Hold Back the Night

by Abra Taylor

  Domini knew the rest of the story because it was her own. Berenice's painful revelations had explained so much. Domini no longer needed to question the reason for the great stone in the courtyard, nor why her father had not sent her away to be educated as many men in his place would have done, nor why he had taught her to love with all her heart, without holding back. She understood his anger at the careless use of the name that had cost him such pain in the earning. She was grateful that Berenice had told the story, because now she could look back at her father's denial of her with a true and heartfelt understanding.

  'Through you, Didi, I think he lived his own childhood, the childhood he could not remember. I wonder if you know how much you gave him?'

  Domini thought of the father who had gone wading, done somersaults, lain on his stomach watching an ant with awe, danced the jota until sweat streamed over his broadly grinning face. She thought of the grown man who had deliberately squirted a bota at his chin at the cost of his dignity, who had chortled with delight to win at cards, who had watched pelote with the excitement of a boy. She thought of a hundred other memories and knew Berenice was right. Her childhood had been her father's childhood too. In a way, they had been children together, and Domini felt humble and grateful to realize that if her memories of childhood were beautiful, so must her father's have been.

  'He loved you very much, Didi,' Berenice finished gently, with tears at last springing to her eyes. 'I was never jealous of the love he held for you or for Elisabeth, after I understood that without the two of you he would have had no capacity for love at all. He suffered when you vanished without a trace. He tried so hard to find you, but the most that could be learned was that someone in the name of Domini Greey had flown to the United States. So many private detectives he hired! Do you know, he even used influence ... and it was not easy on short notice ... to arrange for the famous portrait of you to be sent overseas on tour. He hoped that you might go to see it. In every city it was sent to, there were detectives watching the doors.'

  Domini stared, remembering what she had read not so very long ago. Realization came to her with a great instinctive sureness.

  'And the unicorn,' she said, her lips numb. 'He sold the unicorn, too, for the same reason.'

  'Yes,' Berenice confirmed. 'He thought you might hear of the auction and get in touch to object. But you know, it nearly broke his heart to part with it.'

  Released at last, Domini put her face in her hands and wept until there were no more tears to shed.

  Chapter 11

  Le Basque's will was read on a Saturday, the day after a funeral that had called so great a number of important people to the Pyrenees that the small church and the rustic graveyard of his choice was incapable of holding them all. Most left immediately after the funeral, but those who had been advised to do so stayed for the reading of the will, Ailing the local inns to overflowing. Photographers had been strictly excluded from the funeral services, but on the following day they vied for position outside the gates to take pictures of those who entered or exited the farmhouse. Although reporters were now aware of Domini's presence, to her gratitude they were not being admitted to the house and therefore succeeded in taking no pictures of her.

  It was bruited about that Le Basque's estate might be worth well in excess of three hundred million dollars, a figure to which Berenice scornfully retorted, 'Pah!', pointing out that he had supported too many foundations of various kinds during his life for the figure to even approach accuracy. The wild estimate, she insisted, was based on what Picasso had left, not Le Basque. Nevertheless, the sums involved were considerable, and so was the attention of the press. When great or wealthy men died, the disposition of their estates was always news, and Le Basque had been both great and wealthy. Although he had not died intestate, as Picasso had done, the interest of the newshounds was considerable.

  Among other stories, the disowning of Domini had become public knowledge, although the reasons remained murky; it was also reported that she had been allowed back into her father's house only when he lay on his deathbed.

  For the reading of the will, rows of straight chairs had been arranged in the airy, carpetless room that had been Le Basque's studio, the largest and also the emptiest room in the stone farmhouse. At Berenice's instruction, windows were flung open to admit the warm July air. Sunlight streamed through the skylights that had been installed long ago. Large important canvases lined the walls, along with huge and elaborate floral arrangements, too many of which had been received for the small country church to hold.

