Crossing on the Paris Page 25

  “Let me walk you back to your cabin, miss,” said John. “I’d never forgive myself if you tumbled into the sea.”

  Vera lay in bed, shivering under the blankets. She had abruptly woken from a deep sleep an hour before, immediately aware her temperature had spiked. She idly wondered whether this was the fever Robinson Crusoe called ague, chills that alternate with sweats, making one always yearn for the opposite extreme.

  “Maximilian,” she mumbled. “Maximilian Laszlo.”

  Ever since she’d woken up, she had been thinking about that boy, children in general, her own sterility. About dying with “no issue,” which sounded every bit like the fate of a doomed Roman emperor or an inbred royal. Laszlo had been fortunate in that respect; his elegant mouth and hands would be carried on in that adorable child.

  Vera thought she might have enjoyed motherhood, but, very likely, she would have repeated her parents’ mistakes. Along with their fortune, she had inherited their selfishness. Like them, she would have inevitably left sons and daughters to servants to better enjoy herself (though they would have been spared a grandmother).

  She’d never really regretted not bringing life into this world and the overwhelming responsibility that it implied. But—if she’d only had siblings!—Vera would have dearly loved having nieces and nephews. She imagined being their godmother and choosing their names: Charles Alexis, Percival Campbell, Cassandra Grace. She could have criticized her brother or sister for all their parenting blunders, then, when she was in the mood, spoiled the children with extravagant gifts and outings. When they came of age, she would have taken them for lobster at the Plaza, talked to them about sex, and offered them their first cigarette. They would have adored her in the way one can never love one’s parents.

  Vera imagined how delighted they would have been to discover her memoirs. Truly, these imaginary relations were their only possible recipients. Her cousins’ children were nothing to her (and even worse, she was nothing to them!) and didn’t deserve such wealth. She had considered giving the three tomes to Charles, but knew a proper heir had to be of another generation, not a contemporary. He could not read them with youth’s open-eyed fascination, marveling at days past. And, of course, Laszlo’s grandson was out of the question.

  Absently stroking her pearls, she leafed through the journals, page by page. Here were her earliest memories: B for P. T. Barnum’s Museum of Oddities on Broadway. C for Cornelia, their Negro maid who had walked from Maryland to freedom. Here was Paris in the belle epoque and the writers and artists she’d known: N for Natalie Barney and her Sapphic Circle, S for Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare and Company.

  She picked up another volume, the first of two organized by number, remembering, reliving. Here were raw accounts of her private life: 1 Child Lost; rue Monge, number 5 . . . Her many travels: 28 Days in the Holy Land; 101 Degrees in Athens (in a long skirt, mutton sleeves, and corset); A Dozen Fjords. She thumbed through the pages of the last volume, smiling at the drawings and caricatures, until she came to the Great War: 350 Shells, the blasts on Paris from a railway gun, the constant panic, the fear; 16 Friends Departed, both soldier and civilian, all sacrificed to the war. She kept turning the pages, rereading fragments, until she got to the last, unwritten entry: X Crossings.

  All of these things, from the queer to the conventional, from horror to beauty, from delight to sorrow: this was her life. Nothing to regret or lament. No one to blame. She had made choices and embraced chance, and this was who she was. Now, what to do with this heirless treasure? She looked again at the pirate map, wondering exactly what spot the X was marking.

  Vera took off her glasses and pressed her fingers against the moist skin beneath her eyes, blotting away the beads of sweat. Suddenly, she heard the disconsolate cries of a newborn. Crisp, short, urgent blasts. Odd, she thought, this was the first time she’d heard a baby on this crossing. At first she thought it must be something else—some kind of machinery?—but no, that wail was unmistakable. Her Parisian neighbor had had eight children and Vera knew perfectly well what an unhappy newborn sounded like.

  This child was clearly in agony or in great need of being fed or changed. Vera was tempted to rise, to go and see to it herself; it sounded like it was right outside her door. But, there must be someone—a mother, a nanny—trying to soothe the babe, to quiet it.

