The Secret Vow, page 20
‘I can’t wear it now,’ Katya said in despair. So nervous about the evening ahead, she’d failed to realise how much she was looking forward to Harry Morten’s company. ‘I can’t go out.’
‘Pah!’ was Charlotte Brunet’s response. ‘I’ve seen worse disasters than this in my career. I’ve caused a few, too.’ Laying the dress on the table, she cut away the damaged gauze, until it was just a black silk camisole top attached to a bold, striped skirt. ‘Now try it on.’
‘I’ve never gone out with bare shoulders in my life,’ Katya said as she emerged from the changing cubicle. ‘I’d need to wear a shawl.’
Cries of outrage. ‘Time for shawls when you’re fifty, chérie.’
Charlotte Brunet said pithily, ‘One sees so many middle-aged women showing off shoulders as stringy as boiled mutton, you’ve no excuse to hide yours. But if you feel exposed, let’s give you a stole.’ She sent a girl to fetch something and the girl returned with a web of black silk net, scattered with flock roses. She’d also brought Katya a headpiece, curls of gold wire on a pearl-studded band.
‘Perfect,’ said Mademoiselle Brunet. She told Katya to go and do something with her hair and put on a little make-up.
The staff washroom was up on the third floor, and in the corridor where she’d been dragged by the hair, Katya was greeted by Bibi and two of Bibi’s friends. They were in high spirits, but their laughter stopped instantly. Three to one.
One of the girls feigned dismay at the sight of Katya’s bare shoulders. ‘What’s happened to your dress? One feels there should be so much more to it.’
‘It lacks a top, that’s what you’re thinking, Dominique,’ the other girl chimed in.
Bibi gave the dress a disparaging once-over. ‘That’s for wearing to a cabaret. Who are you going out with?’
‘My grandmother,’ Katya told her.
Noticing the headdress in Katya’s hand, Bibi asked, ‘Who gave you permission to take that?’
‘Mademoiselle Brunet.’ Katya calculated that Bibi would not take her battle to Madame Frankel’s well-liked deputy. She was right. Bibi shrugged, then, drawing her friends in with a smirk, suggested that they could have yet more fun with their scissors.
‘That skirt could do with shortening.’
Katya assessed her chances of getting down the stairs but likely, they’d come after her. An ‘accidental’ shove in the back and she’d be done for. ‘My lioness.’ Her father’s voice floated into her ear, a feather on the wind. She held Bibi’s eye and said, ‘Do me any more harm, I will repay you in kind. Even if it takes me ten years.’
They let her go.
As the washroom door swung behind her with no sound of following footsteps, Katya let out the breath she’d been holding. Fear had made her sweat, and she took off the dress so she could wash at the sink. She raised her arms, soaping and drying the pits. Since attending her first ball aged sixteen, she’d been in the habit of stripping her underarms with Persian wax. Vera had shown her how, though her sister’s body hair had been floss-fine. Katya stared at herself, arms raised. Her breasts were more womanly these days, and firm, nipples the exact pink of her lips. She was about to spend the evening with a man, her body blushing at the prospect. They said it was a form of madness, wasn’t it? These feelings… the ones well-born girls were not supposed to entertain. She ran her fingers over her breasts, astonished as the flesh hardened beneath her fingers. Trailed fingertips along her throat, over her lips which opened. Cupped her face, gently massaged her hair roots. How to do her hair tonight… she’d undo her braid, roll it into a bun, perhaps with a few curls escaping. Under the mirror lights her hair glowed like a cathedral screen.
What does Vera look like now? The mocking question came from nowhere, as though the mirror had spoken: What of that ivory flesh, the platinum hair, the white bones…
The door banging open was her deliverance. She tried to retrieve her dress as the lights went out. Somebody rammed her face into the sink. Her plait was yanked like a bell rope and she felt the cold kiss of steel against the back of her neck, heard the chunky bite of scissors.
* * *
Katya fumbled for the light cord and pulled it. The girl looking back at her in the mirror had wide eyes and hair springing either side of her neck like newly scythed corn. In the sink lay her amputated plait.
Chapter 15
‘Not cold, are you?’ Harry had given Katya a travel rug to put over her knees. Though the car hood was down, as in Aleksey’s cab there was no side glass.
