Katherine felt pinioned by that look, unable to break through the invisible circle it created around them. It was at once agreeable and troubling.
‘Ah, Monsieur Negri, a pleasure to see you again,’ Thomas came to her rescue. ‘I was just going to ask Katherine whether she might like to have her slightly belated birthday present before we go to table.’
‘Oh yes, please.’
Thomas went out, came back a moment later with an object draped in blue velvet which he positioned carefully on a low table. He gestured to Katherine and she slowly lifted the velvet. A hush fell over the room as the gathered guests looked on. It was broken by a chorus of ‘Ah’s’ as every eye focussed on a perfect piece of sculpted oval marble.
‘A Brancusi head.’ Jacob was the first to speak. ‘Thomas, you really shouldn’t have.’ Anger tinged the polite comment. Again Jacob thought he must bring himself to do something about the increasing hold this man had on Katherine’s life. Yet it was so difficult. He could find nothing to say against Thomas. Nothing, except warnings about precisely those things he didn’t want Katherine to think about.
‘No, you shouldn’t have,’ Katherine echoed, but her hand was drawn to the cool translucent stone, a stark primordial form with its blind but all-seeing eyes intense in their repose. ‘You shouldn’t have.’
‘I know I shouldn’t have,’ Thomas laughed, ‘but I wanted to.’
‘It’s beautiful, achingly beautiful,’ she squeezed his hand. ‘Thank you.’
‘To make you happy, Schätzchen, I would give more than a Brancusi,’ Thomas said softly.
‘I guess there are some benefits to being little Miss Purity 1963,’ a sultry voice intoned behind them. They turned, ‘We haven’t been introduced,’ Claudia her face bland, her body speaking, stretched out a hand to Thomas.
‘Indeed not,’ Thomas bowed.
Leo flushed, gripped Claudia’s arm. ‘Dinner, I think.’
‘Ne t’en fais pas,’ Carlo was at Katherine’s side. ‘Some of us value a little purity.’ Dusky eyes enveloped her. He lifted his glass, curled long lips, ‘To Katrina, la madonna del Nuevo York.’
‘Oh these Italians with their madonnas,’ Violette overtook them, groaned. ‘I sometimes think Carlo would be happiest if we could all be reduced to the purity of a primitive ovum, like your Brancusi.’ A dark look passed between them, excluding Katherine.
Food was served. A warm turbot salad with garlic croutons, pheasant tenderly arranged on wild rice, an array of cheeses, creme caramel, each with their own choice wines. Glasses were filled, and emptied and filled again. A laughing toast from Jacob to Katherine for having transformed this little corner of Manhattan. Conversation hummed. Katherine smiled. She wondered if that warm glow inside her was what people called happiness.
Later there was music. Carlo took her hand, ‘Puis-je?’ He guided her, pressed her close. His body swayed sinuously against her, sure, strong, lulling her into rhythmic obedience. Katherine danced. Felt the dance’s pleasure. He lifted her chin to look down into her eyes, a dangerous look. Katherine arched away. The hand on the small of her spine moved firmly, imprisoned her. ‘Bellissima,’ a caress in her ear.
Then he was gone. Other arms around her, Leo’s friends, Ted Mercer, old Dr. Jones, leering, Thomas, elegant, light on his feet, Jacob, warm, witty, relaxed, whispering, ‘Thank you, Kat.’ A champagne glass in her hand. Dr. Hartman booming the countdown. ‘Five, four, three, two, one.’
‘Happy New Year.’ A chorus of voices and corks popping. Katherine was being kissed. Carlo, a warm flicker over her lips, the receding harsh planes of a dark face. Violette’s eyes on her, on him. Sardonic, challenging. ‘Surely big sisters should go first.’ There was something in the way she said it, something in the rapid toss of her head. But there was no time to ask. Other lips came, other arms. ‘Happy New Year’. A new year without Sylvie. Katherine smiled and smiled.
Soon after midnight, people began to leave. Violette asked Katherine if she could use her room to freshen up a little.
‘Of course.’
Katherine followed her. There was something, something she needed to ask. It was difficult. She was still slightly in awe of Violette, her worldliness, her sharp tongue. She watched her at the mirror. Outlining lips, vivacious eyes.
‘How’s Mathilde?’ Katherine began. ‘I miss her.’
