Riviera Gold Page 5

  As on the beach that afternoon, most of the guests were Americans, either regular visitors to France or semi-permanent Paris residents. No one else I spoke with had a home in Antibes. Several were staying here at Villa America, which had a number of smaller dwellings scattered around its sizeable grounds.

  One of the few non-Americans was Rafe Ainsley, the handsome, petulant sculptor from the beach. He seemed to feel that genius raised a man above the need for tidy dress and good manners, and wore an air of superiority in place of jacket and tie. His accent laid dubious claim to the working-class, although as the night went on, clipped Eton-and-Baliol tones began to surface, and one began to notice that his unironed shirt and unkempt trousers had been custom-fitted, his scuffed shoes were new and similarly bespoke, and his wrist-watch was a model that I had myself once purchased as a hefty bribe. Driven by perverse curiosity, I edged into the conversation around him.

  It proved to be less an exchange of views than a series of pronouncements: about Art, and Integrity, and Movement, and a series of other capitalised nouns. Chief among them was Surrealism. Surrealism was the only pure form of Artistic Vision. Everything else was an imitation of life, a corruption of vision, the shallow play of Sunday-afternoon watercolourists.

  Rafe Ainsley (not, please note, Ralph) was English. Rafe Ainsley was an artist in a world of mere aesthetes, fakes, and fools. When someone asked where he sold, he scoffed at the idea of commercialism, announced that he had Patrons Who Understood What He Was Doing, then shrugged and admitted that his work was in galleries, although he found it painful to see it there.

  Rafe Ainsley worked in bronze, which he declared the only true medium for art, ageless and incorruptible. Rafe Ainsley had much to say in favour of Art As Craft, and went on for some time about the shallowness of painters who could not mix pigments or sculptors who did not know how to apply a finish. Rafe Ainsley was somewhat taken aback when I agreed with both these points—and astonished when I knew the names he was flashing around. Brancusi and Léger, Epstein and Gaudier-Brzeska, the Primitivists and Vorticists—all brought his grudging approval. Picasso? I asked. A genius, he declared. Duchamp? A shrug. Damian Adler, Alice Wright? Damian he knew, and respected (a good thing, since Surrealist Damian Adler was Holmes’ son and thus, peculiar as it seemed, my very own stepson) but he turned up his nose at the woman’s name. A judgment, I suspected, less connected to her art than to her sex. He had much to say in favour of the Benin bronzes and African influence in Cubist art and the manifesto of anti-art and…

  I could tell that I puzzled him. My hands were nearly as rough as his, and my skin far browner, but my silk dress—new from Venice and, unlike his attire, freshly ironed by the hotel—looked as expensive as it had been, while my accent and attitude declared my status. We argued over Cubism and Neoplasticism and a few other -isms, which I had been reading up on ever since meeting that unlikely stepson, Sherlock Holmes’ only child from a long-ago liaison.

  Rafe Ainsley was not a man to welcome contrary opinions. Generally, and particularly at someone else’s party, I tend to excuse myself from the bluster, but every so often I enjoy a nice, vigorous exchange of views. Those around us coalesced into sides, cheering on whichever of us made a good point, branching off into side arguments of their own. Ainsley ploughed on, interrupting my statements, sweeping away my preferences, acknowledging none of my assessments, waiting for me to fold beneath the masculine authority of his views. All the women and quite a few of the men were soon calling out my points, while his face went increasingly red and he cast around for the polite equivalent of shoving an opponent in a bar.

  But I should have known that this was the sort of man for whom “No” from a woman meant “Ask me again.” His face cleared when he found his ultimate weapon. His pugnacious shoulders went back and he glanced at his fellow men to summon their attention.

  “Mrs Russell, you are a magnificent Amazon! You must pose for me. A full-length sculpture—as Academia,” he declared. Then he added, “Nude, I think, but for your spectacles. And a book.”

  My solemnity faltered, picturing Holmes’ face, but Ainsley did not notice. Self-important men rarely do. He informed me that I would come visit his summer studio (one of the Murphy guest houses) but while I was trying to construct a response other than open laughter or overt hostility, we were interrupted by a voice at my elbow.

