FORTY-THREE
‘Maxim’s success is remarkable, isn’t it?’ Margot Derevenko said, looking across at Alexander.
Her husband sat in his favourite chair near the window, at the other side of the petit salon in the house on the Faubourg Saint-Germain. It was a warm and pleasant evening at the end of July in 1961, and the Derevenkos were enjoying an aperitif before dinner.
Alexander, who was nursing a scotch and soda, took a swallow, before saying, ‘Yes, it’s incredible. What an extraordinary achievement it is to have made a million pounds before the age of thirty. One has to take one’s hat off to him.’
‘He’s been good for Anastasia Margot murmured, then shook her head, laughed softly, almost to herself. ‘And to think I had my doubts about him, when they told us they wanted to get married two years ago.’
‘You know very well that I never did,’ Alexander said. ‘And I certainly didn’t believe all that nonsense about him being a playboy.’ Chuckling, he threw his wife a wise and very knowing glance. ‘In fact, to be honest with you, Margot, I rather hoped Maxim had sown his wild oats before he met Anastasia, so that he wouldn’t be sowing them at some future date, after they were married. I’m a great believer in a man getting all that sort of thing out of the way, before he settles down to matrimony.’
‘Oh I agree wholeheartedly there!’ Margot exclaimed. She sank into the beige silk of the small Louis XV sofa, crossed her elegant legs and sipped her champagne with a degree of reflectiveness. After a little while, she remarked, ‘Maxim is very clever, isn’t he, Alex?’
‘Clever is a gross understatement, my dear. I believe him to be a genius… a financial genius.’
Margot stared at Alexander, her brow knotting in a frown. ‘Why? How? I mean, what makes him a financial genius, in your opinion? Why Maximilian West, and not someone else?’
‘That’s a hard one to answer!’ Her husband was thoughtful for a few minutes, before he placed his glass of scotch on the antique table next to the bergere where he sat, pushed himself to his feet, and hurried across the priceless Aubusson carpet. At the doorway, he swung around and beckoned to her. ‘Come here a minute, Margot,’ he said, and disappeared into the hall.
Margot was watching him in bewilderment, and she jumped up, hurried out after him.
He stood in front of the Degas painting of ballet dancers in green dresses, and as she drew to a stop next to him, he turned to her, waved his hand towards the painting, and said, ‘What is that?’
‘A painting, of course.’
‘Yes, but it is also the outcome, the result, if you like, of artistic genius; and Westinvest, the company Maxim created from nothing, is the outcome of financial genius. Do you understand what I’m getting at?’
Margot nodded.
He went on, ‘Now I can no more explain to you the creative impulse, what it is inside a painter that makes him capable of producing a breathtaking work of art such as this, than I can explain to you what it is inside Maxim that enables him to put together an incredibly successful company or a stunning deal.’ Alexander shook his head, and smiled a little wryly. ‘Nor can I explain to you the genius of Rachmaninoff or Puccini, or William Shakespeare or Emily Bronte.’
‘It’s a gift!’ Margot exclaimed, her face growing animated, her eyes lighting up. ‘Artistic genius is a great gift! A person cannot acquire it, but is born with it, and it has always been there since infancy, becomes apparent in childhood, and flowers in adulthood. And just as a great artist, writer or composer is born with genius, then so was Maxim born with it. Teddy once told me he was a mathematical wizard when he was six or seven years old. A prodigy, in a sense.’
‘Yes, so I remember. But there’s a lot more to it than being brilliant with figures, I believe.’ Alexander took her arm, and led her back into the small sitting room, where they returned to their seats, and sipped their drinks. Alexander murmured, ‘In my opinion, Maxim is preternaturally sharp, has great shrewdness and intelligence, and perhaps, more importantly, extraordinary vision.’
‘For someone who said he couldn’t explain financial genius, I think you may have just done so,’ Margot said, eyeing him lovingly.
‘No, I haven’t, not really, Margot. I’ve only scratched the surface, given you a few of his character traits. I won’t pretend that I could ever get to the bottom of Maxim, understand what makes him tick, because I am fully aware that that is an impossibility.’
