The Keeper of the Walls (42 page)

T
he children loved
the Hotel Carlton. It stood in perpetual shade at 119 to 121, Avenue des Champs-Élysées, tall, stately, and, like a decayed aristocrat who has seen better times, somewhat gone to seed. The Persian carpets in the lounge needed to be cleaned and renovated. The walls needed new paint. And, as Misha had said, the outdoor café needed the most work of all. And so the first thing that he did was to order tables, chairs, and a series of gaily colored parasols to shade the already shady tables. His hope was that during the hot season, passersby would stop in to hide from the sun on the opposite side of the street.

Kira reveled in the marble columns of the reception hall, and in the fretwork around the molded ceilings of all the downstairs rooms. Often, on Thursday afternoons when all French children were off from school, her father brought her over from the
pension
a few blocks away on the Rue Lord-Byron, where he had set Lily and his children up in a small room with three beds. Nicolas didn't always come. This fall of 1935, he was almost eleven, and in the sixth form, which was the first serious class, when one had to choose between a classical or a modern course of study. He had chosen classical, because, as he'd announced to his parents, anyone could master science, but not everyone could read Greek and Latin. And so, many a Thursday, he stayed at home with Lily to polish up his homework.

But Lily knew that there was another reason why he didn't like to go to the Carlton without her. He'd run into his Aunt Henriette one day in the lobby, and had come away with an odd sensation of repulsion. She'd fondled him, and tousled his hair, and sent her small son, Alain, to play with him; yet he'd felt her strange, amber eyes like a lizard's stare, and had told his mother he didn't like his aunt. And so, while the old hotel held as much charm for him as it did for his sister, it also made him a little apprehensive about meeting this lady whom he hadn't liked. When his mother and aunt passed each other, they merely nodded and moved on.

Kira, on the other hand, was different. There was a side to her nature that sought the forbidden, that liked to toy with danger and high adventure. She'd always sat on the very edge of her seat at the circus, when the lion and tiger trainers performed, almost hoping that something unexpected would occur, to test the bravery of man against beast. She didn't care a hoot about adult problems. If Papa and Uncle Claude had disagreed, this had nothing to do with her. On the contrary, it suddenly made her somewhat insipid uncle more interesting to her. And she guessed, with her child's intuition, that the mysterious lady he had married lay at the root of the question. So, when she went to have lunch with her father at the Carlton, she kept her eyes open for Henriette.

She'd seen them once, all three of them. Uncle Claude, dark and handsome in his perfectly tailored brown pinstriped suit; the small boy, dark like his father, but with curiously moss-green eyes, not unlike her own, Kira had thought: decked out like Little Lord Fauntleroy in a cute sailor suit and patent leather shoes. But the lady had been extraordinary. She had an oval face, very delicate, and slanted eyes of a queer amber color, like light topazes. Her hair, styled in a pageboy bob of the newest fashion, had been topped by a marvelous heart-shaped dark green hat, to match her woolen suit with its padded shoulders and fitted skirt that came to just below the knee. What slender, elegant legs had emerged from that tight skirt, and so daintily shod in patent leather green shoes that went just perfectly with her patent leather bag! Kira had been amazed by the color of her hair: a burnished burgundy that contrasted dramatically with the pallor of her somewhat sunken cheeks. “She looks like an actress,” Kira had breathed.

And then Christmas came, eclipsing all else behind it, and they went to Grandma's at the Ritz, and opened presents at midnight. Kira received a brand-new silk nightgown, and a silver-backed hairbrush and comb from Grandma and Grandpa Jacques. Aunt Marthe had sent five books by the Comtesse de Ségur. Mama had made her a blue velvet dress, with an embroidered, hand-crocheted collar. Papa gave her his own Bible, its leather cover embossed with gold print. And then there was the mystery present, which had come to the Ritz addressed to “Princess Kira Brasilova, in care of Madame Jacques Walter.” It had said “Fragile: To Be Opened at Once,” and so Grandma hadn't waited, and removed the wrapping.

Grandma and Grandpa had found themselves staring at a small gilded cage, in which sat two lovebirds, terrified and soundless. By the time Kira arrived, they'd started to sing, and she fed them from the two boxes of special seeds that had been included in the package. Everyone had wondered who had sent this most wonderful of gifts, but Kira, in her heart of hearts, had known.