  As the interested persons called together by Le Basque's lawyers started to assemble, Berenice had a few hushed and private words to say to Domini. 'Please,' she said gravely, 'don't be surprised by anything he may have done. Someday you will understand.'

  The will was dated several months after Domini's departure from the Pyrenees. Its reading took an interminable time. There were bequests to charities and foundations, bequests to servants past and present, bequests to good friends, bequests of particular paintings to particular art museums. The clauses were read in French and occasionally, at the request of a lawyer representing Domini's three half-brothers, translated into English. At first Domini listened with half an ear. Insulated by her personal grief of the past few days, she cared very little about the details of disposition, although she was human enough that it had at some point crossed her mind that her own . Je and Tasey's might conceivably be easier from now on. And she might be in a better position to help Sander too. That was not an unwelcome thought.

  And yet she didn't want to think of her father's death in terms of the money he might leave her. She hated the intent expression upon her half-brothers' faces and didn't wish to tar herself with the same brush. And so she deliberately allowed her mind to wander, thinking of other things.

  When the droning recitation reached the point of the bigger bequests, Domini had to drag herself back from painful memories of the last time she had been in this room with her father still alive.

  The lawyer cleared his throat and took a drink of water to punctuate what he was about to read, and the succeeding clauses were read in both languages as a matter of course.

  ''To each of my three sons by my legal marriage,'' the will stated, naming each son by name and city of residence. ' "the price of one black mourning suit." '

  As the words were translated into English, shock waves reverberated through the air. Within moments Domini could feel several pairs of hostile eyes sidling in her direction and Berenice's. There was still a very great deal of wealth to be disposed of, and her three half-brothers now knew three people who were not going to get it. She sat stiff as a board, scarcely daring to breathe. Did this mean that Papa was going to leave a good deal of his estate to her? It was possible, she realized, because Berenice was a wealthy woman in her own right.

  'To my beloved companion Berenice a Soule,'' the lawyer went on, ' ''I leave the household furnishings of the farmhouse in the Pyrenees, which farmhouse was purchased by her at fair market value prior to the writing of this will.' " It was the first time Domini had heard that news; it surprised her that her father should have sold the house he loved so dearly. '"To her I also leave whatever residue remains of my estate, after the bequest of my most valued possessions which are hereinunder named."'

  There .vas a dramatic pause while those in the audience began to make mental calculations about the number of canvases hung in the farmhouse or stored in its cellars, the sketchbooks, the paintings still unsold at dealers both in France and abroad. It was known that the bulk of Le Basque's estate was in works of art, the prices of which were already skyrocketing due to his death. Now nearly all eyes were on Domini ... the most important bequests were usually left to the last. The wording of Le Basque's will seemed to confirm her as his main heir. She sat motionless, her hand stilled on the lap of her navy pleated skirt, her hair pulled back into the golden twist that had made a few former acquaintances fail to recognize her at first when they h
ad been gathering for the funeral the previous day. She felt frozen by the eyes upon her, at the moment too numb to think.

  ' "To Domini, known as Didi, my own daughter born out of wedlock to Anastasia Greey, I leave my name should she choose to use it, and also my great stone. I wish the stone to remain in the peaceful place where it now rests, until such time as Berenice a Soule, owner of its resting place, requests its removal. In this I trust my daughter will respect my wishes." '

  That was the end. Nearly everyone knew of the stone and knew it was valueless. Domini knew it was not, and she had to fight to prevent her eyes from filling in front of so many spectators.

  But she need not have feared. The spectators in the room had all turned their eyes, hostile or otherwise, away from Domini to fasten on the person the will had made wealthy. Berenice sat as calmly as though she had been aware of what was going to happen all along.

  Berenice was not even a blood relative, and the battle lines started to form almost before the beneficiaries had filed from the room. Domini saw her half-brothers, heads together with their lawyer, looking coldly furious. She wasn't yet sure how she felt about her father's will, but she knew she didn't feel anger. Thank God he had left it to Berenice and not to them!

