Evening of the Good Samaritan (23 page)

And then one day she was called to the visitor’s parlor where Dr. Nathan Reiss was waiting. He took both her hands in his, thanked the portress loudly, and winked at Martha when he saw the old nun take her place just outside the open door.

“This is a beautiful chateau,” he said, and he touched his fingers to the draperies. “Gold damask. There is a poor school attached? There always is.”

“To the elementary school,” Martha said. “I don’t think they’ve ever thought of a college for the poor.”

“The poor it does not take so long to finish, eh? Unless they are stubborn like me.”

Martha smiled and sat down opposite a chair she thought he might find comfortable. “Please, doctor,” she said.

He sat down, crossed his knees, and smiled. “Would you find it very difficult to call me Nathan?”

“I probably should … here,” she said, and then blushed because it sounded as though she were looking for an invitation.

“I understand. But I do not have a beard so that they will not believe I am a doctor in any case.” He indicated the nun with a nod of his head. “I have been wondering—if you do not have other arrangements—would you care to be the New Year’s week guest of a very dear friend of mine, the Baroness Schwarzbach? She will write to you herself, of course, and to the sisters if that is proper. But I thought I should prepare the way first. She is very nice and gay, and she entertains people from all over the world.”

“You are very kind, Doctor Reiss.”

He glanced in the nun’s direction, so that what he said seemed merely mischievous, not improper. “And you are very beautiful. I may then arrange it?”

“Thank you.”

It was a holiday such as Martha had never known. She truly found her place among strangers, except that no one treated her like a stranger; no one treated anyone like a stranger. She discovered people, men and women, whom she would have said were casually acquainted, engaged in the most intimate discussions.

The Baroness herself, a plump but delicately cared for woman, came into Martha’s room the first morning of her visit. “Nathan tells me there is such a tragedy, poor child. Tell me.” She seated herself in a chair at the side of Martha’s bed, and arranged something in her lap which Martha realized was a small gray poodle with glistening bright eyes, red-rimmed, and a black nose that also glistened. “You must tell me now, my dear. Do not mind Pépé.” She spoke sometimes in English, sometimes in French to Martha. Yet her accent was not French.

Slowly, with great diffidence, Martha told the story. It was the first time she had told it to anyone, and there was some gratification in the telling. Her hostess kept making clicking noises of sympathy at which sound the dog would look up into her face and then to Martha, for all the world as though he, too, felt sympathy.

“Tell me, my dear, is your mother French?”

“Irish.”

“Of one thing I was certain—not German or English.” And presently she said, “You will not wear black tonight, my dear: a touch of red for gallantry. Oh, yes! It takes great courage to commit suicide. One has to care very much about what happens because he dies by his own hand. It is the ultimate weapon, death. Is it not? Some men turn it on themselves, some upon the other. There is no mercy in killing oneself. To kill the other—one hopes for vindication, for mercy.”

But, Martha thought, how could a madman so reason? Did then the Church’s finding of temporary insanity restore her father to grace by depriving him of reason?

“Why men die,” the Baroness said, “it is very interesting.” She picked up a crumb from Martha’s breakfast tray and fed it to the dog, and another and another while she talked. “My first husband was killed in a diamond mine—a cave in because he went too fast. I’ve always thought it interesting that he, the master, was killed. Usually it is the natives, the slaves who are killed, and the accident has no meaning. Significance, but no meaning. My second husband was clawed to death by a wounded tiger—I have often thought because he could not bring himself to shoot straight the first time. That was Baron Schwarzbach. Poor boy. He was raised to the hunt, but he preferred Mozart.” Again the dog was presented a crumb which he licked from the tip of her finger. “That is sad, isn’t it? But the thing that is terrible—to be raised to Mozart and to crave the hunt. I understand you were disappointed in Vienna? We behaved very badly for you.”

“You are Austrian, Baroness?”

“But, of course. My title is French, however. The Austrians are not so generous to Schwarzbachs. Paris is my second home, or perhaps my third. I love also Naples. The most romantic part of me will live there forever … Pépé you are going to get fat! But why not? You are a Frenchman.” She got up and tucked the little dog under her arm life a muff, and picking up the nub of the flaky roll which was left, she dipped it into the last curl of butter and gave it to him. “Such a darling beast, what can I do?” she said, and shrugged so that just for the instant Martha saw the several lines drawn tightly beneath her chin all the way to her ear.