‘As energetic as ever. She’s been asked to sit on a Human Rights commission and now she’s full of stories of gruesome tortures in Turkish prisons, of Russian poets locked up in psychiatric wards,’ Violette grinned. ‘It suits Mat to a T.’
‘I think she’s wonderful,’ Katherine paused, took a deep breath, looked at Violette’s face in the mirror, her own next to it. ‘Violette, is Mat my mother? I’ve always thought that maybe…’ she let the sentence hang.
Violette’s expressive face in the mirror passed through a variety of emotions. She turned to Katherine, put her hands on her shoulders. ‘Hasn’t Jacob told you? He said he would tell you. Tell you now that Sylvie’s dead.’ She shook her trim head with a gesture of impatience. ‘Kat, it’s not that Mathilde is your mother,’ she hesitated. ‘It’s simply that you and I share a father.’
‘Share a father?’ Katherine echoed, astonishment distorting her features.
Violette nodded. ‘Yes, you’re my little sister,’ she looked at Katherine anxiously. ‘I’ve known since Frederic, Mat’s husband, died. I was pleased to find out, I must say. Frederic was always such an old stick. And Jacob, well…,’ she laughed, threw Katherine an inquiring glance. ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it? The idea of Jacob and Mat as lovers. Oh, a long time ago. Before Sylvie.’ She turned back to the mirror, made a great show of powdering her nose. ‘A wonderful illicit romance which resulted in me,’ she grimaced comically. ‘It still thrills me to know my queenly mother did something improper at least once.’
Violette stopped herself as she caught the expression on Katherine’s face. ‘It isn’t so bad, is it, Kat? Leo wasn’t unduly upset. He guessed ages ago.’ She squeezed Katherine’s hand. ‘You were the last, the baby,’ she said softly. ‘I thought Jacob had told you.’
‘He didn’t tell me,’ Katherine thought she might cry. She felt dizzy, confused. All the still places in her life seemed suddenly to have shifted dramatically. She had a sense of having been betrayed, cheated, deceived.
‘Don’t take it like that, Kat. It hardly matters anymore. It’s ancient history,’ Violette looked at her. ‘Aren’t you pleased to have an older sister?’
‘It’s not that. It’s not you. It’s just…’
Violette kissed her, ‘Look, we’ll talk about it some more. I’m here for a while, working. But now I really have to go. Carlo’s waiting.’ She hugged her, ‘Happy New Year, little sister.’
Katherine lay back on her bed, the party forgotten. Thoughts buzzed through her like swarming bees. Circles within circles of deceit. Betrayal. Jacob had two daughters. He hadn’t told her. She had always thought of herself as singular, as Jacob’s only daughter. It had sustained her. But she had only been one of two. She recalled Jacob’s constant praise for Violette, the birthday presents they had bought for her together, his frequent trips to Switzerland. She felt a tug of jealousy. And beneath it, that refrain of betrayal. No one was to be trusted. No one was reliable. Not even Jacob.
Was it one of the reasons Sylvie had hated her? And was it guilt that had made Jacob so patient of Sylvie’s attacks on her?
Confusion pressed on her, mingled with humiliation, consolidated into anger. Jacob should have told her. She wasn’t a baby. Katherine rose. She had to speak to him. She wanted to shout, ‘ Why? Why didn’t you tell me? How could you not tell me?’
She looked for Jacob. He wasn’t in the living room. She stole away before anyone could talk to her. He wasn’t in his bedroom either. She breathed in the cool Japanese atmosphere she had worked to create for him, looked at the slatted chairs, the pale greys, the yellows. Why? Why hadn’t he told her? She wanted to sob.
She paused at the door of the study. There were voices. Jacob’s. And smooth French-accented tones. Camille Briand’s. That woman he had danced with. Katherine shivered, listened. They were talking about a problem child. A girl whose mother had died. A girl who thought she had killed her mother. Fantasy and reality colliding.
They were talking about her.
Katherine swallowed hard. How could he? To that woman. She pushed open the door without knocking. There they were sitting next to each other on the sofa. Something reeked of intimacies exchanged.
‘Kat, come in,’ Jacob’s gracious smile. ‘We were just talking about a case of Camille’s.’
‘I bet,’ an uncustomary surliness spoke through her. She closed the door again without saying another word.
Suddenly a memory engulfed her. Another room. A stairwell. Sylvie, in one of her negligées, smacking her hard. Behind her, in the depths of the bedroom, a man. Katherine rubbed her cheek where the pain had been.
