Mother
He put the letter down and fumbled for his handkerchief. He wiped his streaming eyes, then stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. He sat for a long time in the chair, hurting inside, feeling as if part of him had been cut away.
Finally, he slipped the letter from his mother back in its envelope, stood up, walked over to the chest. Opening the drawer, he took out his father’s wallet, tucked the letter inside, then placed the wallet next to his little carved wooden horse, and closed the drawer.
Mutti, Mutti, he whispered, filled with yearning, aching for her. He could not bear that he would never see her again, never hear her voice, or nestle in her arms and smell the perfume, lilies-of-the-valley, she had always worn. He could not believe that he would never go walking in the woods with his father again, or sailing with him on the lake, and that they would never work together in the Westheim Bank when he was grown up, as they had always planned. Papa, Papa, he cried out silently, and he felt as if his heart was being squeezed and squeezed. He closed his eyes. And in his head he heard his father’s music, heard the tinkling of the piano in his father’s house on the Tiergartenstrasse…
He picked up the photograph of Mutti and Papa in evening dress and stood looking down at it, and fresh tears splashed onto the glass. And Maxim suddenly understood that the sadness inside him would never go away. It would always be there. For the rest of his life.
PART 4
ANASTASIA
PARIS
1959
My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.
The Song of Solomon: The Bible
THIRTY-EIGHT
She heard the girl’s voice as she climbed the broad staircase. It floated down to her on the warm July air, light, lyrical, full of music, a lovely voice all the more captivating because it was so natural and unaffected.
Ideal for stage or screen, Margot Derevenko thought, but thankfully she has no ambitions in that direction. And even if she did, her father would never permit her to become an actress. He knows too much about that tough uncertain world to let her venture into it.
As Margot drew closer to the second-floor landing, she paused to listen, one hand resting on the polished oak banister, the other holding a small basket filled with fresh-cut white flowers from her garden. The girl’s words were clearer, more distinct now, and Margot realised she was talking to the dressmaker.
‘And so, Marie, I said to the clochard, come with me, I know you are hungry. I invite you to the cafe across the street for lunch.’
Marie sucked in her breath incredulously. ‘And did the clochard come with you to the cafe, Mademoiselle?’ she gasped.
‘Of course not, Marie! He looked at me as if I had invited him to a funeral. His own. And so I said, all right, if you don’t want to take lunch with me in the cafe, let us go to my parents’ house. Our cook, Maruba, will make a splendid lunch for you, anything you fancy. And can you imagine what happened, Marie?’
‘No, Mademoiselle, I cannot.’
‘He refused.’
‘It is good that he did,’ Marie said after a moment, in a dry voice. ‘I don’t think your parents would be too happy if you entertained a tramp in their beautiful home.’
Indeed we would not, Margot muttered under her breath.
Anastasia said nothing.
A moment of silence ensued, and then the dressmaker went on to remark in a genuinely puzzled voice, ‘I do not understand, Mademoiselle, why did you ask this tramp to lunch in the first place?’
‘Obviously because he was hungry, Marie.’
‘But that is his problem. Anyway, these tramps of the Seine are all scoundrels.’
‘How can you say a thing like that! It’s not their fault they’ve fallen on hard times, have been reduced to living that kind of life. I talk to them all the time, and visit them, and believe me, Marie, the clochards are not a bit happy about living under the bridges of the river, sleeping outside in all kinds of weather, existing on nothing, scavenging for food.’
‘They bring on their own misfortunes.’
‘I don’t believe they do, and I try to help them.’
When Marie did not respond, the girl rushed on breathlessly, ‘And I have succeeded in helping one of them… a lady clochard. She is now on the way to making a good life for herself.’
‘Really,’ Marie said, sounding sceptical.
‘Yes, it’s true, I did help her. I persuaded her to give up the wine bottle, which she did, and she now has a job and somewhere to live.’
‘I see. And tell me, Mademoiselle, do your parents know about your concern for the clochards of the Seine, and your involvement with them?’
‘Of course, and they approve.’
