Crossing on the Paris Page 23

  Thinking about her own life, she wondered whether she would be considered lucky. She was attractive, well mannered, and educated; she could boast three charming daughters and a nice home. And her marriage? Had she been lucky in love? George was certainly reliable, loyal, and usually quite courteous. Her gaze fell on the corner table where the crossword honeymooners dined; defying convention, they were sitting next to each other, holding hands. So like Faith and Michel!

  Now Faith had always been lucky, the world her oyster. Although Constance had always been more refined, more responsible, and more respected in the community, Faith had independence, confidence, happiness. Would she trade with her younger sister? Should she take more chances? Stake her bets on joy? Take drastic risks, trusting the fates, to live a fuller life?

  “May I see your token, Captain Fielding?” she asked suddenly, interrupting the first words of what promised to be one of Mr. Thomas’s lengthy preambles.

  They all stopped talking and looked her way, wondering whether words might prompt another coughing fit. The conversation had already moved on, but the British officer still had the chip in his hand, flipping it through his fingers. He passed it to her, and the discourse—on American poker, from the sound of it—resumed at once.

  Constance examined the chip, a thin, mother-of-pearl oval with “10 Francs” engraved on both sides, wondering whether her luck might possibly change.

  Vera was wrapped in her baby-blue shawl, her feet curled up on the armchair, sweating but cold. She was flipping through her anecdotes and illustrations, thinking of the Richter men, Laszlo and Josef. It seemed each had managed to blame her for his unhappiness. Breezing past her life’s events, she consoled herself with the notion that she, Vera Sinclair, had always taken responsibility for her own failings. Of course, she’d complained, cursed, quarreled, and wished for other realities. But, no, she didn’t think she had ever laid blame elsewhere. And, lord knows, she too had had a lonely childhood, not without its problems.

  Closing her journal, she looked down at her watch. What was taking Amandine?

  Releasing an impatient gust of air, she looked out on the dramatic sea below. How would this storm, she wondered, compare to Robinson Crusoe’s hurricane? That book had been one of Warren’s favorites, but it was far too moralistic for her taste. Poor Robinson got his just recompense for disobeying his father and running off to sea. If Providence truly punished the wicked and corrupt, what a different place this world would be! Indeed. And what might Providence make of her?

  She watched what seemed to be a battle of black clouds above, thinking what an exciting finale a shipwreck would make to her own tale. An unforgettable ending (with or without cannibals or mutineers—or even an island!) to her life story.

  She heard a slight scratch at the door, then Bibi and Amandine entered the cabin.

  “It’s really nasty out there!” Amandine uttered, taking off her hat. The Scotty plopped down next to Vera’s chair.

  “Well? Were you successful?” Vera asked the two.

  “We ran into Mrs. Richter on her way to the hairdresser’s. She was on her own and I was able to deliver the message.” Amandine nodded. “She will bring the boy at five sharp.”

  “Excellent,” Vera said with a weary cough. “Thank you so much.”

  Amandine felt Vera’s brow, frowned, and prepared a fresh compress.

  “Would you like me to order some bouillon?” she asked.

  “That would be lovely,” Vera replied. “And while you’re there, perhaps you should order tea. Now, what does one serve a small boy?”

  “Cocoa and cakes?” proposed the maid.

  “Are we to worry about spoiling his supper?”

  “Spoil him, ma’am.” Amandine looked serious.

  “Always right, aren’t you.” Vera smiled. “Cocoa and cakes it is. And order the richest, gooiest, most extravagant cakes possible.”

  Amandine put her hat back on.

  “Oh, before you leave, would you mind handing me those old marionettes? They’re on the trunk.”

  Peering into the bathroom mirror, Julie checked her hair for lice, searching for sticky white nits around her ears, behind her neck. It was a difficult task to do alone—the other girls were all grooming each other—but she didn’t think she had any; when working in steerage, she always had her hair tucked under a cap. Satisfied, she put the comb down and looked at her face in the mirror. How different was she today from yesterday? In it, she saw one unhappy girl.

