Crossing on the Paris Page 22

  “No,” she said, with a stiff shake of the head. “You will begin the breakfast shift now. You can give me the cap later.”

  She marched off, leaving Julie trembling. Where was she going to find a lace cap? Maybe she could ask Nikolai to look for it? Reliving last night’s shame—from stripping off her camisole, to her nakedness, his hugeness, to the struggle and the pain—her breathing grew shallow. No, she would not ask him to search for missing clothes. She remembered her panties, now gray, drowning by the mattress, and didn’t want him to find them. With a deep blush, Julie realized that it was highly possible that another engineman, a shirker taking a quick break, already had. Were they parading her dirty drawers around, laughing, and slapping Nikolai on the back? Were they talking about her? Calling her names (tart, slut, pig, whore)? And Nikolai? What would he say? That he loved her? Or would he be laughing too?

  Her hand slid along the rope railing as she walked toward the steerage dining room. The ginger tea had only calmed her stomach slightly and she wasn’t looking forward to the strong smells of Pascal’s cooking. Behind her, she heard the heavy footsteps of Simone and the other girls.

  “I don’t know why Old Tremblay chose her to work in first anyway.” Simone’s vicious whisper rang out in the corridor. “It looks like someone spit a wad of tobacco on her face!”

  Julie was struck by the harshness of her words but pretended not to notice the chorus of giggles behind her. She tried to take comfort in the fact that, although she had a flaw, Nikolai thought she was beautiful. Simone, with her lank hair and pimples, would never be able to arouse such passion in a man.

  Vera’s sad sigh was interrupted by a knock.

  “Madame Sinclair! It is I, Dr. Chabron,” he called through the door.

  Wishing Amandine was there to open the door, she crawled out of bed, put on her tartan robe and slippers, and let the doctor in.

  “Good morning, Doctor,” she said, trying to give off some semblance of dignity in her nightclothes, to stand tall despite her shaky frame and the stormy seas. Vera had been especially mindful of the physical illusion of honor and respect since her ousting in the dining room.

  “Please, get back in bed, lie down,” the doctor urged her. “I assumed your maid would be with you when I came.”

  “Perhaps we should get her up. Would you mind knocking on that door?” Vera asked. “She should be in here shortly. Now, how may I help you?”

  He took a seat on the edge of the bed. “I came to see if you were feeling any better. Tell me, how are you this morning?”

  “Much like the day, I’m afraid.” She motioned toward the window with her chin. “Chilly, gray, and a bit rocky.”

  He bent over to touch her forehead. “You’re very warm. Let me check your temperature.” He put the thermometer in her mouth and prepared a new compress. “Did you sleep well?”

  The thermometer bobbed up and down as Vera nodded.

  Waiting for Vera’s temperature to take, the doctor walked to the window and peered out. The rain was pelting down, the rough seas below were impossible to make out.

  “I haven’t seen a storm like this in years,” he said. “From my cabin, it feels as if the bow were diving headfirst into the sea, all the way to the top decks, only to burst back up for air, breathless.”

  Vera smiled awkwardly around the thermometer, prompting him to take it out.

  “One day, perhaps I’ll tell you what it was like to travel on the old paddleboat steamers. Positively gut-wrenching! But, I’ll wait for fair skies.”

  He smiled back at his patient, then turned his attentions to the thermometer. “Thirty-nine point five degrees.” He frowned, then began rummaging through his case.

  He didn’t translate her temperature into Fahrenheit this time, but Vera, after all her years in France, knew how high that was. About 103 degrees.

  “I’m going to give you some aspirin to reduce your fever, Madame Sinclair,” he said, stirring the powder into a glass of water. “Now, did you drink fluids yesterday?”

  “Yes, yes. Juice, consommé, water—I felt like an extension of the sea.” Vera drank the cloudy mixture, then closed her eyes briefly. “You know, Doctor, I do still have my teeth,” she joked.

  She liked this doctor, his handsome, attentive face, his charming manner.

  “Yes, of course.” He smiled back at her, brushing aside a long strand of white hair from her brow to apply a fresh compress. “Eat whatever appeals to you.”

