by Warren Adler
But that was when Dawn had mattered. Briefly, he had considered marriage. Defiantly, since she was a Jewess. On the sunny side of thirty-five, he had pondered the matter in sleepless turnings with her beside him, breathing with quiet contentment. A designer of women's clothes, with a worldwide clientele, she had sat beside him on the plane to Paris and it had happened to him somewhere in the mid-Atlantic. Once he could have remembered the exact moment. The stewardess had cleared their after-dinner drinks. They had talked nonstop for three hours by then, become intimate in the way of casual travelers. But the intimacy had lingered.
It embarrassed him now to remember how they groped for each other under the first class blankets, electric charged spontaneous embraces that lasted the remainder of the trip. And after.
He had endowed Dawn then with deliciously exotic qualities, like a rare grape that had suddenly fermented and become wine, soft to the pallet. Yet not addicting. No woman had ever done that to him, a troubling circumstance in itself. What then was permanent? He wanted love to last. But it came and went, like the seasons. There had been scores of women.
It was, of course, the contemplation of marriage that had raised the Jewish thing. The urge for possession had completely captured him and even during the day in the midst of the most plebeian events, despite absorbing business interests demanding his total mind, he could not erase her from his yearning. Surely, that was love.
Yet the blood thing was so heavily programmed into him that the guilt could not be dismissed. It was a family axiom that all von Kassels, the great extended line of Estonian Barons, do not genetically combine with Jews. One might, he knew, using modern values, not particularize the bigotry to Jews alone. It extended also to Slavs, Poles, blacks, the entire conglomeration strewn on the shores of the Mediterranean and all their offal washed up on the beaches of the Americas, as well as Indians, red and brown. All but the Nordic, the Germanics. His Aunt Karla was a rabid Hitlerian anti-Semite, whose late husband, the Count von Berghoff, could be virulent on the subject, boasting of his destructive acts against Jews. His father's prejudices were much more institutionalized. He did not hate Jews alone. Mostly he hated all non von Kassels. All marriages were compromises of the blood. Even Siegfried's marriage to a girl from a titled British family and Rudi's marriage to a South American German were merely tolerated.
The Baron père had married a Hohenzollern, his mother. But she had died soon after he was born, providing him and his brothers with a lifetime curiosity. Since there were no pictures of her, no possessions, not a trace of her existence on earth, the curiosity was only natural. "She is dead," was the Baron's only retort to their youthful questionings. But how? Disease? Accident? Murder? She had simply expired and they must exorcise forever the idea of her. Such was the fatherly implication and so it was. Somehow, too, the matter of her absence was considered a fault, a betrayal of von Kassel interests, however the circumstances of her demise. How dare she! What was important, though, was that she had performed her single function, to reproduce von Kassels and mix it well with Hohenzollern blood, ancient cells, the stuff of Rulers, Kings, Knights and Barons.
Albert cursed his own weakness in bringing Dawn to the reunion. Ironically, her ardor had multiplied as his diminished. But she would behave herself. She had always done that. And she had, almost as an implied bargain for a permanent future as a von Kassel, promised to keep her antecedents to herself. She could easily do that. She was a natural blonde, blue-eyed Jewess with a straight symmetrical nose and high cheekbones. Most people took her for a Swede, since she looked strikingly like Ingrid Bergman. He detested himself for allowing the implication to exist.
Seeing the castle loom above him, the Teutonic banner now visible in sharp detail, clearly revealing the scepter and the shield, he began to feel like a little boy again, the youngest, awed and dumbstruck in his father's presence.
He could be brave in New York, thousands of miles distant, manipulating the family's worldwide interests with a sure touch, ruthless and authoritative, although the legal and spiritual reins still rested in his father's hands. Discovering his swift, agile mind had been his father's joy after the indifferent, rebellious Siegfried and the plodding Rudi. Accepting the mantle of the von Kassels' business interests was natural for Albert. He reveled in it. He had gone to Harvard Business School after an engineering degree at Yale. He could articulate a weapons system to a prospective buyer with expert skill. Heads of state liked him. He had learned five languages, although sometimes he cleverly omitted his knowledge, giving him the edge over his adversary. All customers were adversaries.
