Crossing on the Paris Page 2

  It was her first trip away from home; little Julie Vernet had gotten a job with the French Line and was going off to sea.

  “That’s right,” her mother said with a nod. “You don’t want to be late.”

  With no more words, they gave each other four light kisses, kissing air, kissing ghosts. She put her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the steerage gangplank. Making her way through the crowd, Julie absently bent down to snatch up a long green streamer and quickly wrapped it around her hand, glad to see there were other crew members who still hadn’t boarded. Weaving through passengers and locals, she was startled by a photographer’s flash. Well, he wouldn’t be taking a picture of her!

  As she reached the ship, she saw a group of youngsters from her neighborhood, Saint François. Like tightrope walkers, they were fearlessly balancing on the fat mooring lines running from the ship to the dock, challenging one another to count the ship’s countless portholes, bragging that their fathers had welded this bit or that. They looked up at Julie.

  “Au revoir, Julie!” the children shouted, waving from shoulder to fingertip, jumping on the corded hemp. “Bonne chance!”

  Now, with her parents behind her, she allowed herself a grin—“Au revoir, mes enfants! Good luck to you too!”—then leapt onto the ramp. As Julie crossed the gangplank, she already felt a bit lighter. She was leaving behind the gray world of her family home, the nonlife of Le Havre, ready to start anew. No more wordlessness, no more emptiness. The water, clapping against the hull of the ship, applauded her arrival.

  Once aboard, she went out on the low-ceilinged third-class deck. Julie took advantage of her small frame to pass through the thick crowd, people packed around mooring machinery and cargo hatches. She made her way to the side of the ship and stationed herself on a narrow strip of unoccupied rail. She found her parents below; they had backed away from the crowd, as far from the ship as they could. She nervously began to wind the long streamer around her fingers; she’d been both thrilled and regretful about this day since she’d received her assignment in the mail almost a month ago.

  Looking at her parents, she wondered whether, without her there, they would ever speak again.

  In the center of the dock, amid cries and laughter, neighing and clanging, bursts of accordion and fiddle, Constance Stone shook her sister’s hand formally, then gave Faith’s French boyfriend a brief nod.

  “Good-bye, then,” she said stiffly, taking a step toward the ship. Unable to contain herself, however, she immediately turned back to her sister.

  “You know you should be boarding with me,” Constance said through her teeth, gesturing toward the enormous ship before them. “If you had any sense of duty whatsoever, any feeling of responsibility toward the family—”

  “For years you’ve moaned about how lacking I am in notions of moral obligation,” Faith interrupted with a sly smile, stressing the last two words sarcastically. “I suppose you were right.”

  Constance stood opposite her little sister, shaking her head in disdain. Faith, still baby-faced at twenty-three, was dressed in flowing, bohemian scarves and skirts, long beads, and a bejeweled turban. She looked ridiculous, a veritable circus performer. Both her hands were loosely wrapped around the arm of her beau, Michel. He was some eight years older, dressed in dark worker’s clothes, though his boots were spattered in paint of every color.

  “Indeed!” Constance sniffed, turning again.

  “Bon voyage!” Michel, unable to follow their conversation, smiled sweetly.

  “Adieu,” Constance said to them both, then walked away with no further hesitation.

  As she approached the ship, she heaved a sigh of relief. On the long train ride from Paris she had hardly said a word to Faith, much less Michel. After the tense atmosphere of the last few days, it was refreshing to be alone, to take respite from bitter words, curt replies, and silent glares.

  She had gone to Paris at her father’s bidding, to bring her sister home, with hopes that her reappearance would improve their mother’s condition. Faith’s refusal had made the entire expedition a waste of time. Constance thought of her own daughters, crying on the platform as her New York–bound train pulled out of the station in Worcester, and of her husband’s utter vexation.

  She had gone against her husband’s wishes, and to what end? Faith had been unwilling to leave her new life in Paris. Whether her return would have helped their mother was beside the point.

