Chasing Sylvia Beach (24 page)

“What are you doing with my typewriter?”

Lily flinched. Sylvia didn’t sound happy. The bookseller loomed over her, a frown wearing a pattern of wrinkles around her mouth.

“I . . . I . . . ”

At Capitol Books, Valerie would have loved it if Lily had taken more initiative. She’d encouraged it. But maybe Lily had taken too much license here.

“That’s my typewriter. How dare you get it out and apply your grimy fingers to it.”

“Sylvia, I’m sorry. I was bored and saw the brochure you were working on. I thought you were having a hard time, so—”

“So you thought you’d meddle again.” Sylvia ripped the paper from the platen and pulled her lighter out of her pocket. Lily thought she was going to flame her writing. Instead, Sylvia put a cigarette between her lips, lit it, and squinting through the smoke, read Lily’s copy. Lily paced, as much to get away from the smoke as to work off the nervousness. She had almost finished reworking the paragraph about how events could help bring in new customers and encourage regulars to buy more books. She had itemized how sidelines—book paraphernalia, notebooks, magazines—can boost sales and attract a variety of readers into the store. Sylvia was already doing some of that, but with Lily’s modern spin she hoped they sounded more appealing. Sylvia grunted occasionally, and Lily couldn’t tell if they were noises of approval or disdain. By the time she reached the end, Sylvia was finished with her cigarette. She stubbed it out and put the paper down on the desk.

“You’re better at writing than I am,” she said. “I almost believe that these things could make a bookstore work.” She sat down, her tweed skirt riding up on her knees. A trail of varicose veins worked its way up the side of Sylvia’s calf. She seemed older than the fiftyish Lily knew her to be.

“I was trying to help, not hurt your feelings. Do you like it?”

A small smile appeared on Sylvia’s lips. “I suppose I do. I suppose I do. Can you type it up properly so we can use it and send it to the printer?”

Lily asked what “properly” meant, and soon the women were working on the brochure together. Sylvia showed Lily how to get the margins straight, and Lily pointed out ways they could incorporate some of Sylvia’s writing so it had her voice.

As they were working, a uniformed messenger came into the shop and held up an envelope in his gloved hand. “De livraison pour . . .”

Sylvia stood and held out her hand.

“. . . Lily Heller,” he finished.

Sylvia looked startled, her hand still extended.

Lily blushed. “That’s me,” she said.

The messenger handed her a cream-colored envelope upon which her name was written in blue ink. Lily slid her finger under the flap and pulled out a heavy card. It was an invitation to a party at the German embassy. At the bottom, in the same blue ink, was a note: “I will fetch you at 7 o’clock tomorrow. Yours, Heinrich.”

“Is that from your beau?”

Lily shook her head. “It’s an invitation from Heinrich. He wants me to join him at an embassy party.” At this, Sylvia raised an eyebrow.

“Have you a reply, mademoiselle?” the delivery boy asked.

“I’m not sure why you’d want to go,” Sylvia said.

Turning to the messenger, Lily said, “Tell him thanks. I’ll be ready.”

The boy nodded. Sylvia roused herself from her surprise and pressed a coin into his hand. He bowed slightly and slipped out the door.

“What do you think you’re getting into?”

“I don’t know. What do you think I’m getting into?”

“Lily, it’s none of my business, surely, but I am sure your mother would appreciate me looking out for you. I’d be careful if I were you.”

Lily swallowed. Here was Sylvia acting motherly. She wished she could tell her that it wasn’t for Heinrich that she was going. If only she’d gotten the book before Heinrich had, she wouldn’t have to do this. But she did.

“Thanks, Sylvia. But please don’t worry about me. It will be okay.” She knew it would be all right for Sylvia, but she wasn’t sure about herself. She could only hope for the best.

They worked in an awkward silence until it was time to close the shop, when Sylvia gave Lily an appraising look.

“You’re more helpful than I thought you’d be,” she said.

“I’m glad,” Lily said. “I want to help. I like to write, too.”

“Yes, didn’t you say something about being a writer?”

“Trying to be a writer. Trying.”

“What do you mean, trying? You either do it or you don’t.”

