The World Is Made of Glass Page 5

  Dear Madame,

  Our mutual friends, the brothers Ysambard, are excellent bankers; but, in the diplomacy of the heart, they are children. I gave them a commission to arrange an informal meeting with you at a supper party in my house. They bungled the commission. I can only hope they have not damaged my credit with you.

  I desire, most earnestly, to meet you. I have long admired your beauty, your sense of style and your independence of spirit.

  Will you do me the great honour of dining with me tonight? If you consent, I shall come myself to fetch you at eight o’clock.

  I am not, believe me, the ogre I am sometimes painted. I have a healthy mistrust of my fellow-men but a most ardent admiration for womankind.

  Please say you will come.

  Z.Z.

  The double “Z” was scrawled with imperial disdain across the whole width of the page. He knew that I would accept. How could I not? I felt like Eve, with the old serpent winking at her and offering her a second bite at the apple from the tree of knowledge. I had been a long time out of Eden. What did I have to lose? I scribbled a note accepting his invitation to dinner and inviting him to take champagne in my salon beforehand.

  I telephoned my couturier and asked him to display some gowns for me at midday. I then arranged for Andre to do my hair and help me with my toilette at five-thirty. Both were delighted to hear from me. Life had been dull of late. They hoped I would set off some fireworks in Paris.

  The arrival of Basil Zaharoff was heralded by gifts and explanatory notes: a vast arrangement of summer flowers, “because this is a festive occasion”; a crystal phial of perfume, “blended in my own parfumerie at Grasse”, a bowl of caviar, iced and garnished, “to accompany the champagne”. By contrast with this opulence, the man, himself, was a model of discreet charm. In spite of his Levantine origins, Basil Zaharoff was the very image of a traditional European aristocrat. He was tall with strong, aquiline features, white hair and a small goatee, immaculately trimmed. His eyes were grey with a humorous twinkle in them. His manners were cool and courtly. His first words were a compliment.

  “Madame, you are even more beautiful than I expected.”

  “And you, sir, are an extravagant but welcome guest.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “Someone rather more formidable.”

  That seemed to please him. I sensed that he needed flattery, liked people to be in awe of him. I saw now that the grey eyes were restless. They appraised everything. They lingered only on sensual detail. They could, I thought, turn hard and frightening. I asked him:

  “Why were you so anxious to meet me?”

  He did not answer immediately. That was another of his tricks I noticed. He always gave himself time to think before he answered even a simple question. He opened the champagne carefully, poured two glasses and handed one to me. He announced:

  “Let’s toast the meeting before we try to explain it. To a new friendship and a long one!”

  We drank. He made a canape of caviar, offered it to me and waited for my approval. Only then was he prepared to answer the question.

  “Why did I want to meet you? You are agreeably notorious. You have beauty, style and a certain recklessness which I admire. You are old enough to spell all the words and I am also old enough to be bored by young virgins just out of finishing school. Then, of course. . .” The hesitation was just long enough to be intriguing. “. . . There is the fact that many years ago I knew your mother. I felt I owed myself the pleasure of meeting the daughter who is so much like her.”

  I felt a brief, poignant shock, then a sudden surge of anger that my defences had been so quickly breached. I explained, coolly, that I knew nothing about my mother, not even her name. Zaharoff showed no surprise and no emotion.

  “There were reasons for that. I’m not sure they were good reasons, but humans are stupid animals. Your father was a brilliant man; but he could be stupid, too – like all Hungarians!”

  “Did you know Papa, too?”

  “For a while, yes. Then, as happens in life, we lost touch with each other. But let’s leave reminiscence until after dinner. It is only when people know one another that the past makes sense and the future arranges itself comfortably. . .. To begin, may I call you Magda?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you may call me Zed-Zed. All my friends do.”

