Read Chasing Sylvia Beach Online
Authors: Cynthia Morris
Tags: #literary, #historical, #Sylvia Beach, #Paris, #booksellers, #Hemingway
Chasing Sylvia Beach
Copyright © 2012 by Cynthia Morris
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events in the book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher.
Published in the United States of America by Original Impulse, Inc.,
P.O. Box 300044, Denver, CO 80203.
www.originalimpulse.com
“Daybreak,” from
New Collected Poems
by Stephen Spender, © copyright 2004, reprinted with kind permission of the estate of Stephen Spender.
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Morris, Cynthia.
Chasing Sylvia Beach: a novel/Cynthia Morris.—1st edition
ISBN 978-0-975-9224-3-9
Young women—Writers—Paris—Sylvia Beach—Fiction.
Exposition Internationale, 1937—Paris—Pre–World War II.
Booksellers.
Time travel.
Paris—Fiction. I Title.
2012902367
FIRST EDITION
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This novel is dedicated to
Sylvia Beach,
who believed in books and the
people who write them,
as do I.
Contents
SO MANY THINGS were out of place in the bookstore: the volume of Keats in the fiction section, the study of exotic butterflies tucked away in history instead of natural history, the stack of books slumped against the shelf, fated to lean for life. But the young woman in the back was the oddest. She slouched in a chair wedged between two bookshelves. Her face, pressed against the red velvet upholstery of the chair, had the tranquility of an innocent in deep sleep.
Nothing moved in the tiny shop. Famous authors held their gazes from photograph galleries on the wall. Tiny statues of General Washington and his staff guarded the front door, three men mounted, seven on foot, forever vigilant from the confines of their glass case. The books overran the room, piling up on tables and lining rickety shelves that covered every inch of wall space. Shakespeare oversaw it all, his wooden bust majestically dominating the mantelpiece.
The grandfather clock, carved of mahogany, began to chime the hour: seven o’clock. Underneath the sound, a click-click noise came from the back of the shop. A dog poked his nose around the curtain hanging in the back doorway, nudging it aside. He ambled toward the woman and sniffed her face. She stirred and batted at the breath that moved her light brown hair. The poodle leaned closer, daring a lick. She grinned sleepily and sat up, finally opening her eyes.
Her smile disappeared. She squinted as if trying to understand her surroundings. The bookstore bore the musty odor of all secondhand bookstores—paper, ink, dust, and fingerprints. Not a whiff of the orderliness of a chain bookstore. No computer for researching titles. The dog poked the woman’s shoe with his nose and gave a short bark.
“Who are you?” she asked. “I’m Lily.”
The black poodle beat his tail against the floor and when Lily stood, he rose with her. She patted his head.
“Where are we, pooch?”
The dog’s tongue hung from his mouth and he appeared to be smirking. Lily couldn’t match his enthusiasm. The hair on her neck tingled and she felt off, quite off.
“Thanks for nothing,” she said, looking around for clues. Her voice was loud in the hushed atmosphere.
Clearly this was an antiquarian bookstore, all the books covered in cloth or old-fashioned dust jackets. The atmosphere mimicked many of the bookstores she loved—overflowing, disorganized, a rich jungle for a book lover to hack into. But there were no bright paperback covers. No self-help books promising a perfect life in five steps. A rack of antique mass-market paperbacks was propped near the door. Lily paused to marvel at their pristine condition. They had to be worth a fortune, she thought. Like new, first paperback editions, dating from when?
She approached the desk, surveying its contents. A standing rack of rubber stamps. A pile of papers. A large notebook, its corners edged in worn brown leather. She ran her fingers over a brass inkwell and pen, then picked up a rounded blotter stained with ink. How quaint, she thought. Some nostalgic bookseller must have set it all up so people could get a taste of the era while buying their old books. Clever.
Picking up a rubber stamp, she turned it over and drew in a sharp breath. There, alongside a line drawing of William Shakespeare, was the name of the bookshop: Shakespeare and Company, Paris.
