The Keeper of the Walls (30 page)

And when he raised his eyes to her face, she forced herself to smile.

C
laude's apartment
in the Avenue Kléber
was spartanly furnished, to contrast with his father's lavishness in the Villa Persane. He had purchased the furniture at the Samaritaine, at a bargain; and the only point of fantasy were three prints of Henriette posing in Poiret gowns. The drapery was dark, the furniture of dark polished woods. Now he sat in the study with the papers in front of him, fingering the stem of his brandy glass.

It wasn't possible. All along, he hadn't wanted to believe Marguery. It was strange, but the ferret-like little man in his black suits had always represented, for Claude, a necessary evil. He was a small weasel whom Claude heartily disliked; but on the other hand, he was the best investigator in Paris. He brought bad news, but he was always right. And for that reason alone, it was difficult to like him.

Claude swallowed some brandy. He recalled vividly, with a painful, embarrassing sense of shame, the time, four years ago, when Marguery had finally brought him the dossier on Jacques Walter of Basel. It hadn't been easy, for the Swiss were a discreet, often secretive people, especially protective of their own. But Marguery had bribed and finagled his way to the necessary information.

Claude, overcome with dismay and a deep horror, had told Henriette about it over drinks at her flat. “My mother's marrying a wealthy old Jew from Basel, and there's nothing I can do to stop her. Can you imagine? A
Jew!”

Henriette had straddled him and fluffed his hair, like an urchin. “Come on ... That's not so bad. What's wrong with the Jews, anyway? I like everybody.”

He'd become rigid and pushed her away. “Don't be a smartass.”

She'd stepped down, and stood facing him, hands on her hips. “No goddamned little prick is going to tell
me
what's wrong with me.” And then, narrowing her amber eyes, she'd tossed out: “Why do you hate them, anyway? They haven't done anything to hurt you!”

He'd felt his cheeks turn crimson, and had faced her, his nostrils dilated. “I hate them, that's all. They're . . . different. No country's ever liked them, and that's why they've always had to live on the outskirts. They chant their weird prayers like fanatics, with those funny caps on their heads, and their backs bent—it's disgusting!”

She'd started to laugh. “Robert de Rothschild smells bad?”

Claude had stood up, shaking. “Maybe not to you. But there's something unclean about all of them—the rich ones included. They rose from the gutters: all of them. They have the souls of slaves, because that's what they came from: slavery!”

Then she'd seen that he was really agitated, that the news about Walter had really shaken him, and she'd abandoned her angry pose and come to him, conciliatory. She'd been good to him. He'd felt relieved that he had spoken—and she'd respected his secret and never brought it up again. He'd trusted her. But, once again, Marguery had done his job well.

He scrutinized the papers, the photographs. Henriette—
his
woman, his only woman—with Misha. Walking in a small side street. Entering her apartment. Meeting elsewhere, in a Russian cabaret. For how long had it been going on this time? And what was he to do about it now?

He stood up, pulled on his jacket, went to the front closet and took out his overcoat. He must talk to her.

It was raining outside. The Renault wended its way to Clichy, then up the steep, curving streets of Montmartre. He parked the car.

He knocked on her door, hearing the gramophone blaring—a Negro jazz blues, heartrending in its melancholy. She opened, in her slip, her breasts naked underneath the filmy fabric. She stepped back, surprised. “I didn't know that you were coming.”

“May I come in? Or are you expecting someone?”

She inclined her head, and he passed through. The apartment smelled of cloying incense, and a blue haze permeated the room. She was looking somewhat disheveled and a little haggard. A half-empty plate lay on the dining room table, and an empty glass. He sat down on the comfortable sofa. “I had to see you,” he said.

“That's nice.”

“I had to ask you just one question.
Why
Misha Brasilov? Why now, again?”

She stepped back, her lips parting. He nodded, coldly. “I know. You'd better tell me.”

“And what business is it of yours? I'm not your wife.”

Again, her familiar bad-girl stance, arrogant and aggressive. To cover up her own defenselessness. He felt a pang of pity, brushed it away. “But you're my girl. Aren't you?”

She cocked her head, examined him.
“Am
I?”

“I thought you were. We had something very nice, Henriette. Didn't we? Don't we?”

She made a face. “Look, Claude. Look at me. I'm no kid. I'm thirty-eight. That's almost middle-aged. In a few years Monsieur Poiret will kick me out, without thinking back, and that will be the end of my so-called career. Have you ever thought about that?”

He breathed in quickly. “What is it you're trying to say?”

“That I've spent my life going from man to man, from cabaret to cabaret—and for what purpose? I don't have anything to show for it. Not like your sister, that
grande dame.
She has two children! And money. Me? I have this small rundown flat, and a few nice dresses.”

“You want to get married?” he asked.

“You want to marry me? Claude, you're thirty-two! It doesn't make sense! Why?”

“Why not? If you want a child so much. I'd no idea.”

“You've no idea of anything! I didn't want to marry you. You're a nice guy. But too French, too middle-class—too much like my father, in Meaux. You're a good guy to spend time with, to feel good with.”

“And isn't that enough between a man and a woman? You think my sister has more, with Misha Brasilov? He cheats on her, he keeps her his prisoner, he imposes his will on her in every matter: you think that's a dream life?”

She had very dilated pupils, and her face was pale. He glanced at the dining room table and saw the small pipe, looked again through the blue haze, and realized she'd been smoking. With him she never brought out the opium, knowing it would shock him and push him away. He felt small sensations of shock, right now. She was really very different. Maybe she was right—they didn't belong together. He'd always known it, deep inside. That was why he'd never proposed.