  “Rafe, sweetie, leave the poor girl alone, not everybody thinks you’re God incarnate. And anyway, I think some more of your friends have arrived.”

  Sara Murphy looked pointedly towards the house, where five people had come to a halt just outside the French doors.

  Ainsley thrust his empty glass at her and set off across the crowded terrace, jostling elbows here and there. To my fascination, the sculptor became a different person as he crossed the tiles. His slump disappeared, his chin came down, the angle of his head and way he moved his hands changed, from brash and dismissive to polite and attentive. Startlingly close to deferential.

  Not friends, I thought. These were people he wanted something from.

  They looked like Russians—of the White persuasion, not Bolsheviks. Those languid hands and imperious noses could only belong to aristocrats, while the out-of-date dresses and the sheen on the men’s evening suits betrayed their current tight finances. In one of our stops along the Italian coast, I’d picked up a pre-War Riviera guide-book, which reminded me that Monaco had been a favourite playing ground of the Czar’s closest friends and family. These were five Russians who had got away with their lives in 1917, but had left their fortunes behind.

  Except one: a tall, slim figure in his late fifties with pale skin, hooded eyes, and a narrow silver streak in hair that was otherwise a uniform black. He wore a beard, a facial decoration so intricate and sharp-edged it might have been ink, and, unlike the others, he knew his hosts well enough to have worn informal light-grey linen rather than proper evening wear. The suit was new and spotless, his shoes, polished to a twinkle. The heavy, old-fashioned watch-chain across his marginally darker grey waistcoat was the rich, red colour of high-carat gold.

  He allowed Rafe to shake his hand, then turned to Sara, who had followed behind the sculptor. The Russian’s smile became more genuine as he bowed over her hand, thanked her, and made the introductions that Rafe hadn’t bothered with. Sara greeted each one, received gracious finger-shakes from each, and stood back to encourage them to move out onto the terrace.

  She watched Rafe lead them in the direction of Gerald Murphy, while I tried to decipher the expression on her face. Sad, but also affectionate. Sara knew the bearded Russian, though perhaps not well. She liked him. Then her gaze extended outward to the rest of the gathering—easy, calm, self-contained, yet attentive to the least detail. Like a mother cat near her kittens, content that they were entertaining themselves, yet ready to intervene if need be.

  Sara noticed me and smiled, so I moved over to where she stood.

  “Thank you for inviting Terry and me. You have a lovely home.”

  “Aren’t we lucky? I sit out there for hours, drinking in the view.”

  I obediently turned to appreciate it. The house, near to the ridge of Cap d’Antibes, looked over the wooded peninsula to the sea beyond. The lights of Cannes glittered along the coast, with smaller twinkles scattered here and there, including out at sea where a ship was heading towards Italy. At this hour, the garden was little more than odours and shadows, but even at night one could tell that a lot of work had gone into it. I commented on it to Sara.

  “Yes, that’s what made us fall in love with the place—the previous owner travelled all over and had a passion for exotic trees. All we had to do was tidy around the corners. Next time you’re here during the day, I’ll show you around.”

  “I’d like that.”

  The gramophone record came to an end. Sara glanced down at Rafe’s discarded glass in her hand, gave a wry shake
of the head, and went back inside.

  I stood looking at the magical scene of happy people illuminated by lamp-light. I was sure there were any number of them I would enjoy talking with, but as I finished my drink, I noticed a tray heaped with empty glasses. Adding my own, I picked up the tray and went after Sara. As I neared the doors, I glanced up to see a row of small faces in an upper window. I wagged my fingers in a greeting. They ducked below the sill, although the gleam of their sun-bleached heads betrayed them.

  I managed to back my way through the doors without dropping any glasses, tracing the sound of running water to the kitchen. There I found a generous room with modern fittings and a variety of art: that on the walls ranged from professional to a child’s drawing of a horse; that on the shelves included a similar mix of adult sculptures and peculiar figures made from glued-together stones, shells, snippets of wire, and kitchen ware. This was a room for the family, not for servants, although the surfaces were at present a chaos of biscuit tins, dirty pans, used cocktail shakers, crumb-covered trays, and piled dishes. And as I suspected, no house-maid in sight.

