Crossing on the Paris Read online

  He would put on an accent and a learned expression, strike a scholar’s pose (which to his mind meant holding up his index finger), and always make her laugh. But now, those words rang of truth. Indeed it seemed everything one did—be it cruel, kind, or even indifferent—had a rippling effect.

  “A Kipling effect,” Vera said aloud, playing the part of Charles.

  Vera put her arm out the window again, trying to feel the fog with her fingertips, to nip off a piece. She left the window open and picked up the most recent journal, turning to the blank pages toward the end. With no intention of writing, she took out her pen and went to the very last page. She drew, with a shaky hand, a large hot-air balloon in the center of the page, surrounded by cherubs and doves. She put herself standing inside the balloon’s basket, wearing her pearls and a beatific expression. Underneath she wrote with a flourish:

  THE ASCENSION

  She looked at the illustration, puckering her lips critically. Indeed, she thought, the next time she took to the air would be when her spirit left her body. There would be no trips in flying machines, nor summers on the Isle of Wight. And it was not just a question of the new experiences she would never have, but, even worse, of all of the simple things she would never do again. Like strolling though the Louvre or having a dress made. Or riding a horse, dancing, making love . . . Her eyes were filling with tears—God, to be in a man’s arms once more!—when there was a rapid tap on the door.

  Bibi came in first, made her way to Vera, considered jumping onto her lap, then collapsed at her feet. Amandine was followed by a waiter, carrying an enormous tray filled with liquids to tempt her mistress: asparagus cream soup, tomato juice, milk, chicken broth, tea . . . When Vera saw the champagne, she let out a chuckle, wiping her eyes and shaking her head. Although she didn’t fancy drinking any, she was pleased to see it there. The tall glass sparkling, the bubbles rising, she was reminded of days past. Champagne Days.

  “Amandine,” she sighed, “you are a jewel.”

  Julie was crossing through the stuffy common room, which the foggy day had filled to capacity; a dozen languages were being spoken there as people idly chatted, smoked, played cards. And, as always, someone was singing. She paused a moment to listen to the beautiful, homespun music. Was that Italian or Spanish?

  This was, Julie thought, the sole advantage steerage could boast over the upper classes. Above, string quartets, paid musicians in black-tie uniforms, performed instrumental arrangements to demanding, though distracted, audiences. Down below, it was the passengers who sang, from the young to the elderly, at times solo and on occasion forming veritable choirs. Although some soulful voices were best unaccompanied, usually a musician was encouraged to play along: guitars, harmonicas, fiddles, or regional instruments Julie had never seen before descending to the Paris’s third-class lounge. She usually didn’t understand the words of the folk songs (the Gaelic or Greek, the Hebrew or Russian), but she knew their meaning. Voices in steerage sang of home and nostalgia, war and loss, happiness and hope. She doubted seriously that the musicians earning their monthly wage in the ballroom were capable of expressing such emotion.

  The singing behind her, she went by the women’s dining hall and peeked in. Simone was talking with the pretty girls from the concessions as they leafed through L’Atlantique. They were probably looking for articles about Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford and re-creating all the details of their fleeting glimpses and minute dialogues with the Hollywood couple. She was relieved not to have to spend her break with Simone, who would want to discuss how Julie had botched her relationship with Nikolai. Instead, she went to the dormitory to lie down, to close her eyes and rest while she had the chance.

  When she got to her bunk, Julie was surprised to find an envelope on top of her mother’s lacework. In the center of the paper, her name was formally written in a careful, gushing hand. She gasped: Nikolai! She glanced around the room—women were napping, filing their nails, writing postcards home—until she caught the eye of Louise, who was watching her with a sly smile from the top of the next bunk.

  “A big guy came by today while you were still serving breakfast. He asked me to put that on your pillow.” The plump washerwoman cocked her eyebrow. “He’s a charmer, that one. I can see why you’re interested in him.”

  “Um, thanks,” Julie mumbled with a blush.

