Lost Roses
Page 33
Taras.
I pulled my dog fur hat lower on my forehead. My knees shook. What if I fell right there?
He stopped counting and turned to me. “What are you looking at?” he asked in Russian.
Up close his power was immense. It was the tattoos that almost made me drop my envelope. Every inch of skin went cold to see them. The distinctive cherubs inked into the honey gold of his skin. My breath came fast as I watched him so casually count his money. Had he murdered my loved ones himself? Helped Vladi?
This was Varinka’s house. I craned my neck closer to see if there was any sign of Max.
Taras slowed his counting. “Come in. Close the door. It’s cold out there.”
I looked at the floor and tried to keep the shake from my voice. “I’ll stay right here, thank you.”
“You Russian?”
I nodded.
He tilted his head. “Haven’t seen you at Madame’s.”
“I handle the accounts.” Didn’t he know my face? My heart hammered my ribs. Of course, I was unrecognizable in my current state.
“That’s a waste of assets.” He leaned against the hall table, arms folded across his chest, the money in one hand. “Why not stay?”
“Can you just give me the money?”
“Why in such a hurry?” He waved me closer. “You drink vodka?”
“I have to deliver to Madame by sundown. Or else she—”
He stepped closer and handed me the bills. “Here.”
I snatched the money and hurried out, stuffing the fat stack in my envelope, numb with my discovery. I was halfway across the street when the door slammed closed and I turned to see the black door shining in what was left of the day’s sunlight. A cold shiver of relief went through me and I hurried on to meet Madame.
It wasn’t until I delivered the proceeds that evening, relieved I’d done the job well, that I fully reveled in it all. I had earned an incredible bonus after all.
At last I knew where to find my son.
CHAPTER
40
Varinka
1919
One January day, Mamka and I hurried about the outdoor market in the afternoon while Max was in school. It was the typical bazaar one sees all over Paris, with fishmongers and fruit sellers, their winter wares on display in coarse baskets. Though the war was over, the offerings were still meager and prices high.
“Can you take care of Max tomorrow, Mamka? I have plans.”
“No. I have plans as well.”
I bent over a rotten fish. “Five francs,” the fishmonger said.
I moved on. “Can you please cancel them?”
“Lanvin has asked me—”
I stopped walking and turned to her. “You’re already working there?”
“Started last week.”
“Without telling me?”
“Madame Lanvin herself gave me her best dresses to work on.”
“So, you’ll not help me with Max anymore?”
“He was your choice. Madame hinted I might someday oversee a department. Can you believe it? How quickly I’ve been recognized. You should hear what they say about my gold work.”
We left the market and headed for home, with only dirty potatoes in my net bag.
“Please. They want to work you to death. I love being with Max—I spent all day at the park yesterday helping him roller skate. But I’m finally making friends here in Paris. I need help with the boy.”
“What friends? Radimir?”
I was silent for a moment and breathed deep to stuff down my anger. “I’m almost twenty years old, Mamka, should I not be able to do as I choose?”
“Yes. And I choose not to take care of the child you stole, Varinka. You could be working, too, you know, while Max is in school. We’ll need rent money when we leave Taras.”
A familiar-looking woman in a gray cloth coat approached us. “Zina Kozlov? Do you remember me from Malinov? Faina from the music store.”
Mamka nodded.
“I hear you are sewing now at Lanvin?”
“Yes.”
“I cut patterns there on Tuesdays. Madame Lanvin herself told us a woman of immense talent joined us and here it is you.”
Mamka bit her lip to hold back a smile.
“Come join me for tea,” Faina said. “I will tell you everything about the place.”
“Now?” Mamka asked.
“Why not?” Faina said.
Mamka waved goodbye to me, the two walked on and just like that my mamka was gone.
“Enjoy your tea,” I called after her, but she was too busy talking to her new friend to notice.
* * *
—
LATER THAT WEEK MAMKA and I sat at the kitchen table while she sewed and I tried to coax Max to eat his cereal. Taras was out for the evening and we reveled in the freedom. Was he visiting a brothel? Opium den? Though he still kept us under tight watch and often watched me through a crack in the bathroom wall, he seemed a bit distracted and had started pomading his hair and smoking cigars.
Wind rattled the windows as Mamka held a satin gown the color of spring grass in her lap. Another home project. It seemed all she did was sew, with no time to step out with Max and me.
With her quick needle, she finished the beading on the neckline of the dress, skewering the tiny silver tubes and filling in the shimmering background of the roses. She’d learned her skills sewing the faces of saints with silver and gold threads for the church. Learned the method of using silk floss of one shade and, simply through the direction of the stitch, showing light and shade upon a face.
Next to her sat a folded newspaper, a photo of the tsar and his family on the front page. Since the tsar had been executed the summer before, stories abounded about whether the whole family had been killed and all of Paris was fascinated with each new rumor. Had the whole family really been brutally murdered? I could barely look at the girls there in their white dresses.
