The Obedient Assassin: A Novel (7 page)

“There's so much to see in Paris,” he said. “Of course, you have to go to Montmartre for the very best view of the city. But when you say Montmartre, most people think of the Moulin Rouge, but the view from Sacré Coeur is sublime and there are wonderful little streets and small excellent cafés. It's like a village up there. Indeed, it is a village. I can pick you up in the morning at eleven. There's so much to do and it would give me so much pleasure.”

S
he pulled a strand of black yarn from the skein, keeping her eyes on the tips of her quickly moving knitting needles, not looking at him. “No news from Lena?”

“Just a note, finally.”

“What does she say?”

“That she wants to stop writing for a while.”

“Why?”

“It's too difficult, she says. Her mother gets upset when my letters arrive.”

“And how do you feel?”

“I don't like it, but if that's what she wants …”

Caridad sighed, raising an eyebrow as she reached for a cigar. “So, the Weil girl is leaving. That will make things different.”

“Yes, I'm sure Sylvia will be timid without Ruby along as a chaperone.”

“Where are you taking her?”

“Versailles, to see the château.”

Caridad nodded. “It will give you a chance to get the Citroën out on the road. And Americans love palaces.”

“Is that true?”

“That is my understanding.” She glanced up at him. “So now the real work begins.”

“The real work?”

“The seduction,” she said.

“Oh yes, that.”

“How will you proceed?”

“It shouldn't be difficult. She studied psychology. I'll confide in her the problems I'm having with my difficult mother.”

The right corner of his mother's mouth lifted in the precursor of a smile. She took a puff from the cigar and peered into the smoke as she blew it out. “Do you have any hint that she might suspect you?”

“Of what?” he said, waving his hand at the smoke.

“Of deceiving her.”

“If I keep arriving in a cloud of cigar smoke, she's going to suspect that I'm having an affair with a man.” He brushed a piece of imagined lint from the navy blue
JM
monogrammed on his cuff, wondering if maroon wouldn't have been better for the pink shirt. “She doesn't have a high opinion of aristocrats. In her mind, I could hardly be worse than what I've claimed to be.”

“But that doesn't mean she won't fall in love with you.”

“No, of course not.”

“Does she guess that you're so much younger?”

“No, I seem to be aging rapidly.”

“And where will you take her to dinner tonight?”

“I thought that small place on Vieux-Colombier.”

“It's a shame she wears glasses. She has no
chic
whatsoever.”

“She doesn't care about fashion. She's an intellectual, a bit like you, Mama.”

T
heir heels clicked on the parquet as they strolled through the royal apartments at Versailles, their reflections floating through the clouded glass of the immense gilt mirrors. Sylvia moved slowly, stopping to read long passages in her Baedeker. When they came to an exit, Jacques went out to one of the great staircases to smoke a cigarette. He missed Ruby, chatting away mindlessly, flirting. But now he would focus on Sylvia. He sensed that he needed to go very slowly, that to get her attention he would have to offer her a puzzle.

He turned when he heard her coming. She was carrying her guide, wearing high-heel sandals and a yellow cotton dress. “I'm sorry I took so long,” she apologized. “I didn't mean to keep you waiting.”

“You didn't. We can stay as long as you want.”

“The château is beautiful, isn't it?”

“It is a gloomy place for me.”

“Really? With all of those chandeliers and mirrors?”

She gazed up at him, holding her right hand against the glare of the sun, her face reflected in the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “Do you want to see the gardens?”

“It's getting rather warm. I believe I saw a café when we drove through the village.”

“Yes, that's fine with me. I've seen enough.”

They walked to the parking lot then drove down the long narrow lane lined with plane trees, a plume of white dust rising in their wake. In the village, they stopped at the sidewalk café, where they chose a table in the shade. He placed their orders then lit a cigarette. “I suppose Versailles and the revolution are more interesting for someone with your family history.”

“What do you mean, my family history?”

“Ruby told me how your family fled Russia before the revolution, that the Ageloffs were a rich family in Russia.”

Sylvia laughed. “That's preposterous.”

“It isn't true?”

“I can't imagine where Ruby got that.”

“She's not a close family friend?”

“No. I don't really know Ruby all that well. She was a friend of my sisters until they quarreled about politics. She stopped speaking to them when they accused her of being a Stalinist, but then she started calling when she heard I was coming to Paris.”

“And the Ageloffs weren't wealthy Jews. They didn't flee Russia?”

“Far from it. My father was from a small village in the Ukraine. He arrived in New York in the late 1890s, long before the revolution. He was a young boy, penniless and all but illiterate. He still doesn't speak English very well.”

“But you're well educated.”

“Yes, it was important to him because he had so little. I don't know how he learned.”

“He's still alive?”

