Crossing on the Paris Page 12

  She then glanced at the other women in the photo: one was wearing a serious expression and a big hat, and the other was ghostly white and overly thin. Inspecting the photo more closely, she was surprised to find the two women who had been in the doctor’s office the day before. The sickly old lady with her rings, dog, and maid, and the woman awaiting the doctor who, despite being beautiful, seemed so self-conscious.

  “Look at this,” Julie said, passing the paper back to Simone. “I’ve met these two ladies. We were all at the infirmary yesterday at the same time. How strange that, just a few hours before, we’d all been walking together on the dock!”

  “Right.” Simone nodded sarcastically. “You three . . . and about five thousand other people! Come on! Let’s go!”

  Simone tried to hand L’Atlantique back to the laundress, but she was now engaged in the rather pointless task of painting her nails.

  “No, you keep it, honey,” she said.

  Julie looked at the women in the photograph again, wondering how their voyage had been so far, traveling in luxury on the upper decks. She carefully tore it out and put it inside her Jules Verne book of keepsakes. They left the room quietly, throwing the rest of the newspaper away on their way out, then began the trek up the stairs. Finally, on the last steps, they felt cool air on their faces and saw a patch of evening sky; Julie began breathing properly again, despite the climb.

  Just as Simone and Julie were about to surface on the top deck, they heard a couple talking right outside the stairwell. The man’s voice was a long slur, the woman’s laughter a cackle. The couple was dancing around, obviously in their cups, giggling and falling onto the rails. The girls could detect bits of English.

  “Americans,” Simone mouthed to Julie, with a little snort.

  They waited a moment below the deck for the couple to move on. With a sigh, Julie tried to remember the last time she’d danced, celebrated, or laughed long and hard. Was it the Fête Nationale in 1914? It seemed another life, and she another girl. Perhaps tonight she would be that girl again.

  “Well,” said Simone, when they were alone again, “I think it’s safe to say that wasn’t Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford!”

  They came out onto the decks and looked around. Couples were tucked into small spaces: between lifeboats, at the rails, on the benches riveted into corners, around the deck-chair storage bins. No one even glanced at the two young women from steerage.

  “What do you want to do first? Should we go peek into the ballroom?” Simone asked.

  “Oh, Simone, do you really think we’ll be able to mix in with the first-class passengers? Like this?” She curtsied, holding out the hems of the unflattering black uniform.

  “I guess you’re right,” Simone said. “But look! The moon’s out. Let’s go to the rails and listen to the music. Maybe they’ll come to us.”

  The sound of a string quartet floated out of the dining room. After a few minutes, Julie felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “May I have this dance, mademoiselle?” Nikolai asked with a smile.

  Vera walked into the dining room and was led to her table by the maître d’hôtel. She was glad for his assistance, as she would have never found it on her own. She sat down and saw that, although everyone was there, two additional places were set at their ample table.

  A waiter in a black tie and a thin mustache came by to take their orders. Without looking at the menu, Vera said, “Oui, un croûte au pot pour moi, s’il vous plaît,” then greeted the others at table.

  “Good evening, everyone. I trust you’ve all enjoyed a pleasant day.” Vera placed her napkin into her lap, feeling she had already made her contribution to the conversation for that meal.

  Her dining companions returned to the discussion they’d been having before her arrival. Americans returning home after traveling in the Old World, they were all agreeing on the superiority of their own country.

  “Europe . . . quaint, I’d call it. But so dilapidated! Their capitals are nothing but peeling paint and broken plaster!”

  “Well, there was the war!” conceded one.

  “Even so! Compare, if you will, the Brooklyn Bridge and New York’s skyscrapers to the dusty—”

  Vera sighed at the predictable dullness of their reflections and let her eyes wander around the room.

