The Keeper of the Walls (20 page)

She laughed, a low chuckle, and rang for Dragi. When the
maître d'hôtel
appeared, after a discreet knock, she ordered two tall vodkas on the rocks. Her elegant, quick fingers had gathered up the cards in front of her, and had begun to riffle through them, with mechanical adeptness. “But Catherine the Great still needed Voltaire, didn't she?”

“Ah, yes: the man-eating empress and the quintessential man of the mind. Not at all like our own encounter, was it?”

Dragi was tiptoeing back in, holding up a small brass tray that he set down on an end table. He brought Varvara her drink, then bowed in front of Misha. “Your Excellency.”

Unobtrusively, the black man exited, leaving them in a cool, refreshing silence, listening to the ice tinkling in their glasses. He raised his first. “To you, O great Sphinx. May you find answers to all of life's mysteries.”

She took a long swallow. “Do you still find life mysterious?”

He sighed, suddenly seeing Lily in his mind's eye, and his children. Things had unaccountably changed between him and his young wife.
She'd
changed. He knew
he
hadn't. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, knowing full well that it would destroy the mood to bring up his marital problems to Varvara. And yet ... If things had been better at home, would he still have gone looking for another woman?

“Not exactly ‘mysterious,'” he answered, suddenly serious. “But puzzling. I don't understand women, for example. They're so inexplicably complicated—like exotic dishes that are wonderful to eat, but that only the cook knows how to prepare.”

She burst into peals of laughter, and rocked back and forth on her haunches. “You
would
think of us as delectable morsels, wouldn't you? Well, darling, I'll have you know that in today's world, especially here in France, women have pushed their way out of the boudoir and into almost every facet of contemporary achievement. Some of us, dear heart, like the great Natalie Barney, have even elected to live without you men
inside
the boudoir. You are no longer the focal point of our existence. And that, I believe, should explain why our sex bewilders you. You're still lost somewhere in the past, when women were either ladies or whores, wives or courtesans. And now some of the most well-known courtesans have turned into model wives, and some of the best-bred ladies have turned blatantly promiscuous.”

He shook his head, feeling childish and put down. Perhaps she was right. He, however, was the most normal of men, and what he longed for was a well-ordered world where everything fell into place, logically and predictably. It was true that his hungers were enormous, that in his quest to assuage his boredom, he sought for unexpected distractions. But even these had to be placed well within the context of the manageable ... of what he knew he could control.

She was examining him, frankly and directly. “You may not have understood why you rejected our marriage,” she murmured. “But I did. I was never malleable, Misha, and I was too willful and impulsive. You were attracted to me for short periods, but somehow, you were afraid I'd wear you down, that our passion would burn you out, and that I wouldn't look to you to dot all my i's. I loved you, but you were not my God.”

“And what about now? Do you still love me?”

Her expression softened, and she caressed her chin with a lazy finger, thoughtfully. “I don't know. I've learned to live my life in bits and pieces. There are many things that I still love
about
you. But . . . no, I don't suppose I still love
you,
the total man, the way I once did when my horizons seemed boundless, and I thought I could change you into a full-time hedonist, like me.”

“If I'd been that, Vava, we would surely have burned each
other
out. Our union, like the phoenix, would have ended in ashes.”

“Not necessarily. Pleasure doesn't have to mean decadence. Look at me: I've built a life around my own pleasure, haven't I? And yet I'm still surviving, and no one's been destroyed by anything I've done. Even Anton, when we were married—our marriage survived the fact that I was in love with
you,
and not with him. I knew what he needed from me, and I gave it to him.” She fell silent, her face grave in the soft light of the room.

“Sometimes,” she stated, “those who try to shape the world instead of just letting things happen naturally, create the greatest series of disasters. Because nature has a way of rebelling against artificial interference—and people do, too. I knew better than to fight for you—because I knew I couldn't, shouldn't, change you.”

Was she obliquely referring to Lily, implying he'd played Pygmalion with her youth? But no, that was impossible; Varvara didn't even know his wife. It had been his own mind playing tricks on him, trying to trap him into feeling guilty. She was laughing now, a low, amused laugh, female and ribald. “No woman could change Mikhail Brasilov,” she declared. “But watch out, lover, that all your women don't get you in over your head. Not everyone's as entertained as I am by your antics.”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded, momentarily jolted.

“That girl Rirette. She's a tough cookie, my darling. I can see why you like her, but can
you
really see
her?”

He grinned, relaxing, and pretended embarrassment. “Vava—no woman compares with the Sphinx; you know that, don't you?”

She shrugged, ironic. “There's always the phoenix, isn't there?”

“I don't believe I've met her,” he retorted, downing the last of his drink.

Varvara yawned, catlike, and stretched. Then: “Come to bed,” she said, pulling the gold pajama top over her head in a single fluid gesture.

T
hat summer
, while France continued to be the stage for fallen ministry after fallen ministry, and the franc's value plunged from a prewar value of nearly twenty cents to a scant four, Paul Bruisson suffered a massive heart attack from which his doctors felt that he would not be strong enough to recover. Lily packed her own bag and telephoned Rochefort to announce to him that she was moving out to Boulogne to be with her mother.

She hadn't been inside the Villa Persane for many months. Claire always made it a point to come to her at the Rue Molitor apartment. Lily felt the familiar chill upon entering. The
maître d'hôtel,
Alphonse, seemed older, his parchment face a tinge more yellow. All was the same, except that her own clothes were more finely made, and that, on her hands and ears and around her neck, jewels shone where before her marriage only the translucent cream of her skin had been exposed. Her long hair was swept up into a Psyche knot, and she thought, glancing briefly at her own reflection, that she too had come a long way in these two years. “Madame is with monsieur,” Alphonse murmured, and she left him in charge of her suitcase while she climbed the staircase hurriedly, a little out of breath.

