The Secret Life of Violet Grant

by Beatriz Williams

  • • •

  VIOLET WAKES to the sound of splashing water. Through the open wedge of the bathroom door, she sees Lionel standing before the sink, beautifully naked, brute-boned and muscular, shaving his face with efficient strokes of his razor. She stretches pleasurably, enthralled by the intimacy of this domestic act. He catches her gaze in the mirror and smiles. “Awake at last?”

  “It can’t be that long, can it?”

  “Three hours, sleepyhead. It’s past ten o’clock.” He finishes, cleans the blade, pats his face dry with a towel. “I’ve ordered breakfast. It should be up any minute.”

  “Good. I’m awfully hungry.”

  “You should be.” He hangs the towel on the rack and emerges from the bathroom to sit next to her on the tousled bed. His black hair has been sleeked back from his face with a wet comb. He rests his hand on her hip. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh, don’t do that.”

  “What we should do next.”

  She smiles and wiggles her toes. “I have a few ideas.”

  But Lionel doesn’t laugh. “We have to leave Berlin, Violet. As soon as possible. You know we can’t stay.”

  “No, of course not.” She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. Her body is loose and heavy from the warm bath, from Lionel’s lovemaking, and the soft feather-scented nap afterward. “I shall have to divorce Walter.”

  “The sooner the better, I think.”

  “As soon as I can speak to a lawyer.”

  “Well, you’ve plenty of grounds. But we’ll have to do it in London. We’ll have to leave, in any case; I daresay they’ll be expelling us shortly, if the situation gets any touchier. Or worse, interning us.” He pauses. “What are you thinking, Violet?”

  “I was thinking that I should probably apply to Rutherford’s laboratory, in Manchester. I suppose Walter has too much influence at the Devonshire; they’ll never take me back.”

  “Actually, I imagine it’s quite the opposite.”

  She turns her head to look at him. “The opposite?”

  “I mean he’s still in disgrace there, the last I heard.”

  Violet heaves herself up to a sitting position and holds the sheets illogically to her chest. “Disgrace? What do you mean? Are they angry because he left them for Berlin?”

  The skin flexes below Lionel’s right eye. He studies her for a moment, and says, “Do you mean you don’t know? You’ve no idea?”

  “About what?” She grips his bare knee. “About what, Lionel?”

  “Violet, he was thrown out. You didn’t know that? When you left. Someone had told the trustees about you, that he’d seduced you.” His hand covers hers. “That you were with child by him.”

  Violet whispers: “Yes, I was. But nobody knew, except for me and Walter. Well, and . . .” She frowns. “But he wouldn’t have said anything, would he? He couldn’t, he would have been risking everything—”

  “Who, Violet?”

  “The doctor. The doctor Walter sent me to.” She doesn’t say, To get rid of the baby.

  Lionel looks at her earnestly, as if he knows she’s holding something back. But he’s a gentleman, he doesn’t ask. Instead he allows a patient pause and says: “Violet, Grant was thrown out. I know it beyond a doubt. I expect they only helped him with the Kaiser Wilhelm to keep things quiet.”

  She watches Lionel’s face blankly, hollowed out, bewildered. “That’s why he married me. That was their condition. Their dirty bargain.”

  “Not so dirty, I think. They were only trying to protect you.”

  “If they wanted to protect me, they should have kept me away from him.” Violet stares at her hands, enclosed in Lionel’s. They are not a lady’s hands. They have been tried and tested in a chemical laboratory, and despite her youth there are tiny wrinkles about the knuckles, callouses about the pads of her fingers and thumbs. “I lost the baby anyway.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “You sound as if you mean that.”

  “I do. I gather you wanted it?”

  Her eyes well. “Yes. Not at first, but later. And then it was gone.”