  Once again, instinct warned me to make no comment. I was supposed to be able to spell the words. It was clear that Zaharoff was setting the ground rules for any relationship that might develop. In such a relationship, everything would be done by rescript over that imperious double “Z”. Zed-Zed would sign bankers’ orders; Zed-Zed would order breakfast in bed or love at the lift of an eyebrow; Zed-Zed might equally order a banishment or an execution – but he did write graceful letters!

  He was a gracious host, too. We dined a deux in his house. The servants were in livery, the porcelain was antique Sevres; the cutlery gold, the napery embroidered in Florence. Zaharoff treated all this finery with studied indifference; but he lavished great attention on the menu and his own part in its preparation. The pate was made to his private recipe; the soup was seasoned with his own bouquet of herbs. He had a set of personal carvers for the roast. He also had a little mot for the occasion: to the world he was a maître de forges, an old fashioned iron master like Krupp or Schneider; but here at home he was a maître chef who could still teach his own chef a lesson or two. He made a great ceremony of the wines, instructed me, pedantically, on each one, and watched carefully to see how I reacted to the drink. I wondered whether I was being tested as a candidate for bed or for the catering staff of Torpilles Whitehead.

  I guessed his age at somewhere in the mid-sixties. I also guessed that he was still vigorous, or at least ambitious, in bed – what the French call “très vert”. His body was trim. His hand clasp was firm and dry. He used every opportunity to make a physical contact, however fleeting.

  For my part, I had no objection to his little stratagems. I am always curious in sexual encounters and I have had some very pleasant surprises with men of Zaharoff’s age. Even so, I was disposed to be cautious with this one. I wanted no more opera scenes that might suddenly run out of control; and, besides, there was a whiff of danger in the air. So, when we went into the drawing room for coffee, I prompted him, quietly:

  “You were saying you knew my parents.”

  He smiled and patted my hand, as if to commend my patience.

  “Let me see now. I met your father first, in the early eighteen-sixties. I was in Athens, a young immigrant from the Levant trying to scratch a living in the capital. I hung around the Hotel Grande Bretagne, paying a daily tax to the concierge, who permitted me to tout for the souvenir shops and act as guide to the tourists. Your father was staying at the hotel. I remember him as a handsome and obviously wealthy young bachelor who was being stalked by every female of marriageable age in the hotel.

  “The concierge identified him as Count Kardoss, scion of an old Hungarian family, resident in Vienna, by profession a surgeon and physician. He was, the concierge told me, an ardent collector of antiques and sexual experiences. If I could manage him, I could have him. I did just that. He tipped me generously. I kept him out of trouble and saw that he got value for money. By the time he left, we were as near to being friends as was possible for a titled Hungarian and a little tout from Tatavla.

  “The next time I saw him was a year later in London. I was there trying to start an import business on a small amount of capital I had borrowed from an uncle. Your father was working as assistant to a famous London surgeon who specialised in gynaecology. We met by chance one Sunday morning in St. James’s Park. Your father was walking with one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. He did not offer to introduce me. Clearly, he wanted me gone as quickly as possible. We exchanged cards and arranged to meet later in the week for luncheon at a modest Greek restaurant in Soho.

  “At this lunch your father explained the situatio
n. The young lady was the wife of a titled personage on the staff of the Viceroy of India. Her husband still had twelve months to serve. She had returned early because the rigours of the Indian climate had proved too much for her frail constitution. The famous surgeon was her medical advisor. His assistant, your father, became her lover. I ventured the opinion that she looked as healthy as a prize filly. Your father laughed and said she was both healthy and newly pregnant to him.

  “I pointed out that both he and the lady would be ruined if that little item became public and that a safe and discreet abortion seemed to be the answer. Your father told me they were considering another solution. He would return immediately to Europe and set up practice in Baden-Baden. The lady would follow, after a short interval, on the pretext of visiting friends abroad. From a safe distance, she could compose matters quietly with her husband, arrange a divorce, have her baby and live happily ever after with her beloved physician. However . . .” Zaharoff gave a small theatrical sigh of regret. “That’s not quite the way it turned out.”

  “Obviously. But what happened?”

