The Keeper of the Walls (23 page)

“You lied to protect yourself—all your selves! And to protect Claude, because he was, finally, the only one of us you ever loved! He was the son of the man you'd wanted; I was the daughter of the man you settled for! Oh, damn it,
damn it
—I don't know what to say, I don't know what to think! I hate you right now—for not telling me this before, when I could have helped you—when I might have felt you were trusting me with your life. I don't think you love me, Mother. I think you never loved me. I was the child you had to pay him back with for accepting Claude.”

Claire stood up, unwrinkling her skirt. Her hands were shaking. She said: “I'd better go home,” but the words came out muffled. Lily remained on the floor, and Claire sidestepped her hurriedly, her footsteps making small staccato noises in the hallway. Lily heard the footsteps, felt them like small stabs inside her heart, and the words: Don't let her go! rang inside her head. But she tamped them down, shutting out the noise of the front door being opened, and Arkhippe's voice.

When Misha came in, he found her sitting on the floor, her hair over her shoulders, her eyes dry but rimmed with red. Kneeling beside her, he touched her cheek, but she bristled away from his fingers. “What's wrong?” he asked.

“Lies. By the time the first lie's been told, it's too late to stop the rest. And then, there's no turning back. The truth has ceased to exist.”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded.

She smiled then, uncertainly, and shook her head. “Nothing. It's nothing, really.”

“Arkhippe and Nicky told me that Claire was here.”

“Yes. But she left a while ago. She had to go help somebody arrange a concert.”

He looked at her quizzically, and she shrugged. “Maybe I misunderstood her,” she murmured. “I thought that's what she said, but then I fell asleep here, and had a bad dream.”

Giving her his hand, he pulled her up, and said, with joyous relief: “Oh ...so it was only a nightmare. . . . Thank God, because you had me worried.” And then he pressed her close.

There was an odd moment of awkwardness when Lily stepped into the hall of the Villa Persane, to pick her mother up for Sudarskaya's recital. They hadn't seen each other since the afternoon when Claire had told her story to her daughter. Neither had been able to take the first step. The memory of Lily's words had wounded Claire; as for Lily, she couldn't forgive her mother for having hidden the truth from her for so long, and about so many things. She felt as if her entire life had been based on a lie: or worse yet, on a series of lies.

She hadn't been able to sort everything out for herself. But somehow, she hadn't gone to confession once in the intervening month. Something stopped her there. Her foundation of faith had been shaken by all that her mother had told her. Her mother didn't believe in the same things she did. And so now, what had seemed so natural for all these years appeared, all at once, questionable. She'd been a Catholic not simply for her faith, but also, because she'd thought it had been the familiar faith of her whole family—of her whole world. Yet, all the time, Claire had been going to the Rue de la Victoire to hear prayers in Hebrew that Lily had never imagined existed—because she'd simply never thought about the question at all.

She kept Claire's story a secret, knowing, without having to be told, that somehow, threads of her life, Claire's life, and even the lives of her children would come apart if anyone else learned the truth. She felt that with Misha she was being deceitful for the first time in their marriage, and had the sensation of being unclean. But how could she tell him when she had no idea of how he would react? And Claire had called her story “these sad secrets that don't belong to you.” It wasn't her right to reveal them, therefore, to her husband.

She wished she might have been able to write freely to Maryse and Wolf. But obviously they hadn't been told the truth either. She wondered how much Eliane knew—how much Rabbi Weill had told her; how much Claire had confessed. Knowing her mother's extreme discretion, she thought: probably very little. And so she had no one to confide in. She was beginning to realize the cell of loneliness in which Claire had had to live, all these years. She understood it; but this didn't make it easier to bridge the gap and make peace with her mother. Somehow, Lily couldn't help thinking that the truth had come
at the wrong time.
And so, instead of bringing them closer, it had destroyed a fabric of trust between them—and initiated a thin wall of distrust now between Lily and Misha, because of her inability to tell him everything that had happened.

She waited in the hall, fingering the shawl around her shoulders. Suddenly, Claude appeared, dressed for the evening. Lily scrutinized him for a moment, the regular features, the slender nose, the dark hair and eyes. She'd always thought he resembled Claire. Now, for the first time, she saw traces of another influence, a more pronounced . . . exoticism. She'd never spent much time wondering about her brother; now she was filled with a new curiosity: Who was he? Who was his father? And she thought, shocked: He's completely Jewish, and I'm only half. I know all about him, and he knows nothing about himself.

