Crossing on the Paris (7 page)

At any rate, on the crossing over, Constance's company was widely in demand. When she and the other ladies weren't discussing her “mission,” as they called it, they indulged in the ship's many pleasures: shuffleboard games and table tennis, high tea and hands of cribbage. Constance parted ways with them in Southampton—Gladys and her friends were traveling to London—with hugs and tears, and promises to write.

This time around, however, she couldn't stand the idea of socializing. She had even paid the supplement for a private room, ignoring the steward's disapproving look as she was given one of the cabins typically reserved for bachelors. Not only had her mission failed, but she felt like a failure herself. When Constance thought of the poignant conversations (nothing more than gossip, really) she'd had with those ladies from Missouri (who were all rather drab, in retrospect), she felt like a fraud, not to mention boring.

Boring and conventional. After this trip, Constance, who knew herself to be beautiful, had never felt so old and dull. She remembered overhearing Faith laughing at her wedding, saying that if “a rolling stone gathers no moss, what will happen to a Constant
Stone? It'll be covered in thick green bracken before the year's out! A right bog it'll be!” Constance frowned at the memory. She had been married now for eight years, and Faith's prediction had come true.

Not that she would trade her staid life for what her sister had chosen. “Fée,” as she now called herself (Constance had assumed it was French for “faith” and couldn't believe it when she found out her sister was going by the name of “fairy”) was living in truly appalling conditions: no hot water, no indoor plumbing, no maids or help. Living on the fourth floor of an old building, they had to walk up steep steps, nearly always with bags and parcels, to reach the small, moldy flat, where the best room—the large one with French windows—was given over to Michel's studio.

Although it was small and their possessions were few, the place was not only dirty but in complete disarray. There were piles of books and papers on the floor, two divans covered in rumpled blankets and dirty clothes, footstools, broken lamps, tabletops jammed full of colored glass, small tools, beads, bottles of wine, coffee cups, and pipe tobacco.

Among this squalor, Faith, Michel, and their friends and acquaintances—a steady stream was constantly coming and going, stopping for a minute then staying for hours, with someone inevitably producing some strange bauble they would all gawk over—were bewilderingly content. And so busy!

During the day Faith worked on intricate pieces of enamel jewelry (where had she learned to do that?), odd pieces that Constance would have never worn but recognized as strikingly original, beautiful even. Faith always wore her own work—brooches, hatpins, earrings, pendants—and had even managed to sell some. Then in the afternoon, she'd run over to Montparnasse to model for various artists, who paid her as well as they could. It was not for her looks that they all wanted her to pose, she'd told her sister simply, but because she kept so still (unbelievable, Constance thought, unbelievable). At
night, they were always off with friends, drinking and singing in cafés, tasting an invention someone had just cooked, or enthusiastically talking about their ideas and opinions, well into the night.

Constance found it all completely exhausting.

Squinting at the sunlight piercing through the porthole, she felt a dull throbbing behind her eyes. She considered a nap but got to her feet, suddenly restless. She could hear people in the hallway—children's shouts and running footsteps, fragments of foreign conversation—and, in the quiet of her single room, she was pestered by the old-house creaking of the modern ship. Constance quickly rebuckled her boots, grabbed her purse, and left.

Strolling down the cabin-lined corridor, she noticed in passing that some passengers had already put shoes out to be shined for dinner. She hadn't even thought about it! What she'd wear, whom she'd be dining with, what strange French sauces and jellies she might be served . . . She emerged from the hallway toward the stern, near a cluster of small shops.

She lingered at their narrow windows. The tobacconist was showing an older gentleman an extraordinary variety of cigars; the florist was arranging evening corsages for dinner. She passed a drugstore with French perfumes in the window, a souvenir shop boasting tinted postcards and toy steamers, then stopped in front of the stationer's. In the window, there was a display of watercolor sets.

When she and her sister were young, Constance was always considered the one with creative talent. Not only had she written fairy stories and nature poems as a girl, but she'd also enjoyed a certain reputation as an artist among the family. In the summer of '10, when Constance and Faith had been sent to Aunt Pearl's house in Boston, it was she herself who had been praised for her work painting china pieces. Her aunt and cousins had marveled at Constance's steady hand and her ability to copy the pattern to perfection, again and again. Faith, on the other hand, had made such
a mess of it, she wasn't allowed to touch the paints for the rest of the summer.

She opened the door, tinkling its small bell, and marched inside the stationer's shop. The attractive woman behind the counter offered her a fetching smile.

“Good morning, madame. How may I help you?”

“Yes, I'd like a watercolor set and a sketchbook, please,” said Constance.

“Ah,
aquarelle
! You are a painter?” The shop assistant's eyes widened in admiration as she reached for various paint boxes to show Constance.

“No, no.” She shook her head modestly. “Just a dabbler.”

Thinking twelve tubes of paint sufficient, Constance selected the smallest box, then chose a thin pad with twenty leaves of thick paper.

“I think this will do nicely.” Constance smiled as she paid for her purchase. “I'm planning on designing patterns for porcelain dishes,” she added, pleased with herself. If Faith could make pretty things, by all means, she could too.

“It must be wonderful to have time to do such things.” The shop assistant sighed as she wrapped up the paint set and paper in thin paper.

Constance wondered whether she was being mocked. Was painting china frivolous, then? A boring pastime for matronly sorts?

