Like Irina, Antoine Chevalle had survived to the senior years of his lifespan, but unlike her, he remained robust and strong, untroubled by the ravages of age. Irina had come to rely on him for nearly everything connected to daily operations, while she promoted an interest amongst the very wealthy for what Chevalle & Companie had to offer. What came of the three former slaves—Phillippe, Marcel, and Etienne—proved the greatest surprise. Though Irina and her family had spent nearly thirty years building their business, the French name was indispensable for success in the right circles.
As a good cook, she knew that an enterprise, like a stewpot, would be ruined with too little or too much tending. In the last few months, Irina’s daily prayer sought a solution to the only real commercial problem left in life, and that had to do with her share of the business after she was gone. She knew not where her son had decided to make his life, and she was beginning to understand she might not ever see him again. He had been her great hope. What am I to do?—second only to the question, Where is my son?—occupied her daily thoughts. “And how are we feeling this fine day, Madame?” Chevalle’s eyes twinkled with sentiment, while his large moustache arched upward in a kindly smile.
“That is the question everyone asks, Monsieur. I am as well as I am ever going to be.” She smiled in return, accepting his inquiry in the manner it had been made. “Now tell me, s’Il vous plaît, about production. Soon, I will be seeing Vicomte et Madame Martine and they will be asking about their piece.”
Chevalle recalled for her how much time would be needed for the varnish to dry and cure.
Irina was about to comment further when a sharp, excruciating pain crossed her abdomen. She grasped the material under which the devil himself seemed to pain her, and squeezed hard, as if her fingers might still the pain. She grimaced, her eyes shut to the room.
“Madame, what can I do?” asked Chevalle, walking toward her.
“Nien, Chevalle. I am sorry that our business must be concluded for the day.”
In the carriage ride back to the chateau, she remembered the months she carried her son. The stirring in her belly, then, was different. It was a joyous discomfort, reminding her of a life lost and a life to give. To her bed she went with memories both sweet and sour.
“My Lady,” Velka said in Polish a few days later as she entered and found her mistress in a fitful state. “I see you are chilled—and we need to prepare you for company.”
Irina looked up, inquiringly.
“Once again, le Docteur Bernard is here to see you,” she said with a mischievous grin. “Surprisingly, it is a warm day for November”—she cleared her throat—“warm enough to announce the man’s presence.” She waved a hand back and forth under her nose. The servant and her mistress shared a moment of merriment.
With a resigned nod from her mistress, Velka went to usher in the visitor.
Bernard leaned toward his patient, “Mistress of Fournier, how busy you have been!”
“I must tend to business, good man,” she said. “You must have spies in every drawing room, Monsieur le Docteur.”
“Madame, tell me,” he said, sitting at her side. “Is everything the same?”
“I do not wish to discuss it with you.”
“Come, come, Madame, I am your doctor.”
“And so much you have done for me!” she rejoindered with gleeful sarcasm.
He said nothing and waited.
Finally, she said, “Blood. I am passing it from both ends, and I feel weak—more so than when you were here last. The ice does little good now.”
Bernard sat quietly for some moments. Then he leaned forward and, in the softest voice, pronounced her sentence. “My dear Lady and gentle adversary, it is with heavy heart that I tell you your illness will not pass. It is, I feel certain, a cancer of the stomach, and I fear there is, indeed, little I can do for you.” His last words, an admission of impotence, were barely audible.
“Since you know so much,” Irina said, unfazed and unable to resist a gentle taunt to her odoriferous friend, “perhaps you can tell me the date of my death.”
“You, Madame, make things so difficult,” he retorted with a twinkle. “I am not so good a fortune teller, but,” he said, lowering his eyes, “seeing as how this is already November, I would not let anyone buy you things for Christmas.”
Irina said not a word. She had not expected so finite an ending. And at the feast of the Nativity! She worked through his words again and nodded, smiling bravely.
“Remember what I said about the pain.” The doctor touched her hand every so lightly and stood, his twinkle replaced by a misty gleam. Without further word, he left the sitting chamber as quickly as he had entered.
* * *
1381
Answering Andrezski’s questions was what placed Jan and Irina on a path to wealth and respect. The years following were good as they learned and mastered their roles in commerce, and they never forgot the man who surprised them with his visit—and his questions—and, later, another man who surprised them with the answers.
In so many ways, they often said to one another, Andrezski turned out to be their angel. “Yes,” Irina mused, “a man without learning, culture, or the power of nobility, Andrezski was Madrosh’s example of a man growing into his natural good.”
And had my parents not left St. Michael in search of me, little Zuzzie wouldn’t have been at the convent church to hear Jerzy Andrezski’s cry for a cup of water.
Freeing Chevalle’s slaves had done nothing to improve their financial or business standing, but the very act bore fruit neither Jan nor Irina could ever have expected. To her, releasing the three Africans from bondage was merely an application of God’s natural law, and as such, its own reward. It seemed, then, that what happened was godsent. What else could it be?
Originally, Chevalle’s specialty was wood veneering—a process developed by the ancient Egyptians—but with an abundance of hardwoods across Europe, the art had fallen out of favor. As a consequence, Chevalle & Companie sold mostly solid wood cabinets and side pieces.
For other work, the veneering process utilized by the ancients remained the same. Chevalle used a fine wood many times over by sawing it with crude blades to the thickness of a quarter inch or less—a piece called a flitch. A number of flitches could be teased from one piece of lumber, and Etienne grew into a master of this process once his hand fully healed.
One of the other freedmen, Phillippe or Marcel, planed the bottom side until it was relatively smooth, but retaining a uniform thickness. Once a good flitch was prepared, glues made from boiled animal hides were brushed on the bottom side and on the top of the base wood, usually of lesser quality.
Next, Chevalle used a metal blade to “hammer” it down by drawing it across the top surface, especially if the flitch was very thin. The men used wood blocks drawn tight against the top of the veneer by leather thongs. Done well, a cabinet could be made with less expensive, rougher woods as an underlayment while what one saw was a fine piece of wood sanded and varnished to a flawless finish.
As Irene and Jan pondered the flaw in their approach to the French market, Jerzy Andrezski’s questions kept nagging at Irina and Jan, but answers eluded them.
That is, no answers presented themselves until one day, when visiting the shop, Phillippe, the former slave, addressed both Chevalle and his partners. “In Africa, where we come from, there are many fine woods, very unlike those we use here. They can be sawed very thin, and fine, and unusual inlays can be made,” he said, making many gestures with his fingers.
Irina and Jan listened closely, asking careful questions about the woods Phillippe described, and their origins. Would it not be better to bring wood from his country than slaves?
It took still more weeks of inquiry and nearly the last livres of what Jerzy Andrezski had bequeathed them, but finally, the right arrangements had been made. A few mon
ths later, the first shipments of Etimoe and Ebony Gabon arrived from Cote d’Ivoire. Etimoe was reddish-brown to grey-brown in color with black veining. It proved to be easily cut and finished, just as Phillippe had promised. Its perfect companion was Ebony Gabon, which the Brezchwas later called Coromandel, and finely detailed inlays and veneers could be fashioned from it. Its rich black color could be contrasted with the Etimoe for beautiful cabinet doors and table tops.
After experimenting with the new woods, they found that Chevalle and his men could inlay family crests, court seals, and personal initials, all at a reasonable cost. The results were stunning and, in France, unheard of. For another month, Chevalle and his men prepared beautiful sample pieces.
Soon, everyone’s role became clear. Chevalle would manage the manufacturing processes, with Etienne and Marcel, the other two freed men, having much to say about the “how” of things. Irina and Jan would rekindle their tie with Monsieur Tellier to generate interest amongst the nobility. Phillippe’s role would be unique. Chateau Fournier would once again serve as a backdrop for their work, but this time, the pieces would be unlike any seen before.
…
The plan worked better than their dreams, as demand grew for the beautiful new inlaid cabinetry. Chevalle & Companie, it appeared, had no equal, no competition.
Inviting small groups of Tellier’s friends to evening soirees had proven the plan’s worth. They arranged caravans of carriages with stops for cold lunches with wine. The guests often changed their seating along the way and used the time to gossip and play games of chance. Nearly always, they arrived with a grand disposition, perfect for making purchases.
Once a comte bought his wife one of their pieces, there was keen competition amongst the monied class to have something made by Chevalle. It was Phillippe, dressed and schooled for his part, who made the transaction interesting. When someone expressed a curiosity about a piece or design, Jan and Phillippe offered to visit them with samples and suggestions. Men and women both were intrigued and captivated by the tall African who spoke French with an entrancing accent. Much to his liking, Jan had to say little except write the order slips and at the right time, collect the livres.
What gave Irina and Jan the greatest pleasure was their ability to pay Phillippe and Etienne their worth as contributors to their enterprise. In little time, Marcel used his monies to claim his freedom in the world, and off he went, not to be heard from again.
Successful as their business was, Irina was puzzled by the whole notion of veneer. Somehow, the Brezchwas had convinced an entire class of nobles that a cabinet with a thin covering of varnished wood was superior to one made of solid wood through and through.
The more she thought about it, the more Irina came to understand that the human race, like fine cabinetry, was all about veneer. What is it about us that we let our judgments of a thing or a person be made by its surface and not what lies underneath? Later, another thought struck her. Could I have become the person I am in 1381 were it not for the veneer of fine clothes, manners, and the title I gave myself?
Chapter XXII
1410
Le Docteur Bernard’s pronouncement of her fate served to spark a defiant energy in her failing body. She made every effort to rise with the dawn and go about her thriving business, something she knew the two men who loved her in life would have wanted for her. When strength failed, she knew Phillippe could now do what she could not. He has learned much! On those days, it was less exhausting to remember her conversations with Madrosh.
All those talks about natural law, divine law, good and evil, and about God. Her wrestling match with these ideas became all the more ferocious as she recalled the crimes by Tomasz the Terrible, the moral challenge posed by Antoine Chevalle, and what the Duc de Dampierre attempted in order to assure his patronage amongst French nobility.
As to Tomasz, his very existence seemed to prove one of Madrosh’s tenets about man’s infinitely mixed portions of good and evil. Either he was born with a greater share of evil than good, or was evil itself.
