Days of Winter (18 page)

At 11:00 Maurice and Phillip arrived with their families, taking the seats reserved beyond the casket, which could not be seen by the mourners since the small enclosure was hidden from view by the heavy, parted red velvet curtains. Other people were now arriving to pay their last respects. To a great man. To Nathan Hack.

Although the interment would be private, the chapel was filled with mourners filing past the bier. It was Maurice’s duty to stand at the entrance and thank those who came to pay respects. When he glanced down at the register, he saw Magda’s name. Straining his eyes, he saw her sitting in a back pew with that damn French countess … courtesan would be more like it. …Well, for the time being he’d control himself, but when everyone left there’d be an opportunity to defend the family’s dignity. …

The halls in the mortuary were now finally empty except for the Hacks. Nathan’s casket had already been placed in the hearse. Slipping on one gray suede glove, Maurice saw Magda and Solange coming out of the chapel. Red-eyed, Magda noted Maurice’s cold glare. Although they had never met, they were hardly strangers to each other.

Sylvia walked out, refusing to be in the same place with such a person. Phillip started to leave but stopped as Maurice stood in front of Magda, blocking her exit She tried to go around him, to avoid a scene. …This wasn’t a time for recriminations. Nathan wasn’t cold in his grave. But Maurice persisted. Magda stood still, looking at him.

“You were not welcome in my father’s house when he was alive,” he said. “What makes you think you are any more welcome here now?”

“Because your father was also my father-in-law, and, more important, a man I loved and who loved me. He also was my
husband’s
father. I have as much right to be here as any of you.”

“You have
no
right …Since we don’t approve of whores—”

“How dare you!” Solange broke in. …“I think you must be mad. Since you’ve taken the saddest of all times to offend your brother’s wife I can only say you’re the cruelest, most ruthless human being I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing.”

Maurice raised his hand to slap her, but Phillip moved in. “Stop, Maurice, for God’s sake.” Then he ran out into the street, wanting to retch. Matilda and the children followed.

But Maurice stepped in front of Magda once again. Putting on his other glove he said, “I’d advise you to stay away from us … far away—”

“
You
don’t frighten me, and you can’t hurt me—”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Magda
Charascu
. I can do a great deal. It really wasn’t too difficult to learn about your past … what you were before Rubin picked you out of the gutter. Now, once more, I tell you to stay out of our way.”

Magda looked directly at him. “You need not be concerned. You’ll see me only one more time—at your father’s grave site,” and taking Solange’s arm, she turned and left.

Watching them go, Maurice decided to reconsider his promise to provide for Rubin … and his “countess.” Poor Nathan, how soft, how naïve he’d been. …

T
HAT EVENING AFTER A
very silent dinner, Solange sat with Magda in her room.

“Solange, I swear on my mother’s grave, they are going to regret this.”

“Yes … well, we’ve had enough of graves for one day. …Now try and get some rest.”

The next day Magda reluctantly wrote Rubin about his parents’ death. She withheld the details of his brother’s behavior; Maurice had not even let her into the mortuary. She would not inflict that on Rubin. When the letter was written she showed it to Solange, who read:

…All of us have had the sadness of facing the loss of dear ones, but you have been blessed with more love than most. You, dearest Rubin, can be sustained by the memory of a love and devotion few people have known. I ask you to forgive me for not having written about your mother at the time of her passing, but I wanted to spare you one more day of grief. Now that they are both gone, I can only pray that your memories will comfort you all your life, and that you will take strength from that, a gift to cherish. Come home to us soon.

Love, Magda.

It was a cold crisp day in the trenches, and Rubin tried to will his mind to think of this as a field in summer after the snow had melted. In the midst of horror, it was necessary to develop the relief of fantasy. …

Yesterday the Germans had fought them with gas. The men had gagged, coughed, vomited. Some had doubled over and died. Others had gone insane. Rubin had urinated in his own torn, balled-up shirt and held it up to his nose, filtering the noxious fumes. The wind had finally shifted, and all the men who could had reported to sick bay.

This morning he had received Magda’s letter, with the news of the death of his parents, and he cried, dry-eyed, deep down within himself, as he had never cried before.

In eight months, Jeanette’s hair was just thick enough for Magda to tie a pink ribbon on top. What a beauty she was … a perfect smile, and sweet, innocent eyes. …She cooed and laughed at the things Magda told her. …My
petite poupée
… my little doll. Tossing her up in the air was a special delight. It made Jeanette shriek with laughter.

