The Eleventh Year (32 page)

A Tatar princess—Elena, of course! Suddenly the blood rushed to Lesley's cheeks and a tremendous thrill pervaded her every nerve. There were so many things at her disposal! She examined everything, enthralled like a child before a treasure chest. She selected some shawls, set them about the manikin's shoulders, changed her mind. For three hours she fussed with paste beads, with kerchiefs, with oils, painting on hair for effect, trying to capture what Elena would have looked like as a Tatar princess. Her imagination was filled with ideas.

Many hours later she stood back. Gontcharova, from her sofa, gulping down tea from a tall glass, remarked: “This is quite good. You have really created a nice effect. Now what'd do differently—” And she rose, began to adjust some materials, moving small things around. The effect was to render Lesley's work professionally perfect while retaining its essential ideas. “Yes.” She'd finally nodded, stepping back. “I'll take you on!”

Lesley went back to her house with a sensation of floating on air. She called Sara Murphy on the telephone, ecstatic. Then she hesitated. The impulse was to telephone Jamie, but she hadn't spoken to Jamie for many months. Elena, then. She dialed the Russian to tell her the news and then thought again. It was really to Jamie that she wished to relate this to, much as Jamie had come to her to tell her about Harold Ober and Maxwell Perkins.

Lesley slipped on a thin cloth coat and belted it. The Bugatti was gone. Alexandre must therefore have taken it to the Palais-Bourbon. It struck her then that she hadn't even thought to share her excitement with her husband. She slid into the upholstered seat behind the wheel of her new green DeDion Bouton and drove straight to Jamie's address on Boulevard Montparnasse. Tomorrow she would start work. God only knew where all this might lead!

She nearly ran up the eight flights of stairs to Jamie's loft. Maybe this time they'd be able to patch things up for good, to reweave the tattered fabric of their friendship. The bell was stuck, so she knocked on the door: the old Vassar knock, three quick raps, a pause, and two slower ones. Then she tried the handle; it gave way. Jamie was the most trusting person in Paris; she never in a million years imagined that someone other than a friend might find his way into her apartment. How different from the well-protected fortress in which the Varennes lived!

The loft was charming. The shock was Paul's belongings, strewn about, much more so than any of Alex's in their own home. But that was because Jamie only had one
femme de menage,
a daily cleaning woman, to straighten her apartment. Lesley had seven servants, all living on the premises. “Jamie?” Lesley called. “Jamie Lynne Stewart, wherefore art thou?”

Her friend came in from the bedroom, belting her bathrobe. Jamie had always liked to write in comfortable clothes. Her long hair lay over her shoulders, and her breasts were free beneath the loose robe. “Les!” She was smiling, her eyes shiny. “I thought—I don't know what I thought. It's been ages!”

Lesley looked away, playing with the long string of pearls knotted below her waist. “I'm sorry, Jamie.”

“Look, there's no reason to be sorry. I felt you'd come when you wanted me. Or needed me.”

“So now you're a big success! Scribner's is calling you the next Scott Fitzgerald,
femme
!”

“Before
publication. Afterward I may have to reimburse them their advance!”

They stood awkwardly, and then Jamie took a few steps and hugged Lesley, rocking her back and forth. It felt good. Like being back home. Jamie was so natural, so different from all the people Lesley knew. “I'm going to tell you right away: Natalia Gontcharova is going to take me on three times a week, to study set design and costume!”

It seemed like a replay of a movie, the two friends trying not to be awkward, trying to return to their former closeness, each wanting to speak first. “Remember when you came to me that day, about Ober?”

They were sitting down together on the sofa. But Lesley's words, unexpectedly, made Jamie compress her lips into a hard line, twisting her fingers together in her lap.

“What's wrong, Jamie?”

“Paul's in love with somebody. He's having an affair, something very serious.”

In the stillness that ensued, Lesley was aware of her own heart beating noisily. “Jamie. You can't be sure. And anyway—in Paris everyone has affairs these days. They're meaningless, usually one-night adventures.”

“This one isn't. I think this is the end. He's going to leave me, Les. As soon as the book's published, he's going to go. I know it.”

“I'd think just the opposite: You'll embody everything that's important to him. You'll be in the public eye, and money will begin to pour in. I'm sorry, but I do know him. He'd never leave you then!”

“He's in love with Elena Egorova.”

Jamie's voice, toneless, dead, stunned Lesley completely. “No. Elena and I are good friends. She's not seeing anybody I don't know about.”

