Crossing on the Paris Read online

  Pondering all the ways one might commit suicide and keeping his character in mind—his private nature, his discretion—Vera finally settled on hanging. Its simplicity, lack of undue gore, and muffled silence made it a likely candidate. How had he felt as he climbed onto the chair? Trembling? In despair? Or . . . victorious?

  There was a light knock and Amandine poked her head through the door.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I thought I heard you moving around. Would you like me to help you get dressed?”

  “Good morning, dear.” Vera forced a smile. “With this fog, I don’t think I’ll be going out. Perhaps I’ll spend the day in my dressing gown.”

  She saw no reason to don awkward-fitting clothes to stay in the cabin. Remembering her once inviting body, she now hated the sight of it—the skinny limbs, bulging varicose veins, pickled breasts, ribs ripe for counting—and avoided it as much as she could.

  “And your meals, ma’am?” Amandine asked.

  The wrinkles on her brow deepened as she called to mind the scene at dinner: young Richter’s accusatory tone, the shocked stares from their fellow diners. Of course, those trifles could not compare to the revelation of why Laszlo’s letters had stopped coming.

  “I’ll take them here today,” she said.

  “Shall I order breakfast, then?” Amandine asked.

  “Just a pot of tea for now, thanks,” she answered, ignoring Amandine’s tentative look of concern.

  “Come, Bibi,” she called. “Let’s go order some tea.”

  With a pointed lack of excitement, the old dog trudged over to the door and waited patiently for Amandine to secure the leash. When they were gone, Vera bravely picked up her journal, leafing through various entries until she came to “Thirteen Lovers.” Although she knew what words it contained, her heart was pounding. She scanned the first few pages, skimming the bit about when she and Pierre Landeau, a photographer from Marseilles, were first alone together:

  I studied his face and was surprised to find that his lips fit together like jigsaw puzzle pieces; the subtle arches were perfectly matched, the weighty pout expertly joined. I then understood why he had neither mustache nor beard: beyond those Lips his face needed no further decoration. My eyes were then distracted by a jagged row of lower teeth. I longed to run my tongue slowly across them, to see if they might cut me.

  Vera gave her former self an indulgent smile. Although she recognized her handwriting, sometimes she found the words themselves rather foreign. She flipped forward a half dozen pages, then paused again. Here was the rupture with Roderick Markson, the Scottish journalist she’d been with for some six months.

  The relationship had come to its irretrievable end and had its proper burial, and like the Executor of a will, I made a complete inventory of everything that was left: a wee anthology of letters, an artful poem (Had it truly been composed for me? Or for one of my predecessors?), a dozen dazzling smiles, a small collection of well-wrought romantic compliments, and seven thin bracelets, mere gypsy-bands, which made a silvery ripple when worn together. I thought hard what to do with this Estate. There was no one to inherit such mediocre treasure, no one to purchase the used memories of a lost romance. The paper, I burned. The bracelets, one by one, I cast into the Seine, imagining their dire Repugnance as they began to attract ugly, whiskered fish-admirers. The other, less tangible items I had to make disappear like the magician at the circus.

  Vera looked affectionately at the amusing illustration she’d made of a hideous, lascivious monkfish eyeing a slim bracelet with open desire. Then, with a slight moan, she turned the page to Bad Ragaz. Only three pages were dedicated to Laszlo Richter.

  The very first evening, after taking a cursory glance at the guests, I remarked to Mathilde on the Anomaly of the handsomest man in the room dining alone in a corner. He was somberly staring into his consommé as if to read his future. I immediately got up from the table—not bothering to deliver a message via waiter—and asked him if he would care to join us. He looked at me in astonishment.

  Closing her eyes, a tear sliding down her cheek, she could see his face perfectly, his quizzical stare slowly turning into a smile as he got up and followed her. He was shy and the ladies had to prod him into telling them—in uneven French, until they discovered his English was impeccable—about his life in Budapest. Even on that first encounter, he had chosen not to mention his family. Was his attraction firm from the start? He ate prawns that night; his long fingers with their pearly-white nails peeled them expertly with a knife and fork. She’d laughed and said, “From birth, we Americans are incapable of such table manners!”

