The House of Dreams (38 page)

“I'm sorry, Papa.”

“I suppose you have been with him,” he said, pointing at me. “We forbade you to have anything to do with him.”

“I assure you, Monsieur Bouchard, Marianne has been perfectly safe,” I said.

“Papa, I'm here now,” she said, and glanced at me. “Besides, Gabriel is leaving for America soon. You will have nothing to worry about then.” She ran toward the door. “Good-bye, Gabriel. Good luck.”

“Annie, wait—” I ran after her and caught up with her on the drive. I took her in my arms, but she wouldn't look at me. Moonlight gilded her hair, her skin silver. “I love you,” I said. “This isn't the end.” I heard footsteps behind us.

“Gabriel.” Varian reached out and took hold of my arm firmly. “Let her go.” He glanced back at old Bouchard. “This will go badly for us all if you make a scene.”

I stepped away. “Please, Annie—” Bouchard shot me an angry look as he dragged her away, but it was tinged with relief.

No, no, no,
I thought. It would never be good-bye, not with Annie and me.

“Courage, mon frère.”
Max clapped me on the shoulder and steered me back toward the house. “One must sacrifice everything for love.”

“That's just what I was thinking,” I said, looking back over my shoulder, watching Annie and her father disappear into the dark night.

 

FORTY-NINE

V
ILLA
A
IR
-B
EL
, M
ARSEILLE

1941

V
ARIAN

Spring came early that year at Air-Bel. Varian sat high in one of the plane trees on the terrace, his back against the trunk. The plum trees were in blossom, and irises poked through the sodden leaves beneath them. From the pond, where he had caught the last of the fish a few months ago, toads croaked, spawning. He could see a female lying belly-up, dead, after releasing her strings of eggs.

Varian glanced up into the tree as he heard a lark sing. It was as though the house were awakening from the winter. Lizards basked on the warm stone walls again, and a magpie rooted through the leaves of a yellow fuchsia on the terrace. He laid his head back against the bark and imagined the sap rising through the tree like a pulse.

He stretched out his hand and spun the small framed ink drawing by Wifredo Lam that he had just suspended from the branch, ready for the auction. The colors glinted in the morning sun like jewels. Through half-closed eyes, he gazed out to the Mediterranean.
This is the kind of place you could live forever,
he had written to his father the night before.

He glanced up as he heard the kitchen door open. Madame Nouguet was pushing the gardener out of the door, looking nervously around her. He was tucking his shirttails into his trousers and pulling up his braces. Madame Nouguet's cheeks were flushed, her hair worked loose. Varian smiled as the man leaned in for one more kiss, and, swept away, she threw her arms around him. They broke apart, and the gardener stalked off toward the greenhouse, his shoulders hunched. The passionate affair between the cook and the gardener was the talk of the château. Mary Jayne was scandalized—she could not understand what the normally prim cook saw in the man. “He smells of compost,” Varian overheard her say one night. He thought of Cupid, bow taut, arrow swinging blindly.
Who else will he hit?
he wondered as he scrambled down from the tree.
It's like spring sickness.
Even the two rabbits they had brought back from the country for breeding for the pot had just had their first litter.

Varian watched the gardener amble off toward the vegetable patches, where they had planted string beans, radishes, tomatoes, and lettuces. The thought of the vegetables made his mouth water.
I must have lost twenty pounds,
he thought, feeling his waistband sag as he put his hands in his pockets.

A group of figures made their way up the driveway, ready for the Sunday salon. The doors and windows of the château were flung open to the balmy air that morning, and the celebrations moved outdoors. Already, it was impossible to imagine the biting cold of the winter. The breeze on his face, on the skin at the open neck of his shirt, was like a caress. He was glad to be back,
to be home,
he thought. It felt like these gatherings were running on borrowed time. The artists would be leaving soon, Gabriel Lambert and the Bretons among them, he hoped. His face clouded as he thought of Breitscheid and Hilferding. After the news of their arrests was confirmed, he had grown more determined to get everyone else out safely.

