Chasing Sylvia Beach (7 page)

LILY ARRIVED AT the Place de la Sorbonne without having noticed the route.
I must be on autopilot,
she thought. As a student, she’d gathered with her friends right here, around the fountain. They’d laugh about how their teachers wore the same clothes every day, and compare notes about how much French each of them actually understood. Lily claimed to catch fifty percent of what her art teacher said, but her friends teased her, knowing that she took cat naps during the slide shows.

Drawn in by her memories and the calm buzz in the courtyard, Lily lingered. Students clustered on benches, holding leather satchels, smoking and chatting. The men all wore suits, the women dresses or skirts and jackets. The clothing made everyone more formal and serious than when Lily was a student. The women styled their hair above their shoulders, curled back from their faces. Lily, with her naturally curly hair, was relieved; she could almost fit in with the look of the day. She was inspecting her skirt and wondering again how she’d gotten the clothes when she heard a voice nearby repeating a name. It took her a minute to realize that she was being called. It was Paul, from the hotel, at her side.

“Lily!” He pronounced it “Lee-lee.” “I thought I’d lost you! Why did you leave and not say good-bye?”

Lily shook her head. That had seemed so long ago. So much had happened since she’d slipped out of his room. She smiled up at him.

“Salut, Paul.” Before she could say more, he touched her elbow lightly and leaned toward her. She drew back before she realized he was just going to kiss her cheeks in the French style. He frowned and released her arm. Lily blushed and scanned the courtyard.

“What are you doing?” When Lily shrugged, Paul glanced at his watch. “I go to class soon. Have you had lunch?”

Lily shook her head, so Paul led her to a bench in the inner courtyard. Another memory arose in Lily’s mind, of sitting on one of these benches looking at her French language exam, all marked in red by the teacher.

Rummaging in his leather satchel, Paul pulled out a package wrapped in brown paper. “Do you want to share my sandwich?” He unwrapped the paper and revealed a baguette cut in two. She nodded and Paul handed her half.

“Merci,” she said. The sandwich was delicious despite its simplicity, the butter creamy, the ham salty, the bread just the right crunchiness. She didn’t eat meat at home but here, practically starving, she was grateful for whatever she got. They ate in silence for a few minutes before Paul spoke.

“What have you done today?” Paul asked.

She hadn’t accomplished anything. But she recounted her visit to the bookstore, missing Sylvia, and trying to pawn her ring at the Crédit Municipal. She didn’t have a chance to tell him about Emilie.

“Vraiment?” he asked. “You really went to ma tante?”

“My aunt? There it is again! What does that mean? Someone else said that to me and I thought he was a weirdo!”

Paul laughed and Lily joined him. “Weirdo? What’s that?” he asked.

“Someone strange, bizarre, not normal,” Lily said. She took a bite of her sandwich and realized those words applied to her and her situation.

“Well, to go to the Crédit Municipal, it’s also expressed by saying, when you want to put something on the nail, like your ring, you are going to my aunt,” Paul explained.

“The nail?” Lily was even more confused.

“Yes, put on the nail, that is to say, pledge your ring.”

Lily laughed, remembering that she had invented an aunt when she told the man who had helped her why she had to sell her ring. Thank God she hadn’t mentioned anything about nails.

“Where does the aunt part come from?”

“We owe the nickname of ‘my aunt’ to . . . some prince, a son of Louis-Philippe. To honor his gambling debts, he had to drop his watch at Mont-de-Pieté. Not daring to tell his mother, the Queen, who was surprised to see him without it, he used the excuse of having forgotten it at his aunt’s.”

“You French!” Lily exclaimed. “Everything goes back to some royal story.” She sighed. “I wish it had been an aunt. I might have had better results.” She told Paul that she hadn’t been able to complete the transaction. “I have no papers, no address. I only have my ring. I was really hoping to get some money for it.”

Paul sat up, looking at Lily more closely.

“Seriously? You have no papers? Nothing? Where’s your passport?”