  Ignoring the sounds, it occurred to Vera that these diaries—with battered covers, fading ink, and pages well-worn from constant perusal; authored not by a famous explorer or a well-known statesman but by a little old lady with a secondhand fountain pen—might not be such a fortune after all. Perhaps an outsider, without the benefit of the original memories, would not find them as rich and powerful as she.

  Putting the three books side by side on her bed, Vera had to admit that these tales, written years after the events, were not always fair. Many things were deliberately left untold, giving her story a warped perspective. Some close friends were left out, her family rarely mentioned, yet at times virtual strangers received meticulous descriptions. And then, there was Laszlo.

  Two days before, he had been a rather insignificant detail in her memoirs, an anecdote. In her telling, he was not a life-altering person, an indispensable event. And yet, ever since she’d met his son and learned the news of his death, Laszlo Richter had been haunting her like a ghost. The importance of their brief time together (and moreover, what their relationship could have been) had been playing constantly in her mind.

  Her eyes darted to the door; the newborn’s cries continued. She blew out a long gust of air. Dependent and frail, with poor eyesight and a toddling gait, this past year Vera had sometimes felt like a baby herself.

  Vera knew she was in denial about her illness, her approaching death. For months now she had been fleeing from it in these journals, returning to her past, trying to remain safe in her youth, her prime. Now Vera wondered whether she had also been in denial about her life. Was she going to spend the rest of her days rereading half-truths about her former self, the spirited though self-centered person who predated her illness? Tales that evoked her best qualities while downplaying her faults, prose that was written, therefore, with an audience—a sympathetic reader—in mind? Vera would have never guessed that she herself would become that reader.

  Pathetic, she thought, shaking her head. Truly, was this way of dying any better than her grandmother’s? During her final years, Camilla Wright Sinclair had gradually let go of her past to live exclusively in the present. Each moment was her first, every experience unique and new.

  She looked over at Amandine, who was sitting by the window, watching the furious sky, stroking Bibi’s silken ear with one hand.

  “Have you ever heard such a baby?” Vera exclaimed, suddenly cross. She was agitated, mostly by her somber thoughts, but preferred to find fault with the infant and its incessant wailing. “It’s been crying now for a full half hour!”

  Amandine looked at her in surprise. “I don’t hear anything, ma’am.”

  After an hour of cocktails and pleasantries with the gentlemen from New York, Constance had felt more relaxed about her upcoming dinner in Serge’s quarters; she was ready to chat and laugh with him as she had with John Crenshaw and the others. However, as she dressed—changing her stockings, buttoning her chemise, buckling up her fine black heels—she began to grow nervous. Did this French doctor truly fancy her? Was he sincere? If he took her in his arms, would she be able to resist? Should she tell him about her family straightaway? Ask about his?

  At half-past eight, Constance heard a series of jaunty taps on the door. She hesitated, wondering again whether she should go. Checking herself in the mirror, she gave herself a comical little frown, which in turn made her smile. She’d been overreacting. After a quick dinner, Serge would escort her to the magnificent ballroom, where she would take part in one of high society’s most fashionable galas. Certainly, that was nothing to worry about! She crammed the detective novel into her beaded handbag, smoothed out her dres
s, and opened the door.

  “I’m terribly sorry I’m late, Constance,” Serge said, presenting her with a handsome bouquet of tulips and a sheepish grin; he was still in his work clothes. “But the infirmary was so crowded today. It seemed for every patient I treated, four more would walk through the door!”

  Constance took the tulips with a trembling hand. Now that he was there, next to her, she could no longer pretend he was just a pleasant companion, like those men in the bar. She peeked up at him with a slight blush.

  “Thank you, Serge,” she murmured, shifting the flowers from one hand to the other. “They’re beautiful.”

  “You don’t have a vase, do you?” he said, looking around. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Here, I’ll just prop them in the washbasin for now.”

  His hand grazed hers as he took the flowers; she swallowed hard.

  “Shall we?” he asked, turning toward her with an extended arm.

