The Siren of Paris (2 page)

“Crossings for the gods,” Dora said, raising her glass to her friends.

After each one stood and proclaimed mockingly the number of times they had safely crossed the sea with the help of the gods, David stood. “I, David, have crossed the sea with the help of the gods thirty-two times.”

Nigel teased David. “Tell us your secret to such luck on the waves, old friend?” Dora sat back in her chair and cocked her head to the side. Marc noticed that David’s hand had a slight twitch to it, even as he strained to smile.

He looked out over his friends after a pause and said, “It is simple. I never sail British!”

“Here, here, my friends! A toast—never sail British!” Dora said, raising her glass to meet the other three. The gaze between David and Dora told Marc there was more to the toast than he could grasp.

“Now, let us dance.” Dora rose from the table as they left the Café Grill for the lounge. Marc followed Dora, her arms locked with David and Nigel, down the long staircase into the smoking room. Passing into the lounge, the air sparkled with the tune of
Now It Can Be Told
. Four fluted light pillars surrounded the dance floor, but only a few were dancing. In the four corners of the lounge, glass murals stretched the entire length of the walls.

While dancing, Dora asked Marc, “So, does she have a name?”

“Does who have a name?”

“The woman, silly.”

“There is no woman. Remember, I am single.”

“Marc,” her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head back to look up at him, “a young attractive man like you does not just run off to Paris for nothing. Either you are running away from a woman, or running toward one,” she smiled. “Maybe both! Am I right?”

“Her name is Veronica and we broke up this winter,” Marc said, his eyes glancing up and away toward the band.

“I see. And the other one?” she pushed.

“There is no other one. Besides, the breakup is really a blessing.”

“How so?”

Marc then looked back at Dora’s face as he warmed up to her charm. He reflected upon her charisma, which made her beauty all the more enchanting, even if she was in her fifties.

“I was a premed student and hated it, because, to be honest, I was only doing it to make Veronica happy. I think this change will be good for me. I have always loved art and this will be my choice. I let her make all my major decisions. It felt good, but it was not actually good for me.”

“Oh God, Marc, please be careful.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t think much will happen with Germany,” Marc said. He believed she had switched to the war talk he had read in the papers.

“I am talking about the women of Paris.”

Marc glanced at each corner of the room as he danced, quickly studying the massive panels of glass painted in gold, silver, and platinum leaf, with designs of ships, gods, and goddesses.

“A game?” Dora said, poking him.

“With you?”

“We will guess which one the other likes best,” she said, glancing at the murals.

“You go first.”

Dora pointed to the one called the
Birth of Aphrodite
, a collection of massive, tall ships, with a woman rising from the foam of the sea.

“You’re good,” Marc nodded, smiling.

Marc then pointed toward the one called
The Rape of Europa
. Dora shook her head side to side and then pointed behind Marc to a set of large pocket doors separating the lounge from the smoking room, decorated with a golden lacquer mural spanning the opening. Horses, women, and angels flew through the sky to catch stars and blow wind, a radiant golden sun at the noonday position in the sky.

“It is incredible. I have not noticed it before. Why this one?”

“The sun reminds me of hope,” she said. The band played a new number. “I think you really believe your story about art school,” she said, turning back to him.

“Oh, you think I am a shipboard spy?” Marc joked, matching her dry wit.

“That would be grand. Then you would know who you are and what you are doing. You are sexy enough to get secrets out of anyone.” Marc averted his eyes from her stare and glanced at the murals. Her tone turned serious. “Paris is not the place it might seem to be.”

“I know what you mean. I can speak fluently, and, besides, I belong there.”

“How so, handsome?”

“I was born there,” he said, with a nod.

Dora laughed out loud. “That explains this thick, dark hair.” She ran her hand over his head. “Marc, I was born in Baltimore, but I do not belong there. Paris is my home, but I am still an outsider, even after living there twenty years. You may be Parisian-born, Marc, but belonging there is another story.”

“What called you to Paris?” Marc stared into her right eye.

“A relationship. I thought it would solve everything.”

“Must have been some love?”

“I would like to think so.”

“Well, I think you are being a bit rough with me,” Marc said.

