Chasing Sylvia Beach (8 page)

“You can stay in my room if you want. I work tonight and there’s no problem to stay there. Except we must hide you from my mother, who wouldn’t like it at all!” He grinned and a flush of heat passed through Lily.

“The woman at the hotel is your mother?” Lily found it hard to believe that sweet Paul was related to that old crank.

Paul laughed. “She’s fierce, but I think I can protect you.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.

“Bah!” Paul said. “It’s settled.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to go to the library to study. Come with me?” Lily nodded. Even if she had somewhere to go, she didn’t want to leave Paul. She liked the simplicity of trailing him through his day. A glimmer of guilt pulsed through her. What about Daniel? She’d felt this way about him, too—comfortable, interested. But they’d only been on one date and she may never see him again. Her thoughts became more confusing and she tried to focus on Paul.

They made their way down rue St. Jacques and Lily asked him about his studies. He told her about his courses and that he would finish his law degree in June.

“And what then?” Lily asked. “What will you do when you’re done with school?”

Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps I take sabbatical and travel, to see the world. But I have to think of my mother. I can’t leave her alone to run the hotel. It’s complicated,” he sighed.

Lily wanted to know more, like where he wanted to travel and what he wanted to do while there. But they’d arrived at the library, an imposing limestone building that spanned an entire block. It wasn’t like any library she’d seen at home. Across the street, the Pantheon dominated the square, its dome enormous. Once inside the building, they found themselves in a regal marbled entryway. Pillars supported an arched ceiling, and along the wall, imposing busts watched over the students hurrying in and out.

They ascended a short flight of stairs and Paul led Lily into a giant hall lined with wooden desks. Lily tried to stay calm but the library’s beauty stunned her. She’d never come here as a student. She stopped at the entrance: the massive curved ceiling, the giant arched windows along both sides, the carvings in the arches, the oak desks with their lamps with green glass shades, the people hunched over, reading, writing, whispering quietly. She followed Paul until he found two empty chairs together. He put his bag on the table to secure their desk.

“What’s this place called?”

“Bibliotèque Saint-Genevieve,” Paul whispered. “Come on. I need to find some books for my research.”

Bookshelves lined the walls of the hall, and they went together in search of the books he wanted. The enormous room, the quiet, the smell of books—aging glue and linen and a slight whiff of vanilla—made Lily feel both at home and homesick for the bookstore in Denver. She shook off the homesickness and stayed close to Paul, who was studying the shelves, his forehead creased. She was grateful for his help. Without him, she’d still be wandering around on the street, and it felt much better inside the library.

He found what he was looking for, and Lily grabbed a book off the shelf, too, just to have something to look at. They returned to their seats, weaving their way between the aisles. Paul settled in and began to turn the pages of a large volume bound in burgundy leather. Lily opened her book. It was a scholarly critique of Icelandic sagas, in French. She closed it. Next to her sat a young woman dressed much like Lily in a wool skirt and blouse. Her jacket was draped over her chair and she leaned forward, elbows on the desk. Lily eyed her leather satchel, her stack of notebooks, her leather pencil case, zipper open to reveal a handful of pencils. The woman took notes, using a striking fountain pen with a gray-and-red-swirled barrel and gold nib.

After a while, Paul closed his books and pushed his chair back. Glancing at his watch, he told Lily, “I have to go to meet a professor. Can you meet me later, say, eight thirty?”

They agreed to meet at the Sorbonne. He packed his notebooks into his satchel and leaned down to buss her cheeks. This time she lifted her face toward his, accepting his kisses, feeling the slight rub of his stubble. Lily watched him walk away, his stride sure, his jacket slightly rumpled in the back. At the entrance, he turned and gave a little wave. She waved back and returned to her book. She felt his absence strongly and told herself that she would see him soon.

Paging through the book, she quickly became bored. She could read French but it was work, and she wished for a book in English that she could lose herself in. She rested her hands on top of the desk, settling her cheek on top of them. Lily told herself she’d rest for just a moment. It wasn’t long before she dozed off, her mouth slightly open, the book pushed to the side.

