Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Kristina

Nice, August 1923

‘It’s Americans you see everywhere, these days,’ said Kristina’s mother, Yelena, when Kristina and Sonia joined her for breakfast on the terrace of the Villa des Cygnes. The light floaty dress Sonia had made for Yelena made her look like a young woman, even with her grey hair and the lines on her forehead. ‘A stroll along the Promenade des Anglais used to be considered sufficient exercise,’ she continued. ‘The Americans are far too impatient for that. They need to be active – swimming or out on the golf course, no matter the weather. Now every hotel must have a gymnasium.’

‘Well, that’s good for us, Mama,’ Kristina said, trying to steer the conversation away from a topic that might upset Sonia. The reason there were no Russians out strolling on the promenade was because they were too busy working as chauffeurs and governesses. ‘I shall be able to sell my paintings to rich Americans and Sonia will be able to decorate their homes.’

Yelena eyed the young women’s clothing. ‘What are those outfits you two are wearing by the way?’

‘Beach pyjamas,’ replied Sonia, twirling around in the silk loungewear she had made for herself and Kristina. ‘You don’t approve?’

‘I approve very much,’ replied Yelena, taking Leo the rabbit out of his basket and placing him on her lap. ‘You look like two Chinese dolls. As long as you stay under your parasols and out of the sun. I don’t like this fashion for tanning. The young women who spend all day lying on the sand are going to look like peasants before they are thirty.’ She touched her nose to Leo’s twitching one. ‘Isn’t that true, my darling? You are clever and stay inside.’

Kristina and Sonia exchanged a smile. The moment Yelena had laid eyes on Leo it was as if she had found another child. She sewed him little jackets and bowties to wear. He had a pen in the nursery upstairs and Kristina’s father had fashioned some runs for him to race around on. At dinner, the rabbit sat on a cushion on the table and ate with the family. Kristina was attached to Leo too but had decided to leave him in Nice with her parents when she returned to Paris. She could not offer him the same sort of attention and lifestyle as he was enjoying in Nice.

Max and Serge arrived wearing white shorts and shirts and holding tennis racquets. They looked like movie stars – or the active Americans Yelena so disapproved of.

‘You must have got up early!’ Kristina said with a note of surprise. Max had gone to bed the same time she had, but she knew that Serge had stayed up late with Madeleine.

Before she could probe further, her father sauntered in dressed in a white linen suit, his beard and moustache immaculately groomed. He handed Yelena a bunch of freshly cut lilac roses from the garden.

‘What type are these?’ Yelena asked, sniffing the roses. ‘Their perfume is divine! It makes me think of sweet lemonade.’

‘Sterling Silver,’ he answered. ‘They are quite unusual and not at all easy to grow.’

Mikhail was the epitome of a male Russian aristocrat – tall and slender with clear blue eyes and fine features. Kristina had always believed it was impossible for any mortal to match his natural elegance.

‘They are the perfect mix of pink and blue,’ Yelena said, admiring the colour.

Everybody sat down and Mikhail launched into his favourite topic. ‘Like all lilac or lavender roses, they share the same symbolism as the fabled blue rose. Nobody has yet produced a blue rose. It is a quest for the mystical and the seemingly unattainable. Meanwhile, we have these roses to delight and inspire us. They are a symbol of enchantment. Speaking of enchantment, where is pretty Madeleine this morning? Isn’t she joining us?’

‘Haven’t you noticed that “Pretty Madeleine” doesn’t eat breakfast and likes to sleep in late?’ Sonia asked.

‘Because she is used to working late at night,’ Kristina said.

She had not counted on Sonia joining them at the villa for August. Madame Vertinskaya had come to Nice to stay with her brother and Kristina had assumed Sonia would stay with him too. Now the pleasant holiday she had envisioned with Max, Serge and Madeleine had turned into a constant jousting match between Sonia and Madeleine. Every time Madeleine opened her mouth, Sonia made some disparaging remark. After dinner the previous evening, she had said to Madeleine in front of everyone, ‘Your “little girl lost” act might fool the others, but it doesn’t work on me.’ To which Madeleine responded, ‘Your “poor little victim” act bores the rest of us to tears.’

