Crossing on the Paris Page 18

  When they were ready to begin, having looked at the books and taken a few tidy nips of cake, Constance joined in shyly.

  “All right now, the first quote is: ‘As soon as they had strength they arose, joined hands again, and went on.’ ”

  A long, lively discussion ensued, where rational ideas mixed with the absurd. Some utterly implausible possibilities were tried, to link this hopeful ending with some of the well-known tragic characters at hand.

  “Let’s see. That may very well be the last line of A Tale of Two Cities. I don’t remember exactly how it ends, but perhaps—I do say perhaps—after the Englishman is guillotined, his head joins back to his body. Then when he gets his strength, his hands join as well—for effect, you know—and then, well, all the body parts, they just go on.”

  This last was said with a sweeping gesture as the group dissolved into fits of laughter.

  “That’s Frankenstein, you twit!”

  After many attempts were made to find the correct answer, the general hilarity was heightened still when the book was revealed to be Tess of the d’Urbervilles.

  “What!” one cried. “Thomas Hardy! Mister Gloomy himself came up with that bit of good cheer?”

  The last lines of the other books were contemplated and more cups of tea poured. Constance, who always tended to listen more than talk, never quite felt included in the group, the way the person who calls the numbers in Bingo does not play. Nevertheless, she enjoyed their company and passed an entertaining afternoon, forgetting all about Christmas samplers, frustrating china patterns, and unsatisfactory honeymoons.

  As she walked back to her cabin, Constance lamented the fact that these good people, so delightfully clever and so very English, had not been seated with her in the dining room. How entertaining the crossing might have been! The positive side of her table assignment, however, was Dr. Chabron’s appearance at last night’s dinner. Thanks to his association with Captain Fielding, tonight she wouldn’t have to see any of her tablemates!

  A smile simmering on her lips, she glanced down at Faith’s enameled ring ornamenting her manicured hand. It was a strange sight there on her ring finger, which usually revealed her wedding band. Her smile faded. Should she mention to Serge that she was married? She hadn’t thought it important; an eight-year marriage was hardly pressing news. Perhaps he would laugh at such a naïve revelation (would she sound conceited, as if she assumed he was attracted to her?) or announce that, of course, he himself was married as well. They were only friends, for heaven’s sake.

  Back in her cabin, she opened her trunk, nervous again, and pulled out a half dozen dresses and scarves. She didn’t have much time; Serge was to be there in just over an hour. She caught her reflection in the mirror and examined her new hairdo. She nodded to herself, yes, it was very becoming: stylish, yet feminine. Looking back at the pile of clothes on her bed, she suddenly decided on the long blue dress. After all, it was the one that went best with Faith’s ring.

  “There’s nothing to it,” Marie-Claire told Julie’s back as she tied the strings of the decorative apron. “They give you their hats and coats, you put them on numbered shelves and hangers, then you give them a token with the number on it. When they come back after dinner, you find the number and give them back their things. It’s easy!”

  The two girls were facing each other again. The help in first class wore tiny lace caps perched on their heads and Marie-Claire, lips locked in concentration, was pinning one onto Julie. While she was securing it down with a bobby pin, Julie stole a glance at her bloodshot eye: half the white of her left eye was vermilion. She supposed it was with this same morbid fascination that people peeked at her birthmark.

  “Hey, look at you!” Simone had just come into the dormitory and stopped in front of them, hands on her hips. She stared at Julie—tidied up in the fitted black uniform of the upper decks—with her mouth wide open. “What are you wearing that for?”

  “She’s substituting for me tonight,” Marie-Claire said, pointing to her red eye, the temporary defect of a pretty girl. “Madame Tremblay doesn’t want me scaring those sensitive souls up in first class. As if anyone ever really looks at the hatcheck girl anyway.”

  “That’s not fair! Why’d she choose you?” Simone asked Julie, her voice angry, accusatory. “Everyone knows that I want to work up there! That’s my dream!”

  “I don’t know. I ran into her this morning and she told me to do it. It’s just for one night.” Julie fought the instinct to apologize. “Really, Simone, it’s not that important.”