LILY SCANNED THE room again. It was just like the pictures she’d seen of Sylvia Beach’s famous bookshop in Paris. But how?
The dog became frisky, lowering his front legs along the floor and giving a few sharp yips. He darted toward Lily, jumping up on her and scratching her bare leg with his claws. She pushed him away and shook her head. Impossible. Someone had replicated the Paris bookstore perfectly and for some reason she was in it. She leaned forward to put the stamp back and caught sight of a paper calendar on the desk. Squinting, she tried to comprehend the date. No way, she thought. It couldn’t be. As she stared numbly at the calendar, a woman’s voice, deep and authoritative, came from the back of the shop, startling her.
“Teddy! What are you into now?”
The stamp fell from Lily’s hand and clattered to the desk. The sound of footsteps descending stairs came from behind the half-closed curtain. Panicking, she turned to look for her purse, and some papers spilled to the floor. No purse anywhere! She caught sight of the capped sleeves of her jacket and realized that she wasn’t wearing her own clothes.
What the . . .
? The dog nosed the papers on the ground, growling playfully now.
“Teddy, what are you doing?” The voice was closer. The dog paused, looking toward the curtain at the back of the shop.
Gathering the mass of papers from the floor, Lily threw them back on the desk and rushed to the entrance. Teddy scampered alongside and gave a short, excited bark. “Shhh,” she whispered, fumbling with the handle. She nudged the dog aside and opened the door. The bell at the top of the doorway rang. She stepped outside as the footsteps drew nearer and pulled the door closed behind her.
Lily froze. She turned and peered into the shop, her hand still on the antique brass knob. There stood a woman dressed in a white blouse and dark skirt, with brown wavy hair just above her shoulders. The scene framed itself in Lily’s mind with startling clarity. The woman looked exactly like photos she had seen of Sylvia Beach. The dog, his nose pressed against the glass, wagged his tail as if he had adopted her. The knocker on the door, a brass head of Shakespeare. And her hand, her very own hand, holding onto a piece of the world that all too vividly resembled the past. A shiver raised the hairs on Lily’s neck. It wasn’t possible!
The woman peered through the glass and gestured as if wiping clean the window. “We’re closing,” she shouted. “We open tomorrow at nine thirty.”
Lily swallowed. Could it be Sylvia Beach? She backed off the steps and bumped into a man rushing past. He turned and tipped his hat but didn’t stop. A signet ring on his finger caught Lily’s eye, the evening light glancing off the gold. “Watch where you’re going,” Lily muttered more to herself than to the man. Her eyes followed him down the street passing other pedestrians.
It took a second before Lily realized that it wasn’t just the shop that was old—everything was. The man, now at the end of the street in front of an old-fashioned pharmacy sign, the people, all dressed like the woman inside the bookshop . . . it was Paris, but an older Paris: the buildings dusted in dark soot, the street paved with cobblestones instead of asphalt, a young boy in a cap and shorts propelling himself down the street on a scooter, the smell of carbon in the air. She turned slowly and saw the woman who looked like Sylvia Beach turn the sign that said Closed. Lily looked up. There, in large letters on the wooden façade of the building, were the words “Shakespeare and Company.”
Lily stumbled away and leaned against a giant doorway next to the shop. Pressing her face to the painted wood, she tried to get a grip. Just then, the bookshop door opened, the sound of the bell accompanied by the rattle of windowpanes. Sylvia—yes, it was certainly the Sylvia Beach she had seen in pictures—emerged with the dog. As Sylvia turned to lock the door, Teddy sniffed the air and wagged his tail. Trailing his leash, he jumped off the steps, headed straight toward Lily, and started barking. She shrank against the doorway, gesturing for the dog to be quiet, but he just kept yipping and dropped his forelegs to the sidewalk. Sylvia finished locking up.
“Teddy! Come back here, you dirty, bad boy!” she said, her stern voice tinged with a smile. Teddy stared at Lily, tongue out, before trotting back to his mistress. Sylvia grabbed the leash, tousled Teddy’s head, then headed away from the shop.
What in the hell?