But Kristina suspected there might be another reason Madeleine was sleeping in that morning apart from habit or a desire to avoid Sonia. And that thought caused her to smile as she sneaked a glance at Serge. On the top floor of the villa was an observatory and, above it, a roof-top terrace. Restless and unable to sleep from the heat the previous night, Kristina had risen from her bed with the intention of viewing the full moon from her father’s telescope. She had been upset by the argument between her two friends and gazing at an object so far from Earth seemed like the perfect remedy for her frayed nerves. But as she mounted the stairs, she’d heard the soft strains of music from the terrace. It was ‘Casta Diva’, the prayer to the goddess of the moon for peace, from the opera Norma . Kristina climbed to the terrace to see Serge and Madeleine illuminated by the moonlight. They had their backs to her and didn’t hear her approach. Madeleine’s singing and Serge’s violin-playing were sublime, and Kristina stopped a moment to listen. When they finished the piece, she stepped forward with the intention of joining them. But then Madeleine had laid her head on Serge’s shoulder. It was in that moment that Kristina realised they might be very good for each other. Madeleine would draw Serge out of his shell, and Serge would be a steady influence on Madeleine. Kristina went back to bed and slept peacefully.

‘Well, we are on holidays,’ said Yelena, pouring everyone a cup of tea. ‘If Madeleine wants to catch up on sleep, I have no objection to it.’

The tea was Yelena’s special blend of cinnamon sticks and cloves with orange peel and dried pineapple. It was sweet and aromatic and made Kristina think of her childhood whenever she drank it.

Yelena noticed Kristina’s pleasure. ‘Flowers might enchant us but tea is truly magical,’ she said. ‘It can produce a state of tranquil meditation – or give us courage if we need it.’

They all lapsed into silence for a moment as they savoured the tea.

‘I have something amusing for us all to do this afternoon,’ said Mikhail. ‘édouard and Beatrice Fould have invited us to their villa to view their art collection.’

The suggestion put Serge into an unprecedented state of euphoria. ‘The Foulds!’ he exclaimed. ‘Their collection is famous all over France!’

‘Of course it is,’ said Sonia. ‘They are wealthy Jews, aren’t they?’

‘They are members of the Fould banking family,’ said Mikhail. ‘They are generous benefactors of art to French museums, but are most widely known – and admired – for their establishment of hospitals, schools and low-cost housing for the poor.’

‘If we are going to visit the Fould estate then I had better iron my suit,’ said Serge, rising from his chair.

Mikhail looked amused at Serge’s eagerness to make an impression and waved his hand. ‘Don’t bother. You will be surprised at how relaxed édouard and Beatrice are.’

An hour before they were due to leave, Kristina went upstairs to wake Madeleine and see if she would like to join them for the visit to the Fould estate. Knocking softly on the door, she waited for an answer. When none came, she gently pushed the door open to discover that the pretty toile de Jouy guest room allocated to Madeleine now resembled a jumble sale. Clothes were strewn about the room, some inside out and rumpled. Madeleine lay face down on the bed, still dressed in her gown of the previous evening. The air reeked of alcohol and Madeleine’s unwashed body odour. Kristina’s eyes fell to the empty wine bottles on the floor. She picked one up and realised it was a vintage Chateau Latour from her father’s cellar. How had Madeleine found it? She was sure Serge had nothing to do with Madeleine’s drinking spree. He had looked brighteyed at breakfast. It was Madeleine. She had come back to her room and got drunk alone.

‘Madeleine,’ she whispered. ‘Are you all right?’

At first there was no response, then gradually Madeleine stirred. She turned her head and set swollen eyes on Kristina. ‘They took my baby. They took her away right after she was born.’

‘Who?’ asked Kristina, crouching down next to the bed.

Madeleine’s eyes were glazed over. ‘I won’t tell you his name because I don’t want him to harm you. But he is dangerous.’

Kristina waited for more, but Madeleine lapsed back into sleep again.

‘The taxis are here, Kristina!’ Max called from downstairs.

Unsure what to do, she felt a shiver of panic race through her. Should she call a doctor? But Madeleine was breathing steadily and calmly. After a moment’s thought, Kristina poured a tall glass of water from the jug on the dresser and left it beside Madeleine. She opened the window to let fresh air into the room. Then she collected the bottles and hid them in a cupboard before tidying the clothes as best she could. On her way downstairs, she said to the maid, Suzanne, ‘Mademoiselle Madeleine isn’t well today. Could you please check on her in an hour?’

