Entwined (17 page)

"I need my hair done, Hilda."

Hilda said that she would try, but was not sure how to go about it. Vebekka giggled while taking out small pots and brushes.

"No no—my roots, I need my roots done. See, the gray hair is showing!"

Hilda watched as Vebekka mixed her color. "It's called Raven. It looks purple, but it comes out black."

While Vebekka parted her hair and clipped sections, Hilda brushed the thick purplish liquid into the hairline. Then Hilda sat and waited: the tint had to be left on for twenty minutes. Meanwhile, Vebekka manicured her hands, put cream on her elbows and neck, then on her legs and on her arms.

Together they returned to the bathroom and Hilda shampooed and washed out the tint. Then she wrapped a towel around the clean, tinted head and they returned to the bedroom. Next Vebekka directed Hilda to hold the dryer while she used the brush.

"I'm young again, Hilda, see? You were very good…now I want to look beautiful, a little makeup, rouge…"

Hilda was fascinated at the transformation; then she helped the baroness into a silk and lace robe, so delicate it floated when Vebekka moved, the lace on the sleeves trailing as in medieval costumes.

Hilda ordered a light luncheon, boiled fish, some milk and vegetables, and she was pleased to see that Vebekka ate every morsel. Just as she was ringing for room service to take the table away, the baron entered to find his wife sitting like a princess at the window. His face broke into a smile of delight. "You look wonderful! And you have eaten? Good, good…do you feel better?"

Hilda left them alone and went into the main bedroom to tidy the room and make the bed. Louis bent to kiss Vebekka's cheek; she smelled sweet and fresh, her hair gleamed like silk. She smiled, and looked up into his concerned face. "Did you come in to see me earlier?"

"No, I had a drink with Helen. If you need her she is in her room." *

Vebekka cocked her head."Well, don't you two get too cozy!"

He turned away, irritated.

"I was just teasing you, Louis. It was just—well, strange. I was sure someone came in…maybe I was dreaming."

With her husband's help she stood up, clinging to his hand. "I think I will rest for a while now. You don't have to stay, I have Hilda. Maybe Helen would like to go sightseeing, she must be very bored."

They walked slowly to the bedroom, and suddenly she leaned against him. "Remember in that old movie with Merle Oberon, when she said: 'Take me…take me to the window, I want to see the moors one last time!' "

Vebekka did such a good impersonation of the dying heroine from Wuthering Heights that she made Louis laugh; he swept her into his arms and gently carried her to the bed.

The baron stood by watching as Hilda fluffed up her pillows, remained watching as Hilda gently drew the sheet around her, and then let the drapes close, leaving the room in semidarkness.

Hilda asked if she might take a break for an hour. He nodded, dismissing her with an incline of his head, and sat in the chair she had vacated.

Vebekka lay with her eyes closed, as though unaware of his presence. She was so still she could have been laid out at a funeral home, the perfect makeup, the long dark lashes, her hair framing her beautiful face. He took out his gold cigarette case, patted his pockets for his lighter, and kept his eyes on her as he clicked it open. She didn't stir. He inhaled deeply and let the smoke drift from his mouth to form a perfect circle above his head. Had she woven all these lies about herself? Why? He couldn't think of a reason for not telling him—unless she was ashamed, but ashamed of what?

The more he stared at her, the more unanswered questions crossed his mind. Was it his fault? He could hear her now, as if she were saying it to him now.

"My father's dead. I have to go to America to see to the funeral."

She had said it so matter-of-factly, as if suggesting she fly to New York for a fitting. He had asked if she wished him to accompany her and she had smiled, shaking her head, reminding him that he was flying to Brazil for a polo game. He could remember his relief at not having to alter his plans. He was not in Paris when she returned, and so the funeral was not really discussed. She had bought many gifts for the children and for him, and had laughed at her extravagance, saying she was surprised at how much her father had left her. Louis knew it was a considerable amount, because his own lawyers had called to discuss the matter, but she had been disinterested in the money, as he was. She had been happy, she had been well—above all, happy.

