Alexei realised he was about to be dismissed. He rose to his full height. ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Dr. Jardine,’ he spoke quietly. ‘I have read your books and they have forced me to think rather more than some others.’
Jacob Jardine removed his glasses and smiled. ‘You flatter me.’
Alexei stretched out his hand and the older man took it.
‘Incidentally, Mr. Gismondi,’ he called Alexei back as he turned, ‘if you wish to discuss psychoanalysis, or even as you so mysteriously put it, your mothers, you have only to invite me to dinner. There is no need to come to my consulting room.’ There was a mischievous expression on his face. ‘And by the way, I have also seen two or three of your films and enjoyed them enormously. Goodbye.’
The chuckle followed Alexei out of the room.
But Jacob Jardine looked after him a little more reflectively than its sound implied. There was something about this young man. Something that reminded him of…what was it? He tapped his pencil impatiently on his desk and then shrugged. He was growing old. And he was preoccupied. Preoccupied with that stubborn daughter of his who would not budge an inch. What had that ghastly Italian husband of hers done to her to keep her away from Italy so many years after his death? Katherine would never tell him, never confess. She was as silent as the tomb.
Two days later promptly at three, Alexei Gismondi strode purposefully into the Katherine Jardine Gallery. He had his opening remarks well-rehearsed.
‘I have an appointment with Ms Jardine,’ he announced himself to an almond-eyed young man who was sitting behind an old-fashioned secretaire and lazily turning the pages of an art magazine.
‘Oh yes, Mr. Gismondi,’ the youth smiled at him cheerfully. ‘I’ll tell Kat you’re here. Look round. It’s a great show.’ He sped up a flight of stairs and was back before Alexei could so much as take in a single canvas.
‘You can go straight up. She’s ready for you. It’s right at the top.’
Alexei climbed two flights and found himself in front of a panelled door. He knocked and without waiting, walked in.
Katherine Jardine was standing by her desk, her back to him, the telephone balanced on her shoulder. She turned at the sound of his footsteps and as he walked towards her across the expanse of the room, he noticed the flicker of recognition in her eyes.
He looked at her intently and let his features register surprise. It wasn’t altogether an act. At this distance of intimacy, with only a desk between them, he was startled again by her beauty. It was almost a physical sensation. There was nothing seductive about her. Indeed, her tailored grey dress had an austerity about it, echoed in the way she had pulled back the luxuriance of her hair in a simple clasp. But the fine-boned modelling of her face, the porcelain hue of her skin, the serious, slightly haughty cast of those wide grey eyes, the fluidity of her gestures, all gave him the sense that the particular quality of her beauty would continue to surprise him.
There was a catch in his throat as he spoke, ‘I believe we have seen each other before, if I am not mistaken. You are Katherine Jardine?’
She nodded, replaced the receiver carefully on the slab of glass which served as her desk. There was a hint of amusement in the eyes she focussed on him.
‘And you are the man whose ears even an arduous New York waiter cannot penetrate.’ She stretched out a slender hand. Wide lips curled into a smile.
‘I’m afraid my attention had a more interesting object,’ Alexei found himself saying. Abruptly he dropped the hand he had held onto a second too long.
‘Indeed,’ Katherine stiffened slightly. She sat back in her chair putting the distance of the desk between them. ‘What can I do for you, Mr. Gismondi.’
Alexei told her.
‘At an exhibition some months ago I saw a picture I am interested in acquiring. A beautiful portrait of Sylvie Kowalska by Michel St Loup. It is in your possession?’
A series of emotions passed like lightning over her face, darkening her eyes. They settled themselves into a polite iciness.
‘That portrait is not for sale.’ Her voice had a note of finality. But Alexei persisted.
‘It’s simply that I have a special admiration for St. Loup,’ Alexei lied, ‘and the picture seemed to me a particularly fine one. Money is no object…’
‘Money is not my object either, Mr. Gismondi,’ she said coldly.
‘Oh?’ He was irritated by her coldness. ‘I thought in New York that art and money were inseparable partners.’ There was a sardonic emphasis to his words and he saw two red spots form in her cheeks. He had hit a nerve.
