Seasons of the Heart

by Cynthia Freeman

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—”

  “Even with my temper?”

  “Yes, even with your temper. That’s part of your charm. Now get dressed. We’ve got a lot to do before six.”

  She looked at him, kissed him, tenderly at first, not so tenderly as she felt him respond.

  Mignon was in her glory. She took out the Limoges china, polished the silver tea service and arranged the pastries on the Minton épergne. She had not been so excited since Monsieur Jonet left. Life had become dreary in Monsieur’s absence. Folding the serviettes, she wondered if this maîtresse of Rubin Hack’s would be able to handle the service at tea time. Mignon had her doubts. Men! There was simply no accounting for their tastes in women. This Mademoiselle Charascu was nothing but a common souillon. At least Monsieur Jonet’s ladies had the breeding and training of courtesans, but this one! Oo-la-la. She had been shocked when Monsieur had summoned her earlier from the kitchen to meet his paramour, dressed in a black skirt and sweater so tight and revealing that nothing was left to the imagination. Mignon wondered where he had picked her up. Probably on the streets. Place Pigalle, undoubtedly. Ah, such a waste! But who could figure men out?

  In the salon, standing at the window, Rubin looked at Paris, drinking in her beauty as he waited for Magda to finish dressing. Four times she’d changed, observing herself each time in the mirror. He could hear her exclamations of disgust. She hated every outfit.

  Frustrated, she sat down heavily on the bed. She’d had her share of problems in life, but which dress to wear had never been one of them. Wasn’t it stupid, she thought, looking at the boxes filled with lingerie, shoes, hats, scarves, even a French umbrella Rubin had insisted on, and it wasn’t even raining. Tissue paper was strewn about the room. When she and Rubin had taken the dresses, suits, skirts and sweaters out, placing them on the enormous bed, she was so excited she hadn’t realized the terrible responsibilities of decision-making …Wearing her new satin and lace slip, she quickly walked across the foyer to the salon.

  “Rubin,” she said, breathing hard.

  He turned from the window, and looking at her expression of exasperation he smiled, then laughed.

  Tapping her foot she said, “Stop laughing …” and then almost in tears, said, “Rubin, please … help. I don’t know what to wear. I don’t know what goes with what …”

  Rubin took her by the hand and led her back to the bedroom. She watched as he carefully appraised each garment as though it were a matter of state. He picked up the simple mauve chiffon dress with the niching around the neck. It was pretty, she thought, but so sweet and unadorned, especially to meet the Countess for the first time. As he spread the dress across the chair she looked at the full, bouffant sleeves, tight at the wrists, trimmed with the same niching. Then she had second thoughts …Perhaps it was chic. After all, Rubin had selected it.

  Opening a shoe box, he took out silk pumps in the same color and placed them on the floor. Next were the hose, soft, fawn-colored, and last the heavy strand of pearls with a diamond clasp, which Rubin had selected in only moments at Cartier. When the salesman had handed them to her for her approval, she thought they seemed no different from the ones sold at any cheap shop … except the price, which staggered her.

  “Now, please dress. The Countess will be here in half an hour. And wear the pink satin slip.”

  “Oh, Rubin, what would I do without you?”

  He smiled and thought, we won’t think about that now.

  She had just enough time to stand in front of him, hoping he would approve of her hair, carefully arranged now on top of her head, though she nervously toyed with the tendrils, which hung in front of her ears.

  Holding her at arms’ length he said, “You are ravissante!”

  “Am I, Rubin? Oh, thank you, darling.”

  The sound of the bell almost went unheard. Only “darling” pealed joyously in Rubin’s head. It was the first time she’d called him that, and it had seemed to come so spontaneously, so naturally.

  Mignon was opening the door and saying, almost with reverence, “Bon soir, Comtesse.” She curtsied. The Countess nodded and walked across the marble foyer to the salon, where a nervous Magda and delighted Rubin awaited the arrival of their distinguished guest. Rubin embraced her, kissing her on both cheeks. “You look better than ever, Solange.”

