Blood Ties (6 page)

"I thought it would amuse me." She sipped her
martini, but the fingers shook lightly, betraying the anxiety. She was frightened.

"Think of it all as an eccentricity, all the genetic
posturing, as if there was something special about all those von Kassel cells
swimming in these." He lifted a wrist and showed her the ridged veins.
"Our ancestors were actually quite beastly. Acquisitive. Cruel. They
earned nothing, stole everything. When they wanted land, they took it. When
then wanted labor, they enslaved." She was engaged now. "And when
they wanted women..." Her eyes turned away. He lifted his hand upward in a
sweeping arc. "They merely plucked them off the tree, like ripe
fruit."

"And are they still doing these things?" she
asked, offering a clear message of irony.

"We are worse than ever," he replied cautiously,
feeling a change in the din's rhythm as all eyes in the room turned toward the
arched entrance.

A tall woman stood framed there. Beside her, his small hand
locked in hers, stood a small boy. To Siegfried, the idea of them standing
there suggested courage, determination. Behind high Slavic cheekbones, the
woman's gaze washed over the room. Taller than the empty armor that guarded the
entrance, she wore little makeup, perhaps none, since her color might have been
heightened by some inner excitement making her cheeks seem rouged. The
hesitation might have been longer, but Rudi had broken the silence.

"My God, the old boy has robbed the cradle," he
whispered, the articulation clear above the hiss. Her youth clearly had
startled everyone in the room. Also her looks.

"We were all expecting some frumpy fat-assed
Russian," Siegfried whispered, exchanging glances with Rudi. But it was
Albert who moved first, as if the protocol demanded it. Siegfried, propelled by
curiosity, followed him.

"Olga?" Albert asked tentatively, although the
identity was obvious. The woman did not smile. Up close, her skin was smooth
and tight. The boy gripped her hand tighter and moved closer to his mother's
flank.

"Yes," she answered, looking at him directly,
openly. Siegfried detected a slight tinge of belligerency. She was obviously
being cautious, protective of herself and her son. Her armor seemed as visible
as those of the mute Knights beside her.

"I am Albert." His hand moved outward. After a
brief hesitation, Olga's hand reached out to his. Siegfried observed the strong
long fingers, the tight grip, as Albert pumped it. He looked downward at the
little boy.

"And this is Aleksandr," Olga said.

The boy blushed and bowed his head.

"And this is your nephew, Siegfried," Albert
added, not without a touch of humor.

"Aunt Olga," Siegfried replied. Still, the woman
did not smile, as if humor was in a totally foreign frame of reference. Her
eyes darted among the group, watching them.

Gently touching her upper arm, Albert guided her through
the gauntlet of curious von Kassels. Siegfried watched them as they made the
circle, observing the waiting Dawn, who seemed more aloof and vulnerable than
she had appeared earlier. Albert introduced each of them, then passed on,
lifting a drink from a tray and handing it to his tall aunt. Siegfried watched
them, noting the sudden animation in Albert, his morose mood dramatically
altered.

"She's lovely," Dawn said when he returned. But
it was perfunctory, a grudging response.

"A knockout," Siegfried said, watching her
reaction. He noted the telltale signs of jealousy.

"How old was your uncle?" Dawn asked.

"He was the eldest."

"She must have been a teenager when they
married," Dawn said. The reference was blatantly malicious. She was
obviously containing the beginnings of a smoldering rage.

"He is only being polite," Siegfried said gently.
He handed Dawn another martini from a tray and took one for himself. "A
family matter."

But she was not easily placated. He felt her vulnerability.

"The precious family," she said with contempt,
tipping the glass for a deep swallow. She had obviously banked on her beauty
carrying her through the night. But the other woman had drawn their attention,
especially Albert's.

"There are many advantages to being a von
Kassel," Siegfried said, believing that his perception had reached its
most sensitive level. He was certain he could predict the effect of his
insight, especially on Dawn. Should he agitate her now, churn her up? "To
begin with, there is money." He watched her search for control, her eyes
darting in Albert's direction. But Albert was otherwise engaged, animated in
conversation with Olga. "...Endless supplies of money." The point was
worth emphasizing. It was after all the lynchpin of his own marriage. "And
privileged position. Von Kassels have social status. And titles. All the males
are Barons. There is a mystique about this silly title. That would make Heather
a Baroness. And Olga as well. My cousins revel in it like pigs in swill."

"And now she will claim the rewards of her marriage
bed," Dawn said, the focus of her thoughts clear.

