I only had time for one thought:
I’m not supposed to be here.
Tamara was already at the door below me, out of sight, while Kuffner stood a little away from the building, staring at her—and, no doubt, at the building door. I heard Tamara’s key in the lock below me; Kuffner’s streetlit face relaxed, then went suspicious: he looked quickly up and down the block, no doubt for me. “Come.” I heard Tamara’s voice, low and commanding, and then he stepped forward out of sight.
Then I acted without thinking: I let myself out through the window, onto the balcony. With the sound of high heels rising up the stairs, I tugged the window as shut as I could by its mullion bars and retreated behind a column on the balcony, visible neither to Kuffner’s driver outside nor to anyone—I hoped—inside.
A light went on and I saw Tamara with her back turned, pouring them each a neat finger of scotch. Because I had not been able to pull the last inch of window closed behind me, I could make out Kuffner’s French clearly: “Is your daughter asleep?”
“She’s at my mother’s,” Tamara said.
Standing close, Kuffner gazed at her from behind. “You didn’t say a word to me in the car, you know.”
Briefly, Tamara leaned back, decanter in hand, resting her body against his. “I don’t know why you agreed to that duel with Boucard.”
“It would have been insulting not to,” Kuffner murmured into her hair.
“Your wife is in a
cancer
hospital. He would accept an apology.”
“I wanted to impress you,” he said, sliding an arm around her waist. “I admit it.”
“That’s not why I invited you here,” Tamara said trimly, setting down the decanter as she pulled away.
“I beg pardon—”
“I can see why you’d assume,” she said. She turned to face him with a glass in each hand, and smiled. “And if I were a handsome man, and used to getting what I wanted—”
“It’s not—”
“—And I wanted a painting by a woman who was known to have a weakness for handsome men, I might try to persuade her by every means I could.”
Kuffner backed away. “I did mistake your invitation, Madame de Lempicka,” he said stiffly. “I made an assumption based on experience.”
“Understandable,” Tamara said.
“I hope my assumption doesn’t mean you’ll sell the painting to Boucard,” Kuffner said.
“I don’t want to sell it to Boucard.”
“I know. And you don’t want to sell it to me.”
“Listen. I’ve put the good doctor off for so long, he’s got someone watching my house.”
“Has he?”
“If you look across the street, you’ll see a man smoking at the window. The one with the lace curtains.” Kuffner, indulging her, stood at the window to look. Flattening myself against the wall, I looked as well: I found a tiny point of orange across the street, and used it to make out a hand, an arm, perhaps a head-shaped shadow. “Do you remember? He was there when we came inside,” Tamara said. “No cigarette lasts that long.”
“I didn’t know what I was up against,” Kuffner said, less archly than before.
“He’s been there ever since the Salon party. At first I thought he didn’t sleep. Now I think there are two of them.”
There
was
always a smoker at the window, but I had pictured a brokenhearted man, not a professional spy. Why hadn’t Tamara told me? Why had she told me she was afraid of being followed by Boucard, who was nowhere to be seen? Why hadn’t she mentioned
this
man, right across the street?
“Now that you’ve seen him,” Tamara said, finally passing Kuffner his scotch, “I will tell you why I invited you here, since you’re clearly too proud to ask.”
“Please do,” said Kuffner. He raised his glass.
“Chin-chin,” Tamara replied. “I don’t want to
sell
you the painting, Rollie. And this is why, as far as I’m concerned, you and Boucard really, really,
really
don’t need to shoot each other.”
Why Rollie?
I thought
.
And then I remembered his Christian name: Raoul. Kuffner looked at her, waiting.
“I want to give it to you.”
“I—”
“But Boucard can’t know, because of our contract. Promise you won’t display it until my contract with Boucard is up? If you do, I’m ruined. Do you understand?”
Kuffner said nothing for a long moment, then cleared his throat. “You’re
giving
it to me?”
“Promise you’ll drop the duel? Promise you won’t display the painting for the next two years?”
“I—I promise,” said Kuffner, stunned. “I’ll keep it in a vault.”
“But I thought you liked looking at it.”
“I’ll build it a secret room, then,” he extemporized.
“I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I.” Kuffner shook his head, as if to clear it, then downed his drink at one go.
“If I’ve done everything right, Boucard will think Rafaela stole the painting and took it to Italy on tonight’s last train.”
