"No no — my roots, I need my roots done. See, the gray hair is showing!"
Hilda watched as Vebekka mixed her color. "It's called Raven. It looks purple, but it comes out black."
While Vebekka parted her hair and clipped sections, Hilda brushed the thick purplish liquid into the hairline. Then Hilda sat and waited: the tint had to be left on for twenty minutes. Meanwhile, Vebekka manicured her hands, put cream on her elbows and neck, then on her legs and on her arms.
Together they returned to the bathroom and Hilda shampooed and washed out the tint. Then she wrapped a towel around the clean, tinted head and they returned to the bedroom. Next Vebekka directed Hilda to hold the dryer while she used the brush.
"I'm young again, Hilda, see? You were very good... now I want to look beautiful, a little makeup, rouge..."
Hilda was fascinated at the transformation; then she helped the baroness into a silk and lace robe, so delicate it floated when Vebekka moved, the lace on the sleeves trailing as in medieval costumes.
Hilda ordered a light luncheon, boiled fish, some milk and vegetables, and she was pleased to see that Vebekka ate every morsel. Just as she was ringing for room service to take the table away, the baron entered to find his wife sitting like a princess at the window. His face broke into a smile of delight. "You look wonderful! And you have eaten? Good, good... do you feel better?"
Hilda left them alone and went into the main bedroom to tidy the room and make the bed. Louis bent to kiss Vebekka's cheek; she smelled sweet and fresh, her hair gleamed like silk. She smiled, and looked up into his concerned face. "Did you come in to see me earlier?"
"No, I had a drink with Helen. If you need her she is in her room."
Vebekka cocked her head."Well, don't you two get too cozy!"
He turned away, irritated.
"I was just teasing you, Louis. It was just — well, strange. I was sure someone came in... maybe I was dreaming."
With her husband's help she stood up, clinging to his hand. "I think I will rest for a while now. You don't have to stay, I have Hilda. Maybe Helen would like to go sightseeing, she must be very bored."
They walked slowly to the bedroom, and suddenly she leaned against him. "Remember in that old movie with Merle Oberon, when she said: 'Take me... take me to the window, I want to see the moors one last time!' "
Vebekka did such a good impersonation of the dying heroine from Wuthering Heights that she made Louis laugh; he swept her into his arms and gently carried her to the bed.
The baron stood by watching as Hilda fluffed up her pillows, remained watching as Hilda gently drew the sheet around her, and then let the drapes close, leaving the room in semidarkness.
Hilda asked if she might take a break for an hour. He nodded, dismissing her with an incline of his head, and sat in the chair she had vacated.
Vebekka lay with her eyes closed, as though unaware of his presence. She was so still she could have been laid out at a funeral home, the perfect makeup, the long dark lashes, her hair framing her beautiful face. He took out his gold cigarette case, patted his pockets for his lighter, and kept his eyes on her as he clicked it open. She didn't stir. He inhaled deeply and let the smoke drift from his mouth to form a perfect circle above his head. Had she woven all these lies about herself? Why? He couldn't think of a reason for not telling him — unless she was ashamed, but ashamed of what?
The more he stared at her, the more unanswered questions crossed his mind. Was it his fault? He could hear her now, as if she were saying it to him now.
"My father's dead. I have to go to America to see to the funeral."
She had said it so matter-of-factly, as if suggesting she fly to New York for a fitting. He had asked if she wished him to accompany her and she had smiled, shaking her head, reminding him that he was flying to Brazil for a polo game. He could remember his relief at not having to alter his plans. He was not in Paris when she returned, and so the funeral was not really discussed. She had bought many gifts for the children and for him, and had laughed at her extravagance, saying she was surprised at how much her father had left her. Louis knew it was a considerable amount, because his own lawyers had called to discuss the matter, but she had been disinterested in the money, as he was. She had been happy, she had been well — above all, happy.
These episodes always remained vivid to him, because when Vebekka was happy, the whole family's spirits lifted. When she was energized, she would arrange surprise outings and parties, like a child. Her good spirits would extend beyond the family circle. She would organize dinner parties, get dressed for masked balls...
As a hostess she was a delight, she would make everyone feel immediately at ease.
He leaned forward, noting in the semidarkness the contours of her face. The way her long exquisite fingers rested like an angel's, one hand on top of the other — the perfect nails, her tiny wrists. It was hard to believe that those long tapering delicate hands could become vicious claws.
Louis mulled over his conversations with Dr. Franks. Was he in some way to blame? In the stillness of the room he could honestly ask himself if he was guilty. Louis asked himself why the glimpses of sun in her life were so short-lived now, so rare, and why when she changed, there was such anguish.
He got up to stub out his cigarette. From the dressing table he looked at the still sleeping woman; she had not moved. He had to think not just of himself, but of Sasha, and the boys; they too had suffered, they had been forced to care for her, watch out for the signs. His eldest daughter had retreated into a busy social life that left little time for home. The boys had drawn very close to each other. The real hurt was to his younger daughter; she was so much younger than the others that she had seen fewer good periods.
Louis would perhaps never know the true extent of the damage to his children. He sighed. It would be easy, slip the pillow from the side of the bed, press it to her face, and it would be over. No one could say he had not been driven to it, that she did not deserve it.
She stirred, her hands fluttered, lifted a moment, and then rested again. She turned her head toward Louis, and slowly opened her eyes. He wondered if she knew he was there, wondered if anyone could understand what it was like to turn to someone you loved and face a stranger — and worse, be afraid. That awful moment of awareness when he knew it was happening. When the face he loved became distorted — the mouth he kissed pulled back like an animal — the voice he loved, snarled — and the gentle arms lashed out like steel traps.
Louis pressed his back against the dressing table and watched. Was he about to see the transformation now? The slender arms stretched, and she moaned softly, then smiled, with such sweetness.
"How long have you been there?"
"Not long," he lied, and sat on the edge of her bed.
"Where's Hilda?"
"She's having a break."
"She's so sweet."
"How do you feel?"
"Good, refreshed. Where's Helen?"
"I don't know, maybe shopping."
She sat up and shook her head. "We did my hair, Hilda and I. What time is it?"
She looked at her bedside clock, then threw back the sheet. "We can call Sasha and the boys."
He watched her slip her feet into slippers, and then yawn, lifting her arms above her head. "I feel hungry, I am ravenous!"
Louis hesitated, then told himself not to draw back now, to go through with it. "I'm glad you feel better, and hungry. Dr. Franks will be pleased, too."
He saw the catlike reaction as her eyes narrowed. He continued: "Franks is waiting for me to call him, he said that I should contact him as soon as you recovered."
"Really?" she said flatly.
"Yes. So, my dear, shall I call him?"
She pursed her lips. "Oh, I can't see him yet. I'm still too weak. Can you get Hilda for me?"