‘I’m fine.’ She’d hardly said a word since he’d drawn up outside her workplace. Not even the car’s showroom polish, its white wheels and gleaming spokes had wrenched more than a brief smile from her. She’d only just stopped shaking.
‘If not cold, scared?’ He sounded concerned.
‘Speed doesn’t scare me,’ she assured him. ‘I used to drive with my father and he’d race horse-drawn troikas. He’d have loved this car.’
‘It’s a Pierce-Arrow 66 and I love it too. Do your scarf up tight.’
Katya had wrapped the filmy stole over her head and shoulders, and Harry hadn’t yet noticed anything different about her. But when he did? She often caught him looking at her hair.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Montmartre, though not to the butte.’ He slipped on driver’s gauntlets and fired the engine.
The Pierce-Arrow lived up to its name, flying along nearly deserted streets. The waxing moon was thin as rice paper in the twilight. Street lamps flickered because the power stations ran erratically at night. From Place de la Madeleine, Harry went up familiar Malesherbes, then across Place d’Europe, over the railway tracks feeding Gare Saint-Lazare. Follow them north and Katya knew they’d reach Batignolles where Tatiana lived. The promised address had never arrived. Katya sighed and Harry asked again if she was warm enough. ‘Perfectly. It’s a mild night.’
‘Have you recovered from Bibi’s attack?’
Katya’s hand flew to her head. ‘You know?’
‘I was there. I picked you up off the floor.’
‘Oh, that.’ Bibi’s first assault already felt like ancient history. Shock did strange things to time. This evening, she’d staggered down from the washroom, instinctively seeking out friends. While Charlotte Brunet had talked of calling the police, one of her couture colleagues had fetched curling tongs. Katya’s shorn ends were now a halo of finger curls clustering under the gold-spiral headband. A style bang up to the minute, had it been her choice… Katya had left the severed plait in the washroom waste bin. Perhaps she should have kept it to sell to Tatiana’s wig maker.
‘I’m all right,’ Katya lied and to get Harry off the subject, she asked if there would be dancing where they were going.
‘Of course. I’m taking you to Boulevard de Clichy. You’ll have heard of its most colourful landmark, the Moulin Rouge?’
‘Yes. My friend Aleksey Provolsky goes sometimes. I overheard his mother telling him that it was a “den of naked trollops”.’
Harry shot her a wry look. ‘Not the cleverest way to persuade a young man to stay away from a place. The Moulin Rouge is where the cancan is danced.’
‘But you are not taking me there?’
‘No. I strive to be a gentleman.’
‘Only strive?’ A cutting remark, but her emotions were off-kilter. Long hair had always been part of her identity and she had a powerful suspicion that Harry was not going to look at her new style and say, ‘Goodness, how very chic.’ He would want to know why. She wouldn’t tell him as Claudine had been clear: ‘One more catfight and you’re both out.’ Katya couldn’t afford to lose her job if Harry took it on himself to fight her cause.
After twenty minutes or so, they swung into a broad thoroughfare. Shabby buildings, a hotchpotch of facades. After a while, Harry pointed to a pepper-pot structure with red wooden sails. ‘Den of Trollops.’
‘Was the Moulin Rouge ever a real mill?’
He explained that it was only a few years old, built after the last one burned down. ‘I expect there was a mill on the site, once. For most of its existence, Montmartre was a village and it still has a rural feel. When we’ve got a day to spare, I’ll show you rue Rustique and Place du Tertre where the painters gather.’ A burst of speed, a whip of the breeze, then Harry pulled up outside a modern-looking building. He got out, discarded his coat and gauntlets on the driver’s seat, opened the passenger door. Katya took his offered hand, sliding out with her knees pressed together as she’d been taught. This was their cabaret? Blacked-out windows trellised with decaying anti-blast tape. No lights, no name over the door. The only sound was the rumble of electric fans through the grating at the building’s foot. The door was reinforced. ‘Does it have a name?’
‘It used to be “La Rose Rouge” but a few weeks ago it became “La Rose Noire”.’ Harry drew her attention to an art poster pasted to the door featuring five black bandsmen in tuxedos and bow ties. Four held brass instruments, one a banjo. There was sufficient moonlight for Katya to read, ‘Bowler Hamilton and his…’ she frowned. ‘His Moo—’
‘His Moochers. Don’t ask me. They play a new kind of music, American jazz.’
