House of the Hanged by Mark Mills

embassy in Petrograd begging the British authorities to smuggle their jewels out of the country, convinced that the Bolsheviks would rob them even of these at the border. Yevgeny had lost almost everything in the Revolution, not least of all his parents, dragged from their motor car by a rampaging mob and beaten to death. He had stepped off the train in Paris in 1918 with one suitcase and a string of his grandmother’s pearls sewn into the lining of his jacket. In this respect, his story was not so different to that of many others, but few of his compatriots had managed to turn around their fortunes so swiftly, and those who had were not generally inclined to help out those who hadn’t. Yevgeny was an active member of the displaced White Russian community in the French capital, known for his generosity.
    Venetia was more circumspect about the ‘funny little Russian art dealer’ and his nervy, wasp-waisted wife, Fanya. She found them far too eager to please, which meant little coming from a woman who made almost no effort whatsoever on that score. Privately, Tom suspected that Venetia was jealous, not so much of Leonard’s relationship with Yevgeny, as of Fanya’s quite justifiable claim to be even more neurotic than she. Pretenders to that particular throne were never welcome, although Venetia was big enough to rein back her more hostile instincts for one fortnight a year. Why rock the boat when it was such a very fine boat to be aboard?
    Summer in Le Rayol moved to a pleasing, if somewhat repetitive, rhythm. They would all gather mid-morning at the cove between the two houses for a spot of bathing, boating and leaping off the rocks. The tight demilune of sand was, in effect, a private beach, even if the law said otherwise. Every so often, a sailboat would anchor off the beach and a band of interlopers versed in their rights would row or swim ashore.
    They rarely lingered.
    It wasn’t that they were subjected to a frosty reception; quite the opposite, in fact. They would be showered with attention and offers of food and drink, quizzed to within an inch of their lives, asked their opinion on Schoenberg’s atonal Second String Quartet blasting from the gramophone (the disc was always at hand for such occasions). If none of this worked, then they would be exhorted to join in a vigorous game of volleyball – ‘I’m ever so sorry, but you don’t really have a choice in the matter. You see, you’re lying on the court.’ On one memorable occasion, Leonard had resorted to stripping off his bathing costume and searching for shells in the shallows. Normally, though, the invaders were long gone before then, convinced that they’d just slipped the clutches of some sinister cult bent on enlisting new members.
    Luncheon was usually provided by Venetia and Leonard – a light meal of cold cuts, cheeses, salads and the like, prepared by Paulette’s surly sister-in-law, Blanche, and served up at Docteur Manevy’s house beneath the vine-threaded pergola in the courtyard. A hock-induced siesta inevitably followed, which took care of the least hospitable time of the day, when the heat was at its most prodigious.
    Around four o’clock, they would all emerge from hibernation, blinking into the sunlight, and congregate once more at the cove for a bracing dip to bring them round. Later, once the heat had subsided sufficiently, the cove would be abandoned for the tennis courts just below the village bar. If they weren’t invited elsewhere for the evening then cocktails and dinner were generally hosted by Tom at the villa. Numbers fluctuated according to which of the guests had guests of their own staying with them, but there were rarely fewer than ten around the table on the terrace, and often nearly twice that number.
    Paulette was a peerless cook with a seemingly endless repertoire of fish and shellfish recipes. Carnivores went hungry; she made no allowances for those who