House of Gold

by Natasha Solomons

  ‘Darling girl, I don’t mean rest here. We must go out! Celebrate.’

  ‘Celebrate what?’

  ‘Your wedding, if you like. Otherwise, simply life.’

  Greta was thrilled. An afternoon in Paris with Henri and Otto: the thought of it was electric. She noticed, to her displeasure, that Otto was shaking his head.

  ‘We can’t, Henri. Not with Greta. Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘As long as she’s with us, I don’t see the harm.’

  ‘But with us precisely where, Henri?’

  The two men exchanged a look.

  ‘For God’s sake, Otto, you’re worse than Mother,’ said Greta, angry pink circles appearing on each cheek. ‘You’re like one of the old nursery maids. “Don’t this. Don’t that.” Don’t accidentally take pleasure in anything at all!’

  Otto looked away, hurt, and Greta was instantly filled with remorse.

  ‘Don’t squabble, my darlings,’ said Henri, sitting up. ‘You’re going to give me a headache, and I fully intend to give myself one later anyway. Otto’s quite right. It’s inevitable that I should take you to somewhere perfectly disreputable and plunge us all into tedious parental recriminations.’

  ‘But, Henri… ’ Greta started to say. Henri made it sound so magnificently despicable that she wanted to go at once, but he held up his hand for silence.

  ‘Do not fret, little one. If we can’t go to the party, the party simply must come to us.’

  Henri was as good as his word. After a tedious family dinner in the great dining room, Greta and Otto slipped into Henri’s apartments in the east wing of the Esther Chateau. The dining room, ballroom, bedrooms and all twelve of the salons in the body of the chateau had been decorated by Baron Jacques’s father in the most modern taste, just after the February Revolution of 1848. After inheriting the chateau, the new Baron Jacques hadn’t felt able to change a thing. It remained an immaculate museum.

  Henri had no such qualms. On his twenty-first birthday he requested his own suite of rooms and promptly hired Elsie de Wolfe to redecorate. He’d heard how she’d transformed the mahogany-and-velvet apartments of Manhattan into citadels of light and air, and he wanted the same in the heart of Paris.

  Greta had never seen anything like it. She felt as if she had opened the door straight from midnight into morning. Electric lights and candles pooled; antique mirrors reflected a constellation of tiny flames and the large rooms appeared infinite. The heavy crimson carpets – eighteenth-century Persian or not – had been removed and the floorboards stripped and rubbed with scented almond oil. The shutters had been thrown back, and gauze curtains fluttered. She felt vaguely that she had set sail on a ship, cruising the skies above Paris.

  Henri appeared at her elbow, pressing a glass of champagne into her hand. He’d changed into white tie and tails, a corsage of snowy freesias pinned to his lapel.

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘I wish I could take the credit. It was all Claire. Claire makes wonderful suggestions and all I have to do is accept them.’

  ‘And pay for them,’ said a woman, appearing at Henri’s side and placing her hand on his arm.

  His face ripened into a smile and he bent to kiss her on the lips. She accepted it, brushing her fingertips along his cheek.

  ‘Greta, Claire Bouchard. Claire, this is Greta Goldbaum, my absolutely favourite cousin.’

  Claire was the most striking woman Greta had ever seen. She wore a white dress gathered into an impossibly small waist, and her black hair was cut short at her jaw to reveal a smooth neck, resplendent with a diamond necklace. Greta was used to jewellery and it did not interest her, but even she was enthralled at how the stones caught the light like pendants on a chandelier spinning in candlelight.

  Claire reached out and took Greta’s hand. Shockingly, she did not wear gloves and her fingers were warm.

  ‘It’s wonderful to meet you at last. Henri has done nothing but talk about you for weeks. I hope your marriage is filled with children and joy.’

  She spoke French with a slight Spanish accent. Her eyes were dark brown and heavily ringed with kohl, but otherwise she had not made up her face. Greta could not tell how old she was. Her figure was girlish, her skin pale and soft, but something in her voice made Greta guess that she was older than she appeared.

  ‘I feel as if we’ve met,’ said Greta, feeling uncharacteristically shy.

