had the gift of arresting and detaining one’s attention, a gift which she was never to lose.
I have mentioned the primal scene, that imaginary sexual encounter which children reconstruct for their parents and which some believe that they have actually witnessed. This primal scene I unhesitatingly ascribe to Dolly and Hugo. Her angry smiles, her sidelong glances at her husband, her brightening of expression as the day drew towards evening, all put one in mind of a sexual life lived not too far out of sight. At the time of our first meeting Dolly was in her middle forties: was it the anguish of ageing that had brought these matters to the surface? Yet I do not believe that she thought of her substantial attractions as waning, rather the opposite. Her impatience, as I now see, had to do with frustration, as if the amiable Hugo had failed to come up to the mark. In this respect, as in so many others, she might have been the natural daughter of my grandmother Toni. Toni too had been embroiled in a primal scene, although of a more authentically Viennese stamp. Toni too had had expectations of men and had been disappointed. Both Toni and Dolly had the same restless imperious turn of the head, the same beautiful predatory hands. I see those hands now, stretched out to take the cards, beringed, vainly admired. Their initial ardour, which was succeeded by the most virulentantagonism, also indicates a closeness of relationship which was always denied to my mother. For this reason my mother became involved as a witness to their drama, from which she always considered herself to be slightly removed. In this, as in most other matters, she felt apologetic. I upheld her, of course, as I always did, even when such feelings were still a mystery to me. But then, for as long as I can remember, our particular closeness had no need of explanations.
3
M arie-Jeanne Schiff, who was always to be known as Dolly, was born in Paris, in the rue Saint-Denis, in March 1922. Her parents, Jacob and Fanny Schiff, had arrived in Paris from Frankfurt two years earlier, a surprising move given the anti-German feeling of the time, but they were politically ignorant, as they were in most worldly matters. They migrated partly in order to better their prospects: they were poor at home, they would be rich abroad. They were naïve, hopeful, and a little unrealistic, as if one place were as good as another, so long as it held the possibility of wealth. Jacob Schiff was congenitally restless and was always ready to try a new town or city where he could exercise his not very advanced skills as a watchmaker. It was probably his wife who chose Paris: she was a dressmaker, in an extremely small way of business, but already more determined than her husband was ever to be. She knew him to be indecisive, unstable, and unreliable as a breadwinner. He had already left her and returned to her three or four times, not for anotherwoman but from a simple desire to be elsewhere. On his return he was eager for her welcome, as if nothing were amiss, but was unapologetic, wide-eyed, smiling, and indefinably dilapidated. A
Luftmensch:
the type is less common today, or if it exists is to be found among the young, a left-over from the hippie years and therefore slightly different in character.
They settled in the rue Saint-Denis, fifth floor, no lift. The flat was tolerable and more than they could afford: there were two main rooms opening out of one another, a bedroom, a kitchen, and a
cabinet de toilette
When their child Marie-Jeanne was born, Fanny Schiff slept with her in the bedroom, while her husband lay on a couch in the living-room under a mock tigerskin rug. Shortly afterwards he decamped, this time for good. Fanny received a postcard from Colmar, but otherwise never saw or heard from him again. She moved herself into the living-room, together with the dressmaker’s dummy she had bought: the child, whom she called Dolly, had the bedroom to herself. Soup simmered all day in
I have mentioned the primal scene, that imaginary sexual encounter which children reconstruct for their parents and which some believe that they have actually witnessed. This primal scene I unhesitatingly ascribe to Dolly and Hugo. Her angry smiles, her sidelong glances at her husband, her brightening of expression as the day drew towards evening, all put one in mind of a sexual life lived not too far out of sight. At the time of our first meeting Dolly was in her middle forties: was it the anguish of ageing that had brought these matters to the surface? Yet I do not believe that she thought of her substantial attractions as waning, rather the opposite. Her impatience, as I now see, had to do with frustration, as if the amiable Hugo had failed to come up to the mark. In this respect, as in so many others, she might have been the natural daughter of my grandmother Toni. Toni too had been embroiled in a primal scene, although of a more authentically Viennese stamp. Toni too had had expectations of men and had been disappointed. Both Toni and Dolly had the same restless imperious turn of the head, the same beautiful predatory hands. I see those hands now, stretched out to take the cards, beringed, vainly admired. Their initial ardour, which was succeeded by the most virulentantagonism, also indicates a closeness of relationship which was always denied to my mother. For this reason my mother became involved as a witness to their drama, from which she always considered herself to be slightly removed. In this, as in most other matters, she felt apologetic. I upheld her, of course, as I always did, even when such feelings were still a mystery to me. But then, for as long as I can remember, our particular closeness had no need of explanations.
3
M arie-Jeanne Schiff, who was always to be known as Dolly, was born in Paris, in the rue Saint-Denis, in March 1922. Her parents, Jacob and Fanny Schiff, had arrived in Paris from Frankfurt two years earlier, a surprising move given the anti-German feeling of the time, but they were politically ignorant, as they were in most worldly matters. They migrated partly in order to better their prospects: they were poor at home, they would be rich abroad. They were naïve, hopeful, and a little unrealistic, as if one place were as good as another, so long as it held the possibility of wealth. Jacob Schiff was congenitally restless and was always ready to try a new town or city where he could exercise his not very advanced skills as a watchmaker. It was probably his wife who chose Paris: she was a dressmaker, in an extremely small way of business, but already more determined than her husband was ever to be. She knew him to be indecisive, unstable, and unreliable as a breadwinner. He had already left her and returned to her three or four times, not for anotherwoman but from a simple desire to be elsewhere. On his return he was eager for her welcome, as if nothing were amiss, but was unapologetic, wide-eyed, smiling, and indefinably dilapidated. A
Luftmensch:
the type is less common today, or if it exists is to be found among the young, a left-over from the hippie years and therefore slightly different in character.
They settled in the rue Saint-Denis, fifth floor, no lift. The flat was tolerable and more than they could afford: there were two main rooms opening out of one another, a bedroom, a kitchen, and a
cabinet de toilette
When their child Marie-Jeanne was born, Fanny Schiff slept with her in the bedroom, while her husband lay on a couch in the living-room under a mock tigerskin rug. Shortly afterwards he decamped, this time for good. Fanny received a postcard from Colmar, but otherwise never saw or heard from him again. She moved herself into the living-room, together with the dressmaker’s dummy she had bought: the child, whom she called Dolly, had the bedroom to herself. Soup simmered all day in
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