The Days of Winter: A Novel

The Days of Winter

A Novel

Cynthia Freeman

For my mother and father with

love. Without them, there would never

have been Chapter One.

Contents

Magda

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jeanette

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Preview: The Last Princess

About the Author

Magda

CHAPTER ONE

Spring

THE YEAR WAS 1914. …The time was spring … the place was Paris … and all the poetry that belonged uniquely to that magnificent goddess was on display. The chestnut trees were in bloom … the boulevards were alive with people. Like a Monet painting they sat at the sidewalk cafés. The boats floated languidly along the Seine. Montmartre sang with a voice of inspired imagination which was translated onto the canvases, conjured up from the soul of the artist as he painted under the trees, hoping for a buyer.

Rubin mused. …If life allowed one the freedom to choose a secret desire, his first love would be painting. But he felt no bitterness in the fleeting thought. One must not be tempted by dreams that deny reality. …No need to dwell upon it since his life had been predestined from the cradle, as it had been for all four of the Hack sons. …

The Hacks had been barristers for two hundred years, starting with Rubin’s great-great-grandfather, Isaac, and perpetuating up to the time of Nathan, Rubin’s father. Nathan was also a member of the House of Commons. The firm of Hack was indeed prestigious; on the door were five names. There was much reason for Nathan to be grateful, Rubin knew, especially when he looked back and considered his blessings. Every two years a son had lain in his arms. When he had looked down at each newborn, just separated from the body of his beloved wife Sara, Nathan had reveled in the knowledge that this child would continue the legacy established by the house of Hack. There had been a Hack in the House of Commons at the time of Disraeli. Yes, Nathan was a proud and happy man. Life had endowed him generously.

Three of his sons had married into families of distinction. Maurice, the eldest, had married Sylvia Rothchild, Phillip chose Matilda Lilienthal as his bride, Leon’s great love was the exquisite Deborah Mayer, and now there was cause for further pride. Rubin, the youngest, was betrothed to Jocelyn Sassoon, a name so illustrious that even Nathan stood in awe.

Rubin’s thoughts on that spring day, however, were not centered on Nathan’s joys, but on his own pleasures as he walked the crooked, cobblestoned streets of Montmartre. His life had been filled with the grandeur of tradition and culture. Sometimes it was overpowering.

When Rubin had left London to visit Paris, he took a room on the Left Bank, which his family was unaware of. He should have been staying at the home of his dear friend Emile Jonet, where he still picked up his mail, but that address would not have given him the thing he was seeking. The Paris he wanted was filled with intoxication, excitement, the feeling of being free that he was not privileged to enjoy at home. He felt stifled at home, but here he felt as though he could soar like a bird.

That evening Rubin walked along the Rue de l’Odeon, turned right until he stood in front of Sylvia Beach’s book shop. He allowed his mind to dwell on the past and the present. Ezra Pound … James Joyce … Rubin tried to imagine the great men and women who had stepped over the threshold of that outwardly unimpressive little book shop. Exhilarated, he felt a compulsion to walk further until he came to 27 Rue de Fleurus, where Gertrude Stein lived. From across the street he looked up, trying to imagine her sitting inside, surrounded by the greatest treasures of modern art like some giant enchantress toward whom everyone felt subservient. For one moment he allowed himself to feel that he would never be privileged to open that door. Then just as quickly he dismissed the thought and replaced it with a joyous feeling that at least he had been privileged to stand on this street so close to greatness. Lighting a cigarette, he smoked it contentedly as he leaned against a lamp post.

Suddenly he laughed out loud, looking down at his dirty canvas shoes and his baggy corduroy trousers above which he wore a brown V-necked sweater. If Father could see me now, he thought, he would glare at me with fierce disapproval. Nathan was a meticulous man who believed that the proof of his status as a gentleman lay in his tailor. Rubin could see his beloved father now in the great London synagogue on Yom Kippur eve sitting in his black cutaway jacket and silk top hat, the tallis folded neatly around his neck, communing with God. Not that Rubin was irreverent … but Nathan loved God as Rubin loved Paris. The difference, however, was that Nathan must stand before his God dressed as a gentleman, whereas Rubin could stand before his goddess dressed in the garb of Bohemia.

