Blood Ties

by Warren Adler

  When the group was seated, the buzz of conversation started again. The three-piece orchestra began playing dance music and one of the couples, Frederick and his wife, began to dance. Albert rose, walked the complete circle to Dawn's place and guided her out of the chair. In the process, he had smiled reassuringly at Olga, a sign not lost on Dawn.

  "Must I?" she whispered. But she obeyed.

  Without a word, he led her to the Baron's place.

  "May I present Dawn Frank, Father." The old man lifted his head, nodding lightly, making no effort to charm. After an appropriate silence, he turned toward his aunt, who had kept her eyes fixed on her plate. "And my Aunt Karla, the Countess von Berghoff." An old arm moved, the flesh heavy, jingling a clutch of bracelets.

  "So good to meet you both," Dawn said, the words hesitant.

  Then Albert moved her away toward the dance floor, gathering her slender body against his, moving gracefully along the polished dance floor.

  "Feel better now?" he asked, sensing the eyes watching them. She pressed against him, as if the act would assure her visible claim among those speculating their future. He endured it for a moment, then moved outward, lengthening his arms.

  "I had every right to complain."

  "I'm sorry." He did not want to be cruel. He sensed Olga watching him and his eyes drifted toward her. He smiled an acknowledgment.

  "Your interest in her is obvious to everyone," Dawn said with an implicit challenge.

  "It is purely familial," he protested without conviction. He could understand her agitation, considering prior events. He was, apparently, a bad actor.

  "I'm being a bore. I know I'm being a bore," Dawn said.

  He was fighting with himself to endure this. There was already too much tension in the room. Tomorrow he would have to resolve the matter with Rudi. His father's obvious impending death would make enormous changes in his life. Later, he would have to tell Dawn the truth, then send her home. At best the von Kassel reunions were exercises in family chauvinism. It was all a set piece, a charade. He had never been able to throw himself into the spirit of it. It was enough to get through this without extraneous annoyances.

  "It's just that I feel things changing, Albert. I don't mean to be a jealous..." She paused. "...lover. Is that term still appropriate? I still love you, Albert. You know that. But I feel things are changing. Are they?" It was a question begging for an answer.

  "Dawn. This is hardly the place." But he knew that no place on earth was the right environment for rejection.

  She tried to move closer, but his arm stiffened.

  "Just try to behave," he said with resignation. She had obviously had too much to drink.

  "I will," she said. "I will be very careful. I will not embarrass you."

  "I am not concerned with my own embarrassment." He was sorry to have said it. The touch of sarcasm was not needed, not now. It would set her off.

  "Then what are you concerned with?" she asked snidely.

  "Dawn," he snapped. Then moved her closer to him. "You're itching for a scene, aren't you?" This time it was she who moved away. They twirled in the direction of the orchestra, then faced each other, their feet moving at half-rhythm.

  "Precious von Kassels. You're all insufferable. A Jew can smell the stench for miles."

  "Not that. Surely not that."

  He continued to smile for the benefit of the watchful eyes. She was quite capable of creating a terrible scene, especially if she was in her cups. Once she had turned over a table in one of New York's poshest restaurants at the height of the dinner hour. He could not recall the reason; some fit of jealousy.

  "What's good for the gander, is also good for the goose."

  Her head rolled back and her long hair swept over one shoulder, a defiant gesture.

  "I should never have brought you," he said finally. The thought seemed to sober her.

  "I'll behave, Albert. Really, I'll behave."

  "I hope so."

  "You don't love me, do you?"

  "Not here, Dawn. Please not here."

  "Tell me. You don't love me? We're finished."

  "My God, Dawn. Later. We'll discuss it later."

  "Of course, later." A tiny sob gurgled, a bleat. He felt pity again.

  "And please, Dawn. Let's get through this dinner without your making an ass of yourself."