  She noticed that the captain’s table was receiving an uncommon amount of attention. Vera looked to the center of the room and saw that famous Hollywood couple (who were they again?) seated regally at the captain’s side. Amused, she watched as pompous poseurs around the dining room strained themselves to watch them through their monocles and behind their fans. Indeed, Vera mused, this celebrated couple was the embodiment of American culture (in all its superlative glory!): melodramatic film stars who acted without their voices.

  Suddenly, a young couple was standing behind the two empty seats at the table.

  “Excuse our tardiness,” said the man, bowing slightly before seating his wife, and then himself. “We boarded last night in Southampton and we’ve spent a tiring day tracking down a lost trunk.” He smiled around the table. “Now, allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Josef Richter and this is my wife, Emma.”

  Vera nodded at the couple. There was something familiar about this young man: his high forehead and Roman nose, his straight bearing and graceful gestures. Pity she hadn’t caught his surname. She tried to be attentive as the others at her table introduced themselves to this handsome pair; she’d long since forgotten who they were. Finally, the circle came around to her.

  “And I am Mrs. Vera Sinclair,” she said politely.

  The young man dropped his napkin and stared at her.

  “And, where are you from, Mrs. Sinclair?” he asked pointedly, his voice strained.

  “I’m originally from New York, but I lived in Paris for ages,” she said, surprised at his curiosity as well as his tone. She would have continued, adding something lighthearted or witty—about homelands or aging—but his expression did not encourage it.

  “I believe you knew my father, Mr. Laszlo Richter, from Budapest?” he asked, eyebrows arched.

  Ah, thought Vera, this is why I thought I’d seen him before! He looks so like his father! Of course she remembered Laszlo. One of her “Thirteen Lovers” from times past, he had left a mark. In fact, after him, it was a long time before she had another.

  They’d met the summer of ’99 at the Grand Hotel Bad Ragaz in Switzerland. Vera and her friend Mathilde had gone there to spend a rejuvenating month taking baths in the thermal waters; Laszlo, she understood later, was being treated for melancholia. With thick, dark hair and a perfect profile, he was an extremely attractive forty-odd—even more so than his son was now—and she enjoyed the challenge of making him smile. Vera and Laszlo began spending their days together: taking long strolls through the beautiful Alpine grounds, dining, dancing; the following week, they began sharing a bed.

  One morning, toward the end of the month, she woke up in Laszlo’s arms to find him crying. “Oh, Vera,” he sobbed, “I don’t want to let you go.” After confessing to being married, he began making promises to leave his family—a wife and son—and come to Paris to be with her. Although during their brief time together, she had reveled in his company (and had even admitted to herself that, for once, one of her affairs seemed to have true potential), she wouldn’t allow it—not with a child involved. As a young girl, Vera had suffered her own parents’ absence; as a new wife, she’d discovered her inability to bear children. No, she would not destroy a family, one boy’s childhood. She asked Laszlo to give her time to think, then began packing her bags.

  Without saying good-bye, Vera left Bad Ragaz, entrusting Mathilde to deliver a farewell note. On the train home, she stared blindly out the window, angry with him for keeping the truth to himself but, even more, grieving for their stillborn relationship. For months afterward, at least once a week, she received thick letters from Budapest and dutifully sent them all back, unopened. She was relieved whe
n, the following spring, they’d abruptly stopped coming. She never heard from him again.

  “Yes, I remember him!” Vera smiled at the coincidence, wondering whether she was looking now at the same boy his father had mentioned over two decades before, in her bed at a posh Swiss spa. “Such an elegant man. A banker, I believe. How is he now?” she asked pleasantly.

  “My father has been dead many years, madame. Didn’t you know?”

  The young Richter’s voice remained steady and sober, but Vera could tell he was on the verge of losing his temper. His wife, Emma, was staring at her in wonder, her mouth ajar, but her eyes riveted.

  “When I was a boy, he killed himself.” He paused, clearing his throat but keeping a sharp eye on Vera. “After he was gone, my mother went through his papers and read his letters. There were hundreds of pages addressed to one Madame Vera Sinclair, rue Danton, Paris.” He nearly spit out the name and address; he’d been carrying them in his mouth for years. “She told me my father died of a broken heart.”