  “And you are the same enchanting rogue, dear Rubin, who almost makes a woman believe it.” She smiled with a twinkle in her eye.

  Magda watched these two old friends who were so at ease. The Countess was positively regal, though she had to be very old … at least forty-five. But her skin was so youthful, without a wrinkle or blemish, like pure porcelain. The whiteness was startling as Magda watched the ruby-red lips move in speech. Her cheekbones were high and delicately tinted with blush; one could scarcely detect that the color was not natural. Her sloe-shaped eyes, fringed with black lashes, could still affect men. What added to it all was the startlingly burnished red hair, above which sat a black silk turban trimmed with egret feathers. Around her long slender neck was carefully, yet casually, draped a scarf of sables. The black taffeta gown had a rich iridescent texture. The only adornment the Countess wore was a large diamond brooch.

  When the Countess released the clasp of the sables, Magda watched fascinated as the skins fell softly to her side. Removing her long white kid gloves, the Countess did not take her eyes from this petite poupée of Rubin Hack’s. Not one detail went unnoticed. Before Rubin could make the introductions, the Countess said, “Well, dear boy, your description was more than adequate, if nothing else. She is as you described.”

  “Darling, may I introduce Solange, Countess Boulard?”

  “Enchanté,” Magda answered softly. She felt as though she were being weighed by the pound.

  “And you are Magda,” the Countess responded. In their chat the day before, Rubin had said Magda’s name over and over. She was incredible, more than the countess had expected …Men in love were always blind; the eye of the beholder dazzled …Bravo, Rubin, she thought. With this one you were quite accurate. What an exciting challenge she would be! This little sparrow could be turned into a radiant white swan. She had all the possibilities …

  Solange sat in the bergère, facing Magda. Rubin seated himself on the settee across from them.

  “You are from Bucharest?” the Countess said.

  Her eyes direct, her voice steady, Magda answered, “Yes.”

  “A beautiful city, Bucharest.”

  “My recollections of it are otherwise,” replied Magda. Rubin had said to be herself.

  Solange moistened her lips …Ah, this one had spirit She liked that. “Well, my dear Magda, you’d be surprised how a city can change in a very short time. Even Paris can be ugly. It all depends on the window you see it from …”

  Rubin rang for tea. “Solange, would you care for sherry?”

  “That would be nice, merci.”

  “And you, Magda, dear?”

  “Absinthe.”

  Rubin frowned. Magda was deliberately trying to be shocking. “I’m sorry, we have no absinthe,” he said.

  “Then I will have
coffee. Sherry is much too mild.”

  A smile touched Solange’s mouth. She understood every nuance in Magda’s words, her voice. Magda did not like being patronized. Her insecurity was apparent. Solange, after all, was the enemy, and not a little bit threatening. Solange looked at Rubin and her eyes flashed a message: Patience, dear friend. All things worth achieving come with time and hard work. Sipping her sherry, the Countess said to Magda, “Rubin tells me you have an extraordinary voice.”

  “He’s right,” she answered, glaring at the Countess.

  Solange was inwardly amused, and disregarded the rebuff. “He is about most things,” she answered.

  Magda took the words as an affront. She didn’t like the Countess, and she would tell Rubin so later. She would not be treated like a stupid peasant. “Did he also tell you that I sang the lead at the opera in Bucharest? My last role was Carmen.”

  My God, Rubin thought, what is she doing? Why is she acting so belligerent …Solange couldn’t be more kind.

  Mignon wheeled in the tea cart, steering it to Magda, as her mouth fell open in shock. Was this the little strumpet who had gone off with Rubin earlier today? Impossible! Mignon left the room totally bewildered. Such a transformation!

