Crossing on the Paris Read online

  During the day Faith worked on intricate pieces of enamel jewelry (where had she learned to do that?), odd pieces that Constance would have never worn but recognized as strikingly original, beautiful even. Faith always wore her own work—brooches, hatpins, earrings, pendants—and had even managed to sell some. Then in the afternoon, she’d run over to Montparnasse to model for various artists, who paid her as well as they could. It was not for her looks that they all wanted her to pose, she’d told her sister simply, but because she kept so still (unbelievable, Constance thought, unbelievable). At night, they were always off with friends, drinking and singing in cafés, tasting an invention someone had just cooked, or enthusiastically talking about their ideas and opinions, well into the night.

  Constance found it all completely exhausting.

  Squinting at the sunlight piercing through the porthole, she felt a dull throbbing behind her eyes. She considered a nap but got to her feet, suddenly restless. She could hear people in the hallway—children’s shouts and running footsteps, fragments of foreign conversation—and, in the quiet of her single room, she was pestered by the old-house creaking of the modern ship. Constance quickly rebuckled her boots, grabbed her purse, and left.

  Strolling down the cabin-lined corridor, she noticed in passing that some passengers had already put shoes out to be shined for dinner. She hadn’t even thought about it! What she’d wear, whom she’d be dining with, what strange French sauces and jellies she might be served . . . She emerged from the hallway toward the stern, near a cluster of small shops.

  She lingered at their narrow windows. The tobacconist was showing an older gentleman an extraordinary variety of cigars; the florist was arranging evening corsages for dinner. She passed a drugstore with French perfumes in the window, a souvenir shop boasting tinted postcards and toy steamers, then stopped in front of the stationer’s. In the window, there was a display of watercolor sets.

  When she and her sister were young, Constance was always considered the one with creative talent. Not only had she written fairy stories and nature poems as a girl, but she’d also enjoyed a certain reputation as an artist among the family. In the summer of ’10, when Constance and Faith had been sent to Aunt Pearl’s house in Boston, it was she herself who had been praised for her work painting china pieces. Her aunt and cousins had marveled at Constance’s steady hand and her ability to copy the pattern to perfection, again and again. Faith, on the other hand, had made such a mess of it, she wasn’t allowed to touch the paints for the rest of the summer.

  She opened the door, tinkling its small bell, and marched inside the stationer’s shop. The attractive woman behind the counter offered her a fetching smile.

  “Good morning, madame. How may I help you?”

  “Yes, I’d like a watercolor set and a sketchbook, please,” said Constance.

  “Ah, aquarelle! You are a painter?” The shop assistant’s eyes widened in admiration as she reached for various paint boxes to show Constance.

  “No, no.” She shook her head modestly. “Just a dabbler.”

  Thinking twelve tubes of paint sufficient, Constance selected the smallest box, then chose a thin pad with twenty leaves of thick paper.

  “I think this will do nicely.” Constance smiled as she paid for her purchase. “I’m planning on designing patterns for porcelain dishes,” she added, pleased with herself. If Faith could make pretty things, by all means, she could too.

  “It must be wonderful to have time to do such things.” The shop assistant sighed as she wrapped up the paint set and paper in thin paper.

  Constance wondered whether she was being mocked. Was painting china frivolous, then? A boring pastime for matronly sorts?

  “I hope you enjoy your paints!” She handed Constance her purchase, renewing her smile. “And the voyage! Au revoir!”

  Constance gave her a quick nod and left the shop. She clutched her purchase to her chest and went out on deck; it was crowded with determined promenaders and the sun, glaring off the sea, was exaggeratedly bright. She closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her brow, hoping she wasn’t getting a migraine. Completely out of headache powders (she’d needed her entire supply while visiting Faith), she decided to go to the infirmary.

  A walk through dark, empty corridors felt soothing compared to strolling on deck. After several wrong turns—the repetition in the décor undid any reference points—she found the doctor’s office. Entering the waiting room, she saw, sitting on the chair just opposite the door, the gray-haired maid and the old Scotty from the steward’s desk. Next to them sat the withered lady with the smart plum-colored coat she’d noticed on the dock. Elegantly dressed but frail and worn, she looked like the ailing dowager of a defunct royal family. Perhaps this was Mme. Sinclair?

