He fell silent.
‘And yet,’ he continued, stroking Laurence’s hair, ‘I never actually saw anything like it. I belonged to a privileged class where the dead were buried with more pomp. And everyone took such care to make sure I was protected from any painful sight that I don’t think I ever saw a dead person or animal throughout my entire childhood. When a funeral procession was passing by in the street, my governess had orders to keep me distracted by any means possible. Yet all I had to do was close my eyes to discover, within me, the sadness from which I was so carefully protected.’
‘And now,’ he thought, ‘it’s here again . . .’
He continued in a low, emotional voice:
‘Yes, Laurence, even without having seen it, I know that it is true, true in its detail and especially in its immortal essence. The light snow that sometimes falls straight down because there isn’t a hint of wind: that’s surely the first snow in autumn; it disappears into the mud and puddles . . . That coffin, did you notice how it sat on the sleigh? Unsteady, diagonally . . . It hadn’t been carefully placed, just thrown on like a useless object, like a stone . . . and the people who are following it, walking in the deep tracks, did you notice their faces? Coldness towards the dead man who will not be brought back to life by their tears, no hope whatsoever in everlasting life and, at the same time, such intense concentration, such passion . . . In the foreground, a child with dark eyes that dominate his face, and those thin little legs. I’ve seen so many little Jews who look like him! I, myself, who was cleaner and better dressed, I was a little Jew like him.’
She looked at him with a smile.
‘But you’re rambling, my poor Harry . . . I’ve seen photos of you when you were seven or eight, and I can assure you that you look nothing at all like the people in Madame Ada Sinner’s works. You were a lovely little boy with beautiful curls. You looked healthy and very happy to be alive and held a magnificent Persian cat tight against your chest.’
They said nothing for a moment.
‘And as a woman,’ Harry asked, automatically continuing to stroke Laurence’s hair, ‘do you like her, as a woman?’
She hesitated, torn between an instinctive aversion to Ada and the desire to be loyal, which caused her to say something very fair:
‘It’s difficult to speak of her as a woman . . .’
‘Yes, that’s true, that’s very true,’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘I was wondering what there was about her that was different from other women: there’s absolutely nothing feminine about her . . . She looks like a child . . . But you, my dear Laurence, if you suddenly found yourself on a deserted island, the very moment the confusion had ceased, you would go and collect some little feathers and seashells to dress yourself up for me, if I were with you, or in memory of me, if I were dead.’
‘Of course. Thank goodness,’ said Laurence. ‘These young girls, these foreigners have no sense of style, no sensitivity, no feeling.’
‘Is that what you think, my darling?’
‘Ambition, well, that they have,’ continued Laurence, sounding distinctly irritated. ‘She cloaks her arrogance in a kind of modesty that I find quite despicable.’
Harry gently pushed her away, looked for a cigarette and carefully lit it.
‘I don’t believe,’ he finally said, ‘that her modesty is totally feigned. I see in it more an extreme mistrust of herself and of others.’
‘Why mistrust? We accept her, treat her as an equal. Why do we deserve her mistrust? It’s unfair.’
‘We mustn’t forget the unique situation of her life . . . The poverty, the loneliness and, at the same time, the awareness that she is, if not better than other people, then at least set apart from them; talent always does that to such unhappy souls when it takes hold of them. I’d like to help her, Laurence. People should meet her. We should invite some friends around to meet her one evening.’
‘Here?’ she asked, looking at him.
‘Naturally.’
She didn’t reply immediately. She got up from her chair, stood in front of the fire and stretched out her hands towards the flames.
‘No, Harry.’
‘Why not?’
‘I for one do not wish to become a kind of patron to this young woman. I cannot vouch for her: I don’t know her.’
‘You talk about her as if it were a question of smuggling some tramp into a wealthy home so she can run off with the silver!’ exclaimed Harry, angrily.
She looked at him coldly.
‘How excitable you are, Harry!’
‘And you reproach her for being mistrustful! You’re the one who’s mistrustful and unfair! Why must you assume these people are thieves?’
‘Because I don’t know them. You don’t open your doors to people you don’t know; do you understand? You bought her paintings, you talked about her, you introduced her to people. That’s enough.’
‘Charity, but given at the doorstep, at the entrance to the beautifully polished reception room, in the way it is given to peasants,’ he said.
‘Yes. Don’t you understand that it’s more a question of dignity than prudence? And I don’t even want to go into the element of base curiosity that was just as odious to you as to me today! I only invite people into my home if I can treat them as friends, not as exotic animals.’
He stood up and took a few steps away from her.
‘Laurence,’ he said eventually, walking back over to her, ‘I beg of you, don’t refuse me this. I feel guilty about this child, I . . .’
‘What do you mean? You don’t even know her.’
‘Yes, I do. I met her once . . . in my country, in our country . . . But Laurence, don’t ask me to explain all that to you. You wouldn’t, you couldn’t understand. Trust me. Say you’ll allow me to receive her in our home, to welcome her . . . It’s very important, Laurence.’
‘It’s a whim.’
‘So you refuse?’