Lily stalled by taking another bite of her sandwich. She hadn’t expected to see Paul so soon, so she hadn’t crafted a story to tell him. Chewing slowly, she glanced around the courtyard, still crowded with students smoking, chatting, laughing. For a second the scene was both normal and very odd to Lily. Then she realized what it was: no one held a cell phone to his ear. No one stared into a little screen cradled in his palm. The difference was startling to Lily, but she couldn’t tell Paul; he’d think she was crazy. She finished chewing and turned to him.

“I was mugged in the street. Right before I met you in your hotel. He . . . he took my purse. He was trying to get my ring but that’s when I got away and found you.”

“Oh!” Paul said. “You didn’t tell me you’d been robbed! That’s terrible!”

Lily nodded.

“Well, where are you staying?”

Lily shrugged. She set the last bite of her sandwich on the wrapper on the bench between them and looked at Paul. He gazed back, his look first a question, then a subtle understanding. It was like he knew not to ask any more questions.

“Bonjour, Paul!” A young woman simpering came up to them, clutching her briefcase to her side.

“Ah, bonjour, Clémence,” Paul said.

They spoke in French, ignoring Lily, who couldn’t take her eyes off the young woman. She wore a navy dress, belted and draped by a lightweight beige cashmere coat. Her hair hung neatly past her ears and her expression was bright and engaging. Clémence asked Paul something and he leaned over to rummage in his leather satchel at his feet. The woman turned to Lily and smiled the kind of smile that wasn’t friendly, her lipsticked mouth pursed, her jaw tight. Her eyes said something else: get away from him. Lily was shocked by the animosity that the woman emanated toward her. But she fixed the woman with her gaze, refusing to be cowed.

“Voilà, Clémence,” Paul said cheerfully, holding out a handful of scribbled paper, cutting the tension.

The young woman quickly turned back to Paul as if nothing had happened, flashing a different smile to him, revealing perfect white teeth. She took the sheets and tucked them in her briefcase. Then gesturing to leave, she said, “On y va, Paul?”

Paul shook his head. “Non, pas encore, mais j’arrive.”

“D’accord, à tout de suite!”

She glared at Lily again before joining a group of friends heading into the building. Lily, her hands on her thighs, felt ill, disturbed by the woman’s hostility.
What’s her deal?
she wondered.

Paul rose, smiling. “Bon,” he said. “I have to go to class. If you don’t have anywhere to go, would you like to come with me? It starts in a few minutes. It’s a lecture in the Descartes amphitheater. ‘Humanism and Romanticism in the Nineteenth Century.’”

“Sounds boring,” Lily couldn’t help but say.

Paul laughed. “It’s not, but if you get bored you can always leave. Or take a nap, though if you do, the professor will surely notice and may throw a book at you.” Lily gasped and Paul laughed again. “He’s been known to do that, you know!”

“Okay! I’ll pay attention,” Lily said. “It will help me practice my French,” she added, thinking that by now her comprehension was less than fifty percent.

“Allons-y.” Paul took her hand and the heat from his body traveled through Lily. She let herself be led by Paul toward the entrance of the building and into the hall packed with students.

Paul guided Lily through the hallways, weaving among clusters of students rushing to or from class, pausing several times while waiting for a group to move on. The crush of bodies and briefcases, the chaos of conversation, the heat of Paul’s hand all warmed Lily, making her glad to be inside and among others. Nudging their way through the crowd, Lily was forced to drop Paul’s hand, but she kept close as he navigated their way. Suddenly he stopped in front of a pair of massive wooden doors propped open. A pack of students blocked the entry and Paul sent Lily a reassuring look. “Here we are!” he said. They forged a path into the lecture hall. Lily followed Paul, saying “Pardon” when she bumped against someone.

Inside, rows of desks descended toward a platform. At the front of the room, a small blackboard hung below a fresco depicting people engaged in discussion. The room buzzed with quiet conversation and the creaking of wooden seats and benches as the rows filled with students. Lily followed Paul down the steps, pausing here and there, waiting awkwardly while he chatted with friends. A blond guy with a bright red handkerchief sprouting from his jacket pocket said something that made Paul laugh. He smiled and nodded at Lily as if including her, but Paul didn’t introduce them. Finally they slipped into a row on the side and took seats. He spoke to a serious young man next to him, who listened to Paul while straightening his already straight pens and papers. Clémence was seated near the front. Scanning the room, she brightened, catching sight of Paul.
She’s so pretty,
Lily noted, but just then Clémence spied Lily and scowled, erasing her beautiful expression. Lily scowled back, tossing her head as if to say, “What’s wrong with you?”

Students settled in, pulling out notebooks, pens, and ink bottles and arranging them on the desks. Paul didn’t pay attention to Clémence, busy getting his things out. Lily, glad to have a seat inside, observed the students fill the hall. Their boisterous chatting created a din that somehow comforted Lily. She settled into her seat and smiled at Paul, who returned it. For a moment, strangely, she felt like she belonged here, with Paul, in Paris.

A short, balding man entered at the front of room. He wore a goatee and a rumpled jacket, and to Lily, he resembled the art teacher she’d had at the Sorbonne. Placing his briefcase on the table near the podium, he began to unpack it. By the time he’d pulled out his notes and books, adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat, everyone had quieted down. He began speaking, and after a moment Lily relaxed, content to be in a safe place with nothing to do.

Two years earlier, almost to the day, in a similar room, she had struggled to pay attention to a lecture about the difference between Gothic and Roman archways. Passing notes with her friend Colleen and doodling in the margins of her notebook, her mind was occupied with her plans for after class, when suddenly she saw her roommate Janet rushing up the aisle, with a furrowed brow and somber expression.

“Your father called,” Janet whispered when Lily reached the end of the row. Immediately Lily’s stomach dropped. Her father never phoned. If calling was to be done, it was her mother who dialed. She rushed to grab her things and followed Janet out of the amphitheater.

Lily pressed Janet for information as they descended the steps into the metro. But Janet knew nothing other than her father wanted Lily to return his call immediately. They hurried to their apartment, where Lily fumbled through a hundred numbers on her calling card to dial home. A neighbor of her dad’s, someone Lily hardly knew, answered and passed the phone to her father. His voice sounded strange, garbled. But finally he got the news out. That morning, her mother had collapsed in the garden. A man delivering mulch had found her and called 911, but she’d died before reaching the hospital. An aneurysm had taken her life.

Lily’s throat tightened and she wiped away a tear, trying to focus on the professor at the front of the room. She wouldn’t lose it, not here in front of Paul. Paul paused in the midst of his note taking. “Tout va bien?” he whispered. She tried to compose herself, whispering back, “Oui.” But she wasn’t okay, and the memory of her mother’s death brought back her desperation about her situation.

The class droned on, but finally the professor finished his lecture and the students broke into conversation while packing their briefcases. Paul chatted with a few friends who had been seated in front of them, young men dressed like him, suits and ties and scuffed wing-tip shoes. The blond guy with the red handkerchief passed by and gave Lily an inquisitive look. Clémence, trailed by a pair of friends, paused and whispered something to Paul. Lily hovered awkwardly at the end of the row, suddenly aware that she wasn’t an anonymous stranger in a crowd but an interloper in an exclusive setting. They climbed the steps of the amphitheater. Students teemed around them, the hallway crowded and hot.

“On y va?” Paul said. He led Lily around the corner and they took a seat on a carved wooden bench. Lily leaned back, relieved to be out of the fray. Paul set his bag down and turned to her.

“Where will you desire to go now?” he asked.

Lily watched the people, like students of any era except for the formal clothing and carefully coiffed hair, move down the hall toward the entrance. She realized she had relaxed during the class and, until the memory of her mother resurfaced, had forgotten herself and her situation for a short time. Shrugging, she looked at Paul, then glanced away.