She was about to tell him that he needn’t explain, she’d already discovered jazz for herself, when a squeal of tyres made her jump. A car bounced to a halt against the kerb, the driver’s door flying open. Giving no time for Katya to prepare herself, Aleksey Provolsky lurched from his cab, demanding to know what she was doing in this part of town.
‘Does your mother know?’
Katya told him it was none of his business. Please, not another confrontation. She’d had enough ill-will tonight to last a lifetime.
‘Who is this man?’ Aleksey demanded, giving Harry an up-down look.
Harry answered him. ‘You’ve left your handbrake off,’ indicating the taxi, which was rolling gently backwards. Passengers could be heard howling inside.
Swearing through his teeth, Aleksey threw himself into the driver’s seat and hauled up the handbrake in time to avoid a collision with the Pierce-Arrow.
‘That would have cost him,’ Harry murmured to Katya. ‘Friend of yours?’
‘Not any more,’ Katya said curtly. ‘Let’s go in, please?’
‘Run away?’
‘Yes. Aleksey’s being very Russian, and seems to think he’s my elder brother.’
‘I don’t think “brother” covers it, from the way he looked at me. Am I trespassing on something?’
‘No.’
Aleksey was back. ‘I shall tell your mother you are out with a man, and no chaperone.’
‘Do what you like.’ The tang of liquor hung on his breath, and Katya had little doubt that he was looking for a fight. ‘Go back to your passengers.’ She could make out a man and woman in the back of the Renault, hatted, coated. ‘You don’t want to make them late for dinner.’
‘I am taking them to the hill,’ Aleksey informed her loftily, ‘from where Russian artillery bombarded the city a hundred years ago. A glorious hill.’
‘Sightseeing at this hour? Are they nocturnal, your passengers?’
Aleksey turned down his lip. ‘Always you make a joke, Princess. Get into the front seat and I will take you home.’ He seized Katya’s arm, dragging the stole from her shoulders. As he took in the minimal cut of her bodice, flames rose in his eyes.
‘You look like…’ The word he chose belonged in the barracks and Katya couldn’t find a response. But Harry could.
With the advantage of speed, he caught Aleksey Provolsky’s arm, twisting it ruthlessly behind the prince’s back. Aleksey gave a gurgle, then fell silent. Only his strenuous breathing as Harry marched him to his cab gave a hint of the pain.
‘Go find a cup of coffee,’ Katya heard Harry say as he shoved Aleksey onto the front seat. She hastily rearranged the stole over her hair and shoulders, and joined Harry in time to see him take the key from the ignition. Harry opened a rear door and tossed the key on to the male passenger’s lap, saying, ‘If you know how to drive, I suggest you do.’
Unimpressed, the man pulled a black, domed hat down over his brow and thumped on the glass partition, shouting in Russian for Aleksey to ‘Get going!’
Katya glimpsed the woman beside him. She wore a dowdy hat, her face obscured by several layers of gauze veil.
‘Whoever they are,’ Harry said lightly as the cab’s tail lights veered down the boulevard, ‘I hope they’ve prayed to St Christopher.’ Humour evaporated. ‘Nobody will ever speak to you like that again, Princess. Not in my hearing.’
‘I take back what I said earlier. You do not ‘strive’ to be a gentleman, you are one. Aleksey doesn’t understand the word.’
* * *
Inside the club, Harry bought tickets while Katya fiddled with her stole, unable to decide whether or not to remove it. The electrics snatched the decision from her, by abruptly dying. Katya heard the hat-check girl groan, ‘Another damn blackout.’
In the darkness, Katya untied the stole. Now or never. Harry took her arm, using his cigarette lighter to find a baize door. A moment later, Katya was looking down a flight of stairs which disappeared into shadow. The last time she’d walked down into darkness, a nightmare had greeted her.
Harry registered her reluctance and took her arm, so they could go down together.
‘Since I went looking for my sister Vera,’ Katya explained messily, ‘I’ve been left with a horror of dark places.’