  All during the lunch shift, she had kept her eye on the doorway, expecting to see Nikolai. She imagined the gestures he would make from the corridor—the praying hands to beg forgiveness, the thrown kisses, the dramatic clutching of his heart—and knew that he would have a good excuse for visiting her later than planned. But lunch had come and gone and now, on break, she decided to go down to the engine room to see what had become of him.

  She took a few gulps of water from the faucet and rinsed her mouth, spitting several times to rid her mouth of the rancid taste of sick. Nikolai would want to kiss her, wouldn’t he? She shuddered, thinking of the other things he had done to her. Her whole body ached; blood still trickled from the tear between her legs. Biting her lip to keep from crying, she looked back into the mirror. Was looking for him a good idea? Would he want to have another go? Did she need a boyfriend who, when excited, could not hear or feel her?

  “Boyfriend,” she murmured to herself, as if this were a delicacy, a nearly extinct species. She reached up to the birthmark he had playfully licked and turned to go find him.

  Walking past the common room, Julie saw a group of children trying to get the attention of a shy cat standing out in the corridor. Scruffy and stained with grease, it nonetheless fascinated the bored children, trapped under the waterline during the tempest.

  “Come, kitty!” called a small blond girl, trying to entice the animal with a bit of bread she’d pocketed at lunch.

  “Hey! Let’s call him ‘Stormy’!” said a tall, skinny girl next to her. “For today’s weather and also—look!—it has a black spiral on its side! Do you see it?” she asked the other children. “It’s like a whirlpool!”

  “Come here, Stormy, come!” they sang out in chorus.

  However, having no interest in bread and fearful of the children’s affections, the cat quickly disappeared. Julie was wondering how it came to be in steerage, then recalled the mouse she’d seen her first night on board. This cat must have plenty to feed on belowdecks.

  Julie began her slow descent to the engines, holding on to the rails, which were moist from the heat. The hull was creaking with every pitch, the engine pounding. She stepped down onto the floor and groaned; at once, her feet were drenched.

  With little stomach for exploring (not only did she feel terrible, but these dark, howling rooms gave her the jitters), she started out, trying to keep her footing like Pascal, two steps up, three steps back. Nikolai must be down here somewhere.

  As she tramped around the engines, Julie saw at least a dozen other men—all extremely busy and indifferent to her visit—but he was not among them. After a series of turns, she found herself next to the auxiliary engine; she could just see the mattress poking out from behind. Frozen, she stared at the corner of the filthy bedsheet, trailing down to the wet floor. That’s where it happened. Her heart beating wildly (would Nikolai be sleeping there?), she crept around the machine to face the bed.

  It was empty. She breathed out in relief, wiping her clammy hands on her skirt. Although she had to see him, she didn’t want to meet here, ever again. Trembling, she glared down at the crumpled sheet, the place where Nikolai had become an animal. There, alongside the grime and oil stains, she saw his dried, crusty sperm and the paths of her own blood. Feeling again his body crushing her, ripping her, Julie’s knees wobbled and saliva filled her mouth. She closed her eyes and sank down on the mattress; her head fell onto her knees. The machines pounding around her recalled the rhythm of sex. Julie sat motionless, pitched in th
e storm in that timeless, windowless chamber, her mind racing.

  When she was able, Julie opened her eyes. From the vantage point of her lap she spied her bloated panties next to a crate, floating there like a dead fish. So they had not been celebrated that morning, run up the flagpole or worn on some joker’s head. She supposed that, in this weather, the men had been too busy to waste time in their jerry-built rumpus room. She hoisted herself up, lurched over to her underpants, and gave them a violent kick. Her legs were solidly splashed; the panties barely moved. Long since indifferent to the fate of the ridiculous lace ruff, she did not bother looking for it, but turned around and left.

  Back in the women’s lounge, she kept to herself, drying her shoes with yesterday’s newspaper. As afternoon began to wane, she stopped looking toward the door.