“What a nice idea, but that will have to be another time.” They continued to dance in the center of the floor between the frosted light columns. “Why did you want to leave Veronica?” Dora pressed Marc.

“Actually, she left me,” Marc said.

“You must have given her everything she wanted. Don’t answer that. I am sorry. I can be insensitive when I drink too much,” she looked down and then up, a blushing smile warming her face.

Dora held Marc’s hand as they walked over to David and Nigel talking with some passengers. “Ready to have a nightcap in the smoking room?”

“Brilliant idea,” David said.

They sat in the thick, brown leather chairs in a semicircle, Dora in the middle. Her back faced a giant golden lacquer wall mural. Their raucous laughter echoed through the empty room as they drank, smoked, and joked.

“Please, please, can we have a bedtime story?” Nigel begged Dora.

“Ah, how can I say no to my lovelies? I will tell you a bedtime story,” she said in her dry, nasally voice.

“Goldilocks and the Three Bears were in Paris.”

“Oh shit, they are so screwed,” David said.

“Hush, hush now.”

“Dora, is this going to be another Jewish tale?” Nigel said.

“And they needed to get a room, so Papa Bear, in German, asked someone on the street for a room. But the man said, ‘
Parler seulement francais
.’”

David’s and Nigel’s laughter filled the large room as passengers continued to dance in the lounge beyond the pocket doors. Marc could see his friends were drunk, but was amused all the same. The cocktail helped him to drop his guard for a bit.

“Mama Bear went to another and asked in Italian for a room, but got the same response. Then Baby Bear went to another and asked in English, but again, the answer was no,” Dora continued, never once breaking character.

Nigel continued to laugh. “Maybe they should have gone to Spain. I hear the war is now over.”

“Hush now, children. Please. This is a serious story,” Dora said with a small smile.

“So, Goldilocks finally says, ‘Fine, I will take care of this myself,’ and she goes over to another Parisian and comes back straight away and says, ‘Good news. We are staying at the Palace Hotel.’ The bears were amazed. ‘Goldilocks, what did you say?’ I just said in Yiddish, ‘Get me a room or I will close your bank.’”

David and Nigel broke into laughter. Marc found it amusing but was perplexed by the joke’s meaning. Nigel turned to Marc. “Never do this. It will not work for you unless you are in a little red dress with three bears. The French will blow you off.”

David could barely speak as tears streamed down his face. “Dora, I had no idea Goldilocks was Jewish. Who would’a known?”

Marc gave each of them a warm good night after Dora finished her story. The others headed back to their rooms, but Marc decided to take a walk. Before he left the smoking room, Dora caught him and said, “I am sorry if my story seemed a bit rowdy. I have had a bit to drink. I want you to keep in touch when you get to Paris,” and then pushed into his hand a small piece of paper. “I know you speak French very well, but it is important to have friends. Here is my number and address. It is not what you think, although I could use a young man. In all seriousness, I want you to know that you can contact me if you need a friend.”

“No problem, I understand, and I would like that,” Marc said, holding her hand.

“I never asked you where you will be studying,” Dora said, looking embarrassed.

“Oh, I am at Fontainebleau from the first of July to the first of September, and then I am not sure. I could be at the École Nationale Supérieure, or I might be starting at the Ateliers Académie Julian. I have not decided,” Marc said, his eyes lighting up.

“Those are wonderful schools, Marc. I can introduce you to my friend Sylvia Beach. She owns a bookshop called Shakespeare and Company,” she said. She smiled and held his hands.

“We can meet after the first of September, when you return to Paris. I can’t wait to introduce you to all the other lost Americans. Oh Marc, what do you need?” she asked.

“Dora, I have everything taken care of. I don’t need any kind of help, but thank you.”

“No, that came out wrong. I meant to say, what do you need to be happy?”

“I don’t know. Friends. Finding love would be nice.”

“You don’t know, do you? I know.”

“Oh, you need to get some rest,” Marc said.

“You need freedom. That is why you are coming to Paris. Freedom. I lied about the relationship. Oh, there was a lover, but my other lover, freedom, is what kept me in Paris.”

Marc began to chuckle and then kissed her on both cheeks. “Sleep well, my new friend,” he said. Dora turned and left for her cabin.

Marc walked out on the promenade, around the nighttime decks. The impact of his decision to leave for France rested uneasy in his mind as he leaned over the rail, looking out at the black sea. The smile he wore for the others had waned while he considered his choices. He continued his walk to shake off his doubts.

Entering through the doors to the upper aft foyer, he stopped in front of the bronze statue in the center of the staircase. He noticed that it was different from the one in the dining room. The bronze woman gazed forward in a proud and defiant pose, holding a wreath to one side.

Marc asked a passing steward the name, and he said, “
La Normandie
. She is France.”

“And the wreath?”

“For the fallen of war,” the steward replied as he continued toward the grillroom. Marc studied the statue, taking in its full presence.

Descending down the stairs, he walked slowly around the edge of the smoking room, studying each of the massive murals. One had peasants taking in the harvest; another depicted Egyptians on boats sailing the Nile. Marc took a chair facing the large mural of horses where Dora had entertained them with her story. Two men on horseback chased five other horses and had caught one with an outstretched rope. It rose from the floor to ceiling of the room, about three decks high. Though Marc’s eyes were heavy, he was not yet ready to retire, instead studying the mural, holding onto the sweetness of the evening, thankful he was not left to dine alone.

The lights of the
Normandie
blazed alone through the waves. Wind whistled through windows of the promenade. A couple left the main lounge to their cabin for a drink. The mighty
La Paix
stood faithful in the dining room as the lights extinguished one by one. Marc awoke to a steward in French, “
Il est tard, monsieur
. It is late sir, one thirty. You fell asleep.”

“Wait, my watch says twelve thirty,” Marc said.

“Eastbound, we lose an hour each night, remember?” the steward said.

“Oh yes, I forgot. Thank you for waking me.” Marc then made his way through the halls to his cabin and left the golden horses alone for the night.

In the morning, Marc could not help but notice just how few passengers were departing the ship at Cherbourg. He purchased his rail ticket to Paris and turned toward a long line of passengers waiting to board the ship heading westbound. The line of travelers wrapped out of the dock and down the street. Marc glanced at all the anxious faces as he made his way to the train station.

“M
arc, Marc,” a voice called out from the bustling Metro crowd. Marc turned, but could not see who had called his name, and doubted if it was even for him. As he turned back, he heard his name again. David emerged from behind a crowd of young school children.

“Shouldn’t you be out at Fontainebleau?”

“Hey, yes, I am heading back now. I came into Paris to line up my next flat,” Marc said, shaking David’s hand.

“Dora said the same, plus that she had been showing you off around town,” David said as the crowd of young school children moved around them.

“Ah, yes, the gang. How is Nigel?”

“Good. He is out of town right now on some banking business. I have been busy as well. I have a new supplier and have been lining up the contracts back in the States.”

“David, I need to catch this train.”

“No problem. When you are in Paris, we can meet up at Dora’s for a Sunday brunch.”

“You bet.”

Marc patted David’s shoulder and left to board the train that would take him to the southeast side of Paris.

On board, a woman moved through the cabin toward the rear, passing row after row of school children. “Are all you little ones going on a holiday?” she said as she passed.

“We are going south in case the Germans bomb the city,” a boy said, looking up at her.

“That is absurd. Nothing will happen, but you have a good trip all the same.”

After making a connection back to Fontainebleau, Marc spent the evening drawing.

“How was Paris?” his roommate asked.

“A bit tense. It appears they are sending the little ones out of the city.”

“The drama of it all. I bet that was the government’s idea. Always trying to convince us of the impending doom.”

“You think it is all a hoax?”

“Don’t you?”

A light breeze entered through the open windows of the third-floor life-drawing classroom the following afternoon of September 1, 1939. Marc could not quite figure out if the room at one time had been a drawing room, dressing room, or parlor. The gold leafing of the plaster molds was barely visible. The mirrors held cracks in the gilding. He knew it was not a valuable room; otherwise, it would never have become home to an art class. The entire school might be held within the servants’ quarters, but Marc preferred not to ask and instead allowed his imagination to run wild.