She was thinking all this when she saw the Christmas displays in the windows of one of the biggest department stores. Once again, she imagined with yearning a Parisian family, a little apartment and a Christmas tree beneath a porcelain light hanging from the ceiling …
She was growing up. Her body was losing the stocky robustness of early childhood; her arms and legs were becoming lanky and thinner; her face was paler; her chin was longer and her eyes deeper; the beautiful pink blush in her cheeks was fading.
She spent the winter before the war in Nice, where she turned twelve. It was here that her father would appear, one day, back from Siberia to collect his family and take them to live with him in St Petersburg.
In Nice that year, Hélène listened for the first time to the gentle, loving sound of the sea, to romantic Italian songs and to the words ‘love’ and ‘lover’ without feeling indifferent scorn. The nights were so warm, smelled so sweet … She had reached the age when little girls suddenly come to life, their hearts pound and they press trembling hands to their flat chests beneath their ruffled blouses and think, ‘In this many years I’ll be fifteen, then sixteen … In this many years I’ll be a woman …’
Boris Karol arrived one March morning. Later on, when she thought of her father, she would always think of his face as it looked that day, amid the smoke and bustle of the train station. He was stronger, with a swarthy complexion and red lips. When he bent down so she could kiss him, and she felt his rough cheek against her mouth, the feeling of love she suddenly felt for him filled her heart with a kind of joy that was so piercing it almost hurt. She walked away from Mademoiselle Rose and took her father’s hand. He smiled down at her. When he laughed, his face lit up with fiery intelligence and a sort of mischievous cheerfulness. She affectionately kissed his beautiful tanned hand with its hard nails, just like hers. At that moment she heard a sad, shrill whistle from a train that was leaving, the leitmotif that, from then on, would always accompany the brief appearances her father made in her life. At the same time a conversation began that went over her head, a conversation that no longer sounded like human speech – for words were replaced by numbers – and one which would never cease to echo around her, above her, from now until death closed her father’s lips.
‘Millions, millions, stocks … shares in the Shell Bank … shares in De Beers, bought at 25 and sold at 90 …’
A young girl walked slowly by, swaying her hips, a basket full of silvery fish balanced on her head: ‘Sardini! Belli sardini!’ Her shrill voice made the ‘i’ sound as piercing as a seagull’s cry.
‘… I speculated … He speculated …’
The little bells on the carriage they’d hired jingled sweetly; the horse shook his long ears in the bag of straw; the coachman chewed on a flower.
‘… I won … I lost … I won it back … Money, shares … Copper, silver mines, gold mines … phosphates … millions, millions, millions …’
Later on, after Karol had eaten lunch and changed his clothes, Hélène was allowed to go with him when he went out. They walked along the Promenade des Anglais. They said nothing. What could they have talked about? The only things that interested Karol were money, business, material things, and Hélène was an innocent child. She looked at him adoringly.
He smiled at her and pinched her cheek. ‘Tell me, how would you like to go and have dinner in Monte Carlo?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Hélène said sweetly, half closing her eyes; she knew no better way to express her pleasure.
In Monte Carlo, after they’d had dinner, Karol seemed anxious. He tapped on the table for a moment, seemed to hesitate, then he suddenly got up and led her out.
They went into the casino. ‘Wait for me here,’ he said, pointing to the lobby; then he disappeared.
She sat down, being very careful to sit up straight and not to get her coat or gloves dirty. A haggard, tired woman stood in front of the mirror, smearing lipstick over her mouth; behind her, Hélène could see her own reflection: a small, thin little girl with curls all round her face, wearing her first real fur round her neck, a small ermine stole her father had brought back for her from Siberia. She waited for a long time. The hours passed. Men went inside, others came out. She saw strange faces, old women carrying shopping bags, their hands still trembling from having handled gold. This wasn’t the first casino she’d ever seen; one of her earliest memories was having walked across the gambling rooms in Ostend, where players ignored the pieces of gold that sometimes rolled beneath their feet. But now she understood how to see beyond the superficial world. She looked at the women plastered in make-up and thought, ‘Do they have children? Were they ever young? Are they happy?’
For there comes a time in life when the pity previously reserved only for other children takes on a different form, a time when we study the faces of ‘old people’ and sense that one day we will be just like them. And that is the moment when early childhood comes to an end.
Outside, it was getting dark; the sky was a beautiful velvet colour with luminous fountains, sweet smells, magnolias in blossom, a soft, caressing wind. Hélène looked out of the window, pressing her face against the glass panes; it was a night that seemed too intense, too sensual. ‘Not for children,’ she thought with a smile. She felt small, lost, guilty. (Why? I won’t get caught. It’s not my fault. I was with Papa. He wasn’t with me for long, though …) It was eight o’clock in the evening. Some cars stopped in front of the Café de Paris; men in tuxedos got out, women in ball gowns. Beneath a balcony she could hear the sound of mandolins, kisses, muffled laughter. On the roads near the harbour dim lights cast shadows along the streets and all the cranes from the coastline converged, making their way towards the casino.
