Ilse gave gentle reproof. “Ah, Paul, will you ever get over this?”
“Will you ever get over your son?”
“My son is dead. Your daughter is alive, dancing in a velvet dress.”
Despising self-pity, he was instantly ashamed. “I’m sorry. I have no right to compare them.” And he repeated, “I’m sorry.”
“Darling, I don’t mind. It’s just that I hate to see you unhappy.”
“At least I know that Iris is happy. Oh, she reminded me so much of my mother! It was uncanny. When you see the bones, the height, the eyes—very bright and dark, almost too large for her face—when you see all that copied in another generation, it’s startling, to put it mildly. Startling.”
It would be better, Ilse thought, if Leah would keep her crumbs of information to herself, few and far between as they were. Maybe sometime, should the right moment arise, she would suggest it to Leah. Different as they were—Ilse the professional, bookish, reserved, and analytical, and Leah the ambitious, talkative and clever, maneuvering in the fast track—they were yet good friends. Leah had been Ilse’s first real friend in this new country. Never would she forget the generous wardrobe that Leah had insisted on providing for her, more beautiful than any Ilse had ever owned before. But Leah was more than merely generous, she was trustworthy and loyal. And it was their common loyalty to Paul, most of all, that united them.
Leah had known about Paul’s child since long before Ilse’s time. Why Paul had confided in his cousin, Ilse did not know and had not asked; she supposed it was understandable that he had needed to confide at least in one other human being. So now there were just two people who knew.
Now and then, Leah liked to bring up the subject.
“She’s a beautiful woman. The mother, not the daughter, I mean. I have a hard time to keep from staring at her when she comes in to shop. It’s an odd feeling to know something like that about a person who could have no idea you know it.”
And Ilse, listening, would feel a certain distaste, as if there were something prurient in her own curiosity. In one way she wanted to listen to Leah and in another way she did not.
“When Paul knew about the child—it wasn’t till five or six years after she was born—he begged Anna to leave her husband. But Anna wouldn’t. She had some sort of conscience about it; he loved her, they had a little boy, she couldn’t destroy a good man, he must, never know—that sort of thing.”
Leah loved the drama, the poignancy, of the situation.
“I know. He has told me,” Ilse would say.
“Of course, it was all so long ago. Now it’s the daughter who haunts him. He wanted children so badly. It’s a pity. He’s just one of those men who should have had children.”
Paul had gone back to stand before the fire. The flames turned orange and snapped, sending a piny fragrance into the room. Ilse spoke silently to the tall, straight back in the dark suit: I came too late, my darling; how gladly I would have given you a child! Or more, as many as you wanted.
Aloud she said, “Paul, it’s half-past two. Your guests should be here pretty soon.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” He stooped to kiss her cheek. “I’ll go take a look at the preparations.”
Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday. He had insisted on being the host this year, although both Leah and his cousin Meg argued for it. Only a few blocks from this apartment, near the Metropolitan Museum, Leah lived in a sumptuous town house in the Federal style, complete with fanlight over a green door, a brass knocker, and tubbed evergreens. Meg and her husband, Larry Bates, were veterinarians in New Jersey, living in a restored clapboard farmhouse surrounded by fallow fields and untouched woods. But Paul had gotten his way this time and he was the host.
His apartment, in an old prewar building, spread sheltering arms around him. He had been living alone in it for the past year, and yet in spite of its enormous rooms, high ceilings, and long halls, it did not seem either empty or too large. His possessions, like friends, spoke to him. Over the mantel here in the dining room hung his glowing Monet landscape, the first important acquisition in a lifetime of learning and collecting. Underfoot lay a rosy Persian carpet from his grandparents’ house. In the corner on its pedestal stood the wonderful crystal horse that a German cousin, long since murdered during the Holocaust, had given to him. A long antique table, English mahogany and bought in London, was now set for twelve; he saw with satisfaction that Katie, the housekeeper, had arranged it exactly as Marian would have wished, with Royal Crown Derby service plates and the Baccarat glasses, three at each place. At the center of the table she had copied Marian’s traditional cornucopia of oak leaves, squash, and wheat.
