Days of Winter (6 page)

“Rubin,” Magda said, “I have to go back to my room and pick up my things.”

“It’s not necessary. We’ll buy everything you need today at the Marché de Lafayette until your wardrobe arrives.”

“No, Rubin, I still have to go back.”

“I don’t want you to. Let me get rid of the room—”

“You don’t understand. There are things in that room that are important to me, the only possessions I have—”

“Such as what?”

“My pictures.”

“You have paintings?”

“Just faded photographs of my mother and father … and Niko. Without them, I’m alone …”

“Then let me go.”

“No, I always want to remember where I came from. If I don’t, I’ll never feel right about … all this. Am I making sense, Rubin?”

“Yes, but we’ll go together, you and I.”

Magda smiled. “Rubin? Tell me about the countess.”

“Well, she’s rather extraordinary. When she was young she was the undisputed beauty of her time, really … the toast of Paris.”

“Why does she have to … to sponsor me? Is that how she makes her living?”

“Yes. Although it’s handled very delicately.”

“But she’s a countess … I thought all countesses were rich.”

“Not all. Especially not in her case.”

“Why?”

“Something happened a long time ago. She wouldn’t want to be reminded of it. It was a very difficult period for her.”

“You said she’s accepted in the best society?”

“True … but right after her … well, she was pretty well shut out. Her family, though, was influential, and rich. With a large dowry she was forced to marry Count Boulard, who was not only on his uppers and thirty years older than she, but a fool who squandered her money. Still, with his title—never mind his disgusting behavior—she was once again reinstated, forgiven her transgressions, so-called, and accepted back into all the best French salons.”

“Why did she stay with him?”

“According to French law, whatever a woman had became her husband’s. And he outlived her parents. He died a few years ago, a crazy old man, leaving her broke. Fortunately, she’s been able to hold on to a few valuables, a few jewels, which she laughs about, saying they’ll protect her in her dotage from the poorhouse.”

“Money is important, isn’t it, Rubin?” she asked.

“Of course. But it has to be used in the right way.”

“And what’s the right way?”

“So it doesn’t become an obsession—or a god.”

“It can certainly help a lot.”

“It can also corrupt.”

“It can also buy respectability …Money seems to have such power.”

“It does, Magda. It can do a lot of
good
.”

Like a kaleidoscope, images of mannikins, stained glass windows and
petite maisons
swirled in her head. Then she thought of the Countess. Softly, she said, “It can also buy loneliness … don’t you agree, Rubin?”

Full of the thought of what his life would be without her, he said, “Yes, Magda, endless loneliness.”

She reached for his hand, held it tightly. “When will I meet the Countess?”

“She’ll be here today at six.”

“What should I do? I mean, how should I act?”

“Just be yourself.”

“And if she doesn’t like what I am, then what?”

“She can’t help liking you. You don’t have to pretend—”

“But, Rubin, I’m so … so—”

“So beautiful,” he interrupted.

“To you, maybe … but I’m so uneducated, so common. I’m nothing but a singer in a—”

“That’s enough, Magda. As of this moment, you’re going to say, ‘I’m beautiful. I’m worthy.’ Don’t demean yourself. An uneducated person is simply one who doesn’t learn. And life is the best school. The Magda I see is a gracious, remarkable woman. That’s what’s important, the person you are. It’s simple to become a lady—”

“Even with
my
temper?”

“Yes, even with your temper. That’s part of your charm. Now get dressed. We’ve got a lot to do before six.”

She looked at him, kissed him, tenderly at first, not so tenderly as she felt him respond.

Mignon was in her glory. She took out the Limoges china, polished the silver tea service and arranged the pastries on the Minton épergne. She had not been so excited since Monsieur Jonet left. Life had become dreary in Monsieur’s absence. Folding the serviettes, she wondered if this
maîtresse
of Rubin Hack’s would be able to handle the service at tea time. Mignon had her doubts. Men! There was simply no accounting for their tastes in women. This Mademoiselle Charascu was nothing but a common
souillon
. At least Monsieur Jonet’s ladies had the breeding and training of courtesans, but this one! Oo-la-la. She had been shocked when Monsieur had summoned her earlier from the kitchen to meet his paramour, dressed in a black skirt and sweater so tight and revealing that nothing was left to the imagination. Mignon wondered where he had picked her up. Probably on the streets. Place Pigalle, undoubtedly. Ah, such a waste! But who could figure men out?

