The chauffeur pulled up before the galleries and handed Lelia and Pearl out of the limousine. Passersby turned to stare at them—both carrying fur muffs and dressed in fitted and flared, heavily embroidered Russian coats, which Lelia had taken from mothballs for the occasion.
“Now you will see, chérie, how the rich are bending le genou to the pauvres.” Lelia said as they passed through the oversized doors of the galleries.
The doorman bowed, and people in the corridor ceased their conversation. Lelia took Pearl’s arm as they strolled.
“But you’re hardly poor, Lelia,” Pearl pointed out. “You have that magnificent apartment, a chauffeured limousine, expensive furniture and clothes. Your jewels are magnificent.”
“Loués—leased; chérie. And what can be sold has been solded. The jewels—all paste. Their little brothers and sisters are gone years ago. And the chauffeur, he comes to fetch me for two hundred francs an hour—that is the limit of his service. Money is all—money is power—no one respects you if you haven’t got. Now you know my grand secret—which even Zhorzhione does not know.”
“But how can you bid at an auction if you haven’t any money?” asked Pearl.
“It’s like magic,” said Lelia with a smile. “We buy this piece of property with borrowed moneys—and after that, we all become rich.”
“We’re buying a piece of property? Like an apartment building or ranch or something?”
“Non,” said Leila, putting her finger to her lips. “It is a belle île that we buy—and then we go to live there, in the pays des merveilles.”
“We’re buying an island in wonderland?” Pearl said in disbelief.
“Oui,” said Lelia. “You are fond of the Aegean, I hope?”
Lionel Bream could not believe his eyes when he looked out across the room and saw Lelia von Daimlisch sitting in the audience. He’d seen the name Daimlisch on the attendance list, of course, but never imagined it would be Lelia. He hadn’t seen her in years.
When he was a young man, she’d made his reputation in the auction business, though no one knew it. She’d come to him in confidence with her massive collection of jewels and asked how they might be disposed of. She didn’t want to deal with anyone, she told him, who wasn’t “sympathique.”
Though Lionel never learned how it was that Lelia had fallen upon such hard times, even his young and untrained eye had recognized at once the value of the jewels. Some were recorded in the Romanoff inventories—believed lost forever after the revolution. Though he knew little of Lelia’s past, he certainly knew the heritage of the jewels in her possession. And that was all that mattered.
It had taken years to auction off the jewels with any sort of discretion. Leila hadn’t wanted it known that she was the source of that incredible flow of gems. Above all, she’d desired to keep knowledge of it from her husband, who was quite ill at the time. Undoubtedly she needed the money and hadn’t wanted him to know its source, but Lionel hadn’t felt it his business to pry into personal matters, when so great a gift had been laid at his feet. To auction off the Daimlisch bequest was more than any auctioneer might hope for in a lifetime—and Lionel had been still a young man, a junior in the firm.
Shortly after her husband’s death, Leila had disappeared from view. Perhaps this, too, was for financial reasons. Lionel heard her name spoken from time to time, but had never again called upon her. He felt it inappropriate to remind her of their former connection, and the situation that apparently had driven her to sell the jewels.
Now that he recognized her in the audience, his mind raced back to the time when he’d first met her. She’d been the great beauty of her day—and he, a young boy really, had fallen in love with her. She’d possessed such an air of tragedy, yet with humor underneath. He remembered the way her eyes twinkled when she looked at him, as if only they two shared a secret both magical and special. She had everything that young men, in those romantic days, believed women should have: tristesse, drama, and enormous beauty.
Lionel saw Lelia looking at him from the audience. In her eyes was the same secret twinkle, and he felt sure she remembered him—though he’d grown older than she in the interim, and his hair was thin and gray. Suddenly, as he looked down from the platform, he was overcome with a sense of his own past. He longed to sit at tea in the Plum Room of her exotic flat, and hear her play Scriabin on the old Bösendorfer, as she once did. His eyes became misty thinking about it and—in an unprecedented gesture—he stepped from the auction platform and strode into the audience where she sat.