“Hello, Lily,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Waiting for Mama?”

“Yes. We're going to Sudarskaya's recital. And you?”

“Just a dinner party at a client's. Really, Lily, if I were you, I wouldn't encourage Mama to associate with that woman.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, a little exasperated. “Come on. She's not really our sort.”

“Oh?”

“She's common,' he said.

“She's a fine pianist,” Lily answered. “We're going to hear her play, not critique her habits.”

“Suit yourself,” he tossed off. “But if I were you, I wouldn't waste my time.”

He pulled his coat off the rack, and put it on. “Well,” he murmured. “Good night, little sister.” And he was opening the door and stepping outside, leaving her alone.

A few minutes later, when Claire arrived, there was no time to break the ice between them. They were late, and hurried to the car and to François. And in the car they were conscious of his presence, and spoke, somewhat perfunctorily, about the children.

Sudarskaya's recital was at the home of Raymond Duncan, brother of the celebrated Isadora. He and his wife lived on the ground floor of an old one-story house in the Fifth Arrondissement. They had covered the interior yard and set up a stage, and had bought about one hundred chairs. They were standing at the entrance to greet the guests. Lily remembered that Sudarskaya had told her that they were Quakers, dedicated to helping others. So as not to have to pay the thirteen percent tax, Sudarskaya had accepted their offer to give the recital in their home and to sell the tickets as if they were for a private performance.

They were dressed in long white robes belted with a cord, and their feet were shod only in sandals. Raymond was tall, thin, gray-haired, and his face was interesting, his voice deep. His wife was shorter and plumper, her pretty face animated by enormous black eyes. They had no children. Lily and Claire shook their hands and went to sit down. The covered yard was already full, and soon Sudarskaya came in and sat at the piano. There was a silence, and then she plunged into one of Chopin's nocturnes.

Lily clasped her hands on her knees, and leaned forward. Her piano teacher didn't often play for her, and it was amazing to hear such beautiful sounds coming from her short, pudgy fingers—those same fingers that could stuff a tart in its entirety into her small, round mouth. The tone was clear, the notes moving, and one forgot one was in Paris, sitting in someone's courtyard. One thought only of the sounds, of the emotions that rose to the surface through Sudarskaya's hands. It was, Lily realized, like a miracle. This small, vulgar, prying woman was creating magic.

Lily stared at her, and wondered. She'd always accepted Raïssa Markovna Sudarskaya as someone who was in her house for only one purpose, to teach her to improve her playing. As someone who was better gotten rid of when her husband came home, and in whose presence it was best not to be seen by friends. Now she felt acute shame. Sudarskaya was a magnificent artist. But she was also a
person.
A lonely, hungry person whom her mother had befriended out of kindness. Her mother had been right; not she, not Misha.

Feeling the trembling notes in the air, she felt, all at once, a surge of empathy toward this virtual stranger at the piano. A connection had sprung up from one's ears to the other's heart. Lily felt proud of Sudar-skaya. It was almost as if her piano teacher had been her own child, performing for a hundred people in awe of her magic. She thought, with consternation: But why should I be feeling this way?

Afterward it was late, and François dropped Claire off first, then drove home in the dark, starlit night. Misha was waiting for her in the study. “How was it?” he asked.

“It was moving, and beautiful.” She sat down, letting the shawl slide from her shoulders. “Her talent is spectacular. I hadn't expected this.”

He smiled. “There's something about the Jews,” he remarked, “that connects them to the arts. I saw and heard it before, in Russia. Maybe it was their confinement, in the Pale of Settlement, that left them only this outlet. Men and women who were ugly and ill-bred, like your Sudarskaya, could make a violin or piano suddenly come alive.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “That was it, exactly.”

“The Jews,” he said, “are born merchants and artists. They're like those strange people who are retarded, except for one or two areas where they are geniuses. You know? They can multiply millions by millions, in their heads, in the fraction of a minute; but they can't read or write, and their talk is stupid, like children's talk. Idiot-geniuses: isn't that what they're called?”