“I tell you, Paul's been sleeping with her. He's in love with her.”

“How on earth can you be so certain? It's absurd, Jamie!”

Jamie's eyes were unfocused. She said quietly: “I know it for a fact. A few weeks ago, I saw him going into her building on rue de Lubeck. I asked the concierge if she'd ever seen him before. She said: ‘It's the Comte de Varenne, Princess Egorova's friend. He comes here at least twice a week.' If I hadn't been in the neighborhood that afternoon to meet Hadley Hemingway at the Trocadéro, I'd never have seen any of it. But at that point everything began to make sense. I'd felt he was in love with someone else. Now it fit.
Anyone
could fall in love with Elena Egorova.”

“I still think it's incredible!”

“What would you do if Alex were seeing her? Or someone like her?”

Lesley laughed. It was a harsh laugh. Then she whispered seriously: “I don't know.” She turned to Jamie and her face was full of compressed rage at the betrayal of her friend. “That would be
my
problem. What are
you
going to do about yours?”

Jamie suddenly looked away and said shyly: “I'm going to have a baby.”

Lesley could not speak. She blinked a few times and finally swallowed. “Tell me this is a bad joke.”

“This is the truth. I
want
to have Paul's baby.”

Lesley cried out then: “But if he's planning to leave you, as you say, then that's no way to hold onto him! For God's sake! Jamie—you're not dealing with an honorable man! He'll leave you stranded—”

“I'm not going to be poor. The book comes out next month.”

“Are you…sure about this?”

“I think so. I'll be more certain in a few weeks. I want this baby, Les. No one, not even you, is going to convince me otherwise. Not even Paul. I may or may not tell him. If he leaves now, I'll say nothing. If he waits—I'll
have
to tell him. But I don't expect anything from him. One day, when it's right, I'm going to tell my baby who his father is. But for now I'm going to hire a nanny to help me take care of it. I'm going to buy a little place and keep writing.”

“You're a romantic idiot, Jamie! Please don't do this!”

Lesley was shaking, wishing she might ask for a drink. It was better not to think back, but it wasn't possible. She wasn't seeing Jamie, but herself—not Paul, but Justin. Jamie stood up. “Look,” she murmured, avoiding her friend's eyes: “It's not the same as it was for you. You had no choice at that point in your life. Right now I
do.
I can live alone with a child. I'm about to lose the one man I've ever truly loved, but at least I'm going to keep part of him, part of that love, inside me!”

Lesley said dully: “Why couldn't he have left you alone?”

“He didn't, and I let him into my heart, my life, of my own free will. Now I have to act, Lesley. I have to do something to fix the disarray before it turns into a chaos.”

“Having an illegitimate baby isn't the way, Jamie.”

“What's your suggestion?”

Their eyes remained locked, without flinching. Finally Lesley whispered: “I'm the wrong person to ask. You know that.”

Jamie placed a hand on Lesley's and answered in a low voice: “I wish I didn't feel so strongly about this. I'd do anything not to have to hurt you.”

They remained unspeaking, until finally it was Lesley who looked up, who tried to smile. “Well,” she declared, “we should drink to our successes. You're going to be Scottina Fitzgerald, with baby, and I? Perhaps I'll turn out to be the next Natalia Gontcharova. Do you have something strong? To toast with?”

Jamie went into the small kitchen, returned with a bottle of gin. She set it down on the table, opened it, and poured the liquor into two unmatched glasses. Handing one to Lesley, she declared:
“A nos amours!
Here's to Love, sweet Love. Especially Elena's.”

They clinked glasses and drank. But Lesley was miserable. She wished that she had never come. If Elena was the cause of all this—how could she stay her friend? How awful the interrelationships could be that bound people together and then sent them hurtling off in opposite directions…! She forced herself to finish her gin, because the liquor was calming her, and she'd been shaking.

After a second glass, Jamie stood up, her cheeks red. “I can't have any more. I must finish a short story for
McCall's.”

“Oh, Jamie—” But what was there left to say? Lesley put her arms around her friend, kissed her. “I love you. You're the only truly good person I know. You're my only friend.”

“And you, mine. Don't stay away. And start soon with Natalia.”

“Tomorrow.”

They lingered for a few more moments, neither wanting to break away. And then Lesley picked up her coat and her pocketbook, and went to the door. At the threshold she turned, looked back at the figure of Jamie in her bathrobe. “How can such a wise kid be such a fool?” she asked.