“Lelia,” he said softly, taking her hands in his.
On her right hand she wore a paste copy of the Falconer ruby, surrounded by black sapphires and diamonds, the original of which he’d sold to William Randolph Hearst in 1949.
“I can’t believe you’re here again at last,” he told her. “How we’ve missed you.”
“Ah, mon cher Lionel,” she said, pronouncing it “Leo-nail,” “I too am so happy, happy, happy. I have come to see you do the beautiful auction—which I have never seen before.”
It was true, thought Lionel. She’d never attended a single auction where her jewels had been sold. She’d asked only that the checks be deposited to her account so she might not have to know the price for which she’d exchanged each of the “little brothers and sisters.”
“But what are you doing here, my dear?” he asked her in an undertone. “You know this is a very strange auction today.”
People had been turning in their seats to catch glimpses of the woman that the famous Lionel Bream had delayed the start of the auction to greet personally. Though Lionel was certain no one here today would recognize or remember Lelia, he saw them all ogling the knockoff of the Fabergé emeralds she wore about her neck—copies of the ones he’d sold to King Farouk in 1947.
“I wish you to make the connaissance of my very dear amie—Mademoiselle Lorraine,” said Leila as Lionel formally kissed Pearl’s outstretched hand.
“I’m honored,” he said, “and Mademoiselle Lorraine has the honor to be a friend of one of the truly great ladies of our century. I hope you cherish her friendship—as we all must who’ve known her.”
Pearl nodded and smiled; she knew that something was going on in the room around her—the way people looked at them—but she wasn’t sure what.
Just then, Lelia rose and wrapped her arms around Lionel, giving him a big bear hug. People murmured in the row behind them. Pearl wasn’t sure—but she thought she saw Lelia whisper something in the auctioneer’s ear.
“You know I’d do anything for you,” Lionel said. “I hope you’ll not make such a stranger of yourself—now that you’re here in our lives once again.”
Giving her hand a small squeeze, he returned to the platform and opened the auction. From time to time, he looked down at Lelia and smiled, as if they still shared a deep secret apart from the rest of the world.
The auction continued for nearly five hours. As the evening drew on, the crowd thinned somewhat. Lelia sat, as straight and motionless as an icon. Pearl was surprised that a woman of her age had so much stamina. Pearl herself was drowsy from the heat of the room and the drone of the auctioneer’s voice. But suddenly she, too, was at attention—she sensed that something in the room had changed. When Pearl turned to Lelia, something in her appearance had altered—or did it only seem that way? Lelia’s eyes’ were riveted on the auctioneer.
Lionel Bream’s eyes drifted back and forth across the room, noting when someone raised a finger or scratched an ear, and mentioning the higher price. But after each bid, his eyes came at once back to Lelia. Each time, the twinkle in her eyes seemed to grow brighter. Pearl understood that Lelia was bidding on this property, though she couldn’t decipher the code that was being used. Pearl paid attention to the property being bid upon.
In her program, it was property number seventeen, one of twenty tiny islands off the coast of Turkey. It was thirty square kilometers, and composed nearly all of stone: a cone-shaped mount
ain flattened at the top, with a deep circular bowl at center.
The auctioneer assured them the volcano had been extinct for thousands of years. Pearl didn’t care whether it was extinct or not. From the program photo of this sparsely vegetated rock, she began to question Lelia’s judgment.
It was called by the name Omphalos Apollonius—Apollo’s navel. As Bream explained to the tittering audience, this was also the name of the hollow stone bowl at Delphi—or any such natural depression from which the oracle prophesied. It had to have been named for the hollow center of the volcanic cone, the most prominent feature of the island.
Pearl thought Lelia must have been possessed by oracular vision to bid on this horrid chunk of stone. Even as she sat there Lelia seemed to be in a mystical trance—and the bidding had already reached $5 million!