She blinked, in slow motion. He had begun to speak of something else, but she wasn't listening. She watched his face, pleasant, alert—loving. And she thought: My God. He thinks the Jews are different, oddities—like clowns in a circus. And then her mind went back to the little woman playing Chopin in the covered courtyard. She understood, all at once, the connection between them.

Somewhere in her blood lay the same mysterious element as in Sudarskaya's. It didn't matter if the Dniester River had separated their ancestors. She came from the same corner of the world as the pianist, and their families had felt the same constraints, the same joys. For among Jews, it didn't matter if one was Rumanian and the other Russian. The Jews, as Wolf had told her, had their own strength, their own heritage.

For the first time since Claire had revealed her story, Lily felt what it meant to be a Jew. It didn't matter, really, how she worshiped God. Judaism wasn't merely a religion; it was a culture—even a race. That was why Claire had accepted her daughter's Catholicism; she'd known, all along, that what had made her a Jew was much stronger than a simple manifestation of her love of God.

I am a Jew, like Sudarskaya, like my mother, she thought. It's in my bones, in my blood. I have to recognize this, and go on from here. I also love Christ, and the Virgin, and the Apostles. But it's all right. I must accept all sides of who I am.

“
I
t's going to rain
,”
Claire said. “We could have a cup of coffee there, across the street, and avoid the showers.”

Lily looked up at the sky; it was gray, forbidding, angry. They had been walking along the Champs-Élysées, hardly speaking, simply enjoying a breath of fresh air on a clear spring day. “April showers, May flowers,” Lily said. Together, they held up their skirts and ran across the great avenue, watching for cars. Under a red and white awning, a large café appeared, inviting. They slipped underneath, and went to the table farthest to the back. Claire and Lily sat down, and just as they did, drops began to hit the pavement. “We made it just in time,” Claire said.

They ordered coffee, and some pastries. It was pleasant, the air still warm, but the café was nearly empty. When the waiter had left, leaving them with
express
and brioches, she turned suddenly and asked: “Mama, do you think you'll ever remarry?”

Claire laughed. “What kind of question is that? I don't know. When a person was married to the same man for all her grown life, it's difficult to imagine what it would be like to be with someone else in that same intimacy.”

“But you're still young. You could meet a widower, and have the sort of life you never had with Papa: evenings at the theater, trips to Italy.”

Claire smiled. “I hardly think trips to Italy would be in order,” she commented. “Mussolini's rearming—have you heard?”

“Misha says he's only a silly little man strutting about to make himself look important. You shouldn't worry about him.”

They sat quietly, sipping coffee and eating their brioches. It was amazing how time had taken care of mending their relations. This April 1928, they were almost back to the way they'd been, before that afternoon some ten months back. It had been the children who'd made everything normal again. At first, both women had hidden behind Nicky's eager questions about the world, and Kira's progress as she learned to walk and talk and to assert herself over the household. Kira: a strange little being, so impulsive and unpredictable—less intellectually developed than her brother had been at the same age, but much more interested in how things worked, how people reacted, and where she fit into this whole structure. An anarchist, Misha called her, laughingly.

Then Claire said, shyly: “You know, Lily, I'm not a romantic anymore. The life I had with your father—it wasn't so bad. He was a good man, fundamentally, and a loyal man. I wouldn't want to run from that life into another. It isn't like that for me.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, that at my age, after all my life has been, marrying again would have to be for different reasons. I'm not looking for the stars.”

“Still, it makes me sad when I think of you, all alone.”

Claire said, thoughtfully: “I don't like to think of myself alone, either. I mourned for Paul, with all my heart. These last few months, I've been less concerned about Claude, you know. I think he's started to see a young woman.”

“Really?”

“He's not communicative, of course. But he's out a lot, and he's telephoned the florist, and somebody's been telephoning him, too, at the villa. A woman's voice. Very
French.
Probably not someone terribly refined—but it doesn't matter. I doubt he'll marry her; but it's good to know he's less alone.”

“Yes,” Lily remarked. “It
is
good news.”

“And so,” Claire continued, setting down her cup, “I too have started to ... well ...see someone.”

Lily turned to face her. “Mama!
Who?”

Claire said, blushing: “An older gentleman. Older than I. He's never been married. A retired businessman from Basel, Switzerland. His name is Jacques Walter. He's been ... a very pleasant companion, when we've gone out. We like the same books, the same artists. He wants to marry me.”

