The House of Dreams (23 page)

“I'm sorry,” Gabriel said. “When I saw her lying there, it just … it reminded me of something.”
Of someone,
Varian thought.

“Why is André dealing with the wretched girl?” Peggy said. “A great man like him. The girl was covered in vomit.” She looked as though she were chewing wasps.

“André is a doctor, did you not know that?” Jacqueline said smoothly. She squeezed past with Aube in her arms, the little girl's head curled peacefully in the curve of her mother's neck. “It's late. I must get the little one to bed.” She glanced at Peggy. “Sleep well.”

“A doctor?” Peggy said.

“I had no idea,” Gabriel said to Varian as he handed him a full glass of wine. “I still find it remarkable to see him … I mean, he's a legend. To see him collecting wood, or tending to that girl…”

“She's an alcoholic, clearly.” Peggy clicked her tongue. “I could smell it on her as she served the soup.”

“I think she may have drunk a little too much today because she was feeling guilty,” Varian said.

“Guilty, why?”

“She forgot to feed the cow this morning, and the beast's bellowing was heard by one of the villagers. The authorities came and took it away this afternoon.”

“You have a cow?”

“Had, Peggy. We had a cow. We gave its milk to the children.”

“Goodness, how bucolic.”

“You know it is all Chagall talks of. Will there be cows in America.”

Peggy roared with laughter. “No, my dear, you misunderstand him. Chagall adores cows, identifies with the stupid beasts himself, I believe. Why, didn't he plan to have a cow on his business card? What he means is will they allow silly creatures like him into America.”

“Well, I never.” Varian glanced up. “Peggy, have you met Gabriel Lambert?” He saw a look of alarm cross Gabriel's face. “Peggy Guggenheim, a great patron of the arts.”

“I know.” He shook her hand. “How do you do, Miss Guggenheim.”

“Perhaps you know Gabriel's work?” Varian said to Peggy.

“Some agent—Quimby, dreadful man—tried selling me some paintings in the summer. They were quite charming, but not my thing.” She waved her hand. “Of course they are very accomplished, my dear, but decorative, wouldn't you say?”

“Peggy makes me laugh,” Varian said quietly to Gabriel as she bustled away. “Have you noticed how she always answers everything with a question?” He raised his glass, puzzled by the flushed look of relief on Gabriel's face. “Your good health.”

“He hasn't been here, has he? The agent she was talking about?”

“An agent? No, I don't think so.” Someone turned up the radio, and a few couples began to dance in front of the fire. Varian raised his voice above the hum of conversation and the beat of the jazz tune. “Why, are you looking for him?”

“No,” Gabriel said. “He's looking for me.”

 

TWENTY-NINE

F
LYING
P
OINT
, L
ONG
I
SLAND

2000

G
ABRIEL

The thought of Quimby has me on edge again. Still, after all this time. I screw my eyes closed against the memory of him, just for a moment.

“Gabriel?” The girl's voice is close by, insistent. “We're not done yet. Come on. What happened next?”

“It was that night I finally started to relax around the place.” My heart is fluttering in the cage of my ribs, but I'm not going to let on to her, oh no.

“Even if Quimby had been sniffing after Peggy Guggenheim and her fat wallet?”

“Yeah, well, if he'd tried her in the summer, I just had to hope he wouldn't bother chasing her up again now she was in Marseille.”

“Go on, then. Tell me what happened next.” The girl sits beside me again.

*   *   *

Breton—I never felt comfortable enough to call him André, he was always Monsieur Breton to me—well, he came back downstairs after half an hour or so.

“Rose will be fine,” he said, rolling down his sleeves and fastening the heavy links in his cuffs. “A sore head and a few bruises, but nothing more serious.” Peggy rushed forward and took his arm.

“We had no idea you are a doctor, my dear! What other secrets do you keep?”

“Plenty,” he said, bowing that great head of his slightly. “I was a medic in the Great War, and recently,” he said. “Like my dear friend Dr. Mabille.” I saw her bridle a bit at that. Everyone knew she'd refused to cough up for Mabille's ticket to America. Peggy argued that he was just the surrealists' doctor, not an artist of note. Breton was gracious enough not to push the point further. I guess he felt, they all felt, beholden to her.