She’s young and silly , Kristina thought, as she hurried to join the others. But what was that about a baby? After a moment’s pause, she shook away her worry. It’s nothing , she told herself. It was a bad dream. Madeleine will be all right .

She couldn’t bear to think otherwise.

*

The Foulds’ white semicircular mansion was perched on a hill overlooking the sea. Its modern design was complemented by an extensive Mediterranean garden, thickly planted with palm and olive trees. The two taxis transporting Kristina and her parents as well as Serge, Max and Sonia travelled down the gravel driveway through an avenue of looming cypress trees. At the front door, Kristina stepped forward to press the gold doorbell. The resulting chimes were so delicately musical, she imagined there must be a dozen servants on the other side tapping spoons against crystal glasses. A butler, far more formal in manner than her family’s dear Lorenzo, welcomed them into a sun-drenched foyer.

‘Monsieur and Madame Fould are on their way down,’ he told them, leading them to a drawing room with a breathtaking panoramic view. The Bergere chairs and marble-topped tables were opulent. Everywhere Kristina looked, there were stunning objets d’art: silver urns, jade figurines and ceramic sculptures. She and Max raised their eyebrows at each other. Despite the magnificence of the surroundings, Kristina, who was sensitive to such things, thought that there was something missing. Not in the décor of the house – it was exquisite – but in the atmosphere. A sense of the absence of something – as if the house were holding its breath and waiting for something to complete it.

A striking middle-aged couple entered the room. Silverhaired Beatrice Fould, wearing a simple coral sundress, was the epitome of understated good taste. Her husband, édouard, dressed in white trousers, a navy jacket and striped cravat, reached out to clasp Mikhail’s hand. His bushy eyebrows, flat nose and long jaw gave him the appearance of a friendly camel. Kristina immediately thought how interesting it would be to sketch him.

‘Welcome, Monsieur Belov,’ édouard said, correctly using the Russian masculine form of the family name. ‘My wife and I are pleased you have come with your family and friends.’

Mikhail introduced the Foulds to each of the members of the party, before presenting Beatrice with the bouquet of prize cabbage roses he had brought with him.

She accepted the flowers with grace. ‘They are exquisite,’ she said, admiring the ruffled blooms. ‘The flowers in Nice are always beautiful, but these are exceptional.’

édouard signalled to the butler. ‘Let’s have some tea here, shall we? We can go into the garden later, when the sun isn’t strong enough to cook us like pancakes.’

With much aplomb, the butler set out a tea table with a Sèvres porcelain set trimmed in imperial blue and gold and decorated with sepia paintings of Ancient Egypt.

‘It’s so unusual,’ said Yelena, admiring a teacup bearing an image of the Sphinx.

Beatrice passed her the sugar bowl to examine. ‘This design has quite an interesting history,’ she said. ‘The first set was presented by the Tsar of Russia to Napoleon as a diplomatic gift. The second set was produced as a divorce present from Napoleon to Empress Joséphine, but she thought it was far too severe for her taste and it was returned to the Sèvres factory. It was later offered by Louis XVIII to the Duke of Wellington. It now remains with his successors. This is a copy, of course, but quite a conversation piece.’

‘Beatrice is considered one of the foremost experts on porcelain,’ said édouard proudly.

‘It’s a passion of mine,’ she explained with an apologetic shrug. ‘I do hope I’m not boring you?’

‘Not at all,’ Yelena assured her. ‘You have before you an audience of appreciators of the fine arts. We love nothing more than to hear about a piece’s history.’

‘Splendid!’ said édouard. ‘That is exactly what I was told about you. I so wish that I had invited you all here when... His gaze travelled to his wife, and he was unable to finish his sentence.

‘We don’t have many visitors we can show off our art collection to these days,’ Beatrice said, giving the impression that the Foulds were the kind of close couple who finished each other’s thoughts. ‘It was different of course when David was alive. The house was always full of people then. He was so liked by everybody.’

Kristina now understood the sensation of absence she had experienced earlier. She remembered reading that the Foulds had lost their son – and only heir – at the Battle of the Somme.