  It was a beautiful sunny day. Drinks and refreshments were being served in the courtyard because many people present ... in particular those representing various museums and charitable institutions ... had come from Paris or even farther afield and required some sustenance before starting the return trip. Within half an hour of the reading of the will, Domini's half-brothers cornered her privately and offered her a breathtaking sum if she would help them in contesting the will. 'She must have exerted undue influence on a dying old man,' argued one. 'You lived with them for many years, you can testify. You must have seen what she was trying to do.'

  'He threw you out of his home only months before he wrote the will,' prompted another. 'There must have been signs of his mental deterioration even then.'

  'He left you nothing,' claimed the third. 'And then calling the stone his most valued possession! When he wrote that will, he must have been half mad.'

  Domini gave them a withering look and walked away, not even dignifying the proposal with an answer.

  'Your father had to write his will like that, partly because he didn't know what had happened to you,' Berenice told Domini some time later, when the others had finally departed. They were walking slowly in the large walled courtyard, alone with the sun and the stones and the trellised vines. 'Your father had other reasons, too, although I won't go into them right now. But understand, Didi, that if he had left you any substantial sum in his will and you hadn't been located . . . well, in that case it would have been too easy for his true wishes to be disobeyed. Who knows what the courts would have done? I know what his true wishes were, and I intend to obey them. He wanted you to be looked after, for one thing. Come to France with your daughter and live here.'

  'Not right now, Berenice,' Domini said slowly, thinking of Sander and the uncertainties of her future. 'I have my own life in New York, a life I'm not ready to leave.'

  'The stone is yours, and the stone is the heart of this house. Who owns the stone really owns the house, no matter what it says on the deed, which is only paper after all.'

  'The house is yours,' Domini reminded her. 'You bought it from Papa.'

  'Ah, but that was because he wanted . . .' Berenice paused and started again, choosing her words carefully. 'He wanted you to have it some day. To you, I can admit that he sold it to me, thinking to keep its succession safe in case you were never found. He didn't want your brothers to get hold of it. Are you afraid that two grown women can't be mistress of the same home? You needn't fear. I imagine I'll be returning to Paris to live within the next few months. I'm not an old woman and many of my friends are there. I must think of building myself a new life; even your father would have wanted me to do that. He will keep his place in my heart, of course, but he would want me to stop living no more than he stopped living when Elisabeth died. This home is yours because, in truth, that's what your father really wished. Reconsider, Didi. You belong here.'

  'Perhaps I do,' Domini agreed, her eyes rising to the distant mountains beyond the stone wall. Her slow pacing came to a halt while she thought about what Berenice had suggested. The thought of raising Tasey in such surroundings had a very strong appeal. 'Perhaps someday I'll return to this part of the world to stay, although I would have to find a place that was truly my own. A cottage, perhaps. But not yet. Not yet.'

  Berenice sighed. 'If you must return to New York, you must. But I feel you need help, financial help, Do you think I have no eyes? That little navy dress you're wearing, Didi, is a very good one, but it's one we bought in Paris together nearly five years ago. Very few of your other clothes are new either; I've noticed that. And having a young child to support

  Domini turned to look at the great crude stone she owned. The offer was tempting, but the stone said no. She faced Berenice again, feeling oddly light-hearted and happy for the first time since her father's death.

  'If I need help, really need it, I promise I'll call on you. But do you know something? I think Papa's already given me all the help I need. He left me the two most important things he owned.'

  Berenice smiled as though she understood. 'I think he's left you his pride too,' she cautioned. 'Sometimes pride can be a burden.'

  Domini was silent for a moment. 'I'm not that proud,' she denied finally. 'There is one thing I'd like from you, Berenice, I'd like you to contact Papa's dealer in New York ... Lazarus, isn't it?'

  'You've met him, haven't you?'

