An hour later, Jamie was asleep, rendered unconscious and set adrift to dream elephant dreams by the small bottle of yellow powder he kept under lock and key in a cabinet in his bedroom.
Vanya sat by the bed as the night gathered weight in the corners of the old room, and watched as it slowly rolled up from the floor, softening the outline of the man on the bed. He could feel his pain, as he felt other things with this man—his joy, his love, his anger. It was, for Vanya, both a blessing and a curse all at once. But to sit here, while Jamie was peaceful, even if it was a drug-induced peace was, in the moment, all he could ask of the universe.
He, perhaps more than any other person living, understood what Jamie had endured in Russia, both in the gulag and in the weeks that preceded it. Lubyanka released no man without inflicting its particular whiplash upon both skin and spirit, both bone and blood. And yet, he thought, the greater torment for this man was here in this country, for reasons both public and personal. He had not expected it to be so but then he had not understood the love Jamie had carried for so very long. He understood, too, that a life lived in such a fractured way would eventually tear a man like Jamie apart. The headaches alone were proof of that.
Sometimes, when he was like this in the extremities of pain and emotion, and under the influence of this particular medicine, he would talk and despite the heartache it caused, Vanya listened and took in his words, knowing that he saw a side of Jamie that others did not. Not even, he thought, Pamela, and she saw more than almost anyone with this man.
Being Russian had given Vanya a certain harsh practicality. He would survive and so would Jamie, for a broken heart, after all, still kept beating.
Chapter Sixty-eight
The Unbounded Ocean
February 1978
THE BUILDING WAS ONE of those strange little three story constructions that was jammed in between two larger buildings and yet somehow still seemed to appear as if it were leaning, a bit drunkenly, to one side. It had a beautiful slate roof and was wreathed in delicate scarves of fog. The bottom floor was occupied by a law firm, the second floor by a millinery shop and the top floor by a very old and venerable Parisian publisher. Pamela took the wrought iron lift which she had to hand crank herself in order to rise to the third floor.
She was in Paris for two reasons, one was to meet with Monsieur Bellerose of Bellerose Books, who knew the American publisher who had bought her book last month. Monsieur Bellerose wanted to discuss the possibility of publishing Children of the Troubles in France. The other was to do a magazine interview about said children of the Troubles for a small politically-minded publication. After that she had arranged to visit with Yevgena. She had three full days to herself in the City of Light and she planned to enjoy every minute of it.
Monsieur Bellerose was a slightly tuberculotic-looking man who chain-smoked Gauloises and smelled of smoke and brandy. He was also one of those perfectly lovely souls whom Pamela liked from the moment he greeted her and kissed her hand. Their meeting went well and spilled over into a scrumptious lunch with an even more scrumptious bottle of wine to go with it. She parted from him, slightly tipsy and with a contract in her hand for the French rights to her book. She stopped at a café and bought a very strong coffee so that she would arrive sober for the magazine interview. The interview took place in a small grotty office building on the Rue Béranger but the man who interviewed her was kind and allowed her to practice her rather rusty French in some of her answers.
Thus, having had a rather successful day, she arrived at Yevgena’s beautiful apartment in good spirits. They settled in her parlor, a lovely room decorated in the bright colors and bohemian style that Yevgena, a true gypsy, preferred. Seated with a cup of chamomile tea with bright bits of golden flowers still floating in it, Pamela sighed, feeling content as she had not in some time.
“You had a good summer in Maine?” Yevgena asked, breaking a corner off a wafer-thin almond biscuit and popping it in her mouth.
“Yes,” Pamela said, “very good.” She wondered how much Yevgena had guessed about their summer. She knew the woman had a very well-honed sixth sense, particularly when it came to matters concerning Jamie. Jamie, whom Pamela had not seen since Christmas. She had spoken with him on the phone one day and he’d been rather short with her. It was to be expected but it still stung. She had never been comfortable being on the outs with Jamie, but she knew this time was different.
“Do you ever stay in the house in the Marais?” she asked. She knew the house had been where Yevgena and Jamie’s grandfather had once lived together.