With these thoughts Rubin wandered through the Paris night, along the quay and up the steep stone steps past Nôtre Dame. He realized two things: He had been in Paris for three days and had not written Jocelyn; also, he had not eaten since early that morning. He would accomplish both things at once. He found a shop and bought a postcard and a stamp. Leaving the shop in search of a café, mentally he wrote … My dearest Jocelyn …Please forgive me … for my neglect in not writing sooner … but … since I arrived in Paris there has been so much to see … Cézanne, Picasso, et cetera, et cetera, have taken a good part of my time. …The Museum of Modern Art has haunted my dreams. Stupid, simply stupid, Rubin admonished himself. It was not a travelogue he was writing but a love letter to his betrothed. Begin again, now. …My dearest Jocelyn, since arriving my every thought has been of you. I beg your indulgence for not having written sooner, but getting settled in Paris this year has somehow been difficult. My fervent prayer is that when I return it will be with my Jocelyn so that we may share the beauty that is only to be compared with you. Until then I wait for the moment when my holiday is complete to hold you in my arms. With love, Rubin.

Entering a café, he groped through the darkened room, found a table and seated himself. The café was filled with an assortment of painters, writers and expatriates all assembled for the same reasons, not only to escape the ugly realities of life in a bottle of wine and a cheap meal, but also to reach out in the need to touch one another’s lives. To talk … to laugh … to listen … yet not always to hear. It made life bearable to know one had friends in adversity. Rubin sat by himself enjoying the sounds, catching fragments of conversation. The smoke-filled room gave it an atmosphere of such intimacy that Rubin felt himself a part of the camaraderie. He was so carried away he forgot his promise to write Jocelyn.

The shirt-sleeved waiter asked. "Que desirez-vous?"

Rubin looked at the large blackboard attached to the wall. The bill of fare was the same each day … escargots … salad … onion soup … bread … fromage, and, of course, vin ordinaire, table wine, either red or white.

Rubin ordered onion soup, bread, and red wine. Later the waiter could bring Camembert. Suddenly Rubin remembered the postcard with the picture of the Eiffel Tower. Taking it out of his pocket, he began his soliloquy. He got as far as My dearest Jocelyn when a hush fell over the room. The strains of a gypsy violin began, and a voice so soft, so sensuous, beseeched … no, demanded … silence. Rubin looked up from the card, the pen poised in his hand, and sat, unable to move. It was not only the music that aroused him, it was also the girl. He had never seen anyone so magnificent. Her deep amber liquid eyes looked at each man as though she were his and only his. Her hair, which gave the illusion that it had not been coiffed, was parted in the center and hung loosely to below her shoulders. Her skin was silken smooth. The sheer white peasant blouse was cut deeply, revealing the top of her perfectly rounded breasts, which rose enticingly as she sang. Her waist was slim, encircled by an eighteen-inch belt above a black satin skirt which revealed her slightly full hips. The slit on the right side exposed her exquisitely shaped legs. The movement of her body became feline. When she finished the applause was tumultuous. She threw back her mane of tousled hair and laughed, parting the extraordinary red sculptured lips. There were shouts for her to sing songs Rubin had never heard of. When she sang in Italian she was bawdy and naughty. …No one need understand the language, the gestures spoke for themselves. And when she sang in Rumanian she was sad, poignant and lovely, ending in tears. And the song she sang in French brought tears to Rubin’s eyes.

Finally, after a long sip of wine, she began a wild gypsy song. As the rhythm gathered momentum, the crowd clapped along with her until the song reached a crescendo. Completely spent, she took another sip of wine, then half whispering, half talking, she said, "C’est tout. Je vous adore, mes amis, bon nuit, mon ami."

Wiping her forehead she left the small stage and joined her friends. Rubin could not take his eyes away from her. He sat in the shadows, watching. He would wait all night, if need be, until she was alone.

Closing time was three in the morning. That was always the happiest moment for Pierre, the waiter, when he could lock the front door and begin putting the chairs upside down on the round tables with the red and white checkered cloths. Then the lights were turned off except for one which cast eerie shadows on the walls.

Rubin had sat so unobtrusively in the corner all evening that Pierre was surprised to find him still sitting there, with just a small amount of wine left in the bottle. He said, Monsieur, we are closed.

