Free The Wine of Solitude by Irène Némirovsky Page A

say “Mama”. “Mama didn’t come to meet us” …’
    ‘Mama didn’t come to meet us. She probably doesn’t want to see me that much,’ said Hélène quietly. ‘And I don’t want to see her either.’
    ‘Well, then, what are you complaining about?’ Mademoiselle Rose replied softly. ‘You’ve got a few more moments of peace.’
    Hélène was struck by the mournful irony of her smile.
    ‘Do
they
have a car now?’ the little girl asked.
    ‘Yes. Your father has earned a lot of money.’
    ‘Really? And what about my grandparents? Will they ever come to live here?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    But Hélène knew very well that her grandparents would never leave the Ukraine; a regular allowance would keep them away from the Karols for ever. That was the very first thing Bella would do with her fortune.
    When Hélène thought about her grandparents she felt pity, which she hated because it seemed cowardly to her. She tried to put them out of her mind, but in spite of herself, their faces surged up in her memory. She remembered them running quickly, stumbling along the platform as the train was leaving. Her grandmother was crying, which hardly made her look any different, the poor woman; but grandfather Safronov remained his usual swaggering self as he stood tall, waving his cane. ‘See you soon,’ he cried, his voice shaking. ‘We’ll come to see you in St Petersburg! Tell your mama to invite us soon.’
    ‘I wouldn’t count on it, poor Grandfather,’ murmured Hélène. She was certain the old man understood the situation even better than she did. She couldn’t imagine the fury and regret he would feel when going back home to the empty house, followed by his wife who moaned and wept quietly.
    ‘It’s my turn now,’ he would think. ‘My turn. Once I was the one who ran off to follow my whims, to enjoy myself, and left everyone behind. But now that I’m old and running out of steam, I’m the one who’s being left behind.’ And turning towards his wife, he deigned to wait for her for the first time in his life, even though he banged his cane against the ground and grumbled, ‘Come on, then, hurry up, slow coach!’
    ‘Exeunt’ grandfather and grandmother, Hélène thought with the dark sense of humour she’d inherited from her father.
    Meanwhile, the car had stopped in front of a large, beautiful house. The Karols’ apartment was constructed in such a way that you could see right through all the rooms from the entrance hall; from the large open doors stretched a seriesof gold-and-white reception rooms. Hélène bumped into the corner of an enormous white piano, caught sight of her pale, confused face reflected in the many mirrors and finally made her way into a smaller, darker room to her mother. She was standing up, leaning against a table; beside her sat a young man whom Hélène had never seen before.
    ‘Stuffed into a corset at three o’clock in the afternoon,’ thought Hélène, remembering her mother’s loose-fitting dressing gowns and dishevelled hair; she looked up and immediately spotted how many new rings she wore on her pale fingers, saw the elegant dress, her slim figure, how happy and passionate her harsh face looked; she saw all of it, enclosed it within her heart and never, ever forgot it.
    ‘Hello, Hélène. Was the train early, then? I wasn’t expecting you so soon.’
    ‘Hello, Mama,’ Hélène murmured.
    She could never clearly pronounce both syllables whenever she said ‘Mama’; she had difficulty getting the word out through her pursed lips; she said the last syllable with a kind of quick groan that she wrenched from her heart.
    ‘Hello.’
    The painted cheek lowered itself to her level; she kissed it carefully, instinctively trying to find a spot that wasn’t covered in powder or rouge.
    ‘Don’t mess up my hair. Aren’t you going to say hello to your cousin? Don’t you recognise your cousin, Max Safronov?’
    A smile of triumph passed over Bella’s painted