  “Easy for you to say!” she cried, raising her voice and throwing out her arms. “When you get to go up there and meet Douglas Fairbanks! I’m the one who’s seen all of his pictures!”

  Her reddened face collapsed into a furious scowl. With her sleeve, Simone wiped hot tears from her eyes, then stormed out of the dormitory. Undoubtedly, Julie thought, to tell all the other steerage maids what a rat she was. Her shoulders drooped as she looked down, grazing the apron’s stiff lace with her fingertips.

  “Just to let you know,” Marie-Claire said quietly, sidling up next to her, “although I saw those Hollywood stars walk by yesterday, they didn’t check anything with me. She kept her fur stole on during dinner. Maybe she uses it as a napkin?”

  Julie’s head popped up at the blasphemous comment; Marie-Claire was giving her a sly grin.

  “And he wasn’t even wearing a hat. Perhaps,” she said innocently, “with all the hair oil, it just slipped right off.”

  Julie snorted with laughter and gave Marie-Claire’s hand a thankful squeeze.

  “Don’t worry about Simone,” she added with a wink as she went back to her bunk. “I’m sure she’ll get over it.”

  Julie nodded, but she wasn’t sure. Although Simone was the person she’d spent the most time with since she’d boarded the Paris, they didn’t have much in common. In fact, Julie didn’t even know whether she could trust her. She’d probably told the other girls about her evening up on deck with Nikolai. Julie gave the medallion under her dress a light stroke, relieved that Simone had no idea that she was meeting him again tonight.

  Mme. Tremblay marched into the dormitory with her usual straight step.

  “You’re ready, then, Mademoiselle Vernet?” she asked. She had Julie turn around to see the fit of the uniform, then nodded once. “That will do for one night. Now, has Marie-Claire explained your responsibilities?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Julie answered.

  “Then you should be on your way,” she answered, looking at her watch. “Some of the parvenu up in first still dine early, as if they’d never left the farm. The Americans, mostly.” She rolled her eyes. “Now, I hope that the evening passes uneventfully. I don’t want to hear any complaints about you.”

  She gave Julie a stern look, then left the dormitory at a quick trot.

  “Good luck!” Marie-Claire called as Julie turned to go. “Beware the hangers!”

  Giggling again, Julie waved at Marie-Claire and headed for the stairs, wishing they’d be working hatcheck together. At each level the air became fresher and the décor steadily improved, until she finally reached first class. She had been on their poop decks, had marveled at their kitchens and corridors, but had yet to visit their truly spectacular rooms.

  Julie wiped her damp palms on her apron as she nervously tiptoed down the hallway toward the dining room. She admired the walls as she passed through; nooks were filled with classical sculptures and tropical flower arrangements, bursting out of glass vases. She soon found herself in an extravagant double archway at the top of an elegant, sweeping staircase. A glass dome—more delicate than any stained glass window she’d seen in Le Havre, more intricate than a peacock’s tail—ballooned overhead. Julie quickly hid behind a pillar.

  Did Marie-Claire walk to work this way? Surely the help was not supposed to make a grand entrance into first class! She imagined herself on Nikolai’s arm, gracefully floating down the stairs, her hand lightly brushing the l
ong curve of the banister, her head cocked at a flattering angle. How ridiculous they would look swooshing down the staircase in their dark, boring uniforms and flat-soled shoes. And her in this tiny lace cap!

  She scanned the area for another way down, but after a glance at her watch (she couldn’t be late), Julie plunged down the staircase with her eyes on the floor. Keeping her head trained on the carpet, she followed its geometric pattern to the hatcheck room.

  She slid behind the counter and turned on the light. A glorified closet, this was a practical space, one she understood. She took a deep breath as she looked around the racks, shelves, and cupboards. There were a few items there from the night before—a brown fedora, a wool overcoat—forgotten in haste, or after one drink too many.

  “Ehem.”

  She heard a discreet cough by the counter. Her first customer!

  “Yes, sir, may I help you?” Julie asked with a smile.

  With a phlegmatic expression of one who is doing something so obvious it need not be explained, he wordlessly handed her a brushed velvet top hat with a silk band. She nodded politely and turned to store it on the shelf. As she was returning to the counter, she heard his wife whisper, “I hope she hasn’t soiled it with her dirty hands!”