Kristina’s mother reached out and touched Beatrice’s arm. ‘Such a sacrifice,’ she said. ‘I lost a dearly loved nephew in that war. It was a terrible waste of bright young lives.’

Beatrice nodded to show she appreciated the sympathy, but she quickly changed the subject. ‘édouard had a wing added to the house for his art collection and he has promised to build a similar one for my porcelain. Let’s finish our tea and then we’ll take you on a tour.’

As édouard and Beatrice led their guests through the house, stopping every so often along the way to point out a cloisonné-style vase or jar in a glass display cabinet, Kristina and her companions trotted along with all the excitement of children in an Easter parade. In one room, Beatrice drew everyone’s attention to a salmon-coloured vase painted with wisteria and peony blossom designs. Kristina noticed Sonia was staring at a pair of eggshell porcelain lanterns next to it. They were painted in delicate famille verte enamels. At first she thought her friend was admiring them, but when Sonia turned, her face was contorted with bitterness. Kristina had never seen Sonia look quite so dark, but she understood what she was most likely feeling. She remembered visiting Sonia’s family’s summer villa in Crimea, which was even grander than this house. Back then, Kristina had been in awe of the multitude of servants and the magnificent Afghan carpets that filled the home. Madame Vertinskaya had once talked as passionately about her extensive collection of amber as Beatrice was now speaking about her Syrian glassware. The only difference was that Sonia’s family’s fortune was gone.

Through a corridor with picture windows that overlooked a Florentine garden, édouard led the group into a gallery the size of a ballroom. Max and Serge gasped at the Flemish and Dutch masters, Mikhail was drawn by the stately English portraits, while Kristina and Yelena gravitated to the French eighteenthcentury works. Sonia stood aloof by one of the windows.

‘Look!’ cried Kristina with delight. ‘Fran?ois Boucher’s painting of Madame de Pompadour.’

It wasn’t so much the Rococo painter Kristina admired, but the subject. Not merely the mistress to the French king, Madame de Pompadour had been a patron of the arts and a follower of the Enlightenment. She had been determined to turn Paris into the capital of Europe for taste and culture.

Beatrice came up beside her. ‘She was a lover of fine porcelain and championed Sèvres.’

‘The painting is wonderful,’ said Serge, joining them. ‘The volume and the structure of the ruffles of her clothing, the suggestion of artifice in her make-up. It’s intimate but doesn’t give too much away – as a good mistress of the king wouldn’t.’

‘For someone so young, you have quite an eye,’ édouard said to Serge. ‘And quite a knowledge of ladies. Come here, will you, I want your opinion on these two portraits by Carriera.’

The two men walked around the gallery together,sharing their admiration for the art. Serge’s earlier keenness to make an impression had dissipated into easy and intimate conversation. Kristina thought it looked like the pair had known each other forever.

‘Well, édouard seems to have stolen your friend,’ Beatrice said to Max. ‘So perhaps you can give me your opinion on the Vermeer he is so fond of. Am I wrong to dislike it?’

Max pointed out some strong points so as not to offend édouard but also put himself in agreement with Beatrice indirectly. ‘Vermeer is not thought of as a painter of beauty, rather he is admired for his subtlety, and nuance of depiction of light. However, while I appreciate his mastery, I am not fond of his work myself. I find it a touch wooden.’

Kristina smiled to herself. Max could charm the birds from the trees.

They spent more than two hours in the gallery and édouard and Beatrice seemed delighted by their company.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said édouard suddenly, ‘I have in my collection an extraordinary painting. I’d like you all to see it.’

A flutter of excitement ran through the guests. Kristina had thought the Foulds’ artworks so exquisite she couldn’t imagine there could be one particular painting that could outshine the entire collection. It was with great curiosity that she followed the Foulds through a series of corridors that seemed to narrow as their journey continued. When they finally came to a set of double doors, édouard took a key from his pocket and turned the lock. The room was dim until he walked across and pulled aside the heavy drapes, leaving the natural light to filter through sheer white curtains. The walls were lined in red silk damask and devoid of any artwork, except one medium-sized painting at the opposite end of the room. Kristina instantly recognised it as a Renaissance work from the colours and style. She followed as édouard led them towards it.

