Chasing Sylvia Beach (4 page)

All the Classics.

The front windows harbored displays for books and maga-zines. Lily frowned when she saw the hardbacks haphazardly strewn in the case, like a party of books that had collapsed at the end of the evening, exhausted from holding up their propriety. Thin racks held chapbooks and copies of
Transition
magazine. Hardcover books with old-fashioned dust jackets littered the front window display:
Finnegan’s Wake
and copies of T.S. Eliot’s works, including
Essays Ancient and Modern
and
Collected Poems, 1909–1935
. The covers were maroon, blue, and deep green. Lily felt the urge to run her hands over the taut cloth and rescue the books from their heaps. The window displays at Capitol Books would never be in such disarray. Lily took pride in decorating the windows with carefully lettered signs and clever props.

Another handwritten sign caught her attention:

Friends of Shakespeare and Company:

Reading from the works of

Ernest Hemingway and Stephen Spender

By the authors

Wednesday, May 12th, 9:00 p.m.

A rush of excitement overcame Lily. She was invited to this reading. It was easier to imagine herself among the famous literati than to understand how she’d gotten here, with an invitation to this event.

Rereading the flier, Lily remembered a presentation she’d attended for one of her classes at the Sorbonne called “Meeting Hemingway.” Each speaker had shared something of the life of the author in Paris: his political commitments before the war, his passions, his work. No one had mentioned how he had gone from wife to wife, an unapologetic womanizer. Lily had wanted to join the rest of the world in admiring this manly hero, but the way he treated women was wrong to her. Still, Lily would love to meet the man himself. She could corner him and call him out on his philandering ways. She’d figure him out, the real man, and then be able to find inspiration from his sparse and powerful prose. And maybe she’d discover that same vitality in her own writing—if she ever put her stories to paper.

Now, by some magic, here she was, facing this poster announcing the real Hemingway, live, in person, in Paris. The possibility of seeing him sparked a desire, a deep need to write her own stories. It was a feeling she hadn’t had since her mother died. Tears welled up and she pressed her lips together.

A horn tooting startled Lily and she turned away from the window. A black taxi pulled up behind her, the driver waving with his cigarette. Lily shook her head and stepped away from the shop; the taxi wasn’t for her. Sylvia appeared in the doorway, the dog following. She locked up and hurried to the cab. Pausing at the door, she shouted to the poodle, who was standing alertly, staring at Lily.

“Teddy! Come, quick!”

The dog shook himself and ran to Sylvia. They got into the taxi and it bounced down the street. Lily’s only hope vanished around the corner. Dejected, she cried out, “What am I going to do? What am I going to do until tomorrow?”

Steps away at the bookstore next door, two women perused books displayed on the cart outside. The first woman glanced at Lily, who hovered nearby, worrying her hands. The woman spoke to her companion while assessing the books.

“You know, my dear, you took a huge risk preventing me from acting last night.”

The other woman shrugged. “But I trusted her. I knew she could manage alone.” She, too, peeked over at Lily, who appeared to be entranced by the storefront.

“Whatever. Now I’m eager to see more.” Adelaide, peering over her glasses, held a tome open, her finger tapping the title page. “Aha! Look, Louise. Balzac, 1840. Not a first, but still. This will surely please Diana.”

Louise leaned over, and after studying the page declared, “Yes! Perfect. Diana will love this.”

With that, they entered the bookstore.

DOWN THE STREET, Lily paused in front of a pharmacy and thumbed her ring. What to do? What to do? A horse pulling a wooden cart clopped past, the cart creaking under the weight of its load, the driver perched on a heap of coal draped with a burlap bag. All around her, Parisians blithely went about their business. The sounds of traffic grew louder as she approached the boulevard. Cars chugged in every direction, honking impatiently at slower drivers. Stationed in the intersection, a policeman waved his white baton in an attempt to civilize the drivers. Buses regularly released flocks of riders who quickly dispersed to the four corners of the square.

Lily stopped at the Carrefour de l’Odéon and envied the people sitting at a café. How comforting it would be to take a seat, order a coffee, sort things out. But she had no money. The realization struck her fully: she was penniless, homeless, with few options. She needed money to survive. A flush of panic raced through her, heating her arms, her neck, her face. Bracing herself, she spoke to herself sternly.
We’re going to figure this out. I can do this.
Paul’s face came to mind—her savior, the one person who’d been nice to her. Could she go back so soon? He was probably still asleep. And it wouldn’t do to encounter the shrew who’d turned her away yesterday; who knew what would happen if that woman saw her again.