  “I brought in some things,” I said. “I’ll wash, you dry?”

  “No, no,” she protested. “You mustn’t.” But I was already edging her aside and laying glasses into the soap-filled pan. “Oh, Mary, you should go—well, if you don’t mind…?”

  “My cooking skills extend to opening tins, but I’m a dab hand at dishes.”

  We got through the washing in minutes, chatting happily about art and the music playing outside—sent by friends in America, in regular shipments. The horse was by her daughter, Honoria. The cobbled-together figures, which she called “readymades,” were in fact the work of adults.

  “Art that is anti-art. Like Duchamp, you know?”

  I studied the tin-funnel-turned-cocktail-glass with an olive made from a glass eye, the cocktail-shaker-turned-woman with stone features, dishrag dress, and wire hair, and the hair-brush made out of a porridge-paddle and nails. I supposed I should be grateful that the Murphy kitchen gallery of readymades did not include a Duchampian pissoir.

  When the glasses were sparkling again, she loaded the trays for another round on the terrace, and indicated the packets on the work-table. “We’ve run out of the makings for cheese toast, but if you’d like to put those on some plates, we can take them out, too. Don’t bother making them pretty—just dump and carry.”

  “I can do that.” So I did, pouring things into bowls and flinging them out to the ravening guests. Half an hour later, the pantry was bare, the uproar from without rising, and I had donned an apron to start a second batch of glasses.

  She studied her shelves. “I’ll need to shop tomorrow, that’s for sure.” And then she added something under her breath that sounded like, If the bank will cover our cheque.

  “I take it rather more guests showed up than you expected?”

  She shook her head, by way of agreement—then with a little cry of triumph came out with a half-empty bottle of cooking wine. Without asking, she found two glasses and splashed some in. “You must think we live in a loony bin, but this is definitely not the usual evening at Villa America. A friend invited friends, and didn’t think to mention it.”

  “Oh dear.” I accepted the drink, which to my surprise was actually a good wine, only slightly flat. “It can be irritating when house-guests grant themselves a family’s rights and none of the responsibilities.”

  Sara, after a large swallow, reached for a clean dish-towel. “Rafe means well, but like a lot of artists, he thinks the world revolves around him.”

  “I don’t suppose he’ll toss something into the kitty for expenses, either.”

  “Oh, it’s all right—if no actual food appears, they’ll all set off shortly, I imagine for Juan-les-Pins. The Count often ends up there.”

  “Count…?”

  “Vasilev. The one with the beard. Eve-something Vasilev.”

  “Yevgeny?” It was a common given name in Russia. “The same as our ‘Eugene.’ ”

  “Really? Sounds ever so much more glamorous, doesn’t it? But yes, that sounds right. The Czar’s banker. Terribly nice man. How incredibly awful it must be, to have lost everyone and everything. The Bolsheviks shot his wife and son, took his house, killed most of his friends. The only reason he’s alive is that he was off in America putting his daughter into some special kind of hospital. Her lungs, was it? Someone told me he was a personal friend of the Czar—they grew up together, and he was godfather to one of the girls. Can you imagine? Your entire world, lined up and shot. For God’s sake don’t mention Lenin or Stalin or any of those to him—he gets frantic at some of the headlines.”

  “The papers say that some of the royal children could still be alive.”

  “You think so? I don’t.” She shuddered, and took another large swig from her glass, so I hastened to offer distraction.

  “Well, the Count seems to have made a new life for himself here. Not that it removes memories, but he looks to be prospering. Is his daughter still alive?”

  “Far as I know. In one of the Western states—Nevada or Colorado or something. The Count is forever going there, to see her. Though Rafe said he’s going to move there permanently, before long. The Count, I mean.”

  “Well, he certainly makes for a decorative addition to a gathering,” I said. “Have you known him long?”

  “Oh, you know how it is in a place like this, you come across pretty much everyone at some point. Although it’s true, the Count doesn’t tend to mix with the likes of us.”

  “Because you’re too bohemian?”