As soon as they saw what it was, they let out gasps of surprise and delight. The subject was Flora, the classical goddess of spring and flowers. She was pale and elegant with sloping shoulders and sensuous curves visible beneath her diaphanous gown. A band of flowers sat on her head and she held a cornucopia of roses, from which she was tossing flower stems to the pretty nymphs gathered around. Kristina was struck by the brilliance and the luminosity of the work, as well as the harmony and sense of movement. This wasn’t just any Flora. Kristina’s eye travelled over the grace of line and took in the detail by which the flowers and other plants had been rendered. This was Sandro Botticelli’s Flora, the same one who appeared in his masterpiece Primavera .

‘Marvellous!’ exclaimed Serge, trembling with excitement. ‘A Botticelli! I was unaware a companion painting of Primavera existed.’

‘Yes, most definitely a Botticelli,’ said édouard, ‘but one that was lost for centuries. It wasn’t painted at the same time as Primavera , but later, and on canvas instead of wood, as was The Birth of Venus . But it’s much smaller than that work – a third of the size.’

Max studied the painting closely. ‘There is no Medici family symbolism in it,’ he said. ‘No crests on the clothing or anywhere else in the painting.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Kristina. ‘Although the model still seems to be Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco’s wife, Semiramide, and she is smiling as she was in Primavera .’

‘That is interesting,’ agreed édouard. ‘But the painting was included in the Medici family’s inventory.’

‘How did it go missing?’ asked Sonia, suddenly interested in the conversation again. ‘Was it stolen?’

‘Yes, it was stolen,’ said édouard, ‘most likely by Botticelli himself.’

‘Why would he steal his own painting?’ asked Yelena. ‘And from the patron who had commissioned it?’

édouard pointed to a blackened corner of the painting. ‘To burn it.’

After suitable expressions of surprise from the others, he turned to Serge. ‘You are a competent art historian. You explain why.’

Serge tore his eyes from the painting and spoke as if he was under a spell. ‘After the decline of the Medici family’s power in Florence, Botticelli came under the influence of a charismatic Dominican friar, Girolamo Savonarola, who encouraged the burning of mirrors, non-religious paintings, dice, playing cards, fancy clothes and luxury items. He preached that anything beautiful was offensive to God. It’s believed by many that Botticelli added to the flames those of his paintings that would have been considered “pagan” by the friar. It was to make a break from his hedonistic past and his association with the Medici family. From then on, he would only paint religious subjects.’

‘The bonfire of the vanities,’ said Mikhail. ‘But how did this painting survive?’

édouard smiled broadly. ‘It appears it was plucked from the fire by an ardent admirer of Botticelli’s work and hidden away. After its rescuer’s death, it was probably sold off or given away by relations who didn’t know its worth.’

‘But how did you obtain it?’ asked Max.

‘David found it in a junk shop in Portugal. The vendor had no idea it was a Botticelli. But David knew instantly by the style, attention to detail and the technique of applying the paint in thin, uniform layers using very fine pigments. Botticelli’s favoured binding emulsion was tempera grassa – egg and oil. But in his final glazings he liked to use natural resins.’

Kristina thought of her conversation with Serge in the flea market in Paris. Perhaps he was right to frequent such places!

‘But,’ began Serge, pausing as if he was uncertain that what he was about to ask was appropriate, ‘your son recovered it some years ago and yet it has not been exhibited. I haven’t read of its discovery anywhere.’

édouard’s face clouded. ‘The director of the Louvre and a select group of art experts are aware of it. The painting is bequeathed to the museum upon my and Beatrice’s death.’ Looking at his wife, he added, ‘We believe that great art is for all people, not only those who can afford it. But this treasure...’ He sighed and then with a voice trembling with emotion said, ‘You should have seen the delight on David’s face when he presented it to us. The memory of that expression has comforted me through my darkest nights. No, this painting will remain with us until we are both no more. Then it will take its place at the Louvre where it can be enjoyed by all.’

Beatrice put her hand on his arm and édouard patted it. In that gesture, it seemed to Kristina they had spoken volumes to each other without uttering a word. They had the best of everything, the utmost luxury that money could buy, but they would give it all up in an instant if it meant they could have their son back.

Mikhail stepped forward and clasped édouard’s hand. ‘Then we are honoured that you chose to allow us to view this masterpiece today. It is a memory all of us will treasure and we will not breathe a word of its existence to anyone.’

