Seasons of the Heart (49 page)

They clung together, and when he entered her, it was like the creation of a new world unknown to anyone except themselves.

Later, they lay still, overcome with feelings of peace broken only by the gentle breeze that invaded their privacy as the curtains billowed in and out through the French doors. Rubin looked at her. The Paris night, velvet, soft and fragrant, was barely a match for her.

He would paint her, oh, would he paint her! That way at least her face would never be forgotten, never be removed from his sight …But with the thought came the sudden pain … soon she would not be with him, and the feeling was too great to accept. Gently removing his arms from her, he got out of bed and walked to the French doors. He looked out beyond the small balcony to the lights of Paris. Whether or not he could share a paradise like this with Magda, at least this would be hers. He was brought back to reality at the sound of Magda’s voice.

“Light me a cigarette. You see, you’ve already become tired of me, yes? And so soon.” She laughed.

Handing her the lighted cigarette, he said, “Never, and by now you should know it.”

“Then come back to bed, I want to talk to you.”

He was quickly beside her again, taking her into his arms.

“How did you find this apartment so soon? You must have been a busy little man this morning.”

“The truth is, it belongs to a very dear friend.”

“Man or woman?”

“Would you be jealous if it belonged to a woman?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t be so damned conceited, I’m only asking. Now tell me about your friend.”

Rubin laughed. “You do sound a little jealous. That pleases me.”

“Why should I be jealous?”

“Because you love me just a little.”

“
That
, Rubin Hack, is the most stupid thing you’ve said to me so far. I don’t love you. I’m not even sure I like you … very much. Perhaps just a little. Now, about your friend. …” She moved closer, feeling the wonderful security of Rubin’s body next to her, and waited, hoping it would be a male instead of a female friend. Not that it mattered, because she wasn’t jealous. Not really. Besides, who was Rubin Hack really to her?
Nobody
. Soon he would be gone, and—

“His name is Emile Jonet.” Magda heard Rubin’s voice above her doubts. “We have been friends since boyhood. His family owns coffee plantations in Brazil. A good part of his childhood was spent there, but we met when he was sent to school in England. Last year, Emile’s father suffered a stroke. Emile had to return to Brazil and take over the family interests. When I last spoke to him, he had no idea when he would be back in Paris. The apartment is at my disposal for as long as I like. In fact, it always has been. However, I prefer to stay on the Left Bank.” Magda was only half listening. In her mind, Rubin was handing her the keys … “These are yours,” he had said when he closed her fingers around them. She could still feel the sensation of cold metal touching her chilled hands. But they were
not
hers … nothing was hers. Rubin had lied …

Pushing him away, she sat upright “And when he
returns
?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. This is not my home.”

“It is yours, for as long as Emile is away—”

“You’ll be in London.”

“True, but I can trust Countess Boulard to find a
petite maison
for you. So please, please don’t worry—”

“Don’t worry? You will take care of everything … I’m to place my life in your hands …
Wrong
. You lied to me when you handed me the keys. ‘These are yours,’ you said …”

She wanted to go on yelling, fighting him, but looking at his eyes, somehow, in spite of herself, she did believe him, even though it was betrayal she was braced for. Why? Dear God, why was this man able to move her so with his kindness, convince her with his promises. She had never trusted anyone before, why him? His quiet gentleness disturbed her …The wall she’d built so carefully was crumbling …Be
careful, Magda, be careful, or you might find yourself falling in love. It’s laughable. But you could love him, couldn’t you?
Yes … Yes, Goddamn it, I could.
You’re not so strong, are you?
No, but I never had anyone to fight this hard against.
But you mustn’t fall in love. You must fight back. It will only destroy you. He’s leaving … leaving …

She jumped out of bed, started to dress. A bewildered Rubin watched for a moment, then said, “What are you
doing
?”

“I’m getting out of here. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want anything from you.”

In a second, Rubin was out of bed and holding her in his arms. She pounded on his chest. “Leave me alone. I
hate
you,” she cried as her hands went limp. She placed her head against his shoulder and he stroked her hair.