“And if I hadn't pried—would you have told me?”

Claire laughed. “One can't very well hide a thing like that. I might not have told you
today
—but yes, I was planning to tell you soon. I want you to meet him.”

Lily felt an odd breathlessness take hold of her. “And so you've decided to accept his proposal.”

Claire shrugged. “I'm not sure yet. You see—it's what I said, at the beginning. After so many years with Paul, it wouldn't be so easy to be with another man. But he's a fine human being.”

In front of them, sheets of water were hitting the sidewalk. Lily said: “He's good, you have things in common, and he's well off. I'm really happy for you, Mama. You took me by surprise—but it's a good surprise.” She pressed Claire's hand. “But—you amaze me. I'd absolutely no idea.”

“I met him quite some months ago, through Eliane and David. You see, he spent most of his life in Switzerland, and the idea of retiring there didn't hold much excitement at this point in his life. He sold his business, and came to Paris for a short visit—a kind of vacation. He'd known the Robinsons—you know how
everybody
seems, at some time or another, to have crossed paths with them!—and so naturally, he looked them up, and they gave a party for him. That's when we met each other.”

“And he fell in love, and decided to stay?”

Claire laughed. “He fell in love with Paris, and stayed. We began to go out together, to learn something about each other. It was . . . enjoyable. Of course, at first it wasn't anything special.”

“Do you love him?”

“My darling,” Claire stated, “I'm afraid of big words like that. But I
can
tell you that I feel good with him.”

The rain was starting to die down, the sheets being gradually replaced by patterns of distinguishable drops. Lily cleared her throat. “Mama—you mentioned the Robinsons. What do they say about Mark? How is he?”

Claire pushed her plate away, dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “He's finished his novel. In fact, it's already come out in the United States. He's very pleased about it.”

“You've seen him?”

Claire looked at her. “Lily. All these years, you've never once mentioned him. He's never tried to see you, has he?”

She felt herself coloring. “No. Why should he?”

“Well, then. It's better that way, for both of you. He does ask about you. But he has infinite respect for you, and wouldn't want to cross you in any fashion.”

“But it wouldn't cross me. I always liked him. That was the problem, really: I liked him too much to love him.”

Claire sighed. “I'm sorry to hear you say that,” she remarked. “The best part of a marriage is the friendship. Or, it ought to be.”

They sat for some moments, and then, to their surprise, a timid sun began to peek through the rain clouds. “Look,” Lily said, “good luck. God's smiling at us.”

“You always used to say that,” her mother told her, fondly. “Ever since you were Nicky's age, practically. Taking every small quirk of nature to be a sign of God's moods.”

“Well, shouldn't it be? Manifestations from heaven, no?”

Lily laid some money on the table, and stood up. She walked to the edge of the café, and stood looking out into the wet avenue. Claire came up beside her. Across the street, some young men in blue raincoats and berets were marching, in orderly, almost martial fashion. “Who are
they?”
Lily asked.

“Surely not a manifestation from heaven. I believe they're part of the Jeunesses Patriotes.”

“They're very right-wing, aren't they?”

“They're dangerous people,” Claire said, her tone suddenly angry. “They like to go around breaking up the meetings of those they don't agree with.”

“Like Blum?”

Claire said: “You mean, you haven't heard about them?”

Lily peered across the street, her body still, feeling pinpricks erupting all over—signs of tension. She said, softly: “They can't be so bad. They're just young people, maybe a little crazy at times—”

“They're Fascists,” Claire stated. “And frankly, I can't agree with Misha about that ‘silly little man strutting about' in Italy. I don't agree with Blum. I wasn't brought up to be that liberal, and I lived with your father for too long not to have become infected with some of his opinions. But still—to beat people up just because their ideas don't agree with yours—that's unacceptable, I'm afraid.”

They were silent. Then Lily said: “The elections are just a month away. Nothing much can change just because of these blue berets. This isn't Germany, where one man's reactionary views can suddenly make his small party an enormous one.”

“Let's go home,” Claire declared.

That evening, when they were alone, Lily said to Misha, excitedly: “I wanted so much to tell you the news: I think Mama's going to remarry. His name is Jacques Walter. He was a businessman in Basel. Have you heard of him?”

