Tapestry

  He left her at the door before Mario awoke.

  “Here are the addresses on my card. My office in New York and the Crillon in Paris for the next ten days. Will you write to me at once so I’ll know you’re safe in Italy?”

  Her eyes, raised to his, were almost reverent.

  “What thanks, what’s the price of a life, what am I to say to you, Paul?”

  He had to stop the rush of her gratitude. “Don’t. Don’t make it harder for me.” He kissed her cheeks. “God bless you both.” And he ran out.

  In the hotel room, the timetable lay on the dresser. His ticket to Paris was for the next day, but the thought of sleeping one more night in this country appalled him. With luck, he might be able to catch a train today; he began to throw things into suitcases.

  And quite suddenly he broke down. He was overwhelmed. The boy with the broken body … Ilse … God only knew what lay in the future for them both.… And farther back, those beaten men shuffling and freezing in the camp. And still farther back, the troubled, skeptical face of Elisabeth … He dropped a pair of shoes and put his head down on the desk. His ears were filled with the sound of ancient wails, old as the earth and the sea.

  “Oh, my God,” he murmured.

  After a while he got up, finished packing, paid his bill, and went to the station, where he found that it was possible to leave within the hour. Too impatient to sit in the waiting room, he went to the platform and stood there until, with a great hissing of brakes, the dark blue cars of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits drew to a stop.

  Once in his place, he ordered a double brandy. Maybe it would put him to sleep, at least until they crossed the border and he was out of the country. It came to his mind, as he touched the American passport in his pocket, that there were sure to be others on this train who, for one reason or another, were even more anxious than he to get out, and for whom the customs officer’s tap on the compartment door would be a heart-stopping ordeal until it was safely past. He could have taken the passport out and kissed it.

  The train began to move forward. And now, perhaps owing to some benevolent effect of the brandy, he was able to turn his thoughts forward with it. Paris and Leah. They would be medicine, and how he needed it! Leah’s laughter, wine, food, picture galleries, walks in the Bois and love in bed … and freedom! Most of all, freedom!

  The train raced on into the dusky afternoon.

  Twelve

  “How did you manage this?” inquired Paul, “since we’re not traveling together?” His room was next door to hers and the door between them had been unlocked.

  “Easy. Tipped the chambermaid before we went down to dinner.” Wearing a black nightgown as transparent as moonlight, Leah was brushing her hair at the dressing table. Through the glass, she gave him a smile of pure happiness. “Honestly, you gave me the surprise of my life when you walked in today. But I’ve nothing planned till next week: concert tickets, the ballet, and I’ve arranged a car for one day. I thought we might drive out for a country lunch. The rest of this week is blank, though.”

  “That will suit me perfectly. Come on, that’s enough, your hair is beautiful.”

  “It’s a mess. It needs a cut.”

  “It’s a satin hat,” he said, stroking it with his cheek. He turned her around on the bench. “Come on, put the light out.”

  “Just take one look outside. Imagine, we’re on the Place de la Concorde!”

  “It’s gorgeous, but don’t tease me.”

  Her eyes went suddenly somber. “I’d never tease you, Paul. I’m not like that. It’s just that everything’s so wonderful that I’d like to prolong it. I don’t quite believe it.”

  “Believe it,” he said. “Here, do you want me to drag you?”

  He picked her up and laid her on the bed. Gently, careful not to tear it, he rolled the black silk cloud back over her ankles, over her strong thighs and narrow waist, over the breasts whose size always astounded him by their contrast to her narrow waist, past the plump, sloping shoulders—Edwardian shoulders, he thought—and over her head.

  He stood for a moment looking down at her.

  “What are you thinking just now, Paul?”

  “You want to know exactly?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m thinking: how luscious, how ripe and luscious. Like fruit, you are.”

  She smiled. “Then take it. Take whatever you want.”

  It was not until the third day that his heart was really freed. And that was when a postcard came from Ilse.

  Safe here with friends. Mario beginning to come to himself. Will keep you in touch. Blessings on you.

