Entwined Page 13

  “Ruda, we have to discuss this, Ruda!” “I’ll think about it, we’ll work out something!” As the waiter came by their table, passing directly behind him was a very handsome man accompanied by an attractive blond woman. They were both in deep conversation, not giving Grimaldi or Ruda a glance. They seated themselves in the next booth, and the waiter, after taking Grimaldi’s order, moved quickly to the elegant couple’s booth.

  “Good afternoon, Baron.”

  Helen Masters asked for a gin and tonic, and the baron a scotch on the rocks. He spoke German, then turned back to continue his conversation with Helen in French. They paid no attention to the big broad-shouldered man seated in the next booth. They could not see Ruda.

  Grimaldi had ordered two more martinis. Ruda said she didn’t want another, but he ignored her. He looked around the lounge, then noticed she was playing with the bread. It always used to infuriate him, the way she would pick at it, roll it into tiny little balls, twitch it, and pummel it with her fingers.

  “Stop that, you know it gets on my nerves. We’ll sort out the plinths when we get back. Now, can we just relax, Ruda?”

  She nodded, but under the table her hands began to roll a small piece of bread tighter and tighter, until it became a dense hard ball—because she kept on seeing the boy, Mike, wearing Kellerman’s hideous black leather trilby. Mike, Grimaldi and his bloody divorce…it was all descending on her like a dark blanket, and suddenly she felt as if her mind would explode. Her fingers pressed and rolled the tiny ball of bread mechanically, as if out of her control. She swallowed, her mouth was dry, her lips felt stiff, her tongue held to the roof of her mouth. It was seeping upward from her toes…She fought against it, refusing to allow it to dominate her—not here, not in public. “No…no!”

  Grimaldi looked at her, was not sure what she had said. He leaned closer. “Ruda? You okay?”

  She repeated the word “No!” like a low growl. He could see her body was rigid, and yet the table shook slightly as her fingers pressed and rolled the tiny ball of bread.

  “Ruda!…Ruda!”

  She turned her head very slowly, her eyes seemed unfocused, staring through him. He slipped his hand beneath the table. “What’s the matter with you? Are you sick?”

  Grimaldi held her hand, crunched in a hard knot. She recoiled from him, pressing her back against the velvet booth.

  “I have to go to the toilet.” She rose to her feet. “I’ll meet you outside, I need some fresh air.”

  Grimaldi made to stand, but she pushed past him and he slumped back down in the seat, watching as she walked stiffly toward the foyer, hands clenched tight at her side. She brushed past an elaborate display of ferns and then quickened her pace, almost running to the cloakrooms. There was only one other occupant, a tourist applying lipstick, examining her reflection in the mirror. Ruda knocked against her, but made no apology, hurrying into the vacant lavatory. She had no time to shut the door, but fell to her knees, clinging to the wooden toilet seat as she began to vomit. She felt an instant release, and sat back on her heels panting; again she felt the rush of bile, and leaned over the basin, the stench, the white bowl—she pushed away until she was hunched against the partition.

  “Are you all right? Do you need me to call someone?” The tourist stood at a distance, but was very concerned.

  Ruda heaved again and forced herself once more to be sick into the lavatory bowl.

  “Should I call a doctor?”

  Ruda wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and without even looking up snapped: “Get out, just get out and leave me alone…”

  Ruda slowly rose to stand, pressing herself against the tiled wall, then crossed unsteadily to the wash basin. She ran the cold water and splashed it over her face, then patted herself dry with the soft hand towels provided. She opened her purse and fumbled for her compact. Her whole body tingled, the hair on the backs of her hands was raised, the same strange, almost animal warning at the nape of her neck. Was it this hotel? Something in this hotel? The white tiled walls, the white marble floor—had she been here before?

  She seemed to be outside herself. What was wrong? And then, just as she had always done, she began to work to calm herself, talking softly, whispering that it was just the whiteness, it was the white tiles…it was seeing Tommy, it was nothing more. It was a natural reaction, it was just shock, delayed shock at seeing him, seeing Tommy.