  Violet expects him to fill her ears with idiotic platitudes. Well, we’ll have one of our own, or Don’t worry, darling, I’ll give you all the babies you want. She remembers lying in bed, with all that sterile white linen stuffed between her legs, and the doctor above her with his expression of professional sympathy. Never fear, Frau Grant, you’ll have another. But she hadn’t wanted another. She’d wanted this one, her baby.

  Lionel’s thumbs move, but he doesn’t speak. She imagines what he’s thinking, the obvious fact that Lionel and Violet have mated in utmost passion, entirely without restriction. No sheepskin condoms from Charlottenstrasse, no useless vinegar douches, no last-instant withdrawal or precarious tabulation of dates.

  “Have you had any children?” she asks.

  “No. God, no. I’m not . . . I’ve been careful.”

  “Except with me.”

  “Except with you.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t look at her, doesn’t demand her attention. He doesn’t tell her why, of all women, she is his exception. He doesn’t ask her any of the questions that must be burning in his head: why, for example, she and Walter didn’t have another child. Whether she wants a child with him, Lionel.

  Instead, he says, “Violet, in case I haven’t made things clear. I do mean to marry you, if you’ll have me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, you understand, or yes, you’ll have me?”

  She looks back up at him. “Both.”

  “Good, then.” He exhales. “In the interim, however, I suppose I should exercise a bit more caution. My fault. The heat of the moment and all that.”

  “Yes, of course.” And Violet knows, in that moment, that she does not want to be careful. She wants to be thoroughly reckless. She wants the possibility of life, of some mark of permanence between them, some proof that she and Lionel once existed and were in love and lay joyfully together.

  A knock sounds. Zimmerservice, calls a voice through the wood and plaster.

  “Breakfast,” says Lionel. “Thank God.”

  • • •

  LIONEL HELPS HER DRESS; she buttons his waistcoat and manages, after several tries, to knot his necktie properly. “Not that I wouldn’t rather spend the day shamelessly in bed with you,” he says, picking up his hat, “but I’ve a few loose ends to tie up, if we’re to leave tomorrow. You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. I have to pay a visit to the laboratory. There won’t be many people there, it’s shutting up for August any day, but I want to gather my things and say good-bye.”

  “I’ll drive you, then.” He holds out his hand to her, and she takes it.

  They drive in silence to Dahlem. Lionel keeps his hands on the wheel, his eyes on the road. Violet keeps to her side of the seat and crosses her hands in her lap. It’s a fine day, hot and clear, and the patches of shade look unbearably inviting. “What sort of loose ends?” asks Violet.

  “Oh, the usual.” He changes gears with an expert thrust of his hand. “Bidding friends good-bye. Check in with Goschen on the war situation, see if there’s any news from my regiment. Whether I’m being called back yet. And I’ve got to return the motor, of course.”

  Violet shuts her eyes and sees him in uniform, resplendent with khaki and shining leather. The image is so alien, and yet this is his life. His profession, the genuine Lionel. “Who’s Goschen?”

  “Sir Edward Goschen. The British ambassador in Berlin.”

  “As high as all that? What circles you move in.”

  “He’s a friend of my father’s. He’s been splendidly useful since I arrived, introductions and smoothing channels and all that.”

  “Naturally.” Violet looks to the side, where the buildings slide past Lionel’s borrowed autom
obile, giving way to blocks of abundant summer green, as Berlin drifts into the suburbs.

  “Darling, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she says, as she might say to Walter, but then she remembers this isn’t Walter. This is Lionel, and he might actually care what she thinks. “Nothing reasonable, anyway. I had a chilling sense of familiarity just now.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My parents were very good friends with the British ambassador in America.”

  “Were they, now? That would have been Bryce, wouldn’t it? James Bryce.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I personally find the chap intolerable.” The white new-built edifice of the institute rises up from the block ahead, lined with young trees. Lionel breezes through the empty intersection and slows the car.

  Violet laughs. “So did I.”

  “You see, then?” The car rolls to a stop next to the curb. Lionel sets the brake and jumps out to open her door. “We’re straight, aren’t we, Violet? As you Americans say. We understand each other. You know I want you to be happy.”