  At dinner he showed the card to Leah. He had told her the story, omitting anything personal about Ilse and himself; he had a feeling that she would resent it, although if the situation were reversed, he did not think Ilse would mind. Now he exclaimed, “This calls for a celebration! Dom Pérignon and plenty of it.”

  Her fingers, tipped with oval, scarlet shells, circled the goblet. She sipped thoughtfully.

  “It was hell, wasn’t it?”

  “What, Germany? Yes. Unbearable pain to watch it sliding down into that hell and not be able to stop it.”

  “Paul, you’ve carried the weight of other people’s troubles on your shoulders as long as I’ve known you. As far back as when I married Freddy. Dan, who’s twice your age and now with this Ilse, and my son—we all come to you. You can’t take Europe on too. There’ll be nothing left for yourself.”

  “I don’t see it that way at all.”

  “Perhaps not. But listen, I want you to think of nothing except pleasing yourself while we’re here. I want you to loosen up.”

  He laughed. “You don’t think I’ve been loose enough these last three nights?”

  “I’m not joking. Sex is a need, a release. It has nothing to do with being happy inside or free of care.”

  “Very well,” he said cheerfully, “I shall do nothing but free myself of care starting now. I’ve got a couple of good clients to see, Americans who live in Paris, but that will be pleasant business and the rest of the time, when you’re not looking at dresses, shall be yours.”

  La ville lumière! The city smiled. Even the police were polite here. Sometimes, waking early, they went out for coffee when the cafés were just opening. The flower vendors, under the awnings, were just setting out bouquets of curly roses and lilies of the valley. After the brioches or the croissants, they walked to the Luxembourg Gardens to sit on the green iron chairs and watch children, too young for school, playing around the Medici Fountain. Through a light dust of snow one afternoon, they studied the ancient hotels on the Place des Vosges and walked back to the Île de la Cité to look again at the great rose window of Notre-Dame. They dined at La Tour d’Argent, saw the ballet at the Opéra, went to cabarets on Montmartre, and strolled at midnight.

  Now Paul allowed himself to be introduced to the fashion world. It had always seemed silly to him for people to make such a serious business out of draping some cloth over the human shape, but the curiosity that had led him all his life into learning the function of the carburetor or of the flute, led him now to follow Leah, and he had to concede that some of the cloth draping really could be art. In a smoky salon he sat on a little gold chair and watched as Chanel, in sweater and skirt, gold chains and hair bow, watched her models perform on a little gold stage.

  “I’d like to treat you to an original,” he told Leah afterward at lunch. “The yellow Chanel suit, perhaps?”

  Leah shook her head. “No, no.”

  “Why not? You practically fell off your chair when you saw it.”

  “Really not. I don’t want anything,” she said, looking rather grave.

  He considered for a moment, and decided to speak bluntly. “You think it has something to do with us. A man’s repayment, or something nasty like that.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Do you know how wrong you are? If that were so, for all you’ve given me, I’d have
to pay with something a lot more substantial than a suit.”

  “Really, no, Paul. I want things to have nothing to do with us, in spite of what you just said. You do understand?”

  He understood that possibly he was going in deeper than he had meant to go. Perhaps even deeper than she had meant to go.… A slight disturbance moved through the air, and he concentrated on buttering a roll.

  “But it was dear of you, all the same.” For an instant Leah’s forehead puckered, then straightened as though a hand had grazed it. “Oh, it’s a show, it’s theater, isn’t it, all this fashion business? Lanvin serves champagne, and at the Maggy Rouff opening there’s an orchestra and guests come in evening clothes.” So, with bright and easy skill, she moved away from the personal.

  The situation, as they entered the second week, grew more troubling. What was to happen once they were back in New York? There were so many ramifications in the whole context of the family, first her son and then all the relatives, should the affair be discovered, to say nothing of Marian …

  On the final afternoon, Leah rushed around to do last-minute shopping. She had innumerable friends and loved being generous.

