Her daughter was suddenly crying.
“Franca, what is it?”
“Look at me,” she wept. She was wearing a suit with a little fur trim at the collar and hem of the skirt. “I look like some kind of doll you buy in a souvenir shop.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I was the first one to leave,” she said in desperation. “Everyone said, ‘Where are you going?’ ”
“You didn’t have to come home this early.”
“Yes, I did.”
Nedra was frightened. “What happened, was it the wrong kind of party?” she said.
“It was absolutely the right kind. I was wrong.”
“What was everyone else wearing?”
“You always insist on my being different,” Franca burst out. “I always wear different clothes, I can’t go here or I can’t go there. I don’t want any more of that. I want to be like everyone else!” The tears were streaming down her face. “I don’t want to be like you.”
In one stroke she had established her own world.
Nedra said nothing. She was stunned. It was the beginning, she suddenly knew, of something she had thought would never happen. She went to bed troubled, torn by the urge to go to her daughter’s room, and afraid, at the same time, of what would be said.
The next day it was all forgotten. Franca worked in the greenhouse. She painted. There was music in her room. Hadji lay on her bed, she was truly happy. It had passed.
A letter arrived from Robert Chaptelle, whose life had drifted downstream. It was difficult to remember him, his nervousness, his expensive tastes and impulses so like her own. He said nothing about the theater; it was all about some man who could save Europe.
…he is about five feet ten inches tall. He has the Kennedy appeal. His voice makes you tremble. It is an unforgettable voice. I have had the privilege of meeting him, hours in his company are minutes. His eyes! Finally I understand the nature of politics.
Celatient du prodige.
She read it only hurriedly. He would write again soon, he said in this final letter. He was traveling for his health, vanished into the remote towns of France from the insurance agency where for a time he had tried to work. Gone, passed into silence.
She thought more than once of the woman Kandinsky had left behind. There are stories that win by their brevity. She had written the name on her calendar, above where the pages are turned: Gabriele Munter.
2
HE EARNED MONEY, HE WAS LIKED by his clients, he could draw beautifully. Ruskin said a true architect must first be a sculptor or painter. He was nearly that, and so absent-minded, so absorbed in work, that he once poured birdseed into his tea by mistake. He was talkative, witty; his handwriting was like print.
They went to dinner with Michael Warner and his friend. Nedra was their favorite, they adored her.
“Your daughter is so beautiful.”
“I like her,” Nedra admitted. “I find her a good friend.”
“She’s so inviolable. What will she do?” Michael asked.
“I want her to travel,” Nedra said.
“But she’ll go to school?”
“Oh, yes. Sometimes, though, I think the only real education comes from a single person. It’s like being born—you receive everything from one perfect source.”
“Well, she has that in you, doesn’t she?” Michael said.
“Nedra, that’s a very dangerous notion, really,” Viri protested.
“A person whose life is so exceptional that it nourishes the life around it,” she went on.
“Theoretically that might be possible,” Viri said, “but a single relationship, basing everything on that, could be very dangerous. I mean, there is the chance of being imprinted with the ideas of a very strong individual, and even though they might be interesting ideas, they could be absolutely wrong for someone like Franca.”
“Marina traveled for three years with Darin Henze when he was touring all over the world. It was a fantastic experience.”
“Darin Henze?”
“The dancer.”
“What do you mean by ‘traveled’?”
“She was his mistress, of course. She was interested in his work. But it really doesn’t matter what he did, he could have been an anthropologist. Specific knowledge is not education. What I mean by education,” Nedra said, “is learning how to live and on what level. And you must learn that or everything else is useless.”
Night in the city. They were at the bar of El Faro, packed among people waiting for a table. The noise of a crowded restaurant beat around them. In the back they were dragging in crates of food while customers wreathed in tobacco smoke shouted over drinks.
“You never know what’s going to happen to people,” Michael was saying. “I have a friend,” he said, “she’s very funny, very generous. She could have been an actress.”
“Morgan,” Bill said.
“You must meet her sometime.”
Just then they were given a table. The waiter brought the menus.
“We’re having the paella, aren’t we?” Michael asked them. “Yes.” He ordered. “She lives on Fifth Avenue, just across from the Metropolitan. She got the apartment in their divorce. It’s a fabulous apartment…”
In the small room, in darkness to which one’s eyes must become accustomed, where even a face being searched for can be missed a few tables away, Viri suddenly saw someone. His heart staggered. It was Kaya Doutreau.
“One night she was coming home from the ballet…”
He was frightened; he was afraid she would see him. His wife was stunning, the company polished, and yet he was ashamed of his existence.
“… Swan Lake. Now say what you like, but there is my all-time favorite.”
“So beautiful,” Bill said.
“When she opened the door to the apartment she found her dog lying there…”
He did not hear, he was aware only of the clatter of utensils, of the sounds that underlay everything, as if listening to the mechanism which moved it all. It seemed terrible that he should be so stricken by her presence, by simple characteristics of which she was completely unaware—her ease, the way in which she sat, the weight of her breasts within the pale, ribbed shirt.
“Well, they don’t know. They think someone pushed poison under the door. It was just awful. She didn’t know what was wrong. She took him downstairs in her arms, he died in the taxi.”
“Viri, are you feeling well?” Nedra asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.” He smiled briefly. He had forgotten how to eat, it seemed, as if it were a ceremony he had only memorized. His attention was directed toward the plate. He tried not to see beyond the table.
“I mean, here is the most interesting, warm person imaginable. She would never hurt anyone. An apartment filled with books. People are insane.”
“It’s an awful story,” Nedra said.
“I hope I didn’t upset you.”
“It must be the season,” Bill said. “February is like that. The only time in my life I’ve really been sick was in February. I was in the hospital for six weeks. On the death list for two. This is marvelous paella.”
“What was wrong?”
“Oh, I had a bad infection. My family even bought a coffin for me. It wasn’t even big enough. They didn’t want to spend the money. They were going to bend my knees.” He laughed.
“Viri, are you sure you’re all right?”
“Oh, yes. Yes.”
Throughout dinner he had glimpses of her. He could not evade them. She was alive; she was well. Suddenly she stood up. He felt a moment of utter panic, of physical fear. It was only that they were leaving. When she passed, making her way through the tables, he put his hand to his brow to conceal his face.