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“Please. You want me to get Rena out so he can stay. Then what? Three’s a crowd, Caroline, and guess
who’ll be left out? He needs to do his duty as a French citizen and go home.”
“We have to do what’s right, Roger.”
“We don’t have to do anything. Be careful what you wish for, Caroline.”
I hurried back to my office, sidestepping a stray pétanque ball. Would Paul still be waiting?
Roger’s words hung in the air. Maybe I was attracted to Paul. I hoped Betty was right about men and
their silhouettes. Did Paul like mine? There were worse things in life.
—
WE WERE TERRIBLY BUSY at the consulate, but Mother insisted I volunteer at the thé dansant she and her
friends arranged at the Plaza. If you’ve never attended one, a thé dansant is a relic of a bygone age, a casual
afternoon gathering at which light sandwiches are served and dancing is encouraged.
There were a million places I’d rather have been that day, but Mother’s thé dansant was to benefit her
White Russians, those former members of the Russian aristocracy, now exiled, who had supported the tsar
in the Russian Civil War. Helping these former aristocrats had been Mother’s pet cause for years, and I felt
obligated to help.
She’d booked the Plaza’s neorococo Grand Ballroom, one of the most beautiful rooms in New York with
its mirrored walls and crystal chandeliers, and commissioned a Russian balalaika orchestra to provide the
music. Six of the tsar’s former court musicians, in white tie, sat ramrod straight on risers at one side of the
ballroom. Each held his triangular three-stringed balalaika on his knee, waiting for Mother’s cue. Though
these world-class musicians had been reduced to playing at thé dansants, they seemed happy for the work.
The assisting hostesses, committee members Mother had strong-armed and a few of my Junior League
friends, went about the room setting up in traditional Russian dress. She’d even convinced a sullen Pia to
join our ranks.
I told no one outside of my fellow hostesses that I volunteered at these gatherings, for it was humiliating
beyond belief to be seen in Russian dress. As an actress I’d happily worn every species of costume
imaginable, but this one was too much, for it included the sarafan, an elongating black trapeze-like dress
embroidered with bright red and green stripes and a puff-sleeved white blouse adorned with crewelwork
flowers. Mother also insisted we all wear the particularly embarrassing kokoshnik, the high headdress
embroidered in gold and silver, set with semi-precious stones, and festooned with long strings of river
pearls. As if I weren’t tall enough already, the headdress made me resemble an only slightly shorter Empire
State Building draped in pearls.
Mother slid an empty Russian gilt-and-enamel donation bowl onto the front table and then placed one
hand on my embroidered sleeve. This sent a lovely wave of perfume my way, the one her friend Prince
Matchabelli, a displaced Georgian nationalist himself, had made just for her, with her favorite lilac,
sandalwood, and rose notes. He and his actress-wife, Princess Norina, sent Mother every one of their
fragrances, resulting in a colorful city of cross-topped crown bottles atop her dressing table.
“There will be low turnout,” Mother said. “I feel it.”
Though I was reluctant to tell Mother, low attendance was inevitable, for Americans had become
increasingly isolationist. The poll numbers showed that our country, still smarting from huge casualties in
the First World War and from the Great Depression, was opposed to being swept into the new conflict.