Then he remembered he must go to the kitchen to thank Katie. Actually, he had no need for a full-time housekeeper. A weekly cleaning of the rooms would have sufficed, since he took most of his meals with Ilse or out, either at a restaurant or the Yale Club. Often enough, he stayed the night at Ilse’s place. What Katie’s thoughts about his absences might be, he couldn’t imagine, faithful churchgoer that she was. But they were fond of each other, and she had no wish to retire. This apartment, after all these years, seemed as much her home as his.
When he had gone into the kitchen to admire the glistening brown turkey, the cranberry molds and pies that were cooling on the counter, when he had praised Katie and greeted the woman who was her helper for the day, he went through the apartment on inspection.
There should be flowers in the bowl on the piano, he remembered. Yes, Katie had remembered, too, what belonged there: a bowl of yellow roses in full bloom. A broad shaft of cold sunlight fell through the corner window, silvering all the pastel silks and the pale Aubusson rug. It was a lovely room, comfortable and welcoming, so well put together that one was aware only of the whole, never of the fact that every object in it was a treasure of its kind, from the tall clock inlaid with satinwood, to the Waterford chandelier and the Winslow Homer watercolors, Caribbean palms blown askance in the tropical breeze. Slowly, through the years, the room had assumed its present shape and, having attained near perfection in Paul’s eyes, had undergone no recent change except, yes, except for the painting he had hung only last month between the windows.
He examined it now again, a portrait of a woman, nude and pregnant. She had red hair, and she lay in a pose of complete languor against a pile of violet cushions. He had bought this picture in Munich between the wars, on that horrible day when he had witnessed his first Nazi march. He could still see too vividly those ranks and files of brutal thugs goose-stepping to the cheers of a crowd that had gone demented.
In contrast he could still remember the tired, famished-looking gentleman in the gallery.
“An imitation Klimt, Herr Werner, not the sort of painting that a man with your knowledge should add to his collection,” he had remonstrated gently.
But Paul had understood the painting’s worth, or lack of worth, and had known, too, why he wanted it. That woman, that soft, white, red-haired woman! Marian had found it vulgar and certainly inappropriate for the living room, and so, rather than argue, he had hung it in his little study. But now it hung in full light, bringing a leap of the heart that he had never expected to feel again and had not felt in just that way for years. It was absurd at his age.
Ilse was right. Whether to see Iris—for whatever reason—he should never have gone to that dinner. No, definitely, he should not.
“There’s the doorbell,” said Ilse from the hallway. “They’ve arrived.”
The convivial hubbub of the holiday filled the house. It had been a long time since these rooms had seen such a pleasant mingling, for Marian for the last few years had been disinclined to have guests. And Paul, surveying his lavish table, felt a special joy in Ilse’s presence in the hostess’s seat. Today had brought the hidden, obstructive times to an end. Today she could at last be displayed before everyone; when a man’s wife lay in a coma that might last for years, it was understood that a man was entitled to have a lover.
Katie’s dinner was superb. The turkey was stuffed with oysters, the biscuits were hot, the yam pudding had the tart taste of oranges, the corn soufflé was airy, the beets were carved into roses; asparagus, thick and creamy, had been flown in from some warm part of the world, and the wines were very old. Champagne came with the desserts: pumpkin pie, of course, along with Katie’s special almond-chocolate roll.
Now, overfed but nevertheless quite comfortable, the party dispersed into the living room, the library, and the wide foyer, which was a room in itself. When Katie came with a tray of after-dinner drinks, liqueurs and brandy, Paul took the tray over her objections.
“No, no, you’ve worked hard enough today, and you’ve still got all the cleaning up. I’ll do it.”