  Claire laughed. ‘I’m an actress. Perhaps you’ve seen my photograph.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Greta, suddenly feeling clumsy and awkward, a child beside a debutante.

  ‘Claire’s in one of the new motion pictures,’ said Henri proudly. ‘We’re going to watch it tonight.’

  Claire turned to him, her enormous eyes larger still. ‘We are?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve borrowed the print and the projectionist. And the pianist,’ he added, gesturing towards a concert grand at the edge of the room. A pianist dressed entirely in white sat at the piano stool, rigid as a toy soldier.

  ‘Darling boy,’ said Claire, kissing him again.

  Henri clasped Claire’s hand and, his eyes drunk with love, chattered on to Greta about Claire’s remarkable talents: her beauty was indisputable and famous, but now the world would glimpse her talents. Greta was amused and, for the first time in Henri’s company, a little bored. After a few minutes she made her excuses and slid away.

  Otto found her beside the window. He had declined to wear white and stood out darkly amongst the other guests. Small talk irked him and, while he acknowledged Claire’s beauty, it did not appeal to him.

  ‘This is why no one suggested that I marry Henri,’ said Greta, following his gaze.

  ‘Yes. Until his fervour subsides, he shan’t be offered a Goldbaum bride.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think he wants one. He might simply marry Claire.’

  Otto shook his head. ‘He won’t. Make no mistake. She’s an actress and she’s not a Jew. Even Henri won’t marry a Catholic.’

  Greta glanced back at the lovers, colluding together, oblivious to everyone else. For the first time she felt something she never expected to feel for Henri: pity.

  She danced and sipped champagne, but she remained disappointingly sober and detached, no matter how many glasses she drank. The solitary red begonia in the flower bed wasn’t Henri, she decided; it was her. The evening was quite spoilt. She was disconcerted by the prospect of Henri’s unhappiness. Greta did not love Albert, but at least she’d never loved anyone else. She tried to imagine what it must be like to be an ordinary person and not a Goldbaum, and to be able to choose: a woman free to select her own husband; a man free to decide his own vocation. The guests whooped and the piano climbed to a rousing crescendo, as a life-sized Claire was projected onto a vast, freshly painted cream wall. Greta observed Otto standing amid the crowd, laughing so hard that his shoulders shook and he had to push his spectacles back up his nose. Otto loved motion pictures: they were a miracle of light, he explained. ‘See – see what we can do,’ he’d said to Greta, exhilarated. ‘Never say that mathematics isn’t beautiful. These pictures rushing across the screen are possible because fifty years ago Mr Foucault made some exquisite calculations measuring the time it took for light to travel between two mirrors. You need mathematics to create art.’

  Greta slipped out onto the balcony. To her disappointment, she was not alone. Someone else had sought escape.

  ‘Cigarette?’ asked a woman.

  ‘No, thank you,’ replied Greta, intrigued. Most women she knew did not smoke.

  ‘Fräulein Goldbaum?’

  ‘Yes. Excuse me, do we know one another?’

  ‘Not yet. Emilie Flöge.’ The woman spoke with a Viennese accent and offered Greta the hand that was not clasping a cigarette. She shook it.

  ‘You don’t like the motion pictures?’ asked Greta.

  ‘Not particularly. I like colour. The film matches Henri’s apartment.’

  ‘You don�
�t like that, either?’

  ‘No.’

  Greta was not sure what to say to that, and so she remained silent, studying Emilie. She was wearing a remarkable dress. Unlike the rest of the guests, it was not white. It was red and black, with geometric patterns woven across in silver. The sleeves were loose and free, making Emilie’s arms appear slender and smooth. Most striking of all, the waist was only slightly tapered. Emilie turned to Greta and the dress moved like water, catching the light.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she asked. She spoke seriously, watching Greta carefully.

  ‘Yes. It’s like a living painting. You look as if you’re wearing a Klimt.’

  ‘No, it is the other way around. He paints my dresses. He is my lover.’

  Greta stared at her.

  ‘I always hoped I’d see you in Vienna. And then, when Claire told me you’d be here tonight, I decided it was fate,’ said Emilie.

  Disconcerted, Greta said nothing. She peered inside for Otto, but knew it was futile; he would be watching the picture, transfixed until the end. But she was used to these periodic outpourings from admirers. After all, a Goldbaum was as close to a prince as most people came.

