Crossing on the Paris Page 27

  “It’s nice to be out of black,” Julie said.

  Vera handed Julie a thin shawl.

  “Wrap yourself up in this. Silly me,” she said, teasing herself, “I’ve thrown my good cashmere into the ocean! Now”—she turned back to Constance—“you were just about to tell me about your trip. Are you traveling alone as well, dear?”

  Constance, who had decided to reveal nothing about her family on this voyage, suddenly found herself stammering through the truth of it.

  “It’s my mother, you see. She’s always been . . . quite fragile. This year, at Christmastime, she just fell apart.” Constance bit her lip and glanced at them both, who were quietly nodding in understanding. “She’s stopped speaking, washing.” Constance paused to gather her breath. “My father—he’s at his wits’ end—he sent me to Paris to retrieve my younger sister.”

  “Your sister lives in Paris?” Julie asked.

  “She’s been there about a year,” Constance said. “She was traveling in Europe last summer and . . . stayed. In spite of my parents’ wishes, of course.”

  “But your sister isn’t coming home with you,” Vera said.

  “No, she refused.” Constance frowned bitterly. “She only thinks about herself. She’s just too happy in Paris—with her French beau and artist friends—to bother with her family. Just thinking about it makes me so angry!”

  “I am sure it’s been unsettling for all of you,” Vera agreed. “Perhaps it has even caused a stir in your town.” Constance nodded grimly in reply. “But, tell me, what was your sister to do when she arrived home?”

  “Help with the family burden!” she cried.

  Constance looked from one woman’s face to the other, hoping to see support and encouragement; instead, she found confusion.

  “The truth is”—Constance spoke to the floor, batting back tears—“there’s nothing we can do. My mother needs special care. In an institution. My sister couldn’t have changed that.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Julie whispered.

  “Every family is so complex,” Vera said with a sigh. “And so difficult to understand! As for your sister, I find it’s not always easy to persuade yourself to do the right thing.”

  “True,” Constance said softly, remembering the feel of the doctor’s tickly mustache on her neck not an hour before.

  “I lived in Paris for a long time myself,” Vera said. “And I rarely returned home. Living in France is more than beauty, history, baguettes . . . It’s a question of freedom. A woman, an American woman at least,” Vera added, with a deferential nod to Julie, “feels free there. To reinvent herself and do what truly pleases her.” Vera gave the younger woman a sad smile. “The seduction of it! I’m sure that it was not her French beau; your sister has been seduced by freedom.”

  Constance opened her mouth, uncertain of what to say. It was true that Faith’s current life—her friends, her fashions, her creative endeavors—would be impossible in Worcester.

  At that moment, Amandine rapped on the door, then let herself in. She was followed by a waiter, who set the tea service and cake on the writing table.

  “If there will be nothing else,” the waiter said tiredly, then headed out the door; the old servant excused herself as well.

  “Good night, dear Amandine.” Vera smiled at her warmly. “You have been indispensable tonight, as always.”

  After pouring the tea, Vera raised her cup to her guests.

  “Pleased to finally make your acquaintance, ladies,” she said, nodding to each of them. “Although my memory has become quite frail, I know I’ve seen you both on this crossing—and more than once! I am Vera Sinclair.”

  “Pleased to meet you too. I’m Constance Stone,” Constance said, marveling at the fact that they were, indeed, still strangers.

  “And my name’s Julie Vernet.” At this point—sitting in the old woman’s room, wearing one of her dresses, and with her eyes redrimmed from crying in her arms—introductions seemed almost superfluous.

  “A pleasure,” Vera stated, with a firm nod. “I could not have hoped for a more interesting pair of companions for the final night of my final crossing.”

  “The final one?” Constance asked. “And why’s that?”

  “After many years abroad, I am returning home to New York,” Vera said. “I don’t know why exactly . . . but there I will stay. I shan’t be crossing the Atlantic again.”

  “Here’s to crossing together on the Paris, then!” Constance smiled, clinking her teacup with the other two.

  “Tell me now, where did our paths first cross?” Vera asked.

  “At the infirmary,” Julie answered at once.