Kristina knew that her father had spoken from his heart. Her parents’ first child was a boy named Pavel who had died at six years of age, two years before she was born. Although she’d never had any lack of love and attention from her parents, Kristina understood that the hardest part of leaving Russia for them had not been the loss of riches, but the loss of places that held memories of their dear little boy – the rooms in the house in Saint Petersburg he once filled with his childish laughter, the pond where he launched his first miniature sailboat, the swing in the garden where he used to tell his papa to push him higher and higher.

Kristina reached for Max’s fingers and squeezed them. There would be tragedies and triumphs in their future too, and she wanted to go through them with him and for them to never be apart. They had talked about getting married after she made her first major sale. But somehow the moving scene she had witnessed between people who knew heartache made her want to become his wife as soon as possible. She would speak to Max that night. He could ask her father’s permission and they could be married before they went back to Paris.

Afterwards, as promised, the Foulds gave their visitors a tour of the gardens. But while Beatrice pointed out palm trees from the Canary Islands, South America and Australia, édouard and Serge lingered towards the back of the group, still engrossed in discussing art.

‘So, you prefer modern works?’ Kristina overheard édouard ask Serge. ‘David did too. But I never listened to him.’

‘It’s not that I don’t value all great art,’ replied Serge. ‘It’s that I prefer to discover and nurture new talent. Living talent .’

‘David’s words exactly!’ said édouard with a hearty laugh. ‘Perhaps you will guide me. Who should I start with?’

‘You should start with the artist right here in front of us, Kristina Belova,’ Serge said. ‘She is as yet unknown, but her art is exquisite. I’m expecting great things for her.’

‘Mademoiselle Belova?’ replied édouard. ‘Well, I should certainly like to see her work on your recommendation.’

For édouard Fould to display an interest in Kristina’s work was far beyond her expectations and she was grateful that Serge had such faith in her. But it was hard to feel confident about herself after having spent two hours looking at the works of the greatest painters in the world. Could one of her paintings possibly hang in such an esteemed collection as the Foulds’?

Kristina glanced at Sonia. A few weeks earlier, when Kristina had been recounting to her friend all the things that were wrong with one of her paintings, Sonia had slammed down the book she was reading and said, ‘Picasso doesn’t lack confidence in putting himself forward, and he doesn’t have half your talent. Max Ernst considers himself a genius, and maybe he is, but you are a genius too. Why do women have to squeeze their talent into little boxes so as not to make anybody uncomfortable? Or to avoid being accused of thinking too much of themselves? Nobody pays attention to humble painters in the art world, Kristina. You’d better start thinking like the men if you want to amount to anything.’

So when Serge called out for her, she straightened her posture and put on her best smile before turning and walking towards him and édouard.

‘Monsieur Fould would like to commission you to paint a portrait of Madame Fould,’ Serge told her. ‘I suggested you could start on it as soon as you finish your current portrait of Madeleine.’

Madame Fould stopped her tour and looked from Serge to Kristina. ‘You are a painter? I didn’t realise. I would certainly be most flattered.’

‘Kristina is truthful in her portraits, Madame Fould,’ said Serge. ‘She aims to catch the authentic essence of someone, so she’s not a drawing-room painter. You won’t be able to influence her version of your soul as she sees it.’

Beatrice’s eyebrows shot up. ‘And I am not a drawingroom subject, I assure you, Monsieur Lavertu. I will give Mademoiselle Belova licence to paint me, warts and all. In fact, I shall demand it.’

Kristina marvelled at Serge. He had increased her cachet and stirred Beatrice’s excitement at the same time. She would have been so grateful to have received a commission from the Foulds that she would probably have painted Beatrice any way she directed. But Serge had turned the tables and made it seem as if it was Beatrice who was lucky to have Kristina paint her portrait.

Her eyes met Serge’s and she held his gaze, marvelling at his business acumen. Pleasure spread across his face before he gave her a conspiratorial wink.

*

The following day, Kristina sat under a parasol sketching the scenes of the beach while Sonia lay exposed next to her, slowly turning the colour of a coffee bean. Kristina’s parents were back at the villa. Max was picking up pebbles and throwing them into the sea to the delight of a group of children he had befriended. Serge and Madeleine played in the water. Sometimes joyfully splashing each other, other times swimming gracefully side by side.

