Zoya

by Danielle Steel

  “We really ought to be thinking more about hats and shoes,” Zoya said pensively, as she closed her eyes and thought for a moment. “We have to give them more than just dresses and evening gowns and suits … that's always been our strength. The whole look they love so much.”

  “That's what you're so good at.” And then out of the blue, as she looked at the pretty woman in the mauve dress, her hair unleashed from its knot and cascading down her back like a child's, “Handsome, isn't he?”

  “Who?” Zoya opened her eyes in obvious confusion. She had been trying to decide if they should order their hats from Chanel to go with the suits, and if they should order some of her fabulous costume jewelry. Their clients had so many jewels of their own, she wasn't sure they'd understand the chic of what Chanel was doing.

  “The coat man from New York of course. If I were twenty years younger, I'd have grabbed him.” Zoya laughed at the image of the ladylike Axelle grabbing anyone. She could almost see the man flying into the room, tackled by Axelle, and she laughed at the thought again.

  “I'd like to see you do it.”

  “He's so rugged-looking, and he has a nice face. I like men like that.” He had been almost as tall as Clayton but much broader, but Zoya hadn't given him a thought since they'd left him. “I'll take you with me when I go to his showroom. Maybe he'll invite you out to dinner, after all you're both Russian.” She was teasing, but not entirely. She had seen the way he had looked at Zoya, and the interest on his face when he heard the title.

  “Don't be silly, Axelle. The poor man was just being polite.”

  “Afon oeil! My eye,” she said, as she wagged a finger at Zoya. “You're far too young to act like a nun. Do you ever go out with anyone?” It was the first time she had dared to ask her, but they were far from home, and it was easier to ask personal questions here, away from the shop, and their clients.

  “Never,” Zoya smiled, looking strangely peaceful. “Not since my husband died.”

  “But that's awful! How old are you now?” She had forgotten.

  “Thirty-seven. That's rather too old to act like a debutante. We see enough of those at the shop.” She laughed easily and Axelle narrowed her eyes in friendly disapproval, as Zoya poured her another cup of tea from the usual silver tray. The luxuries of the Ritz were becoming pleasantly addictive.

  “Don't be ridiculous!” she scolded, “at your age I had two lovers.” She looked mischievously at her young friend, “Unfortunately, both were married” But one of them had set her up with the shop. It was a rumor Zoya had heard before but had never lent much credence to. Perhaps it was true after all. “In fact,” she went on to add, “I see a very nice man in New York now. You can't just spend the rest of your life between the shop and your children. They'll grow up one day, and then what will you do?”

  Zoya laughed, but she appreciated Axelle's concern. “Work harder. There's no room in my life for a man, Axelle. I'm at the shop till six o'clock every night, and then I'm busy with Sasha and Nicky until nine or ten. By the time I bathe, read the newspapers, and an occasional book, it's all over. I'd fall asleep in my plate if anyone took me out.” Axelle knew how hard she worked, but she was sorry for her. There was an aching void in the younger woman's life, and Axelle wasn't even sure Zoya knew it.

  “Maybe I should fire you, for your own good,” the older woman teased, but they both knew there was no danger of that. Zoya was too important to her now. At last, she had found a safe harbor.

  But the next morning, when they went back to Dior again, to discuss shoes this time, they ran into Simon Hirsch getting out of a taxi at the same time they did.

  “We meet again, I see. I'd better be careful or you'll be selling the same coats I am!” But he didn't look worried. He cast an eye over Zoya again, this time in a bright pink linen suit that made her look almost girlish.

  “No danger of that, Mr. Hirsch,” Axelle assured him, “we've come back to discuss shoes.”

  “Thank heaven.” He followed them in, and they met again on the way out, and this time all three of them laughed. “Maybe we should combine our schedules, just to save time and money on taxis.” He smiled at Zoya, and then glanced at his watch. He was well dressed, with obviously handmade English shoes, and a very good-looking suit, and the watch on his wrist was one he had just bought at Cartier. “Do you ladies have time for lunch, or are you too busy?”