  Vera Sinclair was waiting in the antechamber of the infirmary with her small entourage when a lovely woman came through the door, her perfect hourglass figure nearly obscured by last year’s fashions. She watched as this young person, having detected her stooped form, at once straightened her back and pulled herself up to her full height, marking the difference between youth and age. An inefficient strategy for keeping Time at bay, Vera mused.

  The new arrival sat down on the edge of the chair next to Vera, her posture stiff, and lay her purse and parcel neatly in her lap. They nodded politely to each other.

  “Good afternoon,” they murmured simultaneously; Amandine and Bibi said nothing.

  At that moment, the doctor came out of his office. He wore a white coat over his nautical uniform; his hair was neatly combed, his mustache dapper. He was an attractive man nearing middle age; still slim and youthful-looking, his face was decorated by delicate crow’s-feet and graying temples. He smiled at the group of women waiting for him in the antechamber; his eyes lingered in appreciation on the younger one before he waved the older one in.

  Vera observed that swift exchange—the doctor’s keen approval, the woman’s artless blush. She herself had never been impressed by beauty of that sort. Her experience had proved that such a perfect outer covering usually contained a rather vapid interior.

  She hoisted herself up and followed the doctor into the infirmary. Once inside, the surgeon closed the door.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor. I am Madame Vera Sinclair. My physician in Paris, Dr. Edgar Romains, asked me to contact you.” Her French was formal and correct, but betrayed the accent inevitable to those who become expatriates after reaching adulthood, far too late to distinguish sounds with a child’s ear.

  “I am the doctor Serge Chabron,” he said with a bow. “Oh, and Madame Sinclair,” he added carelessly, “you can speak English with me if you prefer, if it is easier for you.”

  A few years back she would have been insulted, found him impertinent. Now she couldn’t be bothered.

  “Quite,” she said, shifting to her mother tongue. “I suppose it is easier.”

  He took her wrist to feel her pulse, staring at his watch. Vera’s eyes moved tiredly around the white, windowless room, pausing on glass cabinets filled with little boxes and unpleasant-looking instruments. She detected the lingering smell of ether in the air. She had known men who breathed ether for pleasure, relishing the oblivion it provided. It was usually a question of loving the wrong person: one too young, already taken, or of the wrong sex.

  “Are you feeling ill, madame?” he asked politely, although the question seemed almost rhetorical. Anyone could see her condition was serious.

  “I am dying,” she said with a sad smile. “And I’m going home, back to New York. Rather like an old elephant, I suppose.”

  “Dying?” he repeated, taken aback by her directness. “Is this what your doctor in Paris says? What are your symptoms? What is wrong?”

  “I believe Dr. Romains’s diagnosis is cancer in the breasts. It seems conclusive enough. As for symptoms . . .” She sighed. “Well, at this point everything seems a symptom. When I get back to New York, I plan to call on an old friend, a physician, who has treated such things.
But I realize there’s not much hope.”

  “Ah, madame, there is always hope!” His voice was so sincere, so encouraging, it made her sad.

  “Well, like I said, my Parisian doctor, always the worrier, thought I should see you once the ship was under way. And now, onboard, I am hoping to enjoy the sun and sea air. What a dire, gray spring we’ve had in Paris!”

  “Indeed, I wish you a pleasant voyage.” He smiled. “Sunny skies, salt air, deep sleep, wonderful food . . . A crossing can be so revitalizing. You’ll arrive feeling ten years younger!”

  “Wouldn’t that be lovely! I haven’t seen my cousins in years. The little vanity I have left couldn’t bear for them to see me looking so weak and thin.” Vera held out her hand. “But I will go now. I should like to rest a little before dressing for dinner.”

  “Of course, Madame Sinclair.” He took her hand and pressed it warmly. “And if you need anything during the voyage, anything at all, let me know.”