I slept at Air-Bel that night, for the first time. All the rooms were full, so I curled up on one of the sofas beside the dying fire and had the first good night's sleep I'd had for months. I felt safe, I think it is as simple as that, and I knew that Annie slept in her house nearby. It is a terrible thing to be afraid all the time. Everyone was terrified, because of the Gestapo, just waiting for that knock in the night. And me, I was petrified at the thought that Quimby might expose me. It felt like I was living on borrowed time, that I could lose everything, and Annie, at any moment.

Around seven
A.M.
, people began shuffling downstairs. Varian and his group set off to catch the tram into town to open the office, and as I sipped my coffee at the window I watched him walking abreast with Danny and the others, Clovis racing ahead of them. They reminded me of gunslingers in an American western.

“Morning,” Mary Jayne said as she poured herself a steaming cup of coffee. “Are you coming into town?”

“Perhaps later. I was hoping to see someone.”

“Marianne?” She flashed me a quick smile. Aube rushed into the room and ran to me. I picked her up and swung her onto the crook of my hip. “You have quite the way with little girls,” Mary Jayne said. “How old is Annie?…”

“Sixteen.”

“Cradle snatcher,” she said, winking at me. “Then again, I'm not one to talk. Listen, if you're going to hang around for a while, why don't you make yourself useful? When Raymond and I were walking in the woods yesterday, we saw a few last mushrooms.”

“Has the cold not killed them off?”

“Dear boy, you are asking the wrong person; all I know is the season runs late here. I'm amazed Thumin missed them, but you could ask your little girlfriend to help you see if there are any more. Watch out for Thumin, though, don't let him catch you thieving.”

*   *   *

I dared not ask for Annie at her front door, so I crept into the back garden of the house and tossed a few pebbles at her bedroom window. I saw her face appear behind the glass, and I signaled to her to meet me in the woods. As I waited for her, I gathered the few mushrooms I could find, then sat beneath an oak tree and scraped at the earth with my fingers.

After half an hour, I heard her footsteps running toward me, twigs cracking beneath her boots. She waved when she saw me.

“What are you doing? You look like Little Red Riding Hood with that basket.” She leaned down and kissed me. “Or maybe the Wolf.”

“I thought there might be some truffles. Don't they grow under oaks?”

Annie laughed. “You need a dog, or a pig for that. Do you know nothing about the countryside?”

“Perhaps Varian could train Clovis.”

“A poodle hunting truffles? You are funny,” she said, laughing. “I'm sorry, I couldn't get away.
Maman
wanted me to go into the market. I don't know what's wrong with her, she just won't leave the house these days. I can't stay long. She thinks I'm on the way to the tram.”

“Well, we shall go into town together.” I scrambled to my feet, and we walked hand in hand into the woods.

“So what have you found?”

I lifted the red-and-white gingham cloth and showed her the mushrooms. “Mary Jayne asked me to find what I could for Madame Nouguet.”

“The cook?”

“Do you know her?”

Annie shook her head. “I overheard a couple of women from the village trying to get information about the house out of her at the tram stop.” She smiled up at me. “She wouldn't talk, by the way. Your friends are safe.”

“I wish you'd come and meet them one night, you'd love them.”

“I can't, you know that. My parents practically lock me in my bedroom at night.” She leaned against me. “I think they are afraid some handsome artist is going to scale the wall and carry me off.”

“That sounds like a fine idea.” I bent down to pick another mushroom. As we walked on, Annie offered me a folded shopping bag.

“It's been raining, so you should look for snails, too,” she said, and I wrinkled my nose.

“I've never liked them.”

“Gabriel, it's not about what we like, it's making do with what we have.” She kicked aside a tree stump near the tumbledown wall and lifted an old rock. “There,” she said, pulling snails from the wall. “Put some herbs in the bag and leave them to digest them for a few days.”