  His eyes are a serious gray. Violet leans forward and kisses him good-bye, right there in the open, in front of the entrance to the institute. “I believe you.”

  “I’ll come for you later to take you home. Back to the hotel, I mean, to pack up. Is four o’clock all right?”

  To pack up. To leave with Lionel on the morning train out of Berlin, to run away with her lover. Or hadn’t she already done that? Already given up everything and crossed the frontier.

  “Four o’clock is fine,” she says.

  • • •

  VIOLET CHECKS all the offices, but only Max Planck is still there at his desk. She can see him through the glass, his bowed head and lined face. His secretary’s chair is empty. Violet pokes her head around the door. “Herr Planck?”

  “Frau Grant. I thought you were in Wittenberg.” He takes off his glasses, rises, and makes a gesture of welcome.

  “I came back early. I . . . I regret to say that I’ve come to tender my resignation, such as it is.” She holds out the ridiculous piece of paper, which relinquishes her title to a post that never really officially existed.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can say to change your mind? I hope it’s not this wretched situation in the Balkans.” He braces his fingers against the edge of the desk. In the overbright electric light, his eyes are heavy and shadowed, his forehead lined.

  “That’s part of it, I suppose, but the real reason is that I’ve left Walter. I’ve left Dr. Grant. I thought I should tell you first; I don’t intend to hide it.” She says all this in a rush, as a single defiant sentence.

  “I see.” He looks down and fingers his glasses. “Thank you for telling me. May I be perfectly candid?”

  “I hope you will.”

  He looks up again. “I’m overjoyed to hear it. I hope you’ll let me know if there’s anything at all I can do for you. Letters, recommendations, anything.”

  Violet curls her fingernails into her palms. It doesn’t work; her eyes fill anyway. “Thank you, Herr Planck. I appreciate that tremendously. I’ll write, of course, once I’ve settled what to do. I . . . I am deeply grateful for my time here at the institute.”

  “No more grateful than we were to have you.” He holds out his hand. “I wish you all the happiness in the world, Frau Grant. I hope our paths meet again.”

  • • •

  VIOLET FINDS her cramped office, her tiny desk. The space is hot and musty, smelling of rubber and old pencil shavings. Everything is in perfect order; she had already tied off her own loose ends before departing for Wittenberg. The office itself contains very little: no photographs, no personal items, only papers and journals and a few instruments. She opens a drawer and finds her familiar slide rule, the one she brought with her from New York, its paint faded from use. She fingers the worn wood and slips it in her jacket pocket, and when her hand withdraws, it holds the small leather-covered notebook from Walter’s study. On the lower right corner, the number 1912 is stamped in gold.

  She places the diary on the desk before her and closes her eyes.

  Just open it. Just look.

  She has no right. She’s stolen it, Walter’s private thoughts, to which he has every right. If she kept a diary, a personal journal of some kind, she would be outraged to find Walter reading it.

  But the suspicion will not quiet. If she doesn’t answer it now, she may never have another opportunity. And isn’t this her affair, as well?

  She places her fingers on the smooth leather and opens her eyes.

  4 January. Fucked V in my office (desk), then again at home. What a fine snug cunt she has, very supple and muscular, lovely clipping motion when she spends (not often).

  5 January. Fucked V briskly on waking, went to laboratory in excellent humor. How she refreshes me, the eager young child. Argument with D—d on procedure for thorium isolation, the usual wrong-headed rubbish. Out to lunch. Looked for B—e at Crown, did not see her.

  6 January. Crown again for lunch (curious about B—e—is she fucking someone?). Found her in kitchen. Old N-d suspicious apparently and sent her out for errands y’day when I arrived. Took her upstairs and had a glorious uprighter in linen cupboard—ha! She spent copiously. How I love her big fleshy thighs and bum, tho my current lech is for V and her childlike little cunt. No V this evening, experiment running late. Nearly returned to Crown for B—e but went home instead. Sent note to V to come to Norham Gardens when finished.

