The House of Dreams (20 page)

“For me.” She laughed. “My father would never allow me to step out with a man like you.”

I lowered my voice. “What if I told you I was eighteen years old?”

She threw back her head and laughed. “I'd say you were the biggest liar I had ever met.” See, Annie knew me well even then.

“Well, the answer is easy,” I said, tracing my finger on the table, achingly close to her hand. “We don't tell him.”

“A secret?”

I glanced at the kids at the table with us. They were deep in some conversation about the war, not paying any attention to us. I was dizzy with wanting her, quite sick with desire. My thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, the lightest touch. She didn't take her hand away. “I have to see you alone.” I could see from the rise and fall of the small gold crucifix strung around her neck that she was breathing quickly.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered. “Meet me at three o'clock on Sunday, under the railway bridge at La Pomme.”

 

TWENTY-SIX

M
ARSEILLE

1940

G
ABRIEL

I skipped some of Breton's meeting for her, and we met every Sunday from then on in the same place. It was a narrow little bridge, barely a car wide, with elegant stone walls sweeping up the steep embankment to the railway track above. It always felt like entering a grotto as I stepped into the darkness, like something from a fairy tale. I don't know where her parents thought she was, but she brought a little dog with her, and we walked in the woods. It was a greasy-looking terrier that growled every time I went near her and nipped at my ankles. In the end, I had to tie it to a tree so I could kiss her. That first kiss I remember in perfect detail. She leaned back against a bare winter tree and waited for me. The leaves were soft and wet on the ground, my footsteps muffled. The clouds were low, enfolding the trees like a blanket. It was so quiet, I could hear my own breath and the slow drip of water from the branches.

“I saw Madame Breton in the village the other day,” she said. “She was like an exotic bird, with feathers in her hair.”

“You know she is the wife of André Breton, the famous surrealist?”

“The writer? Even I've heard of his poems.” She tilted her head as I put my arms either side of her, trapping her against the tree. “She must have seen us together. She asked me if I was seeing ‘that handsome Gabriel Lambert.'”

“Did she now? What did you say?”

“I told her I knew you.” Annie shrugged. Her eyes were lowered. “We walked back to the house together.”

“What did you talk about?”

“She told me about meeting her husband. She said a love like that is an illness from which you never recover. Do you think she is right?”

“Even geniuses are idiots when they talk about love.” I sensed her disappointment and backtracked quickly. My head was swimming with desire for her. “I hope that I never recover from you.”

Annie raised her gaze to mine. “She said to me just being pretty isn't enough for a woman to become and remain a part of a great man's life.”

“Oh, Annie…”

“What if I'm not enough for you? What if you get tired of me? I'm not a great artist, like you, I haven't traveled, or learned things, not like you—”

“Annie,” I said, and cupped her jaw in my hand. “If only you knew…” I hesitated. “If only you knew how I've loved you from the moment I saw you. My love is…” I looked up at the sky, searching for a way to express how I felt about her. “My love is more than the stars. It is like Venus, the morning star. It is there, all the time, night and day, burning brightest of all.” I felt her relax; her head fell back. I knew Annie was ready then, waiting. There had been no hurry with her, no urgency, not like Vita, just a slow, deep longing for home. There was an inevitability to us. I remember the roughness of the bark beneath my hands as I leaned in to her, the moment just before my lips touched hers, how the world seemed to dissolve and fall away, a burning light around us as my eyes closed.

*   *   *

Annie may have hidden me from her parents, but they would have been proud of the way she held on to her virginity. I tried everything short of downright begging, but I fell for the only girl not making love during the war. Every Sunday I traveled to La Pomme and walked miles with that damn little terrier snarling at me, all for a kiss and the hope of more. She was beautiful, and mercurial, and I wanted her, so I came each week. By December, Marseille lay under a blanket of slush. My feet were permanently wet or cold, I remember. It's very true: if your feet are comfortable, you can cope with a lot in life. What is it they say, an army marches on its stomach? Stupid saying, it marches on decent boots. Anyway, I was starving hungry
and
my feet were bad. They have been, ever since the war. I endured chilblains and tormented nights for Annie, but it was no more than she deserved.