But taking the family business helm was one thing. Accepting the caveat that only a von Kassel could share in the proceeds was, of course, inhibiting. Not all von Kassels were efficient, the best around. His cousin Frederick in Cairo was, in fact, a dangerous asshole. And Adolph in Hong Kong was, although brilliant, a voluptuary and a blatant homosexual. And the others, in varying degrees, had their foibles. But they were, after all, von Kassels, distant cousins actually, descendants of a great-great uncle who got out of Estonia with his skin years before his father. They were not, of course, in the main line of succession.
All this was acceptable. What Albert feared most was that his father would entrust to him the spiritual enforcement of the von Kassel legend, the geneological stewardship of the family. To his father this was a mania, more important than wealth, than life itself. No matter of blood or marriage could be decided individually by any von Kassel. A birth was not merely a birth. It was an act of membership in the von Kassel club. With it came an awesome power that he did not want. Yet one could not lead in business matters without accepting that burden. If he was edgy, he had good reason to be. He did not want to abdicate. Yet, in his heart, he knew he was unworthy to be crowned. He shook himself, hoping the image would disappear. Dawn reacted to his sudden movement, glancing at him.
She had lit another cigarette, inhaling the smoke deeply, flicking her long blonde hair further back from her face. They were approaching the castle head-on now. The powerful Daimler motor strained as the road's incline angled higher.
"It's all so damned gothic," she said, the words coming in a hiss of smoke
"The old man summers here," he explained patiently, knowing he had said it all before. "Says it regenerates him. It was built by the Order."
"Ancestor worship," she snapped.
"Like the Jews."
"We don't make lampshades.... "Her words trailed off. "Sorry darling," she said, patting his hand.
"We are Ostlanders," he said quietly. "There is a difference."
She settled back in the seat. He understood her uneasiness.
To divert himself, he pressed a button and the glass that separated them from Garth opened.
"Who's here?" he asked in German.
"Baron Rudi and the Baroness," he said slowly. In Garth's world, all titles were necessary. "And the twins. The Countess von Berghoff, of course. Baron Siegfried and the Baroness are driving from Paris. They might have arrived." He paused, a device meant to separate the classes in the family structure. "The others are already arrived." Frederick from Cairo. Wilhelm from Zurich, Adolph from Hong Kong. He pictured their faces.
"And the Russian woman," Garth said unexpectedly. The words were flat, but he had obviously saved it for the last.
"Who?"
"The wife of your father's brother."
"Wolfgang?" He was puzzled. They had gotten word that he had died in Moscow. Every generation had its black sheep. There had been some vague talk of a late marriage.
"Your father and the Countess..." Garth mumbled. It was the shorthand of servants who are privy to secrets. That seemed odd, Albert thought, considering the long estrangement.
"...with her kid," Garth said, the explanation now complete. So that was it. Blood again. A von Kassel to be reclaimed. Albert nodded, turning again to watch Dawn, who had stamped out her cigarette and was now fussing with her face, looking into her small round compact
mirror, always a sign that they were nearing a destination.
The Daimler slowed, entering the castle grounds. The air was clear now, the sky emerald blue without a puff of cloud in sight. Below, the forest faded into the mist. Here, the castle appeared to be the only habitation on earth, a self-contained world.
"They knew what they were doing when they built this," Albert said. Dawn ignored him, concentrating on fixing her face.
The Daimler turned into a road surrounded on either side by a brick wall, then over a wooden bridge which spanned a dry hollow, once a moat. The bridge led to the castle façade, stretching sheer to fifty feet or more into which was carved a huge arched entrance leading to a massive courtyard. The car crunched over a winding gravel road which threaded through a carefully manicured tree park to what was now the main structure. Above them loomed the dominant watchtower, and the banner of the Teutonic Order.
Garth braked the car in the semicircle of the entrance driveway. Two uniformed servants appeared and began collecting the baggage.