‘In the Lubyanka? Did you find her?’
‘Dead. She was dead.’
Harry opened another baize-lined door and a moment later Katya was in a basement that was a sea of candlelight and saffron tablecloths. The air smelled of human heat, perfume and burned sugar. Waiters darted about, using cigarette lighters for illumination. Some moved in time to a tune being played on a grand piano. The pianist had to be working from memory, as his niche beside the stage wasn’t bright enough for him to read a score. His whole body was engaged; his head thrown back. The rhythm was fast one moment, slow the next. Katya said, ‘It sounds like he’s playing different tunes with his left and right hand.’
Harry didn’t answer. He was looking at her. At her dress. ‘Sorry?’
She repeated what she’d just said.
‘Um, that is what he’s doing. Playing ragtime. Princess, what have you—’
‘Ragtime?’
‘Ragged. Syncopated rhythm. What have you done to your dress?’
‘The blouse part didn’t suit me. I looked like an Easter egg.’ Not so long ago, she had stared into the washroom mirror, stroking herself, imagining his hands. She’d imagined it again when she’d been moved by the sight of his gloved hands on the steering wheel. He touched her arm, moving upwards to her shoulders, neck, face. ‘And your hair… I’ve picked up the wrong princess. Katya, what have you done?’
She turned away. ‘Hadn’t we better sit down? Nobody but a drunken sailor could dance to this music.’
When they had a table, Harry suggested they order quickly. ‘Best strike while the ovens are still hot. Hungry?’ There was a pucker between his brows, something unsaid.
Katya had been hungry, before Bibi got to her. Now she was awash with vertigo and terrible doubt. She felt very much like ‘the wrong princess’. An imposter in her own life. ‘What sort of food do they do?’
‘In theory, a scaled-down version of a pre-war menu. In reality, what they call “beef” can be something entirely different. Fish or chicken is a safer bet. Do you like rice? They do a decent Chicken Stroganoff.’
‘I’ve eaten more of those here in France than in Russia. It ought to be beef, but I’ll try it and I’m sure it will be lovely. Do I smell crème brûlée? It’s my favourite dessert.’
Harry held the menu up to their table candle. ‘Can’t see it, but I’ll ask. Shall we keep ourselves amused with bread and olives?’ He signalled to a waiter. ‘And to drink – the house cocktail? “Rose Noire” made from dark rum, cranberry juice and sugar syrup.’
‘Is that why I can smell burned sugar?’
‘Probably. They keep the syrup boiling behind the bar to overlay the whiff of damp basement. Or would you like champagne?’
‘Isn’t that very expensive? At the Ritz, with Una, some unfortunate stranger was given the bill. I offered to pay half but she said she had so many rich friends in Paris, one of them was bound to wander in during the evening.’
‘I’m sure one did,’ Harry agreed in a voice dry as grit, before signalling for a waiter to take their order. He asked for champagne, telling her when the waiter had left, ‘You’re honour-bound to drink as much as you can. As a Russian.’
‘I am?’
‘Millions of bottles went into Russian cellars before the revolution. Now, it’s down to a few thousand. The champagne growers are desolate.’
‘I can’t believe any goes to Russia at all now. Bolsheviks don’t drink French champagne.’
‘My wine merchant says different. So unless it’s being used to hose down the pavements, somebody over there is drinking it. Forgive me if I’m being boring,’ Harry had not pulled his gaze from her for a long time, ‘but you have done something dramatic with your hair.’
‘A trim. You don’t like it?’ She touched the curls protruding from under the headband. ‘I was assured it’s the rage.’
‘By whom, Una?’
‘It’s nothing to do with Una.’ She lifted her chin. ‘My hair, my choice.’
Harry inclined his head. Silence descended. A few couples had made their way to the dance floor and Katya used that as an excuse to twist around. Her ear was attuning to the music’s odd beat. Synco-something? ‘You think me capricious,’ she said, ‘but I am not.’
‘No. I don’t believe you cut your hair on a whim.’
‘I’m beginning to like this music. Ragged Time.’
‘Ragtime.’
‘I heard jazz for the first time in Brest, after we docked there.’
Harry nodded slowly. ‘All the American soldiers, waiting to board ship and go home.’