‘I dare say that may sometimes be the case,’ she met him on it, her voice even. ‘But in this case…’ She lifted her face to him. Anger warred with pride. ‘Sylvie Kowalska is my mother, Mr. Gismondi. One does not sell one’s mother.’ She stood up abruptly.
‘But I could show you some other work,’ she added quickly. ‘We are not in the habit of turning away clients for whom money is no object.’
She was parodying him, laughing at him. Alexei wouldn’t be deflected from the intermediary goal he had set himself. ‘Of course, I’m sorry. I did not know Sylvie Kowalska was your mother. How silly of me.’ He looked at her intently, studied her.
‘How could you know, Mr. Gismondi. We do not look alike. And we never had anything in common.’ The bitterness in her voice was only slightly veiled. Alexei wondered at it.
‘Well, even if you won’t sell,’ he added after a moment. ‘I would still dearly love to see that picture again.’
Katherine considered. Before she could answer, a child rushed in and flung her arms round her.
‘Natalie, I’ve told you not to dash in here without knocking,’ she scolded, but her face glowed as she embraced the girl.
‘I just had to tell you that I got an A in my dreaded math test, Mommy.’
‘That’s wonderful, darling,’ she hugged the child to her again and then noticing Alexei’s gaze, extricated herself.
‘I’m afraid my time is up, Mr. Gismondi. Shall I ask one of my assistants to show you round this current exhibition? You may find something there which is to your taste.’
Her arm still lingered round her daughter’s shoulders and Alexei knew he was being summarily dismissed.
‘But I did really want to see that portrait of Sylvie Kowalska. I have travelled a long way for that sole purpose,’ he persisted.
‘Surely not with that sole purpose, Mr. Gismondi. A man with your schedule.’ There was a tinge of irony in the grey eyes. It was the first indication Alexei had had that she knew anything about him. He stirred uncomfortably.
‘Sylvie Kowalska,’ the girl intervened. ‘You mean my grandmother? Does he mean the picture in your study, mommy?’
Katherine nodded briefly and turned back to Alexei. ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible, Mr. Gismondi,’ she said with a note of finality.
‘I could show it to him, mommy. I just popped in for a moment on my way home. Sandy’s waiting for me downstairs. We could all go back together.’
Alexei overrode Katherine’s ‘but’, ‘I would like that very much, Natalie,’ he smiled warmly at the girl. ‘My name’s Alexei, by the way.’
She shook his hand shyly. She had all the candid directness of a child, but her long limbs and delicate features already signalled the woman to come.
‘You hardly expect me to allow a stranger to go home with my daughter, Mr Gismondi,’ There was wry amusement in Katherine’s face. ‘This is New York, after all.’
‘Yes, no, of course,’ Alexei mumbled, then suddenly laughed. ‘Here,’ he reached into his pocket and drew out wallet and passport, placed them on her desk. ‘I’ll leave you all these as proof of my good intentions.’
She gazed at him for a moment. ‘You know there are far better portraits of my mother, Mr. Gismondi. She was much painted at a particular point in time.’
‘Gramps has three great ones,’ Natalie contributed.
‘But it is this particular
one by St Loup that interests me,’ Alexei smiled, raised his hands in an imploring gesture. ‘Please.’
Katherine fingered wallet and passport and handed them back to him. ‘I shall ask my assistant, Joe, to take you round to the house. I would hate to see such rare dedication to a work of art disappointed.’
She was mocking him again. He didn’t mind. He would see the picture, see her home. He met her eyes seriously.
‘Thank you.’
The picture hung in Katherine’s study, behind her desk. Perhaps it was Alexei’s overheated imagination, but he felt it cast a particular aura over the place, filling it with ghosts. He understood why Katherine would have wanted to put it behind her when she was working. Yet its presence was inescapable. It shadowed the room, which was strangely spare: the neat desk, books, an armchair, behind it a curling, petalled lamp, the only feminine note in a space remarkably free of bric a brac. He sensed Katherine’s imprint; contained yet harmonious.
