Crossing on the Paris Page 8

  On the day, we three took a cab to the shop, where M. Poiret, donned in striped trousers and a canary yellow jacket, paid us the honor of greeting us at the door. This Man of the Cloth welcomed us graciously, leading us past statues and flower arrangements to an all-white sitting room where we would be shown various models.

  Here, women came out in a brilliant array of colors (no lilac or pink chez Poiret!) in his day-wear collection of svelte tunics and kimono coats, in evening gowns inspired by the Arabian Nights, and in long robes with loose folds, like the Greek statues in the Louvre. We were the captivated audience of a fabulous parade, a walking ballet, the Beaux Arts Ball! So sensual and exciting it was.

  With Pauline’s help, I chose an extraordinary red gown covered in black and silver beadwork. As we were making plans to come back for alterations, I mentioned to Paul Poiret that his ball gown was my birthday present to myself. He was delighted to hear that it was my birthday and, clapping his hands like a boy, exclaimed that I should celebrate by having my fortune told.

  “Oh, please, monsieur!” I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you keep a palm reader here on staff?”

  “Not here, but yes, I know a man who is a true visionary. I ask his advice on all things!” He stroked his pointed beard with a ringed hand, looking like a magician himself. “Would you like to take a trip up to Montmartre and meet him? I think you will find it amusing even if you don’t believe what he tells you.”

  Charles stepped in with a sly grin to accept this invitation, affirming that, indeed, we would not miss it!

  After Poiret had swaddled my and Pauline’s heads in linen scarves and put on driving gloves and goggles, the four of us climbed into his open automobile, a bright red Cottereau Phaeton with gold accessories, and took off toward the Butte. As we drove under the affable May sun, he told us more about the man we were about to meet.

  “He’s a poet by the name of Max Jacob,” he said, shouting over the roar of the engine. “Lives in dastardly conditions up on the hill with all of his artist friends, but he’s a mystic all right. What insight the man has given me over the years!”

  Montmartre never seemed like part of Paris to me, but rather a quaint village in the country. We breezed past the windmills and wooden houses, bumped along the unpaved streets dotted with gas lamps, till M. Poiret finally stopped the shiny crimson automobile. Truly, Captain Nemo’s submarine would have been no more conspicuous on that lane! He led us through a courtyard to a small Shed, squeezed betwixt two buildings of a more reputable size. The rich designer was pleased with our open-mouthed surprise as he dramatically whispered that—voilà!—we had arrived to the home of the mystic.

  He tapped on the door with his walking stick. A pale man, wearing a monocle and a well-tailored, though rather tattered, frock coat, ushered us into his home with an elaborate sweep of his top hat, exposing a bald head. Refraining from looking us in the eye, he politely requested we wait in the corner a few minutes as he was currently occupied with another client.

  We certainly needed this time to adjust our eyes and noses to this novel ambience, this dizzying gloom. In marked contrast to the delightful spring morning outdoors, the air inside was heavy with a swirling combination of tobacco, incense, ether, and oil. The oil was from the lamp, the only light in the one-room shed. I looked around his poorly lit chamber and saw it was only fitted with the most basic furniture: a mattress, a table, two chairs, and a trunk. On the largest wall, pictures were drawn in chalk; I could make out the signs of the zodiac, a religious icon, and various verses, poem scraps. This hovel reminded me of the set for Puccini’s La Bohème, though perhaps the lowly garret onstage at the Opéra de Paris was more sumptuous.

  The occupant of these lodgings was at the table, talking to an old woman in low tones while carefully inspecting the bottom of her morning coffee cup. Finally, she nodded somberly, pulled a small sack of potatoes out of her bag as payment, and walked out the door, her Destiny foretold. He then bowed lowly to M. Poiret, inquiring what services we needed of him that day.

  “Madame Vera Sinclair, please meet the poet Max Jacob, my spiritual adviser.” When we had shaken hands, M. Poiret continued, “It’s her birthday, Max! An excellent time to review life, to ponder fate, don’t you think?”