  Vera went quiet as Dr. Chabron packed his things into his leather bag. He was turning to her, ready to say good-bye, when she motioned him to sit back down.

  “Doctor,” she began, “I’ve been thinking about elephants. Why do you suppose they leave their herds to die?”

  Serge Chabron seemed confused. “I don’t know,” he answered.

  “Do you think it’s like the old Eskimo who fears he will be a burden to his tribe?”

  “Please don’t tell me you think you’re a burden?” he said gently.

  Ignoring his question, she continued her own inquiry.

  “Let me ask you this, Doctor. Would you say that you are guided by instinct?”

  “Well.” Dr. Chabron cleared his throat. “As a physician, I’d like to think of myself as a man of science. Logical, practical. Ruled by the head, you might say, instead of the heart.”

  “Ah, yes, I’ve known people like that,” she said, briefly reminded of her grandmother.

  “Madame Sinclair, with all due respect,” he said, “what exactly are you getting at?”

  “I’ve been questioning my decision to return home,” Vera answered. “Booking passage to New York was certainly an irrational act. One of a blundering elephant.” She sighed. “Although I grew up in Manhattan, now, with its skyscrapers and fleets of motorcars, I believe it’s a city for the young, the quick. I feel more at home in Paris. We are both museum pieces, relics, war survivors. I think, after all, I should like to die in Paris.”

  “It would be lovely,” he said, taking hold of her hand, “if we could make those choices: when, where, how we die.” He gave her an affectionate smile. “Perhaps I should like to die on a luxurious ocean liner in the middle of a bright blue sea!”

  She smiled back at him, then shrugged.

  “You know,” she said, looking him straight in the eye, “I am not afraid of dying, but I do have some regrets. At the moment, my greatest sorrow is that I will never have a grandchild.”

  “You can’t know that!” he said, a flicker of a smile on his lips. “Tell me, how many children do you have?”

  “Why, none at all.”

  Dr. Chabron stared blankly at Vera for a moment or two, then rose from the bed.

  “I’m afraid now I truly must go. There’s an infestation of lice down in steerage. And after all the examinations we do before casting off!” He shook his head, exasperated. “I’ll come round again this evening to check on you. But, do stay in bed today.” He got to his feet with a slight stumble and looked out toward the storm. “Not that you would want to go anywhere else.”

  Alone again, Vera stroked Bibi’s warm side, waiting for Amandine to appear. As she breathed in harmony with the rise and fall of the sea, her eyes fell again on the broken portrait, the face she used to have. She could hear the voice of Laszlo Richter whispering in her ear.

  “You make me so happy, Vera. Without you, my heart should break.”

  After a few minutes, listening to him with her eyes shut, she reached for her notepaper. “Mrs. Emma Richter,” she wrote on the envelope. When she had finished writing the invitation to high tea in her suite at five o’clock, she found herself at quite a loss as to how to sign it.

  Julie was standing on the side of the third-class common room, holding on to the ropes strung along the wall, handy in bad weather. Luckily, almost everything down here was riveted down, from the tables to the armchairs. Around her, she could hear the moans and curses of a mass of unhappy people: those frantically scratching themselves and others, t
hrown into chairs, wretched with seasickness. She noticed the Italian twins who liked singing duets, picking through each other’s hair with a fine comb, in no mood for song; a legless man in a wheelchair was tied to an iron ring so as not to roll uncontrollably. He had somehow procured his own bucket.

  Julie, feeling as peaked as any passenger, couldn’t muster up much pity for them. Instead, she was overwhelmed with her own problems: Simone, seasickness, work, and above all, Nikolai. The morning was almost over and she’d had no word from him.

  She pulled the necklace out of her collar and stroked the pendant nervously. What had happened to him? Was he having to work extra because of the storm? Or was he too feeling sick? Could he be in trouble? Had the chief engineer found the boys’ hidden mattress? Had there been a serious accident down below? Or—far worse than any of these—had he simply forgotten his promise to come see her? Was he too busy playing cards with his friends, chuckling over the details of his conquest?