He was enjoying the role of host. Lamps had been lighted against the darkening, short November afternoon. A harsh wind had risen, shaking the windowpanes with a sudden gust, and this awareness of the looming winter out of doors enhanced his sense of enfolding shelter. From room to room he went with the silver tray, stopping to say a few words, to listen, and watch what was going on.
Most of the people there had been connected to each other and to Paul for the greater part of his life or of theirs.
Leah and her husband, Bill, were playing Scrabble with Meg’s daughter Lucy and Meg’s husband, Larry. For a while Paul stood there as if to observe the game, but actually his mind began to wander, as it usually did, to the players. He was, he knew, an inveterate people-watcher, apt to indulge in the hobby even at long-winded business conferences that were getting nowhere. The contrast now between the three worldly New Yorkers and the simple, rather innocent manner of Bates, the country veterinarian, was interesting to him. Leah, of course, was always interesting. She had wit and energy. Like Ilse, but unlike Meg, who looked older than she was, Leah had been gently treated by time. Her lively pug-nosed face—“Monkey-face,” the family had lovingly called her when she was a child—was so carefully made up that it seemed she wore no makeup at all. She knew how to create an image, fashionable yet not conspicuously so. Her smooth black woolen suit was perfectly cut, her white lace blouse was obviously handmade, and her antique gold bracelets were discreet.
It struck him that Meg’s daughter Lucy, in her gray woolen suit and massive silver bracelets, might also be a clone of Leah. Divorced now, she had used some of the inheritance from her father to buy a partnership with Leah, who wanted to take life a little easier. Certainly there was nothing of Meg in this daughter. Her clever, keen expression was her father’s, as were her seductive eyes, heavy lashed and round lidded. No, there was nothing of gentle Meg in her.
And reflecting thus about the diversity of people, and of his cousin’s offspring in particular, Paul left to see what Agnes, Meg’s youngest daughter, might be doing.
He found her in the living room examining the painting of the pregnant nude. Herself an artist, she would know what she was looking at, but understanding as he did the family dynamics, Paul knew that she was not so much interested in the painting as she was in avoiding her sister. Agnes had removed herself geographically from the family almost as far as one could, having bought a small house in the mountains between Taos and Santa Fe. She still wore the air she had had in childhood, that of the outsider looking in without wanting to be in. Her hair hung straight to her shoulders; she wore sandals, granny glasses, and a long patterned skirt joined to the blouse with a turquoise-and-silver Navajo belt.
He offered her a drink.
“No, thanks. When did you get this? I don’t remember seeing it in this room the last time I was here.”
He smiled. “That must be four years now. Do you actually remember what was in this room then?”
“I remember what wasn’t in it.”
“Ah, well, I had this hidden away. Do you like it?”
“It’s not bad, though not up to your usual standard. Of course, it’s an imitation of Gustav Klimt.”
“I’m afraid it is. The man might not even have been aware of that when he painted it, though.”
“What’s the difference whether he was or not? Everything—poetry, architecture, everything—comes out of something that went before. An imitation with some new twist to make it original. Who’s Ilse?” she asked abruptly.
Paul raised his eyebrows. “Who? Well, she came from Germany after Hitler—”
Agnes interrupted. “I know that. I sat next to her at table. What I meant was, are you going to marry her?”
“Good Lord, Agnes, I have a wife, remember?”
“Certainly I remember. But they tell me she’s dying. And when she does, you ought to marry Ilse before she gets away from you.”
“Thanks for the advice,” he said somewhat dryly. And yet it was amusing how relatives felt it was their privilege to give unasked-for advice.
“I hope you take it. She’s a real person. Real.”
“That I know. But speaking of marriage, what about you? You’re somewhat younger than I am, by twenty years or so.”
“Twenty-two. And not interested. Maybe I’ll have that drink after all, please. A brandy.”
Paul gave her the drink and then went to the library, where Meg and her son Timothy were having a conversation with Ilse.
He sensed that a connection had been made between these two women. An outsider might wonder why this should please him so much, but no matter; it just did. And he drew up a chair to join the group.