"She is, of course, a von Kassel by injection."
He began to giggle at his own humor. Dawn turned, moving away. There was the
hint of misty eyes. He watched her toss off the martini and gain speed as she
walked, with an air of deliberation, in the direction of the arched entrance.
The ladies' room, he thought, the obvious refuge.

"You have that smirking insufferable glassy
look." It was Heather, returned now, being waspish.

"Really, Siegfried. You are about to make a screaming
ass of yourself," she said, jerking the glass from his hand in a swift,
expert gesture. Sulking, he moved past her, then wandered into the lobby.
Standing in the forest of empty Knights, his ear caught a sudden stir.

The hotel manager, Hans, his face twisted into a grimace,
was trying to avoid a spectacle involving himself and a woman. She was wearing
a wide brimmed hat and a heavy, much abused fur coat, an eccentric outfit
considering the season. Under the wide brim, her features were blurred and the
skin was painted dead white with thick powder. A blotch of scarlet crossed her
face above her chin. She was chunky. Thin legs, visible above thick-soled
shoelaced shoes, indicated that she was not as young as she wanted to suggest.

Watching the interchange was amusing, certainly a better
alternative than being harassed by Heather. He moved to get a clearer view
without being seen. Hans had managed to ease the woman toward a less visible
position, preventing a greater disturbance.

"I will simply not allow the Baron to be bothered
tonight. Not under any circumstances. I would suggest you come back tomorrow.
Naturally, you will call first. Now what will it be? Shall I call the police?
Or call you a taxi?"

Siegfried drifted within earshot, pretending to view one of
the armor exhibits.

"I will see him tonight," the woman said. Her
voice had no edge of anger. She was matter of fact, determined. "And you
will give me a room."

Hans, in exasperation, looked upward to the ceiling as if
relief were to be found there. His voice pitched higher. The fawning disappeared,
revealing his contempt. He was disdainful of people who did not count and the
woman provided excellent fodder for such a reaction.

"That is impossible," Hans reiterated. He snapped
his fingers and a boy appeared. "You will put this woman's baggage outside
of this hotel. Immediately." Without a murmur, the young man lifted the
baggage and went outside.

"I have no intention of leaving," the woman said
firmly. "I will see the Baron now. You will get me a room."

Siegfried moved closer, his curiosity piqued. He slipped
quickly into a high-backed wing chair that hid him from view.

"I told you I would inquire tomorrow. No one is
allowed to interfere with the Baron, especially tonight."

"You will do this."

"You are insufferable."

He heard the sound of a telephone dialing, the agitation
emphasized by the grating sound of the dial's return thrust.

"A woman," Hans hissed into the mouthpiece. He
caught only pieces of the conversation. "Here ... in the lobby ... really
... she will not give her name ... all right ... I'll tell her, Countess."
The telephone banged in its cradle.

"Countess von Berghoff will be right down," Hans
said, the voice tight as he tried to cap his anger.

"I did not ask to see her," the woman protested.

"You'd prefer the police?"

There was no further conversation. Continuing to sit in the
chair, he heard the sound of an elevator descending, then the clank of the
heavy metal elevator door. His aunt's familiar footsteps moved slowly across
the stone floor, stopping finally near him.

"You?" It was Aunt Karla's voice, strong,
domineering and arrogant.

"I want to see him." It was the voice of the
other woman, equally strong and assured.

"You have no right. Not now. That matter was disposed
of years ago." The voices were clear. The women were standing directly
behind his chair.

"I will not leave here without seeing him." The
woman's voice was firm, intense, each word articulated with equal emphasis. She
means business, Siegfried thought, searching his memory. An old mistress
perhaps, he decided. What a bore for the old man.

There was a long silence. Then his aunt's voice began
again.

"What do you want? He is sick. He is dying."

Knowing the truth of the observation, Siegfried was oddly
disturbed by the reference to death. He was suddenly on his aunt's side now,
annoyed that the idea of his father's death would occupy strangers.

"All the more reason."

"I think you're making a mistake. I could be far more
generous...."

"Generous..." For the first time, the woman's
voice rose. She emitted a hoarse low laugh.

"Whatever it is you want, I can provide. Only, you
must not see him. He is not to be upset. Dealing with me would be far more
fruitful."

"Him," the woman said. "And him alone."

There was another long silence.

"All right..." his aunt said, an uncommon retreat.
He had always thought of her as "The Iron Duke," unbending, without
any sense of compromise. It was totally out of character. "...but it must
be tomorrow. I will arrange a meeting for tomorrow. As you can see, it is the
first night of the reunion."