  But transformations had become a way of life for Magda during the last few days. She looked at her actions, her manners, as she’d never done before. No need to. Before she’d met Rubin, she’d been content with herself, satisfied with the café society that adored her. She had survived, after all, and reached the heights of her own tiny world. But now, suddenly, she could be a different Magda, detached from herself, scrutinizing her every emotion. What she felt toward the Countess at this moment was close to hatred … the Countess made her feel so inadequate, so ignorant. In fact, sitting here, even Rubin made her feel that way. The only time she felt herself his equal, in fact, his superior, was when they made love. But just wait, she thought. I’ll give you a run for your money, Rubin Hack …And you, Countess. I’ll show you how fast Magda Charascu of Bucharest can learn … I’m ready, teach me. Lesson one.

  “Will you have tea or coffee, Countess?”

  “Coffee, my dear.” Chuckling inwardly, Solange thought, this little one learns quickly.

  “Cream?”

  “Please, and two lumps of sugar.”

  Magda handed the Countess her cup with a flourish. “Rubin,” she said, “tea?”

  “Yes, please.” He answered with more annoyance than he intended.

  But Magda pretended not to notice. Nothing, however, went unnoticed by the Countess. Magda was like a chameleon, cleverly changing her colors to camouflage her feelings, and the Countess was enjoying the performance.

  There followed some light banter, mostly between Solange and Rubin. They discussed Emile, the years past, the fun and excitement they’d had. They exchanged little jokes between themselves. The conversation was scarcely heard by Magda, who had a headache. A real one.

  Getting up, she asked to be excused, going directly to the bedroom. Once inside, she closed the door behind her and sat on the bed. How would she ever fit into this world? It was simply much too much. She ran into the bathroom and threw up. Then she reached into the medicine cabinet, took down the bottle of headache tablets, unscrewed the cap and popped two aspirins into her mouth, washing them down with a little water. God, but her head was pounding.

  “Rubin, you mustn’t be cross.” Solange was grateful for Magda’s absence. “She’s swimming in a big sea, and she must feel as though she’s drowning.”

  “I know. There are times I think she’s happy, and just as suddenly it’s as though a … well, a sort of cloud comes over her.”

  “Oh, dear boy, men are so foolish—”

  “And women so wise?”

  Solange smiled. “She’s magnificent, Rubin, and she will grow. We will become good friends, so put your mind at rest. She’s rebelling, not at you but at herself. Every woman needs the security of that one special man, and you’ll be leaving her stranded. I do believe she loves you, Rubin. But when she gets frightened, she gets angry, and has to lash out.”

  “You’re right, but what can I do? You know about my obligations … I can’t just abandon my family and—”

  “Then perhaps it would have been better if you had left her where she was. It might have been kinder.”

  “I couldn’t. If I can’t marry her, at least I can take care of her needs …”

  “Rubin, I’ve often wondered what would have become of my life if I’d had the courage to—oh, well, that’s long over … but if you love this girl as you seem to, why don’t you marry her?”

  “Do you think I haven’t thought of that? …Maybe I’m a coward, too, but I can’t hurt my family, go back on my word to a lovely girl … and I hardly need tell you, Solange, no matter what, Magda would never be welcome or even accepted. Do I have the right to subject her to that? And I repeat, I am engaged to a most lovely young woman—”

  “But you don’t love her …”

  Rubin sat staring blankly for a moment. “Not in the way I love Magda … no one will be like that again for me, but Jocelyn is so decent—”

  “I’m speaking about love.”

  “I love Jocelyn, too, but in a different way. Please, Solange, don’t make it worse than it is—”

  “You need to be honest with yourself, Rubin … did you ever truly love this other girl?”

  “Yes, I think so … but Magda coming into my life has, to put it mildly, confused my feelings. I do still love Jocelyn but …”

  “Rubin, I’ve no right to press you. No need to explain further. Whatever you do, you do and I am your friend … and I would suggest, with your permission, that I also try to be Magda’s. Which at the moment means getting her to trust me.”

  Rubin nodded gratefully.

  Solange left the room, crossed the hall and knocked on the bedroom door.

