Days of Winter

by Cynthia Freeman

“His works will be worth a fortune some day.”

  “I hope so. …Thank you for coming. I can’t wait to see the pictures of Jeanette. I want to send them as quickly as possible to her father. …”

  Two days later Peter had the proofs ready. He brought them by in time for tea. Although it was July there was a fire in the grate and the house was filled with flowers.

  They looked at the proofs and afterward Peter Scott said, “I spoke to Camail yesterday. He’d like to see you. Would Thursday be convenient? Three o’clock at his house? We’ll drive there from my studio.”

  Feeling far less calm than she appeared, Magda carefully nodded her agreement

  Magda stopped in front of Peter’s studio at 2:15. He was waiting. Together they drove through the sandbagged streets of London. When they came to Regency Park, the Rolls halted in front of an imposing mansion.

  A butler opened the door into a marble foyer. They were led to a large studio on the top floor, where the glass roof slanted almost to the floor. The painter continued to work as though they weren’t present.

  When he finally finished and turned around to face Magda, she was startled; she’d been so absorbed in watching him work. He was nothing at all like the bearded, unkempt painters she’d met in Paris. Camail was enormous; hard muscles showed below his rolled-up sleeves. His eyes were deep set, the color of a gray-blue ocean. The brows were thick, bushy and black, in contrast to his steel-gray hair. He didn’t speak, but merely looked at Magda. What he thought was not revealed by any change in expression.

  “Take off your hat”

  She did so.

  “Stand here, where I can see you in the harshest light.” He examined her face. He looked at her hands. Giving her a damp cloth he said, “Take off your makeup.”

  When she had done so, he looked at her again, then walked around her, observing every curve, the length of her arms, her waist … nothing went unnoticed. It was as though his eyes could see through her clothes.

  “She will do,” Camail said, without looking at Peter. “Take the pins from your hair. Let it hang loose.”

  She did as he asked.

  “Yes, she will do. Now you may go. I’ll let you know when we can start.”

  “What do you plan, Monsieur Camail?”

  His eyes were, truly, penetrating. “I never talk about my subject in advance. I also don’t allow my clients to see the work in progress, or question me about it. Is that all understood?”

  “Yes,” she said. She wasn’t intimidated, although Peter had told her Camail’s paintings were on display in the most prestigious galleries of London, Paris, Holland and America.

  “And don’t call me ‘monsieur.’ My name is Camail.”

  “My name is Magda.”

  He looked at her as though he hadn’t heard.

  Smiling to herself, she thought him fascinating, and suddenly, she decided to do it. “I have one request to make. …”

  “Yes?” His tone was impatient. He returned to his painting.

  “I want to be painted in the nude.”

  “Why?” Camail added a dab of yellow to the canvas in front of him.

  “It’s a long story. …”

  Wiping his hands on a rag, Camail said, “Sit down. …Would you care for an aperitif?” When he had served his guests, he said, “Why do you want a nude? Please be honest or I will not paint you at all …I can only capture truth.”

  Briefly Magda then told him the whole story … from her days in Bucharest through the years in Paris, until this very moment. She didn’t prolong the story. She told the facts. Yes, she wanted to embarrass Maurice and Sylvia and Phillip as they had offended her. Had Sara and Nathan been living, she most emphatically would never agree to such a thing. But they were gone, and she had a right, an obligation, to return some bitter medicine. …