“Yes, of course, but there's a funny story about him. He built an apartment building that opened just before the market crash in 1929. Whenever anyone mentions the Ageloff Towers, someone invariably says, ‘Oh yes, Ageloff. He jumped off his skyscraper when the market crashed.'”

“Was it a skyscraper?”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

“He arrived penniless but built a skyscraper?”

“He'd gotten into the construction business. He's been successful.”

“It must be true what they say about America, that anything is possible.”

“He was always good with numbers, and he wasn't afraid of taking risks. And I suppose he was lucky.”

“Yes, luck is important,” Jacques agreed.

He took a swallow of the wine when the waiter brought it, a nicely chilled rosé. Sylvia did the same. “May I see your glasses?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“My glasses?”

“I want to look at the frames.”

She removed her glasses and handed them to him. “They're very nice,” he said after examining them. “The blue brings out the blue of your eyes. I don't think we have them like this here in Europe. Do you hate wearing them?”

Sylvia smiled bravely. “I don't think any girl wants to wear glasses.”

“I rather like mine. I think they make me look intellectual, which, of course, I'm not. But it's different for a man. Have you tried dark glasses?”

“No, I never have.”

“Here, try mine,” he said, handing his glasses to her. He laughed when she pulled them to her eyes and recoiled in surprise. “My lenses must be stronger.”

“Or at least different,” she agreed.

“But let me see how you look. Close your eyes if you need to. Yes, that's nice. You should consider getting a pair of sunglasses. They make you look like a film star.”

“A film star? Jacques, be serious,” she said, removing the glasses.

“But I'm serious. I'll take you to my optician in Paris.”

 

As they drove back toward Paris, Jacques tuned in a radio station that played the occasional American song. Both of them smiled, and hummed along with Fred Astaire singing, “Nice Work If You Can Get It.”

Holding hands at midnight,

'Neath a starry sky

Nice work if you can get it

And you can get it—if you try

Jacques seemed quite happy until they reached the outskirts of Paris, then he fell silent, letting Sylvia see the shadows surrounding him, letting her wonder. “I'm afraid you might be tired of my company,” he said when he stopped the car in front of her hotel. “But I wonder if you would have dinner with me again tonight. There's something troubling me. I believe you understand me, that I can talk to you with confidence.”

Of course, Sylvia agreed. That evening they walked from the hotel to the restaurant, Jacques looking particularly handsome in a dark pinstripe suit. He held Sylvia's chair for her, ordered an apéritif, and discussed the menu with the waiter. Finally, settled into their own pool of candlelight, he let his eyes roam across Sylvia's face, then took a deep breath and sighed. “I don't know how to tell you this. I'm afraid you won't think well of me, that this might be the last time I see you.”

She tipped her head to one side.

“The truth is I've made a mistake, a very large mistake in my life, and I don't know where to turn. I've told you about my mother, that I'm very close to her. I've always done everything I could to please her.”

“Yes?”

“You must understand that the world I come from is very different than yours. We aren't free the way you are. What your father did could never happen in Brussels. We're always aware of the past. History guides us in everything. We always feel this obligation to family.”

“Yes, I think I understand.”

“When I was younger, too young to know better, my parents selected a girl for me to marry. Yes, Sylvia, it is still done that way. The girl wasn't from the nobility, but my parents wanted an alliance with her family for business reasons. She is a very nice girl but not interesting, at least not to me.”

He studied his hands resting on the table before him, then took a cigarette from his case and lit it. “Well, I did what my parents wanted and married her. I tried to please everyone, but in the end I couldn't.” He smiled sadly. “Here, the civilized thing would be to take a mistress. Marriage is about family and property. Romance is something else. But I want to be loved for myself and to love someone who understands me. That's why I'm here in Paris.”

“Yes?”

“I've asked for a divorce, but she refuses and my parents have taken her side. They say I'm being immature, that I have to keep my end of the bargain.”

“Your end of the bargain?”

“Yes, that's how they think.”

“Are there children?”

“No. If there were I could never leave. And meeting someone like you, someone who is free, I now realize that I must.”

“You can't stay married to a woman you don't love. Your parents have to understand. They can't stop you, can they?”

“They can stop the money,” he replied.

“You're still young. You're well educated. You can start a career.”

“You don't know what it's like for us here in Europe, so burdened by the past, history, hemmed in by all of these traditions.
Change
,
start
—those are not words that mean the same thing for us. We see life in a different way.”

“But if you're unhappy then you must change. There are always exceptions. We only have this one life. We have so little time, we have to make the best of it.”

He placed his right hand over her left and gripped it. “Sylvia, I'm so glad I've met you.”

I
t gives your appearance a bit of dash,” Jacques said, studying Sylvia's reflection in the mirror. He'd selected a small straw hat, lacquered white, that sat jauntily to the right side of her head.

“You don't think it looks like a plate?” She smiled.

“No, not at all. It is the size of the smaller one. The saucer.”