  She opened her eyes and shut the journal. Really, it was unnecessary to reread the entry—the long strolls, his gentle lovemaking, his urgent begging, the lonely train ride home. She remembered it all perfectly.

  Vera suddenly noticed how warm it felt in the room. Shedding her shawl, she felt her forehead. The withered skin was scorching. Was it fever or Laszlo’s memory? She couldn’t decide which she preferred.

  Julie was lying in bed, drenched in sweat. Panting heavily, she couldn’t get enough air; would she drown down there under the waterline? She stared up at Simone’s bunk with the horrifying sensation that it was going to come crashing down on her.

  She’d had that nightmare again, the same one she’d been having ever since she lost Loïc. In the dream, she is by herself when three men come silently into her parents’ house. She can’t see their faces, but their bodies, half-covered in filthy rags, are hideously scarred by large, deep pox and raised, red splotches. They quickly begin filling their sacks; the speed of their long, thin fingers is supernatural. “Please, please,” Julie cries out, begging the thieves, “just let me keep what my mother gave me! These few things here, they are valuable only to me.” She grabs the lace as a voice from upstairs screams, “No!” Those fast, slinky fingers snatch it from her hands. They disappear into the night, leaving Julie alone again in an empty house.

  Even the first time she’d dreamt it, she woke up knowing, understanding. The valuables her mother had given her were not the piecework but her brothers. She had not been allowed to keep them and Death made quick work of taking them away. Her breathing almost normal now, Nikolai’s thoughtless jeers came to mind. She dug her nails into her palms, angry still.

  Looking around the room—under the bare-bulb lights, women were pulling up stockings and twirling their hair into buns—Julie realized she’d slept late. She quickly got up, then, dizzy, steadied herself on the bedpost. She closed her eyes, inhaling, exhaling, then began to pull on a fresh uniform. Such a simple cut—a plain shift with big buttons and cotton drawers underneath—was easy to put on swiftly.

  Although she still had no appetite, Julie went into the lounge for a quick cup of tea before serving breakfast to the passengers. She found a place at the end of a bench, sat down, and, gently blowing the steam off her cup, listened to the other women talk.

  “I sold Douglas Fairbanks a dozen roses yesterday,” boasted a pretty blonde. “He’s a gentleman,” she said with a knowing nod. “Very polite.”

  “I know!” exclaimed a tall, graceful woman down the bench. “He came in and bought Cuban cigars too!”

  “Didn’t you just love him in The Mark of Zorro?” Simone asked, receiving many dreamy sighs in response. “And His Majesty, the American?” she added. “He was so charming!”

  “I saw Mary Pickford yesterday on deck,” added another. “Her hair is as beautiful in real life as it is in the pictures!”

  “Yes, but do you think it’s a permanent wave? Or is it natural?” asked one of the hairdressers, considering the matter worthy of serious debate.

  “Hmph!” One of the nannies gave a loud snort. “Those American actors cannot compare to our Sarah Bernhardt! Even now, with only one leg, she could run circles around those hams!”

  Suddenly, Mme. Tremblay entered the room, clapping her hands.

  “It’s seven already! Let’s go, ladies! Time to get wor
king!”

  The women glanced up and sighed at the clock, then went off in different directions. Simone sidled up to Julie as they were leaving the lounge.

  “Tell me, then!” she whispered with a grin. “How was your moonlit rendezvous? You two looked every bit like Fairbanks and Pickford, dancing up there on deck!”

  “Well,” Julie started, looking around anxiously, trying to decide what to say. “Getting to know him a bit better . . . I guess he’s not the man I thought he was.”

  “Really?” Simone’s expression squirmed about, trying to mask its own glee while looking disappointed for Julie. “He seemed so serious about you! When we were dancing, that’s all he could talk about!”