She had no doubt that the beautiful woman in the green velvet suit, her Aunt Henriette, had sent her the lovebirds. But she was afraid to tell anybody, even Nicky, about her secret knowledge.

O
n February
13
, 1936, Misha walked both his children to their lycées, and went bright and early to the Hotel Carlton. The Portuguese
maître d'hôtel,
Carvalho, greeted him with a somber expression. “Your Excellency, business was bad yesterday. The café only made eleven thousand francs. And now Marcel, the chef, is ill. Jean-Paul, the assistant chef, has never yet been on his own, and he's got the worst case of stage fright you could imagine.”

Misha sighed. “Well, then, I shall have to reanimate him. Where is he?”

“In the pantry, sir.”

Misha smiled, and walked resolutely past Carvalho. The Portuguese was a fine
maitre d'hôtel,
but he didn't know how to handle his subordinates. Misha strode into the pantry and past some sinks to the row of closed doors that stored bins of dry goods. “Jean-Paul,” he called gently. “I won't allow you to let us down. But more than this: I won't allow you to let
yourself
down. Every assistant chef waits like a nervous frog for the moment when his superior will fall sick. Because that's when his own worth will emerge. Many reputations have been built during a chef's sick leave. Do you intend to remain an assistant for the rest of your days?”

A man, inside one of the closets, coughed. “But your Excellency, if I fail . . .”

Misha let the thought hang in midair. “How do you think I ever got started in this country?” he retorted. “It took a lot of guts and a strong stomach. I was scared, just like you. At least you're a born Frenchman, Jean-Paul. You know the tastes here. Come on, man. There's a small crowd waiting for breakfast, and we can't keep feeding them yesterday's leftover croissants. They desire small miracles, which only you can accomplish.”

Jean-Paul's voice said, faltering: “‘Small miracles'? But what could these people possibly want, at eight thirty in the morning? The bread is ready. With coddled eggs, or
soufflés
, or at most sugared crêpes, they ought to call themselves lucky! Why, your Excellency, we were up till four, baking brioches and croissants and small chocolate breads. Tell me what other miracles they might have in mind?”

Misha stifled a laugh. “Oh, wait and see,
mon cher.
But to start with, I'd say you had the kitchen well in hand. The only item missing from the menu is the brilliant man to put these foods together. You wouldn't want us to rely on Aristide now, would you?”

He heard the door being savagely pushed out, and watched as Jean-Paul, outraged, stepped forward.
“Aristide?!
Your Excellency wishes the Carlton guests to die of food poisoning at eight thirty in the morning? If you please, let me through to wash my hands. Just to
think
of that little lame-brain touching my pots and ladles! I don't want to get an attack of the runs!”

Misha patted him twice on the shoulder, and made his exit. He walked through the lobby, exchanging greetings with the desk clerk, and went into the main lounge. He wanted to examine the new paneling that had been put in, and the new frames he had ordered for the paintings of President Lebrun and Raymond Poincaré, dead two years now, whom the owner of the Carlton still felt to have been France's greatest statesman. Misha peered now into the plain, somewhat dour face, and thought: How far astray has your great nation swerved, Raymond . . . how divided it lies. There was no longer a Bloc National, with its solid centrist majority. The conservatives had turned fiercely to the extreme Right; and the Left . . . well, one hardly needed to document
its
ideals. The Popular Front, composed of Radicals, Socialists, and Communists, had swelled to such a point that in the April elections, it was likely to win a majority against the National Front.

Misha suppressed a rising disgust, and turned to scrutinize the fine oak woodwork. He was glad of his selection. The paneling had the look of age, including the right patina. But it was new, and therefore a lot less costly. A team of young carpenters he had known had given him, in fact, a fine rebate.

“I beg your pardon, your Excellency—but this man is insisting to speak with you. . . .” Émile, the desk clerk, elderly, myopic, and full of decorum, was trying, by the look on his face, to convey to Misha his deep apologies. At his side stood a bailiff in uniform, erect and inscrutable as befitted his profession.