He turned to the saleswoman and started speaking rapidly in French. Sylvia understood the words
drôle
,
gamine
,
mignonne
. For Jacques, it seemed only natural to take Sylvia shopping. Sylvia knew nothing about fashion, and he'd had spent so much time listening to the girls at the cafés talk about clothes, he could guide her to the right shoes, the perfect belt. He'd taken her to a hairdresser for a stylish short cut, and, with his guidance, she'd started tying a small silk scarf round her neck and rolling up the short sleeves of her blouses the way she'd seen boys do.

“Yes, the hat gives you flair,” he pronounced, taking out his billfold, the saleswoman nodding in agreement.

Sylvia's friends staying at the Hotel St. Germain noticed the handsome, well-dressed Frenchman arriving each morning at eleven, bringing Sylvia's mail from the American Express office. He would smoke a cigarette while he waited for her, then escort her out to the black Citroën to whisk her away.

Imagining she would hear brilliant speeches and debates, Sylvia had come to Paris to observe the Fourth International meetings, but following the murder of Trotsky's son, the secretary of the organization, Rudolf Klement, had decreed that no more than two people would meet at a time—a sure way to discourage infiltrators. There would be no congress, no general meetings in Paris, and almost nothing for Sylvia to observe.

Happily, Jacques was there to entertain her, planning outings, taking her to restaurants, to museums, and concerts. He bought her thoughtful presents—a bouquet of violets, chocolates, a small basket of ripe plums. He did nothing abrupt that would startle her, but listened closely to what she said and praised her intelligence, insight, and sympathy. He occasionally alluded to the future in a wistful way, gazing into her eyes a moment longer than necessary.

“Sylvia, someday I want to show you the Pyrénées. Did you know there are glaciers? Yes, that far south, great flows of ice that sparkle in the sun. That's where I go mountain climbing. The villages are beautiful, the food and wine superb. There's nothing more satisfying than climbing to the top of a peak, and looking down on the world. But Sylvia, if you came along, I wouldn't need to climb. We would stay in small inns, take long walks, sleep like angels.”

At the Hotel St. Germain, Walta Karsner, noticing Jacques and the change in Sylvia's appearance, was the first to congratulate Sylvia on taking a lover.

“Walta!” Sylvia laughed, blushing a deep pink.

“Sylvia, this is Paris. It's what you're supposed to do.” A Californian, Walta rarely did what was expected of her. She had grown up in a wealthy family of Methodists in Sacramento, but went to Barnard College in New York, where she married a Columbia student who was both a Jew and a Communist. She tended not to see boundaries where others did.

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, but Jacques isn't my lover.”

“Why ever not? He's very sexy.”

“Yes, Jacques is charming, but he's really not my type.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's not an intellectual.”

“Who cares? He's very handsome, and, you know what they say about Frenchmen.”

“What do they say?”

“They'll kiss you in places American men wouldn't dream of.”

“Walta!”

“That's what they say.”

“Well, it doesn't matter. He has no interest in politics or the things I care about. He's not very reassuring about Hitler, and I don't think he knew that Franco's troops had cut Spain in half.”

Walta's husband, Manny, and the other men attending the Fourth International meetings showed little interest in Jacques, but Walta was always eager to be in his company. She spent a morning with them, exploring the leafy gravel paths in Père Lachaise, looking for the tombstones of Chopin, Balzac, Proust, and Bernhardt. Afterward, Jacques took them to lunch and a swimming beach he knew on the Marne.

Lying in the sun, wriggling the toes of her long white feet, Walta watched Jacques on the diving board. He was focused, self absorbed, his body perfectly proportioned, the muscles gliding smoothly beneath the olive skin.

“How did you meet him?” Walta asked.

“A girl from New York.”

“He reminds me of boys who went to Stanford. You know, rich, athletic.”

“Yes, he trains every morning at a gymnasium,” said Sylvia.

“What kind of training?”

“Boxing, swimming, fencing.”

“He must be wonderful in bed.”

Sylvia smiled but said nothing.

“I'm always hearing that intellectuals make better lovers, more imaginative and sensitive. But some of them are so cold, and at least athletes realize they have bodies.”

“I suppose.”

“Oh, Sylvia, please don't tell me that you haven't.”

“Walta, the situation is complicated.”

Walta was silent for a moment. The diving board bent and rebounded with a hollow wooden sound; Jacques sliced through the green water to surface, his hair close to his skull.

“You mean it's him?” Walta said, giving Sylvia a pitying look.

“No, of course not, but …” Sylvia heard the hesitation, the catch in her own voice. “… we're very different.”

“Oh brother!” Walta groaned, rolling onto her stomach.