  “Is that right?” Julie raised her eyebrows, surprised to find herself feeling resentful. “I’m sure you two had other things to talk about besides me.”

  “We did have a laugh!” Simone smiled innocently. “What a shame it didn’t work out between you!”

  “I didn’t say that!” Julie declared, suddenly jealous. “We just had an argument. Oh, it was nothing really.”

  “I see.” Simone shrugged. “Well, keep me posted!”

  Julie tried not to pout as they entered the dining room. Had things not worked out between them? Was her romance already over, just as it was getting started? Mechanically, she began setting the tables—walking up and down the narrow room, arranging the long rows of cups and saucers, spoons and plates—but her thoughts kept going back to those kisses. With an ill-tempered huff, she went into the kitchen to collect the sugar bowls and honey.

  “Good morning,” Julie greeted the chef.

  Pascal looked up to smile but gave her a concerned grimace instead.

  “You’re still looking pale, Juliette,” he said.

  “I didn’t sleep very well,” she replied with a shrug.

  Pascal thought for a moment, then said, “Listen. Why don’t you do me a little favor? I’d like for you to go up to the main kitchens and get me some lemons. I think on such a gray day, lemons would be nice for the tea, no?” He handed her a little net bag. “Eight or ten lemons, then. Say they’re for Pascal.”

  “My pleasure,” she said with a weak smile, happy to go up to the first-class galley and get a break from steerage (and Simone).

  “And Julie,” he said softly, “take your time. While you’re up there, get some fresh air. Hey—why don’t you fetch some of that for old Pascal!”

  She was heading down the empty corridor when a hand suddenly grabbed her arm, pinching the skin. Terrified, she turned around and saw Mme. Tremblay. Her lips were a straight line, her eyebrows a V.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” She did not let her go but grasped her arm firmly, as if Julie were a prisoner trying to escape. With her other hand, the head housekeeper looked at her watch. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the dining room?”

  “Pascal sent me up for some lemons, ma’am,” Julie stammered, exhibiting the net bag as proof.

  Mme. Tremblay dropped her arm but continued staring at her with her head cocked. Finally, she tucked a strand of hair back into Julie’s cap.

  “I’m going to need you tonight in hatcheck,” she said slowly. “Marie-Claire was injured last night—stuck herself in the eye with a coat hanger, if you can believe that!” She scowled. “I hope you won’t be so clumsy!”

  “No, ma’am.” Julie shook her head quickly, then added, “I have experience with hangers,” feeling stupid even as she said it.

  “I’ll find a first-class uniform for you to wear,” she said, looking her up and down, “though it’ll have to be a child’s size! Oh, and you’ll wear your hair down.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Julie curtseyed with a grin.

  “Marie-Claire should be fine by tomorrow,” Mme. Tremblay said sternly, wary of Julie’s excitement. “It’s just for tonight.”

  As Julie climbed the steps up to first class, she imagined the evening ahead. As she assured all of the elegant passengers that she would take the very best care of their hats and coats, they would insist on tipping her generously. Then, when Douglas Fairbanks came by, he would give her a wink as he strolled into the dining room, a Cuban cigar in his mouth and Miss Pickford on his arm, carrying dozens of roses.

  When she emerged from the stairwell, her smile disappeared into the fog. In Le Havre, they had their share of mist and brume, but Julie had never seen it as heavy as this. The deck was empty, silent, even eerie. Looking around, she supposed the passengers were all seeking refuge from the damp in their drawing rooms and libraries. Vaguely disappointed, she doubted that any of the engine crew would be tempted above either. With a long sigh, she slowly began to make her way down the ship, using the rail as a guide in the white wintry landscape. When the low, two-note cry of the ship’s foghorn blew out, she stopped to listen. The back of her neck prickled as Julie watched the fog’s cloudy fingers moving around her—she could only see for a yard or two in any direction—and wondered, suddenly, whether this was what poison gas looked like. Were these smoky white tendrils like the ones that had slowly moved through the trenches?

