Eva Ibbotson

It was the smallest of houses—a toy place high above the huddle of buildings that looked out over the river; a white box with blue shutters and a handkerchief of a terrace with a fig tree. An unlikely dwelling for a rubber baron, but it was the first home Rom had owned and he had kept it, finding it useful when he had to spend a night in the city. Carmen looked after the house; Pedro acted as chauffeur for the Cadillac he kept in a neighboring mews. No women came to the Casa Branca but it was here under the fig tree in the little courtyard suspended over the harbor that he had decided to give Harriet lunch. She would like the view; she would like Pedro and Carmen—and he did not want her exposed to the stares and nudges of the other diners in fashionable restaurants.

“A light meal, Carmen,” he said. “An avocado mousse, some fish… And the Frascati to drink.”

“Will you want the motor, Senhor?”

“No.”

He went upstairs to shower and fifteen minutes later was letting himself into the Teatro Amazonas by a side door.

Dubrov, watching out front, turned and half rose as Rom slipped into a seat beside him.

“You should have told us you were coming,” he said, pushing a hand through his disheveled hair. “Simonova would have wished to welcome you herself.” (She would have wished to… but he had left the ballerina in her dressing room, screaming with rage at Masha Repin’s refusal to be coached.)

“I’ve come to take Harriet out to lunch,” said Rom in a low voice, fascinated by the antics on the stage. “If that’s convenient? When do you expect a break?”

“It shouldn’t be long now. There have been a few… difficulties.” So Mr. Verney was interested in Harriet? Flattering; very flattering. “It will do her good to get out,” said the impresario. “She works so hard.”

“She certainly seems to be dancing with great aplomb. It must be very hot under those pelts.”

Dubrov smiled tolerantly. Mr. Verney was a man of formidable intelligence, but no connoisseur of the ballet. “Harriet is not dancing at the moment. Later you will see her; she is a snowflake.”

“Really? I could have sworn she was that one on the right, just coming out from behind the Christmas tree. With the tattered ear.”

Dubrov shook a decisive head. “That’s Marie-Claude. It’s a crime to put a girl like that into a mask, but there!”

Somewhat to Dubrov’s surprise, Simonova greeted the news of Harriet’s luncheon engagement with satisfaction.

“It will annoy Masha,” she said simply. “Did you notice the sheep’s eyes she made at Verney yesterday?”

Dubrov nodded. Masha Repin had certainly made efforts to attract Verney’s attention, but so had virtually every other woman who was there. Still, anything that distracted Simonova from Masha Repin’s arrogance, her inability to take the advice which she, Simonova, had taken so gladly, so willingly from Kchessinskaya, from Legat—from absolutely everyone who was kind enough to help her—was all to the good.

It was not only Simonova who watched Harriet go with a feeling of pleasure at her good fortune. Lobotsky, the character dancer, patted her shoulder; the asm wished her luck; even Maximov deigned to smile at her. Only Kirstin was disquieted. Harriet looked nice—even the absent Marie-Claude could not have complained about her blue skirt and white blouse—but to expose to the gods a face of such unalloyed expectation and happiness seemed to the gentle Swede to be little short of madness.

Rom was right. Harriet liked the Casa Branca.

“Oh, the view!” she said. “They always say something beautiful is breathtaking, but it ought to be breathgiving, oughtn’t it?”

They had lunch in the shade of the fig tree and beneath them the life of the river unfolded for their delight. Rom had wined and dined innumerable women, flicking his fingers at servile waiters, but now he found himself watching over Harriet as if she was a child in his keeping, concerned lest even the smallest of bones should scratch her delicate throat; buttering her roll.

“Tell me, were you a mouse just now?” he asked. “A mouse with a tattered ear?”

She looked up, flushing. “Yes, I was.”

Rom nodded. “I thought you were. Dubrov swore it was Marie-Claude, but I knew it was you.”

She put down her fork. “How? I was completely covered with a mask. How could you know?”

“I knew,” said Rom. He let the words stand deliberately ringed in silence… but not for long. She must remain untroubled by anything for which she was not yet ready. “Were you covering up for Marie-Claude?”

Harriet nodded. “But please don’t mention it to Monsieur Dubrov. She had to go away on business—for Vincent and the restaurant.”

“Ah, yes… the famous Vincent. Have you met him?”

“No, but I have seen his photograph. A lot of photographs!”

“And?” said Rom. “Is he a match for your ravishing friend?”