“Shhh, it’s all right, darling.”

Looking up at him she said, almost whispering, “Will it be all right, Rubin? Will it be?”

“Yes. And in time you and I will accept it. We have all our lives to remember now, more happiness than most people get in a lifetime.”

She reached up and touched his face, then kissed him, surrendering, finally, her whole self to him.

The joy Rubin woke with the next morning was almost more than he could stand, or risk leaving. He looked at Magda, sleeping contentedly. He listened to her soft breathing, observed her fawnlike face in the dim shadows of dawn. She seemed even more beautiful than when awake.

Reluctantly he slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom. Seeing his reflection in the mirror he was shocked at the dark stubble that had grown in the last two days. After lathering his face vigorously, he picked up the straight razor, holding it deftly in his hand, and hummed one of the French songs Magda had sung that first night. That first night … had there been such a thing? It was as though she had been with him forever. Swiftly, he thought of Jocelyn. He actually could not recall her face. Unbelievable! Refusing to dwell on it, he quickly put the thought out of mind. Magda was an experience out of time, a gift. He would not allow anyone or anything to interfere with it. It belonged to him, only him. Later? He would do what was expected of him, but today this small corner of the universe belonged to
him
.

The haunting song came back as he stepped into the soothing water that almost reached the rim of the tub. He relaxed in its luxury. And allowed himself to dream.

Later, he walked softly into the bedroom and dressed. Magda still slept. Watching her, the same deep pleasure took him over.

He closed the bedroom door and went to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard where the staples were kept. The housekeeper who came in every day made certain that the larder was always stocked. He took down the coffee pot, filled it with water, added the fragrant coffee and turned on the gas beneath it. Then he left the apartment.

The
boulangerie
was fragrant with the exquisite aroma of yeast and cinnamon. There was no perfume quite comparable to the scent of French bakeries. Rubin was glad there was no other customer in the shop.

“
Bonjour
, monsieur.” It was the first voice he’d heard that morning. A young, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed girl greeted him from behind the counter. Everything seemed special this day. The most mundane greeting took on special significance.

Smiling, he replied, “
Bonjour
, mademoiselle.”

“What is your desire today?”

My desire, mademoiselle? To live each day like this one, but what he answered was, “I would like a dozen
croissants
and …” He observed the pastries, the delicately frosted butter cookies, as the girl returned his glance, enjoying the expression in the handsome young man’s eyes. There was a sort of dreamlike quality in them. “… and two dozen assorted pastries, one pound of cookies—no, make that two pounds, and a pound of sugared almonds.” Looking up to the shelves of cakes, he added, pointing, “… and the white cake with the white roses. Is it possible to have some silver leaves added?”

“
Oui
, monsieur,” she responded, smiling broadly. As she adorned the cake, Rubin whistled softly. “
Voilà
, monsieur, is this the way you like it?”

“Oh yes, it’s lovely.
Merci
! You’re a genius.”

She laughed. “And you, monsieur, are obviously a happy man.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s not so difficult to see when a man is in love.”

“Is it so obvious?”

“
Oui
, monsieur. You have that certain look in your eyes.”

“You, mademoiselle, are a most observant young woman.”

“
Merci
. Are you just married?”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations, and many years of happiness.”

The lie did not bother Rubin. The days would become the years. “
Merci
, mademoiselle. What do I owe you?” He paid for the purchases and handed the girl a large tip. Before she could object, Rubin was almost outside the shop. She called out, “
Au revoir
, monsieur, and many children.” He heard and wanted to answer, “Many,” but stopped there. Today was too precious to waste a second on a dream that could never be. Never …?

He walked to the
fromagerie
, where he ordered a quart of thick cream. He watched, fascinated, as the owner ladled it into the container. Indeed, Rubin was all eyes, watching everything. Then he told the woman to cut off a large slab of smooth creamery butter. Weighing it, she asked, “Will that be all monsieur?”

“No, add a wheel of Camembert and a large slice of Brie.”

