Moonlight Over Paris (14 page)

“Would a knight of old ride into battle without his armor? Of course not, and neither shall we.”

L
ater that same week, at the end of a busy and satisfying Saturday in the studio, Helena and her friends had an early dinner at Chez Rosalie. At eight o'clock they went their separate ways: Mathilde and Étienne made for the Raspail Métro station, while Sam and Helena set out on foot for her aunt's house. After only a few hundred yards, however, he steered them across the boul' Mich' and onto a quieter street.

“Where are we going?” she asked, not particularly concerned.

“To Gertrude Stein's.”

“Why didn't you tell me? If I'd known, I'd have worn something nicer. I've got paint on my shoes.”

“Trust me—she won't care or even notice what you're wearing. And I only just thought of it now. I ran into her on the street earlier in the week, and she asked me where I'd been.”

“How do you know her?”

“A few writer friends we have in common.”

“Will I know anyone else?”

“You might. We won't stay for long. Half an hour at most. Make sure you get an eyeful of the paintings in the salon while
you can, because Miss Toklas will drag you into the kitchen with the other women right off the bat.”

“But why would Miss Stein . . . ?”

“She likes to be the center of attention, and you're both beautiful and interesting. That's why.”

They walked on for another five minutes or so, and presently they turned left onto an even narrower and quieter street. “Here we are,” Sam said, and he led them through a set of wide metal gates, across a darkened garden courtyard, and to a door at its far end. His knock was answered by a maid, who took their coats and hats and led them into a very large room.

The salon was long and high, with a large table, piled with books and papers, at its center; at the far end was a fireplace around which a number of people were seated. There were no electric lights, only candles and oil lamps, and at first it was hard to discern much more than the rectangular shapes of the paintings crowding the walls. But then Helena's eyes grew used to the gloom, and shapes and colors leapt from the frames, and she
saw
.

There was a Cézanne portrait of his wife, and what looked to be some of his watercolors, too; a half-dozen paintings by Matisse, among them his
Blue Nude;
and a few more by Juan Gris, she guessed, as well as other artists unfamiliar to her. Most thrilling were the Picasso paintings and drawings and collages, so many she couldn't keep count.

To the right of the fireplace hung a portrait by Picasso of a dark-haired woman, her expression grave and inscrutable. Beneath it, perched on an old wooden chair that rather resembled a throne, was the painting's subject, Gertrude Stein herself. She was dressed in a shapeless skirt and coat of brown corduroy, and her graying hair was piled rather messily on top
of her head. Her smile, as they walked forward and she recognized Sam, was warm, and reached her dark, expressive eyes.

“I told you I'd come for a visit,” he said.

“You did, and I'm happy to see you,” she answered, shaking his hand as regally as Queen Mary herself.

“Miss Stein, this is my friend, Miss Helena Parr. She's attending classes at the Académie Czerny this year.”

“Good for her.”

Of the group of men seated around Miss Stein, only one bothered to get up and say hello. He was young, with a heavy mustache that couldn't quite hide his ready smile, dark hair swept back off his brow, and bright, inquisitive eyes. He and Sam seemed to know each other, and he shook Helena's hand with a grasp that left her knuckles aching.

A firm hand took hold of her elbow. “Why don't you come with me, Miss Parr? I'm Miss Toklas.”

And that was that. Miss Stein resumed her conversation with the clutch of young men who surrounded her, and Helena was escorted to a gray and rather damp kitchen, where several other women were already gathered around a table.

Miss Toklas introduced Helena to everyone so quickly that she failed to catch a single name, and then directed her to sit in the only vacant chair. After fetching her a cup of dishwater tea and some delicious little pastries, Miss Toklas returned to her seat at the end of the table, took up some embroidery, and led the other women in a desultory conversation that revolved, in the main, around the scarcity of fresh fruit in December and the poor health of several relations back in America.

“Hello,” said the woman at Helena's left. “I'm Hadley Hemingway.” She had an American accent and was very pretty, with hair the color of a new penny and a wide, ready smile.

“How do you do? I'm Helena Parr.”

“Are you here with your husband?”

“Oh, no. He's a friend. I mean, I'm here with my friend. Sam Howard. Do you know him?”

