The Keeper of the Walls by Monique Raphel High Read Free Book Online Page B

Russia. . . . Tell me, you know this young man’s sister?”
    Misha nodded, offhandedly. “I’ve met her.”
    â€œIs she like the father, or like the son?”
    â€œLike neither.” There was a silence, and Prince Ivan’s eyes stayed on his son. Misha was not elaborating. Prince Ivan’s scrutiny became more intense.
    â€œClean up your life, my boy,” he whispered softly. “It’s time, don’t you think?”
    But Misha didn’t answer.

    L ily’s room was separated from Claude’s only by her bathroom, to which, unbeknownst to her, he possessed a key. Now, as his footstep passed her closed door on the way to his own, he stopped, hearing her voice. She was chanting something, in a low, soft tone. Claude held his ear to the door panel, but the voice was muffled. He walked into his own room, slipped off his jacket, and went to a hardwood box on the secretary. He opened it and withdrew a key. Then, smiling, he inserted the key in the lock of the door that connected his room with Lily’s bathroom.
    He slid in, soundlessly. She’d left her own connecting door ajar, as she often did. Good. Crouching, he approached the sink. From there he could see perfectly what his sister was doing. She was kneeling by her bed, her hand on her rosary. And she was speaking.
    â€œHoly Mary, Mother of God, pray for us poor sinners, now, and at the hour of our death . . .”
    He let out a sigh, exasperated. Just a Hail Mary. But just as he was about to tiptoe out through his own door, he heard her again. “Blessed Virgin,” she said, her voice beginning to break. “Help me not to think of him, because it isn’t meant to be. Help me not to have images of him, but to forget.”
    Claude stood tense, alert. Him? That young American, Mark what’s his name?
    He’d call Marguery tonight and arrange for a meeting.

    T he nightmare pursued him . Hours before, his father and Rochefort had gone home, and the subaltern employees, receptionists, and female secretaries had locked up their work before leaving. Beyond the velvet curtains, Paris gleamed black, with dots of yellow from the streetlamps. He tried to think of the apartment on the Avenue de la Muette, off the Place du Palais de Chaillot in the distinguished Sixteenth Arrondissement, where his father was probably sipping cognac and warming his feet by the fireplace. The Russian maître d’hôtel, Arkhippe, whom Prince Ivan had hired in Paris, where he had found him waiting on tables at Maxim’s, himself a refugee from St. Petersburg, would be standing discreetly at attention, and in the kitchen, the cordon bleu chief cook, Annette, and her two assistants would be preparing a delectable five-course dinner.
    But Misha couldn’t concentrate on this soft image of habitual luxury. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep again that night. He pressed his fingertips against the sockets of his eyes, pushing out the dull, aching throb. He saw red dots on the inside of his eyelids, from the pressing of his fingers. Red dots that became swirling crimson flames rising in the air, and suddenly, a young, anonymous woman screaming as the flames engulfed her. Misha’s fist banged on the desk, and he knew that his face was wet. In his nostrils he could breathe the smell of burning flesh, a smell he would never forget. If this was Hell, then it existed, and he’d seen it, like Nebuchadnezzar.
    Like all the times before, he thought desperately: My country is no more—my past is dead. Who am I?
    He stood up, his legs shaking. In his breast pocket he found the neatly pressed linen handkerchief with his monogram. He wiped his face. Always a vain man, he carried with him, like a woman, a small hand-mirror. He glanced at his reflection and realized how much he had aged in these three years. Below his eyes, the skin was puffy. He was thirty-three.
    Abruptly, he buttoned his jacket and turned to leave the