by Rex Baron
“Just hold tight. The only answer now it to get him to dance with you. He'll have to touch you then. I'll go and see if I can get him to come to us. Don't move a muscle, and don't talk with anyone.”
Claxton moved off, leaving Helen on her own. She could scarcely breathe. She placed her hand on her breast and felt the sachet containing the magic. She wanted to run from the room and tear the charmed pouch from her bodice, to be rid of it, if only to stop her heart from exploding.
She turned her head toward the grand stairway, leading from the salon up to the first tier of seats, and noticed with surprise a tall dark man staring at her intently. She turned her face away to ignore his attention, but felt his eyes pressing into her flesh. She caught a glimpse of a faint smile move across his lips like the ripple of a ground tremor in an earthquake.
His face was hard and angular, his skin scarred with the reminders of a difficult adolescence. Yet, he was beautiful and powerful. He watched her, unmoving, appraising her like a hunter willing to wait out the hunt, then suddenly, he was gone. She searched the length of stairs for his midnight blue dinner suit, but he was nowhere in sight.
“Entschuldigung, aber Sie sehen nur ein bisschen verloren aus.”
Helen turned to see the mysterious man standing behind her, smiling broadly.
“I'm sorry,” she said, unconsciously bringing her hand to her throat for protection. “I don't speak German. Ich spreche nur”...
The man laughed at her apparent distress.
“You are American,” he surmised.
Helen nodded with relief at the sound of English. She was even more relieved when he tapped his heels lightly together and bowed, rather than extend his hand.
“I am Kurt Von Kragen, with an upper case V on the von.”
Helen looked puzzled.
“It's by way of explaining that I am not one of them.”
He nodded in the direction of the rigid line of aristocrats that made up the receiving line.
“I have a von in my name. But because it's a capital V and not a small, lower case v, it means that my family was simply born in the town of Kragen, but we never owned even a scrap of it.”
“I see,” Helen said, pretending to make sense of what he had said. “In my country one knows who owns the town by how much money and influence they have, not by the spelling of their name.”
“And might I know your name?” he asked with an intensely charming grin.
Helen was a bit taken aback. He was obviously not privy even to the simple fact that the party was being given to introduce her to society before her debut the following Saturday.
“Helen Liluth,” she said plainly. She automatically outstretched her hand but withdrew it before he had a chance to acknowledge it. “I really must go,” she said.
“The music has started. Will you dance?” he asked, not letting up on his courtliness.
“Yes, I will. But first I must open the ball by dancing with the Prince.”
“But as you can see,” the young man said, motioning toward the great salon filled with mirrors, “he is already dancing with his wife.”
Kurt extended his hand toward Helen.
“No, I'm sorry,” she said.
“You know, of course, that you are very beautiful,” he said. “But I am surprised that your dress is white. As lovely as it is, I sense somehow that there is a slight deceit here, that you would be more yourself in a strong vibrant hue or the color of night. White is for those who have no passion, no understanding of life, those who make unrealistic promises in the name of their gods or in the name of love.”
Helen broke away and turned toward the stairway that led to the balcony. She gathered the lengths of fabric that made up the skirt of her gown and made her escape up the stairs.
Kurt stood watching from below, never taking his eyes from her as she ascended. He wore the expression, not of one who had been rebuffed, but, once again, of the determined hunter, amused at the prolonging of the game, expectant and prepared for whatever move his prey might test him with next.
She retreated to the safety of the upstairs ladies’ cloakroom and stood long moments at the mirror, adjusting her dress and poking absent-mindedly at her hair, allowing the young man ample time to lose interest and drift off in pursuit of some smaller, less dangerous creature.
“If he wants to play predator,” she said aloud to the empty room, “then, I'll show him that he's stalking a carnivore.”
She sighed to herself. What did it matter? The young man downstairs was of no real importance. He was nothing more than a diversion from the unwelcome advances of Claxton and the meager bits of affection she needed to dole out to him as reward for interviews and contracts, whatever he could do to help promote her career and publicity.