  "Me? Little me? Innocent Dawn?" He moved her in a wide circle around the room. Other couples had risen to join them. They nodded politely to each other. Siegfried moved clumsily with Heather, winking at them as he drew close. Albert brought Dawn back to her place, then moved back to his own. She glared at him across the table. Then she emptied her wine glass and held it up for the waiter to refill.

  "Is that one, the one?" a voice asked beside him. It was Mimi, Rudi's wife. Up close the drama of her makeup seemed lost in the grease of eye shadow. Her lips were painted thickly bright red, and a bit of the shrimp salad hung precariously on the lower lip's edge.

  "No." He said it flatly, hoping it would discourage conversation. But Mimi pressed on. He was determined not to ask her to dance. The image of her big breasts pressed against him was an obscenity.

  "The Baron would welcome it." He could feel her resentment and hostility. It was an old story. She blamed him for Rudi's secondary status. He looked across the table and watched Rudi, dividing his time politely between Dawn, whose smoldering anger was overlaid now with an alcoholic edge, and Heather, whose boredom was obvious.

  Rudi had always been the plodding put-upon middle son, an object of ridicule. When they were boys home on vacation in the somber manor house at Baden-Baden, he seemed the dullard by comparison to his brighter brothers. Siegfried had quickly shown the path he would take, the eccentric one, the outsider. Their father had, long ago, accepted that disappointment. After all, there was always Albert, brilliant Albert. It had never occurred to any of them that Rudi would challenge Albert's role. Now knowing himself, Albert accepted that logic. Perhaps Rudi was actually a better choice to steer the family into the next generation ... if that ever came.

  Albert had determined to postpone thinking about it, let the confrontation come. The Baron was committed to a single idea? That the von Kassels were invulnerable? Hadn't history, as the Baron had lectured many times, proved the ability of the von Kassels to survive everything? Everything! He shivered and reached for his glass.

  "Don't you think Rudi looks marvelous?" Mimi asked with a full mouth.

  He looked up at his brother's face, the flesh soft, the jowls heavy.

  "Yes. He looks marvelous," he lied.

  The music stopped. Waiters removed the soup course and served the fish. White wine was poured. Across the room at the kitchen's entrance, Hans inspected each dish as it came out. The Baron, pale and tired, his parchment face surveying the gathering of von Kassels, ate little, sipping from a water glass.

  "...Much smarter than he looks," Mimi said suddenly. "He rarely gets credit for his talents." It was a familiar refrain; more sardonic than usual. Mimi had never lost a moment to lobby for her husband. Albert sensed the sexual domination of their relationship, imagining the act of copulation between his brother and this woman as a battle scene in which his brother was always the vanquished and his sister-in-law the victor.

  Conscious of Mimi's non-stop talk, he knew he was smiling at her, offering an occasional nod but without understanding. Suddenly he became conscious of another demand for his attention. Looking across the table, his eyes met Olga's and he held them there.

  He was also alert to Mimi's penetrating stare as she caught him in the act of contemplating Olga.

  "Now there is danger." Mimi's words speared into his consciousness amid the cacophony of her sounds. Even she had paused, as if she might have suddenly come to the heart of the matter.

  "Danger?"

  "Why has she come?" There was no pause for his answer. "And how did they let her out of Russia?"

  "I assume..."

  Mimi lowered her voice.
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  "She is KGB. No doubt about it."

  "Really, Mimi."

  "Rudi smells it as well."

  "KGB?"

  "They would love to know all about us. Our business dealings. They would love to pierce our inner circle."

  He wanted to laugh in her face. He always assumed that the KGB and the CIA as well as the myriad intelligence services of other countries monitored their operation. Sometimes they would actually be brokering goods for them. Pure jealousy and greed, he decided. Mimi did not like to share her fruits with anyone, especially a long lost relative. But her hostility had taken a particularly virulent form.

  "She is dangerous, I tell you," she assured him.