  Walking toward the ship, Constance saw a few newspaper men up ahead. Reporters were craning their necks looking for a good story while photographers took pictures; there was a cameraman there as well, capturing the event for a newsreel. Just in case she were caught on camera, she quickly adjusted the big loopy tie at her neck, smoothed her skirt, and, breathing deeply, wiped the last traces of scowl from her face.

  She was wearing the same traveling suit she had purchased for the voyage east, to Europe, just a few weeks before. She’d felt so elegant when she’d tried it on: a long black skirt, a white silk blouse, a large red bow around the neck, all set off by an airy gray hat. But when George—by then resigned to the fact that she was traveling to Europe on her own, but still bitter—had seen it, he’d teased her.

  “Oh, my dear!” he’d shouted. “How clever you are! You’ll match the ship! Look, black, white, funnel red, topped with a puff of smoke!”

  Constance, taken aback by her husband’s nasty tone, not to mention his rare burst of imagination, had tried to find something else, but it was too late. Now, walking toward the Paris, she hoped no one else would make that connection, especially those newspapermen. She could just see the caption: “Provincial Woman Lost When Camouflaged by Liner!”

  At that moment, a sandy-haired photographer appeared out of the crowd a few yards in front of her.

  “Souriez!” he cried with an explicatory grin, as his flash went off.

  The background of the photograph was not the liner itself (thank heaven for small blessings!) but the crowd behind. Looking around, Constance saw the sudden flash had also startled the two women nearest her: a petite, young woman with bright copper hair stopped a few paces in front, while to the side stood an impossibly thin elderly woman firmly wrapped in a long, plum-colored coat. They each paused a moment to blink, then continued toward the ship. Wondering where that photograph might land, she glanced over at the two women, who also appeared to be traveling on their own.

  Suddenly, there was a swell in the crowd and she lost sight of them both. It seemed the last crew members were trying to get to their posts before the passengers boarded. From officers in smart uniforms on down to the barmen and bellhops, they all rushed past her. She’d heard the crew on the Paris numbered nearly a thousand, and the passengers—from the top hats and monocles traveling in the elegant cabins at the top, to the tattered emigrants under the waterline—were twice as many.

  Before boarding, she stopped to take in the great ship looming ahead. Its length took up the entire pier and, with three brilliant red funnels towering above the highest decks, it dwarfed all the other boats in the harbor. Constance thought the liner must be as long as the Eiffel Tower was tall, but it was massive, solid. She supposed she ought to feel lucky to be a part of the Paris launch, its first tour of the famous French Line: Le Havre, Southampton, New York. Though, really, she was in no mood for celebrations.

  She was jostled by a man on the fringe of the crowd. At the foot of the second-class ramp, impatient travelers were trying to get on, as those going up inevitably paused to take in the view. He turned to her, as if to scold her for stopping at such an inopportune place, but when he looked into her face—beautiful, by all accounts—his expression changed.

  “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,” he said, drawing closer to her with a leer.

  Not unused to such smiles, Constance nodded crisply in return, then walked straight into the throng to access the second-class decks. After several minutes of being far too close to strangers than she would have liked—the feel of their ou
ter garments, their limbs, their breath upon her—she made her way up the ramps and to the rails nearest her cabin.

  Everyone on deck was crying out enthusiastically—Americans returning home or Europeans on holiday, young couples on a first voyage, affluent Jewish emigrants off to New York—all throwing colored streamers and waving their hats. She looked down onto the dock and easily spotted Faith and Michel below. How could you miss them?

  Like all the other well-wishers on the dock, they were now smiling at her (what cheek!); with one arm wrapped around the other’s waist, they were cheerfully waving up at the second tier. Constance waved back brusquely, but she soon tired of looking back at them. During her two-week visit, she had been a third wheel, a mere witness to their affection.

  In their company, she constantly found herself comparing their giddy happiness to her relationship with George. Although she didn’t understand their French conversations, she envied the frank admiration she saw in Michel’s face when he looked at Faith, the undercurrent of passion in their voices. She knew that Faith found her relationship with George dull, flawed, unacceptable.