Yevgena shook her head, her dark hair catching the light from the red lamp next to her and glowing like a crow’s wing in the sunlight. “No, it is properly Jamie’s house now. He always tells me to use it when I like but I have not wanted to be there since my James died. Besides, Jemmy is using the house right now.”
“Jamie’s in Paris? I thought he was in Vienna.”
“He was, and now he’s in Paris,” Yevgena said, sipping her tea daintily.
“Oh,” she said, uncertain why the news had disconcerted her, but it had. She felt a flush race up from her neckline through her face and was fully aware that Yevgena was noting her every expression. She coughed; she had a flower petal stuck in her throat.
“When is the last time you had an evening out, darlink girl?”
“I don’t know,” Pamela said honestly. “I don’t go out any more; there isn’t time for it.”
“Well, tonight,” Yevgena said decisively, “there is time and it is Paris, so you can hardly imagine you would stay in. I’m invited to a party, and I want for you to come with me.”
Pamela raised an eyebrow. She had the sense there was more to this than a simple outing.
Yevgena spread her hands, rings winking in the light. “Darlink, that is a look you have learned from Jemmy, do not be using it on me. It is bad enough when he does it. I am only wanting you to have a little fun. Tonight, you wear a pretty dress and go to a nice party and maybe drink a little wine. Now does that sound so very terrible?”
“No,” Pamela said, still suspicious, though of what she wasn’t exactly certain. In truth, Yevgena’s offer did have appeal. It had been a very long time since she had worn something pretty and went somewhere just for the fun of it. One could hardly, she thought, count cleaning Tomas’ house and talking to the badger as an evening out in society.
“I don’t have a party dress,” she said. Yevgena looked her up and down, her eyes assessing in a way Pamela had only seen before in French dressmakers. She left the room and returned a few minutes later with her arms filled with folds of delicate silver-green material.
Pamela took it and shook it out. It was a beautiful dress, made of layered silk voile which flickered from a silver-grey to shimmering green as it caught and moved in the light of the late afternoon sun.
“Try it on,” Yevgena said, with a rather determined light in her face which told Pamela she was going to a party whether she wanted to or not.
She came out of Yevgena’s bedroom a few minutes later feeling wildly self-conscious. The dress was gorgeous but it also left her with a quantity of bare skin on display.
“You look fabulous, darlink.” Yevgena stood back and surveyed her handiwork, and clapped her hands together with satisfaction. “Go look in the mirror; see if I don’t know my business.”
“It’s a bit revealing,” she said nervously. Her entire back was bare, down to the top of her buttocks.
“You’re young, and you can carry it off.” Yevgena said, tapping her lips thoughtfully with an index finger. “Perhaps we do need a wrap for you; I don’t want you catching cold. First, let’s deal with your hair. I think we will just pull it back, no? Your face does not require concealment after all.”
Her hair was just long enough to slick back and fasten in a low knot at the nape of her neck. She put on her make up while Yevgena went to get dressed. She felt a quiver of excitement at the idea of going out amongst adults for an e
vening of conversation and music.
When Yevgena returned she had transformed into the exotic Russian Gypsy who was more than a little intimidating to Pamela, even after knowing her for many years. She wore a scarlet silk dress with an oriental collar and a black shawl that shimmered with sequins. The wrap she had brought for Pamela was a gorgeously filmy silk, of a green even paler than the dress Pamela wore. It was embroidered all over with tiny silver butterflies. Yevgena placed it around Pamela’s shoulders; it was softer than swansdown and yet had a comforting weight to it. The ghost scent of perfume rose from its folds, wrapping her in notes of jasmine and hyacinth.
“I wore it to a wonderful party that was held at the Hotel Lambert. James brought it home for me from one of his yearly trips to Hong Kong. It’s gorgeous, yes? And perfect for this dress.”
“The Hotel Lambert?” Pamela asked, feeling her nerves come to full and vigorous life.
“Yes—James was friends with the Rothschilds—Guy and Marie Helene that is. Her parties were legendary. It was quite something to be invited. James knew everyone and everyone loved him, he was invited to every bloody social occasion in the city, I swear.”