  Ruda crossed the large foyer, her composure restored. She paused, wary, as if listening for something, to something, but then she shrugged her shoulders and headed toward the main revolving doors.

  As Ruda stepped outside, Hilda was scurrying toward the staff entrance, a small hidden door at the side of the hotel. She stopped in her tracks, seeing the tall woman standing on the steps. For a moment she thought she was seeing the baroness, but then she shook her head at her stupidity; this woman was much bigger, her dark hair long. Still, as she continued through the staff entrance, she wondered where she had seen the woman before. She unpacked her working shoes and slipped them on, carefully placing her other shoes into her locker. As she closed the door and crossed to the mirror to run a comb through her hair, she remembered. The circus poster. It was the woman from the circus poster, she was sure of it and rather pleased with her recall. She wondered if she was staying at the hotel; perhaps, if she was, Hilda could ask for her autograph.

  A chambermaid coming off duty called out to Hilda, and scurried over to her. She asked if it was true that the baroness was insane; rumors were rife and she was eager to gossip.

  Hilda refused to be drawn into a conversation, and the young girl was forced to change the subject, moving on to other news. A dwarf had been found murdered in the red light district just behind the hotel, his body beaten. They had first thought it was a child, his body was so small. She knew about it because her boyfriend worked with the Polizei. She came close to Hilda and hissed: “He was a Jew!”

  Chapter 6

  Grimaldi left the Grand Hotel, unable to find Ruda. He walked awhile, then caught a bus back to the circus.

  Baron Marechal and Helen remained in the hotel bar. The baron apologized for having left Helen to wait for so long. She said no apology was necessary, because if he needed to speak with Dr. Franks alone, he should be able to do so. He kissed her hand, saying that her understanding never ceased to amaze him.

  “She is so much better, Louis, did you notice? Perhaps tomorrow she will be able to see Dr. Franks; sooner than we hoped.”

  The baron sipped his drink, placing it carefully on the paper napkin. “He knows that the present situation cannot continue.”

  The manager approached their table, and excused the intrusion. The baron half rose from his seat, his face drained of color. “Is it my wife?”

  The manager handed the baron an envelope containing a number of faxes. Helen saw the relief on Louis’s face as he tipped the manager lavishly, opening the envelope. He read through the five sheets, passing them on to Helen.

  There was no record of a Vebekka Lynsey in Philadelphia. The woman who had once run the modeling agency that had employed Vebekka confirmed that her name was Rebecca. Checks on Rebecca Lynsey in Philadelphia produced no results. Two women who had once modeled for the same agency had been tracked down. They did recall Rebecca, and one thought her last name was Goldberg, but could not be absolutely sure. She had shared a room with Rebecca, and remembered her receiving letters addressed in that name.

  A Mr. and Mrs. Ulrich Goldberg had subsequently been traced in Philadelphia, and although they had no direct connection to the baroness, they were able to give further details. Ulrich Goldberg’s cousin, Dieter (David) Goldberg, had run a successful fur business until 1967. David and his wife, Rosa, had arrived in Philadelphia from Canada in the late fifties. They had one daughter, Rebecca. Was Rebecca Goldberg Vebekka Lynsey? Ulrich Goldberg, when shown recent photographs of Vebekka, was unable to state that they were definitely of her, but admitted there was a great s
imilarity.

  According to Ulrich Goldberg, Rebecca was last seen in January 1972 at her father’s funeral. She had been distant and evasive, speaking briefly to only a handful of mourners, and had departed very quickly. No one had heard from her since. A number of photographs taken when she was about ten or twelve years old were being forwarded by Federal Express.

  Mr. and Mrs. Goldberg had arrived in the United States from Germany in the late 1930s. They knew that David Goldberg’s wife was born in Berlin, and that she was or had been a doctor. When she had married and emigrated to Canada was something of a mystery. Although the two Goldberg families were related, Ulrich admitted that he and his wife had not been on close terms with David Goldberg—and found his wife a very cold, distant woman.