"Dungeon for two," Dawn said, stepping delicately onto the driveway, her eyes scanning the sunlit entrance. A rotund man in a tight morning suit stretched to its fabric's limits came toward him.
"My good Baron," he called, grasping Albert's hand, fawning. He bowed, tossed his head and clicked his heels as he pumped Albert's hand. Smiling, Albert watched Dawn observing this bit of stage business.
"And this is Miss Frank," Albert said with an air of exaggerated imperiousness. "Our manager, Hans Weissen." Again the bow, the nod, the click of the heels, only this time the lifting of her hand to his lips, barely touching. The acknowledgment of possession was clear. He had not told her that the family also owned the castle. She looked up and smiled.
"So happy. Wonderful," the manager said turning to Albert. "He looks marvelous." Albert waited for the obligatory reminiscence. "I have known him since he was so high," Hans said. There was a whiff of heavy scent emitting from the manager's pink skin. The face was cherubic, the head bald, with little red-rimmed eyes like a Dutchman in a Rembrandt painting. After he had illustrated Albert's younger size, the dimpled hands rubbed themselves together in an attitude of cloying delight.
They followed him inside. The lobby was ornate, with stone floors and graceful pillars stretching high into the vaulted ceiling. Suits of armor were on display, with little legends in German at kneecap level attesting to their authenticity as those worn by the ancient Knights of the Order. A huge Teutonic banner hung across the entire length of the lobby.
"Uncle Albert. Uncle Albert." Squeals echoed and reverberated in the room as two identical little girls, dressed in the wedgewood gray uniforms of an English girls' school, round granny glasses perched on their noses, came running to embrace him. They were chest high, their legs like sticks in long white stockings. Embracing them identically, he returned the gesture, kissing them on their foreheads, under their peaked caps.
"My bookend nieces," he said to Dawn. "Inger and Ingrid. This is Miss Frank."
Dawn held out both hands, which seemed the logical mode of greeting. They grasped her hands lightly and curtsied.
"I'm the one with the little birthmark here," Ingrid said, pointing to her cheek.
"But sometimes she covers it with makeup," Inger pointed out, giggling. There was an odd mixture of Spanish inflection amid the English accent. And a touch of precociousness.
"They belong to my brother Rudi."
"Mummy and Daddy are having breakfast in the dining room," Ingrid said.
"Then we're going to play tennis," Inger said, with exactly the same inflection as if the remarks came from the same person. They skipped away, their shoes making hollow echoing sounds.
"They're cute," Dawn said.
"And bratty," he whispered.
"You have the suite directly below your father's," the manager said, leading them to a caged dome-shaped elevator.
"As soon as you are settled, the Baron will expect you," Hans said to Albert as they ascended. The titled reference to the father was distinctly different from his own and the others. The Baron was the Baron.
"Of course," Albert replied.
An arched wooden door opened to their suite, a rectangle, windowed on four sides, but divided into two rooms, a sitting room and a bedroom. A bowl of fruit was placed next to a bouquet of flowers on the table. A sideboard held a forest of glistening bottles and glasses. The manager rubbed his hands together and bowed as he backed out of the room.
"If he clicks his heels again, I'll die," Dawn whispered. But it was too late, the little departure ceremony was exactly as the greeting.
"Anything. Anything at all..." The words faded as the door closed.
When he had gone, he watched her survey the room, the eyes darting into the brightness. A tapestry covered a wall between the arched windows, depicting a Knights' battle, the Teutonic Order's colors on shields and banners. Even the furniture had a heroic look.
He followed her into the bedroom. It was dominated by a high, massive four-poster bed with a heavy carved wood frame hung with red damask.
"Jesus Christ!"
"Not his. About twelve hundred years too early."
She turned toward him, mischievous. He understood the coquetry and tried avoiding the challenge by averting his eyes, looking out into the sun-filled court. Moving toward him, her hand brushed his cheek.
"My father will be waiting," he said, but not as firmly as he wished. He pitied her now, and himself, for having to dissimulate. Resisting the compulsion to disengage, he let her put her arms around him, hesitating briefly, then returning the embrace.