He gazed at the picture steadily. There was an imperfection in the bird’s feathers. He touched it. A small tear in the canvas. Then he looked again at the face. The deep, blue eyes. He flinched and pondered the enigma again. She had a Polish name. But this picture had been painted in Paris in the Thirties. How did the pieces fit?
‘Would you like a chocolate milk shake?’ Natalie’s voice burst into his reverie. ‘Doreen is just making some for my friend, Sandy, and me. She’s a whiz at it.’
‘Mmmm,’ Alexei smiled. He followed the girl down two flights of stairs to a well-appointed kitchen.
‘Doreen, Doreen, I told you he’d want one,’ Natalie said excitedly.
‘Alright, alright child. No need to shout. You just sit yourselves down at that table there and I’ll rustle up another shake.’ A broad face of indeterminate age embraced them all in a smile. ‘And make sure you help your guests to those brownies, you hear.’
When Katherine came home, she found a replete Alexei sitting with two laughing girls and Joe round her kitchen table. There was a look of consternation in her eyes.
‘I hope I haven’t outstayed my welcome,’ Alexei began politely, ‘but the girls have plied me with chocolate. An irresistible inducement.’
The girls giggled.
‘Alexei’s from Rome. Did you know that, Mommy? He’s been telling us stories about it. Invited us to visit him.’
‘Yes, I knew that,’ Katherine said in a controlled voice, but her eyes blazed anger at him. ‘Natalie, have you done your homework? It’s after six.’
Natalie didn’t answer. Instead she looked directly at Alexei. ‘I didn’t tell you, but my father was from Rome.’ There was a challenge in her voice, as if she had been waiting precisely for her mother’s entrance to mention this. ‘Did you know him, Alexei. He’s dead now. His name was Carlo Negri della Buonaterra.’ She said it proudly and then turned to look directly at her mother.
‘Natalie, that’s enough now. Off with the two of you.’
‘I’ll be off now too, if that’s okay, Kat?’ Joe rose and Katherine nodded him off, barely seeing him. She was staring at Alexei, waiting for his response.
‘No, I don’t believe I knew him,’ Alexei said softly. ‘I’m sorry he’s dead.’
Natalie turned dark eyes on him. ‘So am I,’ she murmured. Then with a change of mood, she tugged at her friend’s arm, ‘Come on, Sandy, let’s go up.’ She smiled innocently at her mother and the two girls bounded away.
Before Alexei could frame appropriate words, Sandy poked her face through the door. ‘Natalie dared me, so I’m going to say it. We think you’re very handsome,’ she giggled loudly and rushed away again.
‘Those girls,’ Doreen tsked from the other end of the room.
Alexei gazed at Katherine. She was trembling. He had an overpowering urge to take her in his arms.
Instead, he murmured, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interfere.’
She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
‘I’m very grateful to you for letting me come here. Allowing me to look at the picture,’ he continued. ‘Perhaps you would let me repay you in some way? Let me take you out to dinner.’
She turned to face him. Grey eyes tinged with pain. A tremor in the lips.
‘I… I should like to very much. I should like to express my thanks in some way.’ Alexei urged her softly.
‘Yes. Yes, why not, Mr. Gismondi.’ A hint of self-derision crept into her voice. ‘I’m sure it would make my daughter exceedingly happy.’
Less than two weeks later, Alexei Gismondi stood in the departure lounge of Kennedy Airport, his boarding pass for Rome in his hand. He had spent three evenings with Katherine Jardine. Evenings which had moved him, filled him in turn with elation and fear. At the end of the second, he had held her in his arms. Breathed in her subtle fragrance. Kissed her. It was a kiss he felt himself powerless to prevent.
And then he had seen those drawings.
At dawn this morning, after a sleepless night, he had taken his decision. He had to go. To flee. Katherine’s face had replaced Sylvie Kowalska’s in his imaginings. Mother given way to daughter. He would take steps to find out more about Sylvie Kowalska. But not in Katherine’s presence. It was too dangerous.
Meanwhile, he had sent her a note. An inadequate note. For the moment he felt he could do nothing more.