‘They are like dolphins together,’ Kristina said.

Sonia turned over onto her back and Kristina could not resist a jab.

‘And you are a little piroshok that must be turned over until it is golden and puffed.’

‘I am absorbing the warmth before we go back to Paris,’ Sonia replied.

Kristina’s gaze travelled from Max and the children back to Serge and Madeleine. They were bobbing in the waves together now, talking intimately about something with looks of sympathy on their faces, but they were too far away for her to hear.

‘What do you think they are saying to each other?’ Kristina asked.

‘They are talking about paintings. Whenever I hear them speak, it’s always about art.’

‘Well, that’s good,’ Kristina said.

Whenever Serge talked about art to Kristina she felt caught in a beautiful spell. The first night in Nice, he had admired the Jan Van Huysum’s still-life paintings of flowers in Mikhail’s study. The way he described the sweeping variegated arrangements, it was as if the paintings had come to life. She could feel the velvety blooms and the cool drops of moisture under her fingertips, and hear the minute flutter of the butterflies hovering nearby.

Kristina looked back to Sonia who was now reading Le Petit écho de la Mode , a fashion magazine full of advertisements for anti-wrinkle creams and bust-lifting potions.

‘Do you think they are in love?’

Sonia lifted her hand against the glare of the sun and squinted at her. ‘Who?’

‘Serge and Madeleine.’

‘It isn’t Madeleine he is always looking at,’ she replied curtly. Then after a pause, she added, ‘It’s you , Kristina.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’re good friends, that’s all.’ Then in a desire to change the topic, Kristina said something she hadn’t intended to reveal to Sonia until the deed was done.

‘Max is going to ask Papa for my hand in marriage this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Will you be my bridesmaid?’

‘No,’ Sonia replied emphatically. ‘I don’t believe in marriage.’ Kristina cringed. It was as though Sonia had thrown a bucket of cold water over her. She could be her best friend one minute, then say something awful the next.

‘Perhaps you should be less... blunt ,’ Kristina told her.

‘I always say what I think, you know that.’

‘Why don’t you believe in marriage?’ Kristina asked. ‘You’ve never said so before.’

‘It is my observation that marriage does not make a woman happier. The union might appear to start off well, but eventually it drains the life out of her. By the time she realises what has happened, there is no escape.’

‘Well,’ Kristina said, ‘that’s not how Max and I will be.’ ‘No?’

Kristina did not like Sonia’s cynicism. In fact, ever since she and Max had become close, Sonia had become even pricklier. Kristina stood and walked in the direction of Max and the laughing children. He looked up and smiled, waving for her to join them.

The expression on his face reassured her. She wanted to marry him as soon as possible.

*

Kristina could not have wished for a more perfect day for her wedding. The sky was clear, and a mild sea breeze softened the heat and gave her full-length veil a fetching lift. When she and Max stepped out of the Town Hall, their friends and family following after them, she had a sense that everything was happening at once. It was a new chapter in her life. She was no longer just an art student, but a wife, a serious artist and perhaps, sometime in the future... a mother. The joy, the excitement and the trepidation made her tremble, but when Max took her hand and squeezed it, her body settled. She had united herself with the love of her life, a man who shared her dreams and her passions. There was nothing to fear as long as she had Max by her side.

Later, over a lunch of mushroom piroshki , stuffed cabbage and Ni?oise salad on the terrace, Kristina found herself quite relaxed. The wedding party was small. Max’s family had not been able to come for the celebration due to his father’s poor health, so the afternoon was an intimate affair consisting of Kristina’s parents, Serge, Sonia and Madeleine. The two young women had called a truce for the day, and although they studiously avoided each other, there was at least no outward combat.

A prickle of unease returned briefly when Kristina looked at Serge, who, while smiling at a story Madeleine was telling him, seemed lost in deep reflection. As Yelena was occupied with overseeing the wedding feast, Serge had been left in charge of Leo. The rabbit was sitting in his arms placidly and Kristina remembered how on the day they rescued him, she had suggested to Serge that she paint him with the rabbit. But he’d seemed reluctant whenever she brought it up afterwards and the idea had been dropped. Was it because she’d also said that painting their portrait was the best way to get to know someone? As if suddenly aware Kristina was looking at him, Serge turned and his eyes met hers and held them earnestly. There was a question in his gaze that she didn’t understand and didn’t know how to answer. Then she remembered Sonia’s observation that Serge often looked at her. Feeling she might be on dangerous ground, she quickly looked away.