  They walked down a long corridor to the front of the ship, where the doctor’s quarters were found. The halls were empty; most people were already in the dining room or tucked away in their cabins, indisposed.

  “I’m afraid the gala tonight will be nearly ruined by the rain and rough seas,” Serge told her. “Many people are feeling ill, which will make for a thin crowd. But also, when the weather is fine, they put fairy lights or Chinese lanterns out on the deck and the orchestra plays until dawn.”

  “It really is too bad about the weather,” she replied, wishing for wit; at his side, it was so difficult to find words.

  Passing under an arcade, she realized that he’d mentioned dancing in the moonlight twice now; she could only assume that he’d waltzed until the wee hours with other female passengers over the years. Again, Constance wondered whether he had special feelings for her.

  “Here we are!” Serge opened the door to his chambers.

  They walked into a small sitting room, equipped with built-in shelves, a desk, a table, a plump armchair, and a two-person settee. The window was larger than the one in her room, a simple porthole, but tonight there was no view.

  “Since this is the Paris’s first time out, it’s not quite home yet”—he shrugged—“but it’s comfortable enough. Please, take a seat. As you can see, I didn’t have time to dress for dinner—I was running so late—but I won’t be a moment.” He bowed slightly and retired to the adjoining room.

  Constance set her purse on the table but did not sit down. Rather, she studied his quarters, curious to learn more about him. She looked at his desktop. It was covered with thick glass, and he had slid some postcards underneath: Niagara Falls, Edinburgh, Mont Blanc. She noted his slanted handwriting on a neat pile of official-looking papers, organized in a fixed tray next to an elegant marble inkwell and pen stand. It was all screwed down to the wood. Indeed, the sea was much more noticeable here near the bow. She looked at the books on the shelves; among the French medical tomes, there were several works of fiction: alongside A. Conan Doyle, she found Poe, Balzac, Zola, and a recent edition of Le Fantôme de l’Opéra. Her finger trailed along the bindings. Serge Chabron was obviously a man of refined tastes, worldly, well educated, tidy.

  She caught sight of a photograph poking out of the phantom book, as if it was being used as a bookmark. With a guilty glance at his bedroom door, she pulled the book from the shelf and opened it, hoping to find a picture of a boyish Serge. Would he be surrounded by a large French family, or perhaps in his military uniform?

  Instead she saw a photograph of three small children. Constance examined them closely, their bright eyes and impish smiles, and guessed their ages to be similar to her own children. Were they his? She thought she could detect a family resemblance. With a sigh, she stuck the photo back in the book and dropped onto the settee. If she continued looking, she could probably find a portrait of a wife as well.

  She’d suspected that Serge was not a bachelor—he was too handsome, too desirable to have gone unnoticed—but had never wanted to broach the topic. Silence speaks volumes, as they say, and he too had chosen to ignore his family. When Serge had arrived at her cabin door, brimming with charm and tulips, she had wanted to forget George and the girls, to pretend she was an unmarried woman, available for romance. However, after seeing the three children in the photograph—not unlike her own precious daughters—she didn’t think she could. Should she leave?

  Serge came back into the room, in his evening suit, his mustache snappy, his smile dashing.

  “The waiters should be here any moment now,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. “I told them to come around nine.”

  As he sat down on the settee next to Constance, she could smell a mixture of lavender soap and freshly applied cologne.

  “With all the rush, I haven’t told you how beautiful you look tonight.” He reached for her hand and gave it a kiss. “I took the liberty of ordering champagne. I hope you like it?”

  Constance nodded politely, but, even more skittish now, she didn’t trust her voice. She sighed in relief when their privacy was interrupted by a knock, followed by two waiters pushing a cart covered with a long, white tablecloth.

  They put the brake on the cart, and one brought out champagne flutes while the other pulled out a bottle and popped the cork. Watching them set the table for two (was it her imagination, or were they giving each other knowing looks?), Constance made the decision that, indeed, this would be a dinner between friends. Nothing more. She heard the doctor excuse them (“I’ll serve, boys!”), and with a prompt bow, they left the room. Her mind made up, Constance already felt more at ease.

