Konrad and Alexandra (pdf) - Rolf Gross

concluded. He ate in a great hurry, like an addict, who only seemed to long for more, and
hardly noticed the exotic flavors of what he downed.
He pointed at a house across the river.
"That is my house, 16 Quai d’Orleans. Let me show you my collection of paintings, it is
unique. Only then will you understand what I mean."
She was torn. She thought of the collection of Becky’s father which had pursued her for
years. But his was such an obvious ploy to entrap her that she felt annoyed.
She coolly examined her situation. Her honor was not her concern. What could happen?
Maybe he would try to physically overwhelm her. Despite his age, he still looked powerful
enough, but she had little doubt that she could incapacitate him with a blow to the right place.
She doubted that he would go as far as using a weapon, and she smiled, she had experience
with that too. She did not fear him. His most probable action would be that he would expose
himself. Well, that would be unpleasant, but she had seen naked men before. What put her off
was Manovsky’s crass insensitivity. She had seen enough of him for tonight. She would finish
with Manovsky on another day.
He was deflated when she asked him to order a taxi for her, but she could see that he
was used to being turned down by women. He would go back to his place and console himself
among his Gauguin nudes.
Manovsky offered to accompany her home, but she found it easy to shake him off. She
thanked Manovsky once more for the evening and from the taxi waved at him with her gloved
hand.
On the following weekend, at another drinking session, Manovsky was not present, but
Amedeo, the Italian painter had brought along a friend—Anna Akhmatova .
Akhmatova immediately recognized Alexandra. For a few moments the two women
stared at each other, then Akhmatova began to laugh. Without embarrassment she explained
that Gumilev, her husband, had been with her until a week ago. He had suddenly and urgently
been required to return to his family estate. She had stayed. Paris was wonderful, she did not
get here so often. Amedeo was a long-time friend.
Alexandra smiled relieved. Last time she had met Akhmatova in St. Petersburg,
Alexandra had recruited her for her study of female cycles. Their meeting had been personal
yet distant, and Akhmatova had impressed her by her poise and sense of purpose. Now she
seemed softer, less haughty and self-conscious. Quite obviously Amedeo and she were having
an affair, which Akhmatova did not care to hide.
Handsome Amedeo had the natural, unaffected manners that Alexandra had found so
attractive among the men she had met in Italy. His colleagues seemed to like him, but he was,
as he said himself, not yet famous, and he loved Russian women. Akhmatova, with a
mischievous smile, corrected him, Alexandra was not Russian but Georgian and on top of that
a princess. Alexandra blushed and Amedeo asked naïvely whether that was a Russian fairy
tale. Disarmed, Alexandra admitted it, but told him that it was also unimportant to her.
Amedeo invited her to visit Akhmatova and him at his studio. Alexandra felt his soft,
brown eyes on her. Oh, she thought, I would not mind spending an afternoon with him.
Alexandra had imagined a large attic filled with half-finished canvasses. Instead, after
climbing five stories, she found a tiny mansard room in with a large bed, an old easy chair
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