Margot gave an understanding nod. ‘I’m sure nobody will ever be able to do that. He’s far too deep a man, and very complex. Even Anastasia has mentioned this to me.’
‘Oh.’ Alexander looked at her swiftly, his eyes sharp. ‘No problems, I hope?’
‘No, darling, none whatsoever. They’re madly, crazily, blissfully in love, but then you know that. It was simply a remark she made to me in passing.’
‘With his history, I’m not surprised he’s complex,’ Alexander muttered, and nodded to himself, and then he glanced across at his wife, and confided: ‘I sometimes think Maxim has a genie telling him things. I’ll never know where he gets his ideas from, what prompts his decisions, or why he makes his moves when he does, but they are all brilliant. In fact, Margot, everything our son-in-law does in business is dazzling. There are no doubts in my mind that Maxim will amass a gigantic fortune and immense power. Selling Westinvest now, and making himself a clear profit of one million pounds, is merely the beginning. Let’s not forget that he’s only twenty-seven years old.’
‘He’s proving to be a remarkable provider,’ Margot said. ‘And certainly a very loving and adoring husband, so I know he’s going to be the best father, Alexander. Nothing less than wonderful. The signs are already there. He simply worships little Alix.’
‘And speaking of our baby granddaughter, let’s go upstairs and take a peek at her before we go out to dinner, shall we?’
Margot’s response to his suggestion was a vivid smile, and she sprang to her feet at once, led the way out of the sitting room. The Derevenkos climbed the stairs to the next floor, where Anastasia’s old bedroom was located. This had recently been redesigned by Margot, and was now a nursery for the four-month-old baby.
Jennifer, the English nanny, appeared in the doorway of the room next to the nursery when she heard their steps on the stairs; she stood there smiling, waiting for them to cross the landing.
‘May we have a look at Alix before we go out to dinner, Jennifer?’ Margot asked.
‘Of course, Madame Derevenko. She’s sleeping soundly, as usual.’ The young nanny smiled. ‘She’s such a good baby, never a whimper out of her.’
Margot and Alexander tiptoed across the carpeted floor of the dimly-lit nursery, and stood looking down at their grandchild sleeping so peacefully in the pink wicker crib trimmed with pink satin ribbons and bows.
After a moment they raised their heads. Their eyes met across the crib, and they smiled at each other with pleasure and pride. Then they tiptoed out quietly, so as not to awaken the baby.
As they went downstairs to the petit salon Alexander murmured, ‘I’m glad they’ve gone to Venice for a second honeymoon. With a little luck perhaps they’ll make us another grandchild. A boy this time.’
Margot merely smiled.
***
Venice was like a mirage, floating, dreamlike, blues and greys mingling, soft vaporous mists lifting from the lagoon and the canals. Ancient buildings rising up, inchoate images in the muted light. And everywhere a sense of tranquillity and serenity.
La Serenissima, Anastasia whispered to herself, using the name by which the Venetians had called their city for thousands of years. La Serenissima… so hauntingly beautiful in its splendid isolation, trapped between sea and sky, her favourite place, which she had loved since she had first gone there as a child. Every aspect of it fascinated and intrigued her; she was forever held in its thrall, a captive to its mystery and everlasting beauty and wondrous dreamlike quality.
Anastasia stood at the window of their suite in the Dani
eli, staring out across the lagoon, which was still hazy with early morning fog. She so brimmed with happiness and incandescent joy she hardly dared contemplate it, for fear of losing it. Tempt not the jealous Gods, she thought, shifting slightly on her bare feet, moving closer to the window, resting her forehead against the glass, still half asleep as she drifted with her thoughts. Maxim was at the centre of them. He was her dream and her reality. He was her world… the sun, the moon, the stars… without him she would have nothing.