These episodes always remained vivid to him, because when Vebekka was happy, the whole family's spirits lifted. When she was energized, she would arrange surprise outings and parties, like a child. Her good spirits would extend beyond the family circle. She would organize dinner parties, get dressed for masked balls…

As a hostess she was a delight, she would make everyone feel immediately at ease.

He leaned forward, noting in the semidarkness the contours of her face. The way her long exquisite fingers rested like an angel's, one hand on top of the other—the perfect nails, her tiny wrists. It was hard to believe that those long tapering delicate hands could become vicious claws.

Louis mulled over his conversations with Dr. Franks. Was he in some way to blame? In the stillness of the room he could honestly ask himself if he was guilty. Louis asked himself why the glimpses of sun in her life were so short-lived now, so rare, and why when she changed, there was such anguish.

He got up to stub out his cigarette. From the dressing table he looked at the still sleeping woman; she had not moved. He had to think not just of himself, but of Sasha, and the boys; they too had suffered, they had been forced to care for her, watch out for the signs. His eldest daughter had retreated into a busy social life that left little time for home. The boys had drawn very close to each other. The real hurt was to his younger daughter; she was so much younger than the others that she had seen fewer good periods.

Louis would perhaps never know the true extent of the damage to his children. He sighed. It would be easy, slip the pillow from the side of the bed, press it to her face, and it would be over. No one could say he had not been driven to it, that she did not deserve it.

She stirred, her hands fluttered, lifted a moment, and then rested again. She turned her head toward Louis, and slowly opened her eyes. He wondered if she knew he was there, wondered if anyone could understand what it was like to turn to someone you loved and face a stranger—and worse, be afraid. That awful moment of awareness when he knew it was happening. When the face he loved became distorted—the mouth he kissed pulled back like an animal—the voice he loved, snarled—and the gentle arms lashed out like steel traps.

Louis pressed his back against the dressing table and watched. Was he about to see the transformation now? The slender arms stretched, and she moaned softly, then smiled, with such sweetness.

"How long have you been there?"

"Not long," he lied, and sat on the edge of her bed.

"Where's Hilda?"

"She's having a break."

"She's so sweet."

"How do you feel?"

"Good, refreshed. Where's Helen?"

"I don't know, maybe shopping."

She sat up and shook her head. "We did my hair, Hilda and I. What time is it?"

She looked at her bedside clock, then threw back the sheet. "We can call Sasha and the boys."

He watched her slip her feet into slippers, and then yawn, lifting her arms above her head. "I feel hungry, I am ravenous!"

Louis hesitated, then told himself not to draw back now, to go through with it. "I'm glad you feel better, and hungry. Dr. Franks will be pleased, too."

He saw the catlike reaction as her eyes narrowed. He continued: "Franks is waiting for me to call him, he said that I should contact him as soon as you recovered."

"Really?" she said flatly.

"Yes. So, my dear, shall I call him?"

She pursed her lips. "Oh, I can't see him yet. I'm still too weak. Can you get Hilda for me?"

Louis opened the drapes, forced himself not to back off, not this time. "Shall I tell Dr. Franks perhaps tomorrow?"

"Oh, I don't know. Is Anne Marie in?"

Louis crossed over to her and took her hand. "Come and sit down. I'll get Hilda and Anne Marie, but first we need to talk."

She sat on the dressing table stool, looking up at him.

"I'm going to call Dr. Franks, right now. What shall I tell him?"

She hunched her shoulders. "I can't see him for a while."

He sighed and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "What does that mean? A day? two days? a week? How long do you expect us all to wait around here? This is the reason…"

She retorted angrily, interrupting him: "I know why we came, and I have agreed to see him, but not just yet!"

When Louis suggested they ask Franks to come and see her later in the afternoon, she snapped: "I have to rest."

Louis walked to the door, saying he would call him anyway.

"7 don't want to see him, I've changed my mind. Besides I feel as if I am getting stronger. Without all those pills that wretched woman makes me take, my system is getting cleansed. I am detoxifying; it's a slow process, I am bound to have some withdrawal symptoms and…"

"That's right, keep on with the excuses, but this time I am not taking no for an answer. If you want to stay here a month I'll arrange it, but you are going to Dr. Franks."