In the salon, standing at the window, Rubin looked at Paris, drinking in her beauty as he waited for Magda to finish dressing. Four times she’d changed, observing herself each time in the mirror. He could hear her exclamations of disgust. She hated every outfit.

Frustrated, she sat down heavily on the bed. She’d had her share of problems in life, but which dress to wear had never been one of them. Wasn’t it stupid, she thought, looking at the boxes filled with lingerie, shoes, hats, scarves, even a French umbrella Rubin had insisted on, and it wasn’t even raining. Tissue paper was strewn about the room. When she and Rubin had taken the dresses, suits, skirts and sweaters out, placing them on the enormous bed, she was so excited she hadn’t realized the terrible responsibilities of decision-making …Wearing her new satin and lace slip, she quickly walked across the foyer to the salon.

“Rubin,” she said, breathing hard.

He turned from the window, and looking at her expression of exasperation he smiled, then laughed.

Tapping her foot she said, “Stop
laughing
…” and then almost in tears, said, “Rubin, please … help. I don’t know what to wear. I don’t know what goes with what …”

Rubin took her by the hand and led her back to the bedroom. She watched as he carefully appraised each garment as though it were a matter of state. He picked up the simple mauve chiffon dress with the niching around the neck. It was pretty, she thought, but so sweet and unadorned, especially to meet the Countess for the first time. As he spread the dress across the chair she looked at the full, bouffant sleeves, tight at the wrists, trimmed with the same niching. Then she had second thoughts …Perhaps it was chic. After all, Rubin had selected it.

Opening a shoe box, he took out silk pumps in the same color and placed them on the floor. Next were the hose, soft, fawn-colored, and last the heavy strand of pearls with a diamond clasp, which Rubin had selected in only moments at Cartier. When the salesman had handed them to her for her approval, she thought they seemed no different from the ones sold at any cheap shop … except the price, which staggered her.

“Now, please dress. The Countess will be here in half an hour. And wear the pink satin slip.”

“Oh, Rubin, what would I do without you?”

He smiled and thought, we won’t think about that now.

She had just enough time to stand in front of him, hoping he would approve of her hair, carefully arranged now on top of her head, though she nervously toyed with the tendrils, which hung in front of her ears.

Holding her at arms’ length he said, “You are
ravissante
!”

“Am I, Rubin? Oh, thank you, darling.”

The sound of the bell almost went unheard. Only “darling” pealed joyously in Rubin’s head. It was the first time she’d called him that, and it had seemed to come so spontaneously, so naturally.

Mignon was opening the door and saying, almost with reverence, “
Bon soir, Comtesse.
” She curtsied. The Countess nodded and walked across the marble foyer to the salon, where a nervous Magda and delighted Rubin awaited the arrival of their distinguished guest. Rubin embraced her, kissing her on both cheeks. “You look better than ever, Solange.”

“And you are the same enchanting rogue, dear Rubin, who almost makes a woman believe it.” She smiled with a twinkle in her eye.

Magda watched these two old friends who were so at ease. The Countess was positively regal, though she had to be very old … at least forty-five. But her skin was so youthful, without a wrinkle or blemish, like pure porcelain. The whiteness was startling as Magda watched the ruby-red lips move in speech. Her cheekbones were high and delicately tinted with blush; one could scarcely detect that the color was not natural. Her sloe-shaped eyes, fringed with black lashes, could still affect men. What added to it all was the startlingly burnished red hair, above which sat a black silk turban trimmed with egret feathers. Around her long slender neck was carefully, yet casually, draped a scarf of sables. The black taffeta gown had a rich iridescent texture. The only adornment the Countess wore was a large diamond brooch.

When the Countess released the clasp of the sables, Magda watched fascinated as the skins fell softly to her side. Removing her long white kid gloves, the Countess did not take her eyes from this
petite poupée
of Rubin Hack’s. Not one detail went unnoticed. Before Rubin could make the introductions, the Countess said, “Well, dear boy, your description was more than adequate, if nothing else. She is as you described.”

“Darling, may I introduce Solange, Countess Boulard?”