At least Monsieur and Madame Bernhard are safely on their way now.
Varian rubbed the bridge of his nose as he thought of all the plans they had tried to get them out of the country. Now, at last, another contact had come good and the Bernhards were being taken via underground routes and hiding places through Spain to Portugal.

Varian raised his hand as he saw Gussie walking across the terrace. He jumped down from the tree. “Morning, what a fine day.”

“I think I have some news that may make it an even finer day for you,” Gussie said. They stepped to one side to let a crowd of artists past, and Varian leaned against the ivy-clad wall.

“So?”

“You know our friend Mr. Allen was heading up-country to get an interview with Pétain?”

“In his dreams. No one can get close to Pétain.”

“Well, according to some of the journalists I just bumped into in town, our friend crossed over into the Nazi-occupied zone without permission.”

Varian raised his eyebrows. “Did he now? Not a terribly good example for a man who is supposed to be heading up a relief center. What have they done with him?”

“He's been arrested. The best he can hope for is that they'll trade him for one of the Nazi journalists later on.” Gussie winked at Varian and walked on. “He's out of your hair, at least.”

Varian clenched his fist and pumped his arm in the air. The sun seemed brighter suddenly, the colors of the garden more vivid. Men whose names he had known only from books on art, literature, politics, greeted him as an old friend on their way to pay homage to Breton. Varian felt like the ringmaster of a circus, keeping the house in check.
I wish Miriam could have got back here to see all this,
he thought.
She'd have got such a kick out of it. If only their visas had panned out. I hope they get down to Lisbon some other way.
He thought guiltily of Mary Jayne, how she was missing this, too.
But she'd made her choice. If ever Cupid was blind—
His thoughts cut off as Aube wove around his legs and ran toward the lawn, chasing Clovis. Rose and Maria raised their arms high, the glasses and bottles tinkling on the trays they were carrying. They set them down on the trestle tables set up on the terrace.

“Thank you, girls,” Varian said, reaching for the corkscrew.

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Thanks, we'll be fine.” It was the servants' day off, and Varian always had the impression they couldn't get away fast enough from the Sunday parties.
Maybe they're afraid.
He'd never been able to get over the sense of being watched, not since the
Sinaia
arrests. The sun gleamed on the glasses, the bottles glowing ruby in the morning light.
Let them watch,
he thought as the cork slid out of the bottle with a mellow pop, and he raised the bottle of red wine to his lips.

“Santé,”
Jacqueline said. She walked with her arm around André's waist, his hand upon her shoulder. She took two glasses from the tray and poured a glass for them.

“Do you think the auction will be a success today?” André asked Varian.

“There are some remarkable pieces. I'd love to buy them all myself, if the ERC hadn't stopped my salary.”
At least that should change now Allen is out of the picture.
Varian gazed up at the canvases strung from the trees. “There should be a good turnout for the Ernst exhibition alone.”

“Is Peggy coming?”

“I'm not sure. She said she'd be back soon.”

“I have a feeling her interest in Max is not entirely professional,” Jacqueline said. “Once she sets her sights on a prize she won't give up until she's won it, or bought it. She'll be back, if I know Peggy.”

*   *   *

There was no food that day, but there was wine and an infectious sense of joy and optimism. Varian orchestrated the auction, waving a wooden hammer in the air like the conductor of the philharmonic.

“What will you give me for this Masson drawing?” He pointed to the last gilded frame in the trees, and Danny scrambled up to turn the picture toward the crowd. Varian took the bids, calling them out with the rolling tone he'd heard an auctioneer use at a house sale in Connecticut when he was a child. The bids rose steadily. “Sold!” he cried.

As the auction wound down and the crowd dispersed, following André inside to see the sketches for the
Jeu de Marseille,
Fry settled back in a wicker chair. The midday sun beat down on him. A group of Spaniards was clearing the pond for swimming. He felt lazy, fug-headed with contentment. Clovis lolled over, his tongue hanging from the corner of his mouth. The dog flopped down at his side, and Varian distractedly ran his fingers through the springy fur on his head, felt the hard, narrow skull beneath.