  Camail was caught up in the drama of Magda’s story and obviously sympathetic. She was exquisite. Even before she’d finished talking he knew how the painting would be done. Not one of those vulgar nudes reclining on a red velvet sofa, not a demure nymph standing near a lily pond, a piece of netting draped over her shoulder flying in the wind. No, he saw the painting of Magda clearly, as though the canvas were dry and ready to be hung. She would be seated on a gold-leaf cane bench in front of a triple baroque-framed mirror, dressed in a sheer pink-mauve peignoir which billowed out, away from her body. Not a curve, not a contour would be missed. Although her back would be toward the viewer, her image would be seen from all angles, the two profiles reflected in the side panels, her torso facing the center one, thereby revealing her breasts, exposing the nipples through the thin gauze of chiffon. Only her slim thighs and her legs, crossed at the ankles, would be exposed provocatively, the peignoir draped just so. Her feet would be bare. Her thick mane of hair would hang loose. Her eyes would reveal only what the viewer wanted to see in them. A deep gray background, warmed with vermilion, would make the painting sensual but not somber. It would be the subject in her most intimate, unguarded moment, the viewer feeling as though he were intruding on the lady’s privacy. He wanted to begin at once.

  “We’ll start tomorrow at ten,” he said.

  They worked six days a week. And during the four months they worked together, Camail grew to admire Magda more and more.

  Camail was not especially given to liking women. When his work failed to exhaust his energies, he usually made commercial arrangements with a number of women. Transactions, actually. What he admired most about Magda was her strength of conviction, her air of emancipation. She spoke little, was never temperamental, never late. She took directions as though she had modeled all her life.

  One day he said, “The canvas is almost done. Will you come for supper tonight?”

  “Yes.” She said it at once.

  She arrived not one moment early, not one moment late. She was filled with curiosity as he led her into the salon. It was the first time she’d seen it. The grandeur took her breath away. It was filled with treasures from all over the world. The furniture was covered in silk and velvet, in a variety of colors, from cyclamen-pinks to light lemon-yellows. …Aubusson rugs … the ivories, jades, porcelains. …It was a fabulous room, a fabulous house. …Her eyes took in every object. From time to time her hands gently touched the surface of some object she found irresistible.

  “I love it,” she said finally.

  “You have good taste, Magda.”

  “And the bad manners to admit it. …”

  “Shall we have dinner first, or shall we make love?”

  “Dinner first … I’m usually very hungry after.”

  Magda lay back against the pillows and sighed with content. Camail outlined her cheeks … her nose … her lips, with the tip of his finger.

  “You’re painting, Camail. Lie back and relax. …”

  He obeyed. “Did you know I’d make love to you?”

  Magda’s smile was borrowed from the Mona Lisa. “Did you think I’d resist?”

  “Do you also read minds?”

  “When they’re transparent.”

  “But you love your husband …?”

  “With all my heart.”

  “Yet you’d still sleep with me?”

  “What does one have to do with the other …? I have an affection for you. …But this is the first time I’ve slept with anyone since Rubin went away. …If he were home I would not be in your bed.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because my husband happens to be a very good lover who satisfies me. …Why should I look elsewhere? I’m a very sensual woman who has been without a husband for over a year.”

  “And you’ve been able to abstain for that long?”

  “Yes. I admit it hasn’t been easy. …” Magda started to the bathroom.

  Camail continued. “This will be the beginning of a new—”

  “This will be the beginning of nothing. But at least I had the good taste to choose you for my one infidelity. …” She closed the bathroom door. Cam
ail laughed at and appreciated her candor—not to mention, damn it, her good sense.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT WAS THE NIGHT Magda had waited for … a night to be savored like honey in the comb. She took one last look at herself in the triple mirror Camail had given her as a souvenir. …What she saw more than pleased her. The black satin coat was long and flowing but the dress beneath was strapless … molded to her body, eight inches off the floor. She and Mademoiselle Françoise had secretly plotted what a sensation it would be … perhaps beginning a new trend. Attaching the pearl choker around her neck, adjusting the diamond and emerald clip, Magda could scarcely take her eyes away from the elegant simplicity. Onto her wrist she slipped a diamond band, an emerald, then another diamond. She wore the large emerald ring, surrounded by diamonds, on her right hand, and on her left, below the gold wedding band, she placed the diamond and platinum band Rubin had bought her after their marriage. But the crowning glory was the black toque, encrusted with crystal beads in various sizes, which covered her hair completely. Each bead had been hand-sewn. As she shook her head gently from side to side, they seemed to dance with excitement.

  She looked at herself once again. She’d never quite felt this way before. …Taking out the jeweled case from her evening bag, she filled it with gold-tipped cigarettes.

  “Magda, you are divine.” It was Solange, in her four-year-old Mainbocher. She had refused to try to outshine Magda, knowing it was impossible in any case.

  Before leaving, Magda went into the nursery and kissed her petite poupée. She held the child above her head as Jeanette kicked her legs. And as Magda lowered her back into the crib, she looked at the innocent eyes of her child. “Your mother, darling, is going to let all of London know we’re here. …”

  Invitations to Camail’s private showing had been sent to the most important patrons and buyers in the art world, including royalty. The guest list was not as long as it was selective. And, of course, included were Hacks and Sassoons.

  The Sassoons, however, could not attend. Harry Sassoon had died only a week before. Strangely enough, it wasn’t his heart; a chicken bone had lodged in his trachea. The Hacks, though, were not only eager to go to Camail’s showing but also genuinely wanted to see his latest works—they already owned four of his paintings. It was a gala affair.

  No one knew the real Camail. He was many things to many people. He was in turn flamboyant … a man of mystery … a private person … a public person … an eccentric … an aristocrat. …He made shocking statements about art … and insulting statements about the people who bought it. He could be charming … unaffected. …No one seemed to know when he was pretending and when he wasn’t.

  Camail had begun his career as a pauper from Belgium, with barely enough money to study in Paris. He was a renegade. He did things most artists wouldn’t do, both in his art and in his private life as well. Camail did not feel it was necessary to starve and suffer in order to create. Just the opposite …

  God smiled upon some artists, and Camail was one of them. He wanted to be a fine painter, but he also wanted to be rich and famous, so he decided to live in London. His charm and ambition brought him into the most important homes. His sponsors were the old, influential dowagers of London. If he had to oblige them with a brief affaire de coeur he was only too happy to do so—so long as they supported his work. In a reasonably short time Camail was in demand. His work proved him a man of great talent; his fortitude made it pay off. Paintings by Camail brought enormous prices. He had become a master showman. He would sell only to those people who loved his work, thereby raising his price ever higher.

  Yes, this affair was indeed fashionable. The white-gloved waiters moved among the guests with trays of champagne. One could almost forget the war. …All the paintings were splendid. However, one painting, not mentioned in the catalog, was shrouded in mystery. As the guests circulated, it was hidden from view by curtains.

  The director of the gallery stood on a small platform and clapped his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, we welcome you to this show of paintings by Camail. One painting, however, was completed too late to be listed in the catalog. May I direct your attention to the artist, who will unveil it now …?”

  Dressed in formal cutaway and white tie, Camail stepped onto the platform, smiling and bowing to his patrons. It was the moment everyone had been waiting for, the unveiling of a treasure. For one long moment, he paused, heightening the tension. The gallery was absolutely still. Then he pulled the silken cord. The blue satin draperies were drawn apart. In a simple gold-leaf frame, Magda’s perfect likeness came to life in the triple mirror, her back to the viewers. A collective gasp came from the spectators. …It was, quite simply, the most beautiful portrait in London. The audience was dazzled, stunned.

  Then everyone began to talk at once. “She’s mine!” shouted a wealthy baron. “I’ll have her at any cost!” Other prospective buyers spoke up.

  With perfect timing, Camail gestured for the real Magda to step out of the shadows, and she came proudly to Camail’s side. Taking her hand in his, he announced, “This is my model … the real Magda. …”

  The spectators applauded, gasping once more. There could be no doubt Magda was sensational, in life and in art. The other Hacks were in shock. Sylvia had fainted. She was carried out by Maurice, followed by Matilda and Phillip.