She sighed under her breath. Soon they would have to leave Venice. They had been here a week already and time was running out; their short summer holiday would soon be over. But every single day had been miraculous, perfect, a replaying of their honeymoon, except that everything was better than before, if that was at all possible. He was a wonder, her beautiful husband, and he filled her with wonder. She loved him so much there were moments when she thought she could not endure it, and she could hardly bear to be away from him, wanted always to be at his side.
A fragment of a verse from the Song of Solomon ran suddenly through her mind… My beloved is mine and I am his. That was the truth, that was exactly the way it was with them. They belonged to each other. And then she remembered another line from the same book in the Bible… I am sick with love. How apt those words were. She quite often felt ill, feverish, weak in the legs, trembling all over, filled with yearning for him. There was never a moment in a day when she did not long for his hands on her body, ache for his presence. He was a most wondrous lover, a wondrous husband…
So caught up was she in her contemplation of him, she did not hear him get up off the bed and cross the floor, and she started in surprise when she felt his strong cool hands on her bare shoulders.
‘What are you doing up so early, my love?’ Maxim murmured against her long blonde hair in his warm and mellifluous voice, and turned her to face him.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she whispered, touching his cheek with one hand, staring up at him, her eyes moist with emotion, spilling her love.
He leaned closer to her and so did she, mouth seeking mouth. They kissed, and Maxim pulled her even closer, encircled her with his arms. After a moment of clinging together, he released her, slid his hands down her silk-clad back, let them rest on her rounded buttocks, then pressed her into him. Their bodies fitted perfectly together. He thought: two halves do make a whole. He parted her lips, slipped his tongue into her mouth to touch hers.
Anastasia was overcome with desire for him, and she felt the heat rising inside her. It was a fierce and tingling heat which started in her feet, rushed up her legs into her thighs and her groin, flooded her stomach, spread itself through her breasts, and she even felt the warmth of it in her neck. And then suddenly her faced flamed with the red-hot flush of love and desire and need.
Maxim could feel the heat from her body through their thin nightclothes. He drew back from her, took her hand in his, and led her back to the bed, aware now of how much she wanted him. They sat on the edge of the bed and he brought his mouth to hers, sucking at it gently, and they fell back on the eiderdown, their kisses growing in intensity and passion. He was as hungry for her as she was for him.
But within seconds Maxim curtailed their kissing, raised himself up on one elbow, bent over her, smiling into her luminous eyes. Lightly, gently, fleetingly, he kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her nose and her cheeks. She opened her arms and stretched them out to him, and he came into them, lay against her and suddenly his kisses were as passionate as they had been a few minutes before. He crushed his lips to hers, his teeth grazing against hers as he devoured her mouth. Anastasia’s response was ardent, as ever, and she met his passion with a fervour that more than matched his, her whole body quivering for him.
Inflamed himself, he pulled away momentarily, stared down at her, marvelling at her beauty. Her head was thrown back, her long white neck exposed to him. There was something vulnerable and tender about her throat and he brought his lips to it, nuzzled his face against her neck. His hand reached out for one of her breasts, and he began to stroke it tenderly. Within an instant the nipple hardened under his touch, was taut and pointed against the silk of the nightgown.
He felt himself stiffen and his erection was enormous, as it always was with her. A groan trickled out of his throat and he slid his hand down over her flat concave stomach, lifted the filmy silk fabric covering her.
Maxim had learned every part of her body well since their marriage and now he sought the centre of her, found it at once, let his fingertips flick delicately against the core of her.
Anastasia moaned and arched slightly towards him, all of the heat of her body centred in the core of her womanhood.
To Maxim the moist warmth of her was irresistible. He wanted to sink himself into her, take her to him, possess her completely with every bit of his strength, yet he held back, needing to give her pleasure first. He pulled at her silk nightgown. It slipped off her shoulder and he reached for her breast, cupped his hand around it. Her flesh was pearly-tinted in the pale light of early morning, and cool as marble to his mouth. She sighed deeply, as he let his lips linger on her flesh. Unexpectedly he sat up abruptly, lifted her bodily and pulled the nightgown over her head, then shed his pyjamas, his movements swift and urgent.