  7 January. V arrived at ten o’clock last night, rather tired and listless, but after sweetened by brandy and kisses (kisses will warm up the coldest cunt) let me fuck her, a long voluptuous fuck as seconds are, resulting in spend for V. Arrived late at laboratory. D—d stormed into my office before lunch and said he’d had a note from a friend who saw me with V at Ritz at New Year. Assumed outraged aspect and told him he was an idiot. V busy all day but came by Nham Gdns after dark. Had her twice before midnight, very credibly, once from behind (waking her up), tho she would not spend. Slept like an anvil afterward, completely fucked out.

  Violet sets down the leather notebook. She is dizzy; there are actual spots appearing before her eyes, in between her brain and the black scribble of Walter’s private thoughts. Another word, and she will vomit on the institute’s sanitary linoleum floor.

  “Frau Grant! Are you all right?”

  Violet staggers to her feet, interposing herself between the door and Walter’s diary, as if to shield the world from her disgrace.

  “Quite all right, thank you.”

  It’s one of the laboratory assistants, a young man with pale hair and earnest blue eyes. “You look white, Frau Grant. Quite ill.”

  “It’s the heat, I suppose.”

  The young man hurries to the tiny window and struggles to open it. Violet opens her mouth to protest, but there’s no voice inside, no will at all. She sinks to her seat and watches him heave at the sash, until the heat-swollen wood gives way at last and the glass jumps upward with a bang.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “Yes, please.”

  When he returns with the water, she takes a small sip, and another. She is calmer now, her head clear. She remembers that night she came home late from the laboratory, when Walter was waiting for her. January the sixth, apparently; how strange that dates only become significant in hindsight. He was so coaxing and affectionate. He had a glass of brandy waiting for her, and a bit of cake. When he made love to her, so slowly and surely, she thought for the first time that she might actually be in love with him, that this must certainly be love: a man who waited for her with brandy and cake and made love with such amorous invention.

  Violet rises and circles about her cage; she braces her hands on the window frame and breathes in t
he hot air from the courtyard. A little gust stirs her hair. She sits down and sips her water and opens the diary, flipping through the pages until she finds April.

  This time her head is sharp. She’s reading about some other girl, some poor deluded fool who thinks she’s so very much more clever and sophisticated than she really is.

  24 April. Delivered paper to great success. Banquet followed, excellent wine. Went out afterward with H—n and F—y, fine time. F—y knew of decent house nearby, very pleasing girls, found a jolly fleshy hot-cunted one of perhaps seventeen and fucked her twice in an hour (feat not managed since first night with V, and before that not for a year at least—thus middle age!). Slept a little, had her again with some effort, returned to hotel at 3. V asleep.

  25 April. Woke with prick standing, by G-d. Lovely comfortable fuck, V delightfully accommodating. Managed an heroic spend. Afterward V told me she might be in a family way. The devil. Told her she should take care of it back in Oxford, she said she would not, the fool. Resolved not to try her again until condition is confirmed. There is no arguing with women in that state.

  Violet flips forward a few pages.

  2 May. V returned from Dr. W—w determined to keep child. No argument would move her, the wretch. Left in fury and went directly to Dr. W—w. What the devil had he said to her? I used very forceful language to make myself clear, that I might go to authorities if he did not convince V of necessity for taking care of things. He resisted passionately. D—n all doctors.

  3 May. Devil in it. Message from D—d and trustees this morning. Met with them directly after lunch. That b—d Dr W—w has apparently told them all. Am to marry V and tender resignation; they will assist me in finding place on the Continent if I comply. Marriage!!!! D—n Dr W—w.

  4 May. Went to see V last night. Secured her agreement, then hard and satisfying fuck on floor, tho she did not like it. Still in bad humor so went to Crown afterward but B—e out. D—n all women.