“Shhh, it’s all right, darling.”
Looking up at him she said, almost whispering, “Will it be all right, Rubin? Will it be?”
“Yes. And in time you and I will accept it. We have all our lives to remember now, more happiness than most people get in a lifetime.”
She reached up and touched his face, then kissed him, surrendering, finally, her whole self to him.
The joy Rubin woke with the next morning was almost more than he could stand, or risk leaving. He looked at Magda, sleeping contentedly. He listened to her soft breathing, observed her fawnlike face in the dim shadows of dawn. She seemed even more beautiful than when awake.
Reluctantly he slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom. Seeing his reflection in the mirror he was shocked at the dark stubble that had grown in the last two days. After lathering his face vigorously, he picked up the straight razor, holding it deftly in his hand, and hummed one of the French songs Magda had sung that first night. That first night … had there been such a thing? It was as though she had been with him forever. Swiftly, he thought of Jocelyn. He actually could not recall her face. Unbelievable! Refusing to dwell on it, he quickly put the thought out of mind. Magda was an experience out of time, a gift. He would not allow anyone or anything to interfere with it. It belonged to him, only him. Later? He would do what was expected of him, but today this small corner of the universe belonged to him.
The haunting song came back as he stepped into the soothing water that almost reached the rim of the tub. He relaxed in its luxury. And allowed himself to dream.
Later, he walked softly into the bedroom and dressed. Magda still slept. Watching her, the same deep pleasure took him over.
He closed the bedroom door and went to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard where the staples were kept. The housekeeper who came in every day made certain that the larder was always stocked. He took down the coffee pot, filled it with water, added the fragrant coffee and turned on the gas beneath it. Then he left the apartment.
The boulangerie was fragrant with the exquisite aroma of yeast and cinnamon. There was no perfume quite comparable to the scent of French bakeries. Rubin was glad there was no other customer in the shop.
“Bonjour, monsieur.” It was the first voice he’d heard that morning. A young, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed girl greeted him from behind the counter. Everything seemed special this day. The most mundane greeting took on special significance.
Smiling, he replied, “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
“What is your desire today?”
My desire, mademoiselle? To live each day like this one, but what he answered was, “I would like a dozen croissants and …” He observed the pastries, the delicately frosted butter cookies, as the girl returned his glance, enjoying the expression in the handsome young man’s eyes. There was a sort of dreamlike quality in them. “… and two dozen assorted pastries, one pound of cookies—no, make that two pounds, and a pound of sugared almonds.” Looking up to the shelves of cakes, he added, pointing, “… and the white cake with the white roses. Is it possible to have some silver leaves added?”
“Oui, monsieur,” she responded, smiling broadly. As she adorned the cake, Rubin whistled softly. “Voilà, monsieur, is this the way you like it?”
“Oh yes, it’s lovely. Merci! You’re a genius.”
She laughed. “And you, monsieur, are obviously a happy man.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s not so difficult to see when a man is in love.”
“Is it so obvious?”
“Oui, monsieur. You have that certain look in your eyes.”
“You, mademoiselle, are a most observant young woman.”
“Merci. Are you just married?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations, and many years of happiness.”
The lie did not bother Rubin. The days would become the years. “Merci, mademoiselle. What do I owe you?” He paid for the purchases and handed the girl a large tip. Before she could object, Rubin was almost outside the shop. She called out, “Au revoir, monsieur, and many children.” He heard and wanted to answer, “Many,” but stopped there. Today was too precious to waste a second on a dream that could never be. Never …?
He walked to the fromagerie, where he ordered a quart of thick cream. He watched, fascinated, as the owner ladled it into the container. Indeed, Rubin was all eyes, watching everything. Then he told the woman to cut off a large slab of smooth creamery butter. Weighing it, she asked, “Will that be all monsieur?”
“No, add a wheel of Camembert and a large slice of Brie.”