"Don't be so nasty with me, why are you being so nasty?"

"For God's sake, I am not being nasty, you are being childish. I'll call him now."

"No."

He looked at her, opening the door.

"
I said no
."

He slammed the door shut—hard. "Vow have no say in the matter, do you understand?"

"I won't see him."

Louis crossed the room and gripped her arm. "You will see him, do you hear me? You will see him, we agreed, you agreed and you cannot change your mind now."

"Why not? It's my mind."

He released her arm. "Right now it is! But for how long? I've told you, this is the last time, it's your last chance."

"Don't you mean yours?"

He had to control his temper. "We have nothing left, Bekki, you and I both know it. I am doing this for you—not for me, for you."

"Liar! You want me certified and dumped."

"I don't want to fight with you, Bekki, I want to help you. Can't you understand? That is all I have ever wanted to do—help you."

She stared at him, angrily. He kept his voice low, trying to be controlled. "You need help, you know it. If not for me…"

"Oh shut up! I've heard that one too many times." She mimicked him: "If not for me, do it for yourself."

She turned on him. "This is for you, Louis, I am here is this bloody awful country for
you, you
want to get rid of me, don't you think I know it? Well, one, I will not give you a divorce; two, I will go to see Dr. Franks when I feel up to going to see him, in my own time when I feel fit and well enough, and I will not be pressured by you, or by that whore Helen, I will not be forced into seeing this crank because
you
want to get rid of me and run off with that tart."

"You mean Helen? For God's sake, she is your friend, your doctor—and, Bekki, I am not running anywhere, I never have before, and I don't intend to now."

"But you are leaving me?…Aren't you? You've decided, haven't you?"

She plucked a tissue from its container and wiped her face, slowly removing her makeup. She had only dressed and made herself look pretty for him. She murmured under her breath about Helen again.

"Helen has nothing to do with any decision I make!"

She smiled. "Ah, you are making a decision all by yourself, are you? Well, that is a change."

He refused to be drawn into an argument, and their eyes met in the mirror.

"No, Bekki, you make the decision this time, it is up to you. If you refuse to see Dr. Franks, then…"

She held his gaze with a defiant stare. "Then what?"

"You cannot return to the children."

"They are old enough to make their own decision." She said it with defiance, but he could see her eyes were beginning to flick, to blink rapidly.

"Sasha is not!"

Her hands trembled and she began to twist the tissue, but she didn't look away from him.

"You can't do that to me! I love Sasha, she needs me."

"You give me no alternative. I've told you, this is your last chance."

He walked out. Even after he had closed the door, he felt as if her eyes were on him. He poured a brandy, his hands shaking as he lifted the glass. Would she begin throwing things, screaming, was she going to come hurtling out of the bedroom? The brandy hit the back of his throat, warming him. He poured himself some more, and then froze. The telephone extension rang once, he knew she was making a call, and he banged the glass down—breaking the stem. Was she calling Sasha? He hurried to the bedroom, about to fling open the door. He could hear her talking; he pressed his head to the door to listen.

Vebekka's palms were sweating, small beads of perspiration glistened on her brow. She gripped the telephone tighter, afraid she would unconsciously put it down.

"Dr. Franks? This is Baroness Marechal, I…"

She could hear him breathing, then ask how she was, and she had to swallow once, twice before she could reply. "I am very much better…"

"Good, I am glad to hear it."

The sweating made her feel weak, her whole body shook. Her hair was wringing wet.

"Hello? Baroness?…Hello?"

Dr. Franks could hardly hear her, but he knew she was still on the line. "Are you experiencing any adverse effects? Any withdrawal symptoms? Baroness?"

"Sweating, I am sweating."

She gasped, and had to reach for the dressing table top to steady herself; she felt as if she were going to faint.

"That is only to be expected. You must drink, can you hear me? You must drink as much water as possible, keep drinking. Would you like me to come and see you?"

"No!"

Franks couldn't hear her. He asked again. "I can be with you in half an hour. Would you like me to come to see you?"