Pearl touched Lelia’s arm and looked at her questioningly. Lelia smiled her assurance and looked again to the front. So Pearl returned to her program to hunt for further clues to this odd selection.
The island, it seemed, had a resident population of one hundred seventy people, engaged primarily in the fishing and sail-making industries. The only town—also called Omphalos—was on the western side of the island facing toward the Greek coastline; the deserted eastern coast had nothing but a few Venetian ruins.
She read further that the whole block of islands was being sold by an expatriate Yugoslav shipping magnate who’d acquired them shortly after World War II. It seemed that during the confusion of the partition of Europe, the Greek and Albanian governments had both claimed the islands; and since they lay between Greek and Turkish coastal waters, Turkey might have claimed them as well. But from a strategic, or even touristic standpoint, they were worthless. Their volcanic, irregular terrain made a landing strip impossible; the rugged coastlines offered harbors for only the smallest of vessels. Even now they all had few or no services—phone lines, plumbing, lights, or heat—not even coal or wood to burn, or grazing land for animals. Most foods, including essential dairy products, had to be brought in from the mainland.
The dispute over nationality quickly cooled when the limited value of the islands was recognized. And all interest completely dissipated when the shipping magnate lavishly bribed the right officials in all three countries with some claim to those islands to look the other way.
He’d been one smart Slav, thought Pearl. He’d built a vacation residence on one of the more charming islands, and would pay the cost by auctioning off the others to a market of rich New Yorkers, who’d pay for any worthless piece of rock that had a wraparound view of the Aegean.
The bidding on this particular rock had fallen off faster than on the others, for it seemed the least attractive of the lot. Only two competitors stayed in the bidding with Lelia. Pearl was becoming a bit alarmed whenever she glanced at Lelia’s flushed and feverish face. It seemed she’d been transported—illuminated by some inner light Pearl couldn’t fathom.
To make matters worse, the bidding was now above $10 million. Though this was less than the earlier-offered islands had gone for, it was still a hefty chunk—and Pearl hadn’t a clue where the money was coming from. She noticed that the auctioneer, Lionel Bream, never took his eyes from Lelia’s face. He, too, seemed concerned.
In fact, Lionel was more than concerned—and had been, from the moment he’d seen Lelia sitting there in the room. No security or financial statement had been required in advance of the auction, for the guest list had been chosen and prepared by the owners themselves. Lelia’s name had not been on the invitation list, but she’d managed to get in nonetheless. He hoped she would be able to pay for this property she was bidding on. No one here knew the former state of Lelia’s fortunes but Lionel except Claude Westerby.
It was young Westerby who’d taken the risk to handle those jewels she’d brought to Lionel Bream so many years before. Though Lionel had agreed never to reveal their source, he had to show such a collection to one of the owners before accepting it for auction. He’d hit upon young Claude as being the most (Lionel smiled to himself) sympathique. And Claude knew a thing or two about jewels.
Not only were the stones magnificent, he assured Lionel, but the pieces themselves were often the rarer, more obscure examples of once-famous collections. Though the matter was never openly discussed, Lionel felt certain that Claude Westerby, through his research, had learned who the seller must be.
Lionel saw Claude Westerby seated at the rear of the paneled room, arms folded and observing the bidding. Lionel let his eyes rest briefly upon the director’s son—long enough to convey the message that there was something wrong, and to ask for direction. Claude’s shrug said that he, too, was concerned over Lelia’s feverish bidding, but felt little could be done about it now. Short of stopping the auction, Lionel thought; that surely would be unprecedented.
But as the bidding continued a slight change in pace told him, through years of experience, that the property was about to close—and that Leila would take the bid. A peaceful sense of completion filled him, as if a weight had been lifted.
He tapped his gavel gently on the brass mount and said quietly, “Sold to Madame von Daimlisch for thirteen million dollars. Congratulations, Mrs. von Daimlisch—you’ve purchased a very fine piece of property.”