There had been too few young men like the one downstairs in the last couple of years, a mere handful of flirtations at best, that seldom went beyond a passionate kiss or a promise of some assignation that never materialized. He was attractive to her, the man with the ravaged complexion and the hunter’s eyes, yet, she could not afford a liaison with someone who was of no influence. He had said himself that he was not an aristocrat, and there was no room in her plan for anyone who was powerless to assist her, regardless of how attractive she found them.
She touched at the penciled line at the edge of one eye, smoothing a smudge where the kohl had smeared. She surveyed the marble countertop, looking for the small beaded handbag containing her cosmetics, then realized that she had placed it on a table in the hallway and left it there in her flight from Von Kragen. She hurried out into the corridor. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the young man with the hunter's eyes standing before her, holding her bag against his chest.
“You left this,” he said, offering up the bag.
Helen hesitated, then quickly snatched the bag out of his grasp, careful not to come in contact with his hand in the process.
“Thank you,” she answered with studied detachment. “I realized, just a moment ago, that I had overlooked it.”
“To be honest,” he said, “I saw it on the table and covered it with my hand, anticipating the event that you might try to steal away from me. It was just a little insurance that I would get to see you again.”
“You're far more aggressive than you ought to be,” she said coldly. “Perhaps you think I will find your attentions charming or amusing, but I don't.”
Kurt took up a position walking next to her. Unaffected by her harsh words, he persistently strolled along, his hands clasped behind his back, and spoke to her calmly, like an unwanted holiday tour guide, pointing out the intricacies and idiosyncrasies of the great opera hall.
“This opera house was an enormous undertaking to build. Richard Wagner worked for years to raise the money for its erection. He chose the very ground here in Bavaria because it had mystical connections to the folklore of the old gods.”
“I think you have rather the wrong idea,” Helen continued her reprimand. “I am not looking for a flirtation, nor any kind of familiar little tryst with anyone at the moment, and if I were, I doubt seriously it would be with someone I had met as casually as this.”
“Wagner claimed himself to be like the Greek hero Amphion, a musician. He played his lyre… and at the sound of it, great stones formed themselves into the city of Thebes. The man had quite an ego wouldn't you say?”
Helen stopped walking as they reached the top of the great stairway.
“Nothing compared to yours. You're not listening to me,” she said angrily.
“Oh but I am,” Kurt answered calmly. “You are telling me that my attentions are of no interest to you and that you have set your sights higher. I am perfectly aware of who you are and how successful you are in your little world of amusements. But what you fail to realize is that time is a fluid thing. You are everything you ever were and will be at this moment, and so am I. You are celebrated at this moment in time, but I am not. In another time, in the near future perhaps, I shall ha
ve a fame and influence of my own. Then, I should certainly be worthy of you. But maybe by then, it is you who would have slipped just a little into an untimely obscurity. What then? What sort of equality would we have then?”
“This is utter nonsense,” Helen answered, turning her angry face toward him. “It's little men like you who scoff at greatness, the hard work that it takes to build a success…”
Kurt laughed a loud booming laugh.
“I don't think hard work was solely responsible for your so-called greatness,” he said. “I suspect you relied far more heavily on other devices.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, almost breathless.
“I can see into your thoughts,” he said, bringing his lips close to her ear, “and I see that you would far rather have someone else do the work for you. You might even use your charms to insure that your success comes to you with as little effort as possible. You see, the beautiful are very often impatient as well.”
Helen found the closeness of his lips to her ear exciting. The skin of her throat tingled at his hot breath so near to her. But the mechanical bomb, nestled at her breast, ticked loudly in her brain, reminding her to keep her distance.
“You're familiarity is unpleasant to me,” she lied.