“Yes ma’am,” Lily said.

Sylvia asked what she wrote. Lily blanked. She hadn’t really written anything, unless she counted her florid notebook entries. She wasn’t sure whether to mention them or not.

“All my writing is back in the States. But I’ve been writing a lot in my notebook recently. Just some ideas.”

“Well, show me something. I’d like to read something that wasn’t an onslaught of persuasive writing.”

Lily grinned. “Thanks, Sylvia. I will.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY, Lily minded the shop. Sylvia had dashed to the Expo to oversee a delivery of magazines to her booth. Lily tried to avoid thinking about Heinrich and the book. Instead, she thought about the pages in her purse. She had written them out carefully, though her handwriting, big and loopy, was nowhere as neat as Sylvia’s librarian script. Lily had penned a story about the Hemingway reading and she was eager to show it to Sylvia.

She hadn’t slept well on the tiny cot, a draft invading from the courtyard. Sleep had been replaced by worry about the embassy party, how she’d get the book from Heinrich, what she’d wear, what would happen with Paul, what Sylvia would think. Finally around dawn Lily had drifted away, the weight of Lucky near her feet pulling her to sleep.

She neatened the shelves and made a mental list of books to read. She must at least try
Ulysses
. And Gertrude’s
The Making of Americans
. With a jolt she realized how many books would be lost to her if she were stuck in 1937. She’d likely be dead before the nineties. That is, if she survived the war, which wasn’t a given. Shaking off these thoughts, she stepped outside for air. Gazing at the wooden façade of the bookshop, Lily got the idea to tidy the window displays. They could use a good cleaning, she thought. She set to the project. When she had all of the books out of the window and stacked on chairs, she felt a moment of panic. What if Sylvia didn’t like what she was doing? What if she disapproved of neat window displays? She didn’t seem to welcome change but had come around to her brochure revisions. Teddy, who’d been tracking her every move, sniffed at a dead fly in the window.

She found a tiny whisk broom in the back closet and used a piece of cardboard to gather the cat hair and bug carcasses. She loved tidying up. At her bookstore back home, she had felt immense satisfaction using the hand-held vacuum cleaner to get rid of debris.

Once the window was empty, she began replacing things, rearranging the books in clever patterns, showing the spines, stacking them in ways that revealed the author photo, then the cover. She grabbed the red velvet pillow from the chair and placed it in a spot that wasn’t visible from the front of the window. If the cat decided to sleep on it, perhaps her tail would peek out around the books and entice passersby into the shop.

While she worked, she ran different scenarios about how she’d get the book from Heinrich to Louise. Would he have the book at the embassy or would she have to go home with him to get to it? How far would she go to get a book she herself wasn’t interested in? Finally, she popped outside to view the window, Teddy at her heels. It looked great, and standing in the Parisian afternoon, Lily wished Valerie were here to enjoy it with her.

Back inside, Lily sat at Sylvia’s desk to rest. She missed Paul and hoped he would come visit. Not a single customer had come in since Sylvia left. Lily pulled open the desk drawer. A wooden tray held paper clips, loose stamps, erasers. Tugging the drawer out further, she spied something toward the back: a slim black notebook nestled on top of some envelopes. Lily lifted it out. She hadn’t seen this in the library at Princeton. Printed on the inside cover was “Aid to the Bookshop 1935–.” Sylvia’s neat handwriting filled several pages. Two pages of names were listed under “Friends of Shakespeare and Company,” along with the amount the donors had given. Natalie Barney, André Gide, and T.S. Eliot were among them, as well as many French names she didn’t recognize. Pausing, she gazed out the window. She would meet these people if she was stuck in 1937 and had to stay at Shakespeare and Company. Lily had read about how Sylvia’s friends had banded together to save the store. Friends of Shakespeare and Company paid a fee and then got into readings for free and had other privileges. She had told Valerie about it, hoping they could do something similar to keep Capitol Books going. Valerie dismissed the idea, saying she already relied on the goodwill of the customers without asking them for more money. She was as stubborn as Sylvia. Now, Lily could be part of all that Valerie had dismissed.

