This morning I saw a sad and silly spectacle. I was strolling down the Champs-Élysées, thinking about my night at Dorian’s and looking for a suitable cafe to take my morning coffee. A fruit vendor – one of those who serve the local restaurants – crossed in front of me, carrying a basket of oranges on his head.
He stubbed his toe on a paving stone and lurched forward. The basket slipped off his head and the oranges went rolling in all directions. Some of them split; some were gathered up on the run by a trio of schoolboys; some were kicked into the gutter by passing pedestrians.
For a moment the vendor stood, hypnotised and helpless, staring at the cascade of golden fruit. Then, since I was the nearest witness, he whirled on me in fury and shouted in Italian:
“It’s all your fault! Your fault!”
He raised his hand and made the sign of the horns at me, tossed the basket at my feet and stalked off. His rage was so childish, his accusation so ridiculous that I burst out laughing. But, when I sat down to coffee, I found that I was trembling. The incident was no longer comical, but magical and sinister. Suddenly I was back in the landscape of my dream. The oranges were balls of glass and a naked Magda was sealed inside each one, and none of the Magdas could talk to the others.
It was a moment of pure horror: the same horror that seized me the day my best hunter went berserk under me and I had to thrash and gallop him into exhaustion. There was the same eerie prickle of evil that I had felt when I found Alexander, my wolf hound, dead outside my door, with a bloody foam around his muzzle – and three days later, my rose-arbour devastated by some vandal with an axe!
The gesture of the horns, the primitive sign of exorcism, was no mere vulgarity. Did I look like a witch? Had I indeed the evil eye? Was there the mark of Cain on my forehead? I fumbled in my reticule for a mirror and peered into it. The mirror told me only that I was pale and that the man at the table behind me was trying to decide whether I was an early working whore or an indiscreet lady out for an airing.
That didn’t help either. It convinced me that there was only a very bleak future for a middle-aged widow crying into her coffee on the Champs-Élysées and making midnight love with strangers in houses of appointment. I felt as if a trapdoor had opened under my feet and I was falling over and over into darkness.
The man at my back stood up and approached me. He asked, politely enough:
“Madame is unwell? Perhaps I can help?”
“Thank you, but I am perfectly well.”
“If Madame is sure?”
I was perfectly sure. I was equally sure that I needed help from someone. The problem was where to go and what to say when I got there. I speak six languages, including Hungarian, but none of them is adequate to express the life I have led since I was a little girl.
Sex is easy to talk about. No matter how bizarre your tastes, you can always find an attentive audience. But the rest of it – my childhood in the enchanted castle, the primitive but strangely beautiful rites of my initiation into womanhood, my years at the university and in hospital residence – these are tales from a far country, from another planet even! I am not sure I can make them intelligible to anyone else.
Besides, the same shadow falls across them all – the shadow of a gallows tree – and there is no way to explain that over coffee and croissants! Even Papa, who could shrug off most human aberrations, would never discuss this subject with me. He knew what I had done and why; but the nearest he ever came to an admission of his knowledge was a single dry comment:
“I hope, dear daughter, you don’t talk in your sleep!”
Since Papa died and the husband I adored was snatched away before his time, I have slept in many strange beds, with a whole gallery of men and women. Several of them have been quite capable of blackmail; but none has ever hinted that I tell secrets in my sleep.
So far, so good; but, as Dorian warned me, my endurance is wearing thin. I cannot tolerate for ever these wild swings from manic debauchery to deepest depression. I need a steady lover, a friend, a confidant – perhaps even a confessor . . .
The thought intrigues me. It represents the oddest of all solutions for a woman who has never had any religious convictions at all. Papa was an old fashioned rationalist who taught me that life begins and ends here and that we have to reach out and grab the best of it. He used to say:
“I’ve cut ‘em living and I’ve carved ‘em dead; and I’ve never caught any glimpse of God or of a soul.”
I loved Papa so much it would never have occurred to me to question any one of his opinions. I do not question them now; but I toy with the idea that it might be pleasant to turn Roman Catholic and then be able to walk into a little box every Saturday, recite my sins and come out clean as a new handkerchief.
It’s an idle thought and, of course, quite illogical. If you don’t believe in God and you don’t believe in sin, why worry? The fact is that you do worry. You blanch at the sign of the horns and you make doll magic out of fallen oranges.