The bell had rung just as Katherine emerged from a hasty morning shower. She had answered it herself and with a smile that lit her features taken the vast bouquet from the messenger’s arms. Alexei. Who else could it be? She hummed a meaningless tune to herself and buried her face in the proliferation of spring blooms. How long had it been since she desired a man? Yes, desired, she acknowledged it with a sense of surprise and growing elation, hugging the flowers to herself.
A small box tumbled out of the bouquet as she unwrapped it and a note. She tore open the latter first. The words were in Italian. She could still read it fluently.
‘Mia cara,’ the note read. ‘Meeting you has been more than a delight. Thank you. But for now, I fear, it can only be a meeting. I must return to Rome urgently. Try to understand. Alexei.’
Disappointment flooded through her. With clumsy fingers, Katherine opened the small velvet box. In it there was a ring, a single emerald, luminous in its finely crafted setting of white gold and tiny diamonds. She stared at it for a long time with a sense of growing disbelief. No, it couldn’t be. She looked at the band and there, untarnished by time, were the initials, S.K. The jewel fell from her fingers, burning her.
S.K. Sylvie Kowalska. Her mother. Her mother’s ring. The ring that had gone missing so many years back, the ring that had never been found amidst her mother’s jewellry. How had this ring come into Alexei Gismondi’s possession? Why did he want Sylvie’s picture?
Katherine felt her mind growing blank and a deep sob rising in her, forcing its way from the pit of her stomach into her throat. Her mother. How she had hated her mother.
The slap stung Katherine’s face and the force as well as the surprise of it almost knocked her over. She struggled to keep her balance, struggled, too, to keep the tears from flowing, to strangle the cry which came to her lips. She knew that any sound she made would only enflame her mother’s anger further.
‘What have you done with it?’ her mother’s voice pitched high in rage echoed in her ear. Katherine stood rigidly still, her small body tense with fear. She had already twice protested her ignorance. She had no idea what had happened to her mother’s ring. She only knew that she wanted to run away and hide in her room.
‘I’ve seen you eyeing it, you little wretch. Now you’ve stolen it. Where is it?’ her mother’s voice rose even higher.
Katherine twisted to evade the raised hand. She stumbled.
‘Sylvie,’ her father’s voice, low as a hiss, intruded upon them. ‘I’ve asked you not to hit the child.’ Despite the quiet tone, it was an implacable command.
Katherine’s saw her mother’s face grow an ugly red. She turned and ran from the sight. The
voice behind her moved from shrillness to plaintive tears. ‘But you don’t know what she’s done. She stole my ring. You always take her side.’
Katherine’s short legs sped her to the quiet of her own room. Sobs began to shake her now and she climbed blindly on to the high bed where the white coverlet felt cool against her hot cheeks. Misery consumed her. Why wouldn’t her mother believe her? Yes, she had looked at the ring. It was so pretty. But she hadn’t taken it. Wanting wasn’t the same as taking. She knew that. And it was her birthday today. Her fourth. She had so been looking forward to the party there would be this afternoon. Princesse Mat was coming. And Leo would soon be back from school just for the occasion.
That morning at the maternelle, the nuns had been so kind. She had sat on the tall reading stool in the middle of the large room and everyone had sung Joyeux Anniversaire to her. It was only the second time she had ever sat on that stool, her legs dangling well above the floor. The first time had been last week when she had read her favourite story out to the children in the bigger class she had just been moved to. She had been frightened, but excited too. And the nuns had been full of praise.
She liked the nuns, their hushed voices, their faces so white and sweet against the black of their habits. So unlike her mother. She tried to please her too, but it was very hard. Today she had rushed home from school, waiting only for Madame Sarlat to help her across the grand boulevard, past the nice policeman who whistled for the cars to stop. Then she had raced along the street, up the steep stairs, which no longer seemed to be as big as she was, into their apartment. She had scrubbed her hands and face till they were pinkly clean, pulled off her school smock and put on her best party dress, with its big blue velvet bow. She had even remembered to brush her hair, just as her mother always told her. But when she had knocked at the door of her mother’s room to tell her she was all ready for the party…
Katherine buried her face in her pillow and pulled the coverlet up so that it hid all of her.
Memory and Desire Page 2