  The baron finished reading the last page and handed it to Helen. She read it in silence, then folded the fax sheets and replaced them in their envelope. The baron lit a cigar, and turned to her.

  “This could all be inaccurate. These are not from a detective, he’s my chauffeur!”

  Helen paused, and then chose her words carefully. “The date of the funeral, is that when Vebekka left Paris?”

  The baron frowned, but after a moment nodded.

  Helen spoke quietly. “First you have to deal with the cover-up or lies. For reasons we don’t know, she simply didn’t want you to know anything about her family, but if she is Rebecca Goldberg, and her mother was born in Berlin, we can do some detective work of our own. Maybe there are relatives still living here, or someone who knew them. We could try to trace them.”

  The baron pinched the bridge of his nose; all this was too much for him to take in.

  “Perhaps the reason, or a possible reason, was that your family were against your marrying Vebekka,” Helen suggested. Would Vebekka’s Jewishness have been one of the reasons why the baron’s family disapproved of the marriage? She decided not to broach the subject. She sipped her drink. Perhaps, as Louis had said, this was all a misunderstanding. But if Louis was hesitant to check out this Goldberg connection, there was no reason why she shouldn’t.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Hilda had almost finished a sleeve and was beginning to check the measurements when Vebekka opened her eyes. Slowly she turned to face Hilda and smiled.

  “Have I been sleeping long?”

  Hilda nodded, said it was after two, but that she needed sleep. Hilda helped her from bed, and wrapped a robe around her thin shoulders. She walked her to the bathroom, where big towels were warming on the rails. She had to help her into the bath, but Vebekka slid into the soap- and perfume-filled water with a sigh of pleasure.

  Hilda gently toweled Vebekka dry when she was done, feeling protective and motherly as the thin frame rested against her. Vebekka seemed loath to let her go, clinging to her as they returned to the bedroom. Then the baroness sat in front of her mirror and opened one of her vanity cases.

  “I need my hair done, Hilda.”

  Hilda said that she would try, but was not sure how to go about it. Vebekka giggled while taking out small pots and brushes.

  “No no—my roots, I need my roots done. See, the gray hair is showing!”

  Hilda watched as Vebekka mixed her color. “It’s called Raven. It looks purple, but it comes out black.”

  While Vebekka parted her hair and clipped sections, Hilda brushed the thick purplish liquid into the hairline. Then Hilda sat and waited: the tint had to be left on for twenty minutes. Meanwhile, Vebekka manicured her hands, put cream on her elbows and neck, then on her legs and on her arms.

  Together they returned to the bathroom and Hilda shampooed and washed out the tint. Then she wrapped a towel around the clean, tinted head and they returned to the bedroom. Next Vebekka directed Hilda to hold the dryer while she used the brush.

  “I’m young again, Hilda, see? You were very good…now I want to look beautiful, a little makeup, rouge…”

  Hilda was fascinated at the transformation; then she helped the baroness into a silk and lace robe, so delicate it floated when Vebekka moved, the lace on the sleeves trailing as in medieval costumes.

  Hilda ordered a light luncheon, boiled fish, some milk and vegetables, and she was pleased to see that Vebekka ate every morsel. Just as she was ringing for room service to take the table away, the baron entered to find his wife sitting like a princess at the window. His face broke into a smile of delight. “You look wonderful! And you have eaten? Good, good…do you feel better?”

  Hilda left them alone and went into the main bedroom to tidy the room and make the bed. Louis bent to kiss Vebekka’s cheek; she smelled sweet and fresh, her hair gleamed like silk. She smiled, and looked up into his concerned face. “Did you come in to see me earlier?”

  “No, I had a drink with Helen. If you need her she is in her room.” *

  Vebekka cocked her head.“Well, don’t you two get too cozy!”

  He turned away, irritated.

  “I was just teasing you, Louis. It was just—well, strange. I was sure someone came in…maybe I was dreaming.”

  With her husband’s help she stood up, clinging to his hand. “I think I will rest for a while now. You don’t have to stay, I have Hilda. Maybe Helen would like to go sightseeing, she must be very bored.”