  She moved into the shadow of Simone’s bunk, to block Louise’s view; she wanted to read the letter unobserved. Picking up the envelope, she was surprised by a rattle, a bulky weight. She tore open the top and inside, coiled at the bottom, found a necklace. Julie slowly pulled at the gold chain until, at the end, a pendant was revealed. Holding it up to eye level, she gazed at it in the air, letting it hang like a hypnotist’s pendulum. It was a religious medallion, beautifully worked in gold and silver. On it the Virgin Mary’s eyes looked modestly down, a large crown planted on her head.

  She weighed it in her hand, astounded by such a gift. It felt like real gold. When she flipped it over, she was surprised to see Nikolai’s tattoo: the Russian cross, with its two additional bars, a small one at the top, a slanted one toward the bottom.

  She cradled the necklace in her skirt, then reached for the letter. With an affectionate smile at his extravagant handwriting, she read:

  My Little Julie,

  Please forgive my insensitive words. If I had known your brothers were lost in the war, I would have never discussed it with you. I felt such a fool when you ran away from me last night—just as we were having such a marvelous time!

  I still want to see you, to be with you. In this envelope, you will find a necklace. The pendant is of Mary, the Melter of Hard Hearts. I hope she can melt yours and that all can be forgiven.

  Please wear it tonight and come meet me up on deck. I’ll be waiting for you.

  A kiss,

  Nikolai

  Her heart was thumping, her insides wriggling. With a silly grin, she reached up to touch her cheek—it must be bright red! She stroked her birthmark while reading the letter again, then a third time. After a moment, when her heart had calmed to a mere flutter, she trusted her voice to ask Louise when the envelope had been delivered.

  “I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “Maybe an hour ago? Two? Hey—what was inside it?”

  “Just a little trinket,” Julie said nonchalantly, slipping the necklace over her head and securing it under her dress. Made for a man, it was long on her, falling between her breasts. She liked the feel of it against her skin.

  She looked down at her watch; there was still a good half hour before they had to prepare for the lunch shift. Dare she take a quick trip down to the engine room? She could thank Nikolai for the necklace and they could plan their evening rendezvous. Hatcheck duty ran much later than steerage dining; she wouldn’t want to miss him and have him wonder whether she was still angry.

  Murmuring a quick good-bye to Louise—who was still staring in her direction, hoping for more details—she hopped off the bed, out of the dormitory, then shot through the common room. The people in there were cheering on a Spanish dancer, swishing her skirts and stomping on the floor, but Julie barely noticed her. She beelined for the stairwell, her hand hovering over the hidden pendant.

  Having always been prompted to go up from steerage, she had never ventured down. On her way downstairs, she was eager yet bashful about seeing Nikolai. Indeed, since she had received his letter, all of her anger and disappointment had instantly melted away.

  When she reached the engine-room floor, she inhaled sharply. Even without the open fire of coal engines, the humid heat was suffocating. The walls were wet and the floor was spotted with puddles of seawater, reminding Julie that, on the other side of that steel hull, the ocean heaved.

  She saw a small batch of men, making repairs, checking dials. Although she knew it was they who were powering the ship, she was somewhat surprised by what little resemblance they bore to the weather-beaten sailors she’d seen all her life around Le Havre. T
hese men were pale and waxy, as if they had never seen the sun but had been raised right here, under the waterline.

  Julie approached a man wearing a welding mask and tapped his shoulder to ask directions. The wailing machines were so loud and vast, she thought perhaps they occupied various layers of the ship.

  “Excuse me.” She had to shout to be heard over the machinery. “Is this the engine room?”

  He took off his mask, peering at her in surprise. Julie knew she was a strange guest down there; the girls who worked on board did not usually spend their break time with the engines. He gave Julie a brief leer, which visibly changed to disinterest when he spotted her birthmark.

  “Yes, milady.” He swept his free hand as if introducing her to the machines. “These are the engines. Now, what brings you down here? Thinking of leaving service to join the engine crew?”

  “I’m looking for an engineer,” Julie called out in a clear voice. “A Russian, by the name of Nikolai.”