  Constance had not been able to finish lunch. Looking down at the open-eyed stare of her fish course, she had begun to feel queasy again. Had the storm managed to get worse? Making a vague excuse, she trotted back to her cabin to lie down. At first she felt better (away from the gaze of her sole—as well as that of Mrs. Thomas), but she soon began imagining all the different life-forms teeming under the seemingly solid ocean surface.

  When Constance was a girl she used to spend hours in the family library poring over a big red book blazoned with the black and gold title Wonders of the Universe. It contained articles on nature and science and was filled with wonderfully rendered engravings, notable for their realism and accuracy: “Extraordinary Fingernails,” “Tattooed Islanders,” “The Cannonball Tree.” From the safety of her father’s big leather armchair, cozy and warm in front of the fire, she was pleasantly horrified by the drawings of repulsive sea creatures.

  Having looked through those pages so many times, she could now envision those images perfectly: the pelican fish with its huge faceless mouth and snaky body, the closest thing to a real sea serpent in the book; the savage sperm whale; the whimsical Portuguese man-of-war, with its long trailing curlicues (odd their touch should be so painful). But the entry which really captured her attention was on giant cuttlefishes. One engraving depicted a massive squid, a huge moving muscle with “suckers like saucepan lids,” attacking a boat; the other showed a dead calamary draped around a wooden stand, its languid limbs covered in tentacles, a thousand bulbous eyes.

  She shivered thinking of these creatures below—not that they could harm an ocean liner—but what if one were pitched overboard? Or what if, like the Lusitania, the ship went down? The humans would be in their world then, she thought ominously, imagining the feel of frozen water on her skin. As a child, when her family had taken a rare outing to the shore, she had found the Atlantic too cold for bathing. If the thin waters washing the sands of Cape Cod were icy, what must the water be like here, fathoms deep?

  Constance poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher and took a long sip, feeling the cold liquid’s passage down her throat and into her near-empty stomach, then she sat in the armchair, trying to remain calm. It was her interest in the natural world, she reminded herself, that had softened her heart toward George. When they were courting, he would confide the world’s secrets in her during a garden stroll. He would casually mention that snails had tiny teeth or that dragonflies could fly in reverse; that lichen, which grew on the northern side of trees, were natural compasses; or that the butterscotch star up there was really Mars. Constance sighed. How was it possible that he had won her affection over a handful of facts? Had she been so very desperate to marry? Or, after Nigel had taken his leave, had she looked upon George Stone as her last chance? Wonders of the Universe, indeed.

  Constance put down her water and picked up The Mysterious Affair at Styles. She’d finished it that morning but was still trying to decide what to write inside for Serge. “From your friend Constance on the Paris launch”? Or was that the dedication of a schoolgirl? “To a fellow devotee of murder and mystery”? Was that too flippant? During their private dinner, she wanted to give him a memento of their time together (Was it really just a few days?) but didn’t know what to say. Was he planning a romantic evening? Or a meal between friends? If she could write her real feelings, she might put “To my impossible love.”

  Lying in bed that morning, humming the Lusitania song (“some of them lost a true sweeeet-heart”), Constance had finally come to the realization that she was falling for Serge Chabron. She recognized the symptoms from when she’d first met Nigel Williams: the tingle in her belly, the ridiculous stuttering, and her thoughts, which, however disperse, always came back to him. Despite her feelings, she knew a lasting relationship with him was unthinkable; she could never leave her children. Constance toyed with the idea of taking the photographs of her family to his cabin this evening, to share with him the reality of her husband and daughters. But then, would he think she’d been deceiving him? Would he be angry?

  To calm her nerves, she brought out her paints. She opened the sketchpad to the fruit pattern she’d started the day before, but after a few strokes of her brush, she wrinkled her nose, dissatisfied. With the shifting of the ship she found herself unable to make clean lines. It looked like a child’s painting anyway.

  She sighed, thinking of Faith’s artist friends back in Paris. Many of them went out of their way to be messy and careless with their work, even those who were truly talented. Michel, for example, had a good eye. He enjoyed sketching portraits of people on café napkins and could usually render a perfect likeness. But when he painted, he actually chose to create odd shapes and use the wrong colors, to make childlike figures that were comical or grotesque.