“I do,” she said, her expression brightening. “He and my husband are friends.”

“Is your husband at the
Tribune
as well?”

“No. He was with a Canadian newspaper, but he's given that up so he can work on his novel.”

“Do you write, too?” Helena asked.

The question seemed to take Mrs. Hemingway by surprise. “Me? Oh, no. I'm not a writer. I—we—have a little boy. John, but we call him Bumby. He's just over a year old. Taking care of him and Ernest fills my days nicely.”

“I'm sure it does,” said Helena.

“Are you visiting France, or do you live here?”

“I'm living with my aunt while I go to art school, so a bit of both, I suppose?”

“And how do you know Sam?” Mrs. Hemingway asked.

“Through mutual friends. Sara and Gerald Murphy.”

The mere mention of Sara's name prompted a broad smile from Mrs. Hemingway. “We're friends with them, too. I'm surprised you and I haven't met before now. Isn't Sara the nicest person?”

“She is,” Helena agreed. “She has, well, I suppose I'd call it a knack for friendship. She and Gerald both. And I—”

“Are you enjoying your tisane, Miss Parr?” It was Miss Toklas, her raised voice instantly stifling the surrounding conversations.

“I am, Miss Toklas. And the pastries, too. They are delicious.”

Her hostess smiled thinly at the compliment but made no attempt to continue their conversation; in any event the table was a long one, and a sustained discussion would have been impractical. It was rather a relief to be seated so far away from Miss Toklas, for her downturned mouth, pinched expression, and sharp, knowing eyes were unsettling, though not precisely malign. Perhaps she was shy, or unhappy at having to entertain strangers. Perhaps she would have preferred to sit in the salon with Miss Stein and the men.

Helena was about to resume her conversation with Mrs. Hemingway when a knock sounded at the kitchen door. It was Sam.

“Sorry to interrupt, Miss Toklas, but I'm taking Miss Parr away now.”

“Leaving so soon?” she replied, as unblinking as an owl.

“Sorry. I have to head over to the paper. I didn't want to interrupt Miss Stein—will you pass on my regards?”

Helena whispered her thanks, said good-bye to Mrs. Hemingway, and made her exit with alacrity, although she did draw out the process of putting on her coat and hat so as to have a few more moments to admire Miss Stein's paintings.

“Was it worth it?” Sam asked as soon as they were back on the street.

“It was, if only to see all those paintings.”

“I wasn't lying. I do need to stop by the paper. Do you want me to drop you off at home, or would you like to come along?”

“I'd love to see where you work, but I don't want to get in the way. Not if you have work to do.”

“I don't. I'm waiting for a cable from the States, that's all. And it'll be a far sight less exciting than Miss Stein's. Just a roomful of sad-faced hacks and their typewriters.”

They found a taxi on the rue de Vaugirard, and only after Sam had given the driver the address did Helena realize she'd no notion of where they were going. “Where is your office?”

“In the ninth, not far from the Opéra.”

“I don't know why, but I'd assumed it was on the Left Bank. I hadn't realized it was so far from where you live.”

“It's only a couple of miles. Takes no time at all to walk. Better than being cooped up on the Métro or a tram.”

“I suppose. Before I forget—who was that young man who shook my hand? Tall, quite young, with a mustache?”

“That's Hemingway. He used to write for a Canadian paper, but I think he's working on a novel now. At least he says he is. Just had some short stories published.”

“I sat next to his wife in the kitchen. She was very friendly.”

“Everyone loves Hadley.”

“Have you read any of his stories?”

“Only the one so far. I liked his writing but not the story—does that make sense? Miss Stein likes him, though.”

“What about your writing?” she asked. “Are you still sure you don't have a novel in you? I remember our conversation, you know. On the beach that day.”

“Sure I'm sure. I know because of men like Hemingway. I look at him and I can tell he has a fire inside—I can see it, and so can everyone else. I'm a better journalist than he'll ever be, but I'll never write like he does. It's the truth, plain and simple.”

“Don't you wish you could?”

“Not really. We can't all be Shakespeare. Although . . .” His words trailed away, as if he were hesitant to hear them aloud. “I've thought about trying for a dayside job. Working as a correspondent for one of the big American or British papers.”