  Suddenly, there was a tap on her arm; Julie’s head shot up, a delighted smile nearly forming.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” It was the ship’s doctor, who recognized her from their prior meetings. “So, tell me, how are things down here?”

  “As you can see,” Julie replied, visibly disappointed, “the storm has made almost everyone down here ill. And some passengers, it seems, prefer vomiting into the sea. Several of them are out on the mooring deck now! You’d think they’d be terrified out in this storm, but perhaps the rain feels good on their faces?” Julie shrugged tiredly.

  “I suppose I should tell them to come in. We can’t risk any accidents! Though I certainly don’t fancy going out there myself.” Dr. Chabron looked put out by the idea.

  “Now, on top of everything else, there’s been an outbreak of lice. It seems Madame Blaye has had them all along.” Julie pointed to an elderly woman sitting calmly in the corner. “She’s lost some of her faculties—she can’t taste or smell anymore—and doesn’t seem to have any feeling left in her scalp. She was covered with them and didn’t even know. And now—you know how close the quarters are down here—half of steerage is infested!”

  “I wonder how she passed inspection?” the doctor asked, more to himself than to her. “Has anything been done to treat them?”

  “The cooks doled out vinegar for people to wash their heads in the sinks. They say it kills the lice, but the bathrooms reek of it! It’s just horrible . . .” Julie’s voice trailed off and she looked on the verge of gagging.

  “And you, miss, you are very pale. Really, you should be lying down,” he said, looking around the room for a vacant chair and finding none. “You’re in no shape to be working.”

  “It’s strange, Doctor. I grew up in the port of Le Havre, on the edge of the sea, but I just can’t get used to being on a ship.” Julie closed her eyes briefly as she exhaled. “But, I must work. The lunch shift is in a few minutes. I suppose one advantage of the storm is we won’t have many passengers coming to meals.”

  After excusing herself to go into the dining room, Julie saw Dr. Chabron set his bag down on the nearest table. A queue immediately formed next to him.

  It was still early for lunch, but Julie had been anxious to leave the common room and the suffering passengers; the smell of seasickness, their heaves and groans, made her even worse. She went down the corridor, hoping to see Nikolai’s familiar swagger, then peeked down the stairwell. It was empty. Eager to avoid Simone, she scooted past the women’s dining room, looking straight ahead, then stopped outside the galley, near tears. Julie felt not only sick but alone and unwanted. She no longer had any friends on board. And Nikolai, after professing his love last night, had not come. Where was he? She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, at a loss, then went into the kitchen.

  She leaned against the large refrigerator door, pressing her body against the cool metal, and greeted Pascal.

  “Still not feeling well, are we?” he asked, looking up at her as he licked something off his finger. “The ginger didn’t work?”

  Julie shook her head.

  The cook, of course, was feeling fine. Julie watched in amazement as he stirred, smelled, and tasted food while keeping his footing—two steps up, three steps back—with the roll of the ship.

  “So, what are we serving up today?”

  “Fish stew,” he said.

  “Fish!” Julie made a face. “On a day like today!”

  “Don’t you know? All morning long they’ve been jumping on board to get out of the storm! I found a few hiding in a soup tureen, as scared and seasick as any green passenger!” Pascal looked at her with mischievous innocence. “Poor things! I didn’t know what else to do with them!”

  Julie almost managed a smile.

  “Pascal,” she began slowly, “do you think, on a day like today, the engine crew might be working especially hard? Say, a greaser? Would a lot of parts need oiling in this weather?”

  Pascal looked at her suspiciously.

  “I don’t know much about these new engines they’ve got nowadays,” he said, pulling his chef’s hat down on his brow. “Coal fires, I understand, mind you! But greasers?” He shrugged. “No idea. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re asking?”

  “I was expecting a friend from the engine crew to pay me a call this morning, that’s all.”

  “Haven’t seen him, eh?” Was that pity in his eyes? “I’m sure there’s a good reason he hasn’t come by. Probably just running a little late is all.”

  “Sure,” she mumbled.

  “Now, stop worrying and go lie down,” he said, shooing her off with a spoon. “You’ve got at least a half hour to rest up before you’re needed here.”