Parents. She’d had enough of parents.
She strode back to the living room. Thomas was still there.
‘Thomas, can I come to Boston with you?’ she asked him abruptly.
‘You mean for a little holiday?’ lively eyes quizzed her.
She nodded, then shook her head. ‘I mean now.’
He looked at her queerly. ‘I hadn’t planned on going back tonight.’
‘Tomorrow then?’ Katherine’s tone was insistent.
He met her on it. ‘I’ll send Hans round to fetch you. At 1.00 o’clock.
Katherine gazed out the window onto the snowy expanse of Thomas’s garden, the trees, graceful in their white covering, the dim outlines of the vast central sculpture. She turned and surveyed the room that was always hers when she visited Thomas, its architectural simplicity, the reassuring certainty of the heavy polished wood, the playful cubes and rectangles of the little Feininger village which she had spent so much time dreaming over in the past. The crackle of the smooth white sheets, already turned down in readiness on the immaculate bed.
Yes, she realised suddenly, that was it. She always felt at home here. More at home than in Manhattan.
She lay down on the bed and tried to think things over. When she woke with a start, it was already late. But she felt refreshed. Full of a dawning sense of purpose. She showered, quickly slipped on her black wool frock, a string of pearls. Thomas always preferred formal attire for dinner. It was an old world custom he adhered to.
He was nursing a drink in the living room and listening to the strains of a Bach cantata when she came down.
‘Better, Schätzchen?’ His eyes surveyed her. ‘Yes, I can see you are better.’ He gestured her toward the velvet armchair opposite him.
They sat quietly, following the contrapuntal intricacies of the music. When the piece had run its course, Thomas addressed her quietly, ‘And so, Schätzchen, are you finally going to tell me what this visit is all about?’
Katherine looked at him, looked at the intelligence in that strong face, the vivacity of the eyes. She gave him a slow smile. ‘I will. But first,’ she laughed, ‘I think I heard you say something about dinner. I’m starved.’
Thomas groaned, ‘I had forgotten about these young appetites. Come Schätzchen, I am sure it is all ready,’ he led her to the dining room where the table shone with the gleam of heavy silver, the intricate curves of candelabra.
No sooner had they sat down, than they heard the distant ring of the telephone. Roberts came to the door, ‘It’s Miss Victoria. She insists that she must speak to you.’
Katherine heard him, despite his soft tones.
‘Yes, yes,’ Thomas folded his napkin neatly again. ‘Excuse me for a moment, Schätzchen.’
When he reappeared and the wine had been served, she asked him, ‘Who is Miss Victoria, Thomas?’
She felt him considering.
‘A friend.’ he said casually, ‘Now Schätzchen, pay attention to the plate of hors d’oeuvre Roberts is offering you. I recommend the artichoke hearts.’
‘What kind of friend?’ Katherine pressed him.
‘A ladyfriend. Does that satisfy you?’ Blue eyes teased her.
Katherine grew suddenly morose, knew it was irrational. But she persisted, ‘Do you go to bed with her, Thomas, make love to her?’
He put his fork down, looked at her sternly. ‘Katherine, I could say to you, that is none of your business. But I will be honest with you.’ He held her eyes, ‘Yes, I do go to bed with Victoria on occasion. I was supposed to see her tonight. That is why I had to take the call. Does that satisfy you?’ He watched the emotions play over her young face, the stir of anger, the hint of disappointment and then a smile settled, hesitant, ravishing in its innocence.
‘Thomas,’ she looked down at her hands for a moment and then confronted him, ‘Thomas, will you marry me?’
He gazed at her and after a second burst out laughing.
‘Is it so funny?’ she asked quietly, her hurt in her eyes.
‘No, no, Schätzchen,’ he stilled himself. ‘It is only that I have never been proposed to so abruptly, so boldly before.’
‘But will you, Thomas, now, soon?’ Grey eyes questioned him with the full seriousness of her young being.
He met her seriousness. ‘I will consider your proposal,’ he said slowly.
It was not the answer Katherine had hoped for. Tears rose in her eyes. She hid them while Roberts served creamy chicken from a steaming casserole.
Thomas, his voice light, asked for his compliments to be sent to cook, asked for a little more wine. He was biding his time. Surveying Katherine. She was hurt by his answer. But what had made the girl propose to him in this way? It was wholly unexpected. He would have liked to take her in his arms, to stroke the vivacity of that auburn hair, yes, those young full breasts. He stopped his imagination. But there was something more at stake here.