  “Grumov? An engineer?” He sneered slightly, unimpressed by her choice of acquaintance. “He’s a greaser, that’s all. And that would be fine, you know, if you could find him when the parts need greasing. But he’s always disappearing, he is.”

  “Oh,” Julie uttered, taken aback by the welder’s low opinion of her new beau. “So, you don’t know where he is?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Who knows? He could be up dancing the polka in the ballroom for all I know. You can look around if you’d like. Take a look, but don’t touch anything.”

  He put his mask back on and lit his torch, waving her off with the flame.

  As she walked from one hot, moist room to another, peeking in dark corners and around control panels, Julie tried to think of something witty to say once she found Nikolai. The surprise of his letter had prompted this spontaneous trip below, but now she was nervous. She didn’t want to bungle a reconciliation with clumsy words.

  During her rounds, she encountered at least a dozen men with the same uniform and dimensions as Nikolai. Even though the engine room was populated with an extraordinary number of tall, broad-shouldered men, she discounted them all with a swift glance. No one there had his careless slouch, his confident gait, his hair, the color of nutmeg.

  Finally, she gave up; it was time to go back to work anyway. In a sweat, her head pounding, she started up the stairs to steerage. Rounding the first landing, she came face-to-face with Nikolai.

  “Julie!” he cried. He picked her up, swung her around, then dropped her lightly on her feet, keeping hold of her hands. “I’ve just been up in steerage looking for you.”

  “That’s funny,” she replied, her pink face shining with delight. “I was down in the engine room, looking for you.”

  “You got my note, then?” he asked, drawing nearer.

  “Yes, I did,” she answered, fishing the necklace from out of her dress collar to show him. “It’s beautiful. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “But, do you forgive me?” he asked, stooping down and taking the medallion in his hand. He tugged it lightly to pull her in, until their faces almost touched.

  “Yes,” she whispered, wanting to be kissed.

  “Then you’ll meet me tonight?” he asked, his breath tickling her ear.

  “Yes, but I’ll be in hatcheck until after midnight.” She grazed his recently shaven cheek, smelling his soap and skin. “Is that too late?”

  “Are you kidding?” he answered. “I’ll be waiting.”

  His lips finally swooped down upon hers. As he kissed her, he lifted her in his arms and stood up straight. In his embrace, Julie felt weightless, made solely of the bubbles that were spreading from her lower belly out to the rest of her body.

  “Oh!” she said suddenly, breaking off his kiss and reclaiming her arm to look at her watch. “I have to get back to work!”

  Before putting her down, Nikolai carried Julie up to the next landing.

  “I’ll see you tonight, then.” He winked. “That is, if you don’t get lured away by some gent claiming a bowler.”

  “No chance,” she said with a laugh, running up the stairs to steerage. “Till tonight!”

  Compared to the engine rooms, the stale air and constant noise in third class were positively refreshing. But, again, Julie didn’t notice a thing.

  “Do you think I should cut it?” Constance asked the hairdresser, holding out a long lock of thick, honey-colored hair. “One of those new styles? A bob?” she added doubtfully.

  “Oh, your hair is so pretty, it’d be a shame to just cut it off,” said the beautician. The relief in Constance’s face was visible. “Mary Pickford was in here yesterday afternoon. She still wears hers long, and yours is every bit as lovely! I’ll just give it a trim. When that’s done, perhaps we should try a Marcel wave.”

  Constance sat back, contented, watching the hairdresser at work. How exciting that she was on the same ship as Mary Pickford! What if she met her tonight in first class? That might even impress Faith! She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining her sister’s look of surprise, her envy. When she opened them, she saw in the mirror that Mrs. Thomas was entering the beauty salon. The squat woman in sensible shoes spied Constance at once and came right over.

  “Good morning!” Mrs. Thomas said to Constance’s reflection. “It’s nice to meet outside of the dining room for a change. Tell me now, was it Miss or Mrs. Stone? I didn’t quite catch it.”

  “You can call me Constance,” she said, forcing a smile at the other face in her mirror.

  “Oh, we are to become good friends, are we?” Her response was sugarcoated. “I’m Mildred.”

