by Tessa Lunney
I nodded. He sighed and played a discordant chord.
“That is truly terrible. Have you told Matisse?”
“Why?”
“You must! She sat so patiently for Matisse, hour after hour, as he threw away his work, as he had his usual struggle to get everything exactly so. Henri is like a wind-up toy, all tension and a clattering pace until he needs his pipe, his dinner, and winding up again. His wife is an absolute slave to his work, but he had a soft spot for Cordelia. Her patience was divine, she seemed to grow more beautiful and more spiritual as the hours wore on. It was uncanny. Most people are the opposite, they become objects, no better than the chair they sit on. Not Cordelia; she commanded that you look, that you like, that you worship. She was so kind about our worship too!” He looked into a pitiful distance.
“Was Matisse…” The party laughter crowded in on me, I couldn’t properly frame my thoughts. “Were my mother and Matisse…”
“Lovers? They could have been. They certainly spent enough time together—and she never accepted my advances, so it must be so! No, really, Matisse could be very jealous. Every model knew it was either Matisse or the rest of the world. He’ll be in town again next week, he’s coming to dinner with me. Join us! At least for apperitifs. You too, Madame Chevallier.” He kissed Maisie’s hand, then turned to a man half a room away. “Constantin! I have dreadful news!”
A man with deep set eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard came over, drinking from a bottle of red wine. André lit him a cigarette as he topped up André’s glass.
“Andrusha, don’t leave me in suspense,” said Constantin.
“You remember Cordelia King Button?” said André.
“An angel.”
“She’s joined them, according to her daughter here.”
He kissed my hand. “Mademoiselle, I am infinitely sorry. What a blessing to have had her for a mother.”
“I’m trying to find out who…”
“Who were her cher amants,” said André. “She was close to Matisse, wasn’t she?”
“I saw her with Rodin… but she wasn’t a muse for Rodin. But yes, Matisse. Matisse would know. They were friends, all that group. Always going off to paint in the countryside. I prefer it here, in Montparnasse… She hasn’t really gone, has she?” He tutted at my nod. “This is a tragedy. I have a bust of her in my studio still. You must see it.”
André smiled. “You haven’t introduced yourself, Constantin.”
“Apologies! Constantin Brancusi. I have a studio just a short walk away. Pop in any morning, I’m always working.”
“Always clockworking, always lurking, always berzerking,” Tristan Tzara popped up between André and Constantin.
“Tristan!” Constantin laughed. “Where have you been?” He switched to Romanian and the party flowed on.
I stood still for a moment. These men knew my mother. It seemed that everyone knew my mother, either well or by reputation. She had been painted by Fauvists and sculpted by Cubists. Anyone else would have boasted about how cosmopolitan they were, how bohemian, how modern. Even her diaries never said exactly what she had done. As I watched Maisie flirt expertly with André and Constantin, and Theo smooth back his hair as he talked to Nancy, I wondered if my mother never properly wrote about it as a way of not acknowledging what she was missing. Paris and London were the center of culture, then and now, and my mother had been a star in both. Surely, in this milieu, a pregnancy would not have been enough to scare her across the world? But then, she didn’t have a war to loosen bonds and break ties. She wasn’t free in the way I was now free.
“Katie.” Maisie pulled me close and kissed my cheek. “Enough brooding, we can do that tomorrow. Tonight, we dance.”
34
“dancing fool”
And we did. First me and Maisie, then Theo and Maisie, then Tzara and Brancusi on the tables, then Theo and Vasilieff and Zadkine in a Cossack dance, and on and on until the champagne ran dry and our feet were blistered and the cheese wheel was stamped into the floor. We bundled Maisie into a taxi before Theo and I strolled up the street to my apartment.
“Let us always be something to each other, Miss Kiki Button,” said Theo as we reached my building. “I need your vitality in my life forever.”
“Do you smell that?” I was sure I could smell Fox’s cigarettes.
“I smell your sweat mixed with your perfume, some garbage… ah, some cat piss…”
“No, no, that tobacco smell—Sobranies, a Russian cigarette.”
