Crossing on the Paris Read online

  Putting on her bathrobe, she looked around the room. Although the women who worked in the upper classes—the hatcheck girls, nannies, cigarette girls, and so on—would still be up for hours, most of the steerage workers and laundresses were already in bed.

  After moving her mother’s lacework, carefully placing it under the pillow, Julie crawled into her bunk, feeling the engine’s vibration. Over its drone, she could just hear the sounds of the women around her, the breathing and snores, the shifting and nestling, the odd murmur. Simone, in the bunk above hers, was making no noise at all, sleeping in absolute silence. Julie closed her eyes and tried to cool her neck with her clammy hands. The queasiness had returned when the Paris had regained the high seas; she was eager to recover her balance, to feel absolutely normal.

  Suddenly, she was startled by something moving at the foot of her bed. She looked down, straining to see in the dim light, and discovered the shine of two little eyes: a mouse. There had been plenty of mice around her parents’ house on the waterfront and, against her mother’s wishes, she’d even tried to domesticate a few. She’d line up bits of stale bread for them to eat, trying to coax them into a box, to make them into pets. Julie smiled at this one, wiggling her fingers to see whether it would come to her.

  Watching it sitting on its haunches, moving its delicate hands, she was reminded of one of the letters her brother Loïc had sent from the front outside of Reims where he was stationed for nearly six months. He was the only one of her four brothers who had regularly written from the trenches and Julie was always fascinated to read about his life there: the inexplicable coziness of the dugout; the daisies, poppies, and cornflowers that grew wild in No Man’s Land; what falling asleep in wet boots does to one’s feet.

  Loïc once wrote about how, after weeks of rain, the trenches became so slippery that frogs and field mice fell in and couldn’t get out. Hundreds of them were trapped in those deep muddy ditches and, at night, the men couldn’t help walking on them, crushing them in their heavy boots. Julie felt her nose twitch and her throat contract—the early warning signs of tears—and slowly breathed out, refusing to cry her first night in the women’s dormitory.

  “Are you trapped in here, little one?” she asked the mouse in an unsteady whisper. It jumped off the bunk, zigzagged across the floor, and scurried away.

  Julie thought that she too would get up and take a walk. Despite the number of tedious chores she’d performed throughout the day, she wasn’t tired. All day she had longed to be on deck, in the sun, breathing fresh air. She leaned onto her elbow and looked toward Mme. Tremblay’s bunk on the other side of the room. A slight form lay unmoving under a mass of blankets. Silently, Julie got out of her bed and, in the narrow floor space between the bunks, put on her civilian dress and jacket. She carried her shoes out of the dormitory, slid them on in the corridor, then began the climb upward. During the ascent, the air cooled and the noise of the engines became fainter.

  On deck, she looked for the exact middle of the ship, where it was reputed to move the least. She crept silently past couples kissing in the shadows and a few moonstruck strollers, and edged over to the rail. Wrapped in night air, she stood looking out, the ships’ lights behind her. She caught faint strands from the orchestra playing in the first-class ballroom, and the musical hum, with its warbles and trills, of the impeccably dressed dancers and late-night diners, those passengers who undoubtedly found it difficult to remember they were at sea.

  After only a minute or two—her face cocked to the sky, eyes shut, relishing the cool breeze—she felt better. Her mouth was no longer producing so much saliva, the tingling behind her ears had stopped. Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked up at the stars. From where she stood, in the middle of the ship, in the middle of the sea, they were infinite. From her kitchen windows in Le Havre, this ship had seemed vast beyond measure, but here, nestled between the enormity of the black ocean and the night sky, it was small, vulnerable even.

  Looking up at the Milky Way, she thought again of Loïc. Her older brothers, Jean François, Émile, and Didier, had been between eight and twelve years older than them. After they’d become working men, those three had sometimes seemed more like boarders than brothers, always coming and going, usually present at meals, occasionally playful but often tired, aloof, uninterested in children’s antics. Loïc, on the other hand, was almost her twin. As they were separated by only thirteen months, their parents and brothers had always referred to them collectively as “les petits.” Almost never called by their names, or individually for that matter, they were scolded, given orders, and embraced as one.

