The Eleventh Year (29 page)

She boarded a bus and smiled back when a young man tipped his hand to her in a flirtatious salute. She enjoyed it. It was pleasant, that men looked at her. She was twenty-five. Recently Paul sometimes forgot to come home, although she never asked him where he'd been. When they made love it was slow, mellow, smooth, and sometimes she regretted their earlier passion, the moments of frenzied, tangled bodies one against the other. But time wore down the mechanisms of attraction.

If the ardor had toned down between them there should have been something else. He should have wanted to weld their informal union into something more permanent and solid. She wondered why it seemed more important to her now than it had before. But now she was making inroads in the world of literature. And she had become increasingly conscious of a new desire: to have a child. At first it had been a faint echo in her brain: “Wouldn't it be nice if . . .” But now it had gone beyond that. She really wanted Paul's baby. And yet she dared not mention it to him. He stayed, and her fear of his going was enough to keep all else in check. It wasn't fair. But it was the bargain she had struck, because she'd always known he loved her less than she did him.

Jamie wasn't a fool. Paul was anything but the person she needed as a husband. But the truth of the matter was, she didn't really need a husband at all. She wasn't helpless. She'd published three pieces in
McCall's
this year, at eight cents a word, and one for the more intellectual
Metropolitan Magazine.
And then there was the great news—which had propelled her today out of the apartment. Her father's bequest, plus her earnings, made her a woman of independent means. She was in that enviable position of being able to choose to love a man without needing his financial assistance.

Jamie stepped off the bus Place d'Iéna and walked briskly to the sculptured door of the Varenne mansion. It was so long since she and Lesley had been together—truly together, the way they'd been at school. She missed her and didn't understand the alienation—knew only that it had to do with the two brothers, with some kind of misunderstanding stemming from before Lesley's marriage, with the change in their life styles. She felt a pang of guilt. She'd kept away from Lesley too, because she hadn't felt comfortable with who Lesley had become, months back: someone scared, nervous, always carrying a glass of champagne and trying so hard to be the perfect little French aristocrat.

The marvelously trained maître d'hôtel opened the door.

“Mademoiselle?”

“Jamie Stewart.
Une amie de Madame.”
Had it really been that long, that the butler had forgotten? She wondered at time, at changes—and at what changes she would encounter in the Varenne household.

She was enchanted by the beige silk walls, the Cézannes and Manets. Jamie bypassed the servant and nearly bounded into the sitting room. She saw Lesley raise her head, that marvelous triangular face with its translucent complexion, the straight red bob with bangs. She saw the joy in her friend's green eyes. They belonged to each other, they were sisters. Lesley stood up and almost knocked over the coffee table, and they were in each other's arms. She could smell the familiar scent of Lesley's Shalimar.

And then, a slight shock: Lesley was not alone. Jamie was taller, and over Lesley's shoulder she saw the seated figure of Elena Egorova. The princess was staring at her, and immediately Jamie broke away from her embrace with her friend. Lesley cleared her throat, said: “Jamie? You remember Elena?” and both the women nodded. Lesley sat down and so did Jamie. It seemed to each person in the room that the air had grown heavy with tension. A moment of awkwardness ensued as Lesley attempted to make conversation. She wanted to be with Jamie, to share, to be herself as she could only be with her—and yet Elena had become a part of her life, she liked her, was grateful for her amusing friendship.

Jamie wanted to tell Lesley her news, could hardly contain herself. But Paul didn't know yet, and to have to reveal it now in front of one who was not only a stranger, but a somewhat hostile one, seemed like a cheapening of what she had to impart.

“Oh, Les—the most extraordinary, unbelievable thing has happened!” she finally cried. “Two things, actually. Harold Ober, of the Reynolds Agency in New York, has decided to represent me! And he's sent the first draft of
Promise Me Rosebuds in the Spring
to an editor at Scribner's: Maxwell Perkins! He's Fitzgerald's editor, and Hemingway's!”

“Jamie, that's sensational! Oh, Jamie—it's like a dream, isn't it? Dreams
can
really come true!” Lesley's face was a wonder to watch: the mirrored happiness, the fulfillment—but also the twinge of personal sadness.

“I'm most impressed, Jamie,” Elena stated. She appeared sincere and actually interested. “I'm told that you're a most talented writer. Will you also, one day, write in French?”

“Perhaps. But right now I'm so much more comfortable in my own language. Funny, though. In a way I'd always known that this would happen; and yet—there's also this quality of disbelief, as if this couldn't possibly be happening to
me.
Can you understand that, Les?”

“You shouldn't say that, Jamie. Obviously you deserve everything that's coming to you. Talent merits praise and notice. You are cutting your own worth down by feeling that way.” Elena's voice was clear, decisive—as though there were no room for disagreement on this issue. Elena saw life in terms of earnings. One had to respect a woman who had never been a girl, who never felt unsure of herself. But it was difficult to like this sort of person.

“I didn't exactly mean it that way,” Jamie explained softly. “Miracles do happen. And sometimes they even happen to those who deserve them! But still—I'm awed, I'm thrilled. What more can I say?”

Elena thought: Jamie Stewart is not the little mouse I first mistook her for. If Paul still lives with her, she means more to him than he is willing to admit, perhaps even to himself. If only he had money…real money! Because he needs luxury as much as I,
needs
the good life. If we married—God forbid!—we would not be able to keep our life styles. He wouldn't survive without Bertrand, nor I without my work. He couldn't be on his own. The collectors and the painters like him because he is charming, but they know that they can trust Bertrand, not Paul. Paul isn't trustworthy, he isn't responsible. If he could be an Alexandre.…Even then I would not marry him. What we have is passion, not love, and he is not intelligent enough to sustain me for a lifetime.