I feel guilty – no, I feel ridiculous and ashamed – because I am tossing myself away, piece by little piece, like confetti at a wedding. Even a whore has better sense than that. She sells what she has. The funny thing is that part of me is very careful indeed. Peasant-frugal was Papa’s word for it.
I run my estate like any business. My accounts are meticulously kept; and they always show a profit! I buy the best clothes – but I get them at discount because I wear them well and in fashionable places. When I trade bloodstock, I drive hard bargains. At an auction I can smell a bidding ring a hundred paces away.
In polite society I am demure and discreet. Most of my friends would be shocked if they knew how profligate I am in my pleasures, how foul tongued in my pillow talk. Time was when this double life seemed a heady and exciting game. Now it is a perilous experience: a night walk down a foetid alley full of menacing shadows.
I paid for my coffee and set off for the banking house of Ysambard Frères to draw money against my letter of credit. I hoped that Joachim Ysambard, the elder of the two brothers, would invite me to luncheon. Joachim is in his sixties now, white haired, witty and wise in women’s ways. Ten years ago we had a sum mer loving in Amalfi. Then he came back to marry his second wife – a marriage of great convenience – a dynastic alliance with an old Alsatian banking family. Miraculously we remained friends, probably because, even in bed, he reminded me very much of Papa.
He was in conference when I arrived, but his secretary brought me a message begging me to wait and have luncheon with him. Meantime, brother Manfred would like a few words with me. Manfred is in his early fifties, dapper as a mannequin, impeccably polite but oddly bloodless. He has never married. He has, at least to my knowledge, no permanent lover, male or female. There is a monkish aura about him which I find disconcerting and sometimes repellent. On the other hand, Joachim speaks of him with awe and admiration:
“Manfred is a genius. He understands trade in a way no one else does. You can start him with a mountain of tea bricks in Tibet and very soon he will deliver you wool in Bradford, gold in Florence, pig iron in the Ruhr and a profit in our books in Paris.”
With all of which I am forced to agree. Manfred’s management of my French funds has made me a second fortune; but he shrugs off my thanks with fastidious disdain:
“There’s no magic in it, Madame. It’s simply barter on a slightly larger scale than the town market. The real skill is in the timing. Which brings me to your affairs. Joachim and I advise that you now invest at least half your capital outside Europe.”
“For any special reason?”
“A spread of risk. There is fighting in the Balkans. The rest of Europe will be at war within a year.”
“How can you be so certain?”
He permitted himself a faint patronising smile.
“The ancient augurs studied the entrails of birds. We’re much more evolved. We watch the movements of coal and ore and chemicals and money. For example, at this moment, every cavalry regiment in Europe is looking for remounts and places to stable them. It’s a madness, of course – a folly of senile generals. One year of modern warfare and the horse will be as obsolete as the broadsword. However, this would be an excellent time to sell your stud.” He paused and then added a barbed comment: “Your reputation, as a breeder, is still high. The property is in prime condition. Our advice would be to sell now at the top of the market and invest the proceeds with Morgan in New York. This would give you a secure base in the New World, should circumstances ever force you to leave Europe.”
I told him I could not imagine any circumstances that would force me to leave Europe. He chided me:
“Dear lady, war is a most unseemly affair. It rouses man’s basest passions and provides excuses and opportunity to indulge them. You are – how shall I say it? – well known, but not everywhere well regarded, in society. You are vulnerable to gossip and to manipulation.”
“Manipulation? That’s an odd word to use.”
“It is nonetheless accurate. Let me show you something.”
My file was lying on his desk. He opened it, picked out a letter and passed it to me. The notepaper was headed, “Société Vickers et Maxim”. The letter, addressed to Manfred Ysambard, was written in an emphatic, sprawling hand.
I am happy to tell you that, by unanimous decision of our directors, Ysambard Frères have been appointed bankers to La Société Vickers et Maxim and to La Société Française des Torpilles Whitehead. We look forward to a long and profitable association with you and your esteemed brother.
Perhaps we may begin it with a supper party at my house, to which you will invite that very special and beautiful client whom we discussed last week and to whom I now beg to be presented.
A bientôt,
Z.Z.
The signature was a bold double “Z”. Who, I asked, was the writer? Manfred was embarrassed. It was the first time I had ever seen him blush.
“His name is Zaharoff, Basil Zaharoff. He’s in everything – steel, arms, shipping, newspapers, banking.”
“And how did he hear of me?”