  “Please sit down, madame,” he said. “Your birthday, is it? Then, you are Taurus, a feminine sign, ruled by Venus. As the bull, you are a strong, willful creature.”

  “You might even say stubborn!” Charles joked, but catching Poiret’s reproachful look, he held his tongue after that.

  “Would you like me to read your palm?” he asked. Since I had not brought my breakfast china with me, I thought this would be the easiest course of action. I nodded. Somehow the atmosphere there—the oil lamp and incense, the chalked Christ figure—did not encourage spoken words.

  “Give me your dominant hand,” he said. I put my right hand on the table. Very gently, he stroked it, studying the fingers, knuckles, thumb. “An air hand,” he mumbled. Then, as if he were examining a rare map, he began twisting it, turning it, peering at the mounts, lagoons, points, and lines: life, heart, head, and fate.

  “I see great intellect, great vitality.” Mr. Jacob pulled the oil lamp closer to my palm. “Yes, the heart and head lines join. This could mean you are practical, sensible in questions of love.”

  I glanced at Charles, who was smiling down at me. Was Our love sensible? No clairvoyant worth his salt could possibly be referring to my husband—a mere escape vehicle—or the Gaggle of silly lovers from my past.

  He evidently found something interesting at that point, and needed to confirm it with my other hand. He gently took hold of my left, explaining that this hand showed my inheritance, what I had brought with me into this world. Mr. Jacob sat a moment in silence, studying both hands, comparing the two.

  “I see you are in the process of acquiring the character of one of your ancestors. It’s not a matter of possession, of course,” he added, with a fleeting smile, “nor any type of Eastern rebirth. But, I clearly see, with age, you are becoming your own Grandmother.”

  Pauline Ravignan burst out laughing, merrily crying out “Oh, she’s not that old!” as Paul Poiret patted Max Jacob on the back in amusement, thinking it quite a good (though naughty) birthday joke for a woman of a Certain Age. As for me, I felt myself going pale and quickly curled up my cold, exposed hand, sheltering my palm from any more scrutiny.

  “Thank you, Monsieur Jacob. This has been an illumination,” I choked out, as I rose to leave. Charles gave him a few francs, taking my arm as we walked out the door. Surely Pauline and M. Poiret thought I had been offended by this reference to aging, but I think the poet understood. I knew he was not having fun at my expense, but making an accurate, terrifying prediction: indeed, I was slowly turning into the woman who raised me.

  When Charles and I got home, he held me while I cried, remembering Her. If not having to raise one’s children is the privilege of the upper classes, my parents were like English aristocrats in that sense, leaving me to nannies, servants, and the watchful eye of my Grandmother Sinclair.

  Perhaps this is unfair. I suppose I was orphaned by politics, my father’s three terms in the Senate encompassing my entire childhood. My parents spent most of that time in Washington—especially during the War Between the States, when the support of Republican Senators was necessary—but they also took leisurely holidays from the tedium of government, always enjoying their season in Newport. Truly, I was solely under my grandmother’s care.

  She was a widow from youth, and it was hard to imagine her ever having a mate, being in love. Though stylish and attractive, she was lacking in all human warmth. Incapable of Affection, she had long since adopted Truthfulness as her creed, all notions of tact or sensitivity abandoned. It was she who had insisted on my name, Vera, veritas: truth.

  Camilla Wright Sinclair. When I came to Paris, I reclaimed my nom de jeune fille, Sinclair. Having had no children, no reason to keep an extr
aneous surname (I was no Harris!), I had taken back the name of my senatorial father, my formidable grandmother, My name. And now, at fifty, the age she was when I was small, it seemed I was taking on her characteristics. Like my Sinclair Elder, I too was becoming tactless, condescending, bitter, contrary.

  I looked up at Charles through tears and dared whisper, “Is it true?”

  He looked into my face with exaggerated vexation. “Now, Vera, are you seriously suggesting that my kindred spirit, my accomplice in this life, is a shrew? A wicked old hag?” He looked at me sternly before adding, “What, then, does that say about Me?”

