The House of Dreams (22 page)

“Not you, my dear, I meant the dog.”

Varian laughed. “I know you did, Peggy. He's mine, for my sins, aren't you? He's a scoundrel. Can't get him to do a damn thing I want him to.”

“Poodles are clever dogs,” she said, smoothing Clovis's belly. “You have to make him think it's his idea.” She glanced up at Mary Jayne and took a balloon glass of cognac from her. “Thank you, darling.”

“Your earrings are adorable, Peggy.”

She touched the tiny paintings set in gold dangling from her ears. “Tanguy painted them for me. Do you like them? Now, you must tell me everything. How are you? Will you be going back to the States soon?”

Mary Jayne shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“You must, it really is time for us to hightail it out of here, don't you think?” She sipped her drink. “Why, I've spent the last couple of months packing up my art collection single-handedly.” She inspected her broken, torn nails. “At least the paintings are safely on their way to Grenoble now.”

“The museum agreed to store them for you?”

Peggy nodded. “Now, I just need to get myself to safety.” She looked up at Mary Jayne. “If you are leaving for New York soon, may I take your room here?”

She frowned. “I'm not leaving.” She glanced at Varian. “Yet.”

“I've been wanting to ask you about something,” Varian said to Peggy. He watched as Mary Jayne settled on a sofa on the other side of the room. The sound of a woman's laughter drifted through from the open door.

Peggy scowled. “I suppose all those ghastly fake surrealist wives have taken roost here, too? I—” She broke off and flung her arms up in greeting. “Jacqueline!” Peggy put her glass on the hearth and jumped up.

Jacqueline strode into the room, her full coat swinging. She brought the fresh scent of cold air and the woods with her. “Peggy.” She opened her arms in an embrace. Varian noticed that both women kept their eyes open, their faces strained as they kissed once, twice. “What a marvelous surprise. Are you staying?” The edge to her voice made him think of paper cuts.

“A couple of days. I have some business to finish up, and then I'll be back again. I adore it here, it's just like Paris, don't you think, with all the surrealists wandering around in a vague way?”

“How delightful. We must…” Jacqueline followed the direction of Peggy's gaze, and her voice trailed off as she realized Peggy wasn't paying the slightest attention. Peggy's face lit up as André walked into the hall, nudging the main door closed with his shoulder. His arms were laden with branches and kindling. She rushed forward, beckoning to Danny and Gabriel.

“Boys!” she cried. “Come and help me. Monsieur Breton should not be carrying logs. It's like seeing Leonardo da Vinci take out the trash.”

André carried the wood through. “Nonsense, Peggy,” he said. “We are all doing our bit to help run the château, and this is a delightful chore.” He tossed the wood into the fire basket and turned to his wife, taking Jacqueline's coat from her shoulders. Aube ran into the room and flung her arms around her father's leg. She glared at Peggy. “You remember our daughter?”

“Of course! Charming,” Peggy said, taking up her spot in front of the fire by Varian again. As the Bretons busied themselves with unwrapping scarves and gloves, Peggy leaned in to Varian. “The child's a pest in cafés. I mean, he's clearly besotted with her, terribly indulgent. Don't you think that's what happens if you have children after forty?” She took a cigarette from Varian's silver case and waited for him to light it. “Thank you.” Peggy rested her head back against the marble pillar of the fireplace and exhaled. “He must have mellowed. I remember a story about an outburst in Paris when a woman with a baby carriage bumped into him on the street. He rounded on the poor woman and said, ‘If you must shit out a child, keep it away from me.' But look at him now, with the girl, he adores her, don't you think?” She stretched and sighed. “Do you have children, Varian?”

“My wife is keen. In fact, she's hoping I'll bring home a war orphan.”

“Instead you're bringing her a poodle?” Peggy roared with laughter. “Varian, you're incorrigible. Oh, it is good to sit still for a while, isn't it? I feel like I have been running for months.”

“How did you get out of Paris in the end?”