“Is that what interests you?” she asked, truly curious. “Foreign affairs and politics and peace treaties?”

“Of course it does. It should interest all of us. Fascism is on the rise across Europe—just look at what's happening in Italy with that clown Mussolini. Germany has been beggared by war reparations, and if history has taught us anything it's that desperate times breed desperate men. Where do you honestly think Europe will be in twenty years?”

“I hadn't, ah—”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to lecture you.”

“You didn't, and if I've learned anything in the past few months it's because of your articles. Have you inquired after any positions?”

He shook his head. “I want to, but it isn't that simple. I—”

The taxi pulled to a stop just then, and by the time he'd paid and helped her out of the car the moment was lost. She would have to ask him again, and perhaps even press him on the subject if he proved reticent.

Sam led them to a modest entrance at the corner. “Most of the building is taken up by
Le Petit Journal,
” he explained. “They get the grand entrance on La Fayette and we use the tradesmen's stairs out back. Watch your step—there's hardly any light in the foyer.”

The newsroom was on the third floor, behind a door marked “Archives,” and was surprisingly quiet. She'd expected to see people rushing about and perhaps shouting at one another, but only four men sat at the central bank of desks, and the arrhythmic click-clack of their typewriters was the loudest noise in the room. The air was blue with smoke, with most desks anchored by an overflowing ashtray at one corner, and one of the men had an open bottle of Scotch whisky at his elbow.

“Look lively,” Sam said to the men at the desks. “I've brought a lady in for a visit.”

They smiled at her, every last man looking as if he'd just rolled out of bed and onto his desk chair, and one by one they came forward or reached across their desks to shake her hand.

“Gentlemen, this is Miss Helena Parr. Helena, these are my fellow deskmen. Fraser, Blochman—you've met them before—and here's Small and Calmer. Where's Paul?” he asked of no one in particular.

Blochman answered with a roll of his eyes. “He was howling at the moon earlier. Last I saw he was sleeping it off in a booth at Gillotte's. It's a quiet night, though. We'll be all right.”

“Planning on joining us there later?” asked Fraser.

“Not tonight. I'll see you tomorrow. Just came in to fetch that cable. You remember the one I was talking about?”

“It's probably on Darragh's desk. Nice meeting you, Miss Parr.”

Helena followed Sam to a fantastically messy desk at the far end of the room and stood by as he rifled through a towering stack of paper. Not far from the desk was a round table heaped with newspapers, all much fatter than the slim, eight-page European edition. She wandered over, curious, and saw they were day- and week-old copies of Paris and London papers.

“Keeping an eye on the competition?” she asked.

“Borrowing from them, more like it. Only our front page is written in-house. The rest is rewrite and filler. Mainly from the Paris papers, but we plug the gaps with whatever comes in from London and New York. Here—let me show you something.”

He pulled a cable form from a wire basket and handed it to her. She read it, her incomprehension growing with each puzzling word.

GENLPLUTARCO ELIAS CALLES OATHTOOK OFFICE PRESIDENT SMORNING ADNATL STADIUM MEXCITY STOP PRES CHEERED PAROMNI GLADSOME CROWDS COLORFUL CEREMONY ATTENDED AILINGGOMPERS ETAMERICAN REPSLABOR STOP ELN PRESCALLES SECURED CUMSUPPORT LATAMUNIONS FUT DTF UNRATIFIED YESTERYEAR BUCARELI TRTY STOP

“What on
earth
is this?”

“A cable from New York. They cost a bomb to send, so we've developed a sort of language to shorten them. ‘Cablese,' we call it. Do you want me to translate?”

“Yes, please. It can't be in English.”

“It is, after a fashion. Let's see . . .

“‘General Plutarco Elias Calles took the oath of office and was sworn in as president this morning at the National Stadium in Mexico City. Thousands of onlookers cheered the president in a colorful ceremony that was also attended by an ailing Samuel Gompers and American labor representatives. The election of President Calles, which was secured with the support of Latin American trade unions, has put the future of the as-yet unratified year-old Bucareli Treaty in doubt.'