The House of Dreams (11 page)

“Is he any good?”

“It's too soon to tell if he has it in him.”

“So how did you and Annie end up here, from France, I mean?” She hesitates, wary now, trying to hide how much she wants her answers. “I'm surprised. You don't even sound French.”

At that, I laugh. “It was a long time ago, and it's a long story.” I turn to her, the surf crashing against the shore, the sunlight glancing off a mirror mobile spinning in the breeze on the porch. The infernal tinkling of Annie's wind chimes drifts across to us. “Listen, I'll cut you a deal. If you leave me and Annie out of the story, I'll tell you anything you want to know about Vita.” She waits silently, until I give in. Patience will serve this Sophie well. It's amazing how many people will talk to fill a silence and say more than they intend. “Damn it. You want me to tell you everything, don't you?”

She nods. “Tell me about France. Start at the beginning.”

 

THIRTEEN

M
ARSEILLE

1940

M
ARY
J
AYNE

Mary Jayne and Miriam settled into their seats as the blue-and-cream tram lurched away along La Canebière toward Aubagne, sounding its foghorn. Dagobert, Mary Jayne's large black poodle, circled once, twice, then flopped down in the aisle beside them, his snout on his paws. The landscape opened up as they headed east toward the suburbs; gray limestone hills, palm trees, and the dancing light of autumn sun on the water trundled past. “I do love the smell of these old things,” Mary Jayne said, checking her reflection in a platinum compact. The air was rich with the scent of charcoal burning. Sometimes the city seemed to smell like one big fireplace, so many people had fitted charcoal burners to their vehicles now there was little gasoline. She dabbed at her nose, clicked the compact shut, and slipped it into her handbag.

“Boy, what a swell day for a trip to the countryside,” Miriam said. There was a fresh breeze from the sea, teasing gold leaves from the trees. The Cimetière Saint-Pierre passed by, and the tram headed for the hills.

“It's just good to get out of that place.”

“You're not still smarting about Varian, are you?”

“Varian? I couldn't give a damn about him.” Mary Jayne snapped her bag closed, and her husky voice lowered to a growl. “You'd think after I managed to spring those four guys from the Vernet camp he'd treat me with a little respect by now.” She bit her lip.
I know men like him,
she thought.
I bet he reinvented himself at Harvard, started eating burgers with a knife and fork and took up smoking just because it looked elegant. To hell with him. Stuck-up dilettante, that's what he thinks I am. Spoiled little rich girl.

“I'm sure he does respect you, he just doesn't show it. I know some of the refugees think he's buttoned up, but it's just a front to give them confidence—”

“Jeez, Miriam. Respect? Don't you get it? Men like him don't know what to do with a woman if you're not in their bed, typing their letters, or keeping their house. The ARC is an all boys' club. I said as much to his face the other night.”

“Oh, Mary Jayne, you didn't?”

“Well, why not? They think they are being so clever hiding what they are up to from the girls, but we all know they are doing something crooked.”

“I think he's rather wonderful. Don't you think he's attractive?”

Mary Jayne laughed briskly through her nose. “Not at all, my dear. I prefer more macho types.”

“Like Killer?”

“Raymond is … He's not what he seems.”

“Well, neither are you,” Miriam said. “You succeeded where letters from the ERC and the American consulate failed. You still haven't told me exactly how you persuaded the commandant to let those four prisoners out of Vernet.”

“A lady never tells.” A smile twitched at the corners of Mary Jayne's mouth. “As Beamish said, I have the most innocent face in the world, and let's just say the commandant wasn't immune to my feminine charms.”
I felt more like the Trojan horse than Helen.
Mary Jayne had been their last chance. Emergency U.S. visas had been issued for four of the political prisoners in greatest danger, but all diplomatic requests to bring the men to Marseille under guard to collect them had been refused. Mary Jayne had dressed carefully in her best blue suit with yellow piping and all her grandmother's diamonds. When she'd looked at the reflection in her hotel room mirror, she'd thought,
Good, I look exactly how they want me to look—like a pretty, rich American girl
. She remembered how, when the commandant offered her a cigarette, Chanel No. 5 wafted from the cuff of her blouse as she leaned in to the flame cupped in his palm. “God, I was glad to get out of that place. They've got the whole camp penned up behind two barbed-wire fences, and the guards are told to shoot to kill.” She looked down at her hand and twisted the ring on her finger. She could hardly bear to remember the sight of the shaven-headed men, their emaciated faces.
They smiled at me the way poor kids light up at the sight of a Christmas tree.