Pedestrians moved impatiently around her, nudging her toward the boulevard Saint-Germain. The city’s noise was overbearing. A green and white city bus roared past, barely slowing to make a turn, honking a bike out of its way. A man wearing a cap clung to the railing at the back platform, swaying with the bus on the turn. Lily tried to think. Rubbing her ring calmed her. The oval opal, which flashed green and blue when the sun hit, never failed to catch people’s attention. Lily gazed at it and suddenly realized that the ring could save her. It had to be worth something. She could pawn it! It had been her grandmother’s, passed on to Lily’s mom. Even though her mother had never worn the ring, Lily was attached to it. She didn’t want to sell it, but she knew her mother would approve of her resourcefulness. She had no choice.

But where did one go to pawn jewelry in Paris? Maybe a jeweler or a pawnbroker like back home. And what would she say once she got there? Would she have to haggle to get a good price, as people did in America? In any case, she had a purpose: find somewhere to pawn her ring. She scanned the intersection. Where to begin her quest? She caught sight of the café on the other side of the street.
Why not ask those people on the terrace?

After fighting her way through the snarled traffic, she hesitated on the curb, watching the people sitting on the café terrace. A dapper middle-aged man read the newspaper. A young couple giggled over coffee and croissants, and an old woman with a boa offered bits of brioche to the dog on her lap. The sight of a young blond man writing in a notebook made Lily yearn for her own seat where she could sip coffee and write. But she had to focus. She couldn’t entertain literary fantasies now. Her survival was at stake. But none of the people seemed approachable, and she felt her familiar reluctance to bother people. Back in Denver, she’d rather figure it out herself before asking for help. Here, she had no choice. If she did this, she could be sitting at a café like a normal person. She took a deep breath and approached the man reading the paper.

“Excusez-moi,” she said. “Connaissez-vous un . . .” She hesitated, realizing that she had no idea how to say pawnbroker in French. The man squinted up at her from his paper. Lily continued, “. . . avoir de l’argent avec ma banque?” Blushing, Lily realized she’d said “to have money with my bank.” A bus pulled to a stop at the corner, grinding its gears. The man frowned, apparently unable to hear her.

“Je ne vous comprends pas, mademoiselle, avec ce bruit. Vous demandez quoi?”

Lily tried again, using the words people often used to beg for money on the Paris metro. They sounded polite.

“Excusez-moi. Je ne veux pas vous déranger. Mais, j’ai besoin d’aide. Je veux vendre ma . . .” Her plea for help was rolling along until she forgot the word for ring. A skirmish broke out at the intersection behind her, a courier with a bicycle gesticulating and shouting to the driver in the noisy truck. The man shook his head as if he didn’t understand her. He frowned and spoke quickly. Lily didn’t catch a word. She searched for help but there was no one except a waiter who lurked near the bar, flicking his rag against the brass railing.

“I just want to sell my ring!” she cried out, realizing as she said it how much she didn’t want to sell the ring.

No one on the terrace looked at her now. The dog growled from the old woman’s lap, and the waiter hurried out of the café, placing himself between his clientele and Lily.

“Veuillez arrêter d’importuner ma clientèle! On ne veut pas de mendicité ici. Partez!”

Her face flushed with embarrassment. She’d been scolded, taken for a beggar and asked to leave.

“Pardon,” she began. But the waiter would hear none of it.

“Partez ou j’appelle la police!”

The police! She stumbled back, bumping into another table, mumbling apologies. Stepping around the corner, she faltered near a doorway, shaking with embarrassment and anger. “Argh!” Lily muttered. She wanted nothing more than to destroy the calm of the French, to shatter the stubborn propriety that held everyone in their proper place.

“Excuse me, miss. Miss?”

A tall man in a suit with a navy blue ascot leaned over Lily, a frown on his handsome face.

“You all right? I heard you asking for help.” He spoke English with a British accent. It was the young man from the café, the one with the notebook.

“I’m okay,” she shrugged.

“I witnessed your nasty encounter with the waiter. They can be quite intimidating, can’t they?”