After tea, Jamie stood up. She said, a bit too brightly: “I've got to go home. Paul's on his way.”

Suddenly Elena spoke with an intensity that surprised Lesley and Jamie. “Paul de Varenne is a will o' the wisp. One either loves or hates him. But Jamie—don't count on him. He's beautiful, he's exciting, to any woman. But don't entrust your life to someone like that. He wouldn't know how to take care of such a responsibility. He deals with all the people I pose for—I know Paul well.”

“But you know him as an acquaintance; I know him as my love!”

“Love is the most ridiculous illusion in the world, my dear. It's like the Church—all Churches: a creation to prevent us from dealing with reality. Think on it. You're not much younger than I. Don't be naïve. I'm trying to help you, Jamie. You're a nice person, someone whose work is going to count. And you're Lesley's friend. So try to listen to what I'm telling you. I like Paul. But I would never, ever trust him with my life.”

“You're not in love with him!” Jamie said angrily.

Elena smiled then and shrugged slightly. Then Jamie added: “But I don't depend on Paul. My life is my own. I don't force anyone to take care of me. Only a child can ask this of its parents.”

“How noble,” Elena commented, with slight irony. But it was not said unkindly. Jamie sat down again, still red with emotion. Lesley placed her hand on her friend's arm, pressed it. “I'm sorry,” Jamie stated more calmly. “I shouldn't really have talked about any of this.”

Silence fell over the room. The butler entered, took away the tea tray as if he were a moving shadow, in his black tails. Lesley was staring straight ahead, beyond the delicate tea roses in the Meissen vase, beyond the drapes. Jamie felt the aftereffects of a heated argument of torn loyalties. Lesley was no longer exclusively hers.

Jamie looked up and encountered, fully upon her, the eyes of Elena Egorova. She felt jarred. Who was this woman to her, that she should thus have expressed her opinions on her private life? Sadness, bitterness flowed through her. She'd come here with her future in her hands, her marvelous, hoped-for future. Was Paul, after all, her greatest illusion? She looked back at Elena, wondered again at the coldness of the Russian princess. No, not a whore, as some people said in their envy of her loveliness. There were no whores in the twenties, only women of will. Elena was willful, resourceful. Why was it that her eyes, so beautiful and deep, like black velvet, made Jamie feel so uncomfortable?

She could read the expression in Elena's eyes. Yes, the Russian was saying, Paul is your illusion, your fairy tale. He is the prince that will reveal himself to be your frog. Maybe so, Jamie thought defiantly. But if I love him, isn't that enough? She hadn't asked for rosebuds, or for promises.

“
J
amie's novel
is set for publication in the spring,” Paul announced one afternoon, when they were lying, replete after love, on the piled-up pillows. The sheet had fallen from her breasts, which lay like small melons over his arm. He was passing one hand over the left one, casually watching the nipple harden, amused but not yet ready for more sex. Her body fascinated him: the unique way it responded to his every touch, how she quivered when he made certain movements, how she grew taut; and held back, how she at last let go in final release. She was always ready for him, never tired.

She said: “So it's settled?”

“Quite. Jamie is thrilled to the beams. Scribner's sent her a large advance—five thousand dollars. Harold Ober sends her love letters.”

“And you're the proud father.”

“No. I'm enjoying her thrill. It's like watching a play from the sidelines. They're going to print ten thousand books to start with! Not bad for a totally unknown author.”

“She's been publishing pieces in magazines for a few years now.”

“That's hardly the same thing.”

“And so, is she going to buy you a house on the Riviera? How are you two lovebirds going to celebrate this marvelous birth?”

“I don't know. She wants a baby.”

Elena sat up, startled. His arm fell away. “She's not…serious?”

“Very. But I don't want one. I've told her so, once and for all.”

“Good.” She sat back, played with a strand of her own hair, avoided encountering his eyes.

He asked: “And you? You have no desire to procreate?”

“God, no. Are you crazy?”

He smiled. “What would you do if Jamie were pregnant? Would it bother you?”

Elena rolled over, aware of the amusement that his questions were giving him and of her own discomfort. But she answered levelly: “It wouldn't bother me. I wouldn't be involved.”

“And if I married her?”

“That would be your business.”

“You don't like Jamie very much, do you, darling?”

Elena sat up over the side of the bed, her muscles tensing. “That's enough!
Enough.
”
Then she turned around, facing him. Her eyes were unreadable, black, the pupils indistinguishable from the irises. “You're a son-of-a-bitch, Paul. Maybe we should just end this right now. Marry Jamie! She'll be successful and serve you with infinite gentleness. Leave me alone.”

She stood up, and he wanted to pull her back, because the vision of her hair falling to her waist, with her round buttocks and her streamlined legs, was suddenly arousing him. But she moved aside just as he reached out to touch her. He watched her pick up her underclothes and then he said: “I'm sorry. Jamie really means little to me anymore. She's a convenience: no more than what other men are to you.”

“Then you know me very little. Other men mean absolutely
nothing.”

“But you wouldn't want to change your nice secure life style.”

She wondered then why they were staying together, because at that moment they were very close to hating each other. She needed to pull back.

What did she care about Jamie? The girl hardly touched her life. But Paul's clothes hung inside
her
closet, in
her
loft. She, Elena, felt insulted. Insulted that he still needed Jamie while purporting to be loving her, repeating the words each day when he telephoned her: “I love you, Elena. I've never loved another person the way I love you.” It was lust, but he called it love, the stupid fool.