“I hate it,” she said, “it's inhumane seeing people penned up like that. Everyone knows the Gestapo are just going around cherry-picking whoever they want. The Vichy lot are just doing their dirty work for them.”

Miriam squeezed her hand. “What you did was very brave.”

“The guys did as much as me. If Beamish and the boys hadn't plied the camp guards with wine and women at some brothel when they brought the prisoners into town, they would never have been able to disappear.”

“Promise you won't let Varian get to you?”

“Don't give it any more thought.
Il est un emmerdeur.
”

“Mary Jayne!”

“Well, he is. He drives you nuts and he's a pain in the ass. I love that word
emmerdeur
.”

“The only way you get anything done around here is by being a pain in the ass.”

“Oh, I can handle him, and if your visa for Yugoslavia comes through, someone's going to have to keep him on his toes.”

“Good. You know, if we do find a house…”

“No way.” Mary Jayne folded her arms. “I told you, I'd rather go sleep in a
maison de passe
with the hookers in the Vieux-Port than share a house with him.”

“Okay, okay.” Miriam laughed. “It's just he's working so hard.”

“We all are.”

“I still can't figure him out.” It was one of their favorite games, trying to decipher their boss. “One minute he's sitting there in his Blackwatch boxer shorts, knocking back the Armagnac in our late-night meetings, and the next he's all buttoned up again.”

“A regular sphinx, our Varian,” Mary Jayne drawled.

“Don't be like that.”

“It's okay for you. You have a role. I just wish he'd let me do more than interviewing the odd client.” Mary Jayne gazed out across the sea. “I can do a lot to help, and he just … well, he's just
Varian
.”

“Listen, you've got to realize with Varian that his way is the right way. There's no point in trying to fight against him. He's the reason the ARC has been so effective.”

“God, you're loyal, aren't you? He's lucky to have you.” After half an hour the tram pulled into La Pomme, and Mary Jayne craned around, pointing out the window. “Look, there's a café back there. Why don't we jump out and see if they know of anywhere to rent?” She rubbed her hands together. “I'm freezing. I could do with a coffee to warm up.” The girls held on to the straps as the tram shuddered to a halt. “Come, Dago!” she called, tugging on the dog's lead.

Miriam jumped down and looked around her. “This is great, it's perfect!” As the tram pulled away into the distance, she cupped her ear. “Listen.”

“I can't hear a thing,” Mary Jayne said, heading to the café.

“Exactly!” Miriam hugged herself. “It's perfect. Peace, quiet…”

“Don't you dare say ‘Varian will love it.'” Mary Jayne turned and wagged a finger at her. “Excuse me!” she called, waving at a young girl with long blond hair walking along the opposite side of the road. “How do you do? I'm Mary Jayne Gold of the American Relief Center.”

“Bonjour.”
The girl smiled. “I am Marianne Bouchard.”

“Tell me, are there any houses to rent here?”

Marianne shrugged. “You could try our neighbor, old Thumin.” She gestured toward a driveway beside the road. “Air-Bel has been empty for years.”

“Thank you!” Mary Jayne waved in farewell. “Perhaps we shall be neighbors.”

“Look, I can see someone in the grounds over there,” Miriam said. “Why don't we ask him if he knows this Thumin fellow?” The girls stopped at the entrance to 63, avenue Jean Lombard, where two redbrick pillars with white stone tops and iron gates marked the entrance to the estate. In the distance, they saw a small man in a black bowler hat raking leaves. His wide black trousers flapped in the wind.

“I'll be damned!” Miriam gazed upward at the engraved white stone capitals on the pillars. “Look at that: Villa Air-Bel. That's the name of my fleapit hotel!”

“Hotel Bel Air?” Mary Jayne peered through the gate.

