Crossing on the Paris (2 page)

His gaze traveled to her journal, which he picked up and thumbed.

“Are you writing today?” he asked, smiling at a doodle in the margin.

“No, I was just skimming through an old entry. The one about the horse races.”

“Ah yes.” He chuckled as he set the book down. “Our great victory at Chantilly. What was the horse's name again? Naughty Tweed?”

“Nearly.” Vera laughed. “It was Devil's Fool. But, come. Sit with me.” She took his hand and led him to the sofa. “I haven't seen you for ages.” Her eyes twinkled from their hollows; her grin was that of an adolescent. “That wouldn't mean that you have a new
friend,
would it, my dear?”

“Always prying, aren't you, love?” he said in mock exasperation, his eyes cast on the floor.

“You know me,” she said with a sweep. “Say, let's have Cook prepare us something truly exquisite this evening. Do you fancy bouillabaisse? Or perhaps coq au vin?”

“Oh, Vera, I can't stay for dinner. I've got other plans.” He shifted on the sofa, uncomfortable, still avoiding her gaze. “I just wanted to pop round to see how you are.”

“Then
look
at me,” she ordered.

He dragged his eyes up to hers, forcing himself to look; he was amazed at how much the illness had changed her face since his last visit, too long ago. He managed a weak smile, but was visibly relieved when Amandine walked into the room, stooped with the weight of the silver tea service.

“Let me help with that!” Charles jumped to his feet.

“You
can
eke out a few minutes for a cup of tea, I hope,” Vera said drily, arching an eyebrow.

“Of course. That is, if some of Amandine's chocolate biscuits are on offer.” He winked at the old servant, who gave him a look usually reserved for mischievous boys—that is, mischievous boys who are clever and good-looking.

Vera shot a glance at Charles while stirring her tea.

“I've been thinking lately,” she began, then paused, awaiting his full attention. She looked out the window; the Jardin du Luxembourg was empty and unappetizing in the rain. When Charles finally responded (“Yes?”), she finished her sentence. “About returning to New York.”

Charles raised his brow in mild surprise.

“Have you, then?” he asked.

“Yes.” She nodded. “I think perhaps it's time. After thirty-odd years here in Paris, maybe it's time to go home.”

“Permanently?” he asked.

“Well, at this age, what does that mean?”

He nodded silently and they both took a sip of tea.

Vera stole another glance at Charles, an easy feat considering he
seemed to be studying the weave of her rug. What a pathetic reaction he'd had to her news! He should have shot out of his chair, burst out laughing, or thrown a biscuit at her! The
idea
that she should leave Paris!

“When might you go?” His voice was steady, unemotional.

“Soon,” she said. “Summer? Perhaps earlier, if this bloody rain keeps up.”

“Paris won't be the same without you, Vera.”

He managed a swift glance up at her eyes, attempted another smile, then turned back to the floor.

“I need to run, darling,” he murmured. Indeed, he looked ready to bolt, to flee. “Amandine, get my coat, please.”

Amandine looked at Vera, who was sitting properly with her hands folded in her lap.

“
Au revoir,
Charles,” she said. Now it was she who could not look up.

“I'll be in touch,” he said, his hand glancing off her shoulder, the warmest touch he could muster.

After he left, she sat motionless. She could not believe it. Usually, Vera considered herself lucky with odds. Horses, backgammon, roulette. But, that day, she had wagered that her oldest, dearest friend would talk her out of leaving Paris. That he would argue that her place was there, near him; that returning to Manhattan was absurd, a terrible mistake. She would have agreed rather quickly, even if he had only reasoned that he selfishly wanted her by his side. She had gambled and lost.

The next morning, Vera Sinclair, still disappointed, wrote a handful of letters to America, to cousins and friends, then booked passage for June.

“Amandine,” she announced at noon, “we are moving to New York.”

Julie blinked repeatedly as she walked into the house; the poorly lit corridor seemed dark after the glare of the milky Le Havre sky. She listened for her mother but heard nothing. After a brief search, she found her propped in a kitchen chair, looking out the window at the ships docked at port.

“
Bonjour, maman,
” she whispered.

They had become a nearly silent family since the Great War, as if their losses had included their voices as well.

Mme. Vernet turned slightly toward her daughter, her only surviving child. As a form of greeting, she let out a small sigh.

“Is Papa here?” she asked.

Her mother shook her head. Julie supposed her father was out on one of his long walks by the shore. Or perhaps he'd gone to the bar for a solitary round of pastis. She debated a moment whether she should wait for him to share her news, but decided it didn't really matter. Her father had been even more absent than her mother these last three years.

“I've brought in the mail,” Julie said, exposing a single envelope in her small hand. “There's a letter here from the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique. I've been given my first assignment.”