Rubin looked somewhat startled. Oh! I am sorry, but I’ve been sitting here daydreaming … enjoying the wine and silence.

Pierre narrowed his eyes suspiciously on the stranger. You have nowhere to sleep?

Rubin was feeling lightheaded and courageous. He scarcely heard the waiter as he looked at the young woman who sat a few tables away from him.

Monsieur?

Rubin looked up. "Oui?"

I asked, do you have a place to stay?

"Oh … oh, oui, merci. What do I owe?"

Four francs.

Rubin paid, rose unsteadily and walked to the table where he stopped, looking down at the magnificent bowed head of soft amber-brown hair. Suddenly the head lifted and a pair of wide eyes flecked with green and gold met his. Close, she was more beautiful than he had imagined. She did not speak, but merely took the wine glass in her hand and sipped, peering over the rim. Her eyes inspected him openly, observing each feature of the handsome young face. Rubin was, frankly, overcome. Jocelyn crossed his mind as he saw himself lying beside this girl. …Then he felt awkward, doltish, for staring at her as though he were mute. He found his intermingled feelings both exciting and frightening at the same time. He wanted her so—

Why do you stare at me like that? You think I am so grotesque? She narrowed her eyes and threw back the heavy mane of hair.

He tried to find his voice as she draped her left arm behind the chair, crossed her legs, then slouched down slightly so that his eyes fell on the low-cut blouse. Finally he answered, I think you’re magnificent.

She laughed, with a sensuous huskiness. She’d heard that too many times to believe it. Shaking her head she answered, Magnificent … only magnificent? That, monsieur, is the best you can say?

In spite of the bitterness in her voice he repeated, Yes … you are the most magnificent looking woman I have ever seen.

She pursed her lips. You’ve already imagined how magnificent I would be in bed … yes?

Rubin ran his tongue around dry lips. I’ve imagined all sorts of things this evening since I saw you for the first time.

You’ve been here all evening?

Yes …

She laughed. You found the vintage wine and the singing so exciting, so fascinating that you could not find the power within yourself to leave without paying me the homage all great artists deserve, yes?

Yes.

Yes, she goaded him, but you also have nowhere to go, you are lonely. Let me guess … you are a painter or a writer who has not been able to sell your work. You feel that I could help you through the night, am I right?

You are wrong. I am none of those things. My name is Rubin Hack, and my home is in London. I’m on holiday, and I have a room—

Ah, she said, shrugging her shoulders, you have a room, you are English and speak French better than me. So I guessed wrong, it won’t be the first time. Life is full of little surprises.

You’re quite right, mademoiselle. If I had not wandered in here this evening, merely by accident, I might never have had the joy of seeing you perform—

However, you didn’t stay just to pay me compliments, you stayed because you thought it would be easy to share my bed … Don’t lie to me, I’ve known too many men since I was twelve. I pick and choose with whom I sleep. I’m not a whore, you know.

Rubin bit his lip and looked away from the anger in her eyes. I’ve obviously offended you, and I haven’t meant to. Forgive me. Please.

She searched his face. When had anyone last begged her forgiveness? Sit down, Rubin Hack.

She looked at him as he sat across from her. There was something very different about this one, in spite of the studied Bohemian pose. He was not like the pigs she had met in her travels. She took a sip of wine. I’m like a million other girls in Paris who have more than their voices to give … or sell. Tell me, Rubin Hack, honestly, why me?

If I did, would you believe me?

She shrugged. Perhaps … maybe your lies will sound more sincere than most—

I simply couldn’t leave without meeting you … speaking to you … hearing your voice for my ears alone—

Ah! She laughed. You are a poet.

No, I’m a barrister, and I have never been so affected by any woman in my life.

She pursed her lips. And what does that mean?

It means I was to be in Paris for a fortnight, but I am going home as soon as I can book passage.

Really? And why would you do that?

Because I can’t risk seeing you again.

This time their eyes met. She had known men too long not to believe him. …He was more than fascinated with her. But then her eyes grew soft and for the first time she let down her defenses. …Rubin had evoked a feeling foreign and unknown to her.

More gently she said, Out of simple curiosity, why, may I ask?

