Crossing on the Paris Read online

  “Then, shall we take a walk around the deck?”

  She looked up at his face, from his pleasant smile on up to his eyes. She was taken aback to see how cold they looked. Narrow and hard. Maybe it was the glare of the sun?

  “Actually, I think I should be getting back to steerage. None of my fellow workers are out here,” she said, looking around, suddenly nervous. “It makes me wonder if there’s something I ought to be doing. I still haven’t gotten the hang of this job.” She looked a bit sheepish, then added shyly, “And you? If you’re going back down to the engine room, maybe you could walk me to the women’s dormitory?”

  “I’d love to. Really, it’s the only thing I can imagine that could tempt me back into that hole,” he said with a laugh.

  He put his arm around her waist, making her stiffen. It seemed such an intimate place, there in the very middle of her body. Was this proper? The only time a boy had ever touched her there—years ago and oh, so lightly!—they’d been dancing. After a few steps, however, the difference in their sizes made it impossible for him to keep his hand in place and he moved it up to her shoulder. This too she found awkward; she wasn’t used to walking in tandem. They began an ungainly descent to the ship’s depths.

  As they were reaching Julie’s floor, he jumped to the landing, leaving her three steps above, now at his eye level. With a hand on each rail, as if to bar her way, he leaned over until their foreheads were almost touching.

  “Will you meet me on deck again tonight, little Julie?” he cooed softly. “Perhaps you’d allow me a dance? We could waltz outside the ballroom.”

  She suddenly felt dizzy again; this time, she knew, it had nothing to do with stale air. With his face so close to hers, she could see his pupils enlarge, feel the warmth of his breath, but could only stammer out a few unintelligible syllables.

  “Until tonight, then,” he whispered.

  He touched her brow with his own, then drew back an inch to look at her. He scanned her face, moaning in approval—mmmmmm—then planted a kiss, forceful but brief, on her mouth. She gasped, staring at him with wide eyes, but did not move.

  He pulled away with a smile. He began sauntering back down to the engine room, then called back up to her: “Enjoy your tea!”

  She looked at the paper bag hanging limply in her hand; she’d completely forgotten about it.

  “Thanks,” she called down to his head top, dreamily waving good-bye with the bag.

  She darted into the empty dormitory and threw herself on the bed, more aware than before of the dull vibration coming from the machines below. With a shiver, she licked her lips, wondering whether Nikolai had left a trace there. Lifting her hand to examine her birthmark, to determine whether it had somehow grown smaller, she discovered, again, the paper bag. Smiling uncontrollably, she opened it.

  Inside she found a small bag of ginger tea and a note. With trembling hands and a deep breath, she unfolded the paper. Although the spelling was faulty, the handwriting was surprisingly lavish, with flowery strokes and elaborate capitals; a profusion of nonsensical accent marks decorated the words, sprinkled on like dried herbs.

  Dearest Julie,

  I want you to have this bag of tea, with hopes that it will prove to be a miracle for you, as you have for me. When you caught my hat that day, it was a sign. There is a connection between us and I know you feel it too.

  Yours,

  Nikolai

  A love letter? Julie blinked a time or two. She could barely believe this was happening to her. A man—a big, strong, good-looking man—was attracted to her! For the first time in her life, she had an admirer.

  Her hands warm and clammy, she opened the bag of tea and breathed in its aroma. The smell was intoxicating. The spices recalled the heat that radiated from Nikolai—his hands, his voice, his lips. This engineman was his own furnace, she giggled to herself. Her insides felt liquid; she sniffed the tea again with her eyes closed.

  The dormitory door wrenched open and two washerwomen came in, complaining loudly about claret stains and ready for a nap. Julie curled the tea bag shut, then took her old book out of the locker: a worn copy of Jules Verne’s Michael Strogoff, which had long served as a stronghold for her brothers’ letters. Almost light-headed, she reread the lines again before carefully stowing this new letter between its pages. Then she headed toward the kitchen, eager to try Nikolai’s miracle.