  Vera was amused to see the doctor quickly checking himself in the silvered-glass wall mirror before opening the door. As he was ushering her out of his office, already offering the young woman in the antechamber a welcoming smile, a small girl in a dark uniform and white cap popped into the infirmary.

  “Monsieur le docteur?” she asked, nearly out of breath.

  Vera was struck by her appearance; her pale oval face, lovely on its own, was marred by a large brown birthmark. The old woman was instantly reminded of collecting eggs on her uncle’s Connecticut farm when she was a child, her delight turning to disgust when she picked up what seemed to be a perfect white egg only to find a brown clump of chicken droppings on its underside. She looked briefly at the attractive woman, who had already risen from her seat for her turn with the doctor, then over at the girl. Letting her cane slide through her hand to regain the floor, she slowly turned to Amandine, who was standing with Bibi, ready to help Vera back to her room.

  Julie Vernet had rushed up to fetch the doctor on Mme. Tremblay’s direct orders. When she opened the infirmary door, ready to deliver her message, she saw the doctor busily escorting an elderly woman out of the office. He was handing her over to her maid, while a younger woman stood hesitantly to the side.

  Julie was intrigued by the older woman, who carried an air of wealth and grandeur. Although her bony fingers, covered in rings, clasped her cane as if holding a scepter, she was gaunt, bent, and clearly unwell. Julie could see that had this woman been a third-class passenger, she wouldn’t have passed the health inspection. She’d seen the exams given at the port hotel, doctors and nurses checking for lice, scabies, and contagious diseases, weeding out those ticket holders too weak or too ill to travel. It was plain, even to her, that had this frail, old woman been poor, she would not have been allowed to board the Paris.

  The other woman, on the contrary, was young and healthy, beautiful even, with shell-pink skin and loads of thick hair half-hidden under a huge hat. Tall, buxom, without a flaw. Life must be easier for women like that, thought Julie.

  As the elderly trio slowly made their way out of the office, the ringed woman paused, leaning on her cane; she browsed Julie’s face, then nodded pleasantly. Julie bowed slightly, surprised. Unless they were needed—arms for doing chores, legs for running errands—the servant class was usually invisible to the rich. When the door had closed behind them, Julie turned to the younger woman, who was clearly waiting to see the doctor.

  “Only a moment, madame,” she said, her hand raised in apology. She then addressed the doctor, speaking quickly in French.

  “Sir, Madame Tremblay sent me up here to tell you that dozens of passengers in steerage are suffering from mal de mer. It’s stuffy down there and the ship’s roll is so unpleasant. . . . They’re nauseous, just miserable! If you could come down when you have time, we’d really appreciate it.”

  Julie did not mention that she felt terrible herself, a condition that had not been improved by mopping up vomit.

  “Usually I have a nurse or two on board to see to such things, but it seems on this crossing I’m on my own. I hope this will all be worked out in New York. I don’t know what the deuce has happened here!” He shook his head and sighed. “Of course I’ll come. I’ll just see to this lady here, then I’ll be down there directly.”

  “Merci, monsieur,” Julie said to the doctor, who gave her a fatherly nod, then bobbed a quick curtsy at the pretty woman. “And thank you, madame.”

  She left the infirmary and quickly went back to steerage, afraid Mme. Tremblay would think she was dawdling.

  Alone in the office, Dr. Chabron reached out for Constance’s elbow and escorted her into the inner chamber.

  “Now then, come into my office. Tell me what’s troubling you.”

  Constance, pleased to finally have the doctor’s full attention, was grateful to hear his fluent English and was charmed by his slight accent. In Paris, she couldn’t communicate with most of Faith’s friends and, not wanting to appear dour or disapproving (which oftentimes she was), she’d sat there smiling. She felt like a simpleton, smiling without understanding, and knew that, on occasion, they were talking about her, mocking her. She was relieved to find she would not be reduced to pantomime with this man.

  “Hello, Doctor,” Constance began shyly, then suddenly felt silly. “Well, you see, sometimes, I get terrible headaches. When I was on deck earlier, I felt one coming on. And I don’t have any powders with me. I was just afraid—” She stopped short, surprised by the fact she was on the verge of tears. “Heavens! I don’t know what’s wrong with me!”