‘Schätzchen,’ he forced her to meet his eyes, ‘You must not be upset. You cannot simply propose to me with no more reason than the discovery that I happen to sleep with a woman and expect an instant answer. It must have crossed your imagination before that I make love to women. I am not dead yet.’ He saw the shadows flutter over her face.
‘No perhaps it has not crossed your young imagination. Never mind, that is not what is at issue. But marriage,’ he paused, ‘marriage is a serious proposition. For you, perhaps even more than for me.’
Katherine pushed her chair clumsily away from the table. Stood up, ‘I don’t feel very well, Thomas. Excuse me.’
He didn’t care for her, Katherine thought. Not really. Not when it came to that. To what he did with women. Like her father. She was just a child. Unimportant. A plaything. An occasional recreation.
He moved quickly after her, took her arm. ‘Come, we shall sit by the fire and talk quietly.’ Despite her resistance, he manoeuvered her into the living room. Made her sit in the sofa, poured a glass of brandy. ‘If you are old enough to propose to me, then you are old enough for this,’ he tried to lighten the atmosphere.
He took her hand, stroked it softly. ‘Now, Schätzchen, tell me. What has occasioned all this. Are you pregnant? One of those young men you see?’
She pulled away from him, aghast. ‘No, of course not,’ she said adamantly.
‘Well, that, at least, is a relief.’ Thomas smiled. ‘So tell me.’
Katherine gazed into the fire, the leaping flames, let her eyes play over the fine marble hearth, the painting by George Grosz above it, with its hectic planes, its lurid faces, a satirist’s black view of life in the metropolis. She spoke slowly, ‘It’s just that I like it here with you. I like to be with you. I would like to live with you.’
She turned to him, lips slightly parted, eyes wide, entreating him.
He kissed her. She gave him soft, warm, innocent lips, unmoving beneath his. He could have, he knew, urged her into response. She was passive in his arms, willing, willing him. But he let her go, only cradling her in the circle of his
arm.
‘Tell me, Katherine, tell me. There is something troubling you. Something perhaps since I have last seen you. That man, Carlo?’
Katherine shook her head and relaxed into the fold of his arm. She looked again into the flames. ‘I’ve learned that Violette is my sister. My half-sister,’ she murmured.
‘I see,’ he said softly. ‘But that should be no reason for grieving. You have always liked the Princesse. And Violette.’
‘I know,’ Katherine mused, perturbed. ‘But I feel betrayed. Cheated somehow. Jacob should have told me. He treats me like a child.’ She didn’t tell him the rest about her father and Camille, or the thoughts that had tormented her that long night.
‘I understand,’ Thomas got up, paced. ‘So you have come to me to make a double betrayal of it. Tit for tat. Your father with the Princesse. You with me.’ He paused, knowing eyes tinged with irritation looked down on her, challenged her.
‘No,’ Katherine leapt up, away from him. Her face was flushed. ‘It’s not like that.’
‘Isn’t it, Schätzchen? Think about it. You ask me to marry you, perhaps first to seduce you. No? Not because you’re drawn to me particularly,’ he grasped her arm, made her turn to him. ‘But in order to pay your father back, to teach him a lesson.’
‘That’s not true,’ Katherine struggled to free herself from those fingers which gripped her too fiercely, from that intelligence which probed into her.
He pulled her closer to him. His face was on a level with hers, his pupils were strange, bright. ‘So you want to be a woman, Schätzchen?’ he murmured.
Katherine stood rigidly against him.
Suddenly he laughed a little harshly and let her go. ‘No, Schatzchen. This is not the spirit in which one becomes a woman.’ He turned away from her and poured himself a drink.
She stood where he had left her, gazing into the flames. She felt humiliated. The eyes on her back were laughing at her, judging her.
Thomas sipped his brandy. He could smell her fear. It was no good. The moment was all wrong. He could take her upstairs now, try slowly to elicit some response from that virginal body. Show her what she thought she wanted. She wouldn’t protest. But she didn’t want him. Not now. Not ever, perhaps. It was all some impulsive reaction to her father. And he, he who was used to the subtle caresses of experienced women, did he want the responsibility of that fearful flesh? His eyes strayed over her, that long elegant body, the beautiful head, waiflike now, somehow lost.
Memory and Desire Page 44