  They walked slowly to the bedroom, and suddenly she leaned against him. “Remember in that old movie with Merle Oberon, when she said: ‘Take me…take me to the window, I want to see the moors one last time!’ ”

  Vebekka did such a good impersonation of the dying heroine from Wuthering Heights that she made Louis laugh; he swept her into his arms and gently carried her to the bed.

  The baron stood by watching as Hilda fluffed up her pillows, remained watching as Hilda gently drew the sheet around her, and then let the drapes close, leaving the room in semidarkness.

  Hilda asked if she might take a break for an hour. He nodded, dismissing her with an incline of his head, and sat in the chair she had vacated.

  Vebekka lay with her eyes closed, as though unaware of his presence. She was so still she could have been laid out at a funeral home, the perfect makeup, the long dark lashes, her hair framing her beautiful face. He took out his gold cigarette case, patted his pockets for his lighter, and kept his eyes on her as he clicked it open. She didn’t stir. He inhaled deeply and let the smoke drift from his mouth to form a perfect circle above his head. Had she woven all these lies about herself? Why? He couldn’t think of a reason for not telling him—unless she was ashamed, but ashamed of what?

  The more he stared at her, the more unanswered questions crossed his mind. Was it his fault? He could hear her now, as if she were saying it to him now.

  “My father’s dead. I have to go to America to see to the funeral.”

  She had said it so matter-of-factly, as if suggesting she fly to New York for a fitting. He had asked if she wished him to accompany her and she had smiled, shaking her head, reminding him that he was flying to Brazil for a polo game. He could remember his relief at not having to alter his plans. He was not in Paris when she returned, and so the funeral was not really discussed. She had bought many gifts for the children and for him, and had laughed at her extravagance, saying she was surprised at how much her father had left her. Louis knew it was a considerable amount, because his own lawyers had called to discuss the matter, but she had been disinterested in the money, as he was. She had been happy, she had been well—above all, happy.

  These episodes always remained vivid to him, because when Vebekka was happy, the whole family’s spirits lifted. When she was energized, she would arrange surprise outings and parties, like a child. Her good spirits would extend beyond the family circle. She would organize dinner parties, get dressed for masked balls…

  As a hostess she was a delight, she would make everyone feel immediately at ease.

  He leaned forward, noting in the semidarkness the contours of her face. The way her long exquisite fingers rested like an angel’s, one hand on top of t
he other—the perfect nails, her tiny wrists. It was hard to believe that those long tapering delicate hands could become vicious claws.

  Louis mulled over his conversations with Dr. Franks. Was he in some way to blame? In the stillness of the room he could honestly ask himself if he was guilty. Louis asked himself why the glimpses of sun in her life were so short-lived now, so rare, and why when she changed, there was such anguish.

  He got up to stub out his cigarette. From the dressing table he looked at the still sleeping woman; she had not moved. He had to think not just of himself, but of Sasha, and the boys; they too had suffered, they had been forced to care for her, watch out for the signs. His eldest daughter had retreated into a busy social life that left little time for home. The boys had drawn very close to each other. The real hurt was to his younger daughter; she was so much younger than the others that she had seen fewer good periods.

  Louis would perhaps never know the true extent of the damage to his children. He sighed. It would be easy, slip the pillow from the side of the bed, press it to her face, and it would be over. No one could say he had not been driven to it, that she did not deserve it.

  She stirred, her hands fluttered, lifted a moment, and then rested again. She turned her head toward Louis, and slowly opened her eyes. He wondered if she knew he was there, wondered if anyone could understand what it was like to turn to someone you loved and face a stranger—and worse, be afraid. That awful moment of awareness when he knew it was happening. When the face he loved became distorted—the mouth he kissed pulled back like an animal—the voice he loved, snarled—and the gentle arms lashed out like steel traps.

  Louis pressed his back against the dressing table and watched. Was he about to see the transformation now? The slender arms stretched, and she moaned softly, then smiled, with such sweetness.