It was nine o’clock now … ‘I’m hungry,’ thought Hélène. ‘What can I do? I just have to stay here; they won’t let me into the gaming rooms.’ How many people like her were waiting reluctantly? The entrance hall was full of anxious, tired women who waited patiently, without complaining. She felt strangely old and resigned, resigned to spend the night right there on the bench if she had to. If only her eyes wouldn’t keep closing beneath her heavy eyelids. Time was passing so slowly … yet the hands of the clock on the Casino wall moved strangely quickly. It was nine-thirty just a little while ago, the time when she normally went to bed. But now the hands of the clock had moved forward, nine-forty-five, ten o’clock … To stop herself from falling asleep, she began pacing back and forth. A woman was coming and going in the darkness, waving a pink feather boa. Hélène looked at her. She felt that her mind was clearer because she was hungry; it mysteriously allowed her to see deep into the life of this nameless woman to such an extent that she could feel the woman’s weariness and anxiety within her own soul. She was so hungry … She breathed in the smell of soup that was being brought upstairs in a tureen from the kitchens of the Café de Paris.
‘I feel like a suitcase forgotten at the left luggage office,’ she thought, trying to make fun of herself.
Obviously this was all so comical, so very comical … She looked around her. There were no other children: they were all asleep in bed. A caring hand had closed the windows and curtains. They couldn’t hear the mumblings of the old man accosting the shop girls; they couldn’t see the couples kissing on park benches.
‘Mademoiselle Rose wouldn’t have forgotten all about me, not Mademoiselle Rose. It’s obvious that I’m still deluding myself,’ she thought bitterly. ‘She’s the only one in the world who loves me …’
Eleven o’clock. In the moonlight the city looked pale, weary, strange, as in a dream … Hélène walked and walked, her eyes half closed with exhaustion, counting the lights in the houses along the harbour to prevent herself from falling asleep. Really, now! She mustn’t whine. Was she going to start crying like some child left behind in a park? Now the last few horrid-looking women were coming out of the Casino, clutching their bags to their bosoms, their make-up melting down their faces. And behind them? Her father: his white hair, his
features lit up with the inner flame of joy and passion she so admired.
He took her hand and squeezed it hard. ‘My poor darling, come along. I’d forgotten about you. Let’s go home right away.’
She didn’t dare tell him she was hungry. She didn’t want to see him shrug his shoulders and say with a sigh, as her mother would have done, ‘Children … they’re such a burden!’
‘Did you at least win, Papa?’
Her father’s lips trembled with a little smile that was both joyful and sad. ‘Win? Yes, a little. But do people gamble in order to win?’
‘Oh? Well, why else, then?’
‘Just for the pleasure of playing, my girl,’ said her father and the passionate blood that coursed through his veins seemed to flow hotly into Hélène’s hand; he looked at her with affectionate scorn. ‘You wouldn’t understand. You’re too young. And you’ll never understand. You’re just a woman.’
PART II
1
One evening in the autumn of 1914, Hélène, Mademoiselle Rose and the last of their luggage arrived in St Petersburg, where Hélène’s parents had already been living for several weeks.
As always, whenever Hélène had to see her mother again after a long absence, she trembled with apprehension, but she would have rather died than show it.
It was a particularly dismal, damp day in that sad season when there is hardly any sun, when you wake up, get up, eat and work by lamplight, and when soft, damp snow falls from a yellowish sky and is whipped away by a furious wind. How harshly it blew, that day, the biting north wind, and what a sickly odour of filthy water rose from the Neva.
The lights were lit along the streets. A thick fog wafted through the air like smoke. Hélène hated this strange city before she even arrived; now that she saw it, her heart ached as if something terrible was about to happen; she grasped Mademoiselle Rose’s coat nervously, trying to find the familiar warmth of her hand, then turned round and studied her reflection in the carriage window with sad surprise: it was tense and pale.
‘What’s the matter, Lili?’ asked Mademoiselle Rose.
‘Nothing. I’m cold. This city is horrible,’ Hélène murmured in despair. ‘And in Paris, the trees are all golden now.’
‘But we couldn’t have gone to Paris anyway, my poor little Hélène, because of the war,’ Mademoiselle Rose said sadly.
They fell silent; heavy drops of rain fell swiftly down the windows, like tears down someone’s face.
‘She didn’t even come to meet us at the station,’ Hélène said bitterly; she felt a wave of sadness and venom rise up through her soul, emerging from immeasurable depths, from a part of her being that was alien to her.
‘You mustn’t call her “she” like that,’ Mademoiselle Rose corrected her. ‘You should say “Mama”. “Mama didn’t come to meet us” …’
‘Mama didn’t come to meet us. She probably doesn’t want to see me that much,’ said Hélène quietly. ‘And I don’t want to see her either.’
‘Well, then, what are you complaining about?’ Mademoiselle Rose replied softly. ‘You’ve got a few more moments of peace.’
Hélène was struck by the mournful irony of her smile.
‘Do they have a car now?’ the little girl asked.
‘Yes. Your father has earned a lot of money.’
‘Really? And what about my grandparents? Will they ever come to live here?’
‘I don’t know.’