At the street stall he bought a basket of luscious, long-stemmed strawberries. Passing a flower stand, he bought a single red rose which the vendor wrapped in newspaper, placing it on top of the cake box. Then Rubin walked back to the apartment.

Seeing Rubin’s dilemma as he tried to reach the button of the lift, the concierge offered his assistance, which Rubin gratefully accepted. The rose teetered back and forth, nearly toppling off the boxes Rubin juggled as he entered the apartment. He went immediately to the kitchen and placed the perishables in the icebox. Pleased with himself, he walked to the bedroom, opened the door cautiously and peeked in. Magda still slept. The last few days had been filled with so much emotion, Rubin was grateful. Suddenly his mood changed, as he thought of what he knew would be so difficult, but he realized that the painful chore had to be done, and the quicker the better. Procrastinating would not accomplish it.

Going into the salon he seated himself behind the
Boule
desk, heavy with gold ormolu. From the letter holder he took a sheet of heavy parchment paper, dipped the pen in black ink and wrote to Jocelyn. It was hardly a love letter, but it was not cold or unfeeling either. It was phrased so that Jocelyn could interpret it according to her own needs. Without feeling any guilt, he sealed and addressed it, then wrote to his father asking for his understanding: Since these would be the last of his bachelor days, he felt the desire to remain several weeks longer. He wrote that this admitted whim in no way diminished his affection for Jocelyn, nor had it anything to do with his stability as a future husband. Ending the letter, he said he would cable prior to his return. As he attached the stamp, he felt fairly sure his father would smile. Rubin could almost hear him saying to his mother, “Sara, my dear, Rubin is being quite sensible. All young men, if they are to be faithful and contented husbands, must scatter a few wild oats. Fine boy, our Rubin. No need to worry there, my dear.”

Rubin loved, adored, his father, a truly honest, honorable man. He could not remember a time when his father had gone back on his word, or done anything unjust or unkind. It was these very traits that especially endeared him to his sons: his sense of fair play and his understanding. These were the traits that Nathan believed he shared with his sons. Strangely Rubin didn’t feel at all wicked or conscience-stricken over his deception. In fact, he felt rather pleased that he was up to it.

Slipping the letter into the inner pocket of his jacket (to be mailed later), he went back to the kitchen. As he opened the cupboard to take out the wicker bedtray, he heard the back door being opened and knew it was Mignon, the housekeeper.

Mignon was startled. Monsieur Jonet must have returned home without letting me know, she thought, as the aroma of coffee reached her nostrils. She walked rapidly through the pantry, but when she saw Rubin holding the tray, she gasped. “
Bonjour
, Monsieur Hack,” she said with glad surprise. “I thought it was Monsieur Jonet. I am delighted to see you. It has been so long.”

“
Merci
, Mignon. It has been a long time, and I’m happy to see you. I’m sorry I couldn’t let you know I would be staying here, but I decided only yesterday.”

“I trust it will be for a long time.”

“Unfortunately, no. I will be here only a few weeks.” He put the tray down to light his cigarette and give himself a moment to think. How should he tell her about Magda? Looking at the diminutive Mignon, her black hair streaked with gray and pulled back severely into a braided knot, he was embarrassed. After all, he thought, she had seen many a
fille de joie
of Emile’s, so Magda would surely not shock her. Mignon was French, after all, and so was her master, but he, Rubin, was still afflicted by English propriety. But his desire to be emancipated managed to outweigh his English virtue, and without further delay he plunged on. …“However, Mignon, there will be a young woman living here in Monsieur Jonet’s absence …”

Rubin silently applauded himself for his shameless courage. Mignon lowered her eyes, hiding her amusement, and her envy for the person fortunate enough to be loved by someone as attractive and virile as Rubin Hack.

Rubin looked at his watch; it was ten. Opening the door to the bedroom once again, having done so impatiently for the last few hours, he saw Magda’s arms stretching above her head as she yawned away the last traces of sleep. He went to her, sat on the edge of the bed and drew her against him. She accepted his kisses, then pushed herself gently away. “Don’t become too amorous, I haven’t brushed my teeth.”