Shadows in Paradise

  XVII

  "Actually," said Silvers, "I'm a public benefactor." He lit a cigarette and looked at me contentedly.

  We were expecting Mr. and Mrs. Lasky. Lasky was a fresh-baked millionaire. "The man is a vulgarian," Silvers explained. "By selling him pictures I shall be transforming him into a member of polite society." He stubbed out his cigarette and looked at his watch. "Hell be here in fifteen minutes. This is our ploy. You come in with two pictures, anything you please, and I ask you for the Sisley. You bring it in and put it down with its face to the wall. Then you come over and whisper something in my ear. I don't understand you and tell you to speak more plainly. You whisper— audibly this time—that the Sisley is being reserved for Mr. Rockefeller. Okay?"

  "Okay!"

  It worked. "What are you whispering for?" Silvers growled at me. "We have no secrets." I said my piece. "Wasn't that the Monet?" he said. "You must be mistaken. It's the Monet he reserved."

  "I beg your pardon, Mr. Silvers, but I'm afraid you've got it wrong. I made a note of it. Here ..." I pulled out a little notebook and showed him.

  "He's right," said Silvers. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about it. Reserved is reserved."

  Mr. Lasky was a frail little man in a blue suit and brown shoes. A few long strands of hair had been carefully plastered over his bald crown. Mrs. Lasky was a head taller and twice as broad. It looked to me as if she might gobble him up any minute.

  I stood there for a moment in indecision, holding the picture in one hand so that part of it could be seen upside down. When I turned around, Mrs. Lasky bit. "Couldn't we look at it?" she asked in a hoarse, squeaky voice. "Or is that reserved, too?"

  Silvers turned on his charm. "Why, of course, madam. I beg your pardon. Why don't you put the picture down, Monsieur Ross," he snarled at me in atrocious French, "Allez, vite, vite!"

  With a display of embarrassment I set the picture on one of the easels. Then I disappeared into the storeroom, which still reminded me of Brussels, and immersed myself in a monograph on Delacroix, listening occasionally to the conversation next door. I bet on Mrs. Lasky. She looked like the kind of woman who always thinks she is under attack and doesn't take it lying down. Her battle, I gathered, was with the old established socialites, who looked down on the Laskys as parvenus. She was determined to gain admittance to their ranks, so as to be able to treat other newcomers with equal scorn. I closed my book and picked up a small Manet still life, a peony in a water glass.

  I heard sounds of departure next door. Carefully I put the wonderful little painting back on its rack. The afternoon heat, which had retreated before the dewdrops on the white peony and the shimmering water in the glass, returned. Suddenly a profound joy rose up in me; for a moment the past and present, the cellar in Brussels and the room where I was sitting, receded, and all that remained was the feeling that I was still alive. For an instant the wall of obligations that hemmed in my life fell away, as the walls of Jericho had fallen before the trumpets of the chosen people, and I was as free as a bird, with a freedom that took my breath away for it opened up to me the possibility of a life whose existence I had never so much as suspected.

  Then Silvers was standing there, shrouded in the fragrance of his Partagas. "Would you care for a cigar?" he asked genially.

  I declined. I was suspicious of such generosity from people who owed me money. In my experience, they tend to think that a good cigar cancels out their debt What I wanted of Silvers was not a cigar but my commission for the sale to Mrs. Whymper.

  The Laskys bit," said the public benefactor. "I told them Rockefeller had a week's option, but that he'd left town on business and had probably forgotten all about it Mrs. Lasky was out of her mind at the thought of snatching something away from him."

  "The old shell game," I said. "What always amazes me is that these cheap tricks work."

  "Why shouldn't they?"

  "Because if s hard to see how these bandits, who certainly haven't piled up a fortune by being guileless, can fall for such stuff."

  "It's very simple. In their own business it wouldn't take; they'd laugh at me. But in the art world they're like sharks in fresh water; it's not their element It undermines their self-assurance and muddles their wits. And when they bring their social-climbing wives, they're really sunk."

  "I've got to go to the photographers," said Natasha. "Come along with me. It won't be long."

  "How long?"

  "An hour. Not much more. Why? Does it bore you?"

  "Not at all. I only wanted to know if we should eat before or after."

  "After. Then well have plenty of time. Is eating so important? Or have you already gotten the commission for Mrs. Whymper?"

  "Not yet. But I've got ten dollars from the Lowy brothers for a tip. I'm dying to blow it with you."

  She looked at me tenderly. "Don't worry, we'll blow it. Tonight"

  It was cool at the photographer's; the windows were closed and the air conditioning was working. It was like sitting in a submarine. The others didn't seem to notice; they were used to it. "It gets even hotter in August," said Nicky the photographer by way of consolation.

  The spotlights were turned on. The only models were Natasha and the brunette. The pale, dark-haired specialist in Lyons silks remembered me. "The war is doing all right," he said with a weary attempt at enthusiasm. "It'll be over in a year."

  "You think so?"

  "I've had inside dope from Europe."

  "Really?"

