Crossing on the Paris Page 28

  As she licked the spoon, Vera wondered again whether her story—Laszlo’s story—would have been different had she not fled, if they had had a proper good-bye. Why had she thought the farewell note necessary? How dramatic she used to be!

  At first, she thought it a terrible misfortune, a dreadful coincidence, to have met the Richters. But now, despite her grief and shame, she was rather glad. Not only had she learned the truth about Laszlo—which had put quite a few things in perspective—but she had seen his future in Max. Usually, Vera considered herself lucky with odds. Horses, backgammon, roulette. Perhaps, after all, this had also been a stroke of good luck.

  Having finished the cake, she wiped her hands, then cleared her throat with some cold tea. She was finally ready for Charles’s poem.

  Her glasses in place, she ran a finger along the binding of the delicate little booklet. On the train to Le Havre, Charles had explained to her that, when he was twenty-one, he had met Constantine Cavafy in a Turkish bath in Constantinople. They’d had no problems communicating, as the Greek poet from Alexandria had spent part of his childhood in Liverpool. Charles did not elaborate on that encounter (he was always so discreet!), but he did say that, after all those years, they’d never lost touch. He had recently received this booklet in the post, privately printed for friends. For some reason, Charles had wanted her to have it.

  She studied the frontispiece—Constantine P. Cavafy. Poems. 1921.—then opened the book. Vera reread the dedication with a sad smile, then noticed for the first time that it was twice inscribed; facing the table of contents, she found an affectionate remembrance from the poet to Charles. This made her grin. “What a rascal!” she thought, amazed Charles had not tried to rub out those sentimental words.

  Though the slim volume only contained a handful of poems, she turned directly to the marked page, obviously the one Charles had wanted her to read first. “Ithaca.” She began to mumble the words out loud, to herself:

  Ithaca

  When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,

  Pray that the road is long,

  Full of adventure, full of knowledge . . .

  She stopped. Her throat was already too tight to read aloud, her eyes were beginning to blur. Oh, Charles. Were he not such a coward, so afraid of dying, he would now be by her side. Instead, she was alone with one of his books.

  How Vera wished he were there to read it to her, this poem he had handpicked for her final voyage. His lovely voice had not aged, squeaking like an old rocking chair, but was still deep and melodic. She paused for a moment, closing her eyes to better capture the sound of his voice, then continued.

  Pray the road is long.

  That the summer mornings are many, when,

  With such pleasure, with such joy

  You will enter ports seen for the first time:

  Stop at Phoenician markets,

  And purchase fine merchandise,

  Mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

  And sensual perfumes of all kinds,

  As many sensual perfumes as you can;

  Visit many Egyptian cities,

  To learn and learn from scholars.

  Always keep Ithaca in your mind.

  To arrive there is your ultimate goal.

  But do not hurry the voyage at all.

  It is better to let it last for many years;

  And to anchor at the island when you are old,

  Rich with all you have gained on the way,

  Not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

  Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.

  Without her you would have never set out on the road.

  She has nothing more to give you.

  And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.

  Wise as you have become, with so much experience,

  You must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

  Vera let out a great sigh. Dear, dear Charles. Yes, Manhattan was her Ithaca. And she had taken a long, zigzagged, wondrous path to get back there. New York . . . She wondered how Odysseus felt as he was finally reaching the shores of Ithaca; was he afraid his hometown would be tedious and dull after such adventures? That Penelope had grown old and stout? Vera fingered her rope of pearls, bought years ago at a port market during this lifelong journey home, and through teary eyes she wondered how much water still separated her from her island.

  She watched as the skies slowly began to clear, the faintest yellow-pink light pointing to the horizon. She closed the book and stretched. With the dawn, Vera realized her fever had broken.

  DAY FIVE

  THE ARRIVAL

  “Get up!” Julie felt a sharp tug on her shoulder; her mother had never been so rough. “My God! What’s wrong with you?”

  She rolled over and, with bleary eyes, found herself looking into the thin-lipped frown of Mme. Tremblay.

  “Mademoiselle Vernet!” the shrill voice continued. “It’s nearly eight o’clock! And here you are, lounging in bed!”

  She sat up in confusion, grasping at her covers and the last remnants of a dream. Was her mother in it? Her brothers? Was it good or bad?

  “You may just be the slowest, laziest girl I’ve ever had in the service crew!” Mme. Tremblay added, “And the sneakiest too!”

  “What?” Julie asked, finally awake enough to decipher words. “Sneaky?”

  “Pascal told me that you were ill last night,” she said. “He excused you from working so you could rest! And how did you repay him? By running off and coming in at all hours! You scheming little liar!”

  “But I was ill! And I did rest!” Julie said, particularly upset at the idea that Pascal might think she’d taken advantage of him. “I wasn’t lying!”

  “I came in here after the dinner shift and you were gone,” Mme. Tremblay said. “I asked Simone and the other girls, but nobody had seen you.” Julie’s mouth fell open, but she said nothing. “So, tell me, where were you? Up in first again, taking in the views?”

  For an instant, Julie considered confiding her troubles in Mme. Tremblay, but with a glimpse at her disapproving mouth, she knew she would find no compassion.