  “On the first day out,” Constance added.

  “And, just last night,” Vera said to Constance, “didn’t I see you on your way to the dining room with the doctor?”

  “That’s right. He invited me to have dinner at the captain’s table,” Constance said shyly. She looked at the other two, sipping their tea, listening to her, unsurprised. “It was marvelous.”

  “He is a very charming man,” Vera stated with a connoisseur’s appreciation.

  “And such a gentleman too,” Julie added, comparing him in her mind to Nikolai.

  “Yes . . . well, I don’t know,” Constance said sadly, “he seems perfect, doesn’t he? I have been thinking of little else these past few days.” She paused to take a deep breath. “I was coming from his rooms when I saw you on deck. We’d been having dinner together. But, it was becoming far too . . . romantic.”

  “Nothing wrong with that!” Vera proclaimed with a chuckle.

  Constance took Faith’s enamel ring off her finger and held up her hand. The wedding band now seemed wire thin, her hand large and plain.

  “I’m married,” she said, “and I think he may be too.”

  She looked into the two women’s faces, awaiting judgment. Many of the people she knew (Mrs. Thomas would make a fine example) seemed to delight in the faults of others, working under the misguided notion that another person’s failings raised them to greater heights. However, shock and condemnation were notably lacking here.

  “I see,” Vera said slowly. “And do you love your husband?”

  “I don’t know,” Constance said, stuffing the ring into her handbag; she would not be wearing it again. “Despite his shortcomings—and who doesn’t have a few?—he’s a good man. A good provider . . .” Her voice trailed off as she shrugged uneasily.

  “When I was younger,” Vera said, peeking up at her portrait, “I met a man named Laszlo Richter. We were falling in love when he told me about his family, a wife and son. Wanting to do what was proper, I called it off straightaway. But I’ve been thinking about it these last few days. I’m no longer so sure it was the right decision.”

  “Why not?” Constance asked, her eyebrows high.

  “He’d not been back with his family six months when he killed himself,” Vera said matter-of-factly. Too harsh, the words hung in the air for a moment or two. “I’ve just found out about it.” She paused again, her expression cross, yet stupefied. “I’ve met his son on this ship—he was sitting next to me at dinner!—and naturally, he blames me for everything. I’ve been wondering if we all would have been happier if I hadn’t done the right thing.”

  “It’s possible,” Constance said, nodding at Vera. “But I have children, you see. Three daughters. I could never leave them. They are part of me. The best part,” Constance said softly, her eyes moist. “And, although I think the world of Serge Chabron, I don’t even know if he’s available. Or if his attentions are honest and true.”

  “Leaving your family would be a tremendous gamble,” Julie said with a sad frankness. “Who could say what would happen in the future? I mean, you might think someone loves you, when in the end, he just wants to use you.”

  Vera looked over at the young woman, surprised by the cynicism in her voice.

  “What happened, Julie?” she asked. “The last time I saw you, you were smiling in a man
’s arms, whirling around the deck.”

  “He said he loved me,” Julie said, swallowing hard, “but it was all just a lie. I was so stupid!”

  “No,” they both murmured.

  “Yes!” she returned. “I’d never had a boyfriend before. Back home, nobody had ever shown any interest in me.” Julie’s finger trickled over her lip to her birthmark, then pressed it down hard, as if to erase it. “He made me feel special, beautiful even.” She shook her head, embarrassed. “I thought we were in love! I know it sounds crazy, we only met a few days ago.”

  Constance gave her a sympathetic nod, struck by the similarity of their experiences. On this voyage, they had both met men, become infatuated, and fallen into their arms.

  “I would have never,” she stammered, her face melding into complicated creases as she tried not to start crying again. “I told him no . . . I’d never even kissed a boy before!”

  “He took advantage of you?” Vera asked. Recalling the Colossus this tiny girl had been dancing with, she winced.

  “I said no, but he didn’t listen. He forced me,” she said, breathing heavily, then taking a sip of tea to choke down her sobs. She was tempted to show them the bruises on her arms, but they didn’t seem to need convincing. “And this morning, he’d already forgotten about me. And tonight he was with another girl!”

  “Oh my God,” Constance whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Her voice was calm but she was inwardly horrified. She and Julie did not have so much in common after all; Serge had given her not only flowers and champagne, but a choice. Yes, she had been given a choice.

  Vera stroked the young woman’s coppery hair.

  “And what now? No man will want me!” Julie covered her face with her hands and let the tears come; her mind rang with the names the neighbor ladies called Chantal: tart, slut, pig, whore. “No one!”

  “That is not true,” Vera said defiantly. “That is what they would have you believe—that all hope is lost with one’s virginity—but it’s simply not true. Many women approach their wedding night having already had that experience. I confess, that was my case. It did not make me unmarriable. In fact, no one was any the wiser.”

  She handed Julie a handkerchief; she wiped her eyes, already calmer.

  “Life’s rules are not so strict,” Vera said. “Anything’s possible.”

  “I’m sure you’ll meet someone, Julie. You’re a little less innocent now, that’s all. Next time around, you won’t be fooled. And you won’t settle for just anybody,” Constance added, twisting her wedding band around on her finger.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Julie said with a sniffle. “He was certainly no great catch. A Russian greaser with tattoos and dirty hands!” She spit the words out in anger, but when she saw the other two smile, she shook her head with a little snicker. “My brothers would have never let him in the door.”

  Purged of their secrets, the three women felt lighter but exhausted. Constance took the towel from around her shoulders, folded it, and set it on the floor. Perhaps there was something to Dr. Freud’s “talking cure” after all.

  “I really should go back to my cabin and get into dry clothes,” Constance said. She realized that, in her hair, she could still detect the faint odors of Serge’s cologne and black tobacco. “Or, better yet, take a hot bath.”

  “And you, Julie?” Vera asked. “Would you like to spend the night here in my cabin? You’re welcome to the bed. I never sleep anymore.”

  “Thank you, Madame Sinclair, but I don’t think that’s necessary,” said Julie. “I’m ready to face steerage again.”

  “Are you sure?” Vera asked.

  “I don’t want anyone to think I’m hiding,” she said, “or that I have something to be ashamed of.”

  “Bon courage,” Vera whispered.

  “Shall we meet for an early lunch tomorrow?” Constance asked her companions. “Say, around eleven?”

  “That sounds lovely,” Vera said. “Let’s meet here. Then, if it’s a nice day, we can watch for the New York islands from the top decks.”

  “Great!” said Julie, completely forgetting that she worked aboard the Paris. “I’ll return your clothes then.”

  Julie gave each woman four kisses on her cheeks, then turned to go.

  “Au revoir!” She waved from the door. “And thank you.”

  Julie pulled the shawl around her, then plunged back down to the women’s dormitory, at the bow of the ship, under the waterline.

  At the doorway, Vera caught Constance’s arm with just a trace of hesitation.

  “Constance, before you go, I’d like to ask you to do something,” Vera said, her eyes serious. “Talk to the doctor again before you leave ship.”

  Constance opened her mouth, then quickly closed it. She was unused to maternal advice.

  “To avoid regrets,” Vera explained. “You need to have a proper good-bye. If not, someday in the future, you may find yourself wondering what might have been.”

  Constance nodded at Vera, but didn’t know whether she would be able to go through with it. She was mortified at her own behavior and no longer trusted his; she had rather been planning on hiding from him.

  “Here, I’d like to give you something,” Vera added. “It might help.”

  She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a fountain pen, a brown and pearl instrument that was far from new.

  “I couldn’t bear to throw it into the sea. I’m too sentimental, I suppose. Everything I wrote came out of that pen, you see. And now that I no longer have journals, I don’t need it.” Vera smiled at Constance. “You may find that writing is a good way of dealing with your emotions, of safeguarding your dreams.”

  “Thank you so much,” Constance said, blushing slightly. “It’s a beautiful pen.”

  “It was left to me by a stranger, so perhaps it’s fitting that a stranger should give it to you.”

  “You’re no stranger, Vera Sinclair,” Constance said, giving her worn cheek a kiss. “But I don’t know what I might write.”

  “I tried to write the story of my life,” Vera said, her voice weary now. “But found truth to be extremely elusive. Well, good night, dear.”

  “See you in the morning,” Constance said. “Sleep well.”

  The instant she walked into her room, Constance spied the tulips. She untied the ribbon around the bouquet, recalling each detail of her short-lived affair with Dr. Serge Chabron. His examinations in the infirmary, his gifts of fruit and flowers, the dinners and dancing, his accented compliments, the kisses and caresses. Constance examined the red, feathery flame in each tulip. George had told her once that those beautiful flames were, in fact, caused by a virus.

  Feeling very foolish (what had come over her?), she wondered whether this was his secret formula. Did Serge always impress his pretty female passengers with a fruit basket first, followed by dinner with the captain, then invite them for a champagne supper in his quarters? Instead of betting on the vessel’s cruising speed like the other men on board, she reckoned the crew bet on the doctor’s swiftness! Perhaps those postcards (Niagara Falls, Mont Blanc) were keepsakes from former passengers, regretful notes about relationships that could not be.

  “ ‘The Singular Affair of the Ship Surgeon,’ ” she said out loud in a theatrical tone, making fun of herself.

  Why? She shook her head crossly. Why does a restless, unhappy woman always imagine that thrill and adventure come in the shape of a man? After she’d left Serge’s rooms and flattery, she’d then had a most fascinating encounter with two women: an alarming moment on a storm-tossed deck that somehow grew into an honest, heartfelt conversation in a beautiful suite. How easy it was to talk with Julie and Vera, both understanding and warm, despite their suffering.

  Julie was right: love was a gamble. Serge had said that he didn’t want their relationship to end with their arrival in New York, but how long might it have lasted? Another crossing or two? Wait, what was she thinking! She tossed the tulip back into th
e basin. Dr. Serge Chabron was beside the point! She was unavailable! It didn’t matter whether he was a sincere bachelor in love or a rakish married man who had a fling on every crossing. She was never going to leave her family. George—the only father her children would ever have—would always be her safest bet.

  Her eyes welling with tears, Constance opened the porthole and began throwing the tulips, one by one, into the Atlantic. She was not cut out for adventure; she did not need foreign freedoms. Constance was the steadfast daughter. Her place was in her hometown, near her parents, with George and the girls. She brought the last tulip to her nose and smelled it—it let off a vaguely unpleasant odor of waxy pollen—then flung it out into the sea.

  The porthole still open, a cold, salty wind in her face, she considered throwing the enamel ring out as well. Constance imagined all the things thrown from these liners, all the rejected treasure slowly falling, drifting past white whales and giant squid, down to the murk below. She decided to keep the ring, a gift from Faith and a souvenir of folly.

  She closed the porthole and only then began taking off her damp clothes.

  For hours, Vera looked out the dark window, brushing her hair. At first she saw only her ghostly reflection; then, by shifting to the side, she was able to watch as the great storm finally expired, as the ocean became calm.

  “Perhaps Neptune was appeased by my sacrifice,” she said to herself, delighting in the irony that the apparent heirs to her journals had surfaced only at the moment she cast them into the sea. No matter. She was finally at liberty to read another’s words.

  Vera crossed the room and pulled Charles’s gift out of her carpetbag. On the table sat the chocolate cake, untouched; the three women had been too preoccupied to consider eating. Cutting herself a thick slice, Vera thought of those two young women, so full of spirit and promise. Bestowing them with the journals (at this age, she supposed, hers were literal “old wives’ tales”) was nothing. If only she could pass on to them her real knowledge: the wisdom gained from living unwisely.

  Back in the armchair next to the window, she savored the bites of cake on her tongue: the bittersweet chocolate, the tang of apricot, the whipped cream, subtle and light. She hadn’t really eaten since she’d fallen ill. Fluids! She’d had enough of them. Wishing young Max were there to share a piece with her—she could just see his small mouth, overly full and chewing merrily—she recalled his rapt expression as he watched the puppet show. Ah, my love, the Chevalier of Melancholia.