  Tired of looking down on their self-satisfied faces—Faith clutching Michel and grinning—she was ready to leave the festive crowd on deck, find her accommodations, and get to sea. Nervous as she was about going home empty-handed, Constance was happy to be leaving France. Arranging her puffy gray hat as she came in off the deck, her smile cornered downward. Faith was, without a doubt, the most selfish person on earth.

  Vera slowly let go of Charles’s arm; it was time to board the vessel.

  “What am I going to do without you?” she asked him sadly.

  “Shall I stow away in that enormous coffer of yours?” he asked, his eyes shining brightly. With the realization that their time was limited, Charles had spent much more time with Vera these last weeks, although it still crushed him to see her decline. “An elephant could travel comfortably in there! A trunk in a trunk, you know.”

  Vera smiled at her friend. “How I shall miss you,” she sighed.

  “Oh, Vera. This isn’t farewell! We’ll see each other again.”

  “Of course.” She nodded.

  Charles bent down to kiss her cheek and they held each other, both reluctant to let go. Pressing her cheek against his, she was surprised to feel a tear slide past. She smiled into his watery eyes, brushing the tear away with her thumb.

  “Call me sentimental,” he whispered with a shrug. “I’ll miss you too, love.”

  Charles took a step away from Vera to say good-bye to her maid, Amandine, then pat the dog’s head.

  “Good-bye, you three!” he said with a smile. “Au revoir!”

  Walking toward the great ship, Vera could still feel the warmth of Charles’s cheek upon her own. She reached up to touch it, to see if her hand could detect such heat, perhaps store it for later, but merely felt the chill of her own aged skin. Part of her still wanted him to call her back, to beg her not to leave, but their choices had been made.

  She turned again to smile at him, to give him a slight wave, then began making her way across the dock, her black Scotty leading by just a foot, while Amandine lagged a few steps behind. As this small, single-file parade of three curved around the confusion of horse carts, motorcars, crates, and trunks, she noticed other tangles of people—families, crew members, emigrants, groups of tourists—also twisting like seaweed, eels, through every available space on the waterfront, as if drawn to the ocean liner by the tide. The smell at port, she noted with distaste, which was usually dominated by the salty freshness of the sea, today was overtaken by the pungent odor of humanity.

  Vera was already exhausted. Finally approaching the Paris, the enormous steamer that would take her home to Manhattan, she paused, leaning sharply on her cane before beginning the long climb up the ramp. The scene around her was so hectic: the shouting and shoving, the bright sun, the glare. Wait, was that a camera flash? She blinked a time or two, then looked up to find a young blond photographer in front of her. Gesturing to the camera, he gave her a sheepish grin.

  “It’s for the steamer paper,” he said in French. “Have a look at the launch article in tomorrow’s edition. You might see yourself!”

  She nodded at him politely. At this point in her life, seeing herself was the last thing she wanted to do. Vera watched him scuttle off, startling other people with his flash. Still trying to catch her breath, she listened to the voices around her; a clatter of superlative exclamations and eulogies all honored the ocean liner before them.

  “Comme c’est beau!”

  “C’est le transatlantique le plus grand de la France!”

  “La salle de machines est magnifique!”

  Vera, unmoved by the ship, was saddened to think how much she would miss hearing the French language. After having spent nearly half her life in Paris, she realized that from now on, she would have no call to use the beautiful language she loved and had strived to perfect. For whatever time she had left, she would be surrounded by English speakers.

  Vera soon reached the first-class entrance, where, upon crossing the threshold, the machine’s steel hull transformed itself into a modern-day palace. Vera tottered in, oblivious to the luxurious wood paneling and plush carpeting, the enormous bouquets of exotic flowers, the fawning smiles of the French Line service crew. She passed the grandiose stairway and took the lift to the top floor, where her cabin was located. Once on deck, she handed the leash to Amandine and went over to the rail to bid Charles good-bye. It took her a minute or two to find him among the large crowd still below—mostly comprised of landborne friends and nautical admirers now that the boat was slowly filling—and waved.