At the street stall he bought a basket of luscious, long-stemmed strawberries. Passing a flower stand, he bought a single red rose which the vendor wrapped in newspaper, placing it on top of the cake box. Then Rubin walked back to the apartment.
Seeing Rubin’s dilemma as he tried to reach the button of the lift, the concierge offered his assistance, which Rubin gratefully accepted. The rose teetered back and forth, nearly toppling off the boxes Rubin juggled as he entered the apartment. He went immediately to the kitchen and placed the perishables in the icebox. Pleased with himself, he walked to the bedroom, opened the door cautiously and peeked in. Magda still slept. The last few days had been filled with so much emotion, Rubin was grateful. Suddenly his mood changed, as he thought of what he knew would be so difficult, but he realized that the painful chore had to be done, and the quicker the better. Procrastinating would not accomplish it.
Going into the salon he seated himself behind the Boule desk, heavy with gold ormolu. From the letter holder he took a sheet of heavy parchment paper, dipped the pen in black ink and wrote to Jocelyn. It was hardly a love letter, but it was not cold or unfeeling either. It was phrased so that Jocelyn could interpret it according to her own needs. Without feeling any guilt, he sealed and addressed it, then wrote to his father asking for his understanding: Since these would be the last of his bachelor days, he felt the desire to remain several weeks longer. He wrote that this admitted whim in no way diminished his affection for Jocelyn, nor had it anything to do with his stability as a future husband. Ending the letter, he said he would cable prior to his return. As he attached the stamp, he felt fairly sure his father would smile. Rubin could almost hear him saying to his mother, “Sara, my dear, Rubin is being quite sensible. All young men, if they are to be faithful and contented husbands, must scatter a few wild oats. Fine boy, our Rubin. No need to worry there, my dear.”
Rubin loved, adored, his father, a truly honest, honorable man. He could not remember a time when his father had gone back on his word, or done anything unjust or unkind. It was these very traits that especially endeared him to his sons: his sense of fair play and his understanding. These were the traits that Nathan believed he shared with his sons. Strangely Rubin didn’t feel at all wicked or conscience-stricken over his deception. In fact, he felt rather pleased that he was up to it.
Slipping the letter into the inner pocket of his jacket (to be mailed later), he went back to the kitchen. As he opened the cupboard to take out the wicker bedtray, he heard the back door being opened and knew it was Mignon, the housekeeper.
Mignon was startled. Monsieur Jonet must have returned home without letting me know, she thought, as the aroma of coffee reached her nostrils. She walked rapidly through the pantry, but when she saw Rubin holding the tray, she gasped. “Bonjour, Monsieur Hack,” she said with glad surprise. “I thought it was Monsieur Jonet. I am delighted to see you. It has been so long.”
“Merci, Mignon. It has been a long time, and I’m happy to see you. I’m sorry I couldn’t let you know I would be staying here, but I decided only yesterday.”
“I trust it will be for a long time.”
“Unfortunately, no. I will be here only a few weeks.” He put the tray down to light his cigarette and give himself a moment to think. How should he tell her about Magda? Looking at the diminutive Mignon, her black hair streaked with gray and pulled back severely
into a braided knot, he was embarrassed. After all, he thought, she had seen many a fille de joie of Emile’s, so Magda would surely not shock her. Mignon was French, after all, and so was her master, but he, Rubin, was still afflicted by English propriety. But his desire to be emancipated managed to outweigh his English virtue, and without further delay he plunged on. …“However, Mignon, there will be a young woman living here in Monsieur Jonet’s absence …”
Rubin silently applauded himself for his shameless courage. Mignon lowered her eyes, hiding her amusement, and her envy for the person fortunate enough to be loved by someone as attractive and virile as Rubin Hack.
Rubin looked at his watch; it was ten. Opening the door to the bedroom once again, having done so impatiently for the last few hours, he saw Magda’s arms stretching above her head as she yawned away the last traces of sleep. He went to her, sat on the edge of the bed and drew her against him. She accepted his kisses, then pushed herself gently away. “Don’t become too amorous, I haven’t brushed my teeth.”
