The Secret Vow, page 11
‘Katya, when you were at the Lubyanka, what exactly did you see?’
Some days after this, Harry Morten dropped by the Ritz on his way home and glanced in at the ladies-only bar. Two feline profiles trapped his attention and he hesitated, fatally.
A slender figure jumped up. ‘Harry-my-heart, you can’t come in here.’
‘That’s why I’m hovering in the doorway.’
‘Wait, I shall come out.’
No choice then but to invite Una McBride, plus cats, to join him for a drink. There was nothing irksome in her company – though he’d happily have dispensed with the jaguars. He just wasn’t up to discussing the subject she was feverishly eager to bring up.
‘Champagne?’ he enquired.
‘Why yes, but will you excuse me? I ordered a bottle earlier, so I’d better—’
‘Put it on my tab. Drinking alone?’
‘Not entirely. I had a meeting but she – he – has gone.’ Una looked sweet when she blushed. Today, she was captivating in a beige-and-black jersey ensemble that could have been Chanel, but which Harry was damn sure wasn’t. He also had a good idea whom she’d been meeting. He’d seen Katya Vytenis leaving the hotel as he crossed the square, going in the direction of rue de la Paix. He hadn’t attempted to waylay her. Their every meeting ended with her insulting him, and he had begun the process of eliminating her from his thoughts. He and Una retired to the gallery, where he ordered Pol Roger, rosé vintage, before asking her about her meeting.
‘Oh, somebody brought me some little drawings, is all.’
‘May I see?’
The ‘little drawings’ turned out to be fashion sketches, evening and daywear including a golf ensemble. Golf was becoming an increasingly popular sport with women. No proof these drawings were from Katya’s hand, though there were a few clues. With one exception, the sketches could have been done by Callot Soeurs’ principal designer, Madame Gerber, herself. The exception was an evening dress based on a Russian peasant costume. The model, who on closer inspection looked remarkably like Katya, wore a kokochnik, a traditional Russian headdress. The full, black-silk skirt had horizontal stripes of gold tissue. A note to that effect was written in the margin and in spite of himself, Harry was amused. You’d be lucky to get gold cloth in these restricted times, without robbing a Masonic lodge, but he liked the designer’s ambition. He liked the camisole too, with its filmy over-blouse. Would Katya wear something so revealing?
‘You’ve been silent a whole five minutes.’ Una dropped an olive into her mouth. ‘I’m starting to wish they were my drawings.’
‘So whose are they?’ Harry never expected a straight answer from Una, and tonight was no different.
‘A friend who wants an honest opinion, though I told her – him – that those are the worst kind. Give me insincere flattery any time.’
Harry looked again at the work. The paper was the poorest quality, but wasn’t poverty a stimulant to talent? Coco Chanel had stormed into couture making dresses from underwear grade jersey-knit, such as Una was wearing tonight. ‘For what it’s worth, I think they’re very decent. They’re also very Callot Soeurs.’
‘Really?’ Una opened her eyes innocently.
‘You hadn’t noticed? Perhaps you haven’t had a chance to get to Avenue Matignon. I saw your friend Madame Claudine there the other day, by the way.’ He took an unhurried mouthful of champagne, noting that Una was suddenly anxious to straighten the cats’ collars.
‘My stars, never.’
‘One could hardly miss her. I’d been discussing next season’s textiles with Madame Gerber and stayed on. How Claudine got past the door, I’ll never know. She’ll have memorised every stitch of their spring–summer collection. As I’m sure she’s memorised Chanel’s too. She made this?’ He indicated Una’s ensemble.
‘Well, yes.’
‘Who got hold of the original, you or one of Claudine’s minions?’
‘Heavens, what an inquisition. Harry, you haven’t given me a chance yet to say how desperately sorry I was when I heard about Christian.’
Truly, she had no shame. ‘I’m not ready to talk about it,’ he replied.
‘No, of course. It’s unbearable that he died when he did.’
‘Seven days before the Armistice? I’m alive to the brutish irony. Not least the fact that I was elsewhere at the time.’
‘When did you get the news?’