“It's meant to be. I'm sure of it.”

“I don't know, Miriam. This place is huge. It'd be crazy, much too big for us.” At the end of the leafy drive, she could just see the corner of a great block of a house, three stories high. Gold and copper leaves fell in slow motion onto the white stones of the driveway, settled on the low slope of the pink-tiled roof. “It's like something from a fairy tale, a sleeping château. We just need a little cottage.”

Miriam called and waved to the old man.
“Bonjour!”
He paused in his raking and limped toward them.

“He won't know anything, he's just the gardener.”

“Bonjour.”
The old man eyed them suspiciously through the bars of the gate. Mary Jayne turned her back as Miriam spoke to him in French, and her breath caught.
It's heaven,
she thought, captivated by the view framed by plane trees and cedars, sweeping down over terra-cotta rooftops to the sparkling sea beyond.

“He says there's nothing for rent here.”

“This house,” Mary Jayne said clearly in French to Thumin, and pointed at Air-Bel. “Is this house for rent?”

“Non, non, non,”
the old man grumbled, and started to walk away.

“We are Americans,” Mary Jayne said, and he stopped and turned to her, chewing on his gums as he ambled back. “Americans,” she said again, just to make sure he heard her.

“Bon,”
he said, and took a hoop of keys from his pocket and unlocked the gate. He ushered the girls ahead. “This is my house,” he said.

“Your house?” Mary Jayne tried unsuccessfully to keep the surprise out of her voice.

“I am Dr. Thumin. I live with my sister, over there at La Castellane. Air-Bel is too big for us.”

“The other neighbors?” Miriam asked. She had a broad smile on her face, watching Dagobert race ahead, kicking through the piles of burnished leaves. The crisp air was perfumed with the smell of bonfires. “We met a charming girl—”

“Marianne? The Bouchards are good people. Quiet, conservative,” he said, shuffling along the drive, sorting through the keys. “They wouldn't bother you.”

“Tell me, how long has the house been empty?” Mary Jayne's gaze traveled upward as they reached the large terrace overlooking the formal garden with its boxwood hedges and pond. Huge plane and cedar trees marked the boundary of the gardens.

“A while. It is perfectly habitable, though.”

“These grounds are lovely…,” Mary Jayne said, “but there's too much to do.”

“Non,”
Dr. Thumin said forcefully. “I rent the house, not the grounds. There are eighty-five acres of land that you can enjoy looking at—the magnolias, the olives, the acacias, but everything in them is mine.” He stepped toward her. “Including the firewood.”

“Okay,” she said, and threw a wide-eyed look at Miriam once he turned to the door. The key creaked in the lock, and the door swung open.

“Come,” he said, beckoning over his shoulder. “We are a quarter of a mile off the main road, and the house is quiet and peaceful, as you will see.”

The house cast its spell on them the moment they walked through the great doors into the black-and-white-tiled entrance hall. Dr. Thumin shuffled ahead, throwing open the metal shutters. Mary Jayne thought of a stately old woman, loosening her stays and sighing with relief. Sunlight poured into the house, waking the rooms, chasing shadows from the high ceilings. She walked in silence from room to room, only vaguely aware of Dr. Thumin telling them about the Louis Quinze tables, the refinement of the Second Empire furniture, the classical frescoes in the library. The atmosphere struck her as unmistakably French—somber and obscure, caught in time. Her reflection in the antique mirror over the marble fireplace in the living room was opaque, the clock beneath stuck permanently at a quarter to twelve.

“It's wonderful,” Miriam whispered, taking her arm. “Can you imagine the cozy winter nights in here with a big fire roaring in the hearth?” She ran her fingertips along the keyboard of the old piano. Ornate candlesticks stood ready to illuminate sheet music.

“Just think, if all your plans go well to rescue that handsome fiancé of yours from Yugoslavia, you could be dancing cheek to cheek here by Christmas.”

Miriam's smile faltered just for a moment, and her eyes grew soft. “Do you really think so?” She hugged herself with her free arm. “It's too much to hope for, to be together, here.”

“Sweetie, after all you've done to save him, he'd better make you the happiest woman alive or he'll have me to answer to.”