  “Come in.”

  Magda was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  “May I sit down?” Solange asked in a soft voice.

  “If you like,” Magda answered.

  “Magda,” Solange began, “if two people are to become friends, they must be completely honest with each other. I know you do not like me. In fact, you resent me. Is that not so?”

  “Yes.”

  “I appreciate your frankness. Have you asked yourself why?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me. My feelings are not fragile.”

  “You make me feel so … inferior.”

  “You mustn’t feel that way, because you aren’t. You are actually superior in many ways. You are also extraordinarily lovely. I want to be your friend. If you will accept my hand in friendship, you will find that I can be a very good friend indeed. Just remember one thing: You need not fear me, and you need not fear yourself.” She took Magda’s hand. “Now I’ll go back to Rubin. Please believe what I have told you.”

  Magda looked around the silent room. You’re a fool, Magda … a ridiculous, stupid fool. Here’s a man who loves you. No matter how hard you try to twist it … defy it … fight him … he loves you. Why else would he be doing all this? And the Countess … why did you behave the way you did? …You know the answer. She was born a lady and in spite of what Rubin says, being born a lady is not like inventing one … and that is what poor Rubin is trying to do …You’ve embarrassed him in front of his friend, you acted like the stupid dunce that you are … I hate you, Magda. Instead of trying to learn from the Countess, she told herself, you antagonize her. She’s trying to help you, not hurt you. Can’t you understand that? Allow yourself to learn from her. Admit you’re jealous … yes, jealous …You don’t have to love her, but you can at least try to act like a lady.

  Bracing herself, Magda returned. Standing contritely before the Countess and Rubin, she said, “Please forgive me, Countess. I was very rude.”

  Putting her finger to her lips, Solange pretended surprise. “Strange, I hadn’t noticed …” Arranging the sables around
her slender shoulders, she got up. “Well, my dears, I have to be going.” She grasped Magda’s hand warmly. “We will be in touch. Thank you for your gracious hospitality. You’re a most beautiful young woman.” She smiled, cupping Magda’s face in her hand. “I can scarcely wait for Paris to meet my lovely niece from Bucharest. Now, au revoir …” She kissed Rubin lightly, and he walked with her to the door.

  That one brief encounter with the Countess made a deep impression on Magda. She now wanted to emulate her in every way, to become the gracious lady Rubin had promised she could be. Instinctively, thereafter, Magda responded to every challenge. She began to handle Mignon with the kind of respect due a servant, and if Mignon resented having her position challenged, at least she knew her place. Painstakingly, Magda observed everything Mignon did. And after her duties were done and she had left, Magda rummaged through every cupboard, taking out pieces of china and turning them over to look at the hallmark. With the aid of a book, she soon knew the difference between Limoges, Sèvres and Dresden.

  She discovered a ledger of menus, recorded over the years, with dates and the names of guests Emile had entertained. After certain names were checkmarks, indicating what Monsieur or Madam had not liked. Ah … so that was the way it was done! Very clever. It took a lot of skill and planning to be a hostess, and Magda was going to be perfect if it killed her. If she could become Rubin’s equal, at least in such matters, he would be proud to introduce her to his family. And with all her new accomplishments, how could they not accept her? …She saw herself becoming a great hostess in London society. Why not? Why shouldn’t she become capable of that? As the Countess’s niece from Bucharest, wouldn’t Rubin’s family be proud of her? She would almost be royalty, after all. What if Rubin was engaged? So what? Engagements were broken all the time. …With the help of the Countess, she’d learn all the amenities. It wouldn’t take a hundred years. Ladies were created, that was what Rubin had said. And Magda’s confidence was being fortified each day with his compliments. She was on her way to becoming a woman of breeding.

  Rubin had planned it all, the itinerary of her education. The books, the ballet lessons, the fencing, the voice training, that was all it took. The Countess was so wise. Bucharest, indeed, was becoming less and less ugly.