  Grasping the handrail, she looked upon her dear old friend, who returned her gaze from what appeared an exaggerated distance. An elderly man—a year or two older than she, although nowadays anyone would guess him to be far younger—he was stately looking and well dressed. With a melancholic smile, Vera noted that, however many years he might live on the Continent, something about him would always betray his nationality. What was it about him? The set of his jaw, his perfect posture? His full head of white hair? Were these things British?

  Looking down at the handsome portrait he made—one hand tucked into a pocket, the other casually holding his cane—she could scarcely believe that she would not be seeing him again.

  The party at the rail next to her shrieked with laughter as they popped their champagne and got caught in the spray. One of them lifted the bottle to his mouth to catch the gush of bubbles spilling out, dousing his theatrical traveling cloak to everyone’s great amusement.

  Ready to quit the decks, Vera lifted her palm to her friend for a final farewell. Before he turned to go, to take the train back to Paris, Charles tipped his hat to Vera and threw her a kiss. She watched him leave the dock, then, before retiring, allowed herself one last glimpse at France (though this port town was not her France), another mournful parting. Back in her cabin, she lay down. Vera had never liked forced gaiety and these big ocean-liner launching celebrations were the epitome of such nonsense.

  Julie stood against the rails of the steerage deck and waved at her parents. She could see them at the farthest end of the dock. So small, in mourning dress, they looked like a pair of blackbirds at the edge of a field. She thought she saw her mother wave back; from this distance it was hard to tell.

  She slid her fingers along the sturdy rail. All her life, Julie had seen spectacular ocean liners come in and out of port, right outside their kitchen windows. She watched them as they passed through their surprisingly short life cycles: their feted launches and fashionable youths, their less popular mature years, then their retirement, sometimes terribly scarred by fires or accidents only five or eight years after their maiden voyage. This, however, was the first time she’d ever boarded one.

  Julie’s family was from a small working-class neighborhood wedged in among wharfs. A crooked collection of wattle-and-daub houses with canals on all sides, it was a ve
ritable island within the port. She grew up with water all around her, water and great ships. But, up to now, she had never been on anything larger than her father’s fishing boat, a vessel so humble it was too small to accommodate all his sons at once. This ship, the Paris, was even bigger than her quarter, her native Saint François.

  She almost looked out at her parents again, but quickly turned her gaze. They had come to see their last surviving child leave home and Julie couldn’t bear to see them so somber and resigned. It was time to go below, to get ready for work, but she could not yet make herself leave the deck, to disappear and abandon her parents completely. Besides, she wanted to see from this new perspective how the great ship would maneuver out of the harbor and, little by little, leave Le Havre behind.

  There were still a few sailors and uniformed workers enjoying the festivities, shouting and gesturing to the people onshore. Just then, two young crew members who looked like brothers (except one was almost a full head taller than the other) shouldered into a spot next to her on the rail and waved vigorously at a blond girl holding a pug tightly in her arms. She grinned at them, waving the dog’s paw back. The shorter boy rolled his eyes, then looked straight down the sleek hull of the steamer, down to the water.

  “I’ve never been this far off the ground,” he said to his friend.

  “You mean, this far off the water!” his friend replied, looking down himself.

  Julie peeked too, her neck reaching out farther and farther, her gaze gliding down the side of the ship until it found the sea. It was surprisingly far. She unwound the streamer from her fingers and let it drop, holding her breath until it reached the dark water below. She quickly looked back up and glimpsed out toward her parents. Both waited patiently; they were experienced at this. She shook her head with a sigh, knowing herself a poor substitute for sons.

  “Hey,” said the short boy, still hanging over the rail, contemplating the water from that great height, “have you ever wondered where the extra water comes from when the tide rolls in?”