  Julie had taken to Pascal, the head cook in steerage, when they’d first met the day before. He was a portly man, three times her age, with a big nose and just a ring of hair from ear to ear (“It keeps the chef’s hat on!”). He was one of those rough old sailors who liked to think himself foul tempered, when in fact he was a warmhearted softie. Maybe Jean-François or Didier would have grown up to be a man such as this?

  He took a moment out from roasting beef bones for stock to make Julie a cup of tea.

  “Ginger, eh?” he said, sniffing the tea. “Not feeling well, are we? And with the seas like glass. Pauvre petite.”

  He handed her the cup, giving her head a light pat, then went back to his preparations for the evening meal.

  Julie went into the women’s dining hall, juggling the hot cup, the bag, and the book. She had thought to read a few passages of the old novel while drinking her tea, but she couldn’t concentrate. She pulled out Nikolai’s note and reread it again and again. Tracing its loops and curls with her thumb, she focused on the words: “miracle,” “connection,” “Yours.” With a long sigh, she glanced at the other women in the room, mending hosiery or playing cards, to make sure they weren’t stealing glances at her, curious about the letter in her hand. No, they were completely oblivious to the small girl holding a common piece of paper. She took a sip of tea—his tea—safe in the knowledge that she was neither floating nor aglow.

  Suddenly, Simone plopped down next to her on the bench, her eyes shining with excitement. “You’ll never guess what’s happened!”

  “What?” Julie asked with a jolt, nearly spilling her tea. For a split second, she thought Simone might give her some news about her Russian admirer.

  “Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks boarded the Paris in Southampton!” Simone squealed. “They’re right here! In first class!”

  Julie, although amused by Simone’s botched logic that first class was “right here,” was impressed nonetheless.

  “No kidding!” Julie said with a whistle. “Wait, don’t tell me you’ve seen them!”

  “No, but Louise did. She picked up their washing a few minutes ago.” Simone sighed happily. “Hey, wouldn’t that be wonderful if we got to meet them? Let’s go up to first class tonight and peek into the dining room!” Simone clapped her hands. “Or maybe they’ll be on deck, dancing in the moonlight—just like in the pictures!”

  “That would be fun,” Julie admitted. “I was already thinking about going up on deck tonight.”

  Julie thought for a moment, then, with no one else to confide in, decided to show Simone Nikolai’s note. She pulled it out of her book, then hesitated, holding it in her hand.

  “Simone, can you keep a secret?” she asked.

  “Sure!” she said, staring at the folded paper. “What is it?”

  Julie handed it to her, then, to hide her blush, stuck her nose into the cup and breathed in the last remnants of ginger. She watched Simone’s eyes slowly read the note.

  “Wow!” she said, looking at Julie in wonder. “Who is he?”

  “He’s a Russian engineman. I met him as we left port yesterday,” Julie explained. “We’ve seen each other out on deck once or twice. He asked me to meet him up there tonight.”

  “You lucky dog!” she exclaimed. “You made a catch on our very first day out!”

  “A catch?” Julie stammered.

  “Yeah! During the training course I heard that for every hundred men working on board, there are just two women. I thought that, for the first time in my life, the odds would be in my favor!” Her smile stretched so widely across her face, she look
ed a bit like a frog. “And these sailors are strong and able-bodied!” she continued. “Not like the men who came back to Harfleur after the war, missing this or that.”

  Julie stiffened. She took the note back and tucked it away into her book.

  “Very romantic, Julie,” Simone said with the air of an expert. “Say, I wonder if he has a friend?”

  “A friend?” Julie repeated, regretting having mentioned Nikolai to her at all.

  “Well, we can ask him when we go up on deck tonight,” Simone said, the evening plan already clear in her mind.

  “About tonight,” Julie stumbled slowly. She didn’t want Simone up there, embarrassing her by saying the wrong things. “I’m worried about Madame Tremblay. I don’t think she’d be too happy if she found us missing.”

  “You don’t think we’d lose our jobs if we got caught?” Simone whispered, looking from side to side.

  “I don’t know,” Julie said. “Let’s think about it, all right?”

  “Sure.” Simone nodded. “But I would really love to catch a glimpse of Douglas Fairbanks! And meet your new boyfriend!”