  What might that be like? To choose to do the wrong thing?

  She thought of her time in Paris, two weeks of tagging along behind Faith and her painter-lover to galleries, cafés, and other small apartments, each as filthy and kaleidoscopic as her sister’s. She stood by watching as Fée did as she pleased, with no obligations to anyone.

  She, Constance, had always been the obedient daughter, the one who respected the wishes of their substandard parents. At twenty, she had married an appropriate match and thus began her responsible, adult life of keeping house, raising children, and worrying. Faith’s happiness made Constance feel its lack—she was incomplete, hollow—but her younger sister’s notion that she deserved joy and freedom infuriated her.

  “Go back to Worcester?” Faith had repeated in an incredulous tone. “Why would I do that? Seriously, Constance, you know it wouldn’t help. No, I’m staying in Paris,” she said, her decision firm. “This is where I belong.”

  Constance’s mission had failed with no discussion; she would return to America by herself to deal with the family crisis on her own. As angry as Constance was with Faith, she couldn’t help but envy her, her obstinate, daring, and carefree conviction. Part of her wished she had the strength to follow her own bent.

  The brush still in her hand, Constance began to paint long, flat strokes over the fruit pattern, again and again, smudging the colors until the whole page was streaked an ugly brown. She ripped out the sheet, crumpled it into a sticky ball, and threw it into the wastepaper basket. One by one, she squeezed the small tubes of paint between her fingers until the colors oozed out and her hands were stained—vermilion, cobalt, ocher—then chucked the empty husks into the bin as well. Painting was not for her.

  “Would you like some hot chocolate?” Vera offered her guests.

  “Just a bit, please,” said Emma Richter.

  Max, far more interested in the toy bank, didn’t look up. Vera had placed it on the writing table before they’d arrived, along with a heaping pile of centimes. He was already at work, feeding the dog coins.

  Vera poured cocoa into cups and Amandine handed them out, cautious, the rocking of the ship tempting her to spill. She then took her place in a straight-backed chair at Vera’s side. The three women were silent a moment as they sipped. Vera brought the cup to her lips, but, feeling hot and sticky herself, couldn’t drink it.

  When the supply of c
entimes was used up, Max reached for a cake; the rough seas had not affected his sweet tooth. He licked cream from the corner of his mouth. “The cakes are yummy, Miss Camilla,” he said, making her wince and smile at the same time.

  Emma gave her son a sidelong glance but didn’t comment on the false name.

  “Yes, Mrs. Sinclair.” She nodded to her hostess. “Thank you for inviting us. It is a delightful distraction on a day like today.”

  “Thank you so much for coming,” she said, walking toward the wardrobe with a slight stumble. “Max, I thought you’d especially like to see these.” She pulled out the two marionettes, the Italian knight and his lady. “My parents gave them to me when I was a child.”

  He came over and touched the knight’s sword.

  “They’re wonderful!” he said.

  “Would you like me to give you a little puppet show?” she asked.

  “Yes, please!” he cried.

  Vera sat on the bed and gave the boy a cushion to sit on the floor in front of her.

  “Now then, let me see,” she started slowly, as if she hadn’t been planning this performance all afternoon. She picked up the puppets, making the mustachioed knight salute, then bow. “This is the Chevalier of Melancholia and this is . . .” She maneuvered the other puppet into a curtsy. “What shall we call her?”

  “Hmm.” Max squinted one eye, thought visible on his brow. “How about Daisy?” he said finally.

  “An excellent choice. And this is Princess Daisy. Once upon a time, Princess Daisy found the chevalier lost in the mountains. ‘I’ll save you!’ she cried.”

  “That’s silly!” Max laughed. “A knight being saved by a princess! It’s the other way around!”

  “But Daisy was a fairy princess with magical powers,” Vera countered. “She saw that someone, long ago, had put the Spell of Sadness on the good chevalier. Here, look at his face, his eyes. You can see for yourself.”