“I was trying to find out where I could pawn something. For my aunt,” she added. “But I think they took me for a beggar.” She shook her head.

“Well, stupid they are—you look nothing like a beggar!”

Lily blushed, pleased to finally have an ally.

“I need to find a pawn shop. That’s all I wanted.”

The man smiled at her. “Not to worry. I can help. A friend recently needed some money for two months’ unpaid rent. He found out none too quickly that the Parisian nightlife isn’t quite free. So he was forced to pawn some cuff links and other family trinkets, hoping that his father wouldn’t find out,” he said, winking.

Lily was heartened by his kindness. She leaned toward him.

“Where is it?”

“Rue des Francs Bourgeois in the Marais. Do you know it?”

“Yes, I think so. I know the Marais.” She knew the neighborhood but not rue des Francs Bourgeois. But she would find her way.

“Crédit Municipal is near the Église Notre-Dame-des-Blancs-Manteaux. You cannot miss it.”

Lily smiled at his heavily accented French. To cover her amusement, she repeated his directions.

“Rue des Francs Bourgeois.”

“It’s an honest place. Government operated, you know.” He winked.

Lily didn’t know how to respond to the wink. She giggled nervously.

“Thanks, thanks very much,” she said. She wished she had something more intelligent to say but she couldn’t muster a word.

He bowed. “At your service. You are American, aren’t you?”

“Of course!”

He smiled. “Well, my dear American, it would be my pleasure to see you again. Paris can be smaller than you think.”

“EXCUSE ME, OFFICER, can you tell me where I can find the Crédit Municipal?” Lily spoke in halting French to a passing policeman. He responded, speaking quickly and gesturing up the street with his baton.

“Only a few steps from here, mademoiselle, continue up this street, then look for it on your right. You cannot miss it. You will see a big door with a sign saying CRÉDIT MUNICIPAL,” he said.

“Merci.” Lily was fairly sure she understood what he’d said.

“It’s what I’m here for, mademoiselle,” he replied. He adjusted his cap and continued on. Finally, someone had given her a straight answer. She’d stopped two other people to ask directions. The first guy had offered to accompany her, but his smile had seemed more lecherous than kind. The second man cheerfully told her to go to her aunt. Lily had nodded politely, wondering if this was some sort of French humor. Was he a pervert? She had asked him again for the directions to Crédit Municipal, firmly pronouncing the name in case he had misunderstood her, and he had reeled off a series of directions, not mentioning the aunt this time.

Lily finally reached her destination. She hadn’t realized how tense she had been until the relief of arrival flooded her body. The route had been harrowing. Twice she had gotten lost in a Paris she no longer recognized. The streets and alleys were busier and more derelict in 1937 than what she knew from her student days. She didn’t feel safe, especially when she got lost the first time and had to pass through an alley where three decrepit-looking men lingered in the middle of the street, waving their cigarette stubs as they argued among themselves. They stared at her, and the short one made a comment that Lily didn’t catch but that made the others laugh. Safely past them and on a main street once again, her fear quickly turned to anger. Who were they to make jokes about her! The anger made her careless, and after returning to the same corner three times, she had finally surrendered and asked for directions from the policeman.

But now she was okay and soon she’d have money. She stood before the imposing façade of classical architecture. The enormous doorway loomed above her. Carved into the limestone next to it was “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.” One of the wooden doors was propped open, as if inviting Lily in. She peeked into the porte cochere, where nobles and bourgeois had once entered by horse-drawn carriage and were deposited in the honor court. A not-so-noble couple emerged from the courtyard, the woman dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Affixed to the wall near the door, notices in a glassed-in box announced upcoming auction dates in blocky art deco letters. Each auction specialized in a different category: Friday, jewelry was sold, the following Monday, small furniture.

Lily followed an elderly woman who entered as if she knew her way. They passed through a wide covered hallway lined with limestone columns. The hall gave onto a large courtyard surrounded on all sides by a three-story building. Lily paused, gazing up at the windows, wondering what went on behind the imposing façade. The old woman didn’t hesitate, disappearing into a door in the corner with a sign above it announcing Prêts sur gages. Lily followed, not sure what the words meant but hoping that she was in the right place.