  Magda smiled at Solange. This is my revenge … my triumph, her eyes seemed to say. The painting is magnificent, it can hang in the Louvre. …But Solange wondered for a moment what Rubin’s reaction would be had he been there … except, of course, he wasn’t … and Magda had surely endured enough to be entitled to her triumph. Revenge …

  The picture was to be placed in the window; the nameplate beneath it would read “MAGDA.” A spotlight would illumine it perfectly.

  Camail was giving a small party at the Savoy. Tonight Magda was certain she would not be turned away … neither tonight nor any other night. She had not made “high” society, but the society she had made was good enough for her. She was seated between Camail and Count Alexis Maximov.

  “… Camail and I met in Paris, more years ago than I care to remember.”

  “Why are people so sensitive about age? How can a man be exciting and under forty?”

  The count beamed; he was forty-six. “You are too young to know,” he said.

  “I’m twenty. Why should I deny it?” She smiled back.

  “When you’re … say … forty, then we’ll see.”

  “When I’m forty, I’ll improve with age, like wine. Look at my aunt, the Countess.”

  “You’re the only woman in this room.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind. …Tell me about your meeting with Camail.”

  “We met at a ball in Paris. But let me take you to lunch tomorrow and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “No, I think not. But thank you for the invitation.”

  “Will you forgive a very personal question?”

  “Perhaps …”

  “Are you Camail’s lady?”

  “No. I am my husband’s lady.”

  “I see. …You will forgive my boldness?”

  “You’re forgiven. …Would you like to come to tea tomorrow?”

  The Count beamed again. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Four o’clock?”

  “Four o’clock.”

  That night Magda lay awake and dreamed. …A whole new life had begun. …

  The next morning the most important critic called Magda a masterpiece. The second most important critic called it a piece of pornography. The other critics were about equally divided.

  Camail’s telephone rang early. It was Maurice Hack. He wanted to buy the picture. Price was no object. Quite simply, he had to have it. Camail was amused. He knew Maurice Hack would burn it. He assured Mr. Hack that this was one piece of art no one could buy.

  Maurice persisted. “Everything has a price.”

  “You’re mistaken, sir. …The truth is, I no longer own
the painting.”

  There was a long, long pause.

  “To whom was it sold?”

  “It wasn’t sold. …It was given away.”

  “To whom? Perhaps the party would be willing to sell it … for a large profit. …”

  “Would you sell a gift?”

  Maurice responded quickly, “You’re right, of course. It’s just that my wife wants it so much—”

  I’ll bet she does. …“The painting I call Magda is a painting every woman would want … and every man. …Women will see themselves reflected in the portrait. …Don’t you agree?”

  Maurice was not in a position to disagree, but he swore he would never buy another Camail painting. “I hope the recipient is deserving?”

  “Oh, quite deserving … I gave the painting to my model. It was the least I could do. …Don’t you agree?”

  But Maurice didn’t answer. He had turned white.

  Camail hung up, laughing.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MAGDA SAT WITH CAMAIL to her right, Alexis to her left and Solange next to him. Across the table, Peter Scott’s mistress Pamela was seated between Camail and Peter. No one sat in Rubin’s chair at the head of the table. His name card was placed in front of the service plate, as were the others. It was New Year’s Eve, 1916.

  Magda had received a letter from Rubin that morning. It had upset her so much her mind was still distracted.

  “Delicious salmon, Magda,” said Alexis.

  She saw him through a haze, having drunk more than usual.

  “What’s delicious?” She started to get up.

  “What can I do for you, Magda?”

  She looked at him blankly, then intently. She was having trouble focusing her eyes. “What can you do for me? Can you bring my husband back, Alexis?”

  He almost whispered, “I wish I had that power.”

  “Then you can’t help me, but thank you for the offer. …Here, Alexis, let’s drink to your health.”

  “To being your friend … when you have need of one.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” she said, clinking glasses. “One always needs a friend.”