  Julie turned red and looked away. She noticed that other women in the lounge were gathering their things—decks of cards, knitting needles, sewing kits—and looked up at the clock. Though it was only half-past four, it was time for them to return to work; the mouths in steerage were fed earlier than those above decks. Julie picked up her well-worn book.

  “We’d better get going,” she mumbled.

  “What’ve you got there?” Simone asked.

  “It’s a book by Jules Verne,” Julie said, grateful for the change in subject. “I’ve read almost all his books, but this one here is more of a souvenir.” Julie looked at the faded cover fondly. “My brothers loved his stories. In fact, that’s why they named me Julie. When my mother was expecting me, my three older brothers each read this book. They decided, since our family name is Vernet, that they wanted a little brother named Jules. Well, they got me instead.”

  “Lucky you! I only have sisters . . . five sisters!” Simone replied, rolling her eyes.

  “Yes,” Julie said softly, holding the novel against her chest. Peeking back down at the cover, she smiled; the hero, brave Michael Strogoff, was also Russian.

  Vera woke up on the deck chair, wrapped tightly inside a nest of warm blankets. She opened her eyes briefly, surprised to see it was already twilight. She noticed Bibi was gone, and her journal was back inside the carpetbag. Amandine had, no doubt, decided to tidy up and take the dog for a stroll without rousing her. Since her sleep had become so precious and rare, Vera was generally cross when it was interrupted. Or perhaps, Vera mused, Amandine had thought she’d passed away and did not relish touching a corpse?

  She was looking up into the evening sky with its sprinkling of early-rising stars, taking pleasure in not moving, when a shooting star fleeted past. She shivered in delight; seldom, at this stage, did Vera still feel life’s little moments of magic. She thought back to April 1910 when, for nearly a week, Halley’s Comet had hung over Paris like a gas lamp. To get a better look, she and Charles had taken off their shoes and climbed out on the roof. It was chilly on their bare feet, but how nimble she’d been out there, holding her skirts, without ever imagining she could fall. Was that only eleven years ago? Aging did not take place gradually, she sighed, but in sudden leaps, horrible jerks.

  Halley’s Comet . . . Vera was reminded of that quote by Mark Twain, who was born as the comet passed and rightfully predicted that he would die when it returned. “The Almighty has said, no doubt, ‘Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together.’ ” Twain was one of the few great Americans in her opinion, only rivaled in humor and ingenuity by Benjamin Franklin.

  Near her own end, she pondered his. It was well known that Twain’s last years were ripe with cynicism and disappointment; but, how had he felt when he knew his life was coming to a close? Did he fear the comet’s approach? Or long for its passing? Did he feel remorse at leaving this beautiful world so full of imperfection, or was he glad to let go, to leave humanity to rot? She thought of herself these last few months, reading and rereading her memoirs, reliving her past. Did Mark Twain also find himself studying the stories of his youth, eagerly perusing his Life on the Mississippi, his Innocents Abroad?

  Mark Twain. She sat thinking of his mischievous eyes and white tousled hair, his intense gaze and Wild West mustache. Yes, she thought, even as an older man, he was attractive. And, judging by his quick, cantankerous wit, he was undoubtedly an excellent lover as well. Her lips curled into a slow grin, the first visible movement she’d made since waking (if nearby, Amandine would fear rigor mortis was twisting her face into a hideous death mask), then, Vera finally began to shift her limbs, rolling her shoulders and stretching her legs. Now that was a sure sign of old age, she decided, when you can see the allure of your contemporaries, those the young would view as sexless grandfathers with loose skin and looser teeth; when you look for Mark Twain’s portrait in your mind and find a desirable bed partner.

  Chuckling to herself, wondering whether she too were an “unaccountable freak,” Vera reached into her carpetbag and pulled out her alphabet book. She opened it in the middle, then let the pages settle themselves. She smiled upon a large letter H. A brief, lighthearted entry, it fit the moment perfectly. There was just enough light left to read a short piece such as this; though, truth be told, she knew most of the words by heart.

