Crossing on the Paris (37 page)

“I'm terribly sorry I'm late, Constance,” Serge said, presenting her with a handsome bouquet of tulips and a sheepish grin; he was still in his work clothes. “But the infirmary was so crowded today. It seemed for every patient I treated, four more would walk through the door!”

Constance took the tulips with a trembling hand. Now that he was there, next to her, she could no longer pretend he was just a pleasant companion, like those men in the bar. She peeked up at him with a slight blush.

“Thank you, Serge,” she murmured, shifting the flowers from one hand to the other. “They're beautiful.”

“You don't have a vase, do you?” he said, looking around. “I don't know what I was thinking. Here, I'll just prop them in the washbasin for now.”

His hand grazed hers as he took the flowers; she swallowed hard.

“Shall we?” he asked, turning toward her with an extended arm.

They walked down a long corridor to the front of the ship, where the doctor's quarters were found. The halls were empty; most people were already in the dining room or tucked away in their cabins, indisposed.

“I'm afraid the gala tonight will be nearly ruined by the rain and rough seas,” Serge told her. “Many people are feeling ill, which will make for a thin crowd. But also, when the weather is fine, they put fairy lights or Chinese lanterns out on the deck and the orchestra plays until dawn.”

“It really
is
too bad about the weather,” she replied, wishing for wit; at his side, it was so difficult to find words.

Passing under an arcade, she realized that he'd mentioned
dancing in the moonlight twice now; she could only assume that he'd waltzed until the wee hours with other female passengers over the years. Again, Constance wondered whether he had special feelings for her.

“Here we are!” Serge opened the door to his chambers.

They walked into a small sitting room, equipped with built-in shelves, a desk, a table, a plump armchair, and a two-person settee. The window was larger than the one in her room, a simple porthole, but tonight there was no view.

“Since this is the
Paris
's first time out, it's not quite home yet”—he shrugged—“but it's comfortable enough. Please, take a seat. As you can see, I didn't have time to dress for dinner—I was running so late—but I won't be a moment.” He bowed slightly and retired to the adjoining room.

Constance set her purse on the table but did not sit down. Rather, she studied his quarters, curious to learn more about him. She looked at his desktop. It was covered with thick glass, and he had slid some postcards underneath: Niagara Falls, Edinburgh, Mont Blanc. She noted his slanted handwriting on a neat pile of official-looking papers, organized in a fixed tray next to an elegant marble inkwell and pen stand. It was all screwed down to the wood. Indeed, the sea was much more noticeable here near the bow. She looked at the books on the shelves; among the French medical tomes, there were several works of fiction: alongside A. Conan Doyle, she found Poe, Balzac, Zola, and a recent edition of
Le Fantôme de l'Opéra
. Her finger trailed along the bindings. Serge Chabron was obviously a man of refined tastes, worldly, well educated, tidy.

She caught sight of a photograph poking out of the phantom book, as if it was being used as a bookmark. With a guilty glance at his bedroom door, she pulled the book from the shelf and opened it, hoping to find a picture of a boyish Serge. Would he be surrounded by a large French family, or perhaps in his military uniform?

Instead she saw a photograph of three small children. Constance examined them closely, their bright eyes and impish smiles, and guessed their ages to be similar to her own children. Were they his? She thought she could detect a family resemblance. With a sigh, she stuck the photo back in the book and dropped onto the settee. If she continued looking, she could probably find a portrait of a wife as well.

She'd suspected that Serge was not a bachelor—he was too handsome, too desirable to have gone unnoticed—but had never wanted to broach the topic. Silence speaks volumes, as they say, and he too had chosen to ignore his family. When Serge had arrived at her cabin door, brimming with charm and tulips, she had wanted to forget George and the girls, to pretend she was an unmarried woman, available for romance. However, after seeing the three children in the photograph—not unlike her own precious daughters—she didn't think she could. Should she leave?

Serge came back into the room, in his evening suit, his mustache snappy, his smile dashing.

“The waiters should be here any moment now,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. “I told them to come around nine.”

As he sat down on the settee next to Constance, she could smell a mixture of lavender soap and freshly applied cologne.

“With all the rush, I haven't told you how beautiful you look tonight.” He reached for her hand and gave it a kiss. “I took the liberty of ordering champagne. I hope you like it?”

Constance nodded politely, but, even more skittish now, she didn't trust her voice. She sighed in relief when their privacy was interrupted by a knock, followed by two waiters pushing a cart covered with a long, white tablecloth.

They put the brake on the cart, and one brought out champagne flutes while the other pulled out a bottle and popped the cork. Watching them set the table for two (was it her imagination, or were they giving each other knowing looks?), Constance made
the decision that, indeed, this would be a dinner between friends. Nothing more. She heard the doctor excuse them (“I'll serve, boys!”), and with a prompt bow, they left the room. Her mind made up, Constance already felt more at ease.

“À votre santé!
To your health!” He raised his glass up at her.

“Cheers!” she returned, and took a sip. The bubbles, cold and airy, seemed to clear her head even more. In a moment, she found her glass empty.

“Ah!” He cocked his eyebrow with a grin. “You
do
like champagne!”

Serge raised a silvery dome to expose a dozen raw oysters on a bed of lettuce. He picked one up and squeezed lemon on it (did it shrink and quiver?) and handed it to her.

“I'm sure there is a variety of cumbersome cutlery—tongs and so forth—one could use to eat these. But truly, the best way is with one's hands. Go ahead, now—give it a try!”

He watched her in amused expectation as she brought the shell to her mouth and sucked the oyster inside. It sat on her tongue, an unpleasant blob, until finally, with a sip of champagne, she took it like a large pill.

“As bad as all that?” Serge laughed at her expression, then quickly ate two or three. Wiping his hands on his napkin, he looked back up at Constance. “Tell me, what have you been doing today? What adventures have you had?”

Looking into his expectant face, she decided against telling him about her newly made friendships from the bar. She feared he would misunderstand (as if she routinely drank gin with a handful of men!) and think less of her.

“Oh, just braving the storm, like everyone else. Reading, mostly,” she said. “Which reminds me, I have something for you.”

She extracted the novel from her smallish bag, then placed it in his hand.

“I finished it today and wanted you to have it,” she said, returning
his smile. “As a souvenir of our friendship.” This last word she said with resolve.

“Thank you, Constance.” He immediately opened it to the front page, but found she hadn't written anything in it. “Could you dedicate it, please?”

“Of course,” she said. “Though my hand may not be too steady in this weather.”

With the dip pen from his desk, she quickly scrawled, “Your friend, Constance Stone.”

He read it with mild disappointment, then lit a Gauloise and thanked her again.

“This will prove invaluable on the voyage back to France. I have no doubt that I will enjoy reading this feminine mystery—indeed, women have always seemed rather mysterious to me!” he said with a light chuckle, then took a puff of his cigarette. “But, I must say, I like even more the idea that you had read it before me. That you had this very book in your hands,” he added, already nostalgic. “How I shall miss your company.”

“I've enjoyed spending time with you too, Serge,” she said quietly, catching her breath. She stared at his hand as he refilled her champagne glass; she didn't trust herself to look at his face.

“Some journeys are far too short,” he declared. “Did I tell you that, before the war, I was on the West Indies line? I loved traveling to the tropics in my white uniform on a white ocean liner, putting into port in Trinidad, the Antilles, Venezuela . . . Ah, Constance, how I wish that you and I were on our way to Trinidad right now!” He gently caught her chin in his hand, to make her face him, to look into her eyes.

“It does sound wonderful,” she murmured, then remembered herself. “Um, shouldn't we eat a little something before the gala?”

“How right you are!” he said, pulling off other shiny domes, and began preparing plates: cold sliced ham, deviled eggs, white asparagus.

He gazed over at her again, then dropped the dish on the table, shaking his head.

“Constance, around you, I can hardly think of food,” he said, sliding next to her, letting their legs touch. “Just looking at you . . . Did you know your features are perfect?” he whispered, stroking her cheek. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Serge,” she began nervously, but he brought his fingertips to her lips, delicately closing her mouth.

“I don't want our arrival in New York to end this,” he said. “But tonight, our last night together on the
Paris
 . . .”

His hand found the nape of her neck and brought her to him. As his fingers wove into her hair, he nuzzled her ear, then found her lips. He kissed her with playfulness and passion, gentleness and force. A warm electric current went through her, relaxing her while putting her on edge; her body throbbed: her breasts, her thighs, her belly. Although she wanted him to continue, she backed away, breathless but determined.

“Serge,” she repeated, a half-hearted reproach.

She sat up and shakily reached for her glass, her mind racing for an appropriate topic of conversation. She needed to make small talk until they left for the safety of the party, the crowd. After taking a slow sip, she wedged herself into the corner of the sofa. Dizzy—from the champagne, the ship's roll, the tobacco smoke mingling with perfume, his heat—she struggled desperately for something to say.

“Do you think this rain will end before the party?” she finally managed, stuttering politely.

“Ah, Constance, I must say”—he took her hand with a heaving sigh—“I'm enjoying our little party à deux. Having you all to myself.” He raised his glass to her: “To Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty.”

He pulled her into his arms, kissing her expertly. Wobbly, she closed her eyes with a soft moan; his hands tentatively began exploring
her ample breasts, her soft hips. She was returning his kiss, his fire, when the photograph came to mind. Not the one of those unknown children, but the one of her own. In that picture she knew so well, her daughters' innocent smiles began to shift into grimaces of confusion, fear, disgust. She pulled away.

“No, Serge,” she said, almost in tears. “I can't.”

“But, Constance, I'm crazy about you! And I know you feel the same way about me.”

“I'm sorry,” she said as she got up. “I truly am.”

She stood in the open door, steadying herself on the frame, breathing in the fresh air. The chill of the night was already casting off the champagne haze. He remained on the settee, still too excited to move.

“Don't go, Constance!” Serge called out.
“Constance!”

She turned to him from the doorway.

“Exactly,” she said, then walked away.

The steerage workers' noisy entrance into the women's dormitory—harsh laughter rendered their words unrecognizable—woke Julie up from a hard sleep. The dinner shift was over. Groggy, the taste of rank mold in her mouth, she sat up slowly, feeling like she weighed a thousand pounds. As she got up to go to the bathroom, she noticed the other girls whispering and sneaking glances at her. Julie's uniform, after sleeping in it, was thoroughly wrinkled and fell askew. The other girls neither teased her nor greeted her. Their leader, Simone, was absent.

After splashing her face and rinsing her mouth, she drifted back into the corridor. She didn't want to go back into the dormitory; the steerage girls' rejection and the others' indifference made the bunk-lined room a hostile territory. Julie thought again of Nikolai. Since that first morning on board, still in the docks of Le Havre,
he had been friendly to her. He had pursued her, wanted her, claimed to love her. She thought of his love notes, torn and crumpled under her pillow, his necklace against her skin. Had he merely been a few hours late?