“Varian!” Danny called, running along the terrace. He was gasping for breath and clutched his side as he ran toward him. His pale face was flushed, alarmed.

“What is it?” His moment of peace evaporated. The wineglass slopped as he put it on the table, and red seeped into the white cloth. There were people milling around them still, so Danny nodded his head toward the garden. They walked on in silence until they were out of earshot, Clovis weaving among the box hedges ahead of them. “Well?”

“It's the Bernhards.”

Varian stopped walking. “No, not them, too?”

“I just heard. They were picked up in Madrid.”

Varian slumped onto a stone bench beside the pool. “How did they find them?”

“It was their papers. The new transit visas are obvious fakes, if you know what you are looking for.”

“This is terrible. Which other clients have we got going out?”

“I don't know, but I'm going straight to the office so we can recall them all.”

“Good. Is there anything we can do for the Bernhards?”

“I'm sorry, boss.” He was shaking. “We can't seem to do a damn thing right at the moment.”

“Christ, it's not your fault. We're all up against it. You mustn't blame yourselves, you hear?” Varian rubbed his thumb against his lip, thinking quickly. “Our days of grace are over.”

“And you?” he said. “It's not safe here for you now.”

“I don't give a damn. The U.S. government won't help us, the French want us out, so to hell with all of them. I'm going to stay and fight it out just as long as I can.” Varian thought for a moment. “Listen, we're going to need more funds. Kourillo reckons he can sell half the gold for us at a favorable exchange rate. I was going to meet him in town tomorrow, but I've got to go up to Gordes to see Chagall with Bingham. Will you meet him at midday?”

“Sure, boss. I'll dig the gold up tonight.” Danny squeezed his shoulder. “I'll need to take it in two cases, it's too heavy for me to carry in one lot.”

“Good man.”

“Boss, are you sure we can trust him? It was mighty suspicious that the cops turned up at Air-Bel with a warrant to search for gold and foreign currency a couple of days after Kourillo sold it to us.”

“Trust him?” He raised his head and focused on the distant sea. “I wouldn't trust him not to sell his own grandmother if he could get a good enough price, but what choice do we have?”

 

FIFTY

M
ARSEILLE

1941

M
ARY
J
AYNE

“Mary Jayne!” Raymond grabbed at her arm as she walked out of her hotel.

“Go away, I have nothing left to say to you.” She struggled free and hurried on quickly toward the tram stop. The morning crowds of people on their way to work milled around the pavement, and people stared at them as they pushed by.

“Wait, hear me out,” he called after Mary Jayne.

“I can't. I'm late for work.”

“For that stuck-up ass Fry?”

“Don't you dare,” she said, swinging around. Mary Jayne slapped him, hard, the force of the blow stinging her palm.

“I deserved that,” Raymond said, cupping his cheek. “I've been trying to see you, but the doorman wouldn't let me into the hotel.”

“Good.” Mary Jayne strode on, keeping her gaze straight ahead. “I told him if you came anywhere near me to call the cops.”

“Please, I beg you.”

“The great gangster, begging now?” She rounded on him. “How could you?” She glanced around, self-conscious, aware of the people staring, a crowd forming around them. She was standing by the door to a church and motioned at Raymond to follow her inside, away from prying eyes.

The church was empty, only the scent of incense from the morning mass lingering, rows of votive candles glowing on a tiered stand near the altar.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “I love—”

“Love?” she murmured, her voice low and husky. She gazed up at the stained-glass window nearby, a cloak of shifting color moving over them as the sun emerged from behind a cloud. “You don't know the meaning of the word. I feel like such a fool for telling everyone they were wrong about you.”

“Mathieu threatened me. He said the gang would kill me if I didn't take your jewels.”

“Killer was afraid of being killed?” She laughed. “I don't believe you. I think you were in it together. I think all you ever wanted from me was money.”