Bridal Chair (37 page)

“Will it hurt?” he asked plaintively.

It was Ida who answered. “You won’t feel a thing, Papa. You will be asleep,” she said in the tone used by reassuring mothers. “Isn’t that right, Doctor?”

“You may have some discomfort afterward,” he acknowledged, “but that is to be expected.”

Marc shrugged, but his face was ashen and drops of perspiration beaded his brow. Ida gently patted it dry with her embroidered white handkerchief.

“It will be all right,
Papochka
,” Ida said softly when they were alone.

“I hate hospitals. Your mother died in a hospital.” In his mind’s eye, he saw Bella’s slender lifeless body on the narrow white bed beneath the outline of the crucifix that the nursing sister had so sensitively removed.

“This is a clinic, not a hospital. Virginia will be able to stay in your room. And I too will be here,” she assured him.

“But you must be in Zurich for the retrospective,” he protested.

“Planes fly from Zurich to Nice. I can be back and forth within hours. It will be no problem.” She smiled and rubbed his hands, which were as cold as ice, although the room was overheated. “I promise.”

She sat beside Virginia in the hospital waiting room on the morning of the surgery. It would be a swift procedure, Dr. Le Strange assured them. No longer than two hours. But two hours passed and then three. Pale nurses hurried in and out of the operating theater. Virginia clutched her hand, sharp nails digging into the softness of her palm.

“Will he be all right, Ida?”

“He must be.”

She thought to pray, but she knew only one prayer, and it was not a prayer for the living.

At last, Dr. Le Strange emerged. There had been complications, an unpredictable sudden loss of blood. But he was stabilized. He was fine. All was well.

Ida stood and held out her hand.

“Thank you,” she said faintly. “Thank you so much.”

She was with Virginia at Marc’s bedside as he awakened from the anesthesia. She kissed him on the forehead and waited for his sleepy smile.

“You see, Papa. All is well. And now I am off to Zurich. I will see you in a few days’ time.”

“My Idotchka,” he murmured and closed his eyes.

She turned to Virginia, mindful of Elsa’s advice. “I am grateful to you,” she said. “I will be at ease in Zurich knowing that you are here.”

“I do not need your gratitude. Whatever I do, I do for Marc,” Virginia replied. “I understand my duty. My duty to him. My debt to him.”

Odd
words
, Ida thought.
Duty. Debt.
The single word
love
would have sufficed. She stared at Virginia, who busied herself with straightening the items on Marc’s bedside table, lining up pill bottles and carafe, moving the bud vase with its single yellow rose to the windowsill.

Ida left, closing the door softly behind her. She sighed and glanced at her watch. She would have to hurry if she was to catch her plane.

Zurich was gray and cold. Ida’s hotel room was austere and spotless. Her bed faced the crescent-shaped Lake Zurich. White drapes, grayed by an excess of inferior laundering, covered the small-paned, frost-encrusted windows. She welcomed the monochromatic calm and the silence that was broken only by the tolling of the bells of the Grossmünster. She scanned the sheaf of messages the concierge had handed her. She was expected at a cocktail party in her honor that evening at six, hosted by patrons of the Kunsthaus. It was to be followed by a dinner in the grand ballroom of L’Hôtel Royale. The arts editor of
La
Gazette
requested an interview. A commentator for Radio Suisse asked if she would consent to be a guest on his program.

“All of Switzerland is honored by your presence,” the commentator wrote fawningly and she smiled bitterly, recalling the unanswered letters she had addressed to relief agencies in Switzerland in her desperate wartime struggle for refuge. A Chagall presence had been singularly unwelcome then. “All right,” she told herself severely, recalling Géa’s words. “That was then and this is now.” She would not allow bitterness to hobble her forever.

The church bell tolled yet again. She counted.

“One. Two. Three. Good. I have time for a nap,” she said aloud. An afternoon nap would be a luxury and a welcome one.

She unpacked swiftly and collapsed onto the bed, submitting to the exhaustion that had weighed her down for so many weeks. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and fell into a deep and blissfully dreamless sleep. The persistent ringing of the phone jarred her into wakefulness.

“Mademoiselle Chagall? Mademoiselle Ida Chagall?” The man’s voice was deep and sonorous.

“Yes. I am Ida Chagall,” she murmured drowsily.

The sky was dark and the church bells tolled the evening hour. It was seven o’clock. Her heart sank. She had missed the reception in her honor hosted by the patrons of the Kunsthaus.

“I am Franz Meyer,” her caller continued. “We grew concerned when you did not come to the reception and I was asked to make certain that you are well.”

“I must apologize, Monsieur Meyer.”

She struggled to think of an excuse to offer this man whose voice was heavy with concern. She decided on the truth. This was Switzerland, the land of peace, honesty, and neutrality.

“I confess that I fell asleep. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Of course. Of course. So foolish of us not to give you time to recover from the journey. Are you rested enough to join us for dinner?”

“I am. Thank you for being so understanding.”

