Laura had no alternative but to follow her grandmother. They rode up in silence to the sixth floor, and a few seconds later they were standing outside Rosa’s apartment. It was she who opened the door to them.
“Good evening, Megan … Miss Valiant,” Rosa said, and opening the door wider, she added, “Please come in.”
“I’m sorry we’re a little late, my fault,” Megan murmured, walking into the foyer and offering her hand to Rosa.
“Good evening, Mrs. Lavillard,” Laura said, also shaking the woman’s hand.
“Please call me Rosa. I prefer it.”
“And I prefer to be called Laura.”
Rosa led them into a spacious living room overlooking East End Avenue and the East River. Its high-flung ceiling, many windows, and fireplace gave the room a traditional feeling, as did all of the furnishings that had been used. Laura, glancing around quickly as she followed Rosa and her grandmother, noticed that the antiques were mostly French. It was a lovely room, decorated primarily in white and light pastel colors. Handsome porcelain lamps with white silk shades, a glass-fronted china cabinet filled with antique porcelain, and two French gilt mirrors denoted fine taste. The overall look, she decided, was definitely old Europe. There were some interesting lithographs on the walls, as well as several good paintings.
“What would you like?” Rosa asked, glancing at them and then at the tray of drinks on a dark mahogany chest.
“Sherry, please, Rosa,” Megan said.
“The same, thank you.” Laura went and sat down in a chair next to the large cream sofa on which her grandmother was now seated comfortably, relaxing against a pile of needlepoint cushions.
A moment later Rosa gave them each a dry sherry and joined Megan on the sofa. After murmuring a toast, Megan started to recommend a play she had just seen, and it soon became apparent to Laura that the two women had been seeing each other recently, and perhaps even frequently. There was a familiarity between them, a certain ease, the kind of rapport that springs up between women who like each other and have become friends.
When there was a lapse in their conversation, Laura jumped in, saying, “Have you been seeing a lot of each other lately?” She directed her question at Rosa.
“A little. Megan and I have certain things in common, especially the theater.” Rosa pushed herself up off the sofa. “Excuse me a moment …” She hurried off in the direction of the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, “I must check on something in the oven.”
“Keeping secrets from me, eh, Gran?” Laura whispered, leaning closer to Megan when they were alone.
Megan gave her granddaughter a long look through her perceptive, faded blue eyes and merely smiled.
Laura knew better than to press Megan or say anything else, but she realized that the two women were fond of each other. And she was quite certain it was her grandmother who had made the first move, who had contacted Rosa after all these years. It was just the sort of thing Megan would do.
Laura got up and walked across the room, stood looking at an oil painting that hung on a wall between two windows. “What a charming Marie Laurencin,” she said to Megan.
“Yes, it is,” Rosa answered as she walked back into the living room. “I bought it many, many years ago in Paris, and I’ve always loved it.”
Turning around, Laura looked at her and said, “You prefer Renoir though.”
“Ah, yes, but Renoir I cannot afford. Only the prints of his work. Now, if you will come to the dining room, dinner is ready.”
The dining room had been decorated in different shades of blue, running from the pale blue of a summer sky to the aquamarine and turquoise of a tropical sea. Laura felt as though she were surrounded by the waters of a Caribbean island, submerged in seawater so clear you could see below the surface of the waves.
The effect was unique, magical, and after Rosa had hurried away to bring the first course, Laura mentioned it to her grandmother.
Megan nodded in agreement. “Yes, I know what you mean. It is like being in the sea. Perhaps that’s because the ceiling is mirrored and the colors on the walls flow up into it, then flow down. They reflect in the glass top of the table.”
Laura had been looking at the Renoir prints gracing the far wall, and she had not noticed the mirror work in the room. Immediately, she glanced up at the ceiling and nodded. “The mirror is reflecting all the different blues … what a clever device it is, Gran.”
“She’s a clever woman, self-supporting and self-sufficient. She runs the antique porcelain shop, you know. I like Rosa. Actually, I admire her.”
“Self-sufficient?” Laura repeated, and raised a dark brow questioningly.
“Yes, yes. Rosa appears to be perfectly happy being alone. She doesn’t seem to need anyone.”
“Not even her son?” Laura asked now, sounding puzzled. “I thought she was rather possessive of him.”
“I don’t think so,” Megan replied, giving Laura a strange look. “Whatever gave you that idea? Oh, I know. I should have said who. It was Claire, wasn’t it?”
“Well, yes, but she didn’t actually use the word possessive, she just implied it.”
Megan nodded, shifted slightly in her seat, and was about to respond, when the door was pushed open and Rosa came in from the kitchen.
“Rosa, the soup smells delicious!” Megan exclaimed, looking up at her hostess and smiling as the steaming bowl of fragrant liquid was placed in front of her. “Thank you.”
Laura could tell that Rosa was flattered to receive her grandmother’s compliment. Although she didn’t reply or smile, or make any kind of acknowledgment, her eyes seemed to brighten as she inclined her head, and then she quickly disappeared again.
“I’ve had this soup before,” Megan said to Laura. “It’s crystal clear, and delicious. You’re going to love it.”
A moment later Rosa was back once more, putting a bowl of the chicken soup on the table for Laura. “Thank you,” Laura murmured.
“I’ll be right back,” Rosa said. “Please … start.”
Laura stared into the soup. It was very clear, but a pure golden color with a few slices of carrot floating in it along with a small matzo ball. Her grandmother was right, it did smell delicious, and Laura found her mouth watering.
“Please, let us eat, Megan … Laura,” Rosa cried as she finally sat down at the table. “Bon appétit,” she added, picked up her spoon, and dipped it into her bowl.
Out of the blue, Megan announced, “It takes twelve chickens to make a soup like this,” and then she looked at Rosa and asked, “Am I not right, Rosa?”
“You are, Megan.”
“How did you know that, Grandma?”
“Oh, I know a lot of things you don’t know I know,” Megan answered somewhat enigmatically, and then, observing the bafflement on Laura’s face, she explained. “Your grandfather and I had a wonderful partner at one point in our theatrical careers. He co-produced a lot of my musicals with your grandfather. His name was Herbert Lipson, Herb we called him, and his mother made the best chicken soup in the whole world. She used to call it Jewish penicillin, and whenever we were in Philadelphia she invited us to dinner and she always served us her soup.”
“Yes, that’s what it is, Laura, Jewish penicillin, because it does seem to cure everything,” Rosa explained.
The two older women immediately embarked on a discussion about the healing properties of ethnic foods, and Laura spooned up the soup and listened, lifting her head from time to time to scrutinize Rosa.
Laura had been very much aware of Rosa’s pleasant and welcoming demeanor from the moment they had walked into the apartment. The last time she had seen her had been at the museum in Paris, looking at Renoirs, and Rosa had appeared cold, hostile, wary, and slightly odd. Tonight she was a different person entirely. It was true she had a curious reserve about her, but Laura now decided this must just be her natural manner, perhaps a reflection of her personality. On the other hand, when she had hovered over Megan earlier, a lovely wa
rmth had emanated from Rosa, and Laura found this touching; it pleased her that Rosa apparently cared about her grandmother.
Rosa even looked different, better, not as old as she had appeared in the d’Orsay, and much less dumpy. Perhaps this was because she was wearing a well-cut tailored suit of deep purple silk, gold earrings, and a matching gold pin. This evening Rosa’s dark hair was stylishly coiffed, and the gray streaks she had noticed in Paris were no longer there. They had been carefully tinted out.
Studying her surreptitiously for a moment, Laura decided that Rosa’s face was much more attractive than she’d realized; but what she needed was a bit of makeup to define her good bone structure, bring out the luminosity of her large, pellucid gray eyes, the richness of her thick chestnut hair. But perhaps she can’t be bothered or doesn’t care, Laura thought. Some women didn’t, they were content to be as they were, without artifice.
Two things about Rosa were most distinctive, and Laura had noticed them particularly tonight: her beautiful, shapely legs and her voice. The latter was husky, even sexy, and her French accent added a special flavor.
Suddenly she wished she knew a little more about Rosa Lavillard than she did. Unexpectedly, Laura was riddled with curiosity about her. What she did know was that she was Jewish, French born, and had grown up in France during the war. After marrying, she had come to America, where her son, Philippe, had been born. And she had lived here ever since. Laura remembered that Philippe was about forty-one or two, and so Rosa was probably in her mid sixties, even late sixties, perhaps.
Her husband, Pierre Lavillard, had died some years before; Laura, with her prodigious memory, had an instant recollection of him. She had met him at Claire’s wedding, and in her mind’s eye she saw a tall, distinguished man with a great deal of continental charm. His expertise was in French antiques and porcelain from all over the world, she remembered. He dealt in the great marks such as Meissen, Dresden, Herend, Limoges, and the important porcelains of England from Royal Worcester to Royal Crown Derby. He had owned a shop on Lexington Avenue when Claire and Philippe had married, and it was there that he had sold French antiques and antique porcelains.
Laura was roused from her reverie with a small start when Rosa announced, “I will bring the next course.” As she spoke, Rosa pushed back her chair and stood, picked up Megan’s soup bowl and her own.
Laura attempted to rise. “Let me help you,” she said, getting to her feet.
“No, no, I can manage. It is better I do this alone, I am well organized,” Rosa insisted, and was gone before Laura could protest further.
The next course was steamed carp served with homemade horseradish sauce and freshly baked challah, followed by a chicken that came out of the oven a crisp golden brown and was succulent and moist inside as Rosa carved it at the table. This was served with mashed potatoes, gravy, and peas and carrots.
Finally, Rosa brought in the dessert. It was the most extraordinary apple strudel Laura had ever tasted, topped with whipped cream and cherry sauce. Always a picky eater, Laura realized at the end of the meal that she had demolished everything, and with relish.
Essentially, it had been a simple dinner, but every dish had been meticulously prepared and beautifully cooked, and that was the secret of its perfection. Laura said this to Rosa, adding, “It’s the best dinner I’ve had in a very long time. Thank you. I really enjoyed it.”
“Yes, it was superb,” Megan murmured, and added her own thanks.
Rosa looked gratified. “Thank you,” she said. “I enjoy cooking. And now I shall serve coffee.”
Over coffee in the living room, Rosa said, “Congratulations, Laura.”
Laura glanced at her quickly. “Thank you. And I assume you’re referring to the return of the Gauguin painting to Sir Maximilian West?”
“Exactly. I read about your press conference in The New York Times, and I thought it was wonderful you had negotiated a deal with Mr. Grant.”
Rosa Lavillard smiled for the first time that evening, and went on. “It was a triumph for you, and it gave me great hope that other people will do the decent thing … if they know they possess art looted by the Nazis. That they will return it to the heirs of those poor souls from whom it was stolen during the war.”
“Some people will. Others won’t,” Laura replied. “I truly believe it’s a moral question. Naturally, there are those who disagree and think of it in financial terms. They won’t want to give up paintings they have paid good money for. That was Norman Grant’s attitude at first. He wanted to triple his investment in Tahitian Dreams, make a lot of money from the painting. But I finally convinced him, managed to induce him to accept Sir Maxim’s offer of 6.4 million dollars. If you remember the details in the story in the paper, that was exactly what Mr. Grant paid for it five years ago.”
Megan volunteered between sips of her coffee, “He would not have accepted the money if he’d been really smart. Instead, he would have given the painting to Maximilian West. And if he had been wise enough to do that, he would have come out a hero. As it is, he looks like a greedy little man.”
“Sir Maximilian must be thrilled to have the painting back after all these years,” Rosa murmured.
“He is,” Laura told her, suddenly smiling. “And so am I, on his behalf. Actually, looking back, I think I accomplished a miracle. And you, Rosa, I can see that you love art.” Laura glanced around. “And also that you love beauty in all its forms, that’s apparent from the lovely things you have gathered here.”