Lelia nodded and, with Pearl’s assistance, rose to leave the room. Among the several people who turned to watch her depart was Claude Westerby. Though it was irregular, when she’d first entered the auction gallery, he’d nodded to the guards to let her pass without seeing her invitation. He knew she had not received one, for he’d prepared the list himself. Now he rose to follow her.
“Where do we go from here?” Pearl was whispering as they went along the hallways.
“La caisse—the cashier,” Lelia replied. “When we finish the meal, we must pay l’addition.”
“This is the fun part,” Pearl said grimly. “How in hell do you plan to pick up this tab?”
“With a chèque, naturally!” Lelia laughed.
Nonetheless, she looked, at long last, really drained with exhaustion. Pearl was worried. After all, Lelia was no spring chicken.
“My congratulations, madame,” Claude Westerby said, coming up behind them in the hall.
He took her free arm and joined them in their progress to the cashier. If something went wrong, he wanted to handle it himself.
“Monsieur, we have never made the acquaintance formally,” Lelia began. “I am—”
“I know who you are, my dear—you’re Lelia von Daimlisch. Though I’m sure I’ve changed since you saw me last, you’re still the woman who was once considered the loveliest in New York.”
Lelia dazzled him with a smile.
“I’m Claude Westerby,” he went on. “You’ve received good value for your money today. I’m afraid the previous owner will be angry with me—we’d estimated that island to go for half again as much. Let’s hope all the rest fare better, for my sake! I’m pleased that it should have been you who bought it.”
And even more pleased, he thought, if you can pay for it. What a nightmare it would be for all, if she could not!
“Here is the cashier,” he said. “I shall leave you to do the unpleasant part alone, though I’ll be nearby if you should need help. May I say it’s been a great pleasure to have met you formally, after all these years.”
“Merci, monsieur,” said Lelia. Then she reached out and took his hand. Her voice trembled in what he found an alarmingly feminine way for a woman of her age. “And thank you for … in the past, you were very discreet about my bijoux—my jewels. I know it was you who made the little inquisitions for me. I am like the elephant; I have a long memory for my good fortunes. Again, merci, mon ami Claude.”
He looked at her in surprise, and felt a sudden clutching at his heart. She had such beauty still, the sort of beauty that was magnified from within. She was, he thought, even lovelier than he remembered her forty years ago. He was so pleased she’d bought the island that for the moment, he di
dn’t give a damn whether she could pay for it or not. He rather longed to buy it as a gift for her, himself.
Pressing her hand tightly, he took his leave abruptly, and walked briskly down the hall, back to the auction.
PART 3
FRANKFURT, GERMANY
JANUARY 1810
It was early in the year 1810, and Meyer Amschel Rothschild was still living in Frankfurt, though his children were grown and his favorite son, Nathan, had moved abroad.
“I had a dream last night,” Meyer Amschel told his wife, Gutle, as they sat eating a breakfast of dried bread soaked in milk.
“A dream?” inquired Gutle, her tone seeming to suggest she’d never before heard of such a thing.
Her hair, cut short in the Orthodox tradition, was covered with a thick unpowdered wig, which in turn was covered with an enormous headpiece made of stiff cotton, Dutch lace, and taffeta ribbons.
“And what was this dream?” she asked her husband, spooning some more milk over his bread. “A dream of more fortune? I think we have more fortune already than is good for us. Sometimes I think so much fortune will one day bring us bad luck.” She rapped on the table with her spoon to drive away the devils that might be listening.
“It was a strange dream,” said Meyer Amschel pensively. “I saw our house tested in fire and water, as the old book says mankind will one day be tested before God. Our sons fought together for a common cause, like Judas Maccabaeus, standing together like a force that defies nature—”
“We are all aware of your thoughts on this subject,” Gutle told him, “how one twig may be easily snapped between two hands—but a bunch of twigs standing together may not be broken.”
“I know from this dream that something great and magnificent is about to happen,” Meyer Amschel told his wife. “And because of it, the house of Rothschild will stand for a hundred, hundred years. You will see, my dear—it will begin quite soon.”