  She handed the man his token.

  “Have a wonderful evening”—she bowed slightly to each of them—“monsieur, madame,” but they had already left.

  Julie looked down at her well-scrubbed hands, examining her palms and nails. Why had that woman said that? With a sigh, Julie thought that perhaps working up in first would not be so pleasant. Her evening had just started, but she was already looking forward to the shift’s end and her rendezvous with Nikolai.

  “Ehem,” she heard from across the counter.

  Another expressionless gentleman was standing before her, stretching a hat out for her to take. The woman on his arm looked bored in her fur stole. Taking his hat with a servile nod, she smiled to herself, thinking perhaps this lady used her fur as a napkin too.

  Vera arose from her nap in the early evening, slightly more energetic, and shuffled over to the desk. Since she wasn’t using it for writing, her largest trunk was stored underneath. She hadn’t planned on opening it until she was settled in New York; there was nothing practical inside, nothing she really needed. Now she put the key in the lock and opened the lid, looking for a keepsake that could possibly amuse a small boy.

  Beginning with the smallest one, Vera pulled open the trunk drawers and peered inside them. The first was filled with jewelry she hadn’t worn in years, strands of jet, large brooches, hatpins. She opened the next, which contained an assortment of tins. Here was one full of embroidered handkerchiefs, each with its own story, and another, stuffed to the brim with photographs and daguerreotypes. She opened the latter. At the top were all the portraits dating back to her relationship with Pierre, the photographer. He had taken so many pictures of her the year they were together that her face at age thirty-four was disproportionately represented. She quickly shuffled through the box: snapshots of her friends in Paris, formal poses of her parents, grandmother, and cousins in New York. A magnificent one of Charles in golfing breeches, leaning on the putter and smoking a pipe. Might there be one of Laszlo? No, it must have been discarded years ago.

  Underneath these two tins she found a box containing combs from when her hair was rich and full. She poked through them, the tortoiseshell, silver, and horn, then picked up a Spanish mantilla comb, twice as large as her hand, and stuck it in her hair. She looked in the mirror and chuckled at herself. The dramatic comb towered precariously over her white head, slanting to the left; her eyes shone with fever. That might amuse a child, she thought, or make him gasp in fear.

  Vera put away the combs and opened another drawer. Among the lace, she found a Chinese opium pipe. She picked it up, fingering the floral cloisonné design, and smiled at the memory of her and Charles’s brief foray into the Parisian underbelly in the late nineties. She drew on it, marveling that she could still detect—after all those years!—its distinct incense flavor. No, she thought, putting it away, that was not a good toy for a child either.

  She opened the bottom drawer, the largest one. Under her lyre (ah, what a siren she’d made!) and wrapped in crêpe paper, she found the two marionettes who had kept her company during her childhood. On a rare visit home, her parents had presented her with the knight and his lady, bought on a trip to Italy. Through trial and error, Vera taught herself to be a talented puppeteer and lived out dozens of adventures in that lonely house on Fifth Avenue. She picked up the knight. He still had his hat, his sword, his leather boots; the paint on his face still plainly showed his mustache, goatee, and rosy cheeks. He was in impeccable condition. His lady was also lovely, boasting a blue velvet dress, braids of real hair, and a thin silver crown. She looked at their faces with a sad smile. These puppets had potential—the boy would certainly be interested in them—but they were not very subtle.

  Then, next to her grandmother’s white Bible, Vera saw it. The silly mechanical bank—a painted, cast-iron girl and dog—she’d found at the flea market after the war. When a coin was placed on the girl’s hand, the mechanism began: her jointed arm swung around and fed the coin to the dog, who wagged his tail. She had always loved the absurdity of it (a dog eating coins!) and heaved it out of the trunk with a gleeful smile. This old iron bank had always fascinated Charles’s nieces and nephews and it was sure to delight Master Richter as well. Yes, this was it.

  Vera slowly got to her feet, finally ready to dress for the day. She knocked on Amandine’s door, then pulled a skirt out of the closet. She gathered together a blouse, jacket, and stockings; she was deciding on a pair of low heels when her maid walked in.