At that moment, Claxton appeared at the foot of the stairs and motioned for Helen to hurry. He had arranged that the Prince would ask Helen to dance, her first dance of the evening, the moment she reappeared in the ballroom. He had told Prince Henry that it was the custom of her country that Helen should be presented to society by way of a spin around the dance floor with the host. He had told him that she would be offended and insulted if this courtesy went overlooked.
Helen turned her attentions abruptly away from the annoying young man at her side.
“You're a fool,” she said.
Hurriedly, she gathered up the heavy satin fabric of her gown and started down the stairs. Without realizing it, Kurt was standing on the edge of her skirt. Helen suddenly pitched forward, losing her balance. Her arms flailed for the railing, but it was out of reach. She felt herself toppling helplessly, then saw the young man, his handsomely scarred face close to hers. She felt his arms around her, pulling her backwards, steadying her against his body.
Her heart pounded. She was aware of nothing else but the touch of his hands. She felt the mechanism pressed against her chest, just above his embrace.
She turned to him in fury, slapping him hard across the face.
“You idiot. How dare you touch me? Why did it have to be you of all the possibilities here... some worthless...”
Her rage was interrupted by the intervention of Claxton, who carefully steered her back up to the landing and into the cloakroom. As she leered back at the young man, he stood unmoved, his eyes radiating a clear steady light, his hands folded calmly in front of him. He watched her being taken away, as if she were an overwrought playmate, snatched from a twilight game of hide and seek by a disgruntled parent.
“Let go of me,” she said, wresting her arm free from Claxton's grasp as the cloakroom door closed behind them.
“We didn't come halfway around the world just so you could show the crowned heads of Europe what a little fish wife you can be. Now calm yourself,” Claxton spit the words into her face.
“That fool has ruined everything. The charm is useless now.”
“Perhaps that's true. You did shoot your arrow of love at the wrong target, but that's no reason to believe that all is lost.”
Claxton laughed at the absurdity of it and at the black look on Helen's face.
“After all, what makes us think that you can't charm the Prince on your own, without any help at all? Lord knows you've done something to that poor idiot out there.”
He placed his hand against his chest in a gesture of mock devotion.
Helen's reflection glowered at him from the mirror.
“There is no time to lose. The Prince is waiting downstairs,” Claxton reminded her. The expression of mirth faded from his face as he hurried her toward the door. “We've got rather a lot riding on this and can't afford to go away empty-handed now, can we?”
They glided down the great stairway as if accustomed to such places and such company. The flush of color that anger had left in her complexion made Helen even more beautiful than before.
She glanced about nervously for some trace of the intense young man, fearful that he might appear and ruin everything once again.
“I tried to get away from him, but he was maddeningly persistent,” she explained. “It really wasn't my fault.”
Claxton patted her nervous fingers that twined through his arm. “Somehow it never is, my dear.”
He led her to Henry, who chatted politely with his guests.
When he saw Helen, his face brightened.
“Ah my dear,” he said, “all of Germany awaits you.” Turning to the gathering, he raised his hand and called for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to them in English, “may I introduce to you, Miss Helen Liluth, a great sensation of the opera in America, and I am sure, an inspiration in our production of Tristan and Isolde, which is scheduled to open on Saturday next in this very place. Please make her welcome and take her to your hearts as one of your own.”
Helen thought of Lucy as music filled the room and the waltz began. This would have been her life, she thought, dancing with her mentor and old friend, this sad old man who Helen had planned should take her under his wing and foster her career, just as he had done for his dearest departed friend.
There was no remorse in the thought, no guilt at the falsehood she presented. It was the dispassionate appraisal of one who weighed this life of polite and elegant success against the life of poverty and obscurity she knew would have been hers without her powers and deceptions. She looked up into the Prince's lean, painted face, searching for some sign of attraction. Perhaps the philter would have some residual effects, and she might see some small evidence of infatuation. But there was none. He held her apart, at a very correct distance, and smiled down at her, a smile that could be construed by anyone present as nothing more than fatherly.