"Hold me," she said. Obeying her, he pressed her closer. She was the alien here. Her breath was light and warm against his cheek.
"I must go," he said, loosening his grip.
"Yes," she agreed. He knew she had hinted at more, had wanted to make love. When she was insecure, frightened, she yearned for it, requiring a more gentle performance on his part.
"Later," he said, squeezing her arms and releasing her. But she had detected the hollowness of the rejection, the deadening of his interest, and her eyes reflected it.
"You wanted to come..." he began, almost as a rebuke. "I get tense here."
"Of course," she said, turning away.
He wished he could still love her, he thought, irritated by his own indifference. Then, shrugging, he passed through the sitting room and let himself out of the door.
Perhaps it will come back again, he decided hopefully, unable to shake off the growing loneliness.
CHAPTER 2
Baron Charles von Kassel sipped his morning tea, replacing the cup on the silver bed tray with fragile white trembling fingers. He wore a rumpled velvet dressing gown, the ubiquitous "VK" symbol embroidered over one pocket. Overstuffed feather pillows propped him up in the ornate antique bed.
His sister Karla, the Countess von Berghoff, faced him above a length of oriental rug, his mother's face replicated in her. Her gray hair was carefully piled in its "receiving" coiffure. Normally, in the intimacy of their suite it would hang in a long braid. She was the middle one, in the early seventies now, but her organs had withstood the destruction of chronology better than his. Her heart still pounded vigorously, providing enough energy to propel her massive figure. Age had not yet dissolved her flesh. The Baron was merely a shadow of her, although once his bones had held the same bulk, proving again the durability of women.
But he did not begrudge her her health. A von Kassel did not cower in the face of the abyss. A von Kassel needed no blindfold to fall into the pit. Not when he had done his duty. And the Baron had done that. He had passed his tissue through the tunnel of time. There was contentment in that knowledge. Now, merely a few loose ends to be neatly tied and he could rest easy, joining the formations of his forebears.
"Who has come?" he asked. It was a repetition of the same question he had asked when she had first arrived from her adjoining bedroom. Patiently, she recounted the report of the family
's arrival, which the manager, Hans, had transmitted to her by telephone.
"And Albert?"
"He will be coming soon. Garth has gone to meet him at the Frankfurt airport."
"And the dinner tonight?"
"It has been arranged."
"And the meeting tomorrow?"
"Also arranged."
"And the picnic in the mountains?"
"Of course." She betrayed no impatience with his repetition.
"The Russian?" he asked after a deep sip of tea, betraying again his reluctance over inviting her.
"She will soon come." He felt her look of rebuke and the long familiar sigh that preceded a patient condescending explanation.
"Wolfgang was our brother." The words began as a litany and he decided he would not waste the energy to interrupt her. "Despite his politics, his disloyalty, his disregard of the family, he was blood. There is the child to be considered. The child is a von Kassel...."
"We have quite enough von Kassels," he said, unable to contain himself.
"It was Wolfgang himself who wrote. After all those years in the Soviet Union without a word." She was, he observed, relentless in defense of their action.
"She is a fortune hunter. And he was a bastard, a communist bastard." He had already surrendered to the idea and this was merely a last gasp of defeat in the face of her victory. But then, Karla always won the final battle. He could not resist a thin smile.
"You will be good?" she asked.
Charles nodded, sipped again from his tea cup. The brief stab of anger had injured him and a spasm of pain gripped his chest. He knew she had seen it. There was no escaping Karla's riveting bird's eyes. She stood up, reached for the little gold pillbox and put it in front of him. The keeper of his medicines, he did not know how he could survive without her ministerings. Both nurse and pharmacist to him, she knew the catalogue of his drugs and their doses down to the last milligram.
He took two tiny pills and let them dissolve under his tongue. Always under the onslaught of even the briefest spasm, his courage wavered. Not yet. Not now. There is still this and that to do. Holding the reunion six months in advance had given him an agony of indecision. But his body told him that there was little time left. His flesh was melting and the muscles of the heart pumped precariously.