Rubin laughed.
“What are you laughing at?”
“You.”
“Why, am I so humorous?”
“Yes, and so practical.”
“Practical?”
“Yes. How can you think of anything as unimportant as brushing your teeth at a moment like this? I’ve been up for hours waiting for you to wake up.”
“That, dear Rubin, is your problem. Why weren’t you here beside me, instead of wandering about?”
“I had things to do.”
Magda went to the bathroom, leaving Rubin alone on the bed. Suddenly she turned and stood framed in the doorway. “How can I brush my teeth? I don’t have a toothbrush.”
“Use mine.”
“How do I know you don’t have a bad disease?”
“That’s a risk you’ll have to take.”
Now Magda laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Rubin asked, smiling.
“You, monsieur. Funny man.”
Bowing theatrically, extending her arms, she spoke: “Let me present, ladies and gentlemen, Monsieur Rubin Hack, the clown of Paris, and his nude partner, the exquisite, the talented, the cultured Mademoiselle Magda Charascu, who will attempt to clean her teeth with her lover’s brush … a feat attempted only by the famous Madam Fifi of the—” Quickly Rubin picked her up, circled the room with her in his arms, kissing her over and over again. “Darling, not now,” he said, whispering, “not now. To hell with your teeth. I want you this moment.” Biting his ear gently she whispered back, “Not till after I’ve gone to the … how do the English say? W.C.?”
When she returned, Rubin was already in bed, hardly able to control himself. She climbed in and lay on top of him, straddling his body. Her breath, smelling fragrantly of peppermint, mingled with the scent of French cologne quickly splashed under her arms, behind her knees and between her legs. As he entered her, deeper and deeper, his only thought was for their love never to end.
When they finally lay spent, Magda abruptly sat up. “I’m starved,” she said. “Do you never intend to feed me? We haven’t eaten since early yesterday. Now I’m going to take a bath, and when I’ve finished you’d better find me something to eat, or tonight you sleep on the sofa. Don’t laugh, that’s a promise.”
Imagine having a bath all one’s own, Magda thought. She lathered her body with French bouquet of lavender soap, then immersed herself in the soothing water. As she relaxed, her eyes wandered around the large room, all mirrored and marbled. They came to rest on the tall stained glass window, each piece carefully put together like a mosaic. She was fascinated with the voluptuous figure of a girl dipping her toes gracefully into a lily pond. The flowers and trees around her were a profusion of muted colors, looking almost ethereal as the sun filtered through the colored glass. When Rubin bought her the petite maison, she would insist on such a window.
Rubin, Rubin … what god had brought him into her life? She hadn’t meant to fall in love, but it was now far beyond her control. Except he would be gone soon … and after what they had shared … who could replace him? And with the thought came a deep pain and melancholy. Rubin had said, “It’s more happiness than most people have in a lifetime.” Why couldn’t she find enough comfort in that? But she couldn’t be so damn philosophical. It was Rubin she wanted, as well as the exquisite stained glass window, the petite maison, the clothes. Yes, damn him, above all she wanted to belong to Rubin forever.
Quickly she emerged from the tub, dried herself and, with the towel around her middle, ran back to bed. Soon Rubin brought in the breakfast tray and placed it across her legs. How beautiful the Lowestoff china, the small coffee pot, the monogrammed napkin, the silver, the place mat. She looked at the long-stemmed strawberries, the marmalade, butter, cream, the croissants. Rubin had forgotten nothing, even to the rose in the bud vase.
Kissing her gently, he poured the coffee into the cup and said, “I didn’t want to sleep on the sofa tonight. Drink it while it’s hot.”
“Thank you, it smells delicious … oh, Rubin, thank you.”
He kissed her lips. “I thank you …Now, drink your coffee.” He buttered a croissant. He dipped a ruby-red strawberry into powdered sugar and put it to her mouth. She took a large bite.
She poured a cupful of half coffee, half cream, and handed it to Rubin. “You’d better build up your strength.”
