Their 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.”