Lily awoke to the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. For a moment she thought she was back on the plane. She sat up, blinked, and looked around. The woman next to her stood and walked away. Lily sleepily eyed her stack of books and the ink-stained leather pen pouch. The woman’s pen was elegant, and Lily gazed at the beautiful handwriting on the woman’s notes. She wished she had a project to work on, something to devote herself to. Or at least her own notebook and pen. When the woman returned, settling back into her seat, leaning over her book, and holding her hair away from her face, Lily leaned toward her.

“Excusez-moi,” she whispered. The woman continued reading. Lily gently touched her arm. “Pardon,” she said. The student sighed audibly and turned to Lily with a raised eyebrow. Lily spoke the sentence she’d been silently forming. “Où se trouvent les journaux?” She figured if she were stuck here, she might as well try to read about current events so she’d know what was happening. The woman shook her head as if she didn’t understand. Lily made gestures of opening and reading a newspaper. Finally the woman laughed, but not kindly.

“Il n’y a pas de journaux ici,” the woman said. “Cherchez dans un kiosque à journaux à l’extérieur pour ça.” She resumed her studies with a shake of her head.

Of course, Lily thought. This was a scholarly library, not one with items that would be of use to the general public. A passing librarian broke the stillness in the room.

“Fermeture.”

The few people still present began gathering their things and tugging the lamp chains to turn off the lights. The great hall grew dim and cozy. Lily wished she could stay there. The woman next to her went to return her books to a wooden cart near the stacks. Without thought, Lily reached out and plucked the pen from the student’s open pen pouch. She stood and adjusted her jacket, picking up her book.

Lily hurried out of the library, disoriented and glad to be outside again. The last of the sun was slipping from the day, and only a few students remained outside. Lily was unsure of which direction to take, but after a moment, the crisp evening air refreshed her and she followed the gently sloping sidewalk toward the boulevard Saint-Michel, retracing the route she’d taken with Paul. Again, with nightfall, the difference between the Paris she knew and this Paris was marked. No gaggles of tourists, no women walking alone, no sense of fun and vacation and play. The memory of the attack was all too vivid, and Lily hurried to meet Paul. Finally, she arrived at the Place de la Sorbonne.

“La voilà!” Paul exclaimed. He bent toward her, quickly brushing her cheeks with his. “I worried. I will go to look for you.”

“I’m sorry. I fell asleep in the library, and it took me a while to find it.” Lily already was warmer by his side.

“You told me you knew how to get here!”

“I did. It just took a little longer than expected.”

“No matter. On y va?”

They fell into step, and walking through Paris with him was better than walking alone. Lily enjoyed feeling like she had a place to go and that she was safe with Paul. When they arrived at the hotel, he led her to the side door. Pausing at the doorway, he handed her a key ring with three large skeleton keys. “You remember how to get there? Up the stairs, last floor, second door at the left?”

Lily laughed. “I don’t think I can get lost on the staircase, can I?”

Paul smiled. “You never know.”

“It’s hard to believe it was only this morning that I left here. It’s been a long day.”

“You must be tired.”

“I am. Despite my nap.” Lily ducked her head and looked at her sensible shoes. “Paul, thank you for doing this. You’ve been so kind, so helpful—”

“It’s nothing, nothing at all. I’m happy to help.”

“But I have nothing to offer you in return. I can’t thank you enough.”

“I don’t want anything. Like I said, I am happy to help. And,” he smiled, “it’s great for me to practice my English. You are helping me.”

Lily wished they could talk more but she knew he had to get back to work. “Okay, then. See you tomorrow?”

“Yes. À demain,” Paul said, making a little bow. Lily slipped around the corner and into the courtyard. She climbed the stairs, trying to avoid creaky steps.

She reached the room and stepped inside. Again that musty odor, of books and old socks and guy. Turning on the lamp on the desk, she slipped off her jacket, releasing her own stale odor. “Mon dieu!” she grumbled. “I need to bathe. And when’s the last time I brushed my teeth?” A glance around the room confirmed that there was no bathroom or sink. She went to the dresser and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her disheveled hair clearly hadn’t seen a comb in days and her eyes, usually so bright, revealed how tired she was. Rubbing her hