greyhound and flowing veils, at Aketaten, after the others had gone home to Thebes, the ultimate refinement of a polite vacuity, but all the same, with a sad will to live, a good smile, and all the knowledge to know how.
The veils, however, she had used, in some film about the Russian county aristocracy, in 1917, when the Bolsheviks came. There had been a lovely little country house by Cameron. Across its lawn, at dawn, from French windows which somehow looked Viennese, she had swept in white veils, just as she was to over again, in Morocco, a decade later, to even less purpose, but she had been beautiful. She would alwaysbe beautiful. She had seen to that herself, and was out there on the floor, seeing to it now.
The Bolsheviks had not harmed her. Neither had her cameraman. She found herself on the Orient Express instead, a penniless refugee. By now, of course, she is the glamorous Eurasian, her White Russian blood well behind her. She copes. But she retains her little smile. The smile is Nefertiti’s. Nowadays she played glamorous Germans of a certain age, just as he wrote books about them. The thrill had become a stereotype. The smile remained.
During a visit to Dahlem, he had hauled himself up entirely too many stairs, to take a look at Nefertiti. Germany was gone. He was gone. The world was gone. A war makes us refugees from what we were. But Nefertiti had not gone. She was totally unaffected. In 3,300 years she had lost nothing more essential than the outer cartilage of an ear. What the Mona Lisa was to the nineteenth century, and Guido Reni’s little boys to the eighteenth, she is to us. But what does she know? And does she know she knows?
In Lotte’s case, he rather suspected, yes.
Unexpectedly, the tea cart skittered out from under him and ran away like a small animal or a frightened child, across the floor, up against her shins. Lotte cursed.
“It’s just me,” he said.
She looked angry, as what magician would not, to find an observer from the Institute for Psychical Research taking notes on the spells. But even Charlie was part of her audience.
“You startled me. How long have you been there?”
He knew the tactful answer to that. “I just came in.”
“I want to get to work again,” she told him. “I’m only happy when I’m working.”
He wished he could have said the same. “That’s called thePuritan Doctrine. Gide loved it. Or, if you prefer, the Earthly Paradise. Or, if you prefer, Nirvana. No wonder the Mahayana caught on. In Ceylon they’re Hinayana. They must be tropical Calvinists.”
She wasn’t interested in that.
“Sing something,” he said.
With a quick girlish look, she climbed up on the stage and did just that. She did a parody of herself, very funny. If you can parody yourself better than the parodists do, you’re still safe; you’re still sane.
The electric candles had not been turned off, they caught at the mirrors, which reflected neither him nor her. Lotte had the advantage of being on a podium, so she caught a glimpse of something she hoped he had not seen.
In some unidentifiable but reflected part of the house Unne had appeared, with Paul behind her. In several fragments the mirrors caught them up. They embraced, heartily. Obviously they had done so before. In one mirror in particular she saw an enlargement of a young jaw, and mouth on mouth. That startled her. But she was fond of Charlie. She did not want to see him hurt. So she went on singing.
“I thought I’d find you both here,” said Paul, coming forward. “It’s time for lunch.”
They had been holding hands. They weren’t now.
“He’s quite right,” said Lotte, and gave her hand to Charlie, to help her down.
How guiltless the young are, she thought. It is because it has not yet occurred to them that anybody can see them in the mirror but themselves.
“Let’s not go back to Mondorf,” said Charlie, though they were in Mondorf. “I know a place a little way out, and really, the wine
The veils, however, she had used, in some film about the Russian county aristocracy, in 1917, when the Bolsheviks came. There had been a lovely little country house by Cameron. Across its lawn, at dawn, from French windows which somehow looked Viennese, she had swept in white veils, just as she was to over again, in Morocco, a decade later, to even less purpose, but she had been beautiful. She would alwaysbe beautiful. She had seen to that herself, and was out there on the floor, seeing to it now.
The Bolsheviks had not harmed her. Neither had her cameraman. She found herself on the Orient Express instead, a penniless refugee. By now, of course, she is the glamorous Eurasian, her White Russian blood well behind her. She copes. But she retains her little smile. The smile is Nefertiti’s. Nowadays she played glamorous Germans of a certain age, just as he wrote books about them. The thrill had become a stereotype. The smile remained.
During a visit to Dahlem, he had hauled himself up entirely too many stairs, to take a look at Nefertiti. Germany was gone. He was gone. The world was gone. A war makes us refugees from what we were. But Nefertiti had not gone. She was totally unaffected. In 3,300 years she had lost nothing more essential than the outer cartilage of an ear. What the Mona Lisa was to the nineteenth century, and Guido Reni’s little boys to the eighteenth, she is to us. But what does she know? And does she know she knows?
In Lotte’s case, he rather suspected, yes.
Unexpectedly, the tea cart skittered out from under him and ran away like a small animal or a frightened child, across the floor, up against her shins. Lotte cursed.
“It’s just me,” he said.
She looked angry, as what magician would not, to find an observer from the Institute for Psychical Research taking notes on the spells. But even Charlie was part of her audience.
“You startled me. How long have you been there?”
He knew the tactful answer to that. “I just came in.”
“I want to get to work again,” she told him. “I’m only happy when I’m working.”
He wished he could have said the same. “That’s called thePuritan Doctrine. Gide loved it. Or, if you prefer, the Earthly Paradise. Or, if you prefer, Nirvana. No wonder the Mahayana caught on. In Ceylon they’re Hinayana. They must be tropical Calvinists.”
She wasn’t interested in that.
“Sing something,” he said.
With a quick girlish look, she climbed up on the stage and did just that. She did a parody of herself, very funny. If you can parody yourself better than the parodists do, you’re still safe; you’re still sane.
The electric candles had not been turned off, they caught at the mirrors, which reflected neither him nor her. Lotte had the advantage of being on a podium, so she caught a glimpse of something she hoped he had not seen.
In some unidentifiable but reflected part of the house Unne had appeared, with Paul behind her. In several fragments the mirrors caught them up. They embraced, heartily. Obviously they had done so before. In one mirror in particular she saw an enlargement of a young jaw, and mouth on mouth. That startled her. But she was fond of Charlie. She did not want to see him hurt. So she went on singing.
“I thought I’d find you both here,” said Paul, coming forward. “It’s time for lunch.”
They had been holding hands. They weren’t now.
“He’s quite right,” said Lotte, and gave her hand to Charlie, to help her down.
How guiltless the young are, she thought. It is because it has not yet occurred to them that anybody can see them in the mirror but themselves.
“Let’s not go back to Mondorf,” said Charlie, though they were in Mondorf. “I know a place a little way out, and really, the wine
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