“I am in the lobby of the hotel. I shall wait for you there. May I presume to remind you that the dinner is formal?”

“Yes. Of course,” she said, although she had not remembered that. What a kind and considerate man he was, this Franz Meyer, whose name was oddly familiar. “I will be with you shortly.”

“Please do not hurry unnecessarily. L’Hôtel Royale is nearby.”

“Thank you,” she said gratefully.

She selected a russet-colored, full-skirted taffeta gown, the bodice artfully cut into a jeweled neckline that exposed her shoulders. It was perhaps too daring for the conventional patrons of the Kunsthaus, but she decided that she did not care. The daughter of Marc Chagall was allowed extravagancies of dress. She looped an amber necklace around her neck, twisted her hair into a loose chignon, shrugged into a hooded, fur-lined cape, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Her long nap had been wonderfully restorative. Her soft-skinned, full-featured face was no longer tight with tension, and her gold-flecked eyes were newly bright. She reached for her evening bag, left her room, and descended into the dimly lit lobby.

He stood at the concierge’s desk, a slender dark-haired man in well-tailored evening dress, who, with great care, was wiping his spectacles clean. She watched him, amused by his absorption, recognizing him at once as a man who would focus his complete attention on the smallest of tasks. A careful man. She approached him.

“Monsieur Meyer?” She smiled her well-practiced engaging smile.

He stared at her as though taken by surprise, the color rising to his cheeks.

“I am Ida Chagall. Were you not expecting me?” she asked, amused by his confusion.

“Yes. Yes, of course I was expecting you. I was just not expecting you to be so beautiful.” The words tumbled from his mouth unbidden, startling him because he was not given to such openness, and startling Ida because he spoke with such spontaneity.

“And I was not expecting you to be so young,” she countered.

Franz Meyer, she remembered belatedly, was the distinguished art historian and the director of the Bern Kunsthalle, Switzerland’s foremost museum. She had written to him regarding the transfer of the exhibition from Zurich to Bern and his replies had been cordial, his concern for detail matching her own. Her first impression had been correct. He was indeed a careful man.

She placed her hand on his arm and together they went out into the piercing cold of the wintry evening.

The dinner was pleasant and she played her role well. Her worries about her father fell away as she stepped back into her element. She was Marc Chagall’s daughter, charming his admirers, cultivating critics and collectors. Across the table, seated beneath the glittering chandelier, Franz Meyer watched her and smiled. Aware of his attention, she nodded at him. He lifted his glass of wine and she lifted hers, a silent toast of companionable complicity.

They left together and walked through the silent streets.

“Will you be warm enough?” he asked.

“Of course,” she replied and lifted the hood of her cape.

“It is wonderful to walk and talk in the silence of the night,” he said.

“It is a luxury,” she agreed, “and one I seldom have time to enjoy.”

“I don’t think of it as a luxury,” he protested. “It is when I walk that I assimilate my ideas. I do my research in museums and libraries, but that knowledge becomes cohesive only when I walk. Sometimes when I return to my desk, I do not even take off my overcoat before I begin to write because I am afraid that I will lose the thought that came to me on the wings of the wind. Does that sound strange to you?”

“No,” she replied. “My father has often said that the themes of his work came to him walking through a forest or staring out at the sea. That is how words must float toward you.”

She had read several of his monographs in scholarly art journals and marveled at the depth of his knowledge and the insights of his perception.

“Are you yourself an artist, Ida?” he asked. He uttered her given name hesitantly as though he had too prematurely crossed the border into intimacy.

“I have a small gift, Franz.” His name fell easily from her lips. “I do paint and sketch when time permits, but the pressures of being my father’s representative make it difficult for me to concentrate on my own work.”

“Your father is fortunate to have such a devoted daughter,” he said.

“And I am fortunate to have such a father,” she replied.

“Yes. It seems that you are both blessed.”

His words surprised her. Franz Meyer, vested as he was with his insight into the artistic personality, understood her commitment. Unlike Géa and Michel, he did not challenge her devotion or question her willingness to prioritize her father’s needs above her own. But then he was neither husband nor lover. They barely knew each other. Of course, his judgment was not compromised nor was it relevant to her. He would return to Bern before the week was out, and after the Chagall exhibition at his own museum, he would be gone from her life.

But when they reached her hotel, he impulsively removed her hood. “How beautiful your hair is,” he said.

Wordlessly, she loosened the pins that held the chignon in place and allowed it to cascade about her shoulders.

He lifted a single swath and held it to his cheek. “
À demain
,” he said softly. “May I see you then and show you our wonderful Zurich?”

“
À demain
,” she agreed, suffused with delight at his invitation.

They met the next day and strolled slowly along the banks of the Limmat waterway and ate lunch at a quaint quayside café in the shadow of the twin towers of the Grossmünster. Franz ordered a cheese fondue, a dish that was new to her, and taught her how to dip the thinly sliced toast into the swirling pool of melted Gruyère. When she fumbled, he fed her from his own long fork, a gesture that delighted her and made her feel cared for. That, she realized, was a rare experience.