Madeleine suddenly flung her arms open. ‘I want to sing for our lovely couple,’ she said, ‘“Plaisir d’amour”.’ The gathering encouraged her with applause and Madeleine stood up, swaying slightly on her feet. Although she appeared tipsy from the rosé Mikhail had chosen for the occasion, she wasn’t blind drunk. Kristina had not seen a repeat of the lone drinking binge, and that fact had availed her fears for Madeleine’s future and convinced her of Serge’s positive influence.

Madeleine sang beautifully with perfectly turned trills. But Kristina had never listened to the words of the popular love song closely before and was surprised to find them melancholic, all about how the pleasure of love is brief, while the grief at the loss of it lasts a lifetime.

When Madeleine finished and sat down to the appreciative murmurs of her audience, instead of looking pleased with herself, her eyes clouded in a way that gave Kristina the impression of heartache. She wondered what could be wrong when Madeleine had been in high spirits only a few minutes ago, but before she could think further about it, the wind picked up, sending serviettes and flower arrangements flying.

‘Let’s move inside,’ suggested Yelena. ‘I’m about to serve the wedding cake.’

*

That night, lying side by side on the bed in the room that Mikhail had filled with white lilies and Yelena had decorated with fine linen, Kristina and Max finally had a moment to be alone.

‘The day went by so quickly,’ said Kristina.

Max traced the curve of her cheek with his fingertip. ‘The day may not last, but we are married forever,’ he said.

‘That’s true,’ she agreed. Then her mind drifted to Serge. ‘Do you think Serge enjoyed himself? There were moments when he looked... so sad.’

Max rolled on his back and folded his hands behind his head. ‘I suppose he is sad... a little,’ he said. ‘We’ve been together since we were boys. We are as close as brothers, perhaps even closer for I see more of Serge than I do of my own siblings. We came to Paris together.’ He flashed her a cheeky grin. ‘But we can’t do marriage together.’

‘Are you really the only family he has?’

Max nodded. ‘Serge’s aunt hired tutors for him and made sure he received a good education. He was fed and clothed but that was about it. There was no affection. One day I was walking by the river when I saw him on the other side, playing his violin. I knew he was made fun of by the other young people in the village because his family was Jewish, but something about him intrigued me. I asked him to play for me and we became firm friends despite him being a few years older than me. Over the years we have helped each other with our shortfalls – my lack of education, his lack of sociability. I suppose that things must change now makes him sad.’

Kristina was surprised to learn Serge was Jewish. It was the first time Max had mentioned it. Serge never practised any religion or celebrated any Jewish holidays. She had thought he was Catholic like Max. ‘I can see that you are very good for each other,’ she said. ‘I hate to think that I’ve come between you.’

Max shrugged. ‘Things had to change sometime. He told me he’s found an apartment not far from the shop.’

Kristina sat up on her elbow. ‘But I never expected him to move! The apartment above the shop is his home too. Why doesn’t he go on living there as before? It’s large enough for us all.’

‘And if Serge should find someone?’ asked Max, lifting his eyebrow.

Kristina assumed he meant Madeleine and laughed. ‘Then we can all live together.’

Max smiled back. ‘You sincerely like him, don’t you?’

Kristina nodded. She had been an only child – she understood absence. She felt it still. In the past, August meant the Villa des Cygnes was filled with cousins with whom she’d have shared her room. Giggling, snoring, loud and fun cousins. The villa felt so quiet without them.

‘You will tell him tomorrow, won’t you?’ she asked. ‘Before we leave. To put his mind at rest.’

Max nodded and reached for the table lamp, switching it off before taking Kristina in his arms. ‘Thank you. I will tell him.’ He slipped his hand down her hip and her skin tingled at his touch as he lifted her night dress over her head. ‘But right now,’ he whispered, ‘we have something else to occupy our minds.’

Kristina sighed with desire as he pressed himself against her. ‘Yes, we do,’ she said.