She found herself in a large room. It was dimly lit, as if the workers were using only half the lighting to conserve energy. A row of windows behind bars, like those of a bank, lined the back of the room. A short fat man entered and passed her to get in line. She moved in line behind him. Lily counted five people in front of her and four people at the counters. No one in the line spoke. Lily imagined that everyone wanted to abandon their precious items as quickly as possible. From all walks of life, they would never rub elbows with each other without this painful problem of money that had them all by the throat. Her own hunger dug into her stomach after her long walk.

To pass the time, she studied the others. In the front was a young man in a cap and ill-fitting clothing, behind him a man in his forties sporting a rather bourgeois hat, followed by a demimondaine of uncertain age, a blue boa draping her neck, overdone makeup, and cheap fragrance that reeked of desperation. Behind the demimondaine, the old woman Lily had followed clutched her handbag to her breast and pressed a handkerchief to her nose. Directly in front of Lily, the fat man ducked his head under his hat as if wanting to remain incognito. And Lily was one of these desperate strangers.

The minutes dragged on. The men behind the varnished wood counter worked slowly, indifferent to the impatiently waiting people. Two others, a man and a woman, joined the queue behind Lily. The young man went to Window 3. From his pocket he removed a small canvas bag and presented it to the man working the window. The woman in the boa moved to the next open window, to the great relief of the lady behind her, who removed the handkerchief from her face.

Suddenly a tall man dressed in an impeccable chauffeur’s uniform and cap entered and approached one of the tellers, disregarding the customer at the counter. Everybody in line shifted, outraged at this audacity. The fat man muttered recriminations. Others voiced their disapproval.

“Who does he—”

“He thinks he has a blank check, that one.”

“In line like everyone else!”

After listening to the quietly stated words of the chauffeur, the teller got up and disappeared behind a door. The chauffeur left, passing the queue without a glance. A few minutes later, a man no taller than Lily entered the waiting room by an interior door. He nervously adjusted his suit, nudging his round glasses up his nose, his gaunt face tight with anxiety. A hush of anticipation overtook the room. Time seemed suspended as everyone alternated glances between the waiting man tugging his goatee and the front door.

Finally the chauffeur reappeared, carrying a black briefcase. This time he paused at the entrance, cap in hand, holding the door open. A haughty, elegant woman swept through. From behind a black veil hanging from her hat, she glanced around the room, her eyes resting on Lily for a moment.

“Who does she think she is?” muttered the demimondaine.

The man with the goatee hurried to the newcomer, bowing.

“Madame la Comtesse, come in, please. You should have called! I would not have received you in this place,” he said. “Please, come in.” He escorted her into his office.

He pulled open the door, bowing his head and clinging to the door handle. The countess removed an embroidered handkerchief from her pocket and, holding it under her nose, floated past them all and into the room. The driver followed with the black briefcase, and the little man scurried behind, closing the door with a click. A hint of the comtesse’s perfume briefly overtook the fetid air.

“Pfft!” exclaimed the demimondaine.

With that, the play was over and the waiting resumed. The sense of urgency, a desire to be done as soon as possible, reestablished itself on the queue. At last, Lily was at the front, practicing her script in her head, trying to find the correct French. She overheard snatches of conversation from the customers at the counter. Interpreting them, she became increasingly nervous.

“I have a certificate from a reputable jeweler in the Place Vendôme for this bracelet,” proclaimed the man with the hat, who was at Window 4.

“Can you justify a direct debit?” That from Window 2.

“You must complete the identification form to pawn your watch and receive the money that we propose,” from the teller at Window 3.

The old woman tucked a wad of banknotes into her bag, and, pressing it to her bosom, rushed away, leaving the window open for Lily.

Lily hesitated. Certificate? Proof of residence? Identity card? She had none of that. She had nothing but the card from the bookshop and her ring. How could she justify a direct debit? What address could she give? Certainly not 1640 Emerson Street, Denver. The address of Paul’s hotel? She didn’t know it. She didn’t even know where she would sleep tonight. A small whimper escaped Lily’s pressed lips. Behind her, people grew impatient, the queue already full of new faces.

“Are you going or not?” The man behind her voiced his annoyance.

Lily approached the window, twisting her ring. A fiftyish man sat behind the counter, his hair plastered to one side with hair cream. He peered at Lily from behind his bifocals. He wore black sleeve protectors over his white shirt, like a bank teller.