We do? Margot thought. Since when, I wonder? She now hurried on up the wide, polished-wood stairs and stepped into the spacious first-floor hall where the Degas bronze of the little ballerina took pride of place to the left of the gouache of ballet dancers in green dresses, also by the great Edgar Degas. He and Monet were her husband’s favourite artists, and both were well represented in this house.
The huge, double doors leading into the petit salon stood ajar, and as Margot crossed the parquet floor to them and peered inside she paused for a moment before entering, catching her breath in surprise and pleasure.
Her daughter stood in the centre of the room and was slowly turning around, her arms outstretched, so that Marie could make a final check of the evening dress she had finished the day before, and which she was now fitting for the last time. The dress, a gossamer confection of chiffon in a mixture of delicate blues and pale greys, floated around her like wisps of sea mist. If the dress was superb, then the girl was perfection itself.
The room was flooded with morning sun which poured in through the tall windows and bathed the girl in its soft light. Her pale blonde hair, falling to her tiny waist, seemed to be full of sunlight and shimmered around her exquisite heart-shaped face. This gleamed like smooth, polished ivory, while her eyes, set wide apart and heavily lashed, were a lovely misty blue-grey colour. Of medium height, and slender, the girl had long and graceful limbs; the floating, cape-like sleeves of the dress fell away from the prettiest of shoulders and arms, whilst the pointed handkerchief hemline showed off her shapely ankles and dainty feet.
So beautiful she doesn’t seem real, Margot thought, but then she never did, not even as a child. She’s too exquisite and far too sweet and gentle for her own good. Idealist, romantic dreamer. Whatever am I going to do with her? She’s much too impractical and trusting for this hard world we live in today. Sighing to herself, Margot pushed open the door and glided into the room.
‘There you are, Anastasia!’ she exclaimed, smiling at her eighteen-year-old daughter.
‘Look, Mummy, isn’t it gorgeous?’ As she spoke Anastasia held out the skirt of the dress, did a little pirouette and ended up facing her mother, looking at her questioningly.
Margot nodded in approval, and swung her eyes to the dressmaker. ‘Good morning, Marie. I see you have created another triumph.’
‘Bonjour, Madame. It is not I that did that, but you,’ Marie replied, looking pointedly at Anastasia. Nonetheless, the compliment about her work pleased her, and she smiled at Madame Derevenko.
‘I’m afraid I can’t take all the credit for Anastasia,’ Margot said with a chuckle. ‘I believe her father had something to do with producing her.’
Anastasia laughed with her mother. It was a light, tinkling laugh, which like her voice was as clear as a bell. ‘The dress really is divine, isn’t it? Marie truly has outdone herself. Merci beaucoup, Marie,’ she said and made a small curtsy.
The dressmaker’s face filled with happiness. She liked nothing better than satisfied customers, and most especially the Derevenko women, who were her favourites. She had made a great ma
ny clothes for them over the years, although recently they had been mostly for Anastasia. Madame favoured haute couture more than ever these days. But what a joy it was to sew for this girl who did the garments such justice with her incredible beauty, slim, willowy figure and perfect carriage.
Margot was studying her daughter thoughtfully, and now exclaimed, ‘Opals! That’s it! You must wear my opals with the new gown. They will go beautifully with the blues and greys in it.’
‘Oh Mummy, thank you! How lovely of you to lend them to me.’
‘You’re going to look ravishing. You’ll be the proverbial belle of the ball.’
‘Hardly. Yvette will be the star turn, and so she should be. After all, it’s her special day,’ Anastasia pointed out.
Margot merely smiled, and then glanced around the small sitting room. Solange, the maid, had placed bud vases filled with water on the various occasional tables for her; now she moved around the room with her flower basket, placing blooms in the various little cylinders and pots, then stepped back to regard them, her fair head on one side, giving them critical appraisal.
Anastasia watched her mother, thinking how talented she was when it came to such artistic matters as flower-arranging and table-setting and picture-hanging. She was full of admiration for her.
