It 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.
Ramón 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.”