For the very unsimple reason that if I see you again I may not find the power inside myself to leave.

And what would prevent that? Are you married with ten children?

No, but I’m to be married, he answered seriously.

"And your moral principles would not permit an amour de coeur."

Yes, I’m afraid that’s it.

And with your English upbringing you have never had an affair with a woman?

Not since my engagement, no. But at this moment, the decision not to see you goes beyond any principles.

Really?

Yes … in my fantasies you’ve already been in my arms, I’ve made love to you. But even when the fantasy passed I realized that what I wanted was to have you with me, I was jealous of the men who …It’s crazy, I don’t even know your name …

She appraised him carefully. My name is Magda. …Magda Charascu. I am Rumanian, a Jewess from Bucharest, and I wish to apologize for being so rude and sarcastic.

Please … please do not apologize. It is I who should do that, but in my desire to speak to you and my … well, I have been presumptuous. The words tumbled out painfully.

Was it possible he did respect her? He certainly seemed to. But how little he knew about her. Magda laughed bitterly to herself.

She was playing the same game she had played a thousand times. The verbal fencing to keep a man from thinking that she could be taken easily … or cheaply. But Rubin had affected her physically. She wanted to sleep with him. She had from the first moment she had seen him. But love … hardly …Behind her façade she loved no man, no man was worth loving. But love had nothing to do with lust, of course not, so she took only from those she chose, and threw back the others—

Pierre coughed and cleared his throat. It’s three o’clock, Magda.

Magda got up, took one last sip of wine and said, "Come along, Rubin Hack, you may walk me home. Bon soir, Pierre, and turn off the light when you leave."

You tell me that every night.

And if I didn’t you’d forget. Laughing as she left, with Rubin following, she first unlocked the front door, then shut and secured it behind them.

They walked six blocks in silence, then turned onto a narrow cobblestoned alley. After another few steps Rubin found himself walking up four rickety flights to Magda’s room. The door was unlocked. Opening it, she turned on the bedside lamp. A clothesline was stretched from one corner of her small disheveled garret to the next. She yanked down the line hung with stockings, a camisole, sheer panties, chemises, and threw them into a corner. Without apologizing for the unmade bed, the dressing table layered with dust, the cheap perfume and cosmetics, she motioned Rubin to sit in the battered, torn red velour chair.

Out of habit rather than modesty Magda stood behind the cheap silk printed screen and undressed, throwing her stockings, skirt and blouse over the top. Seconds later she emerged, dressed in a sheer wrapper through which Rubin could see the silhouette of her exquisitely slim body. Her breasts were firm and provocatively ample, with delicately distended nipples. It was impossible for Rubin not to look. She seemed so casually unaware, almost like a naïve child. She had the ability to make her body a natural thing, as unself-conscious as the statue of a Greek nude he had been so affected by at the Louvre. However, she was not a statue. …She was flesh and soft, and he wanted more than anything in his life to feel her suppleness yield underneath his body. To touch her, to explore the inner depths of her passion. Out of fear that he would be premature, he sat rigidly, holding himself back with all the discipline of which he was capable.

He watched as Magda went to the small cupboard and took out two glasses. What will you have, absinthe or wine?

Wine.

She handed the glass to Rubin, then lay down on the brass bed, propping the pillows as she sipped. There was an awkward silence between them. Finally Rubin asked, How long have you lived in Paris?

For five years now, since I was fourteen.

How incredible, Rubin thought, a child, a mere girl alone in a place like Paris. Of course, he had guessed how she had survived but it seemed that life had never touched her. Life is an illusion anyway, Rubin thought. We see what we want to see. …What’s real and what’s not lies in the eyes of the beholder, like beauty.

As though she were reading his thoughts, she said, Don’t be curious about my life. It is no different from a million others. If you become hard enough you become strong enough not to let life beat you. Tomorrow or the next day you will be gone. What contribution could I make to your memories?

But you’ve already done that. I will never forget that I have met you.

"Yes, of course. She pursed her lips. You will remember me as you remember what you had for dinner last Tuesday. I don’t feel like playing games this early in the morning. Do you have a cigarette?"