  “In fact, I was in first class,” Julie said boldly, sitting up straight. “In a cabin on the uppermost deck. I was having tea with some friends of mine.”

  Mme. Tremblay jabbed the air with her finger, pointing at Julie with a violent glare.

  “You think you’re funny? More stupid lies will not help your case, silly girl!”

  “I’m telling the truth,” Julie said. “Not that it matters.”

  “And why would that be?” Mme. Tremblay’s whisper sounded menacing—full of the promise of punishments to come.

  “Because I’m quitting,” Julie said, enjoying the surprise on the head housekeeper’s face. In bed last night, after her evening with her new friends, she had considered the idea, though she hadn’t made a firm decision until just now. “I think we both know that I’m not cut out for a life at sea.”

  “That’s for sure,” Mme. Tremblay snorted. “But, don’t forget, mademoiselle, you will not get free passage back to France. You will have to buy a ticket like everyone else. And, I warn you, they do not come cheap.”

  “I’m not going back to France,” Julie retorted impulsively. “I’ll be getting off in New York today.”

  If American women found freedom in France, thought Julie, recalling Mme. Sinclair’s words, wouldn’t the opposite be true for French girls? Wouldn’t she be able to reinvent herself in New York? Find new friends, a new life, like Constance’s sister?

  “Is that right?” The older woman chuckled at the notion. “And what might you do, all by yourself in New York City?”

  “Don’t worry about me, madame,” Julie said. “I can stand on my own two feet. Especially on land.”

  “All right then, if your mind is made up,” she said. “I will talk to the purser about you. He may decide that your wages these last few days will merely cover your passage over, or he may b
e gracious enough to pay you. We shall see.”

  Julie nodded stiffly at the housekeeper. Although she had brought her savings with her, she had hoped to add her Paris paycheck to it.

  “In the meantime, I’d like you to collect your things and remove yourself from the workers’ quarters.”

  “Yes, Madame Tremblay. Au revoir.”

  Julie watched as her former superior marched out of the dormitory, slightly vexed that the efficient older woman had such a low opinion of her. Sneaky, indeed! But, she had done it! She’d quit her job and, by this afternoon, would be off this swaying ship.

  In her locker, she found her street clothes, the same blue cotton dress, jacket, and heels she’d worn the day of the launch. This was the outfit she was wearing when she met Nikolai. Since then, an entire ocean had been crossed.

  After dressing, she laid her things out on the bed to pack. In went the toiletries, the stockings, the panties. She held the camisole in her hand for a moment, then stuffed it in as well.

  She picked up her mother’s piecework, and as she fingered the lines, the stylized V, she felt a tinge of guilt. Would her parents be hurt by this giddy decision to stay in America? She doubted it. Before she left, she’d overheard them discussing renting their children’s rooms out to boarders, filling the house with strange faces; they weren’t expecting their daughter back home. Perhaps they would even be pleased that she was trying her luck, making a new life for herself in America. With a smile, she imagined her mother passing the word on to the other ladies in Saint François. Having a gossip, like she used to do.

  She arranged her brothers’ letters in the Jules Verne novel, shuffling them straight like a deck of cards. The war changed us all, she thought, aging those it did not kill. Ever since, the idea of gaiety or fun seemed to lack respect for those who were gone, but it was time to be young again. Young, but not stupid. Under her pillow, she found the ripped notes from Nikolai. She scraped them into the bin and watched the pieces flutter down, wondering at the brevity of it all.

  Her small bag packed, she put it over her shoulder and took a last look around the empty dormitory, the close quarters she’d shared with a hundred working girls. Wherever she landed in New York, it would be airier, quieter, more motionless than this! Yes, but where was that? Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by the enormity of her decision to leave the ship, alone, and emigrate. Most people, she figured, took years to plan such a move. They would have contacts, jobs lined up, prearranged rooms . . . She had none of that.

  She peeked into the common room; it was odd to be at leisure, with no chores to do. Stepping inside, Julie glanced around at the passengers, bashful. Although she had seen them all before, served them meals and cleaned their messes, she didn’t really know them. Looking at their faces, all filled with expectation and optimism, she realized that, here in third class, she was surrounded by veritable experts on the subject of emigration: nearly everyone here had left their homelands for America. Now that she was one of them, she could spend the rest of the morning asking for advice.

  In the corner, Julie caught sight of the Irish boys. They were hanging on the armchairs and flirting with the Italian twins, presumably helping them with their English.

  “Excuse me,” she said, tapping the shoulder of the one propping himself on the arm. “I was wondering if you could help me?”

  “What do you need, miss?” said the redhead, looking up. “Hey! Aren’t you out of uniform?”

  “That’s right.” Julie smiled. “But I’ve had enough of the sea and, when we dock, I’ll be getting off for good. I was hoping you all could give me some pointers.”

  “Could we!” said the freckle-faced boy. “I can tell you whatever you need to know about New York!”

  “Yeah,” said the redhead with a roll of his eyes, “especially for a boy from Cork who’s spent the last three years in Liverpool!”

  With identical smiles, the Italian twins made room on the small sofa and Julie squeezed in next to them.

  “Now then,” said the freckle-faced boy with an air of importance. “We’re going to start off in Brooklyn, where my uncle Ned lives. He knows loads of families with rooms to let. As for jobs . . .”

  Within minutes, Julie’s apprehensions had faded and she was as excited about arriving in America as everyone else under the waterline. When Simone strolled into the common room a half hour later, she was scarcely bothered.

  “I heard you were in here, chatting away,” Simone said with a sneer, looking down on Julie. “So, Old Tremblay had to let you go. What a shame.”

  Julie rose to her feet to meet Simone’s gaze.

  “A shame? I don’t think so. I gave her notice, Simone.” Julie smiled at the coarse, ambitious girl who had made her crossing far more unsavory than it should have been. “Enjoy the Paris—and all its delightful crew members! I’m going to New York!”

  Simone’s face fell, her eyes clouded with confusion.

  “New York?” she barked, incapable of much more.

  “That’s right,” Julie said, returning to her seat. “But, who knows, Simone? Maybe after a few years down here in steerage, you’ll get your chance in hatcheck! You can only dream!”

  Simone pursed her lips in anger, her face red. Her hands balled up as she whisked around, heading out of the room. Perhaps, thought Julie, she’s going down to be consoled by Nikolai. Kind, gentle Nikolai. Watching Simone yank the door open, Julie sighed in relief, glad to be leaving her—and her oily first love—behind.

  When Constance woke up, she saw the sun streaming through the porthole, like a beam from a lighthouse. She put on her robe and went to the window. Everything was calm. The sea, now flat, was light gray with glimmers of pink. Good colors for a smart suit.

  She looked at her watch—already nine?—and decided to start packing. After less than a week on board, she had thoroughly appropriated her cabin and her things were scattered everywhere. She fetched the trunk from its place in the corner. Just over a month ago, she had gone to buy it with a testy George, still upset about her traveling to Europe on her own. Really, though, Constance decided, it wasn’t anger so much as nerves; he was worried about her. In his awkward way, he was expressing his love.

  She picked up the cosmetics around the washstand: hairpins and combs, talcum and creams, her compact and lipstick. As she firmly screwed on the lids for storage, she realized she was still uneasy about going home. Although no longer filled with dread, she was concerned about how she would find the situation there. Would her mother be worse, her father defeated? And George . . . would he sense she had been with another man? The only reaction she could anticipate was her children’s: unrestrained joy and laughter. Her relationship with them was the only one that seemed uncomplicated.

  Constance picked the photographs off the nightstand. She ran her finger along the sepia faces of her daughters, delighted she would soon be with them. She then took a long look at George. True, he lacked Serge’s confident manner, his good-natured refinement, his elegant hands and hazel eyes. But he was hers. Those charming facts about the natural world, the clumsy embraces, that affectionate irascibility with his daughters . . . This man was her husband. She wrapped the photos in a handkerchief and carefully tucked them into the trunk.

  Constance stacked her shoes in the bottom drawer, hats in the hatbox, moving up to the top tray to organize jewelry and gloves. On the table next to Faith’s ring, she found her new fountain pen, the gift from Mrs. Sinclair. She wanted to put it to good use, but had no idea what to write. Journals, poems, children’s tales, fiction? Faith’s friends would make good characters . . . Heavens—she smiled to herself—they already were characters.

  Before stowing it away, she unscrewed the lid. She picked up the menu she’d been planning to save from her dinner at the captain’s table and wrote her full name: Mrs. Constance Eunice Stone. She made swooshes and swirls, relishing the feel of this pen in her hand. Indeed, it did not scratch, but silently flowed along the paper. She covered the menu entire
ly and, as she was tossing it into the bin, Constance thought that, perhaps, Mrs. Sinclair was right. She should bid the doctor good-bye.

  When her trunk was packed and locked, Constance made her way out of her cabin, in the direction of the infirmary. Once on deck, she found she was going against the current. It was Sunday morning and most people seemed to be heading to the services in the chapel.

  She passed a variety of familiar second-class faces—the Anderson family, the newlyweds, the Stetson-wearing Texans—and nodded politely to them all. Watching them go by, it occurred to her that every person on the Paris—its passengers and crew—had lived these five days differently. From the feted Douglas Fairbanks to the towheaded Anderson children, from Julie and Vera to Constance herself, they had each had their own private crossing. Three thousand floating stories, like so many pages of a castaway journal. Perhaps this was material for writing?

  Constance then caught sight of her former dining companions. Walking briskly, Mr. Thomas and Captain Fielding were so engaged in talk that they did not see her. Mrs. Thomas, wedged in between, gave her a nod, prim and smug. Constance nodded back at the ill-mannered trio with a smile, pleased she would never be trapped at a table with them again. Her last meal on board would be shared with her new friends, interesting women who were neither spiteful nor jealous.

  As she turned toward the stern, she nearly collided with Serge Chabron, who was walking quickly, his black bag in hand.

  “Constance!” he cried, stopping at once, his hurry forgotten. He reached for her hand and led her to the rails.

  “Serge,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “I was just coming to see you.”