‘In Gothenburg. A wire was waiting for me. At least I was able to tell my father in person. Let’s talk about something else. Isn’t it time you took those damn cats back to the zoo?’
‘But they’re sweet.’
‘They’re the opposite and admit it, they’ve done their job. Paris has rebounded in awe at your outré antics and now you’re one miaow away from tedium.’
Una appraised the cats stretched at her feet, batting each other’s paws. ‘I look after them now and then as favour to the Countess Simeonescu.’ She lowered her voice. ‘She pays me to take them for walkies.’
‘Walkies to the Ritz. Sometimes I’m so glad we fought a war.’
‘Now, Harry, don’t grow crabbed and cynical. Why don’t we go find dinner on the fun side of the river? Montparnasse, Café du Dôme? Get drunk with a tableful of starving artists. Hmm?’
He’d drifted. It took so little to push his inner eye backwards in time. At the smallest prompt he was back on the battlefield and his face would start to flicker. He tried to control the jumping nerve, and, of course, others had it far worse. Some men jerked as if spiteful schoolboys had control of their strings. Others couldn’t speak at all. He caught a waiter’s eye and asked if someone could bring him the cigarette case in the pocket of his coat. Lighting up and inhaling sometimes helped.
When the waiter left, he smiled at Una. ‘I’ll give you dinner here, but if you’re sold on Montparnasse, you’re on your own. I find riotous noise hard to bear these days.’ He arranged the sketches in a neat pile. ‘Tell your friend that her ideas have merit, but they sail too close to piracy.’
His voice dropped a pitch. ‘Una, I know of your arrangement with Claudine Saumon. She was my first customer in Paris and I think well of her, but even so, if she uses fabric supplied by me for illegal copying, I’ll revoke her credit and close her account. Don’t push me to it.’
‘Why are you such a purist?’
‘Why did Paul Cézanne paint pretty apples and not potatoes?’
‘Because the man didn’t know a good potato when he saw one.’
‘Wrong. Because he refused to waste his talent on anything second-rate.’
‘Harry-my-heart, everyone copies.’
‘Then why would you want to?’
The waiter returned, apologising – there appeared to be no cigarette case in Monsieur Morten’s coat pocket. ‘I will have some brought to the table.’
‘Don’t bother. Una?’
‘Not I. You may pour me another glass of champagne to repair my feelings.’
He filled their glasses, puzzling over the missing cigarettes. He could go a week or more without reaching for his case and tried to remember where he’d last taken it out. Shrugging, he gave up and made a toast. ‘To art, the pure variety.’
They clinked glasses. Una said, ‘Let me pay for my half.’
‘All right.’
She laughed when she realised he was joking and took his free hand. ‘Oh, Harry. It’s good to have a friend.’
He raised her knuckles and kissed them, and their eyes collided. Hers were honey brown and something deep within him seemed to melt. One word, one flick of an eyebrow and he knew they would end the night in his apartment. He kept his face so still, the moment passed.
Harry’s bid to eject Katya Vytenis from his mind was in trouble. Before they parted that evening, he asked Una if he could take the sketch of the black-and-gold evening dress.
‘I promised Ka… I mean, my friend, um, Bill – not to let them out of my sight,’ Una hedged.
‘You don’t have to.’ He asked their waiter for paper and made a quick copy. An idea was growing, a way to help Katya. And himself. Aiding her was a sublimation of everything else he wanted from her. He’d probably get a tongue-lashing for his trouble, but at worst it would take his mind off Christian and the void his brother’s death had left in his soul.
* * *
‘You’ve been drinking. I can smell it on you. Why are you not at home, with your family?’
‘Answer my question first.’ Katya had flagged down Aleksey Provolsky’s taxi on rue de la Paix, recognising it by its chipped yellow wheels and the rattling bumper. It wasn’t just to spare herself the walk home: here was a chance to chase him up about her documents. Twice, she’d knocked at his apartment, hoping to catch him or his mother in, but nobody had come to the door on either occasion. Yesterday, she’d caught sight of Ludmilla Provolskaya drinking coffee in Dedushka’s Café but by the time she’d got across the road, there was no sign of the princess. Having hopped up into the open cab beside Aleksey, she was freezing. Unlike him, she wasn’t dressed for it, which didn’t help her temper.
