Days of Winter

by Cynthia Freeman

  “No, I don’t want to go into business, Leon. I don’t want to be with people. What I want to do is paint.”

  “All right, Rubin. We’ll have the top floor made into a studio and you can paint there.”

  “No, I want my own home—”

  “But how would you cook … clean? You have a child, after all.”

  “I know. And I have the need to try to find my self-respect.”

  How could one argue with that? “All right … we’ll find a place for you. But will you agree to this? Will you leave Jeanette with us until you’re settled?” He was asking until, but he meant forever.

  Rubin thought carefully about the child his life now revolved around, and he knew he couldn’t reasonably disagree with what Leon proposed. And he would, after all, be near her, even though she lived with Deborah and Leon. …At least he could see her and spend time with her. They could go to synagogue on Saturdays and spend the day … on Sunday they could go out to the country on picnics … there was the theater. …If he truly loved her as he said he did, then she must continue to stay with Deborah and Leon.

  The next day Rubin found a shabby attic room. When Leon complained that it wasn’t adequate, Rubin said he felt thoroughly comfortable there and that the light was good for his work. Leon said no more. …

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IT WAS DAWN. MAGDA stood at the French doors in her bedroom, looking out. Even the Seine, which could be seen from her window, seemed restive. Hers was a restlessness she was familiar with. …Her dreams had been turbulent, angry … she tried to clear her head.

  Magda, why do you stand in the way of your own happiness …? Alexis has, after all, given you everything. …You hadn’t even known the Isle of Saint Louis existed until he brought you to this place. …You’ve become a successful Parisian hostess, as Alexis promised you’d be, as the Hacks never wanted you to be in London. …You live in one of the great houses of Paris, a house Alexis’ own mother and father lived in … it was his legacy, and now you’re chatelaine, replacing a mistress born to the aristocracy … and still you aren’t content … Alexis even arranged to change your name legally to Margot Maximov so that no one would question you, so that you would be free from your past … the Countess Margot Maximov. …He’s been so clever in covering your tracks that no one in Paris questions your marital status … he not only invented a past, but paid to have it documented. …You entertain royalty … you’re accepted in the most distinguished salons in Paris. There’s nothing Alexis hasn’t done to make you happy. And still you’re the most wretched woman on the face of the earth … because he can’t give you the thing you want most in all the world … your child. …

  “Good morning, cherie.”

  She was brought back to reality by the sound of Alexis’ voice and turned to face him. How handsome he was, even better looking, if possible, than that first night when Camail had introduced them … at the Savoy after the showing of that unfortunate painting. She cringed now when she thought of how she had embarrassed Rubin, although at the time it was to embarrass his family, not him. …

  “Why are you up so early?” she said.

  “I never can sleep when I find you’re missing. Now, why are you standing there in that flimsy gown with the windows open …? Get back into bed, or you’ll catch cold.”

  She kissed him, then got under the covers as he closed the French doors.

  Soon they were snug in bed together. Being held by him seemed to comfort her. Pretending not to show her discontent was not easy, but she would never let him guess her secret longings. He was more than entitled to be spared that. …

  “Alexis, darling, you’ve been so good to me. …”

  “You’re quite right, my dear,” and he squeezed her. “By the way, don’t forget, we’re lunching today with the Eaubonnes … then we’re going to the auction. I want to bid on that large bronze for you—”

  “For me? For you, darling. When we finally finished doing this castle of a house I remember your saying you couldn’t look at another antique or objet d’art.”

  “Quite true, but I have the prerogative of changing my mind, no less than a woman. When I saw that bronze at the preview showing last week, I knew I was going to have it.”

  “And, my dear Count, do you always get what you want?”

  “Usually … if I wait long enough. Now come over here and kiss me.”

  “Oh, Alexis,” she said with an elaborate sigh, “you’re all I need.”

  “Are you sure …?”