Waiting for a reaction from her mother, Julie paused, nervously tapping the birthmark above her lip with the pad of a finger. Had she heard? She knelt down next to the chair to hold her mother's hands in hers. The fingers were splayed and wavy, twisted from arthritis. As Julie picked up her mother's hands, meaning to rub some warmth into them, she saw the photograph; her older brothers' portrait was snuggled among her skirts.

Julie looked down upon her brothers, dressed as soldiers, and called to them in her head: Jean-François, Émile, Didier.

“Pity there's not a photograph of Loïc in uniform,” she murmured,
then chanced a look at her mother's face. Her chin was shaking, her eyes tearing.

“I know,
maman,
” Julie said softly. “I miss them too.”

She sat at her mother's feet in silence. It was nearly impossible to remember now how their house had been before the war, cramped and noisy, filled with the cries and laughter of men. Mme. Vernet wiped her eyes with the cotton handkerchief that she kept tucked into the sleeve of her cardigan, always at the ready.

Julie finally summoned the courage to recall the day's post. She reached for the envelope and opened it again. She pulled out the letter there at the window, for her mother to see.

“It says I'm to ship out on June fifteenth, on a brand-new liner—the
Paris.
” Julie considered a smile, but decided it would be inappropriate. “Of course, if you need me here, I could refuse or get my assignment postponed for a later ship. Maybe—”

Her mother squeezed her daughter's hand with her own useless one, then opened her mouth. Her voice came out like a rusty groan from lack of use.

“Go,” it said.

THE LAUNCH

JUNE 15, 1921

“I'd better be reporting for duty now,” Julie said softly, though she did not move.

She glanced over at her parents, who had come to see her off. After a lifetime together, sharing heartfelt sorrows and homely meals, they had begun to resemble each other. Strikingly different when young, they now looked like kinfolk, with the same height and girth, the same stoop, the same wrinkles, the same frown.

Julie sighed, passing her small bag from one hand to the other, and looked around her. She reckoned every child from Le Havre was there on the dock that day waiting for the
Paris
to launch. She watched as they filled their eyes with the rich scene, and occasionally their hands: a fallen bun from one of the bakers' huge baskets; an overblown rose left after a florist had gathered his freshest wares; light strokes of dress silk from the Parisian ladies, so much taller than their own mothers.

Julie Vernet used to be one of those children. About once every year, a great ship was launched and the local kids loved being part of the festivities. They'd mimic the stuffy first-class travelers with
their cigarette holders and walking canes, and the foreigners, speaking funny languages. Clowning around in front of the photographers, they'd goad them into taking their pictures. A few little imps inevitably tried to sneak onto the ship, with the idea of stowing away and making their fortunes in New York.

When she was ten or twelve, Julie enjoyed running around the dock, collecting all the longest, cleanest pieces of streamers she could find. She would tie them like ribbons in her hair or wrap them around her fingers and hands, making multicolored paper gloves.

The first launch Julie could remember, at age five or six, she saw with her oldest brother. Jean-François held her hand so she wouldn't be lost in the crowd, and when they got close to the bow, he crouched down to help her spell out the name of the vessel. L-A P-R-O-V-E-N-C-E. He explained to her that, like Le Havre, Provence was on the sea. But there, it was sunny and warm all year-round; the flowers, he added, smelled so sweet, the air was like perfume. Years later, when she was a teenager, Julie would still see that ship in the harbor from time to time and think fondly back on that launch. By then, Jean-François had been killed in the war. Who would have thought that an ocean liner, despite its monstrous size, could outlive a big brother?

“Mama, Papa.” She looked at the small couple dressed in black. “I should be going now. I still need to put on my uniform.”

It was her first trip away from home; little Julie Vernet had gotten a job with the French Line and was going off to sea.

“That's right,” her mother said with a nod. “You don't want to be late.”

With no more words, they gave each other four light kisses, kissing air, kissing ghosts. She put her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the steerage gangplank. Making her way through the crowd, Julie absently bent down to snatch up a long green streamer and quickly wrapped it around her hand, glad to see there were other crew members who still hadn't boarded. Weaving
through passengers and locals, she was startled by a photographer's flash. Well, he wouldn't be taking a picture of her!

As she reached the ship, she saw a group of youngsters from her neighborhood, Saint François. Like tightrope walkers, they were fearlessly balancing on the fat mooring lines running from the ship to the dock, challenging one another to count the ship's countless portholes, bragging that their fathers had welded this bit or that. They looked up at Julie.

“
Au revoir,
Julie!” the children shouted, waving from shoulder to fingertip, jumping on the corded hemp.
“Bonne chance!”

Now, with her parents behind her, she allowed herself a grin—“
Au revoir, mes enfants!
Good luck to you too!”—then leapt onto the ramp. As Julie crossed the gangplank, she already felt a bit lighter. She was leaving behind the gray world of her family home, the nonlife of Le Havre, ready to start anew. No more wordlessness, no more emptiness. The water, clapping against the hull of the ship, applauded her arrival.