been stolen one day.
I left, thanking her for her trouble, and as I ambled on through the museum, I realised something else; that what was wrong with the Venus was what was wrong with the margrave.
The end of the war, the end of any war, was the perfect place to hide, to change yourself, to become something and someone else. There are far too many other things to worry about, as an occupied land is restored and repaired, to question the validity of every story you’re told. And after all, Paris in 1944 , I knew, must have been full of many stories stranger than the one about the Estonian count suddenly rebuilding a tiny ruined chateau at the edge of a park.
He might well be the Margrave Verovkin, once of Estonia. Or then again he might be anyone else at all with a knowledge of Russian and a large amount of money.
Chapter 10
I met Marian in the brasserie where I’d first seen her with Verovkin. I caught sight of her as she crossed from the other side of the square, by the steps of the grand church opposite the museum, and watched her come towards the restaurant, walking slowly through the steady rain despite the fact that she didn’t have an umbrella.
She seemed tired and cold when she arrived, so I ordered cognac again, which she drank quickly.
She smiled.
‘What are we eating?’
‘You’re the local, you tell me,’ I answered and watched her as she perused the menu. She looked just as lovely as before; still, I thought, not beautiful, but her face was fascinating to me. As she read, drops of rainwater formed on the end of a ringlet by her forehead and, having become too swollen, dripped on to the table. She noticed and drew her fingertip through the water in slow circles. The drops of water clung to themselves, rising from the dark red lacquer of the varnished tabletop. It was, somehow, incredibly erotic, and I had to pull my eyes away for fear I might embarrass myself.
‘Bouillabaisse,’ she said firmly, and I ordered that and some red wine.
‘How’re the English lessons coming along?’ I asked. It was the most innocuous way I could think of to get her to talk about Verovkin. I wondered again whether I should tell her my suspicions about him, warn her that she was in danger, but the time wasn’t right. Even to me it sounded fantastical and I needed to wait until I knew for sure. If I let her talk she might tell me something that would confirm it for me, one way or another. So I let it lurk in the back of my mind, unsaid.
‘Well,’ she answered. ‘Very well. It’s good for me to learn how to teach. It will make my writing better too, I think.’
‘Yes, that could be true,’ I said. ‘So, what’s his first language? Russian? Estonian? German maybe, if he grew up in Austria and Switzerland?’
‘He speaks lots of languages. I’ve never heard him speak any of them really, apart from French, of course, though occasionally he says something to me in Russian. Just little pleasantries I suppose. I don’t know if he speaks Estonian, he left when he was a boy and the nobility spoke Russian or French, didn’t they? His vowel sounds are hard to place. Maybe that’s the German mixture in there . . . I’m no linguist.’
‘Yet you speak excellent French.’
‘So would you if you lived here for a couple of years.’
I conceded that point.
‘How is your conference?’ she asked politely.
I thought about it. It struck me that something had changed. I had seen this conference as an exciting opportunity, as the start of my career proper, as a chance to make my mark. Instead, it had been a failure for me personally, and even more disturbing than that, I realised I didn’t even care. Something had changed. The coincidence of seeing Verovkin had pushed all thoughts of my work aside, and now I found myself thinking mostly about one person.
Maybe for the first time, I actually questioned whether being a doctor was what I wanted to do. Or whether it was just something I had found myself
I left, thanking her for her trouble, and as I ambled on through the museum, I realised something else; that what was wrong with the Venus was what was wrong with the margrave.
The end of the war, the end of any war, was the perfect place to hide, to change yourself, to become something and someone else. There are far too many other things to worry about, as an occupied land is restored and repaired, to question the validity of every story you’re told. And after all, Paris in 1944 , I knew, must have been full of many stories stranger than the one about the Estonian count suddenly rebuilding a tiny ruined chateau at the edge of a park.
He might well be the Margrave Verovkin, once of Estonia. Or then again he might be anyone else at all with a knowledge of Russian and a large amount of money.
Chapter 10
I met Marian in the brasserie where I’d first seen her with Verovkin. I caught sight of her as she crossed from the other side of the square, by the steps of the grand church opposite the museum, and watched her come towards the restaurant, walking slowly through the steady rain despite the fact that she didn’t have an umbrella.
She seemed tired and cold when she arrived, so I ordered cognac again, which she drank quickly.
She smiled.
‘What are we eating?’
‘You’re the local, you tell me,’ I answered and watched her as she perused the menu. She looked just as lovely as before; still, I thought, not beautiful, but her face was fascinating to me. As she read, drops of rainwater formed on the end of a ringlet by her forehead and, having become too swollen, dripped on to the table. She noticed and drew her fingertip through the water in slow circles. The drops of water clung to themselves, rising from the dark red lacquer of the varnished tabletop. It was, somehow, incredibly erotic, and I had to pull my eyes away for fear I might embarrass myself.
‘Bouillabaisse,’ she said firmly, and I ordered that and some red wine.
‘How’re the English lessons coming along?’ I asked. It was the most innocuous way I could think of to get her to talk about Verovkin. I wondered again whether I should tell her my suspicions about him, warn her that she was in danger, but the time wasn’t right. Even to me it sounded fantastical and I needed to wait until I knew for sure. If I let her talk she might tell me something that would confirm it for me, one way or another. So I let it lurk in the back of my mind, unsaid.
‘Well,’ she answered. ‘Very well. It’s good for me to learn how to teach. It will make my writing better too, I think.’
‘Yes, that could be true,’ I said. ‘So, what’s his first language? Russian? Estonian? German maybe, if he grew up in Austria and Switzerland?’
‘He speaks lots of languages. I’ve never heard him speak any of them really, apart from French, of course, though occasionally he says something to me in Russian. Just little pleasantries I suppose. I don’t know if he speaks Estonian, he left when he was a boy and the nobility spoke Russian or French, didn’t they? His vowel sounds are hard to place. Maybe that’s the German mixture in there . . . I’m no linguist.’
‘Yet you speak excellent French.’
‘So would you if you lived here for a couple of years.’
I conceded that point.
‘How is your conference?’ she asked politely.
I thought about it. It struck me that something had changed. I had seen this conference as an exciting opportunity, as the start of my career proper, as a chance to make my mark. Instead, it had been a failure for me personally, and even more disturbing than that, I realised I didn’t even care. Something had changed. The coincidence of seeing Verovkin had pushed all thoughts of my work aside, and now I found myself thinking mostly about one person.
Maybe for the first time, I actually questioned whether being a doctor was what I wanted to do. Or whether it was just something I had found myself
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