  “À votre santé! To your health!” He raised his glass up at her.

  “Cheers!” she returned, and took a sip. The bubbles, cold and airy, seemed to clear her head even more. In a moment, she found her glass empty.

  “Ah!” He cocked his eyebrow with a grin. “You do like champagne!”

  Serge raised a silvery dome to expose a dozen raw oysters on a bed of lettuce. He picked one up and squeezed lemon on it (did it shrink and quiver?) and handed it to her.

  “I’m sure there is a variety of cumbersome cutlery—tongs and so forth—one could use to eat these. But truly, the best way is with one’s hands. Go ahead, now—give it a try!”

  He watched her in amused expectation as she brought the shell to her mouth and sucked the oyster inside. It sat on her tongue, an unpleasant blob, until finally, with a sip of champagne, she took it like a large pill.

  “As bad as all that?” Serge laughed at her expression, then quickly ate two or three. Wiping his hands on his napkin, he looked back up at Constance. “Tell me, what have you been doing today? What adventures have you had?”

  Looking into his expectant face, she decided against telling him about her newly made friendships from the bar. She feared he would misunderstand (as if she routinely drank gin with a handful of men!) and think less of her.

  “Oh, just braving the storm, like everyone else. Reading, mostly,” she said. “Which reminds me, I have something for you.”

  She extracted the novel from her smallish bag, then placed it in his hand.

  “I finished it today and wanted you to have it,” she said, returning his smile. “As a souvenir of our friendship.” This last word she said with resolve.

  “Thank you, Constance.” He immediately opened it to the front page, but found she hadn’t written anything in it. “Could you dedicate it, please?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Though my hand may not be too steady in this weather.”

  With the dip pen from his desk, she quickly scrawled, “Your friend, Constance Stone.”

  He read it with mild disappointment, then lit a Gauloise and thanked her again.

  “This will prove invaluable on the voyage back to France. I have no doubt that I will enjoy reading this feminine mystery—indeed, women have always seemed rather mysterious to me!” he said with a light chuckle, then took a puff of his cigarette. “But, I must say, I like even more the idea that you had rea
d it before me. That you had this very book in your hands,” he added, already nostalgic. “How I shall miss your company.”

  “I’ve enjoyed spending time with you too, Serge,” she said quietly, catching her breath. She stared at his hand as he refilled her champagne glass; she didn’t trust herself to look at his face.

  “Some journeys are far too short,” he declared. “Did I tell you that, before the war, I was on the West Indies line? I loved traveling to the tropics in my white uniform on a white ocean liner, putting into port in Trinidad, the Antilles, Venezuela . . . Ah, Constance, how I wish that you and I were on our way to Trinidad right now!” He gently caught her chin in his hand, to make her face him, to look into her eyes.

  “It does sound wonderful,” she murmured, then remembered herself. “Um, shouldn’t we eat a little something before the gala?”

  “How right you are!” he said, pulling off other shiny domes, and began preparing plates: cold sliced ham, deviled eggs, white asparagus.

  He gazed over at her again, then dropped the dish on the table, shaking his head.

  “Constance, around you, I can hardly think of food,” he said, sliding next to her, letting their legs touch. “Just looking at you . . . Did you know your features are perfect?” he whispered, stroking her cheek. “Absolutely perfect.”

  “Serge,” she began nervously, but he brought his fingertips to her lips, delicately closing her mouth.

  “I don’t want our arrival in New York to end this,” he said. “But tonight, our last night together on the Paris . . .”

  His hand found the nape of her neck and brought her to him. As his fingers wove into her hair, he nuzzled her ear, then found her lips. He kissed her with playfulness and passion, gentleness and force. A warm electric current went through her, relaxing her while putting her on edge; her body throbbed: her breasts, her thighs, her belly. Although she wanted him to continue, she backed away, breathless but determined.

  “Serge,” she repeated, a half-hearted reproach.