Misha rubbed his chin. “Walter? No, I don't believe so. I've done very little business with Switzerland. But if your mother's chosen him—then I'm all for him. Let's give them a dinner.”

She kissed him. Then she said: “We saw some strange people on the Champs-Élysées: members of the Jeunesses Patriotes.”

He looked up, alert: “Really?”

“Tell me, Misha—are they very bad? Can they really hurt people?”

He took in some air, let it out. “Their ways aren't always very nice,” he answered, slowly. “But then, their aims are understandable. They don't want this country to go the way of Russia.”

“That can't happen here.”

“We thought it would never happen
there.
Your Monsieur Blum—it's best he stay out of office, with his Red ideas.”

Lily rose, went to the large gilt mirror, pushed back a strand of hair behind her ear. She could see her own face, cool and immaculate, the creamy skin unwrinkled and glowing, the dark eyes almost liquid. The dark, dark hair. The face of an Italian Madonna, the Mother Superior had so often remarked. Behind her reflection, Lily could see Misha sitting on the sofa, smoking a cigar. She said:
“My
Monsieur Blum?”

“Well, you have rather an admiration for him, don't you? He charmed you at Maryse's wedding, if I recall.”

“Well, then,” she said, turning around, “then he belonged to
all
the women there. I'm sorry you didn't have a chance to speak with him.”

“I know all about him, my dear,' Misha declared, blowing out circles of smoke.

Lily opened her mouth, closed it again. She really wasn't feeling well tonight. “I think I'll go to bed early,” she murmured. “You don't mind?”

He shook his head. “It's all right. I have some work to finish, anyway. I'll be up in a while.”

She bent down to kiss him, felt the strong pull of his soft lips on hers—a hypnotic, magnetic effect that never failed to make her forget where she was and what she was doing. With an effort, she drew herself straight. “Good night,” she said, and walked out of the room.

In her boudoir, she combed her hair and let her clothes fall to the floor. She looked at herself again, this time in her own full-length mirror. She wondered. Could it be that she was pregnant again? It was hard to tell just by looking. If so, it must have happened within the month. She sat down on the bed, thinking.

She'd decided, two years before, that if Misha were to want a third child, she would have it. But Misha hadn't spoken, since Kira, of more children.

Maybe, she thought, I'll have this one for
me.
Nicky had been for the continuation of the Brasilov dynasty, and Kira, for Misha's pleasure. She loved them both equally, with all her being. But maybe
she
deserved a baby in peace, in health, now that she'd had two years between Kira and this. Now that she'd given up on ever becoming a concert pianist. Now that she was twenty-three and no longer a child herself.

Her mother was finally doing what she wanted. It was only right, after so many years of having lived a compromise. She slipped the lace negligee over her head.

I really didn't tell Mama how happy I am, she reflected, climbing between the cool sheets of her bed. It's late, but she'll be up reading. I have to make her forgive me. It's time to stop resenting her for something she felt she had to do. In her position, would I have told Kira, or Nicky?

She reached for the telephone extension, and picked it up. But when she put it to her ear, she heard Misha's voice speaking: “You didn't receive the check?”

Lily started to put the phone down, and then held it back to her ear, picturing a redhead with an egret feather. But a man was answering: “No, it must still be in the mail. May I ask, how large was your contribution, your Excellency?”

Damn, she thought, angry with herself: he's long since stopped paying her. The agreement only stipulated three years. What a fool I am. Misha's voice was saying, with a touch of irritation: “Look, Taittinger, I've done all I could. Fifty thousand francs. And don't forget, I'm not even a French national, so I really have no business getting so involved in these elections,”

She held the telephone rigidly. “That's something else,” the man Taittinger declared. “You
should
really become French. Because to be Russian, in our times—”

“There's absolutely nothing anyone can say about my leanings. I came here to escape from Communism—not to hold on to it. And this fact is known even to President Doumergue.”

“I was only saying this as friendly advice, your Excellency. I myself have always respected your good name. We strive to uphold it. If there are foreigners among us, my dear Prince, we should perhaps look more closely at some of our
own
nationals. To be foreign doesn't simply mean to be born abroad, like you. Some of those who want to destroy France were born right here on our shores.”