  Siegfried rose with Dawn and they were quickly undulating closely on the dance floor. Dismissing Mimi with a wry smile, he stood up and moved toward Olga. Peripherally he could see a sudden high flush on Mimi's face as her anger rose.

  "Would you care to dance?" he asked.

  Olga looked at him, then at Aleksandr, who still huddled close.

  "He could always dance with one of these lovely little things," Albert said, caressing the hair of one of his twin nieces. He could not tell which one.

  "With him?" the one that he had caressed whispered.

  "Yuk," the other hissed.

  "Lovely creatures, don't you think?" he asked, but he had shot them both a sharp look and they had responded with lowered eyes.

  "Oh all right," one of them said.

  The little boy shook his head and looked into his plate.

  "He'll be all right," Albert soothed. Olga bent, kissed his forehead and rose. He moved close to her, felt the outlines of her body, sensed the beginning of desire. And more. He knew the signs, resisting them.

  "I warn you. I'm a terrible dancer," she said.

  "Just follow the rhythm. And me."

  "When I was a girl, I did a great deal of dancing, but Wolfgang was not interested in such things." The music was slow and they moved within a small circle. He could hear Dawn's drunken giggle beside him.

  "What kind of man was my uncle?" he asked.

  "Introspective. A quiet man. Tranquil."

  "That was the attraction?" His inflection gave away his curiosity. Why did this beautiful woman marry such an old man? Present circumstances did not explain the original motivation.

  "They are good traits." She smiled and he felt her closeness, the special scent of her. Her hair was soft against his cheek. He wondered if she was teasing.

  "Shall I call you Aunt Olga?" he said, testing the humor.

  "If you like."

  "Will it make you feel uncomfortable?"

  "Yes." She laughed.

  Moving slowly, he turned, saw Siegfried caressing Dawn's bare back as they danced.

  "Well, what do you think of this jolly group?" Albert asked.

  "I'm not sure," she said.

  "What did my uncle tell you about us?"

  "A great deal."

  "Within the family, he was rarely mentioned. Except in some unfavorable context. It was a bit of a shock ... his surfacing after so many years. Surely you must know how the Baron feels about the Russians."

  "Wolfgang made it quite clear."

  He felt the warmth of her cheek against his, the electric reaction of his own body as he moved with her.

  "And what do you think of us now?" he asked, determined to mask his excitement.

  "It is too early to tell." She hesitated, then searched his face. "I am still observing everyone through Wolfgang's eyes. I am still fitting personalities into the myth. He could not get the family out of his mind."

  "After all those years?"

  "That was the curious part. He railed and ranted about them. Sometimes I felt that was the only thing on his mind. To sustain such fervor! That was quite something...."

  Her voice diminished as they moved past the musicians. He could not decipher whether or not she was being sarcastic.

  "And your family?" he asked.

  "Gone. All dead."

  "Then we are your only family," he said stupidly.

  She did not respond. He wondered whether he had implied something offensive to her. Damned von Kassel trait, he thought, labeling people with motives.

  "You have every right being here, you know," he said when the silence became burdensome. There was a momentary break in the rhythm of her steps.

  "I never questioned that," she said, showing her sensitivity. "Your aunt's welcome has been almost affectionate, especially to Aleksandr."

  "That's surprising," he said lightly. Beyond the levity was a tug of suspicion. Being affectionate was not his aunt's normal guise.

  "Why so?" He had piqued her curiosity.

  Remaining silent, he ignored the question. She did not press him, and they continued to dance. But the unanswered questions remained and multiplied. He felt comforted by the contrived embrace of the dance and disappointed by the musicians' pause as the piece they were playing ended.

  "We must talk further," he said, leading her back to her place.

  "Yes. We must."

  Back in his own seat, he watched the tangled little dramas at the other side of the table. Dawn, her giggle now high pitched, continued to slosh wine. The waiters were attentive. Every sip was quickly replaced. Heather glared malignantly at Siegfried, whose interest in Dawn was now obvious to her. Albert observed it with wry amusement.