“
Enchanté,
” Magda answered softly. She felt as though she were being weighed by the pound.

“And you are Magda,” the Countess responded. In their chat the day before, Rubin had said Magda’s name over and over. She was incredible, more than the countess had expected …Men in love were always blind; the eye of the beholder dazzled …Bravo, Rubin, she thought. With this one you were quite accurate. What an exciting challenge she would be! This little sparrow could be turned into a radiant white swan. She had all the possibilities …

Solange sat in the
bergère
, facing Magda. Rubin seated himself on the settee across from them.

“You are from Bucharest?” the Countess said.

Her eyes direct, her voice steady, Magda answered, “Yes.”

“A beautiful city, Bucharest.”

“My recollections of it are otherwise,” replied Magda. Rubin had said to be herself.

Solange moistened her lips …Ah, this one had spirit She liked that. “Well, my dear Magda, you’d be surprised how a city can change in a very short time. Even Paris can be ugly. It all depends on the window you see it from …”

Rubin rang for tea. “Solange, would you care for sherry?”

“That would be nice,
merci
.”

“And you, Magda, dear?”

“Absinthe.”

Rubin frowned. Magda was deliberately trying to be shocking. “I’m sorry, we have no absinthe,” he said.

“Then I will have coffee. Sherry is much too mild.”

A smile touched Solange’s mouth. She understood every nuance in Magda’s words, her voice. Magda did not like being patronized. Her insecurity was apparent. Solange, after all, was the enemy, and not a little bit threatening. Solange looked at Rubin and her eyes flashed a message: Patience, dear friend. All things worth achieving come with time and hard work. Sipping her sherry, the Countess said to Magda, “Rubin tells me you have an extraordinary voice.”

“He’s right,” she answered, glaring at the Countess.

Solange was inwardly amused, and disregarded the rebuff. “He is about most things,” she answered.

Magda took the words as an affront. She didn’t like the Countess, and she would tell Rubin so later. She would not be treated like a stupid peasant. “Did he also tell you that I sang the lead at the opera in Bucharest? My last role was Carmen.”

My God, Rubin thought, what is she doing? Why is she acting so belligerent …Solange couldn’t be more kind.

Mignon wheeled in the tea cart, steering it to Magda, as her mouth fell open in shock. Was this the little strumpet who had gone off with Rubin earlier today? Impossible! Mignon left the room totally bewildered. Such a transformation!

But transformations had become a way of life for Magda during the last few days. She looked at her actions, her manners, as she’d never done before. No need to. Before she’d met Rubin, she’d been content with herself, satisfied with the café society that adored her. She had survived, after all, and reached the heights of her own tiny world. But now, suddenly, she could be a different Magda, detached from herself, scrutinizing her every emotion. What she felt toward the Countess at this moment was close to hatred … the Countess made her feel so inadequate, so ignorant. In fact, sitting here, even Rubin made her feel that way. The only time she felt herself his equal, in fact, his superior, was when they made love. But just wait, she thought. I’ll give you a run for your money, Rubin Hack …And you, Countess. I’ll show you how fast Magda Charascu of Bucharest can learn … I’m ready, teach me. Lesson one.

“Will you have tea or coffee, Countess?”

“Coffee, my dear.” Chuckling inwardly, Solange thought, this little one learns quickly.

“Cream?”

“Please, and two lumps of sugar.”

Magda handed the Countess her cup with a flourish. “Rubin,” she said, “tea?”

“Yes, please.” He answered with more annoyance than he intended.

But Magda pretended not to notice. Nothing, however, went unnoticed by the Countess. Magda was like a chameleon, cleverly changing her colors to camouflage her feelings, and the Countess was enjoying the performance.

There followed some light banter, mostly between Solange and Rubin. They discussed Emile, the years past, the fun and excitement they’d had. They exchanged little jokes between themselves. The conversation was scarcely heard by Magda, who had a headache. A real one.

Getting up, she asked to be excused, going directly to the bedroom. Once inside, she closed the door behind her and sat on the bed. How would she ever fit into
this
world? It was simply much too much. She ran into the bathroom and threw up. Then she reached into the medicine cabinet, took down the bottle of headache tablets, unscrewed the cap and popped two aspirins into her mouth, washing them down with a little water. God, but her head was pounding.