"I saw."

"You went in?"

"I stood by the door."

"Tomorrow then?"

"Early."

"He barely sleeps..." Karla began. It seemed the
beginning of further entreaty. But she interrupted herself, waiting.

"And you will provide a room for the night," the
strange woman said.

"That too," his aunt sighed, her surrender
complete. He had never, ever seen his aunt bested. She wore her arrogance like
a heavy corset. Never soft or loving, always an imperial presence, she
engendered fear in all of them. And her influence on their father was total as
long as he could remember.

"Are you certain that we cannot solve this matter
between us?" his aunt asked.

"Him only," the woman's voice said.

"Tomorrow then. Not tonight. You have agreed. Not
tonight."

"You distrust me?" There was an air of sarcasm.

"Your presence is a violation," his aunt said,
recovering her arrogance.

The woman apparently ignored the remark. He heard the
familiar snap of Hans' fingers, assuming that his aunt had signaled him.

"Tomorrow..." There was an edge of anxiety in his
aunt's tone. Then the woman was visible to him as she followed the boy across
the stone floor to the opposite end of the lobby, and disappeared.

His head had cleared, the exaggerated sense of perception
gone, leaving only uncertainty and confusion. But there was no time to linger
in the pursuit of unanswered questions. Hans' clear fawning tone reverberated
in the lobby.

"My dear Baron. How wonderful we look!"

Then he heard the old man's faltering footsteps, the
rhythmical tap of a cane on stone, as the Baron moved to assess the state of
the von Kassels.

The Baron's cheeks were rouged, like spilled wine on white
parchment. Leaning on his cane, he moved slowly through the group, nodding
briefly toward every face, his lips tight, unsmiling. The Countess walked
behind him, the intimidating dowager's carriage untouched by age. Heavy diamond
earrings hung from her ears, under what seemed like an elaborately curled gray
wig. On her crenelated neck hung an expanse of red and green teardrops, rubies
and emeralds. She was heavily powdered, giving her face a ghostlike look.

All conversation had ceased. Heads bowed silently in
awesome respect. No hands moved outward in the traditional symbol of welcome.
No flesh was touched. Even the twins were sufficiently affected to cease their
perpetual movement. It was, Albert knew, watching Olga's high cheeked face,
searching for confirmation of his own knowledge, "the Moment." In his
father's bearing was the living consciousness of the historical imperative.
Observe me, not as a man, but as the embodiment of every von Kassel since the
dawn of their beginning, his presence urged. Every fiber in his being expressed
this fact. It was the transmitted essence of their reason for surviving.

The old people proceeded, pausing before Albert and Olga,
to whom his father nodded with the barest flicker of a smile, the Baron's eyes
deep in their chicken-skin pouches. The Countess caressed Aleksandr's head,
then the old couple moved to their place at the head of the table.

Albert heard Dawn's voice behind him.

"You didn't introduce me," she whined. He pitied
her. She had, he observed from her tone, already had too much to drink. But he
was determined to appease her.

"Later. I promise." He felt ashamed, wondering if
the oversight had been deliberate. He wished she would go away.

"Really, Albert," she began, but his stern look
silenced her.

"In a moment," he whispered gently, putting a
finger to his lips.

"It wouldn't be the same." Dawn's large eyes
became moist, her lids flickering in a gesture of self-pity.

"Please, Dawn." He hoped she would respond to the
appeal. This was hardly the time for a scene. The Baron stood behind his chair
at the base of the "T," while Aunt Karla took a chair to his right,
aided by Rudi, who moved her chair as she settled. Heather, as the wife of the
eldest, sat on the Baron's left, while Siegfried moved to take his seat next to
his aunt. It was all carefully structured, the sons and their wives arranged
according to their age. Albert was thankful that Dawn was placed in the proper
order, beside Rudi and their cousin Adolph, who should provide her with some
amusing diversions during the ponderous dinner ahead. It was more ritual than
enjoyment. At all first-night reunion dinners there was only one toast with no
response, his father's. He watched as Olga found her place at the head of the
"T" next to her son. Beside him were the twins, restlessly eyeing the
boy with contempt and their own sense of usurpation.

When the group was seated, the buzz of conversation started
again. The three-piece orchestra began playing dance music and one of the
couples, Frederick and his wife, began to dance. Albert rose, walked the
complete circle to Dawn's place and guided her out of the chair. In the
process, he had smiled reassuringly at Olga, a sign not lost on Dawn.

"Must I?" she whispered. But she obeyed.

Without a word, he led her to the Baron's place.