  “We’re too American. Common, I guess.”

  “Yet he wants to live in the States.”

  “Funny, I know. I think he’s just trying to get out of Europe before the next trouble starts up. And I suppose he’ll choose his neighbours carefully in America, to avoid the likes of us.” She grinned.

  The thought of Sara and Gerald Murphy being judged “common” was a bit absurd. Yes, she’d made that comment about money, and they were making do without a maid tonight, and yes, many of the things around me—from Sara’s dress and the simple furniture to the earthenware plates, cheap glasses, and stainless-steel cocktail shaker in the sink—looked like purchases from the local market. So without a doubt they watched their expenditures. On the other hand, they did live in a beautiful house in the South of France, with no sign of gainful employment, and the shelves had plenty of Venetian wine-glasses, eggshell porcelain, and monogrammed silver cocktail shakers to go around.

  However, I knew what she meant by “common.” Money or not, there were many corners of Society where I—a Jewish, half-American woman—was not welcome.

  “Your own three children seem more than happy to be living in a foreign land. I saw them looking down from the window upstairs.”

  She brightened instantly. “Poor things, they’re used to music and talk at night but I expect this is a bit too much to ignore. Mademoiselle Geron got back this afternoon—that’s our nanny. Our proper nanny.”

  “Rather than the improper Miss Hudson,” I murmured.

  She laughed in delight. “It’s true, every child should have an improper nanny. However, Mademoiselle Geron is definitely better for everyday things. Such as putting them to bed, once the racket on the terrace begins to die down.”

  “I can remember staring down at parties through the stair-rails myself, as a child.”

  “Well, we’re out of food, and the drink’ll be gone soon, so we can all go to bed. In the meantime, I should get back to my guests.”

  “Even the uninvited ones.”

  “Especially those.”

  “Bed is sounding good, I will admit. It’s been a long few weeks.”

  “You must tell me all about it. A three-week sailing trip sounds like pure ambrosia—Gerald and his friend Vladimir are plottin
g a boat for us. Vlad’s some kind of a cousin of Count Vasilev, I think, though he also helps Gerald with paints and canvases and all sorts of things other than designing a boat. Anyway, if we don’t talk again tonight, shall I see you at La Garoupe, tomorrow?”

  “Is that the name of your little cove? I’d like that.”

  I watched Sara move into the crowd, touching an elbow here, kissing a cheek there. She looked like no one else on the terrace—hair casually gathered, little makeup, wearing one of her signature long flowing cotton dresses rather than anything fashionably above-the-knee and down-the-back. All the other women looked very young. And when she ended up at her husband’s side, their arms linked in a manner that made them both seem more complete.

  I could join them. But that would mean another drink thrust into my hand, and I was feeling the effects not only of alcohol, but, as I had told Sara, of three sun-baked weeks and the unrelenting company of others. It would also mean joining Rafe Ainsley and the Russians, and although I was interested in the man with the inked-on beard, the thought of more sparring with the sculptor was exhausting.

  The two men did make for a striking contrast: the one, sturdy, brown, slightly pugnacious, and deliberately untidy; the other, thin, pale by comparison, beautifully mannered, and fastidious about his person. Yet they seemed to know each other well.

  A burst of familiar laughter drew my attention: Terry and Luca, standing under one of the hanging lamps with two beautiful young men who had to be dancers and might have been twins. I walked over to join them, listening for a moment to their earnest discussion of the Côte d’Azur’s potential as a venue for water-skiing, before I laid a hand on Terry’s arm and spoke into his ear.

  “Terry, I’m about to fall asleep on my feet, but when you leave, will you thank Gerald for me? I’ve said good-bye to Sara, but he’s in the midst of a conversation I don’t want to interrupt.”

  “Mary, you can’t go now—things are just getting started! Here—meet Misha and Vitya, they’re with the Ballets Russes, in Monaco. Do you know it? Diaghilev’s lot? They were just telling me about some of the productions they’ve done in Paris. Diaghilev talked Gerald and Pablo Picasso into painting the backdrops. One of them had Sara helping Coco Chanel with the costumes.”