  When her three older brothers enlisted in the Armée de Terre in 1914, they had their portrait made in their new uniforms, a photograph that later became thin from caresses and mottled with tears. Standing together with Émile, the tallest, in the center, they all sported standard-issue mustaches and new kepis, jauntily perched on their heads. Although the photograph was sepia colored, Julie could still see the bright crimson trousers emerging from tailored blue coats. Having only before seen them wearing grimy coveralls for working or cheap suits for going out, she thought her brothers had never looked so handsome, so distinguished.

  Hanging out the windows of the train, each one off to his own regiment, they brandished their lances and grinned with excitement as the crowd shouted, “To Berlin!” The townsfolk already looked at them as heroes. On the platform, their parents beamed with pride.

  Julie lost a part of herself each time a big brother died at the front. At the fishmonger’s or the bakery, she would find herself reliving her precious childhood memories—the storytelling, the horsey rides, the amateur magic tricks—and silently begin to cry, ignoring the shopkeepers’ pitying looks. While Julie dissolved into grief, her parents, so absorbed in their own, distanced themselves from their youngest, retreating further with each official letter they received. Julie became nearly invisible to them as they turned quiet and cold, the hollowed shells of their prewar selves. Then Loïc, when he turned seventeen, announced that he was going to war as well.

  “Hallo! Julie Vernet!”

  Julie swung around, alarmed, wondering who could be calling her, who knew her name. Would she be reprimanded for being out on deck at night? Was she allowed to wear normal clothes on board? A big man walked out of the shadows and, as he walked toward her, she recognized him as the Russian she’d met before the ship quit port, the man whose hat she’d caught.

  “It’s Nikolai, isn’t it?” she said, laughing in relief. “You scared me for a minute. I thought I might be in trouble for being up on decks.”

  “Don’t worry about trouble with me around,” he said with a wink.

  He stood next to her and looked up at the stars, bright in the chill of a cloudless sky. Beside him, she felt like a small child. Alongside her tiny hands, his massive fingers tapped carelessly on the rails, a ragtime piano. Above his wrist she saw a blue tattoo of four or five intercrossed lines. She tried to make it out; was it a secret symbol, a tool, an upside-down cross? She had the fleeting notion that it must have had something to do with the war, that here was another former soldier who had fought and lived.

  Often, Julie found herself resenting men who had survived the war. She knew it was irrational, but she couldn’t help but wonder why they had been spared while her brothers had not. Tonight, however, she was grateful that the friendly man at her side was a survivor. Immediately feeling silly, she looked away from Nikolai’s wrist and up to the sky.

  “Ah, I love coming up on deck at night. It’s so calm and beautiful.” Nikolai turned to her. Although he wasn’t touching her, he was so close, she could feel his body heat in the cool night air. “And I’m so glad you’re out. I was hoping I’d run into you again.”

  “Oh, well, here I am,” she said, looking down with a shy smile. She paused a moment, struggling to find something to say. “Tell me, then, how was it down in the engine room today?”

  “Hot!” He laughed. “And noisy! And y
ou, how was your first day on duty?”

  “Not too good, I’m afraid,” she sighed. “I’ve been seasick all day.”

  She regretted it as soon as she’d said it. What an unappealing image! She certainly didn’t want him to picture her green-faced and hovering over the toilet. Thankfully, however, he looked genuinely concerned.

  “Oh no,” he uttered. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is this your first time out?”

  “Yes, the Paris and I are both on our maiden voyage.” She smiled, daring to look him in the eyes. He smiled down at her from his great height, then leaned his elbows on the rails so that their arms touched.

  “Listen, I have some ginger tea in my kit that I make when the seas get rough,” he said, lowering his voice and making their conversation intimate. “It really helps. I’d be happy to give you some.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “That would be lovely! I’ve been hoping for a miracle cure.”

  “You must not be used to the sea at all. Where are you from? Alsace? Auvergne?”

  “Far from it! In fact, you were in my hometown this morning. I’m from Le Havre. And you?” she asked, sneaking her fingers up to comb her hair. “Where are you from, Nikolai?”