“Yes, beauty is essential to me. There is far too much ugliness and suffering in this world. Such immense cruelty. Beauty does soothe the soul….”
Laura did not say anything. She had caught the faint echo of words Rosa had uttered in the d’Orsay on that cold December day last year, and there was such great sorrow in the woman’s voice, it pierced Laura’s heart.
Megan said slowly, “Rosa’s father was a well-known art dealer in Paris, Laura. She inherited his love of paintings, especially the great Impressionists. You and she have the same taste.”
“A gallery in Paris,” Laura began, “what was its name? Where was it?”
“It was called Duval et Fils. My father was the fils, the son. But then, my grandfather was also the fils, the son. For three generations we were art dealers. And the gallery was on the rue de La Boétie in the eighth arrondissement, which was sometimes called the French Florence.”
“I know all about the rue de La Boétie from my studies at the Sorbonne. It was very famous because every major dealer had a gallery there,” Laura exclaimed.
“That is true. There were the Bernheim-Jeune brothers, who represented your favorite and mine, Renoir. And also the great Paul Rosenberg. Wildenstein, Cailleux, and Josef Hessel all had galleries on the rue de La Boétie as well. It was the center of art through the 1920s into the ′30s, and, of course, it became the focal point of Hitler’s greed for art during the Occupation.”
Laura nodded. “Yes, I know that altogether the Nazis looted some twenty thousand paintings, drawings, and sculpture from France, and that they were all shipped to Germany during the war.”
“Stamped property of the Third Reich,” Rosa muttered grimly.
“Do you feel like telling Laura something about your life, Rosa?” Megan asked in a low voice. “Or would it be too exhausting for you? Too draining?”
Rosa shook her head. “No, Megan, it would not. I will recount a little of my life to Laura … I think that perhaps, under the circumstances, she should know something about the Rosa Duval I once was.” Rosa looked across at Laura, pinning her pale, transparent eyes on her, and finished. “If you want to hear about that part of my life.”
“Yes, I would like to,” Laura answered. “But as my grandmother just said, I wouldn’t want you to tire yourself out.”
“Oh, no, that is all right, I will be fine. But I think I would like to get myself a glass of water first. Would you like one, Laura? And what about you, Megan?”
“Ice water wou
ld be lovely,” Megan said. “And perhaps a little more of the coffee. Thank you, Rosa dear.”
“I’d like a glass of water too, please,” Laura said. “But let me come and help you.”
Rosa shook her head. “I can manage perfectly well. I will only be a moment.”
23
“Now I shall tell you about my life when I was a little girl in France,” Rosa said, focusing her attention on Laura. Leaning back in the comfortable armchair, she took a sip of water and then began.
“I spent my early years growing up in the art gallery on the rue de La Boétie. Duval et Fils was our home, as well as my father’s place of business. My father, Maurice Duval, had inherited the gallery, which was an entire building, from my grandfather, who had died in 1934. On the first and second floors my father showed Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings, some modern art, and sculpture. My grandmother Henrietta, my father’s mother, lived on the third floor with her daughter, Aunt Sylvie. We were on the fourth and fifth floors, and the domestic help was on the sixth. It was a wonderful arrangement, in the time-honored tradition of old Europe, when the family lived above the store, so to speak.
Grandmother spent a lot of time with us, and so did Aunt Sylvie, who wasn’t married. We were six in our little family. Mama, Papa, my brothers, Michel and Jean-Marc, and my sister, Marguerite. I was the youngest and the favored child in a sense, everyone’s pet.”
Rosa looked off into the distance, as if seeing something very special in her mind’s eye, and a faint smile touched her mouth. “My father called me mon petit chou á la créme, his little cabbage with cream, and he adored me. I was the spoiled girl, I suppose, but I was a good girl. Those years were wonderful. My father was a most gregarious man, outgoing, charming, hospitable, and very giving of himself. He entertained both clients and artists at the gallery, gave splendid evenings. Picasso was a favorite visitor, and sometimes Matisse came with his model Lydia Delectorskaïa. They all made a big fuss of me, and I have never forgotten them.