“Princess … that’s right … you’re a princess. …When your papa comes home, we’ll have picnics in the park. …We’ll buy all the toys in London. …But we’re going to live in Paris and in the summer we’ll live in a house in the country and you can have your own pony. …Now, young lady, if you behave you may sit on my bed while your mama goes through her wardrobe, which I must say is getting quite shabby. …Am I right? Of course, you say,” and Magda tickled Jeanette’s tummy and the child kicked her feet, giggling, and waved her hands. …

Afterward, Magda felt so good she decided to take herself and Solange to the Dorchester for lunch.

When they arrived, Magda was told that Mrs. Rubin Hack would not be seated. She looked at Solange. …Obviously the work of Maurice. Since Nathan’s death the Hacks had become openly belligerent and clearly had given the word to certain restaurants and shops not to serve Magda or the Countess or the Hack patronage would be withdrawn. “Well,” she said as they left the hotel, “they won’t stop me. I’ve got a few cards up my sleeve. …”

They ate at a tea room and afterward Magda told the driver to go to Worth’s. The doorman helped the two ladies out, then smartly opened the door to the salon.

The director of Worth’s was most cordial to these, obviously, French expatriates … more than apparent from the cut of their clothes. …“Yes, Madam, what may I show you?”

“I’d like to see the full spring collection,” said Magda.

“I’ll have Miss Badden assist you.”

Soon one model after another was showing the spring line. Magda liked everything. Solange was not quite so enthusiastic.

When her choices were made, Magda gave her name … Countess Magda Charascu. Who had referred the Countess? The Leon Hacks.

Colors and fabrics were selected. Appointments for fittings were made. …To what address should the wardrobe be sent? To Mrs. Rubin Hack. …Miss Badden turned putty gray. Excusing herself, she went at once to the director. He came immediately to Magda. “There seems to have been an error. We wish to apologize, but the items you have selected seem already to have been reserved. I’m sorry, Miss Badden erred, you will forgive us. …”

Quietly, Magda said, “Frankly, sir, you may take your spring, your fall and your winter collections and flush them down the W.C. along with your clients, the lovely lady Hacks and their lovely families.” Turning, she pulled her sable grandly about her and departed in the fashion of mock stage royalty. She could still, by God, put on a show.

Magda’s outrage reached its height when she volunteered to work for a charity dinner sponsored by the Belgian Minister, Count de Lalaing, and the Duchess of Vendôme. She received a brief note of rejection, no apologies included. That same day Magda received another letter—Jeanette was turned down for registration at Ramsgate, the exclusive school for girls where Solange said she should have been accepted at birth.

At dinner Magda fumed, “Those bitches aren’t going to be happy until they see me drown in the Thames. Well, to hell with them. Somehow I’m going to make them wish they had. …And when this damned war is over we’re going back to Paris. I despise London, the weather … the people. Especially the Hacks. But before I go, I’m going to leave
them
a legacy. …”

I
T WAS JULY, A
week before Jeanette’s birthday. Magda had photographs taken, alone, then with Magda, then with Solange, then the three of them together. Much to her surprise, she’d been able to hire Peter Scott, the finest photographer in London. Thank God the Hacks’ and Sassoons’ tentacles didn’t reach out everywhere.

As Scott was gathering up his equipment he asked her matter-of-factly, “Have you ever thought of having your portrait painted, Mrs. Hack?”

“No … I haven’t.”

“If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you are exquisite. …Do you mind?”

Before she could answer, he took her face in his hands, turning it from side to side. He felt the planes of her high cheekbones and the symmetry of her facial structure. Then he stood away, narrowed his eyes as though looking through a lens, and said, “Yes, Mrs. Hack, you really should think seriously of having your portrait done.”

“And who should I get to do it?”

“I have a friend, perhaps the best portrait painter in the world.”

Magda smiled.” That is impressive.”

“He’s a no-nonsense man, and he doesn’t paint
just
pretty pictures. I know Camail will do you.” He gestured toward a painting on the wall “I admire your Picasso. …”

“Yes. It’s exciting, isn’t it? My husband bought that in Paris before the war.”

“His works will be worth a fortune some day.”