J
amie watched
everything with detached interest. Paul had wanted the supper to be served at the Tour d'Argent or Maxim's, but she'd argued for La Coupole. It was a more informal atmosphere. The huge rooms, the painted walls like looming frescoes, gave the Montparnasse establishment something of the nature of an eatery. She knew he planned to dazzle her with an impressive array of guests. She would much have preferred an intimate dinner for two.

She wore a soft gown made by Poiret. It had been worth the expense, because she was now no longer just a writer, but an
author;
and because Elena Egorova would be at the supper. The gown was of light-blue chiffon and covered her sloping shoulders to three-quarter-length sleeves. She had braided her hair to the left of her face, loosely, intertwining silk flowers into it. The dress was of indefinite enough shape that any added poundage was unnoticeable. She'd planned it that way. To hide the pregnancy, even though it was only the beginning. Two months, maybe three. She barely showed.

She was carrying his child. Actually, now that she was certain she was pregnant, it mattered much less that the child was his. She, Jamie, was going to have a child, her own child. She felt filled with the quiet joy of knowing that new life was beating inside her body. She could look at him, and care, but without the full ache she had harbored before. She could even conceive of an evening with Elena and accept it as an inevitable part of life. He didn't love her any more; actually, to be honest, he'd never loved her. And he was now in love with another woman.

She wanted her life to start anew, with a new literary reputation, with her new baby. Already there was the book. She was so proud of it, so pleased. She'd hardly been able to sleep. Her own words! She'd even written to her mother: “Mama, they are publishing thousands of copies!” She'd known that Margaret wouldn't like it. The story wasn't dirty at all, but then, in Cincinnati people thought Hawthorne was obscene.

She still wasn't sure whether she'd tell him. He'd know it was his; Jamie had never been with anyone else since she'd arrived in Paris in the winter of 1918. He'd so often told her that he'd expect her to get rid of it. But if faced with the inescapable fact of his child's coming, would he react differently? He was the least responsible individual she knew. But also, would she want his interference? Probably it would be best not to say anything.

They arrived at the Coupole, under the gay lights, and were hailed by what appeared to Jamie to be throngs of people, some already quite noisy with drinks and champagne. Paul had placed his order for the best Dom Perignon available: 1906, the first vintage year. It flowed like rainwater. The women wore huge hats and had removed their capes, and bare shoulders shone against the frescoes. No Lesley and Alex yet. Sara and Gerald were there, she always so beautiful, with a young couple Jamie hadn't met before. The man was terribly handsome, almost pretty, with green eyes and a classical face. His wife was blue-eyed, with hair of dull gold worn in a bob, and a pleasant, full figure. Her mouth was a Cupid's pout, almost childish. “I want you to meet Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald,” Sara said to Jamie. So
this,
then, was the author of
This Side of Paradise
!
She felt suddenly embarrassed and stammered: “Welcome to Paris. We—we have the same publisher, don't we?”

He was charming. “And the same agent.”

“Only we're always in debt,” his wife added. Jamie smiled. Paul tugged on her sleeve and she moved on, kissing Adrienne Monnier, Sylvia Beach, and the inevitable Gertrude and Alice. Gertrude commented darkly: “He
is
charming. But you don't have to trip over yourself, Jamison. Wait until he's had a few—he'll do it himself!”

Fitzgerald. Friend of all the intellectuals she most admired among her contemporaries. His glamorous tales of life at Princeton. She remembered having gone to Princeton once, for a ball of some sort. Her dull date. But he'd written about the “in” crowd. And even then the name, Fitzgerald, member of the Cottage Club, secretary of Triangle, had entered her consciousness. And since that time he'd accomplished so much! So much that she herself still dreamed of accomplishing.

She'd written under the name “Jamison Stewart.” It wasn't necessary to be too feminine. Her articles had been appearing for months; it was obvious that Jamie was a woman. But still—the people who read
Vanity Fair
and
Metropolitan
weren't necessarily the women in small towns of middle America—those who helped to elevate a book to the top of the charts.

She watched Paul waiting for Elena. It was the first time she would see them together after learning of their affair. Why do I wish to be tormented? she wondered. At heart, she thought that some day, if she had to write a scene of betrayal, of wrenching pain, she would have had the experience herself. But she was not of those who looked for pain in order to commit it to paper. They'd said that
The Beautiful and Damned,
Fitzgerald's latest, had been closely related to his own and Zelda's early years together. But Jamie felt that one could still laugh, and breathe, and enjoy, while searching for material.