  ‘Let me make your wedding dress.’

  Greta laughed, unable to stop herself. The idea of her wearing such a garment, on such an occasion – the thought was wonderfully absurd.

  ‘My dress is made, along with my whole trousseau.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. But let me tell you this,’ said Emilie, her voice dropping low, to just above a whisper, ‘I’m not wearing a corset.’

  Greta considered her in wonder. Emilie smiled.

  ‘None of my dresses need them. I’m simply,’ she shrugged, ‘comfortable.’

  ‘No corset?’ Greta tried to imagine it: a day as comfortable as a night.

  ‘Be my mannequin de ville. I won’t charge you. Let me show you half a dozen outfits. If you like them, take them. Let people see you wearing them.’

  To her astonishment, Greta found herself agreeing to visit Emilie’s Paris showroom with Claire the following afternoon.

  The building was in the rue Cambon, smart but tired, its stonework smeared with soot like a stained blouse. There was no lift and they had to climb the stairs. Claire did not apologise to Greta for the inconvenience or the drabness of the building. She did not ask whether she needed to rest, or required refreshment as they reached the top. So often Greta’s acquaintances fawned over her, drowning her in their obsequious concern for her well-being, as though her name had turned her into some brittle, fragile thing.

  ‘Hold this,’ said Claire, shoving the wet umbrella at her, a turquoise ring on her finger as fat and blue as a robin’s egg. The Goldbaums were infamous for their expensive pursuits, and not marrying Claire was Henri’s, decided Greta.

  Claire rang the bell and Emilie opened the door herself and greeted her with effusion, kissing her soundly. She said nothing to Greta, only smiled and waved her inside, a cigarette between her yellowed fingers.

  The apartment was tiny, or it appeared so – fabric was draped over every surface. It rippled in waves from picture frames, hung from the curtain poles in waterfalls of crimson and willow-green and was spread over chairs, while the table was heaped with boxes of patterns, scissors and a pair of gleaming sewing machines. Two girls sat at one end of the table embroidering peonies onto the sleeves of a dress made from glossy glacier-blue silk. The room was chaos in colour, and Greta gazed around enraptured. Emilie waved vaguely at the disarray.

  ‘This is only my little Paris pied-à-terre. It’s a pity you couldn’t come to see me in Vienna. There I have eighty seamstresses.’ She paused, considering. ‘It is no tidier. But then, for me, colour is joy.’

  She turned to Greta, offering up in her arms a dress, its fabric embroidered with dozens of shimmering geometric shapes in blue and gold.

  ‘Try this one.’

  Greta took it from Emilie with reverence, surprised by its lightness and the softness of the silk. Emilie ushered her behind a Chinese screen at the far end of the room. Greta hesitated before unfastening her corset and then, resolute, began to loosen the ribbons.

  ‘Here. Let me.’

  Claire slipped behind the screen and unbuttoned the hooks, as competent and unselfconscious as any maid.

  ‘Perhaps I will ask Emilie to make me a little something,’ said Claire. ‘Henri is taking me to Russia for Christmas. I have always wanted to see the Winter Palace.’

  Greta looked at Claire in surprise. Goldbaums did not travel to Russia, or holiday with their mistresses. After helping Greta into the dress, Claire left her alone. Greta swayed from side to side. The dress was so comfortable and weightless it felt like being undressed. She could stretch and move. Resolutely she stepped forward and faced herself in the mirror. Her hair had worked loose from its chignon and hung in curling strands around her shoulders. The dress was extraordinary. The profusion of embroidered geometrical shapes rippled and dazzled against the softness of the pale silk. This was some other woman. Greta felt shy of herself. She had been metamorphosed. Then she laughed. This is who I want to be, she decided. I shall be the woman brave enough to wear this dress.

  ‘I’m not sure which is worse. The monstrosities themselves or the fact that you did not pay for them.’

  The Baroness lay back on a sofa in the morning room, her corsets too tightly laced to allow her to sit. Her eyes closed against the hideous glare of Emilie Flöge’s creations. Greta stood before her, receiving her admonishment like an unrepentant general after a disastrous battle.