“I don't know how Madame Nouguet is feeding everyone,” I said. “You know, she had taken to locking the half-pound bread rations in the pantry overnight, but someone figured out how to take the door off its hinges.” I laughed. “We all chip in some rations, but everyone is starving on stewed carrots and rutabagas.”

“Stop it, you're making my mouth water.”

“You know, yesterday, Varian caught the goldfish from the pond to add to the stew?”

Annie laughed. “Is that the American?”

“Yes, have you met him?”

She shook her head. “My father was moaning about some man spying on him with eyeglasses.” She brushed her blond fringe away from her eyes. “He should be careful. People are suspicious. If they start thinking spies are hiding out in Air-Bel…”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous.'

“Really, you must watch out. It's not like Paris, Gabriel. This is a small, provincial village—people talk. One stray bit of gossip—”

“Then let's give them something to talk about.” I pulled her into my arms and kissed her. For once, she didn't resist. I could smell the cold earth on my fingertips resting against her neck. “I have something for you,” I said, and reached into my pocket. “I was going to wait until Christmas, but—”

“But you can't wait?” Her eyes widened as I handed her the red box. “Oh, Gabriel, you shouldn't have!” She eased back the lid, and her lips parted, smiling. “It's beautiful!” She held up the bracelet, looped over her fingertip. “I've never had anything so lovely.”

I took the chain from her and fastened it around her slender wrist. The silver stars glinted in the morning light. I held her hand and raised her wrist to my lips.

“I'll wear it always,” she said.

“You know, one of these stars is Venus,” I said, touching the bracelet. “It shines night and day, like my love for you.…”

“Marianne!” a man shouted. I looked up to see her father striding through the forest toward us. He was pale with rage, a shotgun slung over his arm and a rabbit dangling by its feet from his fist. “Who the hell are you?”

“Papa,” she said, running to him. She held him back as he pushed his way toward me.

“Who are you?” he yelled.

“Sir, my name is Gabriel Lambert.”

“You stay away from my daughter, do you hear? I'm warning you, if you so much as look at her—”

“You'll what?” I stepped toward him, my fist clenched. The blood sang in my ears. Annie shook her head, pleading with me not to do anything.

“Don't you threaten me.” He dragged her after him. “You are to have nothing to do with those people, do you hear?” I heard him telling her.

“Let me go!” She struggled, but he held on to her. She craned her head back around to me. “Gabriel!” she shouted.

“Leave him,” old man Bouchard said. “This is too much. I warned you. They will bring nothing but trouble to us, do you hear? It's time they left us in peace.”

 

THIRTY

V
ILLA
A
IR
-B
EL
, M
ARSEILLE

1940

V
ARIAN

Varian cleared the steam from the mirror on the marble stand. He was exhausted, and his hand trembled as he ran it over his jaw. He glimpsed movement at the edge of the garden through the window and stepped closer, clearing a space in the condensation with his fingertips.
Just some birds.
Varian exhaled. He had been on edge for days. Steam rose from the bowl of water as he lathered up the shaving soap with the brush and rubbed it into his face in even circles.

“Okay, Lena, the next letter is to Alfred H. Barr, director of the Museum of Modern Art, New York,” he said, forcing himself to concentrate. “Dear Alfred…,” he began. His secretary sat at the small table by the window, her shorthand notebook balanced on her lap. It was a crisp morning, and beyond her he could see the pines emerging from the mist. The gaunt face of a stranger looked back at him from the mirror. In the greenish light of the lamp, he looked sallow, and deep purple shadows ringed his eyes. The razor rasped against his skin as he dictated the letter, each methodical stroke revealing pink, vulnerable skin. “Best regards, etc., etc.” He rinsed the razor, thinking of the letter he had received from Eileen that week.
Think of me,
she said.
I do,
he replied,
but your husband is a changed man. Don't think of trying to change me back.

“Varian!” he heard Mary Jayne shout, hammering on the door.

“Just a minute,” he said. He quickly finished the last couple of strokes, wincing as the razor clipped his jawbone. He splashed water on his face and wiped the last of the soap away on the towel. “What's the matter?” He flung open the door.