Misha started, then recovered his composure. What other money did he owe that he had now forgotten about, and that had now come to haunt him at his new job? He felt a moment of complete anguish, but said: “Thank you, Émile. I can handle this matter, I'm sure.” But in reality, he wasn't so sure. He felt years older than his forty-five calendar years: older, more tired, and less in control.

When the old man had departed, Misha extended his hand for the papers that the process server was holding out to him. “You must sign here,” the man said, pulling out a ledger from a thin briefcase. Misha complied, grimly. France, bureaucratic and punctilious, appeared to be embodied in the person of this ramrod-straight public official. One couldn't hate him: he was merely doing his job. But when he had turned his back to leave, a terrible nervousness took possession of Misha. He wanted to be alone to see what this was about, and when, finally, he saw the bailiff disappear into the front lobby, he tore open the envelope with fingers that shook.

Misha read the form once, twice, then leaned against the oak paneling and read it through again. He couldn't believe this. His stomach was tight as a knot, and he could feel his scalp tingling, as if a million tiny needles, touched with fire, had been dancing over the thin skin under his hair. Very quickly, he tried to think over his last few months at the Hotel Rovaro. For it looked as if Charles de Chaynisart had instigated legal action against him, for theft.
Theft.
Misha knew that in forty-five years, he had never committed a single act of theft. Only the lowest of the low committed theft. Like the Rabinovitches. Men reared in the slums, devoid of any basic values. He felt outraged, revolted—and horribly humiliated, that any man would dare to call him a thief.

He thought for a moment of going home, to that miserable room that was the only home he had at this point, and of telling Lily what had happened. Then he rejected this idea. She'd suffered enough. It had never been his style to tell his wife of his business problems, if it could be avoided. It was up to him to protect her—not to burden her.

In this instant, he missed his father with an acuteness that pierced through him with its poignancy, and he had to steady himself against the wall. Who, then? Because he knew he had to talk this through, to try to comprehend. There was only one person, of course. And so he put his coat on and told Émile not to worry, he had a pressing engagement outside but would return before lunch.

Outside, Misha felt the nipping cold and pulled the collar of his overcoat up to protect his neck. He began to walk, briskly, in giant strides, down the Champs-Élysées. It wasn't that he was trying to economize on bus fare; but the exercise helped to clear his mind. Before he knew it, he had reached the Place de la Concorde and was making his way east along the Quai du Louvre. Colorful little stalls displaying old books and water-colors met his eye, distracted him for the breath of a second, and then he sank his gaze into the murky, gray-green Seine, drowning his sense of helpless despair in its age-old waters, as the disconsolate had been doing for time eternal. Soon he had reached the Pont Louis-Philippe. He checked his watch: he had been on foot one and a half hours. He crossed the bridge, and soon had reached his destination, the elegant stone mansion on the Quai de Bourbon built by Le Vau in the seventeenth century, which had come to be known as the “Maison Dalbret” in the Paris vernacular.

Dragi, the Negro butler, gave him a wide, bright smile as he let him in. Misha felt his heart lift a twinge, in this incredible palace that seemed, like the Taj Mahal, to belong to a different world from that which had brought him down. But it amazed him, too, to consider Varvara. She was fifty now, and yet she still held Parisians enthralled, on the edge of their seats as they watched her perform, whether an outrageous comedy by Georges Feydeau, or as Medea, in the grand tragedy by Corneille. She'd done it all alone, easily moving from revue dancer to a dramatic actress of strength and talent. Probably, if he'd treated her as a real wife, she wouldn't have had the need to become an actress. So he had, by his own neglect and injustice, done her an enormous favor. He smiled, wryly, wondering if Lily, left to her own devices, would have risen to the occasion, like Vava, and become one of France's most renowned pianists.

He was led once again to the red silk bedroom, where he found her in front of her vanity, an intricate piece of Chinese lacquered wood, surmounted by a huge mirror with a spotlight. Behind her, an effeminate young man sat trimming her red curls, and he stepped back, his face appalled by the sudden intrusion. “It's all right, my pet,” Varvara said to the coiffeur. “Dragi will take you to the kitchen, where I'm sure the cook will find something wonderful to feed you. You can come back in an hour.”

With the door shut upon the backs of Dragi and the hairdresser, Varvara stood up, and shook off the hairs that had fallen all over her shoulders and neck. She smiled, and said: “
Il
faut souffrir pour être belle
—right, Misha? But for God's sake: what's wrong?”