People, French and American, were kissing her, congratulating her. Paul's hand stayed possessively on her shoulder. So many beautiful women! Hélène Berthelot, Gabrielle Dorziat. Important people that her mother would never have thought would speak to a simple Stewart. Jamie felt oddly removed from it all, above the din, the lights, the congratulations. She was waiting, tense.

And then Bertrand de la Paume arrived. Paul had told her, casually, that he'd be bringing Elena as his date. But she wasn't with him. Jamie's thoughts tumbled about incoherently. Does that mean that Paul's trying to be discreet, has asked her not to come? Could it mean that he isn't planning to leave? She could feel her stomach tighten, and sweat broke out on her forehead. She was momentarily dizzy and held onto the back of a chair in front of her. Paul drew the chair out, helped her sit down. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. Just the emotion of the moment.” Not really a lie.

He looked at her. She wondered if he felt concern. She was shocked at her own cold appraisal of a man she had so blindly loved, almost to the point of adoration. Realistically, she knew that she'd have been unhappy spending the rest of her days married to such a person. He was, as Lesley had always pointed out, a hedonist and a user. He wasn't as intelligent as she was. He was the kind of person who'd never succeed on his own merits—he'd always need a Bertrand. She'd realized all this, but she'd refused to accept it. She'd felt such a strong tie to Paul, such a sexual longing, that the idea of ever losing him had made her, at times, physically ill. She'd been addicted to Paul de Varenne.

“How are you, Bertrand?” she asked. Offhanded but pleasant. “Thank you for coming tonight.”

“How could I not? Paul is as a son to me. You are his beloved. Then you are my daughter-in-love, shall we say?”

She threw back her head and laughed, as she had seen Lesley do, and Sara. Such a casual, sexy mannerism. Great for a flapper. The pretty woman married to Fitzgerald had a deep, throaty laugh. She was a flapper, most definitely. The world had to stop to make room for her, even if it was somebody else's party. Jamie sat back, surveying the scene, the waiters pouring the champagne. Where on earth was Lesley?

“Elena couldn't make it?” she asked Bertrand as casually as she could.

“No. She went straight to the ladies' room to check her hair.”

The world, slowly, stopped spinning, came to a halt. Jamie saw mouths moving, but no sound. She smiled, nodded. What was there to say?

Elena Egorova knew the pulse of crowd expectations, probably knew her lover very well too. When everyone had taken his place, Jamie saw the hurried form of the Russian princess making her way past other tables, touching her hair as if nervous at being late. She wore a white gown, with a red flower in her hair, and rubies at her throat. A gown of such utter simplicity that Jamie's breath stopped. Elena went to Bertrand, kissed his cheek, murmured: “I'm so sorry. I hope you weren't worried,” and then came directly to Jamie. All eyes were upon her. She placed a light hand on Jamie's shoulder and said, looking her fully in the eye: “Please forgive me, Jamie.”

Jamie opened her mouth, which was bone dry, and managed to reply: “For what, Elena? You're here, and I appreciate it.” Suddenly the dryness left, and she found a quiet strength she had not known that she possessed.

Elena smiled and then looked briefly at Paul: “Hello, my dear. Where should I sit? Where do you want me?” It all sounded so casual, so natural. Paul was her lover, all of Paris knew it. She seemed so easy, and Jamie hated her at that moment. Had she no idea that everyone knew?

Paul stood up, graciousness personified. If he was at all embarrassed, only his eyes betrayed him. The flush had left his cheeks. He was now all smooth, worldly polish: the veritable son of Charlotte de Varenne. There was an empty place between Scott Fitzgerald and Alice Toklas. “Next to the young literary genius of America,” he announced, taking Elena by the elbow. It was that gesture, its familiarity, that hit Jamie in the stomach.

I don't want to compete, she thought. I don't really want him anymore! But behind the angry determination lay so much anguish that she was nauseated by the sight of the caviar canapés in front of her. She felt confused. Where was Lesley?

Just as the waiters were removing the hors d'oeuvres, Jamie saw her friend. Lesley, in a mauve gown highlighted by a fuchsia sash, was hurrying, Alexandre behind her. Lesley reached the table and pushed past the waiters. Her face was flushed. “We had a flat tire,” she announced. “Alexandre couldn't find anyone to help….”

