and with a suddenness that took her breath away, swept her up into his arms. He strode toward a lone tree in the meadow, away from the dirt of the road, and laid her down on the soft grass. Then, to her complete incredulity, he began to take off his jacket, his tie, and then his shirt. “What . . . ?” she murmured.

“I
want
you to feel like my wife,” he answered simply. “Now.”

S
he would never forget
their first coming together in the meadow, when she'd first felt him as a man inside her, while she trembled for fear that somebody would see them, and he laughed, gently, about her bourgeois fears. Afterward there was a new bond between them. Although she still felt that he was an iceberg, seven-eighths unknown, there was something touching and vulnerable about the sex act with him that revealed more of the man's sensitivities than all the words he'd ever spoken to her. He called her “Lily,” and spoke in deep tones the language of his past, which had at first surprised her, because all Russian noblemen spoke French from the cradle. She supposed that at the most elemental of times, a man spoke the most instinctive tongue that came to him. But he never praised her, or filled her ears with terms of endearment. He was spare in the expression of his feelings: she'd learned that early on.

Together, they wandered through the vast stone castles of the Loire valley, imagining scenes from the Middle Ages taking place in their gardens. They ate lunch at small taverns and drank
vin du pays.
He ate and drank enormous quantities, always with relish. And always he pointed out to her the things he thought would broaden her mind. For hers was a parochial mentality, carved by the nuns away from the world.

She tried to ask him about his life. Whenever she touched on the subject of Varvara, he closed himself off. It was visible, this closing off. His eyes became remote, he raised his head in proud rejection. But he described to her with amusement the things he'd done as a youth, and some facets of his father's business. Lily felt that she'd entered a world greater than life. He was a giant among men. She whispered to him: “I love you, I love you.” to make him happy and to chase away the past. But he simply held her head against his chest, and never answered her. It was all right: she could survive without the words, she could learn anything to please him, to make him smile.

In the early spring, she felt herself grow into a woman beside this man whom six months ago she hadn't even known. He never let her far away from him. He liked to touch her, to link his fingers with hers, to surround her shoulders with his arm. Lovemaking was a strange experience. He was so smooth in his nudity, his chest muscled but hairless, with the two round brown areolas of his nipples flat and strong against the boyishness of the hairless chest. He was like a statue, every muscle finely delineated and visible. She always knew when he was aroused, she always felt it was something so incredible, a man excited. He was careful not to hurt her, not even to embarrass her. He kept himself above her, moving in and out smoothly, letting her feel him inside her. Nobody had ever told her what to expect from sex, but she liked it.

She said to him, once, over a candlelit dinner in a small inn: “I'm glad you've lived a full life before me. Women often worry about their husbands' fidelity. But you've had your fill of women—haven't you?”

He smiled. There was always something a little sad about his smile. “I'll never dishonor you,” he said.

“And I'm—enough?”

Again the little smile. “I'm here, Lily. With
you.
”

He wanted her to understand by half words, by facial expression. If she'd hoped to learn much more about him during their honeymoon, she learned it from the tone of his voice, from his body language. But somehow she felt that he loved her, that she would be protected forever.

It was with regret that she entered the De Dion-Bouton to return to Paris. She realized that never again would they be so totally alone, so completely at peace together.

T
he next few
weeks took care of themselves. Lily went to the Rue de Paradis with her mother, and bought everyday dishes; to the Galeries Lafayette, where they purchased all that a kitchen would need. Claire came every morning by chauffeured car, only it was Lily who sent the car for her: a metallic Rolls-Royce that was a present to the young woman from her father-in-law. They spent the day shopping, taking tea at La Marquise de Sévigné, and at six o'clock Lily sent her mother home again. It gave her just enough time to bathe, brush her hair, and be dressed and ready for dinner with her husband. Often, Prince Ivan came along, and they would dine as a threesome.

She slipped without too much trouble into the role she realized he wanted. All her life she had been afraid of confrontations. The idea that an entire household depended on her management had at first frightened her. But after a few weeks she knew that her authority had been established: that her gentle ways had made inroads with everyone.

She met, one by one, all the great hostesses of Paris: the Baronne d'Oettingen, the Vicomtesse Marie-Laure de Noailles, the Marquise Casati, the Princesses Murat and de Polignac. They were kind to her because she was so young, and by nature she was a quiet one, listening and learning. The nuns had taught her well, giving her a solid foundation in the classics. And twice a week she and Misha went to the opera, the ballet, or the theater. She came to know Gabrielle Dorziat, Cécile Sorel—the foremost actresses of the day, hostesses in their own right. And the languorous Anna de Noailles, poetess and patroness, and Misia Sert, who had helped the careers of many famous poets and painters.