He sat down on one of the Chinese chairs, and replied, steepling his fingers: “I'm not exactly sure. Charles de Chaynisart has accused me of grand theft, and is bringing me to trial. But I don't understand where he could have gotten his ammunition. He claims I stole ten thousand francs. I don't even recall taking such an amount from the hotel safe. It was always in smaller or larger doses, but uneven ones, as befitted the occasion.”

“And you received no explanation on the notice?”

“Of course not. By Napoleonic law, anyway, a man is guilty until proven innocent—an odd process, to be sure.”

“I know him a little—your Baron Charles. He's a strange, perverted man. Likes to hire whores to enact little scenarios for him: you know the type. But always impeccable to the outside world. Few people are aware of his depravities. But
think,
Misha. What did you ever do without his knowledge, that he could now legally hold against you?”

Misha said, “But I always dealt with Philippe—almost never with Charles. As a matter of fact, the last thing that Philippe ever told me was to pay myself. I took eighteen thousand francs from the safe, and left him a memorandum on his desk, as was our custom.”

“And you made a note of this in a ledger?”

“Naturally.”

“Tell me,” she said, “these memoranda—they were specific, detailed? The last one, for example. What did it say?”

He shrugged, irritated. “Vava, Philippe and I had no reason to distrust each other. I can't recall the exact wording. But it went something like this: ‘As per your instructions of today, I removed eighteen thousand francs, to reimburse myself.' “

“No greater
detail,
Misha? To reimburse yourself for what? For when?”

“For the money he owed me by our original contract, plus a sum of ten thousand he should have paid me after that, along the way, for services rendered. He hadn't paid me for months, and actually owed me far more than this.”

“But not by any signed agreement.”

“No. He'd kept stalling. I think his brother was to blame for that.”

Varvara sighed. She stood, unpretentious, in a white terry-cloth robe that enveloped her totally, hiding the feline curves of her body. But her unpainted eyes, clear blue and wide, were arresting in their beauty, so that no one noticed the small creases at their edges. Her neck was perfectly smooth, her skin translucent. There were some lines on her forehead, but these were in no way unpleasant tributes to the passage of time. She announced: “Misha, that's the crux of the problem. You aren't going to have an easy time proving you were entitled to this money. And don't forget: we shall always be foreigners, my love. The French are chauvinists. To them, you and I are ‘exotic,' when they want to use us; but when we're the ones in need, we're pure and simple outsiders. A court of law will give De Chaynisart the benefit of the doubt, not you—no matter how plausible your story sounds. The De Chaynisart name is old, and full of nobility.”

Misha stood up, trembling, and cried: “Then what you're advising me to do, between the lines, is to
leave France,
because I won't get a fair trial here?”

She thrust her fingers through her hair, then stretched. “I'm not giving you
any
advice. I'm not an attorney, Misha. You need a good attorney.”

“I
am
an attorney.”

“Were,
my pet. You're not a member of the French bar. Get yourself someone good. Someone who'll settle out of court, preferably.”

He said, outraged: “But I can't afford a good lawyer! And I can't afford to settle out of court!”

She raised her thin, arched brows. “Look, Misha. Find yourself a lawyer. There are always . . . friends . . . who will help you to pay him—or her. You've helped enough people in your day for them to want to help you now. And you've had your share of crocodiles nipping at your shirttails.”

He took this in, and fell silent, acutely embarrassed. She was offering to come to his rescue . . . like Jacques Walter, earlier. He'd never been in a position to accept anybody's charity. Suddenly, he asked her about something that had been on his mind for a while: “Why do you think that Claude is doing so well? Brasilov Enterprises completely collapsed. I smell a rat.”

Slowly, Varvara inhaled, then exhaled, turning around on tiptoe. She turned back to Misha, her face oddly set, composed. “How many years did it take you to realize this, darling?” she demanded. “The facts stared you right in the eye. Who was it that made the initial connection between you and the Rabinovitches? Claude. Who was it who went back, trying to find them, and reported that they'd vanished into thin air? Claude. Who was it who lived like a successful businessman when you were falling to ruin? Whose wife wears all the new Schiaparelli outfits, and vacations in the palace hotels? I'm asking
you.
”