“I hope you enjoy your paints!” She handed Constance her purchase, renewing her smile. “And the voyage!
Au revoir!
”

Constance gave her a quick nod and left the shop. She clutched her purchase to her chest and went out on deck; it was crowded with determined promenaders and the sun, glaring off the sea, was exaggeratedly bright. She closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her brow, hoping she wasn't getting a migraine. Completely out of headache powders (she'd needed her entire supply while visiting Faith), she decided to go to the infirmary.

A walk through dark, empty corridors felt soothing compared to strolling on deck. After several wrong turns—the repetition in the décor undid any reference points—she found the doctor's office. Entering the waiting room, she saw, sitting on the chair just opposite the door, the gray-haired maid and the old Scotty from the steward's desk. Next to them sat the withered lady with the smart plum-colored coat she'd noticed on the dock. Elegantly dressed but frail and worn, she looked like the ailing dowager of a defunct royal family. Perhaps this was Mme. Sinclair?

Vera Sinclair was waiting in the antechamber of the infirmary with her small entourage when a lovely woman came through the door, her perfect hourglass figure nearly obscured by last year's fashions. She watched as this young person, having detected her stooped form, at once straightened her back and pulled herself up to her full height, marking the difference between youth and age. An inefficient strategy for keeping Time at bay, Vera mused.

The new arrival sat down on the edge of the chair next to Vera, her posture stiff, and lay her purse and parcel neatly in her lap. They nodded politely to each other.

“Good afternoon,” they murmured simultaneously; Amandine and Bibi said nothing.

At that moment, the doctor came out of his office. He wore a white coat over his nautical uniform; his hair was neatly combed, his mustache dapper. He was an attractive man nearing middle age; still slim and youthful-looking, his face was decorated by delicate crow's-feet and graying temples. He smiled at the group of women waiting for him in the antechamber; his eyes lingered in appreciation on the younger one before he waved the older one in.

Vera observed that swift exchange—the doctor's keen approval, the woman's artless blush. She herself had never been impressed by
beauty of that sort. Her experience had proved that such a perfect outer covering usually contained a rather vapid interior.

She hoisted herself up and followed the doctor into the infirmary. Once inside, the surgeon closed the door.

“Good afternoon, Doctor. I am Madame Vera Sinclair. My physician in Paris, Dr. Edgar Romains, asked me to contact you.” Her French was formal and correct, but betrayed the accent inevitable to those who become expatriates after reaching adulthood, far too late to distinguish sounds with a child's ear.

“I am the doctor Serge Chabron,” he said with a bow. “Oh, and Madame Sinclair,” he added carelessly, “you can speak English with me if you prefer, if it is easier for you.”

A few years back she would have been insulted, found him impertinent. Now she couldn't be bothered.

“Quite,” she said, shifting to her mother tongue. “I suppose it is easier.”

He took her wrist to feel her pulse, staring at his watch. Vera's eyes moved tiredly around the white, windowless room, pausing on glass cabinets filled with little boxes and unpleasant-looking instruments. She detected the lingering smell of ether in the air. She had known men who breathed ether for pleasure, relishing the oblivion it provided. It was usually a question of loving the wrong person: one too young, already taken, or of the wrong sex.

“Are you feeling ill, madame?” he asked politely, although the question seemed almost rhetorical. Anyone could see her condition was serious.

“I am dying,” she said with a sad smile. “And I'm going home, back to New York. Rather like an old elephant, I suppose.”

“Dying?” he repeated, taken aback by her directness. “Is this what your doctor in Paris says? What are your symptoms? What is wrong?”

“I believe Dr. Romains's diagnosis is cancer in the breasts. It seems conclusive enough. As for symptoms . . .” She sighed. “Well,
at this point everything seems a symptom. When I get back to New York, I plan to call on an old friend, a physician, who has treated such things. But I realize there's not much hope.”

“Ah, madame, there is always hope!” His voice was so sincere, so encouraging, it made her sad.

“Well, like I said, my Parisian doctor, always the worrier, thought I should see you once the ship was under way. And now, onboard, I am hoping to enjoy the sun and sea air. What a dire, gray spring we've had in Paris!”

“Indeed, I wish you a pleasant voyage.” He smiled. “Sunny skies, salt air, deep sleep, wonderful food . . . A crossing can be so revitalizing. You'll arrive feeling ten years younger!”

“Wouldn't that be lovely! I haven't seen my cousins in years. The little vanity I have left couldn't bear for them to see me looking so weak and thin.” Vera held out her hand. “But I will go now. I should like to rest a little before dressing for dinner.”

“Of course, Madame Sinclair.” He took her hand and pressed it warmly. “And if you need anything during the voyage, anything at all, let me know.”

Vera was amused to see the doctor quickly checking himself in the silvered-glass wall mirror before opening the door. As he was ushering her out of his office, already offering the young woman in the antechamber a welcoming smile, a small girl in a dark uniform and white cap popped into the infirmary.

“
Monsieur le docteur?
” she asked, nearly out of breath.

Vera was struck by her appearance; her pale oval face, lovely on its own, was marred by a large brown birthmark. The old woman was instantly reminded of collecting eggs on her uncle's Connecticut farm when she was a child, her delight turning to disgust when she picked up what seemed to be a perfect white egg only to find a brown clump of chicken droppings on its underside. She looked briefly at the attractive woman, who had already risen from her seat for her turn with the doctor, then over at the girl. Letting her cane
slide through her hand to regain the floor, she slowly turned to Amandine, who was standing with Bibi, ready to help Vera back to her room.