Margot suddenly swung around and directed her hazel-eyed gaze at her daughter. ‘Day-dreaming again?’
‘No, Mummy,’ Anastasia laughed. ‘And I’d better go and change out of this dress. Marie, will you come and help me, please?’
‘Of course, Mademoiselle.’
‘Lunch at one in the garden, Anastasia.’
‘Yes, you’ve already told me,’ the girl said, and floated out on a cloud of chiffon and Ma Griffe scent.
***
The hotel particulier owned by Alexander and Margot Derevenko was on the elegant Faubourg Saint-Germain, only one of a number of beautiful private houses standing on this street behind forbiddingly high stone walls. The Faubourg Saint-Germain was in the seventh arrondissement, one of the most celebrated districts on the Left Bank, a district at once both aristocratic and a haven for students, artists and writers.
In the vicinity of the house were the Rodin Museum, the Sorbonne, the French Academy, the Ecole Militaire, the Luxembourg Palace and Gardens, and the Hotel des Invalides, wherein lay the tomb of Napoleon I, and the tombs of other French leaders. Quite aside from these historic buildings, there were charming little bistros, antique shops and art galleries located in the area, as well as two of the most famous hangouts for writers and artists in Paris, the Cafe des Deux Magots and the Cafe Flore, once the haunts of Ernest Hemingway and other celebrated authors.
The Derevenko house was hidden from pedestrians by massive dark green doors which fronted onto the street. Behind them was a small concierge’s cottage in a courtyard of typical Parisian design, cobbled, with a fountain in the centre and a horse chestnut tree near one of the ivy-clad walls.
The house itself was elongated and had a front facade of classical design, with many tall, shuttered windows and wide stone steps leading up to a double front door. Inside were numerous spacious rooms with high ceilings which were airy, full of light; they owed their elegance and graciousness to Margot Derevenko’s impeccable taste in antiques and furnishings. Her flair and talent at combining and arranging these elements were in evidence throughout.
The entrance hall on the ground floor led straight out to the garden through a series of glass doors, and the garden itself was something of a masterpiece, lovingly and painstakingly created over the years by Margot and various gardeners. Although she had lived in France since her youth and had been educated at the Sorbonne, Margot was English by birth and upbringing. And so it was to one of the great English gardens that she had turned when seeking ideas for her own in the heart of Paris, drawing inspiration from the famous ‘White Garden’ at Sissinghurst Castle. Like the one in Kent, this much smaller garden sitting under the shadow of the Hotel des Invalides was a mingling of green foliage and green lawns, flowers and flowering bushes of only one colour—white. It was the simplicity and purity of this green-and-white theme which gave the formal Parisian garden its sense of coolness, serenity and elegance.
A lily pond surrounded by flagstones sat at the edge of the lawn, and the latter was encircled by luxuriant borders and beds filled to overflowing with white flowers of all kinds: azaleas, roses, tulips, narcissi, chrysanthemums, and snowdrops, depending on the season of the year. Beyond the flower beds were lilac and horse chestnut trees, and flowering bushes such as rhododendrons and hydrangea, and surrounding the entire garden were high, ancient stone walls covered with glossy, evergreen ivy.
A flagstone terrace stretched the length of the house and overlooked the garden, and it was here that Margot and Anastasia sat having lunch at a wrought-iron garden table, shaded by a large sun umbrella. Maruba, their North African cook, had prepared a simple meal of grilled fish, a green salad, and fresh sliced peaches soaked in champagne.
Between mouthfuls of fish, Margot said, ‘I wasn’t eavesdropping before, but I couldn’t help hearing your conversation with Marie when I was coming up the stairs earlier. You must stop spending time with the clochards, you know. It’s simply not right.’
‘I’m only trying to help them, Mother!’
‘You can’t help them. It seems to me that they have chosen that kind of life.’
‘How can you say such a thing? You sound like Marie! Anyway, who would choose to live in such extreme conditions?’