Bewildered, Lily began to walk.
I’ve been reading about Sylvia Beach and now here she is. Right here. Right now. This is crazy. It can’t be. It’s just not possible.
She searched her memory for the last thing she remembered but her mind was too confused to find anything.
She reached the end of the street before she realized she’d been walking, mumbling, trying to understand. Catching sight of herself in a shop window, Lily stopped, stunned.
Her reflection revealed not Lily from 2010 but someone who appeared like a young woman from the 1930s. She wore a skirt that hung mid-calf, with a matching jacket, a neat white blouse buttoned to the top, and Mary Jane shoes. Lily glanced down, sure that she’d seen a mannequin in the window that looked like her. But no, touching the skirt, straightening the lapels of the jacket, feeling her feet snug in the shoes, this wasn’t a mirage. She stared at her reflection, seeing only herself: the same wavy brown hair, a little disheveled, wide blue eyes, and an unmistakable look of terror on her face. Lily whirled around, searching for an answer. But the street was nearly empty, and she found no clues in the limestone buildings that loomed over her. A rush of dizziness overcame her. After a few seconds, she snapped to.
I’ve got to get a grip
, she told herself.
This can’t be real.
Wavering at the Place de l’Odéon, she wondered where to go. The theater dominated the small square, the French flag fluttering at the top. The rush of the urban evening eddied around her. Men in suits and fedoras zoomed past on bikes. Women strolled by, most of them wearing skirts like Lily’s with blouses, jackets, and stylish hats that cupped their heads. People clustered at tiny tables at the sidewalk café at the corner. Timeless Paris, gritty and elegant, swirled past, indifferent to her plight. Lost in wonder, she tripped over the curb and nearly fell, as if the city was tilting.
Hands on knees, she smoothed her skirt, trying desperately to focus and think. She stared at her Mary Janes. Whose shoes were these? The black tips appeared scuffed, as if they’d been worn awhile. But by whom? She glanced around furtively. Two women brushed past, ignoring Lily completely. After a minute, the dizziness passed. “Holy mother-of-pearl,” she mumbled. “I better keep moving.”
She entered the stream of foot traffic and continued around the curved sidewalk. Moving through this Paris, an earlier version of the one she knew, felt surreal, like she was walking in a film set. Everything, not just the buildings, was old. The signs, the cars, and the clothing were all like pictures she had seen from the thirties. Trees guarded the street, their thin trunks encircled with wrought-iron collars. Lily paused to look at the pastries in a shop window. Croissants and giant tarts with spinach, ham, and cheese huddled on racks. Hunger gripped her stomach. Did she have any money? She had no purse, no notebook, nothing to write with . . . nothing. A wave of panic overtook her. She had no money, no phone, no way to buy anything or contact anyone. She forced herself to keep walking.
At rue de Vaugirard, she waited for the light and, in a daze, watched the traffic zoom by. Round black cars careened down the street on thin tires, passing the Luxembourg Palace as if in a race. A taxi came within inches of Lily, the driver sounding his horn. The braying honk startled her out of her stupor, and she jumped back from the curb.
Two men speaking French moved past Lily and into the crosswalk. Lily followed, her breath shallow, like when she returned to Colorado from sea level. Her world in Denver—her job at the bookstore, her father, her apartment, the familiar feeling of wondering when her life would really start—felt impossibly far away. And Shakespeare and Company? She’d been fascinated by the plucky American woman who had moved to Paris and opened a bookshop, and now here Lily was, around the corner from her shop. She had seen Sylvia Beach in person. How had this happened?
A memory surfaced: she was on an airplane headed for Paris. She tried to locate herself in a sequence of events after that but found nothing. Ahead of her, people flowed through the gateway of the garden. The Luxembourg Garden had been a refuge when she’d been a student in Paris. The quiet calm, the flowers and trees, all reminded her of her mother. Lily had passed hours in the garden with friends, strolling in the shade, lounging in the green chairs that dotted the pathways, watching French life unroll slowly in the oasis in the city. Now she joined the other pedestrians and entered the garden. Almost immediately, the familiar quiet soothed her.