But Hélène knew very well that her grandparents would never leave the Ukraine; a regular allowance would keep them away from the Karols for ever. That was the very first thing Bella would do with her fortune.
When Hélène thought about her grandparents she felt pity, which she hated because it seemed cowardly to her. She tried to put them out of her mind, but in spite of herself, their faces surged up in her memory. She remembered them running quickly, stumbling along the platform as the train was leaving. Her grandmother was crying, which hardly made her look any different, the poor woman; but grandfather Safronov remained his usual swaggering self as he stood tall, waving his cane. ‘See you soon,’ he cried, his voice shaking. ‘We’ll come to see you in St Petersburg! Tell your mama to invite us soon.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it, poor Grandfather,’ murmured Hélène. She was certain the old man understood the situation even better than she did. She couldn’t imagine the fury and regret he would feel when going back home to the empty house, followed by his wife who moaned and wept quietly.
‘It’s my turn now,’ he would think. ‘My turn. Once I was the one who ran off to follow my whims, to enjoy myself, and left everyone behind. But now that I’m old and running out of steam, I’m the one who’s being left behind.’ And turning towards his wife, he deigned to wait for her for the first time in his life, even though he banged his cane against the ground and grumbled, ‘Come on, then, hurry up, slow coach!’
‘Exeunt’ grandfather and grandmother, Hélène thought with the dark sense of humour she’d inherited from her father.
Meanwhile, the car had stopped in front of a large, beautiful house. The Karols’ apartment was constructed in such a way that you could see right through all the rooms from the entrance hall; from the large open doors stretched a series of gold-and-white reception rooms. Hélène bumped into the corner of an enormous white piano, caught sight of her pale, confused face reflected in the many mirrors and finally made her way into a smaller, darker room to her mother. She was standing up, leaning against a table; beside her sat a young man whom Hélène had never seen before.
‘Stuffed into a corset at three o’clock in the afternoon,’ thought Hélène, remembering her mother’s loose-fitting dressing gowns and dishevelled hair; she looked up and immediately spotted how many new rings she wore on her pale fingers, saw the elegant dress, her slim figure, how happy and passionate her harsh face looked; she saw all of it, enclosed it within her heart and never, ever forgot it.
‘Hello, Hélène. Was the train early, then? I wasn’t expecting you so soon.’
‘Hello, Mama,’ Hélène murmured.
She could never clearly pronounce both syllables whenever she said ‘Mama’; she had difficulty getting the word out through her pursed lips; she said the last syllable with a kind of quick groan that she wrenched from her heart.
‘Hello.’
The painted cheek lowered itself to her level; she kissed it carefully, instinctively trying to find a spot that wasn’t covered in powder or rouge.
‘Don’t mess up my hair. Aren’t you going to say hello to your cousin? Don’t you recognise your cousin, Max Safronov?’
A smile of triumph passed over Bella’s painted mouth, which was as thin and red as a trickle of blood.
Hélène suddenly remembered Lydia Safronov’s horse-drawn carriage, which she sometimes came across on the streets of the town where she’d been born; she pictured the stiff woman with her little serpent’s head poking out of the fur stole she wore, recalled her dark eyes and the cold way she looked at her.
‘Max, here? Oh, they really must be very rich,’ she thought.
She was fascinated by how pale the young man looked; it was the first time she ’d ever seen the pale skin common to the inhabitants of St Petersburg, skin that seemed to have no blood at all, as pallid as a flower growing in a cave. He had a haughty, affected manner, a slim, delicate nose slightly curved into an eagle’s beak, wide green eyes and blond hair that was already receding towards his temples, even though he was barely twenty-four years old.
He lightly stroked Hélène’s cheek with one finger, then pinched her upraised chin. ‘Hello, my little cousin. How old are you now?’ he asked, clearly not knowing what he should say to her and staring at her with his bright, mocking green eyes.
He didn’t listen to the reply.
‘Look at how she stoops,’ he murmured. ‘You should stand up straight, my girl. When my sisters were your age they were a head taller than you and stood up as straight as an arrow.’
&n
bsp; ‘It’s true,’ cried Bella, annoyed, ‘just look at your posture! You should scold her, Mademoiselle Rose.’
‘The journey has worn her out.’
‘You always make excuses for her,’ said Bella, irritated.
She slapped Hélène between her slim shoulder blades as soon as they slumped. ‘You’re not making yourself look any more attractive, my poor girl. No matter how often you scold her, she simply won’t listen. And see how sickly she looks, Max. Your sisters seem so athletic, so strong.’
‘It’s the English education, you know,’ Max murmured in English. ‘Cold baths and bare knees and not encouraged to feel sorry for themselves. She doesn’t look like you, Bella.’
‘How’s Papa?’ asked Hélène.
‘Well, Papa is fine; he came home very late, so you’ll see him before you go to bed; he’s very busy.’
They said no more. Hélène stood as stiff and straight as if she were in a parade, not daring to leave or sit down.
‘All right, then,’ Bella finally whispered, sounding weary and annoyed. ‘Don’t just stand there staring at me with your mouth hanging open. Go to your room; go and see your bedroom …’
The Wine of Solitude Page 6