"May I present Dawn Frank, Father." The old man
lifted his head, nodding lightly, making no effort to charm. After an
appropriate silence, he turned toward his aunt, who had kept her eyes fixed on
her plate. "And my Aunt Karla, the Countess von Berghoff." An old arm
moved, the flesh heavy, jingling a clutch of bracelets.

"So good to meet you both," Dawn said, the words
hesitant.

Then Albert moved her away toward the dance floor,
gathering her slender body against his, moving gracefully along the polished
dance floor.

"Feel better now?" he asked, sensing the eyes
watching them. She pressed against him, as if the act would assure her visible
claim among those speculating their future. He endured it for a moment, then
moved outward, lengthening his arms.

"I had every right to complain."

"I'm sorry." He did not want to be cruel. He
sensed Olga watching him and his eyes drifted toward her. He smiled an
acknowledgment.

"Your interest in her is obvious to everyone,"
Dawn said with an implicit challenge.

"It is purely familial," he protested without
conviction. He could understand her agitation, considering prior events. He
was, apparently, a bad actor.

"I'm being a bore. I know I'm being a bore," Dawn
said.

He was fighting with himself to endure this. There was
already too much tension in the room. Tomorrow he would have to resolve the
matter with Rudi. His father's obvious impending death would make enormous
changes in his life. Later, he would have to tell Dawn the truth, then send her
home. At best the von Kassel reunions were exercises in family chauvinism. It
was all a set piece, a charade. He had never been able to throw himself into the
spirit of it. It was enough to get through this without extraneous annoyances.

"It's just that I feel things changing, Albert. I
don't mean to be a jealous..." She paused. "...lover. Is that term
still appropriate? I still love you, Albert. You know that. But I feel things
are changing. Are they?" It was a question begging for an answer.

"Dawn. This is hardly the place." But he knew
that no place on earth was the right environment for rejection.

She tried to move closer, but his arm stiffened.

"Just try to behave," he said with resignation.
She had obviously had too much to drink.

"I will," she said. "I will be very careful.
I will not embarrass you."

"I am not concerned with my own embarrassment."
He was sorry to have said it. The touch of sarcasm was not needed, not now. It
would set her off.

"Then what are you concerned with?" she asked
snidely.

"Dawn," he snapped. Then moved her closer to him.
"You're itching for a scene, aren't you?" This time it was she who
moved away. They twirled in the direction of the orchestra, then faced each
other, their feet moving at half-rhythm.

"Precious von Kassels. You're all insufferable. A Jew
can smell the stench for miles."

"Not that. Surely not that."

He continued to smile for the benefit of the watchful eyes.
She was quite capable of creating a terrible scene, especially if she was in
her cups. Once she had turned over a table in one of New York's poshest
restaurants at the height of the dinner hour. He could not recall the reason;
some fit of jealousy.

"What's good for the gander, is also good for the
goose."

Her head rolled back and her long hair swept over one
shoulder, a defiant gesture.

"I should never have brought you," he said
finally. The thought seemed to sober her.

"I'll behave, Albert. Really, I'll behave."

"I hope so."

"You don't love me, do you?"

"Not here, Dawn. Please not here."

"Tell me. You don't love me? We're finished."

"My God, Dawn. Later. We'll discuss it later."

"Of course, later." A tiny sob gurgled, a bleat.
He felt pity again.

"And please, Dawn. Let's get through this dinner
without your making an ass of yourself."

"Me? Little me? Innocent Dawn?" He moved her in a
wide circle around the room. Other couples had risen to join them. They nodded
politely to each other. Siegfried moved clumsily with Heather, winking at them
as he drew close. Albert brought Dawn back to her place, then moved back to his
own. She glared at him across the table. Then she emptied her wine glass and
held it up for the waiter to refill.

"Is that one, the one?" a voice asked beside him.
It was Mimi, Rudi's wife. Up close the drama of her makeup seemed lost in the
grease of eye shadow. Her lips were painted thickly bright red, and a bit of
the shrimp salad hung precariously on the lower lip's edge.

"No." He said it flatly, hoping it would
discourage conversation. But Mimi pressed on. He was determined not to ask her
to dance. The image of her big breasts pressed against him was an obscenity.

"The Baron would welcome it." He could feel her
resentment and hostility. It was an old story. She blamed him for Rudi's
secondary status. He looked across the table and watched Rudi, dividing his
time politely between Dawn, whose smoldering anger was overlaid now with an
alcoholic edge, and Heather, whose boredom was obvious.