  She took the chair next to her and a beautician began combing through her thinning hair with a doubtful frown. After giving directions for a dye and cut, Mildred Thomas turned again to Constance.

  “That was a spirited discussion at dinner last night,” Mrs. Thomas said. “Very interesting, indeed. I was surprised, however, when Captain Fielding’s doctor friend excused himself to go after you. I suppose he thought you might need looking after,” she said, with a studied look of concern.

  “I was fine,” Constance said, almost amused at the notion that her opinions about universal suffrage should warrant a doctor’s attention. “Dr. Chabron was kind enough to escort me to my cabin.”

  “How charming!” she said. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “A very recent one. We’ve just met here on board,” Constance replied, then diverted her attention to the hairdresser. “Are you cutting it a bit too short?”

  “So, did you two enjoy some dancing last night after dinner?” Mildred persisted. “Cocktails and cards?”

  Constance threw a baffled look toward Mrs. Thomas. She didn’t understand her keen interest in her acquaintance with the doctor. Indeed, what would she say if she knew he had invited her to dine that night at the captain’s table?

  “No, Mildred,” she said, suppressing the urge to call her dowdy companion “ma’am.” “He escorted me to my cabin, where I spent the rest of the evening reading. How about you? Did you and Mr. Thomas dance the night away?”

  “No, my husband and I don’t go in for carousing,” she said with a prim, self-satisfied expression that didn’t quite go with her current appearance. The beautician was applying a gruel-colored glop onto her wet hair, which made her head look unnaturally small. “Now then, where did you say you were from?”

  “I don’t believe I did.” Constance refrained from adding that her conversation had never been solicited at the dining table. Thrown by the inordinate curiosity on Mrs. Thomas’s face, she opted for generalities. “I’m from Massachusetts.”

  “Boston, I presume? How nice!” she said, without waiting for confirmation. “Unfortunately, we don’t know any New Englanders. We live in Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love. My husband is with the Biddle Motor Car Company. You’ve probably heard of it?”

  Constance did have a vague recollection of the men discussing automobiles at one meal or another, but
she hadn’t been paying much attention.

  She nodded and Mrs. Thomas rambled on about her husband’s line of work. It was clear that, given a willing audience, this hitherto silent matron could talk as loud and as long as her husband. As Mrs. Thomas digressed, the sound of her voice faded into the hum of the salon and Constance enjoyed the privacy of her own thoughts. She couldn’t help but replay the scene in the infirmary over in her mind. Serge’s cologne, his voice, his touch. Gazing into the mirror, she watched the stylist, who was now at work with the curling tongs, transforming Constance’s straight hair into fashionable, watery waves. Would Serge like her new look?

  “Constance, dear,” Mildred repeated, “I asked you what your husband did for a living.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard,” she said with a cough, uncomfortable that her girlish fancies were interrupted by the reality of a husband. She stifled the urge to invent a different life—it seemed terribly unfair to George to suddenly become a widow—and answered. “He’s a college professor. He teaches geography.”

  “Oh! I should have guessed!” Mildred exclaimed, triumphant. “Boston is known for its universities!”

  With Constance’s marital status now settled, Mrs. Thomas felt free to launch into a long anecdote about a distant cousin of hers who taught at Purdue. Constance had been on the brink of adding a few words about their children when Mrs. Thomas’s talk had burst back in, and now—abandoning the pretense of listening entirely—she thought about them at her leisure. In just a few days, she would be able to hold them in her lap—together, all three!—and tell them about her adventures in France. What amusing tales could she tell them? Well—she smiled to herself—she would decidedly not mention that Auntie Faith’s live-in lover had made roast bunny rabbit for dinner one night.

  A manicurist came over to the styling chairs, offering a clipping, a buff, and the tiniest hint of pink enamel. Constance consented, Mildred declined. The manicurist alit on a stool next to her chair and began her work, gently holding Constance’s hand to file her narrow nails. Mrs. Thomas, whose dye would have to set for another half hour, took her needlework out of her bag.