  For a moment there was a look in his eyes—she’d seen it before—that made her feel he could see into the depths of her thoughts … into her very being … that she could really hide nothing from him. She drew him against her and answered softly, “I’m sure, Alexis … I’m sure,” trying—but not succeeding—to convince herself.

  At breakfast, she said, “Alexis, I’m going to see Solange.”

  Alexis continued to scoop out his egg from its shell. “How do you know she’ll see you? She’s very loyal, you know, to Rubin. …”

  “True … but I have such a deep fondness for her. We went through a great deal together. …And if she refuses to see me, well, c’est la vie. …” The bravado was somewhat more obvious than she’d intended.

  “That’s very mature, dear.”

  “Thank you, Alexis. You make things so easy for me … but when everything is said and done, you’re all that matters. As I said …”

  “Am I …?”

  Magda placed the call herself. Finally a voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Solange? This is …”

  “Yes, I recognize the voice.”

  “Solange, there’s no need for us to play games. I want very much to see you.”

  There was no immediate answer. …Then: “Please come around any time, I’ll be here.”

  “Later today then?”

  “Yes, any time …”

  Magda sat with the silent receiver in her hand, her heart pounding so hard she thought she might faint.

  Solange lived on the other side of Paris, in the Arrondissement on the Avenue Foch. As the Rolls crossed over the Pont Sully, then sped along the Champs Élysées, Magda directed Pierre through the tube to stop at the perfumery. There she bought a bottle of Solange’s favorite scent.

  As she stood at Solange’s front door, it took a few minutes for Magda to summon the courage to ring. When Solange opened the door, Magda was afraid her knees would buckle.

  “Solange,” she said, “I’m so happy to see you. …May I come in?”

  “Please do. …I told you when we said good-bye in London you would always be welcome.”

  Seating herself on the large bergère, Magda waited.

  “Do you still take port?”

  “Please.”

  As Solange poured the wine, Magda placed her gift on the coffee table and looked around. The furnishings were still in impeccable taste, but everything seemed to be worn with age. A stale, musty odor of liniment hung in the air. The brocade on the chairs was threadbare, and on one wall there was evidence that a painting had recently been removed. Poor Solange, she must have had to sell it. …

  Over port, the two women sized each other up. Solange looked down at the gift-wrapped box on the table. She picked it up and took off the wrapping.

  “Thank you for remembering,” she said.

  Magda felt stupid and ridiculous … embarrassed now. …Perfume was probably the least of Solange’s needs. “How are you getting along?” she said.

  “My arthritis is worse,” said Solange, “but somehow I seem to manage.”

  “I’m living in Paris now,” said Magda.

  “My dear, I know. Your arrival hardly went unnoticed by the press …Count and Countess Alexis Maximov in front of their mansion on their own little Isle of Saint Louis, in the heart of Paris …Count and Countess Maximov at home, entertaining their guests at a lawn party … the Count and Countess at the opera … at the races. …”


  “Please stop, Solange. I didn’t come here in anger.”

  “Why did you come? You’ve been in Paris for months. Why now?”

  “Because I had to see you.”

  “I’ve been here since I left England.”

  “I know. I should have come sooner.”

  “What kept you from doing so?”

  Magda swallowed. “Fear, I suppose … and guilt. …”

  “But suddenly you’ve summoned up the courage and overcome the guilt?”

  “It didn’t just happen today … I’ve thought of you often, and wanted very much to see you.”

  “Why? Are your new friends so boring?”

  “It wasn’t boredom that brought me. …But I need something from the past. Friends … reminders. I’m not complaining, Solange, but it’s almost as though I no longer exist. My name is gone … my roots. …Now I even come from a noble Polish family, isn’t that wonderful? Please don’t laugh, though God knows nobody is more entitled to. …I know how you feel about me, Solange, and I can’t blame you. But we’ve shared so much together, and I suppose I really came here today to try and … how do you put it …? bind up the wounds. …”

  “I must tell you, Magda, I find it very difficult to forgive what you’ve done. Aren’t you happy with Alexis?”