The clock chimed the hour. It had been almost two hours since Sylvia had gone to the Expo. Heinrich would be coming for her that evening and she had no idea what she was going to wear. If she spent her money on a dress, she would have to get the rest of her cash from Paul. Without knowing how much Sylvia was paying her, she preferred that he be her bank, keeping her money safe. Lily put the ledger away and pulled out her notebook and began writing. She picked up speed, listing the problems she was facing: what to wear tonight, how to stay safe while surrounded by Nazis, how she was going to get home, the impossibility of time travel. Suddenly the door flew open and Hemingway barged in, setting the bell to jangle loudly and bringing a waft of crisp spring air. His cheeks were flushed and the beginning of a double chin cushioned his collar. Still, he was quite handsome.

“Ahoy!” he shouted at Lily. She caught a whiff of alcohol on his greeting.

“Ahoy?” A nervous laugh escaped her. Lily closed her notebook and held it on her lap.

He rubbed his hands together, scanning the shop as if casting about for something to seize. He filled the space in front of the desk and Lily realized that she and Sylvia were tiny, appropriately so for the cramped room.

“Sylvia’s not in. May I help you?”

“Read anything good lately?”

Since Lily had arrived, she hadn’t read much and strangely, wasn’t missing it. “Sadly, no,” she said. “How about you?”

He caught sight of the notebook on her lap. “Say, what’s that you’ve got there? You a writer?”

“I’m . . . you know, like, trying to write.”

“What do you mean, ‘like trying to write’? What a bunch of extra words! Let’s hope you don’t write that way. Let’s have a look.”

He held out his hand toward Lily. A surge of panic gripped her gut. She clutched the notebook tighter.

“Uh, no, thanks, that’s okay.”

He lunged forward and grabbed the notebook from her.

“Nice pad you got here. Not too nice, I hope. You don’t need anything fancy to write well. Let’s see . . .”

He opened the notebook. Lily leaped up. She came up to the middle of his chest. His small black mustache was only slighter longer than Hitler’s. She gripped the side of the desk, stammering, unable to stop him. She grabbed the papers she had so carefully written for Sylvia.

“Here,” she said. She pressed her writing into his hand, trying to grab the notebook. But he clung to the notebook, reading, engrossed. This was her big chance to get feedback from a real writer and all she wanted was to get her work away from him.

“Interesting,” he said. He stroked his chin and kept reading, ignoring Lily’s attempts to get it away from him. He could be reading any one of the vignettes she had written about her time here. The pages she’d written for Sylvia were more suitable for reading, less private. At one point he pulled back from the page and muttered, “Huh! You’ve got some issues with the run-on sentence. And your vocabulary—very creative. Hmmph,” he said, continuing to read.

Lily paled. Her lips shook and she fought the urge to launch a defense of her writing. She knew she had none. She clutched the pages meant for Sylvia behind her back.

“Still, there’s some interesting material here. You’ve got a vivid imagination.” He peered at her over the notebook and she smiled like that was a compliment.

“Thank you.” Lily nearly drooped with relief. He did like it . . . enough. She hoped he had not seen the most recent entry, where she had written about the deaths of those around them. She stepped closer. “Here, read this. You’ll really like this. I wrote this out for Sylvia to see, but she hasn’t had a chance to read it yet.” Lily grabbed the notebook and switched it for the papers. Hemingway took one glance at the neatly written paragraphs, scanned the first one, and threw it back on the desk.

“Nah,” he said, dismissing the work she had so carefully labored over. “The other stuff here,” he pounded his finger onto the notebook that Lily gripped close to her chest, “this is workable.”

Lily stumbled back and fell into the chair. Hemingway liked her journaling. Incredible. Later she would scan it all, rereading, guessing at what he could possibly have liked. She prayed he hadn’t read anything too revealing, like the part about kissing Paul. Or the feisty conversations she invented with Sylvia on the page, where Lily gave her all kinds of advice she would never speak aloud. Or about traveling in time from 2010. She swallowed.

“Thank you. Thank you so much! It means a lot that you said that.”

“Yeah, no problem, kid.” Hemingway cleared his throat and rubbed his hands again. “Work on that. Work it till every word glows. Work it till you can’t wring another drop out of the damn sentence, till you know it’s right.”