  She imagined the boys’ terrified faces as they fumbled with their gas masks. Loïc had written to her about his fear of gas and how poorly the masks were designed. How, even during a drill, they would find they couldn’t breathe in those monster masks with their big blank eyes and elephant trunks, and tear them off in a panic.

  All of his letters—her last link to him—were so vivid that she’d been able to imagine the scenes perfectly; reading them, she could almost see his expressive gestures and hear his voice, a deeper version of her own.

  “ ‘Your big brother who loves you,’” Julie murmured, quoting his letters’ closing line. Of course, he had only begun calling himself her “big” brother after all of the others were dead. “Loïc.”

  Julie supposed that Loïc had inherited his descriptive skills from their father, who, although illiterate, used to be a magnificent storyteller. It was he who had insisted that his sons go to school—at least to the age of twelve—and was proud to buy his children the occasional book at Christmastime.

  When it was Loïc’s turn to begin school, he insisted Julie go as well, threatening to play truant if she were not allowed. Their parents finally agreed, especially since her mother was no longer able to teach her the tatting trade. Of all the family, it was Loïc who did best at his studies, though in the end Julie stayed in school longest, until the war broke out.

  Loïc worked at the port like the other men in his family, until he decided to play soldier at seventeen. It was then he confided in Julie that what he really wanted to do was become a writer.

  The night before he left for active duty, they were sitting together at the waterfront, watching the lighted ships. Their parents, far from feeling the ardent pride they’d displayed in 1914, were in the house, upset and angry. After a few minutes of silence, the water slapping the quays, Loïc reached into his pocket and brought out an article from a local newspaper. In no mood to read, Julie merely skimmed it—a poignant piece on how Le Havre, with all the international forces and military personnel stationed there, had changed during the war—until she got to the bottom, where her eyes were stalled by the initials L.V.

  “Is this you?” she asked quietly. She was so impressed she couldn’t speak above a whisper.

  He nodded with a shy smile.

  “Julie, I want to write about the war,” he explained. “Not just articles, but a soldier’s story. How can I, if I don’t go? If I stay here at home like a little boy?”

  And indeed, Julie could see the care Loïc took in the letters he wrote from the front; they were the obvious drafts of the book he was writing in his head. During training, they’d been rather innocent, filled with courageous words like duty, country, camaraderie. After he became a mole man in the trenches, his tone intensified as his experiences degenerated. It seemed that he wrote about events to rid himself of them, to pack them away for later use. Loïc did not treat the mat
ter with girlish kid gloves for his little sister, but with a hardened stomach and an eye for detail. Sometimes, brambles of barbed wire, disemboweling horses, black, frostbitten toes, or gushing head wounds entered into Julie’s dreams, as if she had seen these things herself.

  “Idiots,” she muttered sadly. “Poor dupes.” Nikolai couldn’t really believe that; he was just a blusterer, making excuses for himself. With a shiver, Julie relived the compliments, the dancing, the warm kisses in the cool night air, his eyes shining with desire. Despite his crude words, she still hoped that she would see him again, that their story was not over yet.

  She pushed herself off from the rail and stepped through the first door she saw. When she finally entered the large upper-deck kitchen, steamy and bright, its homey chaos cheered her up at once.

  A dozen men in chef’s hats and long aprons were busy at work, peering into ovens and large copper pots, ladles and utensils dangling above them like Christmas ornaments. She took a deep breath, savoring the different smells that would come together to make up the à la carte luncheon menu: subtle, buttery fish stocks, roasting lamb and beef, caramelized carrots, fresh bread. She spied the pastry chef in the corner, putting the final touches on an assortment of cakes and puddings, each dripping with fruit, nuts, cream, or chocolate. Julie licked her lips. In the dark kitchen under the waterline, where fried onions were always the base for the family-style meals, she was never tempted by hunger.

  Julie spotted a cook—the robust grandfather type—pausing to wipe his hands on a towel and cornered him with her bag.

  “Lemons, eh?” he shouted. “Next he’ll be wanting a champagne cocktail!”