Margot shook her head. ‘Oh darling, don’t be naive…’ Her voice trailed off, and she was thoughtful before saying, ‘Your father and I worry about you. I don’t think you realise how lovely you are, and who knows about these tramps—’
‘They’re gentle folk!’ Anastasia interrupted swiftly. ‘And not dangerous at all, which is what you’re implying. They’re not going to attack me, or try to rape me. You mustn’t worry, and please don’t be angry with me. I can’t bear it when you and Daddy are cross.’
‘Good heavens, we’re not angry, only concerned about your welfare.’ Margot smiled at her daughter warmly. ‘Actually, your father and I are very pleased with the way you’ve passed your Baccalaureat with honours, and been accepted at the Sorbonne. In fact, I would say we’re more than pleased, darling. However we—’
‘I know what you’re going to say, Mummy,’ Anastasia exclaimed, cutting in again. ‘You don’t want me messing around with derelicts.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Those poor souls. I can hardly bear to think of their suffering, the way they live.’
‘Yes, it is sad, Anastasia. But the world is full of the most awful inequities, and it always has been. There is little you or anyone else can do to help those poor creatures, I’m afraid.’
‘I don’t believe that, Mummy. In my opinion one person can make a difference.’
Margot looked at her daughter swiftly, and was about to disagree with her, but changed her mind, refrained from commenting. She realised it would be wiser to let this subject rest for the moment. As sweet and angelic as Anastasia was, she was nobody’s fool, was rather clever and quick-witted. And also extremely stubborn by nature. If she continued to berate her for her concern about the tramps the girl would only dig her heels in defiantly, refuse to budge from her position. They were leaving in a few days to spend the rest of July and part of August in their villa in Cannes, and then Anastasia was going to London to stay with her grandmother. She would be far away from her clochards and in the autumn she was starting at the university, and the work schedule there would more than preoccupy her and fill her time.
And so Margot changed the subject, and said, ‘I am going shopping with Lucrezia this afternoon. Would you like to join us, darling?’
‘Thanks, but I can’t. I want to go and look for several history books I need. Yvette told me I would most probably find them at the old bookshop near the Quai Saint-Michel.’
Margot nodded. ‘Don’t forg
et, you’re joining us for dinner tonight. Your father has people here from Hollywood.’
‘He told me. Where are we going?’
‘Tour d’Argent.’
‘It’s going to be full of rich foreign tourists. You know what it’s like in July.’
Margot smiled. ‘But it’s still very beautiful. Think of the gorgeous views of Notre Dame and the Seine. And the gorgeous duck. Besides, that’s where the Hollywood people want to go.’
‘They always do,’ Anastasia murmured succinctly, then asked, ‘Is Daddy doing another American movie?’
‘It looks like it. Drinks here at the house at eight o’clock, and then we’ll wander over to the restaurant about nine.’
‘Don’t worry, Mummy, I won’t be late. I know how important these business evenings are to Daddy. And I promise to be on my best behaviour.’ She gave her mother a sly little look and her mouth twitched as she added, ‘And I won’t mention the clochards.’
Margot burst out laughing. ‘Well, I must say, I’m glad to see your newly-developed social conscience hasn’t affected your sense of humour.’
THIRTY-NINE
Maxim walked at a leisurely pace along the quais of Paris which ran parallel with the Seine, enjoying a stroll on this pleasant afternoon.
He had just finished lunch with an American business associate who was on a trip to France, had concluded an excellent deal, and he was delighted. His first day in Paris had turned out exceptionally well.
When he came to the Quai Voltaire he paused, glanced up a narrow side street on his right, hesitating, wondering whether to wander into Saint-Germain-des-Pres for a cup of coffee at the Deux Magots, and then decided against it. He was making for a particular corner of the city, and he did not want to sidetrack himself.
And so he strode on purposefully, heading in the direction of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, whose imposing early Gothic spires were like giant sentinels silhouetted against the azure summer sky, perfect today and full of that soft filtered light beloved by painters and which was so unique to Paris. It was a light reflected in the waters of the Seine, trembling in the hazy sunshine trickling through the leafy branches of the trees that lined the river’s edge.