  I snorted a great, weepy laugh, soiling his jacket in the process, and wrapped him up in my arms. He pulled away, brought out his handkerchief, and, while wiping himself off, said, “All right, then! By my watch, it’s still your birthday. And it’s still oyster season! Get your coat, love!”

  Vera’s eyes were moist with tears. Fingering the pages, lined with quick fashion sketches, esoteric doodles, and a fast though remarkably accurate portrait of her grandmother, she thought back on that day. She was convinced that it was Charles who had prevented the poet’s prediction from coming true; he had saved her from the fate of becoming an embittered old woman. After thirty years together, what did it matter that he had not been able to watch her die? Truly, it was meaningless. She put down the book with a sigh.

  Well, she thought, at least her end would not be like her grandmother’s. Camilla Sinclair had had such vinegary blood that it kept her body alive longer than it did her soul. She was left, in her final years, without memory or knowledge. Vera would be spared such a fate. Death does have its silver linings.

  Vera’s attention was suddenly drawn back to the present by the deck steward, smiling down on her, carrying the midmorning ritual of bouillon and saltine crackers.

  “Are you ready for a bite, ma’am?” he asked cheerfully.

  “Yes, of course,” she answered. “You wouldn’t happen to have any raw oysters on that tray, would you?”

  “No, madame,” he said, unsurprised. “However, I’m sure that I could get you some, if you’d like.” He added a servile bow.

  “No, that’s all right.” She smiled. “Bouillon will be fine.”

  About that time, a young woman sporting a fashionable bob haircut sank down into the next deck chair.

  “What a cute little dog!” she exclaimed, reaching over to pet the old Scotty with a manicured hand.

  “Good morning,” Vera said, somewhat taken aback by the woman’s forwardness. “I’m Mrs. Sinclair and this is Bibi.”

  “What a pleasure to meet you! Both of you! I’m Miss Cornelia Rice. Of the Buffalo Rices.” The woman turned her attention back to the dog. “You’re a precious little thing, now aren’t you?”

  “Yes, a pleasure,” Vera said, raising her eyebrows a fraction as she looked back out to sea. She brought the cup of bouillon to her lips, blowing it gently.

  Cornelia, she thought, was the name of her childhood maid. She had come up north on the Underground Railroad and Vera’s grandmother, who admired bravery wherever she could find it, had taken her on. Vera had written a lengthy account in her journal about Miss Cornelia, a remarkable woman, strong, dark, and silent with pain. This pale, young Cornelia could not compare.

  When one is old, thought Vera, finishing her soup, everything reminds one of something already heard, said, or done. King Solomon must have been around her age when he declared there was no new thing under the sun. Yes, her age—about five hundred. Cornelia, Rice, Buffalo. A few years back, she would have stored those words and pulled them out again when needed. Now they just fell to the floor, forgotten; her memory had no use for such things.

  Vera looked down at Bibi, shifting slightly in a dream state, and then dozed off herself.

  Constance awoke with a start. It was almost twelve and she was still in bed. Those sleeping powders were certainly potent, she thought with a stretch. There was an insistent knock at the door—Was this the second one? Had the first one woken her?—which made her jump out of bed.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be right there!”

  She put on her robe and, after checking herself in the mirror, Constance opened the door to find a bellhop, who looked no more than twelve, peeking out through the top of a fruit basket.

  “Miss Constance Stone?” he asked. “This is for you.”

  He handed over the heavy gift with a sigh of relief and quickly made his exit.

  She looked through the apples, bananas, and oranges until she found a card: “To your health!” it said. “Serge Chabron.” A smile spread across her face; was he this attentive with all of his patients? Indeed, she had found the ship’s surgeon charming: both his kind, professional manner at the infirmary as well as his playful banter as he escorted her back to her cabin.

  He was very European, but polite, gentle even; so unlike Faith’s quirky acquaintances in Paris with their dirty hands and coarse manners. And a world apart from her George! She frowned, remembering her husband, who was always the one to talk, never to listen. She picked an apple out of the basket and gave it a large bite. She should stop by the infirmary later to thank him. Perhaps she could even confide in him—this foreign physician so far removed from her hometown—about the nervous condition that ran on her mother’s side of the family. Maybe he’d have some sound advice on the matter.