  “Are you going out, ma’am?” Amandine asked, clouds of worry and surprise in her dark eyes.

  “I just want to take a little jaunt to the drawing room,” she answered. “Could you help me get dressed, please?”

  “Of course,” Amandine murmured, arranging loose cloth and fastening buckles. “You still feel warm, you know. If you needed anything, I’d be happy to order—”

  “I fancy a change of scenery,” Vera said, glancing around the paneled walls of her cabin. “I’ve also been told that Laszlo Richter’s grandson, Max, is in there now. I’d like to meet the boy.”

  Amandine nodded silently, brushing Vera’s hair. She twirled it back in a plump bun and pinned a chic felt hat on top. Finished with her toilette, Vera stood up—but much too quickly. Dizzy, she fell back down in the chair.

  “You are quite sure you want to go out?” Amandine said in a whisper.

  “Yes, of course,” Vera said, reaching for her cane and pulling herself up by degrees. “Oh, Amandine, would you mind carrying that mechanical bank to the drawing room for me? I thought it might interest Master Richter.”

  The two women entered the lounge, which was nearly empty as most everyone in first class was now dressing for dinner. Vera spied the couple in a corner; the boy looked even smaller inside an over-stuffed armchair, his feet nowhere near the floor. He didn’t see them, as his face was hidden behind a large picture book, but his nanny, who was tiredly mending stockings, looked up.

  They found armchairs at a watchful distance from the boy and his nurse. Amandine sat the bank on the coffee table while Vera brought out her coin purse. She put a centime on the girl’s hand, which caused a slow, deliberate whir-r-r, then clank! The figures moved and the coin disappeared.

  The small boy peeked around his book, curious to see what had made the noise. Vera pretended not to see him but fed the machine another coin with a trembling hand. After two more, she had the boy standing right next to her with his nurse behind him.

  “May I try, ma’am?” he asked eagerly. “May I give the girl the next coin?”

  “Of course, young man,” Vera said, her eyes bright. “Here you are.”

  Vera gave him a handful of coins, then sat back to watch his delighted face as the girl and dog re
peated their moves, again and again. She scrutinized his features, looking for bits of Laszlo. With a touch of sorrow, she recognized the full bottom lip, the shape of his eyes, his slim hands. Although she could see some of her former lover in the little boy, it was difficult to imagine Laszlo, an old soul at forty-two, as a child.

  “What is your name, young man?” Vera asked, when he had exhausted the supply of centimes.

  “Maximilian Laszlo Richter,” he said, articulating precisely. “Or Max.”

  “Maximilian Laszlo,” she said slowly, drawing it out. Although she wasn’t surprised by the boy’s middle name, hearing him say it had given her a chill. “What a lovely name.”

  “They’re my grandfathers’ names. But they’re dead,” he added with a slight shrug.

  “Oh,” she said, taken aback. Vera wondered what this child knew about his dead grandfather. Sadly, it seemed, Josef had not seen the best side of his father. “Well, how do you do?” She took his small hand in hers and gave it a formal shake, making him giggle.

  “How do you do?” Max replied, a bit bashful. He looked down, at the iron bank. “Where did you get it? I want one too!”

  “I bought it at a big flea market in Paris,” Vera said, giving the bank girl’s head a tap. “You know, they don’t sell fleas there, but funny old things. This bank was on a table between a broken cuckoo clock and a bowl painted with blue windmills. I think I made the best purchase, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes!” he said.

  He looked up at her with curiosity. Did he recognize her as the woman his mother had visited earlier, the sick old lady still in her dressing gown in the late afternoon?

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Well, Master Max,” Vera hesitated. She could not tell the boy her real name, as she did not want to risk his father’s anger. “You can call me . . . Miss Camilla.”

  It just popped out. She stared at the boy, dumbfounded. Without thinking, Vera had given him the name of her grandmother. Of her own volition, she had finally made the fortune-teller’s prediction come true. And wasn’t he, the mystic, that poet, also called Max? Life is a carousel, she thought, spinning around in great circles.