“My dear, it was a close-run thing. Can you believe the idiotic life we were living there? Everyone was determined to party that summer. Do you remember the ridiculous craze for yo-yos? Why, Cartier even made a gold one. Such nonsense.” Peggy shook her head. “Why, right up until the last minute we were sitting in cafés drinking champagne while trains were pouring in with machine-gunned refugees. The day Hitler stormed Norway, I walked into Léger's studio and bought a 1919 painting.”

“I heard you have been buying a lot of work,” Varian said carefully.

Peggy laughed throatily. “People accuse me of profiteering—well, let them. The artists need money. Picasso, if you can believe it, had the nerve to turn me away at the door of his studio, and said, ‘Lingerie is on the next floor.' Hateful man. But then, I loathe myself sometimes.” She sipped her drink. “I got out on June twelfth, two days before the Nazis marched in. I'd been stockpiling
bidons
of gasoline on my terrace.”

“A good move.”

“Well, I just bundled my maid and my two Persian cats into the Talbot and hightailed it out of there. I tell you, it is marvelous to be here, just marvelous.”

“Do you know the Bretons well?”

Peggy pursed her lips. “I wouldn't say I was part of the surrealist circle in an orthodox sense, but I am a great admirer of Breton.” Her eyes dilated as she looked at André. “Have you not noticed the effect he has on people? No one is immune to his charm.”

Varian shifted his arm and spoke quietly to her. “Listen, Peggy, if you really want to do something to help these artists, I realize it must be tempting to head to the U.S. as quickly as possible, but I wondered if you had paid any thought to my suggestion that you take over the ARC from me. Those blithering idiots in New York have no idea what's really going on here, and we need someone good if the office is to carry on its work.”

“Of course I have thought about it, in fact I talked to the American consul about it only this morning.” Varian's heart sank. “It's preposterous. What do I know about refugee work?”

“About as much as I did when I took over this job,” Varian said. “You've got to remember, Peggy. I was an editor at Headline Books. I am an editor … that is, if they'll keep my job open any longer. I was only meant to be here a couple of weeks. I need to get home, to work and to my wife.”

“I simply can't help. The consul advised me to have nothing to do with you all.” Peggy glanced at him. “Though of course I don't pay attention to everything he says.”

“The thing is, Peggy, this work is taking its toll on my health.” He hesitated, thinking of Eileen's latest letter. “And my marriage.”

Peggy placed her hand on his. “You are doing marvelous, wonderful work here. But I'll be honest, the black market atmosphere in Marseille terrifies me. The very thought of arrest…” She shivered. “I daren't think what you are really up to, behind the scenes, to get all these people out safely. I'm not cut out for espionage. I'm sorry, Varian, I just can't. You do understand?” She picked up her glass. “I am happy to give you money, though, and I guarantee I'll pay for the passages of the Bretons and Max Ernst to America.…

“André,” she called. “Does the thought of America excite you? I was thinking when I establish my gallery, you could use it as the court for your surrealist gatherings.”

“Thank you, Peggy.” His face grew somber. “America is … necessary. I cannot say I like exiles a great deal.”

“Oh, my dear, it will be splendid—”

“Have you met Max?” Varian interrupted Peggy, quickly changing the subject when he saw André's discomfort.

“Not yet. I find his work quite dazzling,” she said.

“I believe he has a similar effect on women, too.”

“Varian, you are naughty.” She cocked her head. “Though I am quite seduced by the idea of him, and his work.”

*   *   *

André paced at the center of the living room, reading from a letter from Marcel Duchamp. Varian looked around the room—people had squeezed onto sofas, shared chairs carried through from the dining room. Jacqueline sat near the fire, with Aube curled asleep in her arms.
His voice is mesmerizing, like a spell,
Varian thought. He smiled to himself at the expression of awe on Gabriel Lambert's face.
What is it with men like Breton? This power they carry? He's more like a shaman than a poet.

As Breton held court, Varian thought of that morning. He had gone out early to walk in the grounds while it was silent. They had all stayed up late the night before, as usual, so no one was up yet, or so he thought. He walked quietly downstairs, his socks slipping on the wooden stairs. At the landing he paused and listened. Behind the closed doors he could sense breathing. Varian padded down to the hall and sat on the bottom step to pull his shoes on. He buttoned up his coat and slung his binoculars around his neck.