Helen sighed and returned a chaste and daughterly smile.
As they turned around the dance floor, Helen caught sight of the scarred face of her persistent young suitor as he took his coat from a footman in the foyer. Her eyes followed him as the front door closed behind him and he strode away across the marble piazza. Turning once to look behind him, he disappeared into the darkness on foot.
Helen turned her attentions back to Prince Henry.
“Do you know of a young man named Von Kragen?” she asked.
“I can not say that I have met him,” the Prince answered without much thought.
“That's what I was afraid of,” Helen sighed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Helen and Claxton’s apartment, Bayreuth
Ilse finished her tidying up of the dressing table and folded all of the clothes that Helen had strewn about in the process of getting ready for the ball. Helen had known for weeks that she planned to wear the white organza in order to give her a more ethereal appeal and somewhat temper the slightly baser and sultry aspects of her appearance. But when she first slipped into the dress, it hung limp and lifeless, creating a silhouette that was far from what she had envisioned. Ilse had risen to the occasion and cleverly sewn two under-slips together, so that when worn under the gown, they would create a line that was voluminous and alive with movement. Helen had been pleased and had thanked her for her heroic efforts on her behalf… kind words but nothing more.
Knowing that Helen and Claxton would be away for the evening, Ilse now sat on Helen’s boudoir chaise, her feet propped up, and the collar of her uniform loosened to allow her head to drop back unrestricted into the brocade cushions.
She glanced at the stack of flattering, feminine garments on the bed and snorted out a sharp little laugh of disdain. How decadent and foolish this woman was, she thought to herself. She was sixteen ye
ars old and had already determined that she would not waste her life searching for a man to trick into marrying her, so that she might have such pretty things as these. She would buy her own things, she repeated her mantra in her head. She found no conceivable reason why she should wait for a man to marry her to have children, she added to her thought, shaping it with scraps of her logic, as if sculpting a statue from bits of clay. If she wanted a baby she could have one with any one of the boys she knew from the Hitler Youth group. She had joined a new organization for girls who supported the Workers Party, called the Bund Deutscher Madel, or the BDM… the League of German Maidens. They were modern free thinkers, these girls, and she was one of them. They were not tied to old ideas, fossils lost in the past, like the faded aristocrats that Helen was going to the party tonight to meet. They were the New Order that represented a new beginning, after the humiliation of the Great War. She was free to do as she liked with her body and, in spite of the fact that some jeering traditionalists referred to the girls of the youth organization as the League of German Mattresses, instead of German Maidens, she did not care. Having babies for the New Order was endorsed by Herr Hitler, and whether she had bothered to marry in order to do it was of little consequence.
Ilse swung her legs down off the chaise and rose to her feet.
“Good work and service deserves payment,” she said aloud to the empty room.
She walked over to Helen’s bureau and opened the top drawer to reveal neatly folded rows of camisoles and lacy under things. She pushed aside the silky garments to uncover a tan leather wallet, containing hundreds of dollars in American money. She helped herself to a twenty-dollar bill and returned the wallet to its obvious hiding place in the drawer.
“I saved your Arsch,” she proclaimed, as she waved the crisp currency in the air. “You would have gone to your foolish party looking like a scarecrow. It is only right that I be rewarded for my efforts in helping you manipulate these fools that are even more detestable than you are.”
She kissed the twenty-dollar bill, a small fortune compared to the Reichmark, and tucked it into the cuff of her uniform. She had to hurry and change into a blouse and one of the two nice skirts that she owned, hanging inside the near empty wardrobe in the small room in Helen’s apartment that had been allotted to her. She did not want to be late for her nine o’clock Youth Group meeting. She scanned the room to be certain that all was in order. Just before she left, a thought occurred to her. She crossed the room to the dressing table, where she picked up a pot of Helen’s expensive, scarlet lip rouge and, dipping her fingertip into the waxy color, smeared it carefully onto her own lips before making her way to the door and turning out the light.