“I can only smell my own,” he said as he lit up. He held one out to me but I waved it away. All the doors were locked on my side of the road. I ran over the other side, my heels clicking down a little street searching for… I realized I was looking for a glowing ruby of cigarette end set against silver hair. I was being utterly ridiculous, but I couldn’t stop myself, I scanned the street for any sign of life. All I saw was tabby cat stalk across the cobbles, its white fur flashing at me.
“Well?” The shadows from the streetlamp gave Theo a bruised look.
I shrugged and took the half-consumed cigarette from Theo, tapping off the long plume of ash, to mask the Sobranie-smell that lingered in my memory. Fox couldn’t possibly be here, in Montparnasse, watching me… except he could, he absolutely could. I scanned the street one more time; I heard nothing, I saw nothing, everything was as it should be, except me. Theo watched, his head to one side, but I couldn’t figure out his expression in the darkness. I blew a plume of smoke into the sky and kissed him full on the mouth, teasing him, enticing him to bend forward and hold me close so he could kiss me properly, a piece of seduction designed to distract us both.
“Well.” He grinned.
“Well then.” It worked; I thought only of his buttons now. I flicked away the cigarette, took his hand and we hurried upstairs to rid ourselves of the last raiments of night.
* * *
“So, Theo, are you really related to Prince Phillip von Whathisface?”
“Ah yes, I said I had more on that prince for you, didn’t I?” He put his croissant down and wiped his fingers on the napkin. We were breakfasting together at a suitably midday time, Theo’s suit still smelling of last night’s champagne, remnants of party makeup still haunting my eyes. I hadn’t been able to find my brush and my hair was as bouffant as my dress was sleek. Madeleine Petit suppressed her smile when she saw us.
“Well, yes, I am related to Phillip von Hessen, though distantly. The simple summary is that we’re all related through Queen Victoria, but the longer explanation… well, the longer explanation is very long, but the kaiser is Phillip’s uncle, the tsar is my uncle, and the kaiser and the tsar were both grandsons of Queen Victoria, the same as your king.”
“Have you ever met Prince Phillip?”
“No, but it would be easy enough to do. Felix may have met him, my mother may have, someone would know something about his being in Paris. The aristocracy is like a rural village—everyone knows everyone’s business and feels obliged to have an opinion.”
“Even when you’ve escaped halfway across a continent?”
“Phillip hasn’t, he’s only come from Frankfurt. That’s a few hours away.”
“How does it feel to have fought against your own family in the war?”
“How does it feel to have my family killed by Bolsheviks? How does it feel to be an exile, a taxi driver, living through rolling revolutions?” He stared at his croissaint. “I take each day as it comes, golden one. If nothing had changed, I’d be married by now and living in a beautiful apartment. A safe life, comfortable and dull. Now my life is exciting because it is insecure, unpredictable, unexpected. I know freedom and ecstasy and despair.” He sighed. “Most of all, I realize I can’t change it. Felix is wrong. The monarchy will not return. We royals… we need to find a new way to contribute to the world, now that the people no longer revere us as gods.”
The old men argued over their chess and today’s newspaper fluttered on the counter. I pushed Theo�
�s croissant toward him.
“This is quite intense for a breakfast conversation.”
“Ma chérie,” he took my wrist and planted a lingering kiss. “We were brought up to believe family is everything and our duty to our country is the price of privilege. The Bolsheviks, the Weimar revolutionaries, the trenches, blew all of that up. Every day Felix rises and looks out the window with a sigh. Our lives are limbless and gas-blind. This is what the wars have done to us.”
Yes, I thought, whatever happened, we would always be something to each other. His dark eyes demanded it.
“And Lazarev?” I asked, “Why was he at your house?”
“Felix denied he was there.” Theo shrugged. “I’m sorry to disappoint.”
“You never disappoint, Theo, especially when you can introduce me to Prince Phillip von Hessen.”
“You want to meet him?”
“I have a suspicion that Felix’s friend, Edouard, has him on his list. If I find Phillip, I can help Felix.”
“I see.” His tone of voice said that he didn’t believe me. “You want to write about him, don’t you? For your magazine.”
I grinned sheepishly; please, I thought, let him think that this was my ulterior motive.
“Would that be so bad?”
“Nothing you do is so bad, Kiki.”
“Not unless you request it.”
And he laughed, then, loud and deep, stretching as he remembered last night. We chatted through the rest of breakfast, the clouds low outside, a tin hat on the day. I don’t know if it was his long pauses and longer gazes, or the knowledge of approaching winter with its short, dark days, but there was a farewell feeling between us. I think he felt it too, as when he got in his taxi, he demanded to know when I could meet him and soon, his hand on my hip through the window. “I have a column to write!” I teased. I also had a mission to complete and for that he could only be a hindrance.
35
“i gave you up just before you threw me down”
I had the princes in sight. I was sure that these German princes would lead me to the English princes. Theo had said that all these royal houses were related, but the German and the British were more intertwined than most. Some British princes had been stripped of their titles in the war because they fought as Germans. The British royal family was more than half German—if Theo could get me introduced to even one of these German prinzen then I was a good way to completing the mission.
And a good way to getting the real payment from Fox. I checked my letter box again, standing in the doorway of my building, the cold eddies blowing dust around my ankles. No letter from Fox, and my letter to him was still there. What had he meant by contacting me with that handwritten note? Had I really smelt Sobranies last night or was I becoming paranoid? And what about those photos: “teach me half the gladness that thy brain must know.” Maybe that was simply an invitation to do more spy work… except that he had evidence that Tom was innocent. He knew, for a fact, that Tom was not a traitor, even if he was a deserter. Fox could change Tom’s life—but at what price? This is what scared me.
There was another letter, delivered that morning. I didn’t recognize the handwriting.
CALL ASAP FRY
I clipped quickly to Montparnasse station, my black suede boots rapping on the cobblestones, my black boucle coat and black silk dress making me feel like a true Parisienne. I had no problem with Fox listening to this call. I caught Delphine’s eye as I entered the station but she gave her head a little shake: no news. I made a note to buy some matches on the way out.
“Bacon.”
“Fry, it’s Kiki.”
“You need a code name.”
“ ‘She’ will do.”
“She who must be obeyed?” I could hear the laughter in his voice.
“And why not?”
“And who is Kalikrates, then? Who is Holly?”
“Take your pick. But I didn’t call you up for literary banter.”
“No. We have Lazarev. Come now.” He started rattling off an address as I scrambled to scribble it down in my notebook.
“But… that’s a canal on the city limits.”
“Bring wellingtons. It’s going to get a little… slippery.”
I lit a cigarette outside the telephone booths. I didn’t like the sound of “slippery.” Fry seemed intent on making me Lady Macbeth. Was this on Fox’s orders? Was I supposed to be tarnished, stained, compromised in some way? If I participated in some violent act, it would certainly put me more in his power. I had managed to get through the war without firing a gun, priming a bomb, hitting, kicking, or in any way hurting my quarry. Fox wanted to change the dynamic, or Fry did, or they both did as some sort of initiation. I smoked my cigarette too quickly. I jumped in a taxi but barely paid attention to the driver’s chat. I didn’t give a fig about initiation. I could get better results without it. The halting, jolting traffic flickered in the window frame. I would not spill blood. I would actively resist.
* * *
I turned up at a dockside warehouse in the same clothes, cigarettes restocked, and a dash of whisky for courage from the café nearest the canal. No true Parisienne would walk through the streets in gumboots; that was for horsey women in the British Home Counties, not sophisticated society girls on the ancient cobbles. If there was going to be dirt, then the black would hide it, but I was determined that the only dirt I would get would be the gossipy kind. The warehouse windows wept tears of rust down the gray wooden walls. Inside, wet concrete floors were streaked green and black, a dripping tap somewhere mixed with the thuds and grunts coming from deep inside the cavernous space. The warehouse was empty but for some broken furniture, open crates, and a light that crept out from behind a far wall. That must be where Fry was holding Lazarev. I moved forward carefully so my boots wouldn’t make a sound. I wanted to hear what they were saying, maybe even see what they were doing, before Fry presented Lazarev to me. I could hear nothing but heavy breathing then the occasional thud followed by a groan.