Naked, they stretched out together on the bed, lying on their sides so that they faced each other, their bodies barely touching. His brilliant dark eyes impaled hers, and he said in a hoarse voice thickened by desire, ‘I love you, Anastasia, you’ll never know how much, my darling. I can’t find the words to tell you. To say I love you just doesn’t seem enough somehow.’
‘I know, I love you in the same way,’ she whispered, stretching out her hand, stroking his cheek lovingly, wanting him.
He turned her onto her back, raised himself above her, looked down into her huge grey-blue eyes. ‘You’re my life,’ he said.
She half-smiled at him, stretched her body voluptuously, slightly parting her legs, and closed her eyes, and he leaned over her long slender body, enjoying its perfection and youthful beauty. He began to give her pleasure, kissing her breasts, first the one and then the other, until the nipples stood high and the breasts were taut. And then he brought his mouth onto her stomach, trailing his lips down and down and down until they came to rest between her thighs. He caressed her lightly with his tongue and fingers, and she opened herself to him, flowed out to him, and after a moment he felt her stiffen and begin to spasm as she called his name over and over.
He braced himself above her on his hands, and she took him into her lovingly, her face full of adoration as she gazed up into his eyes. She ached to possess him now, just as he did her.
Maxim let out a long sigh as he thrust deeply into her, and she cleaved to him, then wrapped her legs around his back. He put his hands under her body, lifted her closer to him, and they instantly found their own rhythm as they had since the first night of their marriage. They were finely tuned to each other, and they soared upward and upward together as their passion mounted, and as he came to her finally he cried out her name in his need, and they fell away into infinity together.
***
Later, as they lay in each other’s arms, Maxim said, ‘Last year when we were here you became pregnant with Alix. I hope we’ve done it again, my darling.’
‘You and Daddy both,’ she laughed, resting her head against his chest, throwing one arm over his body possessively. She turned her eyes up to his, said with mock solemnity, ‘Unfortunately, I don’t think we have. Not yet. Shall we do it again? It’s wonderful, trying to make babies, I really can’t think of anything I like doing better.’
Maxim smiled against her hair, forever enchanted by her. ‘You’re insatiable, Mrs West.’
‘If I am, it’s your fault. You’re the one who has led me into my wicked ways, taught me everything I know.’ She let out a tantalising laugh, slid her hand over his thighs, took hold of him gently.
‘And what a willing, enthusiastic and able pup
il I’ve had,’ he murmured thickly, every part of him wanting her again. He lifted her face to his, kissed her deeply, and began to make love with her once more.
***
At noon they took a boat to Torcello, one of the many islands in the lagoon, which had once been a fishing village. They strolled through the ancient streets until they came to their favourite little trattoria and went inside. They were greeted warmly by Giovanni, the friendly proprietor, who knew them, and who led them outside to the gardens.
‘Two camparis with soda, please, Giovanni,’ Maxim said, after he had seated them at one of the tables.
‘Si, Signore,’ Giovanni said, smiling, bowing, hurrying away.
Their table stood under a wide canopy made of plaited straw matting which covered the spacious loggia, and fingers of sunlight trickled through the woven material, turning Anastasia’s hair to mottled gold, casting delicate shadows across her face. Maxim stared at her, and recited, ‘She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.’
‘Byron,’ she said, looking across at him. ‘The only poet one should quote in Venice I suppose, since this was his city. And thank you… how you do flatter me, my darling.’
‘He might have written those words for you, Anastasia. God you’re beautiful! And oh God, how I love you!’
‘And I you,’ she said, smiling at him, settling back, relaxing in the chair. She loved this small trattoria, so casual and unsophisticated, and charming in its rustic simplicity. The shaded loggia where they were sitting fronted onto wide lawns and many flower beds which were resplendent with honeysuckle, roses and azaleas, the latter the colour of dark burgundy wine. There were trees in abundance, all offering welcome shade in the intense heat of this August day, stately cypress, and willows, and, close by their table, a giant magnolia tree with flowers the size of a man’s hand, the dark green leaves so glossy they might have been polished that very morning.