She was looking directly at Jamie, her eyes avoiding Paul completely. Jamie felt enormous relief. Alex was kissing her, saying: “If walking would have brought us faster . . .” but Jamie stilled him with a hand. Her blue eyes fastened gratefully on the couple.

“Surely,” Paul said to his brother, “it wasn't you who changed the tire.” He was smiling, and Marie-Laure de Noailles began to laugh. Jamie found herself irritated for Alex. Paul's tone was light but mocking.

Lesley, accepting a seat between a minor
danseur
of the Ballets Russes and a jowled senator known for his depraved sexual preferences, suddenly spoke, clearly, to Paul. “No, darling,” she stated, her voice smooth and agreeable. “It was
I
who changed it.” Scott Fitzgerald turned his head to her and winked like an accomplice. He was sitting next to Elena, and now Lesley had to look at her Russian friend. Elena was playing with the stem of her wineglass. Lesley didn't want to speak to her. It was bad taste to have come to Jamie's celebration dinner. Lesley was angry. Her loyalty belonged to Jamie, but it was the first time she'd been placed in a situation with them both present.

The young man next to her had asked her something, in his heavily accented voice. She could feel her own voice trembling as she replied. Alex was beside a debutante farther down the table. She hadn't told him about Paul and Elena, nor about Jamie's pregnancy, but now she wished she had. He'd always disliked the Russian princess.

Paul was murmuring something to Jamie, and Lesley noticed that Jamie seemed removed too, like Elena. The bastard, Lesley thought viciously. Then she saw Elena stand up, bending gracefully to excuse herself to the person seated at her left. Lesley looked at Paul. As the Russian princess moved swiftly toward the powder room in the rear, she saw her brother-in-law follow her with his eyes. Jamie was staring at him pointedly, but he, unaware, was still focusing on Elena's tall figure weaving among the tables. Lesley ached for Jamie. Then Paul turned back to her, resumed what he'd been saying—and Lesley saw Jamie smile. It was the smile of an automaton.

And then Paul touched Jamie's shoulder and stood up. His knife clinked on his wineglass, and the guests stopped talking. He placed a hand on Jamie's arm, pressing it lightly. “Dear friends,” he began. He had a deep, oratorical voice, and the men and women seated at the long table looked with expectancy at his handsome face. “I have spent several years living with Jamie's book. In a sense you might even call me its father.”

Lesley searched the area for a glimpse of Elena. She found her, not far from the group, isolated in her stark splendor between two tables. Her black eyes were riveted on Paul. Her face was white. But there was something dreadful about her pallor. Lesley saw her lips parting, saw Paul quickly glance at her. He cleared his throat. “As I was saying…its father.”

Lesley stared at him, hypnotized. His face had lost its healthy color. He was almost fumbling for words. Steadfastly avoiding Elena's direction, his eyes played over the group of faces, looking at Scott Fitzgerald's amused, handsome features, his hand groping for Jamie's on the tabletop. He smiled at Alexandre, inclined his head with mocking grace. Lesley could feel her blood pressure going up, her back muscles tensing. “Jamie's book began from her own experiences. Her heroine, Melanie, is a girl not unlike herself. I think that you will all love her. Jamie doesn't seem, in her modesty, to realize that her life has changed, been transformed by the publication of
Rosebuds.
She is a star. I have never been gifted with art. But, as any father, I am proud of our child. I am proud of what Jamie has produced.”

Lesley saw Jamie's face trembling. Did he really have
no
idea? Were his words just a horrible coincidence? Elena was standing, perfectly still, in the passageway between the two tables. Paul turned, enough for Lesley to see their eyes meet, and Elena turn her head away. Jamie withdrew her hand. She had sensed the interchange too.

Then Paul was sitting down, people were clapping and raising champagne glasses, waiters were rushing up with fresh bottles. Scott Fitzgerald stood up, unsteady and his voice slurred, and hailed his new colleague. Zelda's eyes were half shut; a jealous woman, Lesley thought. Suddenly chairs were being pushed back, people were mingling, Jamie was being hugged—and Lesley saw Paul look furtively around and disappear. She saw him walk toward Elena and saw the Russian princess turn her back on him and make a rapid exit, toward the front of the restaurant. Lesley couldn't stand it anymore. She found Alexandre and murmured: “I don't feel very well. Would you take me outside for some fresh air?”