R
amón looked around his flat with dismay, wondering how he could possibly bring Sylvia there. The rooms—one bedroom, a bath, a foyer, living room, dining nook, and small kitchen—had come furnished with an ugly brown sofa, a green armchair, a bed and chest of drawers, a battered dining set. He had no rugs or drapes, nothing to make the place seem like a home—much less a love nest. Ramón knew how to cook but regarded home decoration as treacherous territory, filled with mysterious rules and the opportunities for many faux pas.

A lamp? He needed a lamp or two. Or three. The overhead lighting was harsh.

Curtains and a rug? He wouldn't know where or how to start. He couldn't ask Eitingon or Caridad for help. Their flats looked worse than his, filled with battered office furniture. Perhaps he could find candlesticks for the table, a picture of some sort to hang on the wall.

He would invent some sort of story as to why Jacques Mornard lived in such a place. There had been a fire. All of his possessions were destroyed. He needed a few framed photos of family members and friends, something to indicate a life, at least one photo to place on top of his chest of drawers. The bed? He would ask the concierge where to buy linens and how much to pay.

In the most intimate way, he found his identity as Jacques Mornard to be inhibiting. Seduction came naturally to Ramón. Flirting was a diversion, a pastime. Like most Spanish men, he put his
novia
Lena on a pedestal, but other girls were fair game. He and Sylvia had reached that delightful phase of suspense when something had to happen. Wherever they looked, they saw couples kissing—on bridges, in doorways, on park benches—men and women locked in deep, soulful kisses. Paris was working its spell. Sylvia looked at him in a different way. She retreated into herself, waiting for him to follow. He was an expert at reading these signs, but now he was self-conscious and observed himself as well as Sylvia.

“This is temporary,” he explained, the first time he took her to his flat. “I lived with a friend from Brussels who had one of those big flats filled with all sorts of antiques and family things. I never needed anything except my clothes, and now that he's moved back to Brussels, I'll have to get my own things.”

Indeed, the rooms were bare, bereft of photographs, books, and art—the usual clues to an identity. Sylvia noticed the riding boots and crop in one corner of the bedroom, picked up the hairbrushes he'd found in an antiques shop and had engraved with his initials. “Do you like those?” he asked, coming behind her as she rubbed his fingers across the carved letters. “They belonged to my grandfather. The bristles are set in ivory, the backs are solid sterling.”

As he leaned forward, she turned, looking up into his eyes. He removed her glasses, then his. “I've been wanting to do this,” he said as he kissed her. “I don't know why I've been hesitating.”

When he kissed her she responded warmly. “Sylvia, perhaps we shouldn't.”

“No, it will be all right. I want to.”

As he unbuttoned her blouse, he felt a little wave of triumph, that he was succeeding, advancing his agenda. She let the blouse slip from her shoulders, lightly freckled, her skin white and soft when he reached behind her to unhook her brassiere. When she turned away shyly, he made himself busy for a moment by pulling back the bedspread, then going to the windows to close the shutters, dimming the afternoon light. When next he looked, she was beneath the sheet, blond head propped against the pillows.

“Do you need something?” he asked.

“No, only this.”

Smiling at her, he undid his necktie, then sat down on a chair to remove his shoes. “You look so pretty. Making love in the afternoon …”

“Seems a little wanton …”

“That was not what I was thinking.”

Unbuttoning his shirt, he went into the bathroom, washed his hands, then rubbed a bit of toothpaste across his teeth. Returning in a navy blue robe, he sat beside her on the edge of the mattress and put his hands on her shoulders as he leaned down to kiss her. After a moment, she slipped toward the middle of the bed so that he would lie down beside her. He removed his robe and pulled back the sheet to touch her breasts, tracing his fingertips across her skin.

He imagined he might feel distant making love to her; he had done that, had sex in a mechanical way. So, as they made love, he was surprised by how in tune they were and by the rush of affection he felt for her.

Afterward, she watched as he lit a cigarette. “Walta was right.”

“About what?”

“She said Frenchmen make excellent lovers.”

“But I'm Belgian.”

“Yes, of course.”

He touched her collarbone, a touch of affection.

“Everyone thinks I'm your mistress.”

“That I'm keeping you?”

“No, not that. They think I'm your lover.”

“Do you care?”

“Not really.” She was silent for a few moments, watching him smoke, finally deciding. “Would you like to go somewhere?”

“Yes, of course,” he answered. “But where?”

“There's going to be a meeting of the Fourth International at a village outside Paris. It's all very top secret, the only general meeting when everyone will see each other. Would you like to come?”

“If it's so secret, can I be there?”

“I'll ask. I think it will be fine. Everyone knows who you are.”

“Which village?”

“Périgny. Old friends of Trotsky's have a house there, Alfred and Marguerite Rosmer.”

“Will it be boring?”

“Probably. But Walta and Manny are going. We could all drive together.”

“I suppose. When is it?”

“Soon. I'll check the date.”

“Yes, I'll go, but promise it won't be too boring.”