“We must talk longer together, you and I—but another day. I will send my maid to you within the hour, child. But do not wear black to the fete tonight.”

“May I wear my white brocade? I don’t have so much choice, Baroness.”

The Baroness thought about it. “White with red roses. That will be very nice. Pépé, red roses. We must remember red roses.”

At luncheon Nathan Reiss proposed that he take Martha shopping that afternoon since they must both buy New Year’s gifts. They need buy only for the other house guests and their hostess, but since there were eight other house guests it was a considerable undertaking. The excursion was gay. As Dr. Reiss said, a doctor’s holiday is like no other man’s, he has so few of them. Martha was pleased to hear him say that, for she had never quite got over the notion that he was not really a doctor.

“Do you practice in Paris, doctor?”

“Yes.”

“In a hospital?”

“But, of course, only in a hospital. I am a surgeon.”

“I know. Doctor Mueller told me.”

“Would you like to see the hospital?”

“Very much.”

“But why?”

“I could tell Marcus about it. He also is a surgeon.”

“May I tell you something? There is no place in all Paris he will care less to hear about in a letter from you.”

Martha laughed.

They had bought small gifts on the Rue de Rivoli, knit gloves and ties, and stopped at the Ritz for an apéritif. At a shop on the Avenue de l’Opéra, they bought linen handkerchiefs, the lace trim of which, Reiss said, would raise a blister on the nose of a gargoyle.

“Even on Pépé’s,” Martha said.

“You noticed, too? That dog is obscene—red eyes and a running nose, and a belly like a tea kettle.” He shuddered, having shaped his hand as he might to hold the dog in it. “Perhaps we can go to the opera one evening before Epiphany. Would you like that?”

“Very much, doctor.”

“No, only if you call me Nathan. I will not have people say I am escorting a child who calls me doctor.”

“Do you think I am a child?”

“An adorable one,” he said, and gently pressed her hand.

“Nathan, how old would you suppose the Baroness is?”

He stood apart from her and laughed aloud. “I have known her twenty years and she is no older now. My dear, she is ageless. But if you were to look up in the social register or whatever they call it, it would tell you she was born fifty and some years ago.”

“No!”

“And you were going to write your fiancé about the hospital!”

Martha smiled and took his arm to cross the street. “He’s not really my fiancé, I suppose.”

“You aren’t going to be married?”

“Oh, yes, but …”

When she hesitated, he added, “But he doesn’t know it yet.” He threw up his hand, gesturing for a taxi. “We have two hours. Where would you like to go?”

“Montmartre, if it’s possible. I have a letter to friends—of a friend.”

“An artist?”

“Actually, friends of Doctor Mueller’s wife.”

“It is a very expensive time to visit artists, let me tell you. Come, we shall make an unforgettable impression.”

As it happened, Julia Mueller’s friends had gone to the south of France for the holiday, not to the Riviera, but to Aries. They had left behind a number of very sociable acquaintances, however.

“Now there is where I wish I could take you to find them,” Reiss said.

“Mother and I were there,” Martha said.

“I think I could make you forget that.” He made a face of mock chagrin at what he had said, and Martha laughed. He bought a great many artists a number of cognacs, who, for the most part, drank death to war, and life to the heart.

When they were leaving a veritable colony waved them down the steps of Sacré Coeur.

“They are pacifists,” Martha said on the way down.

“Communists,” Nathan said, “or possibly Nazis. They are the greatest pacifists of all among the French.”

“Are there French Nazis?”

“Mmmmm. Some. In very high places and by some other names. You may very well meet some tonight, but you will not know it … until they start talking peace. That is when I can tell.”

“Nathan, isn’t the Baroness Schwarzbach Jewish?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone philosophic if his answer was equivocal. “I want to buy you something, my dear. Nothing intimate, but something you would like.” He signaled a taxi.

“A book?” Martha suggested. “That’s what I got you, you know. A book about America.”