  Zoya had been about to decline, when Axelle startled her by accepting. And without halting for a beat, Simon Hirsch hailed a cab, and gave him the address of the new George V Hotel.

  “They do a very nice lunch. I stayed there the last time I was in Paris.” He looked serious then, as they approached the hotel just off the Champs-Élysées. “I went to Germany then, it was only a year ago, but I'm not going back this time. It was extremely unpleasant.” He didn't elaborate as they got out, and when they reached the dining room, the headwaiter took them to an excellent table. They ordered lunch and he asked Axelle if they were going anywhere else, but she said they only had time for Paris.

  “I bought some beautiful fabrics in England and Scotland before I came, for my men's line. Beautiful goods,” he said, as he ordered wine, and Zoya sat back quietly in her chair and watched him. “I won't set foot back in Germany though,” he mentioned again. “Not with all this business with Hitler.”

  “Do you think he's really doing the things they say?” Zoya had heard about his hostility to the Jews, but she wasn't quite sure she believed it.

  “I don't think there's any doubt. The Nazis have created an atmosphere of anti-Semitism that permeates the whole country. They're almost afraid to talk to you these days. I think it's going to lead to some very serious trouble.” His eyes were quiet but angry, as Zoya slowly nodded.

  “It seems difficult to believe.” But so was the revolution.

  “That kind of insanity always is. My family left Russia because of the pogroms. And now it's starting here, in a subtler way, of course, but not much. There's nothing very subtle about going after Jews,” his eyes burned with quiet fire, as the two women listened. And then, as though to change the subject, he turned to Zoya with a quiet smile of interest. “When did you leave Russia, Countess?”

  “Please,” she blushed in embarrassment, “call me Zoya. In ‘real life,’ my name is Zoya Andrews.” Their eyes met and held, and she looked away for a moment before answering his question. “I left Russia in 1917. Just after the revolution.”

  “It must have been a painful time for you. Did your family go with you?”

  “Only my grandmother.” She was able to talk about it now. It had taken almost twenty years for her to do that. “The others were killed before we left, most of them. And some a year later.” He didn't realize she was referring to the Tsar, it never occurred to him that she was that well connected.

  “Did you go to New York then?”

  “No,” she smiled pleasantly as the waiter poured their wine. It was a fine 1926 wine, which Simon had ordered. “We came to Paris. I lived here for two years before I married and went to New York with my husband.” His eyes searched for the wedding ring, and saw with dismay that it was still on her finger, but Axelle noticed it too, and knew Zoya well enough to foresee that she wouldn't explain any further.

  “The Countess is a widow” she provided helpfully, and Zoya shot her a look of annoyance.

  “I'm sorry,” he offered politely, but it was obvious that he was interested in the information. “Do you have children?”

  “Two, a son and a daughter.” She looked proud as she said it, and he smiled. “And you, Mr. Hirsch?” She was merely being polite as they waited for lunch, but Axelle looked very satisfied at the conversation. She liked him, and it was obvious that he was very taken with Zoya. “Do you have children too?”

  “No,” he smiled and shook his head regretfully, “Never married, and no children. I haven't had time. I've been building a business for the past twenty years. Most of my relatives work for me. My father just retir
ed last year, I think my mother has finally given up. I think she figures that if I haven't married at forty, there's not much hope left. She used to drive me crazy. I'm her only son, only child, and she wanted ten grandchildren or something like that.” Zoya smiled wistfully, remembering her earlier conversations with Mashka, talking about how many children they wanted. She had wanted six, and Mashka four or five, but neither of their lives had happened as they had expected.

  “You'll probably marry in a few years and surprise her with quintuplets.”

  Simon Hirsch pretended to choke on his wine, and then looked amused. “I'll have to tell her that, or maybe it'll just get her started again.” And then their meal arrived, delicate quenelles for Axelle, and quail for Zoya. He had ordered a steak, and apologized for his American palate. “‘Am I allowed to ask you ladies about your buying trip, or is that all very hush-hush?”’ Zoya smiled and glanced at Axelle who seemed very relaxed, and answered for her.