She gripped her mid-section as the eternal question of good and evil seemed to stir whatever was growing within her. To her, evil thrived in men who used religion, family, and people as their levers for greed and power. Whatever we are born with, life is always about choice, nie?
…
Swietego Mikolaja had come and gone, and the only ones there to enjoy Irina’s recipe for piernicki were Velka and Rosta and the families of those who worked on the grounds of the chateau. It had been a tiring day, and though Irina enjoyed the bit of merriment, most of her time was spend on the chaise. That one piece of furniture had become her prison, and while she was glad for a few hours’ parole, it was one place where the packs of ice recommended by le docteur—more of it more often now—did their best work, if they worked at all.
December’s days continued at a slow pace. That is just fine with me. Despite the pain, she refused to call le Docteur Bernard for the help he promised. Struggling to rise one morning, she called Velka to assist her in her morning washdown, as she called it, and dressed only so she could wander around the chateau to make sure her house was ready for Advent and the Nativity season that followed.
There will be much to do and one never knows, we may have visitors. She knew there was little likelihood of anyone coming, what with the wind blowing snow into every crevice, but that didn’t matter. There would be much to do in the coming few weeks and if they were all she had left, Irina intended to make the most of them.
…
“Conscience is a terrible thing, nie?” Is the question also the answer, as Madrosh might have said? She smiled through her pain as she lay on the chaise that had been pulled away from the window and closer to the fireplace for the winter.
“Did you say something, Irina?” Velka sat close by, knitting and concentrating on her stitches.
“Did I? In my dream, I was talking to Jan, or, perhaps, to God, and my questions went unanswered.”
“Talking to men can be like that,” Velka said, beginning to laugh.
So unused to humor from her servant, Irina broke into a long chuckle, holding her belly all the while.
“In seriousness, Velka, I’ve sometimes wondered if God—being a man as Scripture suggests—bothers listening to women.”
“Do you really feel that way? To my own way of thinking, Almighty God has been very good to us.”
“You didn’t feel that way when we left Poznan, did you?” Irina asked.
“No, and as I recall, you felt much the same.”
“I must admit, then, that it seems the great God of us all has been at our side our entire lives, hasn’t He?”
Velka nodded. “I shouldn’t have laughed at my own joke, My Lady.”
“Nonsense. It was funny, and did me well to laugh.”
“Then are you content? Should I send for le Docteur Bernard?”
“It is not necessary to trouble him in such weather,” said Irina, turning to look directly at her friend and servant, “especially when he can do nothing for me.”
“Then what troubles you?”
“Perhaps I am confused. This past year, I have been reliving all that had happened to us since that May in Poznan, and now it is December. More than thirty years ago, Velka! For me, there is little time left, and so much is still to happen.”
Velka’s needles stopped, and she put a hand over Irina’s. “Yes, my dear one,” she said softly, “it is already December 1410, and Advent is nearly upon us, but you are thinking of…?”
“Bernard is very likely correct, damn him!” She caught her breath. “My thoughts, my remembrances must become like a fast-flowing river, and given what Bernard has said, I will have to enjoy the rest of what happened in my life in a much speedier fashion.” Irina leaned her head back, laughing at her own little joke.
After a further moment of reflection and li
stening to Velka’s needles do their work, she went on. “Perhaps I ask too much, but I miss the men I’ve known. My father disappointed me but him, I could never forget, and then, Madrosh came along and helped me understand about good and evil. May God bless him. Then Jan and my Stashu.” Irina looked away.
“Berek, My Lady?”
Irina looked back in Velka’s direction, and said, amidst tears, “Yes, my first love.” For a minute or two, she stared into the fire as icy rain pounded on the window glass. “Yes,” she said, her voice thick with emotion and memory, “conscience is a terrible thing.”
…
Irina dozed. When she opened her eyes, Velka was gone. As she brought her focus back to the present, she smiled, feeling good about so much of her life, first with Berek, then with Jan. Yet, if their circumstances had been somehow different, Stashu would be at her side. Where is he? Despite her beseechments of every traveler to or from the east, none carried news of her beloved son. The silence was maddening.
And so, sadness was the mantle she wore about her when Velka appeared with a steaming bowl of tea and a plate of crisp crackers. “Perhaps you will keep these down, Irina. Let’s see if they will do you some good.”
She sipped the tea and nibbled a bit, but within moments, she knew her stomach would reject them, one way or the other. Velka left as quickly as she had come, but thoughts of her remained. What a wonderful companion she has been! All at once, she realized how much she had taken Velka for granted. In 1378, they were poor girls fortunate to work in the Joselewicz household. And fortunate they were in leaving Poznan in a very different way than they had come to it. Otherwise, death from plague or a life of only God knew what would have awaited them.
Like a thief, guilt crept into the cold, lonely hours before dawn. Into her conscience stole the reality that her lie and the bag of Jewish gold and silver made her an overlord, a mistress, a member of the wealthy and ruling class, while Velka had remained just what she was, a servant to others. Oh, how easy it was to forget where I came from with gold in my pocket!
Irina Page 43