  “I could be …”

  “Could be? My God, Magda, how much do you want? He’s given you everything.”

  “Not everything, Solange. I want my child.”

  “But that was the choice you made when you left Rubin. You must learn, Magda, that you can’t have the world.”

  “I know … but … oh, Solange, how do I live with it?”

  “I find no comfort in your grief, Magda … quite the contrary … but the way you left Rubin, regardless of your reasons … he has been very ill, you know.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve been in touch with Leon, as you might imagine.”

  “Tell me, everything.”

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “It will be worse if I don’t.”

  “Well, then … after you left, Rubin went berserk … in fact, he was in a sanatorium for a year. Recently he’s been living with Leon, but now he’s taken a garret in the East End of London, where I suppose he hopes to paint. No one knows for sure that he’s recovered, I’m afraid. …”

  Magda wept softly. “What about … my daughter Jeanette?”

  “She’s living with Deborah and Leon … and has been since Rubin’s illness. …”

  “Dear God, she’ll be seven this July. …I suppose she writes to you?”

  “Yes, in a most delightful scrawl. She’s very bright.”

  “Oh, Solange, tell me what I can do to get her back.”

  “I don’t want to be unkind, Magda, or overly harsh, but you must face it … you gave up your right to any claim when you abandoned her and Rubin. If you try to get her back, Leon will certainly fight you … and how would such notoriety affect Jeanette …?”

  Magda was trembling, although she knew Solange was right “May I see the letters from Jeanette?”

  Solange got up, opened a large boule box on the desk and took out a packet of letters. Magda selected one at random. …

  Dear Tante Solange,

  I miss you so much. I love Aunt Deborah, but she’s so sick, I have to be quiet. At night I dream that Papa will get well and Mama will come back from her long holiday so we can go home. Then you could live with us the way you used to. It would be such fun. Please send me another postcard. I love the pictures. Good night, dear Tante Solange. Your niece,

  Jeanette Sara Hack.

  There was nothing more to say. Magda put the letter back in its envelope, stood, and handed the packet to Solange. “Thank you for your kindness. I do love you, Solange … I hope you’ll see me again.”

  “Of course, my dear. The problem is not between us. …”

  Alexis was not there when she arrived home. She was grateful for that. She didn’t want to face him, or anybody else. She went to the wine cellar and fetched a bottle of vintage champagne. On her way to the salon, she took a crystal goblet from the cupboard. She collapsed into the large wing chair before the fireplace, uncorked the un-chilled bottle and watched as the bubbles danced in the liquid poured into the glass. She took a long sip, almost draining the glass, then another, and another. …

  The reception that night at the Embassy was festive. Magda was exquisitely gowned in black velvet trimmed with ermine. Her diamonds and pearls dazzled. She was flushed with too much champagne, but no one could have guessed the reason.

  As they danced, Alexis said, “You’re very gay this evening, my love.”

  “And why shouldn’t I be?” Her voice was somewhat slurred. “I’m with a most unusual man. In fact, Alexis, I believe you’re the handsomest man here. Please hold me a little tighter. …”

  Supper was served and as they stood holding their plates in their hands an unusually handsome young man approached Alexis.

  “Count Maximov, I’m delighted to see you.”

  “And I, you, Monsieur Dupré. May I introduce my wife, Countess Maximov? My dear, this is Monsieur Jean-Paul Dupré.”

  Magda extended her hand. “Enchanté, monsieur.”

  The countess, Jean-Paul decided, was a remarkable beauty. Imagine a man the age of Count Maximov possessing this creature. But before he could speak to her, his partner claimed him for the next dance.

  “May I have some more champagne?” said Magda.

  “I think you’ve already had enough.”

  “Now, Alexis, I always know when I’ve had enough … be a dear and find a waiter. …”

  Alexis noted the dark circles under her eyes, despite her expert camouflage. He summoned the waiter.