  “St. Petersburg. Petrograd, they call it now. But my family left after the revolution in 1917. We eventually made it to Paris.”

  “It must have been very difficult, leaving Russia during the war,” Julie said quietly.

  They stood in silence for a few moments, looking out on the water, his arm still radiating warmth next to hers. Julie couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking. Did he find her attractive? Did her birthmark not bother him? She was rather glad he was standing to her left.

  “Ah, you can hear the music,” Nikolai said, propelling her from her thoughts; indeed, the orchestra was playing a waltz in the ballroom. “In Russia, there was always music. We’re always singing . . . in the poorhouse, in prisons, even at war!” He smiled sadly, then turned to look into her eyes. “You have a musical beauty, you know,” he said in a low voice. “You are so small, so delicate, yet you have captivated me, like a little tune that won’t stop playing in my mind.”

  No one had ever paid Julie such a compliment. She wondered whether he was joking (or had he been drinking?), but he seemed perfectly sincere. She had never had a suitor before and didn’t know what to say, how to act.

  “You must have many admirers in Le Havre,” Nikolai added, then reached out and put his hand on hers, folding both her hands in his one.

  “N-n-no,” she stuttered, feeling the color rise to her cheeks. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  His warmth made her body sway in toward him. Nervous and embarrassed, she looked down and caught a glimpse of the blue tattoo. He bent down and whispered in her ear.

  “May I kiss you, Julie?” His voice was soft, nearly liquid. “Please?”

  She could feel him breathing in her hair and knew this was all going too fast.

  “I have to leave,” she mumbled, untangling her hands from his. “The head housekeeper will be looking for me. She’ll be angry. Really, I must go.”

  “Oh, come on, Julie,” he coaxed, catching a strand of her hair. “Stay a little longer.”

  “Good night, Nikolai!”

  She had already started walking down the deck. She was afraid he might follow her—part of her wanted him to—but he stayed at the rails.

  “See you tomorrow, my little Julie!” he called with a confident smile.

  Her heart pounding, she began to walk faster and faster—as if she could escape her own excitement—until she was running. She flew along the corridors and spun down flights of stairs. She ran back to steerage, like a little mouse scampering back to its hole.

  Outside the dormitory, she stood panting, trying to catch her breath. She slipped off her shoes, still wondering at what had happened. Nikolai wanted to kiss her! She thought of his ruggedly handsome face smiling at her, his lyrical voice whispering compliments, and stood for a moment in the corridor, fingering her birthmark in disbelief. Finally, Julie ducked back into the room, now nearly full of sleeping women, and silently changed back into her pajamas. Under the momentarily cool sheet, she shivered, remembering the warmth of his skin and imagining the feel of his lips. Recalling his last words—that he would see her tomorrow!—Julie stared up at Simone’s dark bunk and grinned.

  DAY TWO

  The early-morning air was chilly, but Vera was glad to be in the sun. She was cocooned in her deck chair, snug inside the red steamer rug with Bibi curled up on her feet. Most first-class passengers preferred the nights on board the ship: playing long hands of bezique or euchre, roosting in wingback chairs sharing secrets with strangers, dancing the tango with one while exchanging glances with another . . . But Vera—too impatient, too tired, too old for such things—now opted for mornings.

  In fact, even dressing for dinner and sitting to table with five or six unknown companions held no intrigue for her anymore. And she, who had always had a great taste for fine French wines and haute cuisine, could not work up much of an appetite, even for the sumptuous meals served in a French ocean liner’s first-class dining room: velvety lobster bisque with just a hint of cognac, prime sirloin cooked rare, peach melba topped with fresh raspberry sauce and vanilla ice cream . . . The infinite courses and choices were now more of a chore than a pleasure. Last night Vera had picked at her food, barely aware of the conversation of her dining companions, which faded into the distant buzzing of the engines. She’d realized, quite suddenly, how ancient and dull she must have appeared to them and, after dessert, quickly excused herself to lie down.