He turned in the cab and smiled broadly, his teeth gleaming in the winter twilight.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” Martha said. “It should have been a surprise.”

“I am surprised and I am delighted, but now
you
shall not know. You must sit in the taxi and wait for me.”

He stopped the cab at the monument at Place Vendôme, left it and walked to beyond where Martha could see him. When he returned, he said, “In my right pocket is the Baroness. In my left, you.”

Martha said, “It must be very difficult to select a gift for the Baroness.”

“Not as difficult as it is for her to select for herself.”

Martha did not see him very much that evening. He sat at the Baroness’ right at dinner, and he danced first with her at midnight. Martha’s dinner partner was the son of an Italian diplomat who could talk of very little except skiing, or at least very little which Martha could understand. But she was reminded of Tony Fields, and he danced beautifully, and she was not really very happy; but gay she was, or thought she was, which matched the mood of everyone. People said even the most serious things lightly, as did the Italian diplomat to a Frenchman—a newspaper publisher—as it seemed practically all important Frenchmen were. The Italian said, “But to sign a pact with the Soviets. You have made even Belgium an enemy.” The Frenchman shrugged. “She is better that than a friend, for us.” Martha drank quite a lot of champagne. And when at last he came up to her, Nathan seemed to have drunk a great deal too. The lids were a little heavy upon his eyes, and his mouth, delicate, sensuous, seemed just a little pouty now—or wistful; that was a better word.

“I have had to wait so long tonight for this moment,” he said. “But it is a waltz.” He turned to the Italian boy, saying, “You will excuse us?” not even waiting for an answer. Dancing, he drew her close to him for a moment: “It is not our first waltz, if you remember. But it was from then I began to plan this one. Did you know that?”

“No. Or maybe I did,” Martha said, being strictly honest.

“I have your present in my pocket. I want to give it to you now.”

“But we are to give them all together,” Martha said.

“I will give you something else all together,” Reiss said, and then sensing uneasiness, “Do not be alarmed. It will not compromise you.”

Martha said nothing.

There were many avenues of privacy in the Baroness’ home, alcoves shadowed by great potted palms, and it was into one of these they danced. The walls were exquisitely papered with plump, gamboling children, lighted by wall-sconced candles.

“They’re like Boucher,” Martha said. “Or are they Boucher?”

Reiss did not answer, taking from his pocket the small box from which he drew a narrow gold bracelet delicately etched so that it caught the light. “You see, it has no hidden meanings, only my pleasure in making you a gift.”

“It is lovely,” Martha said.

“You will wear it and sometimes think of me?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, and put it on.

“The book you are giving me about America—may I suppose that is because you hope I shall come there?”

“That would be very nice,” Martha said.

“You are very cautious—and yet provocative. You have a devil, young lady.”

Martha smiled and showed the bracelet. She asked, looking up suddenly, “But is it proper? It
is
jewelry.”

“Not the dangerous kind,” he said. “A Happy New Year, Martha.”

“Happy New Year, Nathan.”

She had known he would kiss her, and she had wanted it, and she was—quite definitely, she told herself at the instant their lips met—her mother’s daughter. He kissed her gently at first, then suddenly in a manner strange and terrible. It roused in her nonetheless the desire to feel his body against hers as she now did, intimately, for they were almost of a height.

But this was the flesh, the flesh without love. Only self-love. She broke the hold of his arms and moved from him. “Nathan, I do not love you.”

“You are lonely. Let me love you. It will be enough for tonight. And tomorrow—if you wish—you will forget.”

“But I love Marcus. Don’t you understand?”

“Yes—but you are not affianced, so you said.”

“I should not have said it then. I consider myself to be.”

“A woman in love—needs love. And I need it—I am as far from love as you. Much farther. No one will ever know.”

She shook her head and turned away from him. Behind her, he put his arms about her, his hands lingering a moment at her breasts, then folding around her waist. “Please?” He put his mouth to her ear with the word, and then touched the lobe of her ear with his tongue.

She averted her head sharply.

He drew a deep breath and released her. “You must not be angry. So be it! But when I come to America, I want to meet this great man Marcus—for whom you are holding such treasure.”