Rubin walked to the bed, sat on the edge and flipped the package. Magda took out a cigarette and put it in her mouth. She waited for Rubin to light it. He struck the match. His hand trembled. Magda watched the performance, then took his hand and guided it. She inhaled deeply, blew out smoke, clouding her face like a veil. Do you want me so badly that you must act like a schoolboy visiting a bordello for the first time?

I want you as I have never wanted anything … or anyone in my life, he told her, and meant it.

She reached for the ashtray and snuffed out the cigarette. Unhurriedly, she opened the front of her sheer wrapper and slipped out of it. Then she pulled the sweater over Rubin’s head, unbuttoned his trousers and slowly undressed him until he lay alongside her. Passionately, hungrily, he kissed her … explored her. And for Rubin it was as though he was entering a bottomless ocean of pleasure. The waves covered him with love, dissolving his want and need, and then … the sea became calm and serene, and the whole world was a nineteen-year-old woman named Magda.

She lay still beneath him now, her body damp and clinging, her face and hair moist with perspiration. She had given him all she had. It was enough. It had taken him beyond the stars.

She held his face in her hands, then ran them smoothly through his thick black hair and looked into his eyes. Now you will have at least one memento to take home. I hope your bride will appreciate the fact that she is marrying a very extraordinary lover. Now go home, Rubin Hack. I’m tired and quite content—

"I love you, Magda, please understand!"

Closing her eyes and moving away from him she said, yawning, It’s like the measles. You’ll recover.

Magda, I know it’s too quick, but it’s time, I—

Half opening her eyes, she looked at him, then smiled. Go home, Rubin Hack. Not even God is worthy of instant love. Rolling over onto her stomach, she fell into a deep sleep.

Rubin watched her for a long time. Then, unhurriedly, he quietly slipped out of bed. He glanced around the shabby room, overcome that this beautiful girl he had fallen so incredibly—yes, incredibly, but nonetheless true—in love with must live out her life in such a place. With sudden anger he opened the door, hating the injustices of the accident of her birth, and of his. That was all it was. Even God was partial … preferential. He gave so much to some, so damned little to others. What had Jocelyn, for example, done to deserve her abundance? Or Magda, to be thrown like so much garbage onto the heap of discarded humanity. …

Rubin walked in the gray-mauve dawn past the now deserted café, past Nôtre Dame cathedral, down the steep stone steps. Turning right, he followed the Seine, looking below at the derelicts sleeping along its bank.

It was a bitter, frustrated Rubin who unlocked his door. Once inside, he stood against the door and stared up at the ceiling. Turning, he pounded on the door until his knuckles were raw. Finally he went to the washbasin in the corner and stuck his head under the water tap.

When he felt the anger subsiding, he wiped his face and dried his hair. Lying down, he put his arm across his eyes, but the face of Magda was still there. Remembering, recalling the feel of her body next to his, was almost equal to the reality. Now that he had known her, how could he possibly leave? Where could he find the reservoir of strength never to see or touch her again? He buried his head in the pillow. Spent, exhausted, he fell into a restless sleep.

Later, opening his eyes, Rubin was startled to find that it was dusk. Though he had slept for many hours, he awoke with the same heavy fatigue. His first conscious thoughts were sequels to the other ones—all of Magda. Still, he knew there was no out for him, no other course for him but to go home … it was his only salvation before he became too self-involved … if he stayed in Paris, there would be absolutely no turning back. …He was not a man of middle ground. With all the will, tenacity, he was still able to command he quickly got up, washed, changed clothes and packed, simply throwing his belongings into the valise. His hand poised on the door knob, he took one long look around the room and thought of the last few days. …

He had arrived in Paris with the love of one woman. A woman he thought he loved, or at least had sufficient affection for to take as his wife, to be the mother of his children. But now he was leaving with a deep, crazily obsessive love for another woman.

He had never, of course, thought of Jocelyn in terms of great passion. She was simply a lovely young woman, altogether worthy of bearing the Hack name, perhaps adding to it. She fit so well into the pattern of his preordained life. The prospect of taking her as his bride had never been questioned in the past. But time had nothing to do with falling in love. He knew one thing: in his life he would never forget Magda nor love anyone else that way. …He picked up his valise and hurried out, taking two stair steps at a time, until he reached the street.