‘I don’t like her. I don’t like anything about her. Forgive me, Harry, but you’ve said this yourself many times: that mixture of arrogance and servility, which is specifically Jewish, is . . .’
She stopped.
‘I didn’t mean it,’ she said.
He said nothing. His face had suddenly gone pale and tense; his lips were quivering.
‘Harry, I detest men who are irritable,’ she said with a harshness of which she was perhaps unaware. ‘I’m used to you being more in control of yourself . . .’
‘And I’m used to you being more tolerant . . .’
‘Sometimes, you display an hysterical side of you that is . . . extremely unpleasant. I have often noticed it.’
He said nothing. He was shaking with rage and wounded pride. The look on his face was so strange, so full of hatred, that Laurence suddenly felt his hatred as a slap in the face, so she continued with an instinctively defensive reaction:
‘I’ve noticed it in your son, without realising that he got it from you.’
It was true; the child would sometimes burst into tears or display excessive joy or anger, revealing an emotional instability that had often alarmed them both. With her confident woman’s instinct, Laurence had struck upon the thing that would hurt Harry the most. But just as someone who has a gun pointing at his vital organs pushes it away, even though it might hit something else, something equally important, equally vulnerable, Harry was determined to change the subject, at any cost.
‘Are you jealous?’ he cried. ‘Admit it! It would be better, more worthy of you!’
‘Jealous? Of that ugly, shabbily dressed girl?’
‘I didn’t find her ugly,’ he said slowly, feigning ingenuousness.
‘If you find women like that attractive, I won’t try to compete with them!’
‘And yet, you’re jealous.’
‘No. A hundred times, a thousand times, no!’
‘Do you know,’ he suddenly shouted, ‘that ever since she was a child, ever since we were children in our country, she’s been in love with me? Do you remember that book
someone sent to me shortly before we were married? We never knew where it came from. Do you know that she was the one who sent me that gift, because she wanted me to think about her, even for a moment, so I wouldn’t think about you?’
‘If she really did that then she’s mad, and if you admire that, if you approve of that, then you’re just as insane as she is.’
‘Well I do! And I would have done exactly the same thing when I was in love with you!’
Both of them, pale and trembling, fell silent.
‘Since you refuse to receive her here,’ said Harry, harshly (when he was angry, his features seemed sharper; his colourless cheeks looked thinner, as if he were sucking them in), ‘I shall ask my mother to have a party for her. You can either come or not, it’s up to you.’
‘She’s married. Will you also invite her husband?’
‘Why not?’
‘But you don’t know anything about him! You don’t know where he comes from, what he’s like. Are you going to associate with some stranger, some opportunist?’
‘Don’t you see that it is your attitude that pushes me into considering this stranger, this opportunist as a brother?’
‘And me, your wife, as a foreigner, is that it? Be careful,’ she continued with growing anger, ‘this is about more than just receiving this young woman: it’s about a deeper, more serious conflict.’
‘Ah! So you understand that, do you?’
‘So in spite of all my efforts,’ she cried out sadly, ‘I’ve never really understood what you were thinking, what you desired? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? I thought you were happy.’
‘No. I’ve never been happy, not for an hour, not for a single minute, never!’
In spite of himself, Harry’s voice sounded shrill; his eyes were blazing. He hid his face in his hands and ran out of the room.
22
Ada was in a state of high anxiety and excitement as she put on her clothes. Her dress was simple, black. Fortunately, all women’s dresses that year were shifts. She’d paid a lot of money for some silk stockings, and a collar and cuffs made of fine linen. How wonderful it felt to wear them! She studied her shoes for a long time: the heels were still straight, but the crêpe de Chine was rather worn at the edges. They had belonged to Lilla. For a week now Ada hadn’t picked up a paintbrush, so she could cut out and make her dress. Her years as Aunt Raissa’s apprentice hadn’t been a total waste after all . . . She’d done a good job. Her hat was small, dark and made of felt; it was almost masculine but it showed off her face. The real problem was her coat – a horrible, threadbare coat – but she wasn’t too worried about it because she was sure that no one kept their coats on once inside: that’s how it was in Russia. Ben stood beside her and watched, silent and sarcastic.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
She looked away. The presence of Ben spoiled the game, that delightful game she’d engaged in ever since she’d received Harry’s invitation, as if she were in some waking dream. Just as you rewind a film, so she had returned to the exact moment in time when her true life had been interrupted, her only true life, in spite of appearances: the instant when she had entered the large hall decorated with flowers and little French flags, holding Madame Mimi’s hand, to be introduced to Harry. And now she had managed to sweep aside all the intervening years. She, Ada, had been invited to the Sinners’ home; they were holding a reception in her honour, to introduce her to Parisian high society. Of course, even in the past, she would never have dreamt of such a thing. But in her mind, she gladly confused the past and the present, dream and reality. By some stroke of good fortune, even the day itself was the same as it had been back then: the air still, with a sense of sad resignation that soon it would snow. She walked alongside Ben and looked at him, wondering what he was thinking. Strange, enigmatic Ben.
‘You won’t ask them for anything, will you, Ben?’ she asked, before they reached the Sinners’ house, in a voice that was both defiant and pleading.
He smiled.