“Claude, I think Misha's a man in a million! He's a bastard. He lies and he cheats and he's a monster. But there's something about him—I can't explain. And anyway—it's too late. I'm pregnant.”

She was staring at him, almost taunting him. He felt the shock spreading, held on to the arm of the sofa. “How do you know it's Misha's?” he whispered.

“Because I planned it. Otherwise, you'd better believe I'd have had this fixed. It wouldn't have been my first time.”

“You want to be pregnant by a man who's married?”

She sighed. “I've waited for a long time, Claude. I don't intend to spend the rest of my life always looking back.”

“But he'd never divorce Lily!”

“Don't be so sure. Maybe it's Lily who will divorce
him!”

Claude stood up, unable to answer. For a moment, he hesitated, struggling within himself. Then, abruptly, he picked up his coat, her eyes glued to him as he left the apartment.

Maybe she'd made a horrible mistake, but one had to gamble. Henriette shrugged, and went to curl up on the sofa. Outside, the raindrops continued to fall on the pavement, and she listened to their soothing rhythm.

O
n Tuesday
, May 17, Lily rose early to have breakfast with the children and hear Nicky's lessons before he went off to school. While she was dressing, Madeleine knocked on her door and told her that a gentleman was here to see her. She quickly finished her toilette and went to receive him in the drawing room. He was young, well dressed, educated. He said to her, after he had introduced himself and she'd invited him to sit down: “I've come about the Rolls-Royce, Madame la Princesse.”

She shook her head, smiling. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

He looked somewhat embarrassed, and stroked his trim beard. “About . . . the keys. I've come to pick up the keys and take possession of the car.”

She felt a wave of blood rising to her face. “Monsieur Brunville, why would you want the keys to my car? Is something wrong?”

He tried to smile, bit his lip thoughtfully, then plunged in. “I'm sorry, Madame. I had supposed your husband would have told you—Prince Brasilov sold me the car, three days ago. The paperwork was finished yesterday. Would you like to see it?”

A pulse was beating in her throat. Her voice trembling only slightly, she forced herself to look at this man and smile. “You'll have to excuse me, monsieur,” she said. “But I know very little about business. These papers might mean nothing to me. I'd prefer to wait until my husband comes home for lunch. I'm sure he'll clear up this situation. Perhaps you could return . . . this evening?”

“Of course, Madame. I'd be glad to.”

Stunned, she watched him leave. She couldn't believe what had just passed between them, and a premonitory chill passed through her, frightening her.

Later, around one o'clock, she heard Misha returning from the office. She waited for him in the bedroom, but he didn't come there. She found him in the study, nervously pacing, and when she closed the door, she finally faced him, forcing him to look at her directly.

“Brunville came this morning?” he asked.

“Yes. And of course I wasn't expecting him. You
sold
my car?”

“I'm sorry, Lily—truly sorry.”

“It doesn't matter about the car,” she said. “What matters is why you couldn't tell me earlier.”

He wet his upper lip, compressed both lips together, stared at his finely manicured fingernails. “Lily—the business isn't going well. I had no choice but to sell the Rolls. And . . . we're going to have to let the maids go, and keep only Arkhippe, Madeleine, and Annette. There's no real need for François anymore. I'll tell him that of course he'll continue to live here, and that we'll help him to find work. And . . . we'll have to let Zelle go. The children are both in school now, and you, or Madeleine, can bring them to school and pick them up.”

She whispered: “I don't mind. I can manage very well on a far more modest scale. But—if things aren't going well—you should have told me.”

“I'm sorry. Papa and I are on the lookout for new business ventures. It's this damned sugar harvest we missed . . . and all the money we lost in building materials. Now I've started to do some consulting work, putting firms together for deals, and advising bankrupt firms how to get back on their feet. The commissions on those will be large, and will help Brasilov Enterprises. I don't want you to worry.”

When he returned to the office, she went into her closet and examined the rods laden with shimmering gowns, the shoe bags with dozens of brand-new shoes, some not even worn. She'd lived like a queen, without asking how, without asking if she deserved it—if it was right. She was twenty-seven, married eight years—and yet he'd treated her like a child, pretending everything was perfect in the magic kingdom, when in reality the magic potion that had kept the kingdom going had stopped working. Whose fault was it, then? Hers, for being spoiled? Or his, for making it seem as if by being spoiled, she was fulfilling his dream as well as her own?

She thought of separating the children from Zelle, who had become part of the family—and felt an ache inside. And François. He'd been her mainstay for so many years. All the day trips they'd taken together. How she'd loved her car. . . .

It wasn't going to be easy, but she hadn't expected luxury, ever, even from her father. She'd been happier in Bougival than in that mausoleum in Boulogne. It was going to be much, much harder on Misha. He'd come to think that his world was lined with silver and gold, and paved with precious stones—that this was his destiny. Yet he'd made it work, when he'd come to Paris as a refugee. He, and Ivan Vassilievitch—the maker of empires, the founder of dynasties. For if Misha was the perfect administrator, it was the old man who possessed the genius of making businesses spring from ideas, and industries from businesses.

Lily shut the door of her closet, and went out to tell Zelle that she would have to start looking for another job—that she would have to leave the children she had come to love as if they'd been her own.

One morning, after the children had left for school, she sat at the piano, studying a piece by Stravinsky.

Arkhippe appeared. “There is a lady to see Madame la Princesse.”

Lily asked, her hands poised over the keys: “Someone I know?”

Arkhippe shook his head. Their eyes met, perplexed. These days, everything was moving so fast—and so many changes had occurred. Lily stood up, wondering if this was another messenger of bad news.