  In the unreal white light I was ready to believe that this man really knew more than anyone else. I took a deep breath. I knew the war was going badly for the Germans, but I could no more conceive of peace than I could of death; it was outside my frame of reference.

  "Really," he said. 'Take my word for it Next year we'll be importing silks from Lyons again."

  The effect of this remark on me was magical: suddenly a jumble of objects and sounds came tumbling into the timeless vacuum of my refugee world, ushered in by a bolt of Lyons silk; then clocks began to tick and bells to peal. A film that had stopped dead began to move, faster and faster, backward and forward in an incomprehensible sequence. I realized that in spite of all the encouraging news in the papers I had never seriously believed that the war could end. But now, precisely because of his idiocy, the opinion of this pale little man, to whom the end of the war meant neither more nor less than the possibility of importing silk from Lyons, had carried more weight with me than that of half a dozen field marshals.

  Natasha appeared in a tight-fitting white evening dress that left one shoulder bare, long white gloves, and the Empress Eugenie's tiara. My heart turned over. Everything struck me at once: the contrast between the Natasha of the night before and this unreal, starkly illumined apparition with the cool bare shoulder in this artificially cooled room; the tumult into which the thought of the war's end had thrown me, and even the tiara in Natasha's hair that gleamed like the crown of the Statue of liberty. "Lyons silk," said the pale man beside me. "Our last bolt"

  "Really?"

  He nodded. "But next year we'll have all we need."

  I looked at Natasha. She was standing very still in the white light, a charming slender copy, I thought, of the bronze giantess holding out her torch over the Atlantic, equally unafraid, but not, like the statue, a mixture of Brünhilde and a resolute French market woman, but, rather, a Diana emerging from the forest, too dangerous for all her charm, ready to fight in defense of her freedom.

  "How do you like the Rolls?" asked a man who had sat down beside me.

  I looked around. "Are you the owner?"

  He nodded. He was a tall, dark man, younger than I had imagined. "Fraser," he said. "I was hoping to meet you a few days ago."

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I was busy."

  "Let's make up for it tonight I've already spoken to Natasha. We're going to Liichow's. You know the place?"

  "No," I said in surprise. I had been looking forward to the King of the Sea and, above all, to being alone
with her. But if Natasha had accepted, I couldn't very well say no without being rude. Of course I wasn't sure she had accepted, but . . .

  "Glad to have you with us," he said. "See you later."

  That seemed to make it a joint invitation, from him and from Natasha.

  I found Natasha packing up her things.

  "I hear we're going to Lüchow's," I said. I was pretty well steamed up.

  "Yes, of course. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

  "What I wanted? I wanted to blow in my ten dollars with you at the King of the Sea. But then you accepted this invitation from Mr. Rolls-Royce."

  "Nothing of the kind. He said he'd consulted you."

  "He did, but only after he'd asked you."

  She laughed. "What an operator!"

  I stood open-mouthed. I didn't know whether to believe her or not If she was telling the truth, I had fallen for the oldest dodge in the world, as though my life with Silvers had taught me nothing. But somehow Frasec didn't seem like that kind of a man.

  "Nothing we can do about it now," said Natasha. "Well have our party tomorrow."

  The Rolls was waiting outside. The heat was sickening after the cool studio. "Fll have the car air conditioned next year," said Fraser. "The machines are all ready, but they're not on the market yet You know how it is—war priorities."

  The war will be over next summer," I said.

  "You think so?" said Fraser. "In that case you know more than Eisenhower. Vodka?" He opened the famous refrigerator.

  "No, thanks," I said glumly. "It's really too hot"

  It wouldn't have surprised me to hear that Eisenhower would not have thought it too hot "It's Polish vodka," said Fraser instead.

  I didn't tell him that I was well aware of it "Fll have one, Jack," said Natasha.

  "Good!"

  Luckily it wasn't far to Lüchow's. I prepared to be tormented by Natasha as well as Fraser, of whom I had by now developed a low opinion. To my astonishment Lüchow's proved to be a German restaurant

  "How about roast venison with Kronsbeeren?" Fraser suggested. "And some of those little potato pancakes."

  "You have Kronsbeeren in America?"

  "Something of the sort Cranberries. But Lüchow's still has the genuine preserves from Germany. They are called Preiselbeeren in Bavaria, arent they?"

  "I think so," I said. "I haven't been there in a long time. They've changed a good many things. Maybe Preiselbeeren didn't sound Aryan enough for them."

  "What do we drink, Jack?" asked Natasha.

  "Whatever you like. Maybe Mr. Ross would like beer? Or Rhine wine. They still have some."

  "Beer wouldn't be bad," I said. "It goes with the atmosphere here. Or strawberry punch, if they've got some."

  "With the meat course?" Natasha asked. "Isn't it kind of dessertish?"

  "We're in America now," I said. "Here they even drink coffee with the meat course."

  She gave me a quick amused glance. "Or ice water," she said.

  "Or Coca-Cola."