Rudi had always been the plodding put-upon middle son, an
object of ridicule. When they were boys home on vacation in the somber manor
house at Baden-Baden, he seemed the dullard by comparison to his brighter
brothers. Siegfried had quickly shown the path he would take, the eccentric
one, the outsider. Their father had, long ago, accepted that disappointment.
After all, there was always Albert, brilliant Albert. It had never occurred to
any of them that Rudi would challenge Albert's role. Now knowing himself,
Albert accepted that logic. Perhaps Rudi was actually a better choice to steer
the family into the next generation ... if that ever came.

Albert had determined to postpone thinking about it, let
the confrontation come. The Baron was committed to a single idea? That the von
Kassels were invulnerable? Hadn't history, as the Baron had lectured many
times, proved the ability of the von Kassels to survive everything? Everything!
He shivered and reached for his glass.

"Don't you think Rudi looks marvelous?" Mimi
asked with a full mouth.

He looked up at his brother's face, the flesh soft, the
jowls heavy.

"Yes. He looks marvelous," he lied.

The music stopped. Waiters removed the soup course and
served the fish. White wine was poured. Across the room at the kitchen's
entrance, Hans inspected each dish as it came out. The Baron, pale and tired,
his parchment face surveying the gathering of von Kassels, ate little, sipping
from a water glass.

"...Much smarter than he looks," Mimi said
suddenly. "He rarely gets credit for his talents." It was a familiar
refrain; more sardonic than usual. Mimi had never lost a moment to lobby for
her husband. Albert sensed the sexual domination of their relationship,
imagining the act of copulation between his brother and this woman as a battle
scene in which his brother was always the vanquished and his sister-in-law the
victor.

Conscious of Mimi's non-stop talk, he knew he was smiling
at her, offering an occasional nod but without understanding. Suddenly he
became conscious of another demand for his attention. Looking across the table,
his eyes met Olga's and he held them there.

He was also alert to Mimi's penetrating stare as she caught
him in the act of contemplating Olga.

"Now there is danger." Mimi's words speared into
his consciousness amid the cacophony of her sounds. Even she had paused, as if
she might have suddenly come to the heart of the matter.

"Danger?"

"Why has she come?" There was no pause for his
answer. "And how did they let her out of Russia?"

"I assume..."

Mimi lowered her voice.

"She is KGB. No doubt about it."

"Really, Mimi."

"Rudi smells it as well."

"KGB?"

"They would love to know all about us. Our business
dealings. They would love to pierce our inner circle."

He wanted to laugh in her face. He always assumed that the
KGB and the CIA as well as the myriad intelligence services of other countries
monitored their operation. Sometimes they would actually be brokering goods for
them. Pure jealousy and greed, he decided. Mimi did not like to share her
fruits with anyone, especially a long lost relative. But her hostility had
taken a particularly virulent form.

"She is dangerous, I tell you," she assured him.

Siegfried rose with Dawn and they were quickly undulating
closely on the dance floor. Dismissing Mimi with a wry smile, he stood up and
moved toward Olga. Peripherally he could see a sudden high flush on Mimi's face
as her anger rose.

"Would you care to dance?" he asked.

Olga looked at him, then at Aleksandr, who still huddled
close.

"He could always dance with one of these lovely little
things," Albert said, caressing the hair of one of his twin nieces. He
could not tell which one.

"With him?" the one that he had caressed
whispered.

"Yuk," the other hissed.

"Lovely creatures, don't you think?" he asked,
but he had shot them both a sharp look and they had responded with lowered
eyes.

"Oh all right," one of them said.

The little boy shook his head and looked into his plate.

"He'll be all right," Albert soothed. Olga bent,
kissed his forehead and rose. He moved close to her, felt the outlines of her
body, sensed the beginning of desire. And more. He knew the signs, resisting
them.

"I warn you. I'm a terrible dancer," she said.

"Just follow the rhythm. And me."

"When I was a girl, I did a great deal of dancing, but
Wolfgang was not interested in such things." The music was slow and they
moved within a small circle. He could hear Dawn's drunken giggle beside him.

"What kind of man was my uncle?" he asked.

"Introspective. A quiet man. Tranquil."

"That was the attraction?" His inflection gave away
his curiosity. Why did this beautiful woman marry such an old man? Present
circumstances did not explain the original motivation.

"They are good traits." She smiled and he felt
her closeness, the special scent of her. Her hair was soft against his cheek.
He wondered if she was teasing.

"Shall I call you Aunt Olga?" he said, testing
the humor.

"If you like."

"Will it make you feel uncomfortable?"