“Fondue was the food of my childhood,” he said and spoke with ease and amusement of his family. “My mother thinks of us as Swiss aristocracy,” he said, smiling wryly. “She is foolishly proud of our wealth and holdings. Foolish because they are inherited and came to us by accident of birth. I myself have always found that kind of wealth to be something of an embarrassment.”

“Neither my father nor I have ever considered money to be an embarrassment,” Ida said frankly. “Perhaps because we lived in fear for so many years, racing away from hatred and knowing that we would have to buy our way to freedom. I confess to being careful about money. I think of it as the key to independence. My father thinks of it as protection against the violent threats of a dangerous world.”

“Yes. I have seen the terror in many of his paintings,” Franz observed quietly. “The fierceness of his colors, his fleeing figures, his frightened creatures struggling for balance in an unbalanced landscape.”

She stared at him in surprise. Few critics had recognized that dimension in Marc’s work.

Although he had planned to leave after the opening of the retrospective, Franz remained in Zurich. He escorted her to the museum each day and drove her to the airport for her weekly flights to Nice. She explained that she had promised Marc that she would visit him at the clinic as often as possible and she would not disappoint him.

“You are a remarkable and caring daughter,” he said, taking her hand. “But then you are a remarkable and caring woman.”

His words touched her heart. He valued her for who she was. She turned to him, her eyes soft with gratitude.

Elsa phoned from New York to inquire about Marc’s recovery and was upset when Ida told her of her frequent visits to Nice.

“It is too exhausting. It will make you ill,” she warned.

“My father needs me,” Ida insisted.

“Or do you perhaps need him to need you?” Elsa asked.

Ida did not reply. She understood that with that question, Elsa was once again issuing a warning.

And Marc did need her. Virginia was solicitous, but he relied on Ida’s presence and her assertiveness. It was Ida who persuaded the cook to prepare the tasty dishes and the sweet desserts that he preferred and Ida who arranged a room that looked out on the sea. He was painting again, but he was impatient to explore new dimensions, obsessed as he was by an irrational urgency. His ambitions soared and he feared that too few years were left for him to accomplish all that he envisioned.

“I want to work on a mural, on many murals. And in stained glass. And I have never done ceramics. If the Spaniard can work with clay, so can I,” he said. “But to do all that, I must outrun the
Malach HaMavet
, the Angel of Death.” He laughed bitterly.

“But you have already defeated him,
Papochka
,” Ida said soothingly. His intensity frightened her.

“No one defeats him,” he replied.

He complained that the household was badly run, that Virginia spent too much money.

“You must speak to her, Ida,” he insisted.

With great hesitancy, she asked Virginia to try to practice some domestic economies. “You know how my father is about money,” she said apologetically.

“I know that all too well,” Virginia replied coldly. “I assure you that I do my best. The baker expects to be paid. As does the wine merchant and the butcher. And when guests come to stay, good meals must be prepared. And that costs money.”

“Of course,” Ida agreed. “And are guests expected?”

“Possibly. We’ve had a letter from Charles Leirens, the Belgian photographer who stayed with us at High Falls. He took those magnificent portraits of your father and David.”

“They are quite wonderful,” Ida agreed. “When he visited us in New York, he took beautiful photographs of my mother. I wonder what became of them.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen them,” Virginia said too quickly. “Now he wants to come to Les Collines and shoot a film about Marc at work. What do you think?”

“If my father consents, I suppose it’s all right.”

“I did not think I needed your permission.” Virginia’s voice was edged with annoyance.

Virginia might resent Ida, but Jean and David delighted in her visits. “When are you coming again? Come soon,” they shouted as she left.

That arduous commute between Nice and Zurich was repeated for two months. Franz drove her to the aerodrome each Friday and was waiting when she returned. They embraced at each parting and embraced again at each reunion. Their intimacy grew slowly. They were not yet lovers. Ida was at last being careful. Elsa, she thought, would be pleased.

The retrospective moved to the Kunsthalle in Bern, Franz’s precinct. He and Ida acted as joint curators, working in tandem, anticipating each other’s decisions, sharing ideas. Once again, the exhibition was a critical success. Reassuring reviews appeared in every newspaper and they read them together, their gratification mutual, their pleasure shared.

“We deserve a vacation,” he said as she carefully clipped the most recent review of the exhibition. “Why not join me on a visit to my parents’ estate?”

She sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t. I must see my father in Nice and then I leave for Israel to arrange for his exhibitions there.”

His eyes were dark with disappointment, but he did not pressure her. “I understand,” he said quietly. “I think it is wonderful that you are so loyal to your father. To his work. But please write to me. I will need your letters. You have not yet left and I already miss you.”

At the Bern aerodrome, he touched her cheek very gently and handed her a framed photograph of the two of them together, standing in a circlet of sunlight outside the Kunsthalle.