His head jerked up. “Rafaela?”
“If that fellow with the cigarette doesn’t see Rafaela get on that train with the painting, Boucard will never leave me alone.”
“But why would Rafaela steal the painting?”
“I told her we were going to go hide it together in Italy, to keep it away from both of you.” Tamara’s voice as she said this was teasing, intimate. She pointed to the canvas-shaped package that dominated the room. “She should get here in twenty minutes to take the painting, so we can’t waste any time.”
“So you’re only
saying
that you’re giving me the painting,” Kuffner countered, confused. “Rafaela’s hiding the painting in Italy until your contract is up with Boucard?”
“No,” Tamara said. “I’m giving you the painting tonight.” She turned to the packed canvas. “Rafaela’s taking
this
to Italy. They’re not the same thing.” I recoiled. How long had she been planning this? With that, she flipped through a set of canvases leaning against the wall and drew one out from the back. “See?”
Kuffner sighed, visibly shaken. It was the private
Belle Rafaela.
It was me. “Now hold this,” Tamara commanded, handing him a tack hammer. “We have to work quickly.”
“What are you doing?”
“Mounting a canvas,” Tamara said briskly. “I do it every day.”
She didn’t mount the canvas. She tapped out the struts from the back of
Nude with Dove,
placed our
Rafaela
so that it fit into the back of the other painting, and replaced the struts. “These will need to be varnished in six months, of course,” Tamara said. “But for now, don’t worry. There’s a lip of wood inside the frame so that the two canvases don’t touch.”
I suddenly, sickeningly, understood why she’d had
Nude with Dove
reframed to such exact specifications. “You’re damned clever,” Kuffner murmured.
Tamara rested her hands on her hips, pleased. “Now we can walk right out the front door. Boucard’s man will see us leave with the
Dove
, and then he’ll see Rafaela leave with a wrapped painting. Who do you think he’ll follow?”
“This is why I want you, Tamara. You’re an extraordinary woman.”
“And you’re an extraordinary man. With a wife and a Spanish dancer,” Tamara admonished.
Kuffner looked sheepish, but persisted. “I just have one question.”
Tamara leaned against the back of her chaise, arching her back like a movie star. “Oh?”
“When did you decide this? Tonight? At the party?”
What a dumb cluck. How could she have decided tonight when there was this packed-up painting, this lie, waiting for me in her apartment? I pressed closer to the window to hear her reply, nauseated. “Not tonight . . .” Tamara said vaguely, relishing her power.
“I mean, why me? Instead of Boucard?”
It hurt to hear Kuffner ask Tamara the very question I had once asked Guillaume and Hervé, and to watch Tamara consider her reply so seriously. She tilted her face up toward him. Her voice wobbled and dropped—I recognized it—the way it had when she realized how rich he was. “Because I love you,” she said. My mouth fell open. Black floating spots crawled across my eyes.
“Tamara,” Kuffner said, moving toward her.
Tamara extended a long white arm and rested her flat hand on his chest. A sharp pain stabbed into my belly. “You’re not ready for me yet,” she whispered. She half turned away to look at the painting. Even modesty and regret were tools of seduction in her hands, I marveled, beginning at the same time to realize just how much she had betrayed me. “This gift is my prayer that you will be—ready—one day.”
Kuffner covered her hand on his chest with both of his. She was a column of white gold. He was shaking like a boy.
“We should go,” she said.
“What if I were ready for you now?”
Tamara lowered her arm and Kuffner did not let go of her hand. “Prove it,” she said.
“I would drop Nana for you in no time. I can drop her tonight. If you come with me, we’ll stop at the Paradis first and you can watch me leave her.”
Tamara said nothing.
“You’re afraid someone’s going to follow us?”
“That’s not it,” she said. “It isn’t me Boucard wants. It’s the painting. He’s not watching me; he’s watching my house.” I swallowed. So, she had never been afraid Boucard would follow her home from the party. I understood: she wanted the smoking man to follow me
and
the painting to the station, and she had told me whatever would make me do it.
Kuffner gave Tamara a look of helpless confusion. “You
don’t
want me to drop Nana?”
“Of course I do,” Tamara snapped. She inhaled sharply, then steadied herself. “I don’t want to be a mistress, Rollie.”