  However, just as she could no longer truly enjoy eating, the delights of sleep now escaped her as well. In the past, Vera had frequently lingered in bed, lolling in quilts and eiderdown until almost lunchtime. But these days, her slumber was as light and as brief as her appetite. In the last few years she had lost all her Epicurean skills, forced into the austerity of a nun.

  She picked up her carpetbag from next to the deck chair and pulled out her most recent journal, one of those written numerically. She nestled it on top of the warm blanket, then took out her fountain pen, toying with the idea of adding a new entry. After watching the Isle of Wight drift by yesterday evening, she’d been mulling over all the different transatlantic voyages she’d made in her life: from the first time she’d crossed, on a rickety paddleboat at the age of fifteen, off on her grand tour of Europe, to her honeymoon with Warren, to her permanent move to France, right on up to this last, uneventful voyage on the Paris. Today, she was contemplating adding the number 10 to her memoirs: Ten Crossings.

  She posed her pen on a fresh page and wrote “X Crossings,” opting for the Roman numeral. Delighted with the boldness of the X, she began to elaborate on it, transforming the title into a treasure map. She drew a small schooner on the side from which a looping trail led, dot by dot, to the dramatic X in the center. “Crossings,” she mused, was an evocative word in itself.

  The title completed, she stared at the page, shaking her head in frustration. She could no longer control her hand; it was now so unsteady that straight lines had been rendered impossible. This looked, indeed, like the work of an unschooled, half-drunk pirate. How very authentic, then. Aging was such a loathsome business.

  She let out a large sigh, then put down her pen. No, she would not write anything today. In fact, she’d been unable to add anything new to her journals for the last couple of years. Whenever she picked up one of the leather-bound books—which was more and more often—she found herself rereading the old entries instead. At times, she saw herself as a character of fiction, a heroine whose harrowing plights could move her to tears or whose youthful antics could make her laugh; at others, she felt like a time traveler, nostalgically reliving her experiences. Occasionally, she could even cajole herself into being surprised by their endings. She had ceased to be the writer of these memoirs, and instead had become their most avid reader.

  Vera began thumb
ing through the journal, trying to decide which entry to read, when she suddenly remembered the gift Charles had given her. She put the journal aside and fished out the book of poems from the carpetbag. Upon opening it, she saw a dedication, written in his firm, architectonic hand: “To my love of this life. Until we meet on the other side. Yours, Charles.” She stared down at those words, tears welling in her eyes. He was obviously not referring to oceans here. So, Charles had finally been able to acknowledge the fact she was dying. Somehow, that made it even more real. Vera wiped her eyes with her dry hands, pondering a new life without him.

  With a deep breath, she shut her eyes, imagining a typical day in Paris, her life before boarding the Paris. She imagined waking in her high-ceilinged apartment, then taking Bibi on a morning stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg. They would pass the Guignol puppet theater, where a group of children were laughing at the French Punch, up to his old tricks. On the way to meet Charles at an outdoor café, she would buy a baguette, bite off the tip, then send the crumbs flying toward a flock of fat pigeons. He would be waiting for her, impatient as always, and quickly stand as she approached, nearly upsetting the off-balance table. She could see every detail. She could almost smell the bread.

  Vera closed the book sadly, incapable of reading poetry. Reaching down to pet Bibi’s side, to stroke her ears, she again deemed this voyage rash, ill planned. To forget the present, she chose to immerse herself in better times; she gathered up the journal again, leafing through the pages to get off this ship. Vera would be arm in arm with Charles once more.

  TURNING 50

  A week before I was to turn fifty, one late breakfast, whilst spreading a thick layer of butter on a thin slice of bread, I suddenly decided what to do to mark the occasion: I would treat myself to one of Paul Poiret’s marvelous gowns. Charles would want to accompany me of course. He always enjoyed an outing to the design houses of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, elegant palaces of haute couture where fashionable women were fitted and draped (and, on occasion, seduced by young dandies as well). But I also thought it wise to invite my friend Mme. Pauline Ravignan, who was known for her exquisite taste. Charles, I knew, could have very well convinced me to buy harem pantaloons or a hobble skirt.