After paying the driver, Rubin got out of the taxi in front of the Gare du Nord. He walked into the station and bought a ticket. Sitting down on a wooden bench, he waited for the train that would take him to Calais, where he would board a ship to cross the channel to Dover, then take a train to London where his journey would end at Victoria Station. And Magda would be lost.

Rubin sat, his body wrapped in numbness, watching but not seeing the travelers coming and going. A sudden thought nudged him back to reality. He had not only neglected to write Jocelyn, but his family as well, so they would not be expecting him to arrive home until Thursday of next week. Looking at his watch, he found there was time to send a cable. Getting a form from the clerk inside the small enclosure, he began to write an inane, contrived message to explain why he was leaving so soon. He knew they would be surprised at his rapid departure, since Paris had always been his joy and a holiday he looked forward to each year. Reading the cable to himself, he knew it was impossible, tore up the message, and walked hurriedly out of the station, forgetting about the ticket he had just purchased. He hailed a taxi, which led him back to Magda. …

Nervously, he tried not to think about the consequences of his impulsiveness. He could no longer be philosophical. He had no choice. If what he was doing would make him suffer later, after his marriage to Jocelyn—that, of course, would still take place—then that was an atonement he would have to live with, alone. But all he knew or cared about at this moment was Magda.

He hesitated before her door, staring at it for a moment, then knocked. When it opened, Magda stood in front of him dressed in the same sheer wrapper, the expression on her face neither joyful nor sad. She merely opened the door wider so that he could come in. Inside, he put the suitcase down. He said, I couldn’t leave.

She lay down against the pillows and looked at him. You look rather stupid standing there. Why don’t you sit down? He did, on the battered velour chair.

A sardonic smile showed around her eyes. So, you had to come back? Didn’t I give you enough of a souvenir to carry away?

I love you, Magda, can’t you understand—

"And can’t you understand, how many times I’ve heard that in my life? I don’t believe in love."

That’s because you’ve never truly been loved—

"And you truly love me. You adore me. You only met me yesterday! If it wasn’t so unbelievable, I would laugh."

Please don’t, Magda. I bought a ticket for Calais, and at the last moment I had to come back—

How touching. Why did you come back—to take me out of this place? To rescue me from a fate worse than death? Wait, I know! You came back to take me home to introduce me to your family. She said this with unmistakable bitterness. Get out of my life, Mr. Proper Englishman. You disturb me. …You have nothing to give me. Enough has been taken from me already. Breathing hard she said, "Do you know how my parents lived and ate? …Why they survived? Well, I’ll tell you. Because they were blessed with a daughter who had a commodity to sell. Do you know what it feels like to starve? When the pains of hunger become so excruciating, so fierce, you thank God you have a body to sell. Who cares if it’s right or wrong, moral or immoral? When your belly’s empty, you beg someone to take you and get it over with so you can run to the bread line before it’s all gone. I died more than once that my parents should never know how the food was brought to their table. And you talk to me about love."

Rubin went to the bed, took her in his arms and stroked her hair. You and I are not really so different, Magda. Life has taken us both in … I’ve got my love for you and my … obligations to the life that was, frankly, planned for me. Until now it didn’t matter.

Magda shook her head. You will choose your obligations. Now, please, get out of my life. Go away and leave me in peace. I don’t want to be loved by you, it will only destroy both of us. Take your ticket, go back to where you belong and leave me alone.

Just listen to me, Rubin pleaded.

No. I don’t want to hear any more. I no longer have to sell myself to feed my stomach. Here I finally have some sanity in my life … even living in a place like this. My voice and talent, such as it is, pay for these lodgings. And I choose who I sleep with.

I want more for you than this, Magda. You deserve more—

She threw back her hair, then laughed without humor. "How stupid you are, living in your little sheltered, narrow world. I ‘deserve more’? Since when do we get what we deserve? Did my father deserve to work since he was six and die at thirty, penniless? Did my mother deserve to go on living, wishing she could throw herself into his grave because her life had stopped? Did my brother, my beautiful, handsome Niko, deserve to be killed in the war at eighteen? You talk to me of deserve. What do you know about it … a barrister!"