“I like this,” I said one Sunday, touching the embroidered gold scarf she was wearing.

“Do you? I made it.” She slipped it from her neck and wrapped it around mine. “Here,” she said. “Keep it.”

“I couldn't.”

“Please, it would make me happy to think of you wearing it when we aren't together.” She tucked it into the lapel of my coat. “Besides, I think you need it more than me. Your lips are blue.” She kissed me. “Better?”

“I'll treasure it. Thank you.” I rubbed the pale gold wool between my fingers. “It's beautifully warm.”

“It's cashmere.” She had embroidered it with hundreds of stars. Later, when I read Yeats's “Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven,” I thought he had written it for us. That's what we did on those walks—we spread our dreams before each other like an offering.

We talked for hours about everything and nothing. She asked me about Paris, about my family, about art school, and I told her. I lied as little as I could, yet I kept the truth about America from her. I think I was afraid I would lose her. Now that I had found her, it made the knowledge that I would leave soon harder to bear.

*   *   *

One evening—it must have been at the beginning of December—I was heading back to my lonely bed in town after walking her home. We had been to the Santon fair together, and Annie had bought me the little shepherd. It had been the most wonderful afternoon, and I felt a rare contentment as the tram trundled back into town. There was mist in the valley, only the tops of the roofs and umbrella pines poking out as the tram trundled along its route to La Canebière. Everyone huddled up on the tram had the sunken look of cold and hunger. I was no different, but I was lit up inside with love. You can endure anything when you feel like that. I decided to buy her something for Christmas and remembered an old jewelry store I had passed with her on the way to the Vieux-Port.

I stopped in the café Au Brûleur de Loups for a cognac on the way.

“Non, monsieur,”
the bartender said, pointing at a sign tacked above the bar:
Jour sans alcool
. “I can offer you a glass of champagne instead, perhaps?”

“It doesn't feel like a day for champagne,” I said, and ordered an espresso instead. I love that about the French. Once in a while they banned booze, but you could still get a restorative glass of champagne. I hail from a civilized nation. As the bartender cranked the machine for my coffee, steam poured out, hissing and gurgling. I leaned against the zinc bar and looked in the mirror behind the bottles. Above the noise of the coffee machine, I could hear Varian's voice. I sipped at the scalding coffee and listened. I could just see in the mirror that he was sitting at the back of the café with Beamish, talking. I wandered over and greeted them.

“May I join you?” I said.

“Hello, Lambert. Of course.” Varian moved aside his overcoat, and I pulled out the wooden chair. “How are things at the hotel?”

I shrugged. “Not bad. It is the waiting that is getting to me.”

“You seem to be passing your time constructively,” Beamish said, a smile playing across his lips.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Your girlfriend is very beautiful.”

“She's not … I mean…,” I said, blushing furiously.

“Leave the poor fellow alone, Beamish,” Varian said, laughing. “Besides, you are one to talk.” He leaned conspiratorially toward me. “This chap has a new girl every time I see him.”

“And you don't have an eye for a good-looking woman, Buster?” Beamish held Varian's gaze until he looked away, smiling. If Varian had affairs, he was certainly discreet. I never saw him with anyone.

“How are you getting on with the receptionist from the consulate?” he said to Beamish.

“Camille?” He cocked his head. “It is a sacrifice I must make to help our cause.” I remembered the tough-looking blonde at the desk the day I met Bingham. If he was seeing her, he was a stronger man than me.

“Does she help you with the visas?” I said, leaning toward him. Sure, I knew that the ARC was the legitimate front for more clandestine work, but they were still careful with the amount of information they let me in on. Beamish looked uncomfortable.

“The ARC needs all the help it can get,” Varian said carefully, “and Camille helps.”