“Have no fears on that score, mademoiselle.” They both laughed like conspirators.
When she’d finished she lay back contentedly and Rubin put the tray on the floor, then lay down alongside her. Slipping his arm around her shoulder he said, “Darling, I forgot to tell you, Emile’s housekeeper is here. Her name is Mignon.”
“Does she know about me?”
“Yes, I suspect she’s quite pleased that there will be someone to fuss over.”
Magda sighed. “Poor Henri must be out of his mind not knowing what happened to me.”
“We should have notified him, but it was the last thing on my mind.”
“Well … no matter, I’ll have to go by today and see him.”
“You’re quite right.”
“Rubin,” Magda said, “I have to go back to my room and pick up my things.”
“It’s not necessary. We’ll buy everything you need today at the Marché de Lafayette until your wardrobe arrives.”
“No, Rubin, I still have to go back.”
“I don’t want you to. Let me get rid of the room—”
“You don’t understand. There are things in that room that are important to me, the only possessions I have—”
“Such as what?”
“My pictures.”
“You have paintings?”
“Just faded photographs of my mother and father … and Niko. Without them, I’m alone …”
“Then let me go.”
“No, I always want to remember where I came from. If I don’t, I’ll never feel right about … all this. Am I making sense, Rubin?”
“Yes, but we’ll go together, you and I.”
Magda smiled. “Rubin? Tell me about the countess.”
“Well, she’s rather extraordinary. When she was young she was the undisputed beauty of her time, really … the toast of Paris.”
“Why does she have to … to sponsor me? Is that how she makes her living?”
“Yes. Although it’s handled very delicately.”
“But she’s a countess … I thought all countesses were rich.”
“Not all. Especially not in her case.”
“Why?”
“Something happened a long time ago. She wouldn’t want to be reminded of it. It was a very difficult period for her.”
“You said she’s accepted in the best society?”
“True … but right after her … well, she was pretty well shut out. Her family, though, was influential, and rich. With a large dowry she was forced to marry Count Boulard, who was not only on his uppers and thirty years older than she, but a foo
l who squandered her money. Still, with his title—never mind his disgusting behavior—she was once again reinstated, forgiven her transgressions, so-called, and accepted back into all the best French salons.”
“Why did she stay with him?”
“According to French law, whatever a woman had became her husband’s. And he outlived her parents. He died a few years ago, a crazy old man, leaving her broke. Fortunately, she’s been able to hold on to a few valuables, a few jewels, which she laughs about, saying they’ll protect her in her dotage from the poorhouse.”
“Money is important, isn’t it, Rubin?” she asked.
“Of course. But it has to be used in the right way.”
“And what’s the right way?”
“So it doesn’t become an obsession—or a god.”
“It can certainly help a lot.”
“It can also corrupt.”
“It can also buy respectability …Money seems to have such power.”
“It does, Magda. It can do a lot of good.”
Like a kaleidoscope, images of mannikins, stained glass windows and petite maisons swirled in her head. Then she thought of the Countess. Softly, she said, “It can also buy loneliness … don’t you agree, Rubin?”
Full of the thought of what his life would be without her, he said, “Yes, Magda, endless loneliness.”
She reached for his hand, held it tightly. “When will I meet the Countess?”
“She’ll be here today at six.”
“What should I do? I mean, how should I act?”
“Just be yourself.”
“And if she doesn’t like what I am, then what?”
“She can’t help liking you. You don’t have to pretend—”
“But, Rubin, I’m so … so—”
“So beautiful,” he interrupted.
“To you, maybe … but I’m so uneducated, so common. I’m nothing but a singer in a—”
“That’s enough, Magda. As of this moment, you’re going to say, ‘I’m beautiful. I’m worthy.’ Don’t demean yourself. An uneducated person is simply one who doesn’t learn. And life is the best school. The Magda I see is a gracious, remarkable woman. That’s what’s important, the person you are. It’s simple to become a lady—”
Days of Winter Page 4