I offered Max a spoonful of cereal. “Can’t you eat, my good boy?”
He stared down at his bowl, his pale face blank, and barked a little cough. What was he thinking? He barely spoke lately, lost in his own world.
“This is the third time this month he’s been sick,” Mamka said.
“It’s not my fault he eats only croissants and cereal.”
Mamka kept her gaze on the dress. “It’s the sadness.”
I bent toward her, voice low. “He certainly doesn’t remember, well, before.”
“Of course, he does. The child won’t sleep in a bed.”
I smoothed one hand down his back. What had I done to him? “He’ll grow out of it.”
Mamka kept her gaze on her sewing, lips tight.
All at once I longed to step out for a movie with Radimir. Or just sit in the park and talk. Maybe share a kiss? But Mamka would not take care of Max.
“Why don’t we go to a bistro tonight? Bring Max with us?”
Mamka’s needle glinted in the electric light overhead. “I have too much work. Must deliver this to Madame Lanvin by tonight.” She glanced at the little brass watch pinned at her waist with bright, Lanvin-blue ribbon, a gift from Madame Lanvin herself. How quickly she had recognized Mamka’s value.
“I’ve been made deputy chief seamstress.”
“So soon? Of course you have. Who else works such long hours?”
“Can you imagine my good luck? Madame says that with all the material shortages, dress trimmings have become most important. With a band of needlework at the hem and cuffs one can stretch the amount of fabric needed. I showed her a kokoshnik I’d made and she wants to do a whole line of them. Russian fashion is becoming very popular, Inka. All the best Parisians are collecting the old Russian costumes of aristocrats and wearing them to balls. Can you imagine? Madame says—”
“Oh, and I made my first hire. She was a princess back before—”
“How could you, Mamka? Those people held us down for so long.”
“She was starving. Hadn’t eaten in days and does good work.”
“Finally we’re making progress with the revolution and you are helping the Whites?”
“When did you become so cruel, Varinka? I will never become unkind just to serve a cause.”
A knock came at the front door and I hurried to the front of the townhouse. Was Taras back? He said he’d be gone all night.
I opened the door to find Radimir standing there.
“Sorry to come unannounced but I’m on my way back to work and thought you might like to step out.”
I checked the street and the bar across the street for signs of Taras and, finding none, invited Radimir in.
“How kind of you,” I said.
He shrugged out of his coat, looking good in his dark green jacket. He’d left his chin unshaved in a good way, his hair tucked behind his ears.
I led Radimir into the kitchen. Mamka looked up from her sewing. “What is he doing here?”
“Just checking to see if I want to step out.”
Mamka speared a silver bead with her needle.
“Radimir is working at the museum, Mamka. Meeting with—”
“I’m busy, Inka. I have to deliver this to Madame Lanvin by six.”
Radimir removed his hat and stepped farther into the room. “I am happy to deliver it for you, madame.”
Mamka sewed the last bead in place and cut the thread. “Oh, no. Lanvin is all the way—”
“I know where it is and I am going that way. And besides, it will free you up to do other things.”
Mamka held the dress out and inspected the beading.
“Such beautiful work,” Radimir said. “My grandmother was a seamstress but never made anything like that. Corsets mostly.”
Mamka stuffed the sleeves of the dress with tissue paper and folded it into a perfect rectangle. “Corsets are the true test of a needlewoman’s skill. Only the most accomplished can do them well.”
“She was a very nice woman. Dragged me to every museum in Russia. Taught me all I know about art. Wouldn’t have my present job without her.”
Mamka wrapped the dress in white muslin and tied it with her signature ribbon. “Doing what?”
“Working with those very museums to make sure the Russian people’s art is protected. I’m here consulting with the Louvre on a restoration.”
Mamka barely looked at him. “I’ve been there three times. I find inspiration for my beadwork in the Dutch paintings.”
Radimir bent a bit from the waist. “It is a secret, but there is to be a new exhibition there of textiles. Some from the seventh century. Exquisite beadwork never shown before.”
“Madame Lanvin is a great fan of fancy work.”
“Perhaps I can arrange to have you both take a private tour.”
Mamka stole a glance at him. “I would not trouble you.”
“Consider it done.” Radimir held out his hand. “And it would be an honor to deliver your package, Mrs. Pushkinsky.”
Mamka shook his hand. “Zina. And why don’t you join him, Inka? Go enjoy yourselves. Max and I will spend the evening together.”
* * *
—
IT WAS AS IF Radimir and I were shot out of a cannon that night when Mamka offered to take care of Max. Once we delivered the package to Madame Lanvin I said, “Let’s not sit at a restaurant. I want to run all over Paris.”
How he’d charmed Mamka. My cheeks hurt from smiling, my burn now fading. How good it was to be young and free.
Radimir smiled and took my hand. “I need to show you something first.”
