They had to creep up the stairs with their shoes in their hands, so as not to wake the landlady, but Rosemary was used to that. In his room, they said nothing to each other. Lou had run out of jokes.
He wasn’t rough, the way some men were, but his kisses were infinitely sad. There was no pleasure in this, and much sorrow; but it was better than the empty loneliness. For these moments, which were usually so soon over, she felt part of the world, desired by someone, needed by someone for something. Not a nobody offering empty prayers to a God who had long ago departed.
She tried to think of Cubby, of what it had been like with him. But she couldn’t really remember his face any more, only the way he had made her feel. And remembering a happy feeling when you were sad was the worst thing of all. After a while she stopped trying to see his face in her mind.
The nuns were waiting for her when she got back to the convent at dawn. At the sight of them, Rosemary was sick, spewing out the sour liquorice and curdled vanilla of all the Galliano she had drunk.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. Please don’t tell Daddy. Please don’t.’
But she knew they would. The sick puddled around her feet and they had to step through it as they took her arms and led her to the shower.
Santa Barbara
The guest cottage at Santa Barbara was their weekend refuge, and they relished the drive up from the sprawling, grimy tangle of Los Angeles. The Sachses had provided a good piano in the living room, and Stravinsky could compose here, which was what he usually did every Saturday and Sunday morning. But Sundays at noon were reserved for Mother Russia.
Stravinsky closed the lid of the piano, and with his cigarette-holder clamped in his teeth, searched for the fresh box of pins which he had brought up from Los Angeles. He found it in his briefcase, and went with it into the next room.
The large-scale map of Russia had been fastened to a cork board. Coloured pins and lengths of tape marked the progress of the German invasion, which was now in its second month.
That Hitler had suddenly turned on his erstwhile partner in crime, Stalin, had come as a surprise only to the naïve. Between the two nations there was not only a political gulf, with fascism on one side and communism on the other; there were also decades of ancient enmity. The Führer had clearly stated his belief that Russia must be conquered to provide the German people with the living space they required.
It was a campaign being fought with unusual viciousness. The Nazis were waging a rapacious war of extermination and obliteration which would leave nothing behind but naked Russian soil for Germans to repopulate. The Russians were fighting desperately for their very existence.
Stravinsky’s map showed the huge gains which the Nazis had made. If it were the map of a human body, it would show an apparently unstoppable cancer invading the healthy flesh in great swathes; or perhaps a savage beast devouring its prey in gulps, tearing off and swallowing limbs and organs each day.
The German armies had Leningrad, Moscow and Kiev in their sights already, although von Runstedt had encountered fierce resistance in the south. Guderian’s panzers had captured Ostrov, and were almost at the great gates of Kiev. Russia was succumbing to the Blitzkrieg tactics which had annihilated France; and it seemed that nothing could stop Hitler.
Stravinsky switched on the radio and fiddled with the dials until the announcer’s voice faded in. Then, sucking on his cigarette-holder, he sat back to listen to the latest news.
Hearing the radio, Vera came in from the garden and sat on the arm of the chair beside him. She had been sitting in the garden, watching the sea, and he caught the sun-warmed smell of her skin as she leaned on his shoulder.
They had been married for four months. Tumultuous as those months had been, Stravinsky was aware that he had never been happier, might never be so happy again. Vera, his mistress of so many years, was at last his wife. She had brought to his life her stability, her beauty, her magic. Above all, she had brought her healing.
The announcer’s voice drifted in and out of the static, dryly cataloguing the progress of the war in Europe. Stravinsky trusted only the BBC Overseas Service, but reception was sketchy at best. He listened intently. When the news turned to Russia, he got up with his box of pins and went to the map. Yet again, he was forced to push new pins deeper into the bleeding body of the motherland. The Germans had made new advances, conquering almost incredible stretches of territory. Cities, towns, villages, lakes and farmland were now behind German lines.
He moved the coloured ribbons into their new places, watched by Vera’s large and lustrous hazel eyes. His scowl deepened minute by minute. Then something that the announcer said caught his attention. He peered over his long nose at the map and stabbed a point with his finger.
‘Did you hear that?’
‘I heard the usual catalogue of disasters.’
‘No, no, Vera. They have been checked here, at Novgorod, near the lake. The announcer says their troops are exhausted.’ He turned to her, his spectacles flashing triumphantly. ‘They’ve gone too far, too fast. It’s the mistake Napoleon made before them. Now they are depleted, far from their supply lines, overwhelmed by the vastness of the country. Here they will sit to recover; and then the rains will come. And then the snow.’
She was a beautiful, stately woman with a dancer’s fluidity of movement. She slipped down into the armchair he had vacated, crossing her ankles on the arm. She inspected him over her peep-toe wedges. ‘The snow is months away yet, Igor.’
‘But it will come.’ He laid down the box of pins and smacked his fist into the palm of the other hand. ‘By God, it will come. And then we will show these Nazis how Russians can fight.’
She smiled her soft, voluptuous smile. ‘We, Igor? Who is this we? For years you’ve been telling everyone you are French. Then you said America was your home. Now you are suddenly Russian again?’
‘I am French,’ he said, ‘and America is my home.’ He struck his chest. ‘But this is Russian.’
‘Your very nice Argyll sweater? As I recall, it came from Bloomingdales.’
‘My heart. My soul. Why do you mock me?’
‘Only because you have been abusing Russia for the past thirty years. You have been telling everyone it was bad to start with, and the Revolution has made it even worse.’
‘All that is true.’ He came back to her, and they lit the cigarettes which they tried to restrict to five a day. ‘But a man can have only one birthplace, one motherland. And the motherland is the most important circumstance in his life.’ He exhaled a cloud of smoke into the sunlight that streamed through the window. ‘The right to abuse Russia is mine, and mine alone, because Russia is mine and I love it. I give nobody else the right to abuse Russia. Especially not the Nazi swine.’
‘So you are Russian again.’
He gestured at the map, festooned with pins and lines. ‘While this is happening, I am fully Russian again.’ He puffed at his cigarette. ‘I am going to start on a new work.’
‘But, darling, you’ve just finished something very important. You need to rest.’
‘I’ve never felt fitter,’ he retorted. ‘I’m going to write a symphony to celebrate the defeat of Hitler.’
They had a late lunch with their hosts, the banker Arthur Sachs and his charming French wife Georgette, and then were joined by some visitors, including Robert and Mildred Bliss, for whom Stravinsky had written the Dumbarton Oaks Concerto, and Katharine Wolff. By common consent, seeing it was such a lovely afternoon, they drove down to the beach, and walked along the sand in two groups. Stravinsky strolled ahead with the Sachses and the Blisses, while Vera followed with Katharine at a distance.