  As she ate the apple, Constance turned her gaze toward the photograph of her daughters, which was propped on the dresser next to her powders. “Good morning, little ones,” she murmured to them. “Elizabeth, Mary, Susan,” she greeted each of them in turn.

  Constance had deliberately chosen simple, pretty names for her girls. Names that had no meanings, no destinies to fulfill. She imagined them on this lovely June day, playing in the garden and mussing their pinafores with wildflower fingers. They would be so very engaged—exploring under a stone, stalking ladybirds, their pace determined despite short legs. She smiled at her girls, then reached out for the photograph of George. She changed her mind, however, and left it on the dresser top, prone. Every time she thought about going back to Worcester she began feeling empty again. Empty, and a bit sick. Not knowing what words to use, she hadn’t even wired yet to tell them she was coming home.

  When she finished the apple, she felt a sudden impatience to be outside, to take advantage of the beautiful day, to see who might be on deck. She nonetheless chose her clothes carefully and applied a touch of carmine to her lips. After packing a small tote with a book, one of the doctor’s bananas, and a mousseline scarf in case of wind, she donned a broad-brimmed hat to shade her face from the sun. At the door she hesitated, then went back to her trunk and shuffled through the jewelry in the top drawer until she found the ring Faith had given her.

  One of her own creations, it was a large rectangle made of colorful enamel squares, an inch-long stained glass window. It was meant as a peace offering; Faith had presented it to her sister on her last day in Paris, while reiterating that she would not be returning to Massachusetts. At the time, Constance had thought she would never wear it; so big and gaudy, it wasn’t her taste at all. But today, she felt like being someone new. She tried it on several fingers before leaving it on her ring finger, obscuring the thin gold wedding band. She held her hand out and admired it, then picked up her tote bag and left.

  Once outside, Constance found her lounge chair and made herself comfortable. With a rug carelessly thrown over crossed legs, she opened her book: a new novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles. It was the first detective story she’d ever read that was written by a woman. Thinking back on her brief conversation with Dr. Chabron, she wondered what he might make of that.

  Although she was fascinated by the crimes themselves—the sordid underbelly of life—mystery novels really appealed to her because she found them comforting. No matter how confusing or chaotic the story was, everything was ultimately explained, tied into a neat bow. All of the tiny, seemingly unimportant details were found to have great
significance and, like she’d told the doctor, it all came together at the end. Another one of the reasons she’d loved mysteries since childhood—and this she failed to mention to him—was because her maiden name was Watson. This had given her a great affinity for Sherlock Holmes’s kind doctor friend.

  After reading the first few paragraphs of the very British adventures of the curious little detective, Hercule Poirot, she became distracted, lost in her own thoughts. Had she not been on a quest to bring back an errant sister, had she been traveling for her own sake, she would have gone to England instead of France. Constance had always been attracted to English culture, from Wilkie Collins’s moonstone, to Jane Austen’s Mr. Darcy, to Pip’s sudden fortune in Great Expectations. It all seemed so proper, so civilized, so much more her “cup of tea.” It peeved her to think that she had crossed the ocean to no purpose—and had not even visited London!

  Almost wishing she’d gotten off the night before in Southampton, she looked out toward the water, their constant progress toward America, toward home. When they’d made the stopover in England, she found herself wondering yet again what had become of her first beau, Nigel Williams.

  A young Englishman from the unlikely sounding village of Leighton Buzzard, Nigel had come to Clark University to study psychology. Her father, Dr. Gerald Watson, became his major professor, helping him with his research on mood disorders. Constance found Nigel, who was altogether too thin, nonetheless appealing; she was immediately captivated by his charming accent and manners, his soulful gray eyes, his spruce appearance. He was a frequent visitor to the Watson home, at first to borrow books from his professor, then to join the family for meals, and finally, as Constance’s official suitor.