  Like an obedient child, Julie went off to bed.

  Constance, far too anxious to stay in her cabin alone, had joined her former tablemates for luncheon. At her arrival, Mrs. Thomas looked her over carefully.

  “Oh, hello, dear. We missed you yesterday,” she crooned. “You weren’t indisposed, I hope? Or perhaps you enjoyed your meals with your other friends on board?”

  Mildred Thomas gave Constance a look intended to express guileless charm. Constance returned it.

  “I’m feeling much better now, thank you,” she replied.

  “I thought it such a shame when you didn’t come. You looked so nice after our time together in the beauty parlor!”

  Mr. Thomas turned to his wife.

  “Hush!” he hissed. “I can barely hear Mr. Quaeckernaeck!”

  Constance turned toward Mr. Thomas with a polite smile, pleased he had put an end to that conversation, his rudeness working in her favor for once. After the reprimand, Mildred Thomas resumed her code of silence, letting the men dominate the conversation completely.

  Until the food arrived, Constance hadn’t realized just how weak her appetite was. During the soup course, she merely picked at a few crackers. She had stopped listening to her tiresome companions, stopped trying to find pauses to make conversational offerings as one does in polite society. Their talk was so perfectly interwoven, a moment’s silence was rendered impossible; and the men were so engrossed in it, they did not even notice the effect the outer storm was having on the dining room floor.

  She amused herself, then, by watching Mr. Thomas produce little flecks of spit when he got enthusiastic and the Dutchmen turn different shades of red when particularly adamant. She looked over at Captain Fielding. His hairless pink skin reminded her of some of the war victims she’d seen in Paris.

  One day, when Constance was having tea at a sidewalk café and, like today, was bored by company who ignored her, she’d watched a man with similar burns and only half an arm. That man was hanging colorful posters on an advertising pillar. Although his handicap made the work a challenge, he slathered them up like wallpaper, quickly but carefully, making sure to leave no bubbles or folds. He had not been gone five minutes when a herd of dairy goats came through (who would have guessed that livestock would trample through
the capital of France!) and, straightaway, they began to eat those very posters. She remembered being rather shocked at the she-goats’ grotesque anatomy, their engorged udders. With those twin pendulous organs hanging almost to the ground, they did not seem female at all, but rather virile males.

  Constance, suddenly uncomfortable with her own thoughts, looked swiftly around the table to make sure her dining companions were still talking. They were—talking and drinking wine. Storing it for the dry months ahead, she supposed. Only Mrs. Thomas was watching her with that secret little smile.

  “Penny for your thoughts, dear,” she said.

  At that moment, images collided in Constance’s head: Serge Chabron, twin udders, and an advertising pillar. Startled, she breathed in a bit of saliva, then began to cough—great choking hacks—until a Dutchman felt compelled to pat her on the back and pour her some more water.

  “There, there,” he muttered awkwardly as she took a few sips.

  Red in the face, she nodded silently to her tablemates to assure them she was fine. They immediately resumed their conversation and Constance, determined not to chat with Mildred, gave them her full attention. They were discussing the ship’s magnificent engines, which they had visited the day before.

  “The Paris is making about twenty-two knots,” Captain Fielding said. “Can’t compare to the British ship, the old Mauretania, launched back in 1906. It still holds the Blue Riband record for fastest crossing, at twenty-eight knots. With steam turbine propulsion, you know, ’twas truly revolutionary in its day.”

  “Are you betting on the speed here on the Paris?” one of the Dutchmen asked the other men. “Today will certainly be a hard call. Shame there’s not a proper casino on board.”

  “Yes, I love a good game of roulette.” Captain Fielding smiled, his reconstructed skin taut with the effort. He took a casino token out of his pocket. “I won quite a sum at Monte Carlo before the war and always carry this old chip with me. Good luck, and all that.”

  Constance was mildly surprised that Captain Fielding—a stuffy old bore—would carry a good-luck charm. Did he think it actually worked? She supposed he was lucky to have survived the war, but unfortunate enough to have been seriously injured. Did mere survival count as luck?