  “Darling!” his wife whispered, dragging her eyes away from Vera, grasping his arm. “Please! Now’s not the time . . .”

  With tenderness, she tried to get her husband’s attention, but his gaze remained fixed on Vera. Their fellow diners stared at Vera and Josef Richter in silence, their eyes darting from one face to the other. An older gentleman took a quick gulp of wine, considered intervening, then closed his mouth, dumbfounded. Although their conversation had not been loud or even ill-mannered, a visible change in the table’s countenance had taken place; this attracted the attention of people at neighboring tables, who began murmuring unanswered questions.

  Vera’s fallen face paled as she tried to take in Richter’s words. Laszlo had killed himself? She clasped her eyes shut with a groan. What had those letters contained? Aching to flee, to be alone, she made herself return his gaze; she looked into the eyes of Laszlo’s son.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Richter,” she said, her voice reedy and odd from the strain of not crying. What could she say to this miserable young man that would ease his pain? She considered a few kind words about his father, but thought that would be in bad taste. Instead, she tried atoning. “I’ve made many mistakes over the years,” she continued, sliding her long strand of pearls through her hand. “Done reckless things that have undoubtedly hurt other people. I hope one day you will be able to forgive me.”

  She rose from the table.

  “Again, you have my greatest sympathies,” Vera added, her voice now flat and tired. He finally looked away, suddenly impatient for her to be gone.

  She excused herself from the others at the table and left, trying to hold herself straight, to right her posture. In all Vera’s years, despite her many antics and exploits, she had never been cast out in society and intended to carry it off with dignity. She felt the heat from the silent stares at the table behind her, and as she made her way through the room, she met questioning gazes from all the diners she passed.

  No matter, she thought, as she smiled politely into those curious faces. Surely they would think a withering old woman incapable of causing scandal. It had all happened so quickly—the first course had not yet arrived—that anyone would assume that the poor dear was merely going to retrieve her dentures, her ear trumpet, or some other necessary apparatus lying forgotten in the cabin. She made it to the corridor before her face cracked.

  Her eyes filling with tears, she leaned heavily on her cane and began the slow procession back to her quarters. Vera thought back on her long conversations with Laszlo. She remembered her shock when he told her about his own father, who had corrected his behavior with a horsewhip; her commiseration that last day when he told her about his wretched marriage, forced upon him by family ambitions. Though he was an unhappy man long before she met him, she supposed she was to blame for his suicide. Vera was guilty of exposing him to joy.

  She passed through the arcade leading back to the first-class cabins. There, she caught a glimpse of a young couple dancing on the deck. Their sizes were so dramatically different that they looked like an illustration from a children’s book, an amusing exaggeration depicting Big and Small. As the waltzing couple swung near, she recognized the girl. She was the member of the service crew she’d seen in the infirmary, the one with the face of a dirtied egg. Their eyes met for a moment and, despite her own sorrow, Vera couldn’t help but smile at her. She looked so happy.

  “Young lovers,” she sighed to herself, then shivered.

  Did love ever end well? She had the sudden urge to warn the girl, to try to protect her from the clutches of a man’s affection. As she passed the couple, Vera glanced back and shook her head. What advice could she presume to offer?

  She was exhausted when she arrived at her cabin; from the physical exertion of walking down corridors, from not having eaten, but mostly from trying to keep composed. Vera sank down on the bed, letting her cane fall to the floor, and threw her face into her hands. She was still trying to absorb what she’d heard. All these years she’d assumed that Laszlo’s letters had stopped coming because he’d finally come to terms with the idea that they couldn’t be together. Now, she realized he never had.

  After a few minutes, Amandine knocked softly and entered.

  “You’re already back?” she asked, concerned. “Are you unwell?”

  “I don’t know,” Vera answered truthfully.

  “Would you like me to brush your hair?” When faced with the unknown, Amandine offered practical solutions. “Do you need help with your bedclothes?”