Which sounded rather a lot like the current James, Pamela thought, mouth dry. She did not feel up to the glitter and glamor of Paris’ current aristocracy.
“Not to worry, darlink, the hosts are not of that sort,” Yevgena said, having apparently read her mind. “And now for the jewelry—don’t protest—this dress absolutely requires it.”
A rope of rough cut aquamarines, bound with freshwater pearls and anchored by a glimmering moonstone was looped around her throat with teardrops of the same stones gracing her ears.
“It’s beautiful, Yevgena, but I’m terrified I’ll lose it.”
Yevgena flapped a beringed hand at her. “I do not wear it anymore, darlink. Do not worry yourself.”
A car arrived at seven to pick them up and Pamela settled back in the luxurious leather seat and took a deep breath to settle her nerves. “Is Jamie going to be at this party?” she asked.
Yevgena shrugged, a gesture that sent alarm bells to ringing in Pamela’s head. “Maybe, I do not know. I am not always aware of the man’s social calendar.”
Pamela thought that probably wasn’t entirely true but forbore to say anything else. When she chose to be, Yevgena was about as forthcoming as a sphinx.
Yevgena reached over and took her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“Just relax, darlink. Trust me, it will be a night to remember.”
The chateau was set well back at the end of an avenue of lime trees, bare-branched and black this time of year. The house itself glowed against the chill winter night, tall and built of white stone, which was luminescent in the moon-filled night. The windows were flame-lit, candles shimmering in each and every one. With her limited knowledge of Paris Pamela thought they were in the Hauts-de-Seine département, which was part of the greater Île-de-France region. Not that she would know her way back into the city, even with a map and a compass.
A winding marble staircase led to great front doors out of which spilled music and the sound of voices raised in laughter and talk. She resisted the urge to clutch at Yevgena’s arm like a frightened child. Inside there was light and the scent of orange blossoms and the sound of water tumbling into water.
Yevgena touched her arm. “Darlink, I need to go powder my nose. I will meet you in the ballroom.” And with that she was gone, leaving Pamela staring suspiciously after her.
She felt someone’s regard, turned and saw Jamie, his bright hair a point of light against the dark paneling behind him. Unerringly, across the marbled expanse of the foyer, despite the milling crowd between them, he met her eyes. There was surprise in his face, and then just as quickly it was shuttered behind his polished courtesy. He came forward, through the throng of people and she fought with the desire to turn on her heel and run back down the wide marble staircase. Yevgena had tricked her, but to what end she could not fathom. It was too late to run, for Jamie was in front of her.
“Pamela?” He was not going to bother with the social niceties she saw, nettling slightly at the look on his face. It wasn’t as if she had taken it upon herself to come here, uninvited.
“Jamie.”
He raised one eyebrow at her, in what might have been her least favorite expression in his repertoire.
“I thought,” she said tightly, “I was invited.”
“You just happened to be in Paris?” He smiled, but it wasn’t the sort of smile that took the sting from his words.
“Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. I had a meeting with Monsieur Bellerose of Bellerose Books and I had an interview with a magazine. So, if you must know, I was here for work reasons. Yevgena invited me to come here with her tonight.”
“Ah, now I begin to understand. Where is Yevgena?”
“I don’t know, she melted away the minute we came through the doors.”
“Well, allow me to take your wrap,” he said and removed it from her, handing it off to a man who seemingly apparated out of thin air, ready to serve. She felt suddenly awkward and exposed in the beautiful dress.
“You’re exquisite,” Jamie said, correctly reading the expression on her face. Then he offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
A server in a flawless black and white uniform arrived with a tray of wine and champagne. Jamie plucked a golden wine from the tray and handed it to her. She took a nervous gulp and the taste of cold apricots and white flowers flooded her tongue.
He took her through to a long formal drawing room with high frescoed ceilings and gilded plasterwork. Long and narrow Oriental rugs woven in pale blues and greens covered the marquetry floor and plush divans and chairs were placed here and there in the room so that one could sit if one so wished. A fire burned in the vast hearth, giving the room a cheery air.