“Work it. Right . . . I’ll do that.”

“Okay, now. I’ve got to get some books. Need new material, new material.”

Lily tried to think of recommendations but the author already hovered near the fiction section, pulling books off the shelves. He was hyper, revved up by booze or his own trajectory of fame or God knew what. Lily sat, stunned. Hemingway had liked her writing. She really was a writer. He brought a few books to the desk and Lily wrote them down.

“Borrowing or buying?”

“Buying. I’m terrible about returning the books. But I’ll settle later with Sylvia.”

He grabbed his books and left the shop. Despite his fame, despite his compliment about her writing, Lily was angry he hadn’t paid. For as many friends who helped Sylvia, it seemed there were just as many who took advantage of her. She went to the door and watched him jauntily disappear down the street and around the corner. Looking the other way, she saw Sylvia coming. From afar, she appeared older than she was, walking slowly and with a slight stoop. Lily waited at the open door, excited to see Sylvia’s expression when she saw the window display.

Sylvia approached, glancing up and catching sight of Lily. She smiled and gave a little wave. But when she saw the display, her face fell.

“What in God’s name has gotten into you? What have you done to the window?”

Lily couldn’t tell if Sylvia was really mad or just posturing. Still frowning, Sylvia entered, Lily trailing behind.

“Do you like it, Sylvia?”

“First the brochure, now this. Did I ask you to move things around? What . . . did you think I wasn’t coming back?” Sylvia dropped her satchel and a parcel on the desk.

“I’m sorry. I should have asked first, right?”

Sylvia sighed. “I guess I should be accustomed to your impudence by now.”

“I call it initiative. I think it looks great!” Lily gushed. “I got rid of all that cat hair and the dead bugs. The books are easier to see . . . and with the magazines arranged like that, people will know about them and come in to buy them.” Lily glanced at the other displays she had hoped to reorganize. “I’m sorry if I overstepped—”

“You did, indeed. What moxie! I’d appreciate it if you keep to the tasks I assign to you.” She went back outside the shop to appraise the display. Glancing back and forth between the two windows, the one Lily had arranged and the one she hadn’t, her frown disappeared.

Lily went to the door. “Do you like it even a little bit? Are you really sore?”

Sylvia nearly smiled. “You . . . you . . . you bit of fluff. I can’t help but like it a little bit. A little bit. Don’t get any big ideas! I’ve been running this shop for eighteen years and I’ve done just fine without fancy window displays.”

Lily tried to repress her pride. A couple passed by and the woman led the man over to the display, pointing at the magazines. They spoke in French, discussing the new literature that was crossing the Channel. Sylvia came back into the store.

“You can do the other one if you want,” she muttered.

Lily grinned. “The same way? Should I do the second window in a different style?”

Sylvia waved her away. “Do whatever you want.”

Lily went outside to inspect the other window and to assess the possibilities. She’d done it. She’d given Sylvia something. For the rest of the afternoon, she rearranged the other window. It was much easier than the first, now that she had Sylvia’s blessing.

Lily put the final touches on the display. Now that her mark was on the front of the shop, she was more aware of people passing by. A woman paused at the windows. She wore a navy cloche hat and a tight-fitting jacket and skirt. Her waist was impossibly tiny. When she stepped into the shop, Lily noticed her tall heels, black leather with a strap across the instep. Sylvia, clad in her usual tweedy outfit, stood to greet her. The two women exchanged
bises
and hugged, a combination of French and Americans greetings.

“When did you have time to redo your windows? They look ritzy,” the woman said.

“Carlotta, you know nothing would get me to crawl into those windows. It was my assistant, Lily, displaying her American moxie and doing something without me.”

Carlotta glanced at Lily. “Well, it’s a good thing she did. Take a look at the gawkers.”

The women lingered near the pole in the middle of the room, peering out at the people on the sidewalk. A small crowd had gathered, two couples pointing at the displays and chatting. Lily could see it all: the shop’s popularity swelled with the addition of a few modern marketing techniques; Sylvia earned enough to pay her bills and take all the vacations she needed; and sales soared—all because of the perky assistant who was willing to make some changes.