Timothy Powers was Paul’s favorite, and had been all the time he was growing up. He had been an appealing boy, large, fair, healthy, and a vigorous athlete; he had also possessed an eager mind. Now a man in his thirties, he still had all those qualities, and was as different from either parent, as well as from either of his twin sisters, as human beings can be different from one another. For some years he had been teaching modern literature at various universities, chiefly in the Middle West, so that Paul saw him too seldom.
“But let’s get back to the subject,” Timothy said, explaining to Paul, “We were talking about the displaced persons camps after the war.”
“If it hadn’t been for the British blockade, I would have been in Israel—Palestine, then,” Ilse replied. “That’s where I really wanted to go.”
She clasped her hands with an unconscious gesture that Paul recognized; it was the result of tension whenever this particular aspect of her past was mentioned. And she continued softly, “The French were supposed to be our friends, yet Franco—isn’t that crazy?—Franco of all people let in twenty-five thousand Jews during the war and refused to send them back to the Nazis. But the French sent them readily to their deaths.”
“To our shame, we didn’t do much for them either,” Paul said.
“I thought Roosevelt was always sympathetic to the Jews,” Timothy remarked.
“He made sympathetic statements,” Paul replied, “but neither he nor Churchill, for that matter, would consent to bomb the tracks that carried the trains to the extermination camps. Weizmann pleaded with Eden, but he refused. It’s well known that he had a particular fondness for Arabs, perhaps because they looked picturesque in their kaffiyehs.”
“Fascinating,” said Timothy. “I had no idea. This is all new to me.”
Paul knew though, but did not and could not have said, It is a never-ending surprise to me how few people know what really happened during those years.
“But I’m curious about it all, Paul. And I’ve been thinking I ought to see Israel myself. You’ve been there, I know.”
“Twice. I was there in forty-eight, when the state was established.”
“If you ever go again, I’d like to join you.”
“Well, I intend to go again, maybe even next year.”
“Ever since the Suez Canal fight three years ago, I’ve wondered what it was actually all about.”
“What it was about? In essence it was to prevent Nasser from mastering the Arab world and driving Israel into the sea.”
“I suppose,” Timothy continued, “I’m es
pecially curious because Grandpa was Jewish. I grew up knowing it in the back of my mind, but I never thought much about it. There was no awareness of it in the family, so one could easily forget it.”
Very true. Uncle Alfie hadn’t let himself be aware of it if he could help it. And yet he gave generously enough to Jewish charities. Meg was shifting in her chair; was that a coincidence, or did the subject really make her so uncomfortable? It seemed strange to Paul, whenever he thought about it, that Meg, like himself, should be the grandchild of the old lady with the blue-white hair and the black silk dress, proud Angelique of New Orleans, of the DeRiveras from the Savannah and the Charleston congregations, the elite of the Jewish establishment that was in existence a hundred years before there was a United States. And all of this past, like a stream diverted, had trickled away and disappeared in Meg. Of course, there was also her mother’s heritage, equally honorable. It must have been confusing to the child Meg. He had no way of telling how confusing. He knew only that Iris alone was the last of the line, and she was hidden.…
“I wish you’d let me know definitely when you plan to go,” Timothy urged.
“When the trouble dies down,” his mother said anxiously. “It seems much too dangerous right now.”
Ilse interjected quietly, “The trouble will not die down for a long time. I get letters that tell me things that never reach the newspapers, attacks by the Egyptian fedayeen, people shot on the roads coming from work on a quiet evening, bombs planted in the marketplaces on a quiet morning—”
“Do you have family there?” asked Meg.
“I have no family anywhere anymore.”
There was a silence. And Paul saw that Meg was moved. Then, to his relief, there came a burst of laughter and talk from the other room. Ilse rose.
“I’ll go see what Leah’s up to,” she said.
Timothy followed, leaving Meg and Paul alone.
“She’s lovely,” Meg said. “We’ve talked for the past hour, and I feel as if I’d known her a long time. You ought to marry her someday, Paul.”