The crisp air was like a tonic to him, clearing the pain of his hangover.
I'm drinking too much,
he thought, marking off the dull ache of his kidneys, his head, his ulcer. He breathed deeply as he walked, one gloved hand balled in the palm of the other. His thoughts fell into the rhythm of his steps as he ran through the urgent cases they had coming that week. Of the clients most in danger, the German politicians Hilferding and Breitscheid were still in hiding, and they were no closer to getting the editor Bernhard or “Baby” Mehring, the poet, out.

The sound of an ax chopping wood caught his attention, and Varian raised his binoculars, looked ahead through the forest. A thin, worried-looking man with gray, sunken cheeks was swinging halfheartedly at the trunk of a birch in the woods.
“Bonjour, monsieur,”
Varian called.
Someone else can't sleep.
The man turned quickly in surprise.

“I am not stealing.”

“It is none of my business. We don't own these woods.”

“Thumin said it would be all right. I am paying him.” His eyes darted. Varian thought of a thrush he had held in his hands once, the quick-fire beat of its heart, how fragile its bones felt. He saw the man staring at his binoculars.

“I was hoping to see some birds.” Varian suddenly realized the man was frightened. “Do you live in the village?”

“I am Bouchard.”

“Varian Fry. How do you do.” He stepped forward, his hand extended. Bouchard made no move to shake his hand, so he awkwardly folded his arms. “You live over by old Thumin? I've seen your daughter, Marianne, around.” He said no more, seeing the sudden flash of concern on the man's face.

“You are at Air-Bel?”

“I hope we don't disturb you?”

Bouchard chewed at the inside of his cheek. “We hear the music, at night. We see the people coming and going from the parties.”

“Perhaps you and your family would like to come over one evening, to meet everyone?”

“No. I don't think so.” He swung the ax. “We are quiet people, Monsieur Fry. Your friends would do well not to ruffle feathers here. We do not like ‘artists' and…”

Go on, say it. Degenerates. Say it.
“Is that a threat?”

“A threat? No. Just some neighborly advice.” The ax hit the trunk of the tree, splintering the wood. The elm's bare branches shook and rattled above them.

*   *   *

Varian cursed under his breath as he stalked back to the house.
Ignorant bloody peasants.…
In his heart, though, he knew Bouchard was right. Air-Bel was attracting too much attention with the nonstop parade of flamboyant characters making their pilgrimage to the Sunday salons.
Perhaps it would be safer to keep a lower profile.
The glimmer of a candle in the greenhouse distracted him. Holding his breath, he stepped a little closer and peered through the misted glass. Among the dusty leaves, he saw André sitting at a small table, sheaves of paper with green script littering the books in front of him, scattering to the cracked terra-cotta floor. A candle flickered at his elbow. He wore a heavy green wool dressing gown, and he had his head in his hands, his fingers raking his thick chestnut hair. His eyes were squeezed closed in absolute despair. Varian felt the hot prickle of shame. He felt like a voyeur, a gawping tourist outside the cage of a lion.

*   *   *

Varian studied André's face now as he paced magisterially within the circle of artists and writers. André had said to him one night that he had no time for empty moments of depression, though he seemed plagued by them.
Not a trace of that anguish now,
Varian thought as he sipped his wine. A shriek from the hall stopped Breton's soliloquy. He pushed his way through the crowd, Varian on his heels.

“What is it?” Varian said. Breton was kneeling over the prone form of the maid, Rose. She had lost a scuffed shoe and had a hole in the bottom of one stocking. Gabriel appeared at Varian's shoulder and inhaled sharply.

“Is she all right?” he said. Varian heard the anxiety in his voice. Rose lay at the bottom of the stairs, vomit staining her white apron red.

André scooped her into his arms. “It's red wine, not blood,” he said. “But I will examine her just to make sure.”

“Monsieur Breton!” Madame Nouguet rushed forward. “You must not soil yourself. I'll fetch the gardener.…”

“Nonsense, madame,” he said, carrying the girl upstairs.

“Such a marvelous man,” she said, wringing her hands.

“She'll be fine,” Varian said to Gabriel. “Come on, have another drink, old chap.” He clapped him on the back.