“Bonjour,” he said, as if it was a question.

“Bonjour. Je voudrais vous donner ma . . .” She lost the word for ring again, and pulling it off her finger, held it up to show him.

“Your bague. Bon, put it here.” He handed her a silver tray.

She placed the ring on the tray, the sound of metal ringing in her ears above the murmurs of conversation around her. She felt dizzy and swooned against the counter. The teller raised an eyebrow but Lily just nodded as if nothing were amiss. The teller pulled the tray through the grille. He jotted something on a piece of paper and tucked it under the ring.

“An expert will determine its value. Afterward I will make you an offer,” he said, raising his head. Lily nodded, trying not to look worried. He carried the tray to a long table in the back where men inspected the treasures brought before them. A man examined the ring with a jeweler’s loupe. He then weighed it on a small scale, and tapped the opal with a small metal hammer. He took his time inspecting the ornate gold band from every angle. These few minutes felt like forever to Lily, who had begun to sweat, seeing her ring in this man’s hands. Finally, he wrote on the paper and gave it to the teller. The teller resumed his position. He nodded at Lily and placed the tray with the ring and slip of paper on the counter.

“I can offer you 2,550 francs, mademoiselle,” he announced. “With the proper paperwork and your identity card.”

Lily wasn’t sure she heard him correctly, and the sum he mentioned rendered her speechless. She didn’t know the value of 2,550 francs in 1937, but it seemed like a lot.

“Alors? Are you satisfied?” The man prodded a response from Lily.

“Oui,” Lily whispered. He pulled a sheaf of forms out and dipped his pen in his ink bottle.

“Bon, I need your name and place of residence.”

“Uh . . .” Lily wasn’t able to get anything but that out.

“Oui, votre nom?”

“Lily. Lily Heller,” she stammered.

“Lili Elaire?”

Lily could feel his patience dwindling. “No, Heller . . . H—E—L—L—E—R.” She slowly spelled it out, pausing to make sure she was using the correct French letters. He wrote painstakingly while she watched.

“Adresse?”

“Uh, je n’ai pas,” she said, her French disintegrating as her nerves grew.

“You are in a hotel perhaps?” he suggested, poking his glasses up his nose. A tone of suspicion had crept into his voice. Lily didn’t know what to say. He pressed her.

“Well? At a hotel? At someone’s home? You are a foreigner, you certainly have a passport.”

Lily looked at him, her light blue eyes betraying her panic. She glanced at her ring, then back at the man, a foggy confusion overcoming her.

“Mademoiselle?” The man spoke gently. A long minute passed. “Mademoiselle?” pressed the employee.

No answer came to her. Her thoughts gunned through her head, increasing her anxiety.
I just want to pledge my ring—why this inquisition? Why these questions I have no answer for? What should I say?

Other staff behind the counter took notice of the awkward silence. Someone in the line behind her emitted a loud “Bah, alors!” Heat flooded Lily’s face. A glance confirmed that all eyes were on her. Employees, customers at the counter, customers in the queue watched her drama reveal itself. They whispered among themselves. She thought she caught the words “thief” and “police.” She couldn’t be interrogated. She had no answers. She just wanted to pawn her ring, that’s all. And that
Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle?
kept repeating in her head. She felt stifled, trapped, her ring already out of her hands on the other side of the counter and no proof that it was hers. She had to leave. She had to get out of there. She couldn’t deal with the police. In total panic, Lily stared at the cashier and he, too, was speechless, dropping the
Mademoiselle?

A woman’s voice, not one in the line behind her, said, “You’ll be fine,” and Lily snapped out of her stupor.

She darted her hand under the grille and snatched her ring from the tray. Turning, she ran past the stunned onlookers and fled into the courtyard, stopping only in the porte cochere to slip it back on her finger. She ran and ran, not knowing where she was going, pushing past pedestrians on the sidewalk. She finally stopped on a deserted side street and tucked against the wall.

Hidden in a doorway, hands on her face, Lily cried bitterly. She didn’t know what to do, or where to go. She felt terribly alone in the world.

“Why? Why?” she cried. Her throat tightened and she tried to fight the tears back. Why, when just before leaving Denver, things were starting to get better. Her job, a potential columnist position, Daniel. The thought of him made her cry even harder.