  “I’ll beg off and meet you for dinner,” Paul told her. “I haven’t once been in the Bois and this is the day for it.”

  It was one of those February afternoons when shreds of breaking fog float through the tops of the trees, the lower branches drip and the damp air melts into the deceptive feel of spring. The path around the lake was deserted. It was so still that Paul’s slow footsteps crackled. There was something mournful in the stillness; yet the very mournfulness was pleasurable. It was like listening to a requiem, he thought, and a mood stirred in him; something pricked at his memory, disturbed him in some remotest corner of the brain, something that wanted to be remembered. What was it? He stopped, trying to summon the struggling recollection, and stared out over the murky black surface of the lake, on which three ducks were floating in perfect V formation.

  It came abruptly … the Hudson River, black and murky on a winter day. Large flakes of snow sank slowly to the water and clung to Anna’s eyelashes. They walked back up the hill. In a house near the top, a string quartet was playing, sending to the passersby, even through closed windows, a grave and lovely music. “Schubert,” he said, and they stood there listening until the end, and walked on hand in hand, in a peaceful silence.

  A long time past. The way had been open then, but he hadn’t taken it. And he stood now, solitary, on another continent, while the duck flotilla circled the lake and returned, thinking, Anna, thinking, Iris.

  A blast of sudden northern wind roared through the pines at his back. It was melancholy winter, after all, and light was ebbing. He shouldn’t have come here alone like this. He should find Leah, cheerful, reassuring Leah.

  And he turned his steps, running, hurrying to find a taxi, and directed the driver back to the hotel.

  The lounge was a cordial space designed to dispel just such a mood. Pink lamplight and a deep fauteuil welcomed Paul to a corner, from which he could watch a lively promenade of luxurious women, either hideous or charming, men of affairs both French and foreign, and patient, intelligent poodles wearing rhinestone collars. He ordered an aperitif and, cupping the glass, sipped slowly, allowing the delicious fire to slide and glide to his very toes.

  He consulted his watch. An hour more until dinner. He ordered another drink and was contemplating a thin blonde, whose enormous emerald pendant—six carats at least, he estimated—had caught his eye, and wondering whether she knew how discontent was spoiling her face, when over her shoulder he saw Donal Powers in the doorway. A second later Donal saw him. The meeting was then unavoidable. Donal, accompanied by another man, pushed his way across the room.

  “Well! Small world! Here on business or pleasure?”

  “Business.” Paul stood, offering his hand.

  “Mr. Werner, Monsieur Corot. No relation of the painter’s.”

  The Frenchman bowed. “Unfortunately.”

  Hesitation followed. A fraction of a second’s worth. If the other man had not been there, would Paul have said: Let’s not go through false motions, we don’t have to sit together, we despise each other? It bothered him not to know whether he would have said it.

  “Mr. Werner is a cousin of my wife’s.”

  The Frenchman raised polite eyebrows. “A delightful coincidence for you both, then.” He was waiting to be invited to one of the vacant chairs.

  “Do sit down,” Paul said.

  “We don’t see many Americans in the winter, Mr. Werner.”

  “Paris is beautiful any time for me,” Paul replied.

  Donal, having ordered drinks, turned his attention to Paul. “Been here long?”

  “Week before last. I came from Germany.”

  “Oh? So did I. What did you think of it?”

  “I’m still trying to shake off the horror. It’s like having a monkey on my back.”

  “As an American, you naturally have a different perspective. Europeans, of course, being so much closer, can see more clearly,” Corot said.

  The remark on its face seemed critical, but the manner was soothing. Paul was not sure he understood and said so.

  Corot explained. “What I mean is, quite simply, that strong leadership is effective. You Americans haven’t come to see that yet. You have only to look at Germany and Italy, too, to see their order and prosperity. In my country, all we do is argue, never get anything done. A new government every time we turn around. It gets to be sickening.”

  “So you want to kill the Third Republic?” Paul said.