“I hope so. …Thank you for coming. I can’t wait to see the pictures of Jeanette. I want to send them as quickly as possible to her father. …”

Two days later Peter had the proofs ready. He brought them by in time for tea. Although it was July there was a fire in the grate and the house was filled with flowers.

They looked at the proofs and afterward Peter Scott said, “I spoke to Camail yesterday. He’d like to see you. Would Thursday be convenient? Three o’clock at his house? We’ll drive there from my studio.”

Feeling far less calm than she appeared, Magda carefully nodded her agreement

Magda stopped in front of Peter’s studio at 2:15. He was waiting. Together they drove through the sandbagged streets of London. When they came to Regency Park, the Rolls halted in front of an imposing mansion.

A butler opened the door into a marble foyer. They were led to a large studio on the top floor, where the glass roof slanted almost to the floor. The painter continued to work as though they weren’t present.

When he finally finished and turned around to face Magda, she was startled; she’d been so absorbed in watching him work. He was nothing at all like the bearded, unkempt painters she’d met in Paris. Camail was enormous; hard muscles showed below his rolled-up sleeves. His eyes were deep set, the color of a gray-blue ocean. The brows were thick, bushy and black, in contrast to his steel-gray hair. He didn’t speak, but merely looked at Magda. What he thought was not revealed by any change in expression.

“Take off your hat”

She did so.

“Stand here, where I can see you in the harshest light.” He examined her face. He looked at her hands. Giving her a damp cloth he said, “Take off your makeup.”

When she had done so, he looked at her again, then walked around her, observing every curve, the length of her arms, her waist … nothing went unnoticed. It was as though his eyes could see through her clothes.

“She will do,” Camail said, without looking at Peter. “Take the pins from your hair. Let it hang loose.”

She did as he asked.

“Yes, she will do. Now you may go. I’ll let you know when we can start.”

“What do you plan, Monsieur Camail?”

His eyes were, truly, penetrating. “I never talk about my subject in advance. I also don’t allow my clients to see the work in progress, or question me about it. Is that all understood?”

“Yes,” she said. She wasn’t intimidated, although Peter had told her Camail’s paintings were on display in the most prestigious galleries of London, Paris, Holland and America.

“And don’t call me ‘monsieur.’ My name is Camail.”

“My name is Magda.”

He looked at her as though he hadn’t heard.

Smiling to herself, she thought him fascinating, and suddenly, she decided to do it. “I have one request to make. …”

“Yes?” His tone was impatient. He returned to his painting.

“I want to be painted in the nude.”

“Why?” Camail added a dab of yellow to the canvas in front of him.

“It’s a long story. …”

Wiping his hands on a rag, Camail said, “Sit down. …Would you care for an aperitif?” When he had served his guests, he said, “Why do you want a nude? Please be honest or I will not paint you at all …I can only capture truth.”

Briefly Magda then told him the whole story … from her days in Bucharest through the years in Paris, until this very moment. She didn’t prolong the story. She told the facts. Yes, she wanted to embarrass Maurice and Sylvia and Phillip as they had offended her. Had Sara and Nathan been living, she most emphatically would never agree to such a thing. But they were gone, and she had a right, an obligation, to return some bitter medicine. …

Camail was caught up in the drama of Magda’s story and obviously sympathetic. She was exquisite. Even before she’d finished talking he knew how the painting would be done. Not one of those vulgar nudes reclining on a red velvet sofa, not a demure nymph standing near a lily pond, a piece of netting draped over her shoulder flying in the wind. No, he saw the painting of Magda clearly, as though the canvas were dry and ready to be hung. She would be seated on a gold-leaf cane bench in front of a triple baroque-framed mirror, dressed in a sheer pink-mauve peignoir which billowed out, away from her body. Not a curve, not a contour would be missed. Although her back would be toward the viewer, her image would be seen from all angles, the two profiles reflected in the side panels, her torso facing the center one, thereby revealing her breasts, exposing the nipples through the thin gauze of chiffon. Only her slim thighs and her legs, crossed at the ankles, would be exposed provocatively, the peignoir draped just so. Her feet would be bare. Her thick mane of hair would hang loose. Her eyes would reveal only what the viewer wanted to see in them. A deep gray background, warmed with vermilion, would make the painting sensual but not somber. It would be the subject in her most intimate, unguarded moment, the viewer feeling as though he were intruding on the lady’s privacy. He wanted to begin at once.