  “Your father left London and went to Baden. He was personable and well recommended. He soon had a thriving practice in the spa. The lady dallied in London as long as her condition permitted. Then, accompanied by her maid, Lily Mostyn, she set off on a much publicised visit to friends on the Continent. She would be home, she said, in time to greet her husband as he stepped off the ship from India. And indeed she was!”

  I gaped at him in shock. He gave a little regretful shrug.

  “She lived with your father until you were born and she had recovered from the delivery. Then, one day, she left the house alone and never came back. You were suckled by a local wet nurse. Lily Mostyn stayed on to help your father rear you.”

  “And my mother?”

  “Went back to her husband, who shortly afterwards inherited the title to a duchy in the West of England. She gave him an heir, lived out her virtuous days between London and their country seat and was buried beside her husband in the local cathedral.”

  “No wonder my father hated her!”

  “I think your mother had her own bill of complaints,” Zaharoff chided me, gently. “Your father was an incurable womaniser. He was on the prowl, day and night. He would take anything in skirts anywhere. As you, yourself, have reason to know.”

  I do not blush easily, but that last mocking phrase sent the blood rushing to my cheeks. I challenged him, angrily:

  “How can you possibly know all this?”

  “My whole business depends on accurate information. My researchers are well paid and very thorough.”

  Too late I remembered Manfred Ysambard’s warning that Basil Zaharoff had the best private intelligence service in the world. I wondered how much more he knew about me. I put the question to him, directly. His answer was mild but devastating.

  “I have, I think, an authentic biography. Your academic history, for instance: for a woman to do as well as you in medicine was something quite phenomenal. I know about your marriage and your husband’s untimely death. I know your financial status, which is sound but could be improved. I am aware of your problems with your daughter. I have a complete record of your sexual adventures.” I opened my mouth to protest. He silenced me with upraised hand. “Please! Let’s be calm! There is no shame, no great mystery. I own a number of the houses where you play: Gräfin Bette’s, for instance, the Orangery in Nice, Dorian’s here in Paris. A lot of my business comes from these places. Pillow talk sells a very wide range of commodities: mortars, field guns, submarines, high-tensile steel . . . You’d be surprised.”

  “Not any longer.” I surrendered with as good a grace as possible. “You’re a very formidable personage.”

  “I might say the same thing of you, dear lady. We should work well together.”

  “Work together?” I had not expected so blunt a proposition.

  “Why not? We have everything to gain and nothing to lose. Let me be frank. You and I are both outsiders – outlaws, too, come to that. Oh yes, I know the tale of the fox hunt and the poor woman who fell at the brush fence and died as you were trying to revive her. A sad story which can never, never be disproved. I have created fictions in my own life, dozens of them, and documents to prove they’re facts. We outsiders have to invent lives for ourselves, temporary identities, cover names, all that nonsense; but after a certain point that play becomes unnecessary. Once you hold power in your hands – and I do, believe me! – nobody cares whether you’re iron master, brothel keeper or the Dalai Lama.”

  “Aren’t you risking a lot telling me this?”

  “The knowledge puts you at risk, Madame, not me. So be quiet! Listen to me!” He was harsh now, and threatening. His cold eyes watched my every reaction to his words. “There is a war coming to Europe. I can even give you the approximate starting date: summer next year. I’m going to be sitting here in Paris running that war – with Vickers guns and Whitehead torpedoes and Krupp steel and French nickel and Skoda vehicles and Clyde ships and Swiss precision instruments. I’m the merchant they’ll all have to come to – iron master to the world’s armies and brothel master to the generals and the politicians.”

  “And where do I fit into that grand design?”

  He grinned at me over the rim of his brandy glass. Suddenly, he was the young imp with the sly smile, who milked the tourists at the Grande Bretagne.

  “You’ll be the madam of the biggest brothel in the world, with branches in every capital and clients from every court and cabinet. You’ll be my hostess when I need you and the lover of any man or woman I nominate. Whatever you pick up on the side is your own affair; but you’ll have a guaranteed income of a hundred thousand pounds sterling a year, paid monthly into a Swiss bank. Clothes, transport, lodging and – how shall I call it? – the necessary mise en scene will be charges against my enterprises.”