  Handsome

  One day, in my eleventh year, when at an Awkward stage of growth, my lips and nose both occupying more than their rightful share of my face, I was sitting in the window seat, my embroidery forgotten, watching the horses and buggies on the street. Was it the light from the window that drew her toward me? All of a sudden, Grandmother took my chin in her hard, cold hand (Less Human than marble, it was more like metal; nay, Lady Liberty’s hands must be warmer) and peered at my face, moving it from side to side.

  “You will never be pretty, my dear,” she declared, shaking her head. “With luck—and I say, With Luck—you will be rather handsome.”

  She gave me a serious look, then recovered her chair, put her pince-nez in place, and went back to her book.

  Tears filled my eyes. I was devastated by this prophecy (what was a woman worth but her appearance?) made by one of the great beauties of her generation, my grandmother, Camilla Wright Sinclair. I sat in the afternoon light, wondering what it could possibly mean.

  I learned in the years that followed, as I quickly developed into one, what exactly a Handsome Woman was. They are not ugly, of course, nor plain, nor excessively manly. But unlike their soft, rounded sisters, with pouty lips and precious eyes, these women tend to have a fine jaw, a noble brow, and eyes that, rather than beautiful, are oft described as Intelligent. These facial characteristics are usually accompanied by a straight back and a long, swift stride. Therefore, unlike Beauties, decorative objects whose task it is to adorn a room, to provide visual delight to others, the Handsome Woman, unable to evoke approval and appreciation by her appearance alone, is free to contribute and develop in other ways.

  Many women claim to admire these looks and a few odd men, mainly those referred to as Men of Character, are irresistibly drawn to them, spellbound. Such men have the sensation of being a Discoverer, the first to spot beauty in a wasteland. And thus, he feels the explorer’s pride in there planting his flag. Intrepid, he cares not that few others would envy that particular territory.

  I myself have met my share of this rare breed of man. The first time, I was fourteen. Standing with friends at the Autumn Ball, a tall, slender boy approached me. After a few minutes of artless small talk, he stopped, gape-mouthed, and earnestly stammered out the clumsiest compliment I have ever received:

  “Hang it! I don’t care that my friends don’t think you’re pretty. I think you’re Beautiful!”

  Indeed, this is the fate of these Men of Character, to want a prize that so f
ew value. In one’s youth, that is. But then, one finds that the handsome woman ages so much better than her pretty sisters. Compare the loveliness of dried leaves to the pathetic unsightliness of the dead flower, bloated and ill smelling.

  Perhaps Grandmother’s prophecy, so damning, so malignant, was truly an unintentional blessing. A Fairy Godmother’s Gift.

  Handsome indeed, she thought with a smile. In her prime she had certainly had her successes with the opposite sex. In fact, she had written a journal entry a few years back entitled “Thirteen Lovers,” detailing her exploits with all the men—an archaeologist, a wealthy banker, a photographer, a handful of writers, and so on—she’d been with after giving up on marriage. Who knows? Perhaps she would have even been able to captivate Mark Twain.

  The sky was considerably darker now, high time to retire from the decks. She looked around and saw that the deck steward had already stored away all the other rugs and deck chairs. He was leaning against the rail, smoking a cigarette, undoubtedly waiting for her to return to her cabin so he could finish his evening task.

  She reached for her cane, tucked away under her chair, and pulled herself up. Vera stretched again, picked up her bag, then walked to the rails. Looking out on the ocean, a lovely shade of dark green at this time of the evening, she noticed that, on the deck below, people in second class were already dressed and filing into their dining room in twos and fours. Odd, she thought. I’m still not hungry.

  Constance decided to wear her nicest outfit for dinner, the new gown she had bought in Paris: a pink sleeveless silk with a champagne-colored sash. Uncomfortable exposing her bare arms, she pulled out the lace shawl—pleased to find an occasion to wear it—to put around her shoulders. She was satisfied with the effect. Faith’s ring did not exactly go with this outfit, but she left it on anyway; it made her feel younger, more chic.

  Not wanting to make a grand entrance on her own, she skirted around the edge of the dining room, past mirrors and potted palms, alongside the bar and the wine steward’s station. Passing other second-class diners, she glanced around, idly wondering where the doctor ate—with the crew, with first class, alone in the infirmary, in his rooms?