  “Who is Monsieur Dupré?” she said, “and why do they invite children to diplomatic functions?”

  “For your information, my dear, Dupré is a member of the diplomatic corps—”

  “He can’t be more than seventeen or so. …”

  “I don’t know his age, but all diplomats are not necessarily white-bearded old men.”

  “Whatever you say, Alexis … and now will a real man please take me home and make love to me?”

  The next day Magda put through a call to Camail. When he answered, she tried, with an effort, to assume her old light-hearted, teasing Magda role. “Do you know who this is?”

  “Of course I do … her highness the Countess Maximov—”

  “Camail, stop your jokes. This is Magda.”

  “Oh, Magda! How silly of me. But since you left without saying a word, you must forgive me my faulty memory. What can I do for you … this time?”

  “I don’t blame you for being angry with me, Camail. I know I was inconsiderate. …It’s unforgivable that I haven’t been in touch. Sometimes I seem to do all the wrong things … or not do the right ones—”

  “Why, Magda, how contrite you sound. I’m not sure I like you this way. It isn’t your customary role. I prefer the tempestuous, willful Magda. But forgive me, you called … for a favor, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, at least that sounds like the old Magda.”

  “Camail please … I want you to do a portrait of my child.”

  “Well, well, it just shows how wrong one can be. Somehow I don’t quite connect you with the role of motherhood, but of course life has its surprises—”

  “Please, Camail, please let’s stop all this fencing about. I’m sorry you’re angry with me, and I understand … but, please, Camail, I want a portrait of my child. Very much …”

  “And how do you suggest I get her to sit for me? By kidnapping her? I assure you her aunt and uncle, decent souls though they are, aren’t likely to be cooperative. What should I tell them, the Countess is having her many regrets …?”

  Magda was on the edge of tears. “Camail, stop punishing me. It will do neither of us any good. I’ve thought about it carefully, Camail. …Couldn’t Pete
r Scott take a picture of her while she’s in the park, say, that you could use for a model?”

  “Well, that’s the old Magda—the one with the great imagination, I’ll tell you what—I shouldn’t but I’ll see what I can do—”

  “Thank you, Camail. From my heart …”

  “From where …?”

  “That’s unkind, Camail. I’m sorry you’re still so angry with me. But what really matters is that you’re willing to help. I’m grateful, Camail, even if you find it difficult to believe I’m capable of such an emotion.” And then she quickly told him where to send the portrait and hung up.

  On the other end of the phone, Camail, a half smile on his face, shook his head and slowly replaced the phone on its hook. Magda was a difficult woman to forget. One of the very few such in his life. …

  Through his chauffeur, a retired private investigator, delighted now with his unofficial though familiar assignment of surveillance, Camail learned that the little Hack girl spent the time with her father in Kensington Gardens on Saturdays and Sundays from about eleven in the morning until mid-afternoon. Camail immediately gave this information to his photographer friend Peter Scott, who the following Saturday provided Camail with a roll of excellent film.

  A month later Magda received a large package. When she opened it up and looked at the painting she thought she would faint. The canvas was done in somber grays. A man, slightly bent held the hand of a small girl, their backs to the viewer. The frame and the velvet mat were black. Magda sat down heavily. Camail has done this to punish me. Dear God, when will it stop? The Hacks despise me, and rightly. And this is Camail’s way of telling me. …Oh, Camail, I could kill you … I could kill you for doing this to me.

  It took her weeks to recover.

  One morning, as she lay in bed, her maid brought a package to her. Somehow without even looking she knew it was from Camail. With trembling hands, she opened it

  This time she saw the face of her child, the lovely dark hair framing a tender, innocent face. The colors were soft pastels. And although the eyes were Magda’s … the overall resemblance was to Rubin … the handsome Rubin of past years. Magda took in every light and shadow, every contour of the sweet face. Hugging it, she wept tears of love and longing. …At least she had this.