  “It’s a generous offer.”

  “You’ll earn every penny of it.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “What about afterwards?”

  “I’ll need provision for my retirement, insurance, call it what you like.”

  “There will, of course, be a substantial retirement bonus. But insurance? I will be very open with you, my dear Magda. The best insurance you have is my continued goodwill. Lose that and you are on Route Zero, a one-way street to nowhere.”

  I would not argue that point. I believed him implicitly. I asked, instead:

  “What makes you think I’m qualified for this metier?”

  He had that answer, too, worked out in his head. He recited it like a grocery list.

  “Item: you are a beautiful and intelligent woman with a mania for sexual experiment. Your indulgence will be my profit. Item: you are financially independent and therefore beyond bribery. Item: you are a physician; you have a knowledge of drugs, poisons and their application in personal and political situations. Item: you are vulnerable to your own vices. Your loyalty is guaranteed by your need of protection. Item: you can only flourish in an artificial environment and I am the best man in the world to provide it. Does that make sense?”

  “As you explain it now, yes. You’re a very persuasive man, Zed-Zed. However, I’d like to think about it for a few days.”

  “Of course. One should not make this kind of contract lightly. It is not at all easy to break.”

  “Thank you for being so considerate.”

  “Please, my dear! The best business is done calmly and deliberately. On the other hand, the best loving is done on impulse. I’d like to go to bed with you – now!”

  “Nothing would please me more; but I beg you, my friend, not tonight.” Once again I saw the sudden anger in his eyes. I hastened to explain: “You wouldn’t like me very much. It’s the wrong time of the month. But next time, I promise. May I call you tomorrow?”

  “Whenever you wish, my dear. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a great deal more of each other.”

  He lifted me to my feet and embrac
ed me. He kissed me with open mouth and stroked me with practised hands. I responded warmly enough to persuade him of my interest; but I felt nothing. That was strange for me and rather frightening. I can be wakened so easily – even by a smile or a waft of perfume or a touch on my cheek. With this man, I felt dry and dead, like a winter leaf tossed in the storm wind.

  JUNG

  Zurich

  Today Toni has the grippe and must stay in bed. Emma is delighted to have me to herself and urges me to take her and the children sailing on the lake. It is a beautiful day, with a light breeze blowing, and I am easily tempted out of my fusty isolation. While Emma packs a picnic hamper, I go down with the children to rig the boat.

  I have a momentary pang of guilt as I handle the sails and the cushions on which Toni and I have made love. The guilt evokes a physical memory of our mating and I hold the coarse fabric against my cheek as if it were a handkerchief or a scarf. Agatha, my eldest child, a precocious nine year old, asks:

  “Why do you do that, Papa?”

  I stammer the excuse that it is simply to feel whether the sailcloth is damp. She and Anna help me clip the sails to the halyards and thread the main to the boom. The little ones, Franz and Marianne, fold the cockpit covers and lay out the cushions. Their childish chatter gladdens me and recalls me to a simpler world from which I have been absent too long.

  When Emma comes down, dressed in summer muslin, I feel another pang of regret for a lost and distant time. She is thirty years old now and pregnant with our fifth child. I saw her first when she was only sixteen years old and I remember saying to myself, “That’s the girl I’m going to marry!” I loved her then; I love her now; but love is a chameleon word and we humans change colour more quickly than the words we speak.

  Emma is old Basel, old burgher class, old merchant money. I am small country folk, a poor pastor’s son clawing his way out of the muck of the cow byre. Our first quarrels were over money. She had it. I didn’t. Our next fights were over precedence. When I began to make my reputation as a clinician, an analyst, a lecturer, Emma felt deprived of the social attention which she had hitherto accepted as her due. So, the harness of marriage galls us both. We love each other, but we are often constrained to be less than lovers with each other.