  ‘A Goldbaum always pays his own way,’ said the Baroness.

  ‘They were a gift,’ said Greta.

  ‘There are no gifts – only obligations that must be repaid.’

  ‘Mama, there is no obligation. I am simply to wear them.’

  ‘Out? Where someone can see you?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Greta steadfastly.

  ‘Dear God!’ said the Baroness and rang the bell for tea.

  The two women remained in churning silence while a maid brought tea and lemon for the Baroness. She poured herself a cup, sipped and, thus fortified, looked up at her daughter.

  ‘You will send them back. Explain that Goldbaums do not accept gifts. What would Albert think if he saw you in such a concoction? That you were some bohemian or New Woman?’

  The Baroness shuddered and took another sip of tea. Her horror was such that the tea was unable to restore her. Greta wondered if she ought to ring the bell for something stronger, but decided it was a little early and that she was quite content for her mother to suffer. And yet the Baroness had asked an interesting question: what, indeed, would Albert think?

  Greta found Otto reading beside a fountain in the parterre garden. It was warm and he wore a broad-brimmed hat. He was so lost in his papers that she had to speak twice before he noticed her.

  ‘Did you know that Henri is taking Claire on holiday to Russia?’

  Otto set down his paper. ‘Russia? Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. She wants to see the Winter Palace.’

  Otto frowned, considering. ‘It must be business. Henri will have some plan or another.’

  ‘Have you bought me a wedding present?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Good. I need money. Rather a lot, I’m afraid.’

  Otto winced. ‘Oh dear. What have you done?’

  ‘If you don’t want to give it to me, I shall ask Henri,’ said Greta, wounded.

  ‘I don’t mind the money in the least. I’m simply concerned as to why you need it.’

  ‘I wish to buy something.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what?’

  ‘Something Mother doesn’t like.’ She smiled.

  The following afternoon Henri received an unpleasant visit from the Russian Ambassador. Claire Bouchard would be welcome as a guest of Nicholas, By the Grace of God, Emperor and Ruler of All Russia. Henri Louis David Goldbaum would not be. Jews, however rich, were not permi
tted to enter Russia.

  ‘We have Jews enough of our own, Monsieur Goldbaum, we do not need more,’ said the Ambassador with a little bow, revealing a polished circle of bald skin on the crown of his head.

  Henri stared at him in mute rage, waiting for an apology, a hint of regret. There was none. The Russian Ambassador was unembarrassed. He seemed to expect Henri to acknowledge the great concession he displayed by coming himself to inform Henri that his entry visa was denied. Henri dismissed the Ambassador without offering him refreshment or a tour of the fabled chateau gardens.

  The Goldbaums knew that the Tsar needed money, and a sojourn at the Winter Palace had seemed to Henri an ideal occasion to discuss a little business with Nicholas’s advisors. But now he accepted that the Russian hatred of the Jews was a poison pumping outwards from the court into the furthest reaches of Russia’s empire. He summoned a courier. A young man in a flannel jacket took notes. Henri rolled and crushed a ball of paper in his hand.

  ‘I need the answer to two questions. First, how much money is the Tsar seeking to borrow, and from which banks. And second, how exactly are the Russian Jews faring? Not the official position – a true picture. Find out through our networks.’

  ‘Of course, Monsieur.’

  Alone in his study, it occurred to Henri that he must confess his failure to Claire. There was to be no holiday at the Winter Palace, no fireworks above the Hermitage or court balls. He was unused to such humiliation and he did not like it.

  It was the Viennese Goldbaums’ last night in Paris. In the morning they would begin their journey to London. In the end, Greta asked both Otto and Henri for money to purchase the dresses, embarrassed to request the full cost from either. Henri gave Greta a cheque with a kiss and, knowing from Claire what it was for, asked only that he could see Greta wear one of the dresses before she left.

  After a dinner that was lavish and tedious in equal parts, the younger generation of Goldbaums withdrew to prepare for a small party on one of Henri’s favourite places: the roof of the Esther Chateau. A dismal air had descended over all three: these days in Paris had been a brief interlude and they were now reminded of what must come, each preoccupied with his or her own lot.