‘You’re so afraid of me!’
‘You hate them!’
‘I won’t waste my time wondering if I love them or hate them. If they can be useful to me, that’s enough.’
‘But that’s exactly what I don’t want!’
‘Really? And why not, my sweet? What are you going to tell them? Have I done anything wrong? I’ve earned my living, our living, as best I could. I’m not a murderer or a thief. Why would you want to stop me asking them for help and support, as in the past?’
‘What do you want from them?’
‘Your Harry could help me out . . . put in a good word for me to one of his uncles . . .’
‘He won’t want to.’
‘Is that what you think? Why? I’m not going to ask them to give me an allowance, just to hire me, offer me a job, the lowest possible, and I’m telling you, Ada, they’ll take me.’
‘More of your pipe dreams,’ she murmured with pity and anger.
‘No. I know these people. They can be as Europeanised and cultured as you like, but deep in their hearts, they still have a weakness for people who started out humbly, harshly, with difficulty, like they did. Because when all is said and done, those Sinners, with their racing stables and famous art collections, had fathers who were kids like me: starving, beaten, humiliated. And that creates a bond that is never forgotten, not one of race or blood, but a bond of tears. Do you understand? Why don’t you want to let me try my luck, Ada? What else can I hope for on this earth, aside from money? I’ve already lost you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You love that damned boy.’
Profound pity filled Ada’s heart. She looked at him with kindness.
‘Ben, I’ve never been in love with you, you’ve always known that. But you’re more than my husband, you’re like my brother. I’m begging you to give up your idea of getting involved with these rich people and I . . . I’ll go with you. I’ll never see Harry again. What would be the point? He’s married. He belongs to another woman. It was a dream, a childish fantasy. Come on. Let’s go back home.’
‘Ha!’ Ben replied sadly, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Our three destinies have been linked since we were children. There’s nothing we can do about it.’
‘And you don’t want to let a chance to make yourself a fortune slip by,’ she said with bitter resentment.
‘I can’t . . .’ he said, between clenched teeth, ‘let something slip away . . . that is within my reach. That’s how I am . . . It’s not my fault . . .’
They had arrived. They stopped for a moment, their hearts pounding. What courage it took for them to walk through the grand entrance, to enter the large private house and look the servant in the face as he opened the door for them.
Ada was terrified for a moment when she saw the women going into the formal drawing room wearing their furs. She quickly took off her coat and went into the room.
The elderly Madame Sinner shook her hand and said very loudly, ‘We are related, are we not?’
Oh, if only Aunt Raissa could have heard this family tie she was so proud of proclaimed for all to hear.
‘Yes, I think so, Madame,’ Ada murmured. ‘Distantly related . . .’
‘And you’ve been living all alone, with no one, in this big city, without ever thinking you could come to us! But why?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose it never occurred to me, Madame.’
‘Well, no harm done, since here you are now. You have some admirers who would like to meet you.’
So many curious faces! So many smiles! So many friends! And Harry walking towards her, at last. He could see that she was weary and embarrassed, close to tears. He took her by the arm and led her through the dining room which she had glimpsed, one summer’s night, in the shimmering shadows as she watched the party, alone in the street. She had often tried to imagine this room, but in vain. He took her into a small empty sitting room.
‘You’re going to sit down here, calmly have a glass of
champagne and look at all these people, without having to speak to them or smile at them, just as if you were at the theatre, all right?’
‘I’ve already watched them as if I were at the theatre.’
‘When?’
She explained.
‘You’ve never been happy, you poor thing,’ Harry remarked with a softness in his voice that was unusual for him.
She looked at him with an expression that was nearly disconcerting in its perceptive irony.
‘Neither have you,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m free, yes, free. I can work all day long if I feel like it, or stay in bed and do nothing, and no one will worry or ask me if I’m ill. I can spend the whole afternoon strolling along the Seine to look at the colour of the water and I know that no one in all of Paris cares whether I’m dead or alive, whether I’ll come home that night or not.’
‘And you think that’s a good thing?’ he asked with curiosity.
‘Well, it’s the only good thing I’ve ever known, and can recommend to others,’ she replied, smiling.
‘What about your husband?’
‘He’s always busy, always travelling. I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing for months at a time. But that’s how he is and he’s still my only friend.’
‘You have another friend now,’ he whispered, touching her hand.
He was deeply moved. With Laurence, he anxiously listened to every word she said, trying in vain to understand what she wasn’t saying; but with Ada, words themselves were pointless: the subtleties in her voice, in her eyes, revealed to him the very essence of her soul.
Ben paced back and forth past the open door. He made his way through the dazzling crowd as if he were at a train station. His frizzy hair, burning eyes, pale cheeks and sharp features made him look striking and strange.
When he recognised Harry, he headed towards him. Ada walked away, back into the drawing room. People spoke to her and she replied shyly. But she never took her eyes off Harry and Ben. A few moments later, she saw an older man with yellowish skin, a hooked nose and large, dark eyes go over to them. She guessed he was one of Harry’s uncles. So, once again, Ben’s determination, passion and arrogance had got him what he wanted.
The Dogs and the Wolves Page 13