When Lily opened the door to the master bedroom, what she felt the most was an overwhelming sense of pity. Her father lay propped up on many pillows, his plump face suddenly lined, its usual red color replaced by a washed-out white. He was an old man. Near him, on a hard-backed chair, Claire was reading to him, her face grave, spectacles on her nose. She, too, seemed all at once to have taken on a mantle of years. They're not young anymore, Lily thought, with the consternation of all children faced with the vulnerabilities of their parents. She'd always thought of her father as perennially middle-aged, but a healthy, ruddy middle age; and of her mother as still young, fresh, seemingly untouched by time. Now she saw old faces, faces that had lived through years when she had not even been of this world—years that had made them strangers in spite of their familiarity.

She felt her heart going out to her father. He was smiling at her, and she wondered why, all during her adolescence, she had thought of him as such a forbidding ogre. He was a florid, loud man given to bullying; but underneath, there was the man who had refused to seal her fate, the day that Misha had come to propose to her: and had allowed her, a young girl, to make her own decision. He'd been a little like Misha: a man who, for reasons of pride or of shyness, she was never sure which, couldn't give free vent to his feelings. “Lily,” he said, and she came to him and knelt by the bed, laying her head in the crook between his neck and his face.

Claire said nothing. Lily thought that her mother seemed to have grown harder—or maybe it was just that they hadn't seen each other much over the last few months. She'd been resting, from Kira's birth, and her mother had been here, taking care of her father, hoping against hope to find a way to hold back destiny. My God, Lily thought: I've failed everyone, haven't I, by my selfishness?

A few hours later, she tiptoed out of her father's room, and her mother closed the door gently behind them, to let Paul sleep. Without speaking, they made their way to Claire's boudoir, where the maid had placed a tea tray. Claire took off her shoes, and lay down on the chaise longue, closing her eyes wearily. Lily tried not to look at her, and busied herself pouring tea.

Suddenly, Claire spoke, almost coldly: “He's not going to pull through.”

Lily set the cup and saucer down, shocked. “Why not, Mama? He's not yet sixty. And he was always a healthy man.”

“I know he's dying. He's even lost the will to live.”

Lily said, her voice vibrant in the late afternoon shadows: “Then we must pray. Pray to the Virgin, Mama: she's never failed us.”

Claire's brown eyes fastened themselves to Lily's. “I've prayed all I could,” she replied, picking up her cup and averting her face.

Then Claire's tone became gentler. She said, touching her daughter's cheek: “Parents are meant to die before us. But our children always need us. The children from the marriage we go into. It was God who said to Adam: ‘Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife.' And He also said: ‘Be fruitful and multiply, and replenish the earth.' “

Lily whispered: “I had no idea you could quote from the Old Testament, verbatim.”

Claire shook her head. “There are so many things you still don't know.”

“Why did you marry Papa?”

Claire said: “For many reasons. You always felt that you could judge your father. No one has this right, unless they've lived with a person in the most absolute intimacy.”

“Did you love him?”

Claire laid a finger upon her lips. “Shhh. Someday Kira may ask you the same question.”

“But my answer is set! Of course I love Misha!”

Claire smiled, and sighed. “You love what you think is his perfection, because you're still so young. And if now you feel an estrangement from him, isn't it partly because you realize that no one can be perfect?”

Lily was silent. So her mother had understood that all was not as it should be between her and Misha. But she felt so helpless that she couldn't think further. Too many things were happening at once, too many emotions, to sort them out now.

Claire was standing, and slipping her shoes back on. Instinctively, Lily rose too, and followed her out of the boudoir. Twilight had settled outside, its roseate hues filtering through the windows. Claire opened the door to the master bedroom, and stopped suddenly. Behind her, Lily tried to peer into the room, and what she saw amazed her. Misha was sitting by the sick man's bed, and the two men were listening to the radio, quietly, their faces intent.

Then Claire walked in, her hands outstretched, and Lily saw her husband rise and take the hands, drawing Claire into a tight embrace. She blinked rapidly to prevent tears, holding herself together with an effort of will so that he wouldn't see her cry. He came to her, and for a moment neither said a word. Then his arms came around her, and he held her close, and she shut her eyes and listened to his heartbeat, to the sound that was proof of his existence, of his permanence.

Holding hands, they sat down on the other side of Paul's bed, opposite Claire. Still, the radio announcer was trumpeting out the news, his voice strong and clear, as if no one were dying. “When the Briand-Caillaux Cabinet fell on July 17, the franc had reached an appalling low of four cents. During the last four days, while Edouard Herriot has vainly attempted to form another ministry, it has continued to plummet, reaching the frightening value of two cents, or two hundred fifty francs to the pound sterling. President Gaston Doumergue has been forced to call back France's lawyer, Raymond Poincaré, who, in spite of the left-of-center majority in the Assembly, may be the only man who can save France and the franc after two years of mismanagement at the hands of the Radicals.”

Gently, Claire rose and switched off the voice, and quiet was restored in the room. Lily was watching her father, whose face seemed more ghostlike now in the gathering darkness. Misha's profile, his crest of black hair, the sharp outline of his nose, the set of his chin, contrasted with almost painful distinction. One was so alive, the other so near death. She felt the warmth of Misha's fingers interlaced with hers. He'd always had the most profound dislike for her father, she knew this; and yet, when he'd learned the news, he hadn't hesitated to come.