As he roared towards the intersection of rue de Monceau and Boulevard Malesherbes, she raised her voice over the noise. ‘Has your translator-friend done my work or not?’
‘Friend? He’s an acquaintance and you are changing the subject, Ekaterina Ulianova. Why were you in that hotel? Who did you drink with?’ Aleksey bumped the kerb as he swung left into rue de Monceau. He ought to have continued straight on, up Malesherbes. She hoped he wasn’t attempting to extract a larger fare from her.
‘If you must know,’ Katya yielded, ‘I met a woman, a business contact. I’m turning my hand to fashion and as she is an eminently chic individual, I presented some ideas to her.’
‘But you should not drink in public. You, a lady of good family.’
‘My father never minded us having the odd glass of champagne. In fact, Papa seized any excuse to have a bottle brought up from the cellar. Aleksey, where are my papers? You’ve had them long enough.’
Taking one hand off the wheel, Aleksey reached under his seat and retrieved a package. ‘All here, translated into legal wordage as the bank requires. It was not a five-minute job.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘There is a bill inside, to pay at your convenience. A small bill, as Igor Tolbanov is a modest man as well as an invalid. He works hard to help his fellow Russians. I had planned to bring them to you tonight.’
Point taken. ‘I beg pardon. I have an impetuous soul.’ She felt thoroughly ashamed of having suspected Aleksey and his mother of deliberate delay.
‘Yes.’ He finally showed her a smile. ‘A Muscovite soul.’
‘That reminds me, I have a bone to pick with you, Aleksey. The day you picked us up at Montparnasse station, you were expecting us. True?’
‘Of course.’ He shrugged, as far as he could with both hands on the wheel. ‘We knew you were coming, Mother and I.’
‘From my cousins? Yes. I wrote some days before we set out for Paris, giving the day of our arrival but they must have been too ill by then to read the letter.’
‘My mother had permission to open their post.’
‘But how did you recognise us?’
‘Three tall women, a family resemblance… Call it good fortune I was there that day, to conduct you safely to your destination.’
Since he drove as if brakes were a minor inconvenience, presumably Aleksey was trying to be funny. Katya didn’t smile.
‘You knew our cousins were dead, yet you said nothing.’
Aleksey didn’t speak until he’d turned into Pierre le Grand, the cathedral in their sights. ‘It was not my place to tell you.’
‘It’s why you turfed us out of the car and left it to your mother to break the news.’
He denied and then admitted it. ‘I wanted to give you a memory that would live in your hearts, alongside the sorrow that was waiting. It may not seem so, but I think of your welfare. You know that, Katya?’
‘Yes, all right.’ She said it caustically, to discourage any further appeals to the heart. Handing those drawings to Una earlier had felt like a trainee trapeze artist’s first leap into the void. If the American returned them with mere polite comments, or worse, with humour or disdain, Katya’s embryo ambitions would be dashed.
Drawing up outside No. 6, Aleksey shut off the engine. ‘You can take those translations to the bank now.’
‘First to a notary, to get them stamped as genuine. Then to the bank. What I really need,’ Katya said with feeling, ‘is the original deposit certificate. That was worth a fortune to us.’ Inside the house, she went quickly upstairs, regretting the impulsive confidence. Aleksey was no gossip, as far as she knew, but he was human. She didn’t want every neighbour knowing that the Vytenis ladies had money locked up, just out of reach. Aleksey followed her up to the next landing and she prepared once more to rebuff him, but again, he surprised her.
‘What did you mean before, about turning your hand to fashion?’
‘Exactly that. I mean to become a dress designer.’
‘Until you marry.’ ‘Marry’ sounded like a heavy book falling shut. ‘Then you will take care of home and husband.’
‘Will I? Thank you. Goodnight.’
* * *
The following day, the Vytenis family visited a notary on Boulevard Malesherbes where they swore oaths as to their identities and had their translated documents stamped as authentic. Suddenly, Irina and Tatiana were brimming with ideas of how to spend money that was surely as good as in their pockets. Leaving them to window-shop and dream, Katya went on to the bank where she handed the papers over to a deputy-deputy clerk.