“Not from us, I promise you, Madame. Joachim will verify that. It was Zaharoff who mentioned your name to us. We were surprised at the amount of information he possessed about you and your affairs; but that’s the kind of man he is. He deals at the highest level of politics – with kings, emperors, presidents. He has the best private intelligence service in the world.”
“And why should he be interested in me?”
I had expected an evasive answer; but no, Manfred was eager for confession.
“Zaharoff uses women as allies in his affairs. He pays well and willingly for service and information. He has your history at his fingertips. He knows your father’s story as well. He hints at other matters of which we have no knowledge. In short, he has done Ysambard Frères a big service. He asks a modest favour in return – an introduction to you.”
“And if I decline to meet him?”
“He will find another way to arrange the encounter. He is a very determined man.”
“I can be determined, too.”
“Please!” There was a note of desperation in Manfred’s voice. “Let me try to explain this Zaharoff. He deals, on a huge scale, in military armaments. He represents, for example, the British company, Vickers. He would like very much to gain control of our French company, Schneider-Creusot. So what does he do? Very quietly, he starts buying up shares in the Banque de l’Union Parisienne, an institution owned by Schneider-Creusot, which raises finance for them and for other French industries. Already Zaharoff is on the board; nevertheless he brings us big accounts to make us, too, his allies. In the end, mark my words, he will run Schneider-Creusot. If he wants to meet you, he will – one way or another. So, why not do it the graceful way? Let us bring together two of our distinguished clients. Well?”
“What does Joachim think of all this?”
“Ask him yourself at lunch.”
The answer Joachim gave me was as clear as a church bell in frost-time.
“If half the gossip I hear is true, you need a protector. Who better than Zaharoff, the most powerful man in Europe?”
“Why do I need a protector, Joachim?”
“Your age.” Joachim gave me a thin smile. “And a growing tendency to sexual indiscretions.”
“And how would you know about those, dear Joachim?”
“Some of it I hear from my own gossips.”
“And some, no doubt, from this Basil Zaharoff.”
“Correct.”
“What’s he like in bed, Joachim?”
“How should I know?” Joachim was only a little amused. “My guess is that he doesn’t want you in his own bed at all.”
“You make him sound like a pimp.”
“Rumour has it that’s how he started – as a runner for the whore houses in Tatavla.”
“That sounds like the end of the earth.”
“It’s the old Greek quarter of Istanbul.”
“And now this Greek, this Turk, whatever he is, has Joachim Ysambard pimping for him!”
It was a calculated cruelty; but I couldn’t resist it. Joachim digested the insult in silence. His answer was mild, almost apologetic.
“I wish I could tell you bankers have cleaner hands than brothel touts. We don’t. We’re putting up millions for guns and explosives and poison gas. We’re lending money across the map, so, whichever side wins, we can’t lose. I should be ashamed. I find I’m not. I work for money, I married for money. You were one of the few indulgences that cost me money.”
“And now you’d like to call in the debt?”
“Don’t be vulgar! Besides, I’m doing you a favour. Zaharoff needs a woman to run his salons and cultivate his clients. He’ll set you up like a duchess.”
“And throw me out like a pregnant parlourmaid when the party’s over? No, thanks.”
“As you wish, of course.” Joachim was studiously formal. “Now, as to your financial affairs . . .”
“I’ll take your advice. We’ll sell the property and the bloodstock and invest the proceeds in the United States. What else should be liquidated?”
“Manfred and I will prepare a list. We’ll discuss it before you leave Paris. Where can we get in touch with you?”
“As from tomorrow, at the Crillon. I’ve decided to put myself back into circulation.”
“Please think about Zaharoff.”
“I will, Joachim. Thank you for your care of my interests.”
“Our pleasure always, my dear.”
And that was another chapter closed, another friendship dead and buried. As I walked out into the afternoon bustle of the rue St. Honoré, I felt, once more, ridiculous and ashamed. A man who had been my lover was treating me like a chattel, an object of barter in the market place. Worse still was his bland assumption that I ought to be very happy in the transaction.
What was happening to me? What did others read in my face that I could not see in my own mirror? Why should they assume that I, the most independent of women, was suddenly in need of a protector? And even if I were, how dared they offer me a jumped-up gun peddler from Tatavla?
I didn’t see the humour of it until I was back in my bedroom at the pension. I was paying good money for worse company every night of the week. I was paying, not to be protected, but to be exploited; and, instead of being set up like a duchess, I was a target for every policeman and pimp in the game. I threw myself on the bed and laughed until I cried and cried and cried.