Kuffner nodded. We both watched him take the gold band off his ring finger and set it in her hand. “My wife is dying,” he said simply. “She and I—we’re both waiting for her to die.”
Tamara stared, fingers refusing to close around the ring. “Don’t say such things.”
“I mean it,” he said. “Go ahead, put it on.”
Tamara’s hand was flat and taut. “I can’t wear this.”
“Then just take it. Keep it. See?” Casting about, Kuffner opened the nearest drawer to hand, in her escritoire. I heard the slap of gold on wood. “There.”
“I’m impressed,” Tamara said.
“Come with me, then? We’ll stop at the Paradis first, take care of a little business? I can write Boucard something flowery, too, if you want to watch.”
“You know I can’t make you any promises,” Tamara said. I watched his face lean in and cover hers. “Not right now,” she breathed, her grin as wet and dizzy as a girl’s.
Kuffner held her face in his hands a moment longer. “You don’t have to promise me anything,” he said. I heard joy in his voice. My eyes squeezed shut for a long pained moment. When I opened them, he had stepped away from her. “Well,” he said, with a nod at the painting, “may I?”
“You may.”
Kuffner set both hands on
Nude with Dove
, lifted it, and set it down, turning to her. “I’ll confess, Tamara,” he said, buoyed up by happy confidence, “I wanted this painting so much, I was prepared to hold it hostage to make you sell it to me.”
“How were you going to do that?” Tamara asked, pleased.
“Rafaela,” he explained. “You don’t know how much money I gave her to leave your door open tonight.”
“You bad man,” Tamara whispered, half teasing.
“The little whore took my money, but I see she’s loyal. Your door was locked.”
“Rafaela kept your money, did she?” Tamara laughed. “Oh, poor you.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Pass me a cigarette, you awful man. That’s the least you deserve.”
“You aren’t angry?”
“Of course I’m angry. But I’m flattered.”
“I love this painting.”
Tamara’s eyes glittered with satisfaction. “I know. I wanted to see what you would do for it,” she said. She smiled, took a long slit-eyed pull on her cigarette. “Is that what you were doing at the party? Making sure I was drunk so you could go let yourself into my apartment?”
Kuffner flinched. “I’m sorry.” When Tamara exhaled, she tipped her head back, watching Kuffner’s eyes widen at her exposed white throat.
“Little whore?”
she repeated, haughty. “You really thought my door would be unlocked?”
“I believed I had reason to hope.”
“Stupid man. She told me all about you. That’s
my
little whore.”
I brought my hand to my mouth and bit it hard as Kuffner laughed. “I’ve learned my lesson, then.”
“Let’s go.”
Kuffner’s driver started the car. The smoking man stirred in the window. Kuffner opened the door for Tamara, then circled the car. He carried the painting face out; even I could see it: my own heavy thighs, Ira’s long nose, that sentimental dove. As the car gunned away, the orange point of light disappeared briefly, then reappeared.
When you’re standing on a balcony on a December night dressed in nothing but peacock feathers, it’s a little hard to break into a lover’s flat inconspicuously, harder if she has just broken your heart. My hands shook as I silently edged open the balcony door and flattened myself into the apartment, just out of the smoking man’s line of vision. Then I lay down on Tamara’s floor and cried.
It hurt to cry as much as I did, but I couldn’t stop. Each gulping sob tore slowly out of me. I choked out one on top of the next, and when I came to the end of each stack, I started all over again.
And then I sat up on the floor in my ridiculous dress, resting my chin on my knees. I didn’t know what to do next, but I had to blow my nose. Knowing that the smoking man would see the lamps through the sheer curtains, I turned on the electric lights—
Let him wonder how I got in—
and went to Tamara’s bedroom for a handkerchief. I climbed into her bed for the second time that day and crushed a pillow against my face.
I could have lain there all night, crying myself to sleep. I could have gone to Boucard and told him what Tamara had done. I could have piled up Tamara’s paintings and burned them all. But Tamara had given me the one thing I thought I would never feel: the ability to love someone I went to bed with, to feel desire without calculation. That feeling of choosing her, of running back to lock her door, of wanting to protect her, was the best thing that had ever happened to me, and I didn’t want to let go of it, even if I was terribly, terribly mistaken. I put on my coat and shouldered the painting she had left for me. I found a cab at the stand by the Métro entrance and told the driver, “Gare de Lyon.”