Gravel crunching underfoot, she walked past the Luxembourg Palace and the Medici Fountain. The familiar wide paths, the neatly trimmed flowerbeds, and the tall plane trees all seemed so . . . normal. Only people’s clothing indicated that something was very odd. She found an empty chair near the fountain, dragging it along the gravel to position it closer to the edge. She sunk into it, grateful for the odd comfort and the chance to sit still and sort this out. She was supposed to be in Paris, the year 2010, attending a literary festival at the contemporary iteration of Shakespeare and Company. But now, somehow, she was in the past. Not impossible. Yet the feel of her wool jacket, the whisper of the papers falling to the floor in the bookstore, the sounds of the children playing near the fountain, the dog who acted like her new best friend . . . it was all very real.
Gripping the arms of the chair, she ticked off different possibilities. It had to be a joke. Or a movie, or a dream. Time travel? Ridiculous. The date she’d seen on the calendar in the bookstore was stamped in her mind: May 10, 1937. How could it be? Sweating, her mouth dry, she searched for something to grasp. Without her cell phone, she felt naked. She’d left it in Denver because she wouldn’t have reception in France. Back home she’d be dialing someone right away. Now there was no one to call. The bookstore, Sylvia Beach, all the people going about their normal day—it all tripped through her mind like a film on fast-forward. But it wasn’t a film. There was no doubt that the world around her was real. Valerie, her boss, would have an explanation for this. She was quick to assess situations and people.
It was eight hours earlier in Denver. Not even noon. The bookstore would be just warming up to the day, employees finishing their coffee, the buckling floors creaking under their steps. Would Lily ever walk the stacks there again? Would she ever see Valerie, her father, or Daniel again? She had a date with Daniel immediately following her return. But when would that be? Thinking of Denver only exacerbated her distress. Her mother would tell her to buck up. She sat up, determined to make sense of this madness.
She smoothed her hands over her skirt, made of light brown wool with pleats at the waist. It fell below her knees. The skirt fit her perfectly. Passing her hands over her waist, she found a rough piece of folded paper poking out of a pocket. It was money—a 100-franc note with the imprint of an altar in the middle: Banque de France. A handful of women and children leaned on an altar and gazed disdainfully out of the frame. She turned it over. On the other side another idyllic scene was depicted with a man in blacksmith garb, his hand on a hammer resting on an anvil, the woman carrying a cornucopia overflowing with vegetables. It was the very picture of French abundance and prosperity. Where had the money come from? Lily glanced around her. She almost expected a camera crew to be hiding behind the potted plants, watching her, recording her perplexity. But no one seemed to notice her until a thin man pulled up a chair next to her and sat down. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
Lily tucked the money back in her pocket and mumbled bonjour. She wished he would go away. Who knew what would come out of her if she tried to speak French now. And small talk? Forget it.
“Quel beau soir,” he said, tipping his fedora. She shook her head, waving a hand next to her ear. Her student year in Paris had given her near fluency in French, but time away had diluted her confidence. And because of her inexplicable situation, she didn’t feel safe speaking to anyone. It was better to be invisible until she had a plan.
The man scooted his chair closer to hers and opened his newspaper. It reminded Lily of her French professor at the Sorbonne warning her of
draguers
. Perhaps he was one of those sleazy men who preyed on young women lost in Paris. If she fixed her gaze on the little red flowers ruffling in the breeze, she could tune him out. The man didn’t appear concerned with Lily; instead, he flipped the pages of his newspaper, quickly scanning the articles. Lily saw a headline that mentioned Hitler and an increase in immigration from Eastern Europe into France. Of course. The war was imminent. A few years away. But Hitler’s actions were already causing ripples of fear across the continent. She closed her eyes. Think, she urged herself. Who had dressed her and given her the money? How had she traveled through time to arrive in Paris 1937 and not in her own time? Before getting on the plane to come to Paris, she’d been focused on getting ready for this trip that had been her father’s idea. Did he know she was in the past?