With tears in his eyes, Rubin turned his face away so she wouldn’t see the hurt in them. Magda took his face in her hands. Taking the handkerchief out of his breast pocket she wiped his eyes. Almost too softly for Magda, she said, Perhaps you are not so smart about life, but at least, Rubin Hack, you can cry. Under different circumstances I might get to like you. There’s more to you than I would have thought.

Can’t you believe that a person doesn’t have to be born into poverty to have feelings—

It’s guilt you feel. You are very rich. I know without your telling me. That is what makes you feel so guilty.

He took her hand and held it tightly. Yes, of course I feel guilty. Life has given me so damn much and you so little, but I’m going to change that, I’m at least going to take care of you—

She laughed again, but this time loudly. I’ll become your mistress, yes? What makes you think I want you? Men! What microbes you are. You think all you need to say is ‘I’ll take care of you,’ and I’ll come running. I said you were not too smart, and I was right. You don’t know Magda, Magda Charascu from Bucharest. …You want a mistress, so get yourself one. You’ll have no problem, you’re very rich. I’ll concede that you are … quite handsome, not that it would matter to some mistresses. Don’t let it turn your head, but you are. It wouldn’t matter to most, but you happen to be a very good lover. With all of that you’ll have no problem.

"Magda, I love you. Can’t you understand? God only knows how much I want you—and not as a mistress."

She released her hand from his grasp, lying back against the pillows, bit her lower lip and looked at him. Light me a cigarette, she said, not taking her eyes from him. What do you really want from me?

Let me make you … happy—

"Happy? And how would you accomplish such a thing? You’re going back to your world, where you belong, and I’ll stay in mine. Now, tell me about happy. What kind of nonsense is that?"

Magda, I’m going to take care of you so you won’t ever—

Getting out of bed quickly, she shouted, "Ever? I think you’re crazy."

He took her in his arms. I don’t want you ever to have to do what you’re doing, at least I want to make it possible for you to live with dignity—

She broke away from him, looking at him in honest bewilderment. After a long, tense silence, she said, shaking her head, Why? What will you get out of this? Nobody does anything for nothing.

It will make me happy, knowing that when I leave … you’ll have a … well, a decent chance—

Narrowing her eyes in disbelief, she said, You would really do that for me, that’s all you want?

Yes, that’s all I want.

Still not believing, she said, I don’t understand you, Rubin Hack. Who does such a thing? You’re a fool.

No, I’m not a fool. I would marry you if I could, but since I can’t, at least it will help to know you’ll never be in need or—

And what about my not loving you? Doesn’t that bother you? Because I don’t. I don’t know how to love anyone. Now, do you still want to support me … forever?

"Yes … yes, damn it."

Shaking her head, she said, I thought I knew everything about men. But what I don’t understand about you is almost frightening.

He took her up in his arms, placed her on the bed, lay down alongside her. "Don’t be frightened. Don’t try to understand. We all think we know all the answers and suddenly they blow away like feathers. Please … accept what I have to give you. Knowing I love you will be enough … please believe me …"

She looked at him, tears in her eyes this time. I still don’t understand …

I find something … magical in you, Magda, that goes beyond my ability to describe it, beyond any logic—which is meaningless anyway. All I know is that you are part of me, and that won’t change. Not ever. And don’t mock it, please, not now. …

Mocking him was the last thing she wanted to do as he took her gently, then almost violently, speaking his feeling for her the best way he knew how.

At dawn Rubin woke up to the sound of Magda’s soft breathing. He looked at her face in such gentle repose. She slept like a child … a lovely child. There were no traces of bitterness, or fear. Nothing in her lovely face revealed whatever inner torment she might be feeling.

Going to his suitcase he took out his dressing robe and put it on, then found the writing case under his shirts. He began to compose a letter to Jocelyn. He looked down at the blank piece of paper for a very long time. He felt chilled, yet beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. His hand sweating, he began writing the letter, only to tear it up and start another. Five times he got no further than My dear. Then he forced himself to write: Dear Jocelyn, please forgive my neglect in not writing sooner. The delay has been unforgivable, but Paris becomes so intoxicating that each day melts into the next and one forgets about time and obligations. I offer my apologies and trust you will understand. Upon my return I will try to redeem myself. May this letter find you happy and radiant as always. My very best regards to your family. With affection, Rubin. Sighing, he moistened his dry lips. With contempt for his own weakness, he quickly sealed the envelope, put a stamp in the corner, and proceeded to dress hurriedly.