“I have a few people with whom I need to speak,” Jamie said. “Will you be all right on your own for a few moments?”
“Of course,” she said, still flustered and feeling like a wallflower at a grand ball. She cursed Yevgena under her breath for leaving her alone. The glass of wine she was drinking had gone straight to her head and she found a chair to sit in so that she could catch her breath and observe the other guests.
Around her was a veritable polyglot of languages. She caught snippets of Arabic and Hebrew, Spanish and Italian, though of course the majority of people were speaking in either French or English. She spoke to a variety of them as they passed her chair and politely engaged in small talk. She realized there was an impeccable mix of guests—cabinet ministers, artists, musicians, religious figures, military leaders, philosophers, scientists and a particularly lovely Italian man named Pietro who was an amateur astronomer and said he had known Jamie since he was a schoolboy at Oxford. He sat down in the chair near her and began a conversation in French which thankfully she could follow quite well.
Dinner was served shortly thereafter. Set at round tables, the meal was a work of art in itself—Limoges china, Waterford crystal, snowy white linens and delicate sprays of freesia in narrow jade vases at each place setting. The food was perfect and there was a dizzying array of it—delicate soufflés to start and then a fish soup partnered with a sumptuous rosé, wild salmon and braised beef, poached turbot, coquilles Saint-Jacques, moules marinières, small savory asparagus tarts, artichokes in brown butter and the perfect wines to accompany each entrée. There were mint and rosewater sorbets between each course to rinse and prepare the palate. Pamela drank more wine than she ought to and ate less than was wise. She could feel the warm blush rise in her skin which wine always caused in her. She saw Jamie glance over at her more than once, concern written clearly on his face. Feeling defiant she drank more wine. She made small talk with the man seated next to her, though later she could not have said what they talked about. There was a woman sitting beside Jamie at his table. A woman who was—to apply the word Jamie had used on her earlier—exquisite. She was Chinese, with
all the purity of bone and skin her race was famed for, but there was something of the Caucasian in her as well, despite the grace and flawless etiquette that were purely Oriental in their forms. She suddenly realized just who the woman was. Sallie O’Rourke—Jamie’s lawyer in Hong Kong and the person who helped him with all legal matters in the Far East. Pamela had dealings with her while Jamie was in Russia and had enjoyed the woman’s quick wit and formidable business acumen.
After dinner, the entire company moved to the ballroom. She retreated to the shadow of a potted palm and watched the party unfold around her like a paper chrysanthemum thrown into warm water. It was well organized, but in such a way to make everything seem perfectly natural and spontaneous. The ballroom was large with a floor of polished marble that glittered in the light of a string of chandeliers which were strategically spaced the length of the ceiling. The walls boasted gorgeous frescoes of ladies and gentlemen in scenes of bucolic splendor which spoke of work original to the chateau. She estimated it to be of the 18th century. Living with Casey had given her an education in dating buildings.
The wine flowed like a fountain in full spate, and there was whiskey—she could smell the heady smoke of Scotch and the velvet peat of the Irish malts. Candles, still sweet with the labor of bees, burned in sconces all around. It was light expressly for flattering skin and hair, and profiles that were no longer in the first flush of youth. There was music too, played softly, beautiful music designed to put people at ease, and also an ache in their hearts. She could hear uilleann pipes ribboning through the loftier instruments, wounding with its airs. People milled about, animated in conversation, or merely watching, as she was, the activity swirling around the room. Everything was beautifully coordinated, food and wine and spirits delivered faultlessly, the servers moving through the guests as if performing a dance. Guests were introduced, encouraged to mingle, and found themselves in small groups of like minds, or if inclined to debate, were moved along smoothly to the next group, where spirited opposition was the theme. It all, she realized, felt very familiar, and so it ought to. She had been at such gatherings before; she had hosted one or two herself. This party was Jamie’s; it had his touch all over it. Why he was hosting it here she was less certain about.
In the Country of Shadows (Exit Unicorns Series Book 4) Page 78