  “I don't think we need have too many secrets from you, Mr. Hirsch, except perhaps about our coats.” They all laughed, and Zoya told him about some of what they'd bought, particularly the sweaters from Schiaparelli.

  “That new pullover she's doing is sensational,” Zoya said, looking pleased. “And the shoes we ordered today at Dior are just lovely.”

  “I'll have to come and see it all when it arrives. Did you buy any of Elsa's new Shocking Pink?” He had liked the color a lot and was planning to duplicate it in his line, and he wondered what Zoya thought of it.

  “I'm not sure what I think of that yet. It's a little strong for some of our clients.”

  “I think it's a great look.”

  Zoya smiled, it was so odd to think of this rugged man, who looked more like a football player, discussing Elsa Schiaparelli's Shocking Pink, but there was no doubt that his coats were the best made in the States, and it was obvious he had an eye for fashion and color and he knew what he was doing. “My father was a tailor,” he explained, “and his father before him. And he started Hirsch and Co., with his two brothers on the Lower East Side. They made clothes and coats for the people they knew, and then someone on Seventh Avenue heard about them, and started ordering goods from them, and my father figured to hell with that,” he glanced apologetically at Zoya, who was too intrigued by the tale to care about his language, “he moved to Seventh Avenue, and opened a workroom there himself, and when I came into it I turned everything upside down, with something called fashion. We had some terrific fights over it, and when my uncles retired, I really got my hand into it, with English wools, and some colors that almost made my father cry. We got into ladies’ coats then, and well, for the last ten years we've done pretty much what I thought we should from the first. It's a good look, particularly now that Pop has retired and I'm bringing in new designs from Paris.”

  “It's an interesting history, Mr. Hirsch,” Axelle said. It was the kind of story that had built the success of their adopted country. “Your coats are beautiful. We've done very well with them.”

  “I'm happy to hear it.” He smiled, he was a man at ease in his own skin. He was enormously successful, and he had done it all almost single-handedly. “My father swore I'd ruin the business. It was a real vote of confidence when he retired last year, and now he pretends he's not interested anymore. But whenever I go out, my tailors and cutters tell me that he sneaks in and patrols the workrooms.” Zoya laughed at the image he created, and he turned to her again. “And you, Countess … sorry, Zoya … how did you get to Axelle's?”

  “Oh,” she laughed, feeling oddly at ease with him, and closer to Axelle than she had before, “by a long, hard road.” Her face grew serious then. “We lost everything in the Crash,” she said it honestly, and Axelle knew that much anyway. “Overnight, we were destitute, our two homes had to be sold, our furniture, my clothes and furs, even our china.” It was the first time she had actually spoken of it to Axelle, and she seemed at ease as she said it. “I had two children to support, and virtually no skills. I danced with the Ballet Russe here in Paris, during the war, and with another ballet company as well, but in 1929, I was thirty years old, and a little too old to join the ballet again.” She looked at them both with an amused smile, and Axelle was in no way prepared for what she heard next. “I applied to the Ziegfeld Follies, but I wasn't tall enough, so I got a job dancing in a burlesque hall.” Axelle's jaw almost dropped, and Simon Hirsch looked at her with intense respect. Not many women would have gone from riches to rags so courageously, or admitted that they'd worked in a dance hall. “That must surprise you, Axelle. No one knows that, not even my children. It was awful. I worked there for a year and a half, hating every minute of it, and one night,” her eyes still filled with tears at the memory, “there was a terrible fire when I was at work, and I almost lost my children. They are all that matters to me, and I knew I couldn't leave them alone at night anymore, so I packed up what was left in two boxes, moved to a hotel, borrowed a hundred dollars from a friend, and knocked on Axelle's door. I don't think she ever knew how desperate I was,” she looked gratefully at her friend, as Axelle tried to absorb what she had just heard, she wanted to cry just hearing it, “and I was very lucky, she hired me. And there I have been ever since, and always will be, I hope.” She smiled at the two listeners, unaware of how much she'd moved them both, especially Simon, “And they all lived happily ever after.”

  “That's quite a story.” He stared at her in open amazement and Axelle delicately dabbed at her eyes with a lace hankie.