She was told to expect the bank’s decision in due course.
‘How long might that be?’ she asked.
The answer: As long as is it took.
* * *
Katya launched her fashion venture within hours of Dedushka’s Café’s Georgy Filatov giving her notice for the end of the month.
‘I’m sorry I cannot employ you alongside Maria, but…’ he shrugged. Prices, taxes, inflation. However, he invited her to canvas his female customers for commissions. ‘Since Maria tells me that dressmaking is how you mean to earn money now.’
Katya hadn’t told Maria of her intentions. Clearly, news moved fast in “Little Moscow”.
She secured three orders in as many days, but the weakness in her plan showed at once. She’d been taught to sew and embroider prettily, but was not by any stretch a professional. Of her new customers, two gave her a picture cut from a magazine with the instruction, ‘Like that, only in my size’. Princess Provolskaya produced a worn-out summer frock and a newspaper image of the silent film star Mary Pickford, asking Katya to remake the dress to match.
‘Only shorter, and perhaps with a slightly higher neck?’
With no idea how to draft patterns from pictures, Katya unpicked the princess’s dress and spread the segments on the floor. Their room was too small for a proper table. She drew around the pieces with a crayon, on newspaper, and her mother kept walking on them. Anoushka crawled over them, mixing the pieces up. When Tatiana pointed out that she’d cut two left sleeves, Katya gave up in despair. However, a trip to Galleries Lafayette brought the welcome discovery that Vogue magazine had started producing paper patterns. A week’s wages went on three dress patterns and squared paper for scaling them to fit her customers’ dimensions. That was when it struck Katya that she hadn’t measured her clients.
Every night after work, she hand-sewed into the early hours, until her fingers thickened and her eyes dried. She persisted and, at last, she completed the work. Washed and ironed, the finished results were better than she’d hoped. Except she hadn’t factored in the disappointment of clients who, finding they did not look like the ladies in their pictures, cavilled about payment. Only Princess Provolskaya paid in full, but Katya was badly out of pocket. With the end of paid employment only a few days away, she trudged through Parc Monceau. Harry Morten’s conditional promise walked with her: ‘I can help you, but don’t make it harder.’ Dressmaking was hard. Dreams were painful.
* * *
On the last day of February, she collected her final wage packet and a wedge of poppy-seed cake. Georgy Filatov added a bonus, which she thought she might justifiably spend on a book on sewing techniques. Instead, she found a doctor’s bill waiting at home. Six consultations for Princess Irina Vytenis with Dr Shepkin, and an on-going prescription of veronal.
‘How many bottles, Mama?’
‘I only take a tablet when I need it,’ Irina insisted. Though it was after two in the afternoon, she was huddled under her blankets. ‘Take them from me, you might as well push me into the river.’
‘In a wheelbarrow or an invalid chair?’
Her mother didn’t smile.
‘You’d sleep better if you got some fresh air and exercise.’
‘The doctor says I must rest.’
Knowing better than to pit her opinion against the revered Dr Shepkin, Katya pursued her point by other means. She took the baby on a motorbus ride to the flea market at Porte de Clichy, in the neighbouring district. Anoushka loved the motion of the bus, squealing and charming the other passengers who all assumed Katya to be ‘Maman’, thanks to Vera’s ring. At the market, Katya spent her bonus payment on a second-hand baby carriage with silver wheels and sprung suspension, and a cabriolet hood to keep off the rain. The man who sold it to her said it was English-made. ‘Over there, it is called a “perambulator” or a “pram”.’
Katya added the words to her vocabulary. For some reason, they made her smile. At home, she called Tatiana down to help her lug the carriage into a niche under the stairs, and even her sister smiled.
‘Let’s take an afternoon stroll,’ Tatiana said, bouncing it to test the springs.
‘Let’s. The daffodils are poking through in the park.’
‘Not Parc Monceau, it’s full of ancient gardeners and English nannies. Bois de Boulogne is the place to be seen.’
