going,” Fiona said.
“Before the war, an important Parisian art gallery employed my mother as a catalogue clerk until the owners discovered that she had the eye. The eye knew which pictures held the money and, as the war approached, which held the lives. Just before the war, the Parisian art market became increasingly predatory. The gallery became a conduit for quick sales as Jews flooded the market with paintings. After the German occupation, highway robbery became the norm. Mother was disgusted and quit.”
“Then what?”
“Mother and the banker negotiated his family out of France by selling his collection to representatives of that fat Nazi. What was his name?
“Herman Goering,” Fiona said.
“Yes, him. The banker and his family went to Brazil or Portugal. Mother was quite proud of that.”
“I could have found work for her at one of the galleries here in San Francisco, but she refused to have anything to do with buying and selling paintings.” Fiona paused. “Then what did Tatiana do?”
“She took some kind of job with a large French construction company,” I said.
“Right, the company needed Russian translators.”
“Russian translators? Why?”
“Oops!” Fiona gasped. “Spilled my tea.” She put the phone down for a long moment. “The construction company—I forget its name—employed Russian volunteers.”
“Volunteers? You mean Russian prisoners of war?”
Fiona didn’t answer.
“What did this construction company do?”
“I believe they did work for the German military authorities,” she said.
“And the Russian POWs?”
“Tatiana said that they were farm boys who volunteered, so to speak, to get out of the German prison camps, where they were being starved.”
“So—”
“Look, Alexander, Tatiana didn’t join the Resistance or anything like that. She was alone in Paris. Her mother died right after the war started, your grandfather and uncle returned to Russia, and your father had been evacuated to England. Technically she may have cooperated with the Germans; so did a lot of French. Bear in mind that Tatiana’s feelings about France were ambivalent: the French were contemptuous of the Russian émigrés, and she was never allowed French citizenship. In short, she survived.”
“I see…”
“You’re upset?”
“Mother was so evasive about those days.”
“Did the policeman say anything else about Tatiana?”
“No, he was more interested in my grandfather. I’ll tell you about that later.”
“If I may have been less than forthright, well, I didn’t want to harm your memories of Tatiana,” Fiona said. “You understand, don’t you?”
“I do, I guess.”
“I’m afraid Tatiana will never let go of you.”
“I don’t deserve to be let go of.”
“My dear boy, so harsh on yourself.” Fiona brightened. “I’ll pick you up at the airport tomorrow afternoon; we’ll have a lovely supper.”
“I’m looking forward to that.”
“And so am I, Alexander.”
CHAPTER 3
JUNE 1986
SAN FRANCISCO
A year later, we were going to the opera on a Friday evening, and Fiona picked me up in her Mercedes. I didn’t care for opera, but escorting Fiona was a small repayment for all that she had done for my mother and me.
On the way, I was telling Fiona, “Universal has decided to send me to their Moscow representative office on an interim assignment. I don’t think I’ll be in Moscow too long.”
“When did you find out?”
“Oh, it’s been off and on for a month or so. The bank thought they’d found a replacement, but that fell through. Now I’m going for sure.”
“Your first trip was hardly auspicious, was it?”
“Unnerving, that’s for sure.”
“Could your grandfather still be a problem?” Fiona asked.
“I attached a letter to my visa application explaining my grandfather. The visa came back with a short letter thanking me for my candor and assuring me that my grandfather was no longer an issue for the Soviet government.”
“Shouldn’t you have explained that Tatiana’s brother returned with the Germans too?”
“I’m pretty sure they don’t know he existed.”
Fiona gripped the wheel to navigate a busy intersection and started up Pacific Heights on her shortcut to the Opera House. “Why are they sending you?”
“The bank’s office was opened only six months ago. The representative was fired for black-market dealing. Everyone uses the black market for one thing or another, but an internal audit found that he was using bank funds to speculate.”
“When are you leaving?” She had stopped at a red light.
“Next Saturday, I’ll fly to New York and Sunday to Moscow.”
“I wish you’d have told me sooner.” Fiona’s formidable temper seemed about to detonate. “Perhaps your candor could have applied to me as well as the Russians?”
“Fiona, the light turned green.” We crossed the intersection. “I didn’t want to upset you, like I just have. You’re angry or worried?”
“Of course, I’m worried. Oh, there’s something else too. We’ll talk about it later.”
“Come on, don’t do that.”
At the next light, she said, “Fred Imhoff, you know, Drew’s…ah, consort. No, that’s not the word. Well, you know, Drew’s companion has full-blown AIDS.”
“And Drew?”
“I don’t know. But one has to assume,” Fiona said. “Fred and Drew have been, as you know, together for some time.”
Andrew Faircloth (Drew) was Fiona’s son from her brief and only marriage. I thought that Fiona was avoiding the word lovers since I had fallen in love with Drew when my mother became ill that summer. I felt myself blush as we turned into the parking garage. Squealing tires on the concrete