  “Why didn't you tell me then?”

  “I was afraid you wouldn't hire me. I would have done anything to get that job. I even came to you and flaunted my title, something I'd never done before.” She laughed good-humoredly then, “If I had, I'm sure they would have had me bumping and grinding as someone shouted from backstage, ‘And our very own Countess!’” All three of them laughed, but Zoya more easily than the others. The others were too impressed by the tale to laugh at her, and only Axelle knew how unkind people would have been if they had known Countess Ossupov had danced in a burlesque hall. “You do what you have to do in life. During the war here, some of our friends actually caught pigeons in the park and ate them.” Simon wondered at what else she had lived through. The revolution had to have been a brutal blow, with all of her family killed before she escaped. There was more to her than met the eye, in her pretty pink linen suit. A lot more. And he wanted to know all of it. He was sorry to see the lunch come to an end, and he dropped them off at the Ritz on his way to see the representative from a French mill, from whom he was ordering more fabric.

  He shook hands with Zoya as she stood beside the cab, and he watched her long and hard as he drove away, thinking of what an incredible woman she was. He wanted to know everything about her now, how she had escaped, how she had survived, what her favorite color was, her dog's name, her worst fears when she'd been a child. It seemed crazy to him, but in the space of one short afternoon, he knew he had fallen in love with the woman of his dreams. It had taken him forty years, but on an afternoon in Paris, three thousand miles from home, he had found her.

  CHAPTER

  36

  Zoya saw their trip come to an end with regret. They had had a good time, and on their last night, they had dinner at the Cordon Bleu, and strolled slowly back to the hotel, as Axelle urged her to get a good night's sleep, and thanked her for all her help in selecting the fall line for the shop. She was still stunned at the story Zoya had told at lunch at the George V with Simon Hirsch several days before. It gave her fresh respect for Zoya's courage.

  They hadn't run into him again, and Zoya wondered if he was still there. She had dropped him a note, thanking him for lunch, and wishing him luck on the rest of his trip, and they had been busy finishing their own business after that. They had bought the rest of the hats, and finally some of the jewelry at Chanel, and on the last day, Zoya had gone shopping for the children. She had actually found the red dress Sasha wanted, and she bought Nicholas a beauti
ful jacket, and a coat, some books in French, which he spoke beautifully, and a little gold watch at Cartier, which had reminded her of Clayton's. And she bought Sasha a lovely French doll, and a pretty little gold bracelet. Her bags were laden down with the things she'd bought for them, and already packed, in preparation for the trip back to Le Havre the next morning. But there was something she was planning to do that night, which she didn't tell Axelle. The next day was Russian Easter, and she had decided, after much debate, to go to midnight mass at the Russian cathedral of St. Alexander Nevsky. It was a decision that had been painful to make. She had gone there in the past with Clayton and Vladimir, and Evgenia. But she knew she couldn't leave Paris without going back once more. It was as though part of her was still there, and she wouldn't be free until she went back and faced it. She would never go home again, St. Petersburg was long gone for her, but this last piece of what her life had been had to be touched, and held, and felt one last time, before she could go back to New York and her children.

  She bid Axelle good night, and at eleven-thirty, she was downstairs, and hailed a taxi. She gave the driver the address on the rue Daru, and when she saw it, she caught her breath … it was still the same … nothing had changed since that Christmas Eve long ago when she had gone there with her grandmother and Clayton.

  The service was as lovely as she remembered it, as she stood solemnly with die other Russians, singing and taking part in the service, holding her candle high as she cried silently, missing all of them again, yet feeling them close to her. She felt sad, but strangely at peace as she stood in the cathedral afterward, and watched the others, chatting quietly outside, and then suddenly she saw a familiar face, much aged, and worn, but she was sure it was Vladimir's daughter, Yelena. She didn't speak to her as she left, she only walked quietly down the steps, and looked up into the night sky with a smile, wishing them well, the souls who had once been part of her life. … She hailed a taxi, and went back to the hotel, feeling older than she had in a long time, and when she went to bed she cried, but they were the clean tears of grief that time had healed, and was now only sometimes remembered.