He pulled me by the hand to the metro and after a short ride and a chat with a sleepy guard we stood in a dark room at the Louvre, in front of a painting almost as tall as me, a fat, golden frame around it.
“The paintings just hang here in this one place?” I asked.
“Sometimes they travel to other museums, but mostly they are just here and for a price, people come and look at them. I spent too much time here myself today, slacking off. How much she looks like you.”
The picture showed blond Psyche, her dress pulled down to reveal her naked body, and handsome, winged Cupid about to embrace her.
“She does resemble me. The face, even the…”
I broke off, my face growing hot.
Radimir smiled. “You can say it. The body. She is very beautiful. See the butterfly just above her head? In ancient Greek ‘butterfly’ is the same word for ‘psyche’ and represents the soul.”
I could have listened to Radimir talk all night there in the darkened room, lit only by pools of light from the paintings, his hushed voice in the near darkness. How Papa would have liked him.
I reached out to touch the paint. “Cupid’s wings seem real.”
Radimir held my hand back. “Touching the paintings hurts them. But you can look all you want. See the expression on her face? The young princess has just had her first kiss. Do you think she liked it?”
Psyche looked surprised but seemed to want more.
I shifted in my shoes and the wooden floor groaned. “I think so.”
Radimir looked at me in his serious way and then pulled me closer. “That was the first sign of their love.”
I pushed him away.
“What’s wrong?” He held my hands.
“It’s just that I don’t know…”
“How to kiss?” Radimir threw back his head and laughed, sending an echo about the room. “You worry too much, Varinka. Cupid kissed Psyche just so.” He pulled me to him and pressed his lips to my forehead. “Nothing to worry about.”
I lifted my face to his and kissed him on the mouth. I could feel him smile as he kissed me back, his lips warm. I held back and let him come to me, soft and sweet.
He pulled away, a broad smile on his face. “You’re a good pupil, Varinka. Looks like I taught you well.”
* * *
—
RADIMIR AND I DID run all over Paris that night, barely feeling the cold. Up and down the Champs-Élysées, Pont Alexandre, Place de la Concorde until he left me at the townhouse door.
He smoothed one hand down my cheek. “Next time, Luna Park. I can’t wait to show you the roller coaster and it’s shutting up soon for the season.”
“I’d be most honored.”
“You’ve become quite a Parisian, Miss Varinka.” He kissed my cheek and walked off.
I stood on the step and watched him go. How lucky was I?
A light caught my eye as I turned to unlock the door. The glow of a cigar across the street. I searched the darkness and found the shape of Taras’s head, the wide shoulders. He was back? Surely, he had seen Radimir walk me home. The kiss on the cheek. Would he lash out at me?
I hurried inside. I would lock my bedroom door and keep Max with me. And from now on I would meet Radi anywhere but at our home.
CHAPTER
41
Eliza
1919
Once I disembarked in Le Havre and made it to a devastated Paris, I watched, through the window of the hired car, neighborhoods filled with caved-in apartment buildings and shops. Parisians braved January cold and sidestepped bomb craters by the side of the road as if it were normal.
The driver looked at us in the rearview mirror. “Your president is here. Woodrow Wilson.”
“Yes, I know who our president is.”
“Here for peace negotiations at Versailles.”
“Yes, it was in the papers, thank you.”
“You should have seen the crowds cheer
ing for him. Stayed at Hotel de Ville.”
We passed a pyramid of stacked cannons on the Champs-Élysées.
“Each one dragged home from the land of the dead,” the driver said.
France had lost over two million men to the war at that point, so most of those on the streets were female, many dressed in mourning black.
What a comfort it would be to arrive at the apartment on Rue Saint-Roch. There was so much to do to find Merrill and Sofya.
When I arrived, our housekeeper, elegant Madame Solange, met me at the door with a warm embrace. “A thousand welcomes, my dear Eliza. How is your mother?” Barely Peg’s age, Madame Solange was already married, to our caretaker, and cherished our home as if it were her own.
It was wonderful to arrive in that handsome apartment, which Henry and I had bought just after our wedding. I breathed deep that lovely scent of lemon and floor wax particular to France. The old place was full of light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off the polished hornbeam parquet floors.
I stepped to the living room and took in the pastel boiserie walls, and the pieces Mother and I had found at the marchés aux puces and other antiquaires, my Louis Seize desk and commode, the toile drapes, a bit faded perhaps but perfectly serviceable.
“Very well, thank you. She’s happy you came through the war unhurt.”
I handed Madame Mother’s gift.
“I have been needing more bath salts,” Madame said with a smile. “Thank you.”
“The place looks well-loved, Madame.” The windows shone, only one pane cracked.
“Thank you. There are shortages of everything. Soap. No Savon de la Tulipe in the whole city.”
“How do you do the wash?”
“Beg for a scrap of hand soap.” Madame stepped closer and placed one hand on my sleeve. “I must tell you, when my father was visiting he said a Russian woman came looking for you—”