The Queen of the Night by Chee Alexander

Author:Chee, Alexander [Chee, Alexander]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub, mobi
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 2016-02-01T16:00:00+00:00

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Her Haustheater was really two houses side by side—her villa, where she lived with her husband, Louis, and Villa Turgenev next door, built for Turgenev. The two sat close to each other away from their neighbors at the end of the road. They made for a strange pair: the Viardot villa looked to be of a piece with its neighbors down the road, but Turgenev’s villa was newer, built soon after Pauline and her husband had moved to Baden-Baden, and had the appearance of a strangely new French château but in the old French style. Her traditional German villa seemed to be keeping time with a French stranger who’d snuck out of the forest, acting as if he’d always been there.

Turgenev himself was entirely at home, however, as I discovered when, on entering Pauline’s villa, we found him taking a late cup of tea in her parlor. He stood, surprised to see us, and greeted us in impeccable French as Pauline tutted at him for being at his leisure with guests arriving. Mistaking him for Pauline’s husband, I greeted him as Monsieur Viardot, and he laughed, if a little ruefully, and corrected me.

Mademoiselle, he said, I am Ivan Turgenev, at your disposal.

Turgenev had already become the beautiful giant I would know him as for the rest of his life, his long white hair and beard giving him a mystical appearance, as if he were the last of a great race, and this mystique was added to by his strangely high voice, startling in a man of his size. He was dressed simply and elegantly in a dark suit and white shirt, as he would be, I would soon see, every day. The white beard, in particular, glowed, lighting his face; but much like Pauline’s, his eyes took you in, though his projected a calm, conquering kindness—of course you will love me, they seemed to say, and I will love you.

He saw my embarrassment at my mistake, and as Pauline introduced me—Lilliet Berne, may I present the great Russian writer Ivan Turgenev—he deftly turned the conversation to my toilette, complimenting me on making such an elegant first appearance in their home, and then admired my general’s coat, even inquiring after the fur in my collar. But the sound of my old name had surprised me—now at least I knew whose name was on that paper—and with that, I understood why Pauline had not asked my name at her gate—she had simply greeted me as if we already knew each other, as had I. Nervous, tired, unsure of my French suddenly, with not one wit about me, I touched the collar—I had never once thought of the animal who’d given its life for the coat’s trim—and said, Lapinard? And he laughed, and as soon as he laughed, I knew I had mixed rabbit, lapin, and fox, renard, inventing a word and an animal by my mistake.

Ah, he said. La peinard? Or, better, you should be La Peinard. We should all be les peinards.

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