  "You cannot say I didn't warn you," Mimi said without subtlety.

  He wanted to insult her, but checked himself. Mimi was volatile, a scenemaker. He preferred to ignore her instead. No one had, as yet, asked her to dance and Rudi was now being attentive to Dawn, much to Mimi's further chagrin. On his other side sat a little creature who was Wilhelm's wife, as gnomelike as her husband. He turned to her for a moment. But she was so shy he could see she preferred to be ignored.

  The waiters cleared the table of the meat and vegetable dishes and produced gleaming metal finger bowls and large long-stemmed glasses in which they poured champagne from magnums of Dom Perignon. Again he looked toward Olga and her eyes met his. He had dismissed Mimi's implication, but he felt another kind of danger.

  How many dinners like this had he attended, Albert wondered, searching his memory? Undoubtedly the ritual had its origins in some feast of the Knights of the Order; they had probably broken bread together and pledged everlasting fidelity in some remote castle on the edge of the Ostland. If this elaborate charade was not taken seriously by the assembled group—except his father—one would never know it. It was Karla who tapped the glass for silence. The Baron waited until the lingering din subsided and the waiters had disappeared. Even Hans had quietly faded from sight. Only the von Kassels were present now. The family.

  The old man rose unsteadily. The color seemed to rise in his cheeks, blending now with the patches of rouge with which Karla had obviously tried to conceal his ebbing vitality. But standing now in the midst of his progeny apparently gave him strength. He certainly seemed closer to his prime now, more in keeping with the old memory of him as a pillar of strength, burning with the zeal of his obsession. The von Kassels had not reached the pinnacle of international power by accident. The Baron had breathed new life into the shell of past glories, had reestablished the power of the family, despite the loss of their lands, of their place in the Estonian firmament, where wily Teutonic ingenuity had assured their survival through nearly eight blood-soaked centuries. The von Kassels had always known that the land itself, a sense of place, was not the only measure of power. The warehouses of the von Kassels had always been stocked with arms and armor, the meat of other men's folly.

  The Baron stood silently for a few moments. His sense of drama was always instinctive and Albert had tried from his earliest days to observe and emulate this quality. Command did not come only from within. One had to project command through illusion, through the transmission of a mystique. The rising tide of his old anxiety, which Albert had managed to contain up to now, returned again. He could feel the pressu
re. He had postponed, by will power and self-delusion, the consequences of what could be coming in a moment. Watching his father, observing the feverish obsessive look of the zealot, frightened him. Was he about to be called, he wondered, to assume the role for which he had been groomed from childhood? It was the one terror of his life.

  Not now, Father, he screamed within himself. I am not ready. You know that.

  Across the table, Rudi, his fat face layered with shining moisture, watched the old man. Rudi would accept the role without question. He had coveted it. Even Siegfried, the rightful heir to this spiritual mace, might be persuaded to accept it, if only to mock it by cynicism and ridicule. Albert had few illusions of this life-long terror. It had nothing to do with the business; he was ruthless about that. It was the secret fear that he could not sustain the idea of the von Kassels, the sanctity of blood, the continuum of genetic time. Could his father sense this failing in him, he wondered, observing the old man's eyes search the faces of those around him, lingering it seemed on each face, inspecting, perhaps assuring himself that the von Kassels were prepared to go the next eight centuries without him.

  Surely everyone in the room knew that the old man was dying. And all knew that he, Albert, would be anointed to replace the Baron, as he had done in a business sense before he was thirty. It was as ordained as night follows day. Would he choose this moment? Albert felt the pounding in his chest. I can't do it, he wanted to shout. It doesn't matter as much to me. He had faced that truth years ago, but he could not confront his father with it. Not yet. Please, he pleaded silently, his eyes drifting toward Olga. She returned his gaze and he felt the strength of her response. What did she see? The Baron's voice crackled, searching for strength.