“A little,” Beamish added. “She has an expensive cocaine habit, and I suspect she is selling information to both sides to fund her habit.”

“It must be dangerous, though, the work you do?”

Beamish stared me down. “Not at all. We simply help refugees with visas, give them money for food and hotels. What could be dangerous about that?” I realized I had overstepped the line.

“Of course, I understand.” I drained my cup and stood. “Good to see you both.”

“Are you leaving? Breton and the others will be here soon. I thought you'd come for the meeting,” Varian said.

“I am sorry, I have an appointment,” I lied. The truth was, I was still so in awe of Breton, the thought of being in this small café with him intimidated me. He was the magus around which an ever-changing cast of writers and artists fluttered, moths to a flame. He knew—that's what his eyes said, every time he looked at me. He knew. I felt, somehow, that if my gaze met his, I'd turn to stone.

“Will you be up at the château on Sunday?” Varian asked.

“I wouldn't miss it.” I glanced at Beamish. “How come I never see you up there?”

“Beamish prefers to stay in town,” Varian said.

“One of us needs to.” As Beamish looked at me, I felt my cheeks burn. “There are too many people playing games around here.”

*   *   *

I walked on through the narrow streets, deep in thought. I had no idea, then, how remarkable Varian, Beamish, and all of them were, of the risks they were taking. On the surface, Varian seemed like the archetypal preppy—oh sure, if you saw him up at Air-Bel letting his hair down, there was a different side to him, but you'd still say he was straight as a die. Beamish, I couldn't figure out. He was smart, real smart, no hiding that, but it wasn't obvious in the way it was with Varian. He was, as the French say,
un peu dans la lune
. But there was another side to him—when I was up at the château one day, I heard Danny saying that Beamish had fought with the Republicans down in Spain. I admired him, I guess. I wish I'd known him better.

I found myself at the jewelry store before I knew where I was. The old woman was just closing up, turning over the sign on the door, but she let me in. The old brass bell on a hooped spring over the door tinkled. It was warm inside, a little stove behind the counter glowing in the dim light.

“There, that bracelet, please.” I pointed to a silver charm bracelet, with stars and shells, in the window. The woman wrapped it in tissue paper and put it in a small red box for me. I walked out of the shop on air, buoyed up at the thought of giving it to Annie the next day. I rounded the corner of the street with a spring in my step, and then someone grabbed my arm.

“I thought I'd seen a ghost,” he said.

“Quimby?” My bowels went slack. I would have run, but he had me by the arm, and I didn't want to make a scene with so many people around. Quimby was the one man who could destroy me, and I didn't want him spouting off to the police if we started a fight. He pushed me into a dark alleyway. I could see in the half-light the expressions rolling across his face as he put two and two together.

“Well, well. I was right.” He tightened his grip. “What on earth do you think you are doing? I went back to the house to get you and the paintings and found it all burnt to hell. I had the buyer all lined up.”

“It's not what you think,” I said quickly. My heart was jumping around in my rib cage like a cricket. “I didn't—”

“Kill them?”

“How can you say that?” I pulled my arm free. “You owe—”

“I owe you nothing, you shit,” Quimby said, spittle flecking my face. “The thing is, the paintings I have left are selling like hotcakes.…”

“My paintings,” I said, squaring up to him.

“I'm going to sell the lot before I get the hell out of this dump.” He pushed me back against the alley wall, the heel of his hand pressing into my sternum. “Speaking of which, how much have you got on you?”

“I'm not giving you any money.”

“You will give me exactly what I want, if you know what's good for you.”

“I need time.”

“That is one thing we have plenty of,” Quimby said. “We're all trapped like rats here. Just remember, one word to the authorities—”

I searched in my pocket, felt the red jewelry box under my fingertips. I pulled out the notes I had left and handed them to him. Luckily I had hidden most of the money I'd rescued from the Château d'Oc under a loose board in my hotel room, and I had already put down the money for my ticket to America once boats became available. “That's all I have.”