  Corot shrugged. “I? I’m not killing anything. Let’s just say I won’t cry if it should die.”

  Paul didn’t answer. His eyes were lowered to the vacant chair on which lay a crocodile attaché case and a pair of fur-lined gloves. In some queer roundabout way, these objects infuriated him, although he possessed rather similar ones himself. And he raised his eyes, looking from one man to the other.

  “Monsieur Corot is a man of experience,” Donal said. “He owns one of the largest machine tool plants in the country. Founded by his grandfather,” he added respectfully.

  Corot addressed Paul. “I believe you said you also were in business?”

  “I didn’t say. I’m a banker.”

  “Ah, then surely you’re a practical man. It’s men like us who keep the world’s wheels turning. We mustn’t let the Léon Blums throw sand in them. If the republic falls, it will be because of men like him.” Faint red rose into Corot’s cheeks, and he set his glass down hard on the table. “Crooks and corrupters, the lot of them.”

  “Surely you aren’t calling Blum a crook,” Paul said.

  He thought he saw Donal’s knee give the other man’s a nudge. Of course, Blum was a Jew. Never mind that he was a democrat, a scholar, or anything else.

  “Well, perhaps not,” Corot conceded. He must have received the nudge and interpreted it correctly. “But the people don’t want him anyway,” he added.

  Why am I arguing here with this stranger? Paul asked himself. It was absurd. Two strangers who had met ten minutes before and would never meet again, were feeding their controlled and civilized anger, while a fan of red and white gladioli spread itself at their backs and somewhere in another room a piano tinkled. It was surreal. Nevertheless, he resumed the argument.

  “I’ve been reading in your papers about the Action Française. They’re the same young toughs they have in Germany and Italy and began the same way, with riots and beatings on the streets.”

  Corot took a handful of nuts and crunched them. “They’re only kids. They don’t worry me, nor the German boys either.”

  Paul persisted. “The German boys will worry you when they come marching into France.”

  “Nonsense. There’ll be no war. We have the Maginot Line, the strongest defense on the planet.”

  “It’s in the wrong place, my friend. The Germans will come at you through Belgium, the same as
they did in 1914.”

  The dialogue was a ball, batted back and forth, while Donal, like a spectator at a tennis match, turned his head to keep up with it.

  “I’ve been in Germany many, many times, Mr. Werner, and I can tell you the Germans don’t want war any more than we do. I have connections in high places in government and industry. Mr. Powers knows. He’s been there with me. Ask him.” Corot finished his drink and stood up. “I shall be late for my appointment. Donal, see you in the morning? Happy to have met you,” he said with a formal bow to Paul, and, gathering his possessions, departed.

  “Nasty sort, your friend,” Paul said.

  “Not a friend, a contact. Helpful to my mission.” Donal paused, waiting to be asked what his mission was. When Paul didn’t ask, he continued. “You knew, or maybe you didn’t, that I’m on a semi-official, part governmental commission on housing? Because of my real estate investments, I’m becoming something of an authority on public housing. So I’ve come over at my own expense to get an idea of how they do things in Europe, especially in Germany. And you know what? Even in housing, they’re way ahead of either England or France. Way ahead.”

  “According to your Monsieur Corot, at any rate. You nudged him, didn’t you?”

  “It could have become embarrassing if I hadn’t.”

  “He reminded me of a vulture, feeding on a corpse. He and the Germans will fatten on France’s corpse together.”

  Donal contradicted him. “The French and the Germans are getting along very well these days, investing across the frontier. Frenchmen invest in German machinery and Germans buy French publishing houses. Why, you can hardly dine out at an important house in Paris without meeting Germans, industrialists, writers, or intellectuals. Big names.”

  Intellectual Important houses. A picture flashed before Paul’s eyes: Ben’s funeral, the crowd of sharp-faced men and the FBI observing them all. He’d come a far way, Donal had. By the looks of things, he would be going a good deal farther, too.

  “I’ll be glad to get home,” he was saying. “I miss my kids.”