  “You go on to bed,” Vera said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  Amandine silently hung Vera’s cloak and poured her a glass of water. Before going back to her quarters, she filched the copy of L’Atlantique from the table. Earlier that evening, she’d noticed Miss Vera on the fringe of a poor-quality photograph. Skinny and white, she looked like a skeleton. It was the last thing she needed to see at the moment.

  Once alone, Vera scanned the room for something to make her feel better. She looked at her journals on the table next to her bed but couldn’t open them. Not tonight. She felt ashamed of the entry detailing her conquests, her Thirteen (unlucky!) Lovers. She then spied the telephone on the writing table. Upon its discovery after the launch, she’d found it ridiculous. Now it seemed a miracle.

  She crossed the room and picked it up. After a few seconds’ delay, she gave the number to the operator. The cranky mechanical ring sounded again and again; she was about to hang up when she heard him.

  “Allô?” he said through the static.

  “Oh, Charles!” she cried. The relief, the joy of hearing his voice made her throat tighten.

  “Vera?” he asked in wonder. “But, where are you? Didn’t you board the Paris?”

  “My cabin has a telephone, if you can believe that,” she answered.

  “What is the world coming to?” Despite the shaky connection, she could hear the smile in his voice. “Tell me, then. How is the voyage so far?”

  “Oh, Charles, I feel like hell,” she said, trying not to cry. “Bloody, bloody hell.”

  “Well, I see some kind sailor has been giving you elocution lessons,” he began.

  “I’m serious!” she cut him off.

  The buzz on the line seemed louder as he hesitated.

  “It’s not . . . your . . . condition, is it?” he managed.

  “No, it’s not my body. That would be easy! I’m afraid it’s my conscience,” she said, her voice dropping.

  “It’s about time!” He laughed, obviously relieved not to have to discuss her illness.

  “Oh Charles, stop joking.” She had to raise her voice to talk over the static. “Listen, do you remember some twenty years ago, I met a Hungarian man at Bad Ragaz? The one who used to send me all those letters?”

  “Yes, in fact I do,” replied Charles, serious now. “You never opened a single one. You just jotted on them ‘Retournez s.v.p.’ and back to the post they went. At the time I thou
ght you suffered from an appalling lack of curiosity.”

  “Well, due to an unfortunate twist of fate, his son was sitting next to me at dinner tonight.”

  Charles said something in response, but Vera couldn’t make out his words.

  “Will you speak up, dear? I can’t hear you over all this crackling,” she was saying when the line went dead. Vera stared into the receiver for a moment, considered calling him back again, then hung up. She kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed, curling herself into a ball, missing Charles and feeling more alone than she had since childhood. Vera began to cry, hard painful sobs that burned her throat. She wept for Laszlo, yes, but she also wept for herself.

  Shivering with cold, Julie sat on the metal bench, nervously watching Nikolai dance with Simone. During their last waltz, he’d said he felt sorry for her, just standing there, looking on. Julie would have found him gallant and thoughtful if they didn’t seem to be having so much fun; ever since the song started, they’d been chatting and laughing like old friends. She was sure that Simone had clever things to say and undoubtedly had not once mentioned ship engines or seasickness. How did she do it? Simone seemed so at home in a man’s arms. In comparison, Julie was anxious, stiff, dull.

  When the song finally came to an end, Nikolai and Simone walked back to the bench wearing satisfied smiles.

  “Well, I’m going to leave you two lovebirds alone,” Simone called out to Julie’s horror. “Don’t be too late getting back to the dormitory!” She winked, then waved. “Great meeting you, Nikolai! See you around!”

  As they watched her sashay back to the stairwell, he shook his head with a grin.

  “Your friend’s a real hoot!”

  “Yes,” Julie begrudgingly agreed.

  Nikolai nested himself on the narrow bench and pulled Julie onto his lap.

  “You, on the other hand,” he said, whispering into her hair, “are something much more special.”