Crossing on the Paris (40 page)

Julie gave each woman four kisses on her cheeks, then turned to go.

“
Au revoir!
” She waved from the door. “And thank you.”

Julie pulled the shawl around her, then plunged back down to the women's dormitory, at the bow of the ship, under the waterline.

At the doorway, Vera caught Constance's arm with just a trace of hesitation.

“Constance, before you go, I'd like to ask you to do something,” Vera said, her eyes serious. “Talk to the doctor again before you leave ship.”

Constance opened her mouth, then quickly closed it. She was unused to maternal advice.

“To avoid regrets,” Vera explained. “You need to have a proper good-bye. If not, someday in the future, you may find yourself wondering what might have been.”

Constance nodded at Vera, but didn't know whether she would be able to go through with it. She was mortified at her own behavior and no longer trusted his; she had rather been planning on hiding from him.

“Here, I'd like to give you something,” Vera added. “It might help.”

She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a fountain pen, a brown and pearl instrument that was far from new.

“I couldn't bear to throw it into the sea. I'm too sentimental, I suppose. Everything I wrote came out of that pen, you see. And now that I no longer have journals, I don't need it.” Vera smiled at Constance. “You may find that writing is a good way of dealing with your emotions, of safeguarding your dreams.”

“Thank you so much,” Constance said, blushing slightly. “It's a beautiful pen.”

“It was left to me by a stranger, so perhaps it's fitting that a stranger should give it to you.”

“You're no stranger, Vera Sinclair,” Constance said, giving her worn cheek a kiss. “But I don't know what I might write.”

“I tried to write the story of my life,” Vera said, her voice weary now. “But found truth to be extremely elusive. Well, good night, dear.”

“See you in the morning,” Constance said. “Sleep well.”

The instant she walked into her room, Constance spied the tulips. She untied the ribbon around the bouquet, recalling each detail of
her short-lived affair with Dr. Serge Chabron. His examinations in the infirmary, his gifts of fruit and flowers, the dinners and dancing, his accented compliments, the kisses and caresses. Constance examined the red, feathery flame in each tulip. George had told her once that those beautiful flames were, in fact, caused by a virus.

Feeling very foolish (what had come over her?), she wondered whether this was his secret formula. Did Serge always impress his pretty female passengers with a fruit basket first, followed by dinner with the captain, then invite them for a champagne supper in his quarters? Instead of betting on the vessel's cruising speed like the other men on board, she reckoned the crew bet on the doctor's swiftness! Perhaps those postcards (Niagara Falls, Mont Blanc) were keepsakes from former passengers, regretful notes about relationships that could not be.

“ ‘The Singular Affair of the Ship Surgeon,' ” she said out loud in a theatrical tone, making fun of herself.

Why? She shook her head crossly. Why does a restless, unhappy woman always imagine that thrill and adventure come in the shape of a man? After she'd left Serge's rooms and flattery, she'd then had a most fascinating encounter with two women: an alarming moment on a storm-tossed deck that somehow grew into an honest, heartfelt conversation in a beautiful suite. How easy it was to talk with Julie and Vera, both understanding and warm, despite their suffering.

Julie was right: love was a gamble. Serge had said that he didn't want their relationship to end with their arrival in New York, but how long might it have lasted? Another crossing or two? Wait, what was she thinking! She tossed the tulip back into the basin. Dr. Serge Chabron was beside the point!
She
was unavailable! It didn't matter whether he was a sincere bachelor in love or a rakish married man who had a fling on every crossing. She was never going to leave her family. George—the only father her children would ever have—would always be her safest bet.

Her eyes welling with tears, Constance opened the porthole and began throwing the tulips, one by one, into the Atlantic. She was not cut out for adventure; she did not need foreign freedoms. Constance
was
the steadfast daughter. Her place was in her hometown, near her parents, with George and the girls. She brought the last tulip to her nose and smelled it—it let off a vaguely unpleasant odor of waxy pollen—then flung it out into the sea.

The porthole still open, a cold, salty wind in her face, she considered throwing the enamel ring out as well. Constance imagined all the things thrown from these liners, all the rejected treasure slowly falling, drifting past white whales and giant squid, down to the murk below. She decided to keep the ring, a gift from Faith and a souvenir of folly.

She closed the porthole and only then began taking off her damp clothes.

For hours, Vera looked out the dark window, brushing her hair. At first she saw only her ghostly reflection; then, by shifting to the side, she was able to watch as the great storm finally expired, as the ocean became calm.

“Perhaps Neptune was appeased by my sacrifice,” she said to herself, delighting in the irony that the apparent heirs to her journals had surfaced only at the moment she cast them into the sea. No matter. She was finally at liberty to read another's words.

Vera crossed the room and pulled Charles's gift out of her carpetbag. On the table sat the chocolate cake, untouched; the three women had been too preoccupied to consider eating. Cutting herself a thick slice, Vera thought of those two young women, so full of spirit and promise. Bestowing them with the journals (at this age, she supposed, hers were literal “old wives' tales”) was nothing. If
only she could pass on to them her real knowledge: the wisdom gained from living unwisely.

Back in the armchair next to the window, she savored the bites of cake on her tongue: the bittersweet chocolate, the tang of apricot, the whipped cream, subtle and light. She hadn't really eaten since she'd fallen ill. Fluids! She'd had enough of them. Wishing young Max were there to share a piece with her—she could just see his small mouth, overly full and chewing merrily—she recalled his rapt expression as he watched the puppet show. Ah, my love, the Chevalier of Melancholia.

As she licked the spoon, Vera wondered again whether her story—Laszlo's story—would have been different had she not fled, if
they
had had a proper good-bye. Why had she thought the farewell note necessary? How dramatic she used to be!

At first, she thought it a terrible misfortune, a dreadful coincidence, to have met the Richters. But now, despite her grief and shame, she was rather glad. Not only had she learned the truth about Laszlo—which had put quite a few things in perspective—but she had seen his future in Max. Usually, Vera considered herself lucky with odds. Horses, backgammon, roulette. Perhaps, after all, this had also been a stroke of good luck.

Having finished the cake, she wiped her hands, then cleared her throat with some cold tea. She was finally ready for Charles's poem.

Her glasses in place, she ran a finger along the binding of the delicate little booklet. On the train to Le Havre, Charles had explained to her that, when he was twenty-one, he had met Constantine Cavafy in a Turkish bath in Constantinople. They'd had no problems communicating, as the Greek poet from Alexandria had spent part of his childhood in Liverpool. Charles did not elaborate on that encounter (he was always so discreet!), but he did say that, after all those years, they'd never lost touch. He had recently received this booklet in the post, privately printed for friends. For some reason, Charles had wanted her to have it.

She studied the frontispiece—
Constantine P. Cavafy. Poems. 1921.
—then opened the book. Vera reread the dedication with a sad smile, then noticed for the first time that it was twice inscribed; facing the table of contents, she found an affectionate remembrance from the poet to Charles. This made her grin. “What a rascal!” she thought, amazed Charles had not tried to rub out those sentimental words.

Though the slim volume only contained a handful of poems, she turned directly to the marked page, obviously the one Charles had wanted her to read first. “Ithaca.” She began to mumble the words out loud, to herself:

Ithaca

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,

Pray that the road is long,

Full of adventure, full of knowledge . . .

She stopped. Her throat was already too tight to read aloud, her eyes were beginning to blur. Oh, Charles. Were he not such a coward, so afraid of dying, he would now be by her side. Instead, she was alone with one of his books.

How Vera wished he were there to read it to her, this poem he had handpicked for her final voyage. His lovely voice had not aged, squeaking like an old rocking chair, but was still deep and melodic. She paused for a moment, closing her eyes to better capture the sound of his voice, then continued.

Pray the road is long.

That the summer mornings are many, when,

With such pleasure, with such joy

You will enter ports seen for the first time:

Stop at Phoenician markets,

And purchase fine merchandise,

Mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

And sensual perfumes of all kinds,

As many sensual perfumes as you can;

Visit many Egyptian cities,

To learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.

To arrive there is your ultimate goal.

But do not hurry the voyage at all.

It is better to let it last for many years;

And to anchor at the island when you are old,

Rich with all you have gained on the way,

Not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.

Without her you would have never set out on the road.

She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.

Wise as you have become, with so much experience,

You must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

Vera let out a great sigh. Dear, dear Charles. Yes, Manhattan was her Ithaca. And she had taken a long, zigzagged, wondrous path to get back there. New York . . . She wondered how Odysseus felt as he was finally reaching the shores of Ithaca; was he afraid his hometown would be tedious and dull after such adventures? That Penelope had grown old and stout? Vera fingered her rope of pearls, bought years ago at a port market during this lifelong journey home, and through teary eyes she wondered how much water still separated her from her island.