  "Maybe they do have some strawberry punch," said Fraser, without batting an eyelash. "May punch they call it, I think. Would you like some?"

  "I've never tasted it," I said. "And I have no desire to. I'm not all that homesick. Beer will do. What I'd really like is a glass of Bordeaux, but I suppose they wouldn't have that."

  "But they do. They do."

  Fraser conferred with the waiter. I looked around. The place was a cross between a Bavarian beer cellar and a Rhenish wine tavern, with a shot of Haus Vaterland thrown in. It was jam-packed. A small band was playing dinner music and folk songs. I had a feeling that Fraser hadn't chosen Lüchow's at random. Sheer dignity would oblige me to defend some of the more harmless aspects of my detested fatherland against this American, and in so doing I would expose myself as just another German. A none-too-subtle way of killing off a rival.

  "How about Matjes herring to begin with?" Fraser asked. "It's really good here. With a drop of genuine Steinhäger."

  "Sounds wonderful," I said. "Unfortunately, I can't have it. Doctor's orders."

  As I expected, Natasha joined the conspiracy against me and ordered herring with beet salad, another German specialty. The band played sentimental slop from the banks of the Rhine. What amazed me about aie place was that a good many of the guests seemed to take the old-country atmosphere seriously and think it poetic. Soldiers in uniform were happily joining in the German songs. Fraser didn't sing, but only beat time with his knife and watched me. I decided to get the jump on him when it came time for dessert by ordering apple pie and cheese, an American monstrosity, before he could offer me rote Grütze, a loathsome German fruit pudding.

  The Bordeaux pacified me, and I began to consider Fraser with benign irony. He asked if there was anything he could do to help me, thereby presenting himself in the flattering posture of a friendly god from Washington who was not above putting himself out for an insignificant refugee. I replied with fulsome praises of America and assured him that everything was all right Aside from not wanting to be helped by Fraser, I was none too eager for him to get interested in my papers. I didn't trust him.

  The roast venison was excellent and so were the potato pancakes. Now I understood why the place was so crowded. I knew my sense of humor was unequal to the situation and hated myself for it Natasha didn't seem to notice anything. She ordered the German fruit pudding. I wouldn't have been surprised if she had asked to run up to Eighty-sixth Street after dinner for coffee and cake at the Café Hindenburg. Fraser kept making remarks with no other point than to show that Natasha had gone out with him before. But what irked me most was his lofty way Of implying that I owed him personally a debt of gratitude for the privilege of staying in his country. I was grateful to the government—not to Fraser, who hadn't done a thing for me.

  "How about a nightcap at El Morocco?"

  That was all I needed. I rather expected Natasha to say yes; she liked El Morocco. But she didn't. "I'm tired, Jack," she said. "I've had a hard day."

  We stepped out into the torrid night "Shall we walk?" I asked Natasha.

  "Of course not" said Fraser. "I'll take you home."

  Just what I expected. He would drop me off and then persuade Natasha to go on with him—to El Morocco or his apartment. How did I know? And what business was it of mine? Had I any rights over Natasha? If anyone had, maybe it was Fraser.

  "Won't you come, too?" Fraser asked me in a tone that seemed none too friendly.

  "I live in the neighborhood. I can walk," I said reluctantly. It seemed the only way of avoiding further humiliation.

  "Nonsense," said Natasha. "You can't walk in this heat. Let us off at my place, Jack. From there he has only a few steps."

  "Very well."

  Jack made no attempt to let me off first He was smart enough to know that Natasha wouldn't stand for it. Outside Natasha's house he bade us a friendly good-by. It's been very nice. We'll have to do it again soon."

  "Many thanks. With pleasure."

  Not in a thousand years, I thought, and looked on as Fraser kissed Natasha on the cheek. "Good night, Jack," she said. "I'm sorry i can't come along. I'm just too tired."

  "Another time. Good night, darling."

  That was his parting shot. Darling. I thought: In America that meant everything and nothing. You said darling to a telephone operator, and you said it to the woman you couldn't live without. Fraser had dropped a little time bomb in leaving.

  We stood face to face. I knew that all was lost if I showed my anger now. "A delightful fellow," I said. "Are you really so tired, Natasha?"

  She nodded. "Yes, really. It was boring, and Fraser's a louse."

  "I didn't think so. It was charming of him to pick a German, restaurant on my account. You seldom find such delicacy."

  Natasha looked at me. "Darling," she said, and the word gave me a pang like a sudden toothache, "you don't have to be a gentleman. I've often been terribly bored by gentlemen."

  "This evening, for instance?"
/>
  "This evening especially. Why on earth did you accept that stupid invitation?"

  "Me?"

  "Yes, you. I suppose you're going to say it was my fault."

  I had been on the verge of saying just that,

  "It was all my fault," I said, boiling inwardly. "Can you ever forgive such an idiot?"

  She looked at me suspiciously. "Do you really mean that? Or are you just pretending?"

  "Both, Natasha."

  "Both?"

  "What else would you expect? I'm all mixed up and I act like an idiot because I worship you."