Looking like the London barrister he was, he scribbled a note to Magda that he would return by noon. He propped the note against the mirror, took one more look at her sleeping body, and left.

When he returned and saw Magda sitting up in bed against the pillows, his feelings took over again. The guilt he had fought was again pushed aside. Magda regarded him over the rim of her coffee cup.

Darling, get dressed, he said.

Why? she asked.

I have something to show you.

You’re going to take me on a sight-seeing tour of Paris? Lunch at Maxim’s in my black satin skirt? Or the Louvre, to soak up a little culture … yes?

Something more important than that.

More important than the Louvre! My, my, my! What could be more important than that? Just one thing, a Paris bordello. Am I right, Rubin Hack?

Don’t be so bitter, Magda, please, not today.

What’s different about today? Is it a holiday? A day of great hope and expectations?

Yes, it’s a very great day, he answered, kissing her gently.

She did not respond to his kiss. Her mouth remained rigid. Do you know how ridiculous you look, she said, dressed in your tailored London suit, as though you were ready to walk into Parliament? Look around you, Rubin Hack, and tell me how these surroundings suit you. What a handsome pair we would make promenading the boulevards of Paris together. It’s so funny I could laugh. There were tears in her eyes.

Magda, there’s no need to torture yourself like this. I can’t bear it … Stroking her hair, he went on, Get dressed, darling. Please.

She hesitated, then slipped out of bed and went to the wardrobe closet. She opened the doors wide, took out a black wool skirt and sweater and threw them on the bed. She quickly applied a thick layer of lip rouge, penciled her eyes, combed her hair, then sat on the edge of the bed and pulled up the black silk stockings which clung to her long, slender legs. She rolled the garters to her thighs and stepped into a sheer chemise. Dressed, she adjusted her black beret. "Voilà, she said, facing Rubin. You see the transformation? It only proves fine clothes make a fine lady, yes? Come, Rubin Hack, now you will lead me to my very important day."

When the taxi stopped in front of Chanel’s, Rubin helped Magda out. As he paid the fare she walked to the window and stood looking through it at the magnificent creation on the other side, draped in such studied perfection on the mannikin. For a moment she visualized herself standing there instead of the lifeless form so perfectly poised. Then her own image overpowered the fantasy, and all she saw was what she was, a shabby tart in a black clinging skirt and tight sweater revealing every curve of her body. All the anger, the pain and the hatred she kept carefully hidden away, deep inside her, rose to the surface. Swiftly, her mind moved to Bucharest, to death and war and poverty; to sweating bodies and filthy perverted men, to a twelve-year-old child. And at this moment she despised Rubin Hack more than the painful memories, for showing her a world she did not belong in; for evoking all the fears and self-hatred she thought she finally had overcome.

Rubin’s reflection now replaced her own. She watched him pay the fare, mirrored in the glass window. He looked stately, impeccably dressed in his Bond Street suit, his black bowler hat on his head. She wanted to shriek with laughter at the two of them. It was a game of insanity. Did this stranger, this Rubin Hack, think a dress from Chanel would make her a lady? No, she was a lady only in her garret, from which they had just come. In the café, where she was admired, desired …She wanted to run back to where she felt safe. If she went along with this charade, she would lose the most important, the only, thing she owned, herself.

Turning abruptly, she faced Rubin, who now stood beside her. Her eyes were cold as they met his. "You’re mad, completely out of your mind, if you think I’m going in there. Look at me. Look at you …We look like a pair of clowns."

Rubin at least recognized her vulnerability, and saw the fear in her eyes. He understood it more than Magda could possibly have realized. To him she looked like a fragile, heartbreaking child. Quietly he answered, All I see is you, and what I see is beauty. Come, Magda.

She looked again at Rubin, debating with herself, then her eyes wandered back to the creation in the window. Could she look like that? Above all, could she feel beautiful inside? Rubin took her arm and opened the door. She walked in, her head high.

Rubin wanted Magda to model the clothes. Patiently, he waited for her to come out of the dressing room. When she did, he was genuinely speechless.