  'No, never. And I feel I can't approach him myself, because I want to protect my New York identity. There's a man ... a sculptor whose work I'd like him to look at. That's all, just look at it. I don't want pressure applied for Lazarus to handle something he doesn't want. Sander wouldn't like it.'

  'About that, you need have no fear,' Berenice said dryly. 'Lazarus can be very rude, even to important artists and collectors. If I tried to apply too much pressure, he would hang up on me.' She paused and then asked delicately, 'This sculptor, this Sander... he is a good friend?'

  'He's my lover,' Domini acknowledged with the simple directness her father had taught her. 'Come and sit down, Berenice, and I'll tell you all about him.'

  And so, sitting on a stone bench beneath the great stone she now owned, Domini at last told the story of Sander, of Tasey's conception, of what had happened since then in their relationship. Some parts were glossed over, but others were not. Domini briefly explained her reasons for not wanting Sander to know her true identity and dwelled at greater length on the power of his work, a subject on which she spoke with convincing sincerity. Berenice agreed to use what influence she could with Le Basque's important Manhattan dealer, a man known for his integrity and taste, as well as for his occasional rudeness.

  'I'll phone him at once,' she promised as the two turned their footsteps into the now peaceful house. And then Berenice laughed, as she had not for many, many days. 'No, no,' she said. 'I'll wait until Monday. By then the news of the will should have reached New York. I imagine he will have to listen to me then!'

  'He'll have to pretend to happen into Miranda's gallery,' Domini warned. 'When he sees the small bronzes, he can ask if there's anything larger. She'll be glad to show him, especially if he says who he is. You'll be doing me a great favour, Berenice.'

  'Such a little favour for you to call it great.' Berenice sighed. 'Your father would expect you to accept much more. Is there nothing else I can do?'

  'Nothing at the moment,' Domini assured her. One side benefit of having no sudden inexplicable source of wealth, she mused with a touch of wryness, would be not having to explain it. It was a comfort, though, to know that Berenice could be called upon in moments of emergency, and Domini knew she would never really have to worry about money again.

  'But you will stay for a while,' Berenice said.

&n
bsp; With the confusion of the past week, when the phone had been constantly ringing and people constantly filing through the door, there had been no repetition of the private hour spent together after Le Basque's death. Fond of Berenice as if she had been her own mother, Domini looked forward to a quiet visit without others around. She refused Berenice's invitation to stay for any length of time in France, but she did agree to postpone her departure for a couple of days.

  A little later she accepted with pleasure when Berenice presented her with some small sketches her father had done during her youth. Some were of herself, some were of other people: former servants, former mistresses, peasants at work herding or doing simple, homely tasks. One Domini found particularly touching: a sketch of a sheepherder stretching the legs of an orphaned lamb to dress it in the small sheepskin coat that would save its life, while she as a child watched with huge, awestruck eyes.

  'Sell them if you wish,' Berenice said, and Domini knew she had taken this course instead of writing a very large cheque.

  She also accepted when Berenice offered to look after the return travel arrangements to New York, knowing she would never be allowed to pay when the tickets were presented to her. But to accept less, under the circumstances, would have been ungracious, carrying pride a little too far.

  A transatlantic telephone call assured Domini, not for the first time, that Tasey was getting along well and being no trouble whatsoever. When she placed the call, it was mid-morning in New York, and on this occasion Tasey herself erupted on to the telephone. 'The ice-cream lady has ice-cream every night,' she said after the first excited moments. 'Tomorrow she's taking me to the zoo.'

  'How nice of her! Are you having fun?'

  'The clay man is letting me play with his clay today,' Tasey answered somewhat obliquely. As it was a Saturday, with shop hours for Miranda but no day care at all, Domini guessed that Tasey was largely in Sander's care for the moment. Her fingers tensed over the telephone as she listened to the rest of Tasey's words. 'He felt my face, too, to see what I looked like. He sees with his fingers, Mummy.'