A Calculated Risk by Katherine Neville (best time to read books .txt) 📗

“I’ve got a project of my own now,” she said cryptically, “and I know wherein my duty lies. As usual, you’ve been lying to yourself, but this is very stimulating to me: correcting people’s impressions of themselves happens to be my forte.”

She tossed her arm across my shoulders and walked me back through the maze, humming a cheerful tune, as I cringed inwardly. When we reached the wide hall, we could hear the murmur of voices from the Blue Room.

“Are these pictures of your family?” Tor was asking as we came in.

“Nyet,” said Lelia. “My family, they are all dead. These are my dear friends: Pauline, who made the costumes, how you say couturière—Pauline Trigère. And this is Schiap, another costume maker, dead also. And this is the Contessa di—”

“What are you boring our guest with, Mother?” asked Georgian, coming up to take her arm.

“Who’s this old fellow?” asked Tor. “He looks familiar.”

“Ah … that is Claude, my very dear ami. He was so sweet, how he loved all his flowers. But unhappily he was, how you say, hard of seeing. I would go to his gardens at Giverny, and explain how the flowers were looking to me—and then he would paint them on his canvas. He says I am his young eyes.”

“Giverny? This was Claude Monet?” Tor glanced at Lelia and then at us.

“Da—Monet.” Lelia looked at the photo wistfully. “He was very old and I was very young. There was one flower that I loved so much—you remember it, Zhorzhione? He made me a little watercolor of it. What was the name of this flower?”

“Water lilies?” suggested Georgian.

Lelia shook her head. “It was a very long flower—poorpoorniyi—the color of raisins, what you call grapes. Purple—is that a word?”

“Long and purple like grapes?” I said. “Maybe lilacs?”

“No matter,” Lelia dismissed us. “It will come on me later.”

“Mother,” Georgian interrupted impatiently, “I haven’t met True’s friend yet.”

“Of course not!” snapped Lelia. “Because you leave the guests always in the foyer; they could die there! And no au revoir for the mannequins, either—they have to leave through the service door, like the femme de ménage! Be thankful to le bon Dieu that you have a mother to look after all the little bad habits.”

“Yes, I thank God every day for that,” Georgian said dryly.

“Georgian, may I present Dr. Zoltan Tor,” I said formally. “He’s nearly as old a friend of mine as you are.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” she said sweetly.

“True?” said Tor. “That’s very nice.”

“It means the same as Verity, doesn’t it? And it’s so much less prissy-bankerly—‘Verity-in-lending’—and all.” Turning to Lelia, she added, “Mother, True wants me to discuss business with her friend here—so why don’t you run off and see that we’re not disturbed?”

Lelia looked crestfallen, but Georgian put her arm around her, and physically ushered her from the room. There were a few sharp whispers in French outside the door, and Georgian returned alone.

“Mother likes to participate in everything,” she explained.

“I find her charming,” Tor said with a smile. “Tell me, did she really know Claude Monet?”

“Oh, Mother knows everyone,” said Georgian, adding loudly, “but only because she’s such a dreadful snoop.”

We heard the clatter of little feathered shoes outside, scurrying off down the corridor. Georgian smiled and shrugged, plopping herself down on an ottoman.

“I’m sorry I ran off with True before,” she explained as Tor and I took seats, “but I haven’t seen her in so long. She comes to New York all the time, but never calls me—not when she’s in ‘business mode.’ She has two completely different personalities, you know.”

She batted her eyes innocently. I felt it coming on—the desire to strangle her—though I knew she had only begun.

“Two personalities? I’m afraid I’ve only seen one of them,” said Tor, reproachfully.

“Perhaps so—since she says you’re only a ‘colleague’—but she isn’t anything like how she appears at that bank-of-whatever-it-is. All that’s a total sham.” She waved her hand nonchalantly.

“I’d always suspected there was another Verity,” Tor agreed.

“Then you don’t know about our exploits?” Georgian raised her brows. “Living in the harem at Riyad? The kama sutra odyssey in Tibet? Being sold into white slavery in the Cameroons? The cattle crossing to Morocco?”

“Georgian—” My teeth were gritted, but Tor cut in.

“Please continue,” he told Georgian, and turning to me with admirable composure, he added, “It seems there are a few things you’ve concealed from me. I feel I’ve a right to examine your background—before entering with you into any further business dealings.”

My background, my ass, I thought. But Georgian was carrying on.

“Exactly. She’s lovable—but a hypocrite. Now, as to our first adventure—True and I were very young—”

“How young were we?” I asked maliciously.

She shot me a look, but it didn’t break her stride.

“Not long ago—we were very poor, no money at all—but we longed to go to Morocco. We lacked talent to pay our way, no bankers or photographers were needed. The only ship where we could secure passage was a dreadful old cattle boat, absolutely crawling with vermin—flies in the cowshit, that sort of thing. We had to travel in steerage.”

“No pun intended?” Tor interjected.

“Literally—we slept with the bovines—a real nightmare. But True was more fortunate: the captain took a liking to her. One night he came down and saw her sleeping amidst the dung, and cried out, ‘Ach! Das ist ein voman!’—or something to that effect.”

“He was a German then, this captain,” Tor deduced with a smile I didn’t care for.

“Tall, blond, and gorgeous,” Georgian agreed. “Come to think of it—he looked a bit like you.”

“Did he indeed?” said Tor, leaning back with his arms folded. I noticed he didn’t look at me now.

“He swept her into his arms, carried her to his cabin, and seduced her without a word. She was held there three days—without food or water—but when she was released, she was hardly upset as she might have been. To the contrary, she loved the experience. But do you know what I was doing all this time?”