The Pearl Thief Page 7

  ‘Happen? Mademoiselle, please, you have nothing to fear. I am here. I will protect you.’

  ‘You, Mr Horowitz?’

  He had to be careful. ‘As I protected you from the ice,’ he lied, ‘so I can protect you from your memories.’

  She gazed at him with pity. ‘I’m not sure you can, but you are Jewish and you are a survivor, so I anticipate you too have a story to share. I will hear yours if you will hear mine?’

  ‘Yours will be far more intriguing than mine. I survived because we got out early.’

  Waves of her hair shifted and shone their golden darkness as Paris blew a chilling, moisture-laden wind over them and the rain-drops became heavier.

  ‘Come, let’s get into the warmth before we both catch a chill.’ He undid the large umbrella he carried and leaned the black dome over her.

  She fell in step and he led her towards his private place where no other guest had ever been invited. He found her silence unnerving as they walked. He hadn’t fibbed about the distance – it really wasn’t that far; a few minutes – but he would struggle if she were to keep her own counsel for the duration.

  ‘Did you know these gardens were inspired by the Boboli Gardens in Florence?’ he offered.

  ‘I did.’ She cut him an amused look. ‘I too am a student of history, Monsieur Horowitz.’

  ‘Daniel, please,’ he reminded her. ‘Forgive me, of course you are.’ The deliberate slip, adroitly delivered, opened a safe path for them to move onto.

  ‘Marie de’ Medici recreated a palace in the likeness of the Pitti Palace and she had hundreds upon hundreds of elms planted,’ she said, and he watched her arm unfold from that angular shoulder like a mathematician’s compass being extended to inscribe an arc. As they passed, leather-clad fingers gestured towards a familiar avenue of those elms in splendorous growth, preparing for their fluttering bright green mantle of summer. ‘She began with eight hectares but kept acquiring land and expanding her formal gardens until they sprawled across thirty hectares.’

  He enjoyed listening to her and joined in, happy on this assured, easy path for now. ‘Which turned to forty hectares when she confiscated neighbouring land owned by the Carthusian monks.’

  ‘A woman to admire,’ Katerina quipped, cutting him a sideways glance of amusement, and he felt a thrill of delight to discover that she did possess a wit after all.

  Daniel politely guided her through the tall, gilded iron gates first and sensed, perhaps even before she did, her mood shift back to where they’d begun this conversation.

  ‘So, I’m listening, Daniel,’ she said. ‘You were going to tell me about your family?’

  ‘I shall. There are my parents, both hale, and my sister, who is married to a giant of a fellow with a ruddy complexion and a heart as big as the potato farms he owns in Wales. They have three children, so I’m a proud uncle to a nephew and two nieces who call me Uncle Danny, while my sister and her husband call me Desperate Dan behind my back.’

  ‘Because you’re not married?’

  ‘You have a quick mind, Mademoiselle Kassel.’

  ‘Oh, I think I share a similar fate,’ she replied. ‘Your sister sounds happy.’

  ‘She is. And her children have grown up in a world that knows peace in Europe.’ He watched her nod thoughtfully as he steered her around the main boulevards of the 6th neighbourhood, heading to a tiny enclave sandwiched between it and the 5th arrondissement of Paris, both highly prized.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Happy?’ He knew very well what she’d asked but was stalling for time.

  ‘Yes. Are you?’

  ‘I’m not sure how to answer that.’

  ‘Really? Do you wake up in the morning feeling optimistic?’

  ‘Let’s say I hold out hope for the world.’

  She gave one of her half smiles. ‘That doesn’t answer my question, but I like the sentiment. Where is home for you?’

  ‘My father was born in Germany, he moved to Sudetenland and I was born in Klatovy.’

  ‘So we are both Czech?’ She sounded astonished.

  ‘It seems so.’ He knew he should feel ashamed at the deception of innocence but to him his war would not end until he ended it. ‘My father owned breweries and conducted much of his business in Germany, and he became anxious that we should leave Europe after that first election following the enactment of the Nuremberg Laws. None of us wanted to sail for America – that felt so far away. With friends in England it was the easier choice and it kept us closer to our homeland.’

  ‘Do your parents enjoy England?’

  ‘They do; they adjusted quickly for our benefit, I’m sure. They missed our life in Bohemia but now I don’t think they can imagine being anywhere but Marlow, alongside the river. They’re a little more fragile each time I see them but nevertheless they are in good spirits.’

  ‘I wish I could say the same of mine. I envy you your happy family. The reason I have none of my siblings or parents is because of one person.’

  In that moment Daniel understood that years of watchful patience might be about to deliver to him his single way to catch a monster.

  5

  ‘This is it,’ he said, pointing to an entrance with a varnished timber door. ‘The former owner assured me Picasso stayed here, although why I can’t say because his Montparnasse studio is within the same complex.’

  ‘All of this is yours?’ she said, frowning at the tall townhouse that she could see backed onto a leafy courtyard.

  ‘No. I live in the studio at the top. If you don’t mind stairs, it will give you a lovely view across Paris.’ He took out a key and opened the door, stepping aside for her to enter. He noted her hesitation. ‘This is unusual, Mademoiselle Kassel, I agree. Why don’t we knock on my neighbour’s apartment door and let her know you’re coming upstairs with me? She’s the eyes and ears of the building so she probably already has her antennae switched on.’

  As if she’d heard, the door to the bottom-floor flat opened. ‘Good day to you, Monsieur Horowitz,’ spoke a voice attached to a short woman in an apron. ‘I was just making some tarts,’ she explained as they took in her floured hands and she let her gaze linger on Katerina. ‘Good afternoon, madame?’

  ‘Er, Mademoiselle Kassel is joining me for a bowl of soup. I can’t believe we ran into each other in the gardens – her parents and mine go back. Severine, this is Madame Bouchard. She’s a fine baker; I keep telling her to open a shop.’

  ‘Oh, go on with you, Monsieur Horowitz.’ She turned a fresh and appraising gaze on Katerina, who nodded politely.

  ‘Good afternoon. I can smell how wonderful the tarts are,’ she admitted.

  ‘That’s the first of them. I shall be baking a few more. Maybe I could bring a slice up for you both?’

  ‘That would be splendid,’ Daniel said. ‘Severine?’

  ‘How can I resist?’

  ‘Your figure tells me you resist plenty,’ Madame Bouchard remarked, grabbing her own belly.

  They obliged with a grin.

  ‘You shall have a warm slice of tart to follow your soup.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Daniel agreed. ‘Thank you so much.’ He gestured to the steps. ‘It’s three flights,’ he warned.

  They began the ascent, their footsteps sounding gritty against the stone steps.

  Katerina glanced at the wrought-iron balustrade curling ahead and above them. ‘I don’t usually eat much but I suspect I’ll have an appetite after this trek.’

  At the door, he sounded slightly out of breath. ‘Welcome.’ He led the way in.

  Two cats stared with baleful, cross-eyed indifference at them from the end of the corridor for a moment or two before disappearing into the room at its end.

  He sighed. ‘Brother and sister. I don’t even like cats. They’re seal-point Siamese, whatever that means. More relevantly, they’re a pair of bullies.’

  ‘Why do you have them?’

  ‘A neighbour asked me to look after them and then callously left t
he neighbourhood and his cats with me.’

  So he has a kind heart, she deduced, allowing him to help her off with her coat, into which she tucked her gloves and scarf. He hung up both their coats before leading her down the passage into a vast room where the pair of Siamese awaited them.

  Katerina gave a sigh of pleasure as she emerged into the large space, with windows that claimed an entire wall and tall ceilings that raked to an apex. ‘Oh, this is wonderful.’ The piano towards one end of the room captured her attention but she resisted it for now, even though she wanted – no, needed – to lift the lid and touch ivory keys once again.

  ‘If I were an artist, yes. The light that floods in from those windows, I’ll admit, is extraordinary and sort of magical, because it seems to occur no matter what time of day.’

  He waited, giving her a moment to feel comfy, and she sensed him watching her move across the parquet flooring to the window to look down.

  ‘I hope you use that glorious courtyard.’

  ‘It’s a sun trap for sure, but no, I don’t. I keep myself to myself.’

  She understood him better than he could know; a kindred spirit. And while hers was no match for his apartment, the ambience felt much the same: lonely, quiet, surrounded by shelves of books and essentially still. It was only the twitch of a pair of cats’ tails that moved in this moment. They had taken up positions flanking a door that she presumed led into the private rooms.

  She turned from the oriental glare of the Siamese. ‘I’m filled with admiration that you have made room for a piano,’ she said, unable to hold off mentioning it a moment longer and with a tone in her voice that suggested genuine pleasure. It was an unguarded moment and she registered the surprise that lit in his face.

  ‘I’m no pianist, although I bought this one from the previous owner of the apartment who couldn’t take it with him. I liked how it looked in the room, but more than that, it made me feel comforted. Do you play?’

  She wanted to say no but out it came. ‘As a child I did. But the war …’ Katerina let a sad smile leak into her expression. ‘I haven’t had access to piano as an adult.’

  ‘Play. I won’t watch. I’d love to hear some sound come out of it. Let me get the fire lit and that soup on to warm.’

  She could hear him igniting the gas on the stove as she strolled over to lift the lid of the instrument, its timber casing so highly varnished she could see the room reflected in its polish. It smelled newly waxed and she added another aspect to the character she was building in her mind about her host. Private, tidy, kind, can cook, watchful … that last one was the complex one. She didn’t know whether to feel worried or impressed by the fact that he had observed her in the past.

  ‘It’s a Steinway,’ he remarked, returning to the room. ‘A 1925 Model K vertegrand upright.’

  ‘Impressive.’ She moved across an octave, not ready for the delight that trilled through her at the sound of the notes.

  ‘It certainly impressed Gustav Mahler,’ he said over his shoulder as he stirred the embers of the fire, coaxing life back into them. ‘Apparently he is said to have remarked that he couldn’t have imagined an upright piano that could satisfy a pianist’s requirements in every aspect … or words to that effect.’

  ‘Well, if it’s good enough for Mahler,’ she remarked, blowing on her fingers to warm them. ‘Let’s see what I can remember.’

  She was surprised at how easily the notes came back and how her slender fingers reached for the right keys from memory, blue-printed over hours of practice at her family’s Steinway grand. The music carried her, lifting her on its sad notes all the way to Prague, back to the drawing room where she would play for her parents. They would sit in silence, appreciating the earnest notes her hands coaxed into life, her father normally with eyes closed, nodding in time with the rhythm. Through the music she could see such detail, down to the contented smile of her mother as she listened.

  ‘Severine?’ She opened her eyes, realising her cheeks were wet. Daniel was holding out a handkerchief.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘It’s painful to remember.’

  ‘Nothing to forgive. Your memories are vital – not even war can steal those from you.’ She noted his gaze shifted away from where it had been lingering on her gently.

  She nodded, presuming her tears had touched him or more likely embarrassed him. ‘Sometimes I wish it had,’ she admitted, taking the cotton square with gratitude to dab her cheeks. He still cut his gaze away to where her hands rested on the keys. ‘It doesn’t help to recall a happy childhood when you have nothing left of it.’

  Daniel cleared his throat. ‘Come and sit by the fire. You’re trembling.’ He didn’t reach for her to offer a hand, nor did he touch her, she noted. He simply gestured, guiding her to a comfortable armchair near the happily crackling flames. ‘That was a melancholy piece.’

  ‘It’s how I played it. I’m rusty. When I used to play it, it wasn’t sad so much as quiet and pretty.’

  ‘Let me fetch you that soup. Just sit here and get warm.’

  She kept her mind deliberately blank, allowing herself to be momentarily mesmerised by the fire. She could hear Daniel in his kitchen, his sounds of domesticity a comfort as she felt the warmth begin to cloak the chill and still her tremor that she wasn’t convinced was from the cold. The vault was open and the demon was out, dancing with the flames, swirling around the room, poking and prodding at her with glee.

  He returned this time with a tray, upon which was a neatly rolled, starched napkin of white linen held in a silver ring that had his initials engraved in a looping scrawl to form an emblem.

  ‘D J H,’ she read aloud.

  ‘They’re my grandfather’s. I was named for him. Daniel Joseph Horowitz.’

  ‘So you were saying, you got out?’

  He nodded. ‘At the first sign of anti-Semitism, even before the riots began to occur, my father packed us up and took us first to Switzerland in 1934 and then to England in 1936.’

  ‘Did he fight?’

  ‘My father was a professor of mathematics so his skills were better used at Bletchley Park. My mother and us two children were sent north. We lived in Yorkshire for a while.’

  ‘Yorkshire! I love the region and its city. That explains the intriguing lilt to your accent.’

  He shrugged. ‘After the war our family moved to Buckingham-shire; my father returned to a quiet teaching post and as I mentioned my parents still live there.’

  ‘And you came to France. Why?’

  She sensed he was reluctant to discuss this, something in the sudden tautness of how he held his body. It was subtle, but there.

  ‘Eat up,’ he urged. ‘I wanted to travel but I especially wanted to improve my skills in French and I love Paris. I wanted to witness it emerging from its Nazi overlords. I was too late to see flags being torn down and street names being changed back into French but I got here in time to enjoy the people of France collectively breathing again. Using their own money once more, speaking French with joy and not in defiance.’

  She nodded, could hear the passion; there was no doubting his sincerity but she couldn’t fathom what he wasn’t saying. Years of living a life of suspicion had taught her to pay attention to what wasn’t being told, what the body language was fighting to conceal.

  ‘What do you do, Daniel – for work, I mean?’

  ‘I’m a businessman.’

  She gave a soft smirk. ‘That’s vague.’

  ‘I’m in shipping, essentially. Import and export of anything that anyone needs to move around Europe and the Eastern Mediterranean. I have done some longer haul between Europe and the Americas too. I prefer to work out of Paris, but the main office is in Calais. I travel a lot for my work.’

  She sipped at her soup with care, swallowing silently, thinking about how casually confident he was in delivering that response, and beneath his seemingly relaxed answer she heard a rehearsed explanation.

  He gestured towards his own bowl of soup.
‘As you can tell, I’m not very good at socialising. I work alone – prefer it that way.’

  ‘Well, you’re a fine cook, Daniel,’ she said, knowing their conversation needed something gracious added to it at this awkward point. ‘Your soup is most delicious, thank you.’

  ‘You are so welcome. It’s strange but wonderful to be sharing my food.’

  ‘You never have guests?’

  He shook his head. ‘It never occurs to me to ask anyone over.’

  ‘Yet you didn’t hesitate in asking me.’ She watched him blink; she had tripped him slightly.

  ‘It’s true, I surprised myself by talking suddenly on that bench – it slipped out, really. And then when you did begin to speak, I wanted to help. I felt you needed to keep talking and sometimes … well, talking to a stranger is easier, don’t you think?’

  ‘I do. So, you told me your immediate family were saved. What about your greater family?’ she said.

  ‘Lost to the round-ups, ghettos, detention centres, trains.’ He shrugged in past sorrow. ‘There were friends too. One in particular – my best friend, who was ultimately sent to one of the death camps in Poland for a more brutal end.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Empty words. She hated that phrase being offered up to her because it brought no comfort when it came from people who had no part in the shame. But she forgave herself, for what else was there to say?

  ‘Tell me about your father’s art collecting …’ He stood to poke at the fire, which she knew was a deliberate act to give her time to gather up her thoughts. They needed no shepherd; they were ready to start trotting themselves out for the first time in at least a decade.

  She had finished her soup; she dabbed at her lips with the napkin and set the tray aside. Daniel was right: the light streaming into the apartment was glorious enough to please any painter. ‘And you suggested I start at the beginning.’

  ‘I did,’ he said, returning to his seat, not so far away that she felt isolated but not so close that she felt scrutinised.

  ‘So, I shall start by telling you my real name is Katerina Kassowicz.’