Lazarev sat in a chair, his head hanging on his chest, his arms bound behind his back. There was blood on his face and on his light gray suit, along with rust, dirt, and mold, as if he’d been dragged along the floor to this spot. Fry sat behind a wooden table a good few meters away from him, smoking and watching. Fry slammed his hand on the table and Lazarev said, “No,” as he flinched; this accounted for the thuds and moans. I couldn’t see a second agent; did Fry work without backup? Or was I the backup? The only weapon I had with me was my camera and that was more metaphor than blunt instrument. Lazarev panted and Fry drummed his fingers on the table.
“Nice suit.” I lounged against the doorframe and lit a cigarette. Both men turned, Fry quickly with a frown, Lazarev slowly lifting his head. “My apologies, Arkady Nikolaievitch. We interrupted you on your way somewhere.”
Lazarev nodded with obvious discomfort. Fry curled his lip.
“Off to see your handlers, were you?” Fry said in heavily accented French. He slammed his hand on the table again. Lazarev flinched and whimpered. I would need to take control of this interrogation before Fry’s ham-fisted, hyper-masculine routine reduced Lazarev to a useless, speechless wreck.
“We saw you in Pigalle,” I said and Lazarev looked at me, scared. “At the Communist Party meeting, as they tried to organize the congress. You caused quite the commotion.”
Lazarev stared, his eyes wide. I could see that his lip was split and there was blood in his mouth too. The cold damp room smelt of fish.
“Before that I saw you enter the Yusupov apartment, in a beautiful suit, not unlike the one you’re wearing. Which is looking a little worse for wear, I have to say. I can recommend a good laundress if you don’t have one already. I’m never quite sure how Bolsheviks feel about laundresses—tell me, are they workers to be lauded or still just one rung above prostitutes?”
I looked at him as though he wasn’t bleeding and tied to a chair, as though this was ordinary drawing room small talk. He
cleared his throat.
“Lauded… workers.” His voice was rough and choked. Fry smiled at me, his teeth glinting from his black beard, then crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. He wanted to watch me put on a show; very well. I would show him just how much damage I could inflict with a charm offensive.
“You need a glass of water, Arkady Nikolaievitch. That’s such a long name for my English-speaking tongue. May I call you Arkasha?” He nodded forlornly. “And you need a cigarette too, no doubt.”
I saw a tap in the corner with a bucket underneath. I was relieved when it turned easily and clean water came out. There was even a little cup in the bucket; this must have been left here by the men who cleared the warehouse. I took the bucket back to Lazarev, standing by him expectantly. I knelt down with a cup full.
“Now, Arkasha, I have something I need from you. I think you know this.”
He grunted.
“I would love to give you this water and a cigarette. Maybe even undo your handcuffs. You’d like that too, wouldn’t you?”
He nodded.
“So, will you help me? We do have… other methods of persuasion, but I would hate to use them. You’d hate for me to use them, wouldn’t you?”
He whimpered like he might cry.
“You’ll help me.” He nodded. “Very good.”
I stood up and turned to Fry. “My chair.” Fry nodded to another warehouse corner, but when I didn’t move, he just grinned and fetched my chair for me, his walk a little jaunty, a little light for his bulk. He was clearly enjoying this show, or perhaps he was enjoying what he assumed would be my failure.
“Unlock him, please.”
Fry followed my orders with only a smug grin on his face. I was close enough to Lazarev that he could have grabbed me if he’d wanted to. But as soon as Fry uncuffed him he hunched over his hands, rubbing his wrists, eyes down, head bent. I’d seen a lot of men in different moods during the war, from tinderbox rage to catatonic and all the tears and fears in between. Lazarev didn’t strike me as someone about to lash out. He could hardly drag a cup of water to his mouth from the bucket, his wrists were so sore. I lit a cigarette for each of us to his mumbled thanks.