  “There, there,” he said, his voice comforting and warm. “These long voyages tend to make people nervous, though I think you’ll find it quite pleasurable once you get used to it.” He handed her a clean handkerchief with a smile. “Now, tell me, what’s your name?”

  She paused, dabbing her eyes. She had the sudden impulse to give him her maiden name, but after a moment’s hesitation replied dully, “Constance Stone,” omitting the “Mrs.” and feeling foolish. “And you, sir, what’s your name?”

  “I am the ship’s doctor, Serge Chabron,” he replied, then shook his head as she tried to return his handkerchief. “No, please keep it. The voyage isn’t over yet!” He smiled again, then got to his feet and began rattling around in a metal drawer. “Headaches, you say?”

  Constance watched him flick through a row of small white boxes, embarrassed at the realization the pain was now completely gone.

  “Here,” he said, and handed her two thin boxes. “Some aspirin for the headaches, as well as some sleeping powders. If you can’t relax tonight, take one envelope with water before going to bed. Now, please allow me to walk you back to your cabin. I’m afraid I need to see to some passengers down in steerage.”

  Dr. Chabron locked the door to the infirmary, offered Constance his arm, then set a leisurely pace down to the second-class cabins.

  “Tell me, then, are you from New York?” he inquired.

  “No, I live in Massachusetts. I went to Paris to escort my sister home. She’s been living there a year now.”

  “Ah, your sister lives in Paris? A beautiful place, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, though there was a lack of enthusiasm in her voice. Having felt so out of place there, she had been nearly immune to its charms. “Are you from Paris as well?”

  “No, I’m from Rennes. But, to tell you the truth, after fifteen years working aboard ships, I feel more at home when I’m at sea. I even spent the war on an ocean liner, when the France was turned into a hospital ship. An odd sight it was,” he recalled, creasing his brow, “men covered in bandages—some terribly burnt or missing limbs—sitting on elegant settees, surrounded by luxury.” As Constance murmured in commiseration, he quickly turned back to her, as if suddenly remembering to be charming. “Perhaps,” he said, resuming his jovial tone, “my land is simply the sea.”

  Walking down the corridor, with its flowered carpet and teardrop crystal lamps, Co
nstance couldn’t picture it filled with wounded soldiers.

  When they reached the deck, Dr. Chabron pulled out a cigarette case. He offered one to Constance, which she declined, then lit one for himself. Pausing at the rails, he blew a smoke ring, then turned back to Constance.

  “Do you travel often, miss?”

  “Not at all! In fact, I’ve spent almost my whole life in the same town,” Constance said. “And your life here at sea . . . I can’t imagine! Never waking up in the same place, always raising the anchor and moving on to a different port.”

  “It can be exciting”—Dr. Chabron smiled—“or quite dull. It depends on the weather, the crew, the passengers . . . But I always have several good novels in my cabin, just in case. They can always provide me with good company.”

  “I have three or four in my bag as well,” she said with a smile. “What kind of books do you like best?”

  “I read all kinds of things,” he said, opening the door to the cabins to let her pass through, “but at the moment, I’m reading a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories.”

  “Really?” she cried, her smile widening into a grin. “Sherlock Holmes! Oh, I love detective stories!”

  “You don’t say?” He laughed. “Murder, drugs, beggars, poisons . . . Not the sort of thing all ladies go for.”

  “Oh, come now,” she said, joining his laughter. “Who can resist a good mystery? Especially when, at the end, it can all be logically explained.”

  “My, my,” he said, shaking his head in mock amazement. “A woman who likes grimy detective tales and logic!”

  They had arrived at her cabin and she stopped.

  “Thank you for escorting me back to my room,” she said, putting out her hand to give his a light shake. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  “The pleasure has been all mine.” Dr. Chabron took her hand with a slight bow. “I always enjoy meeting fellow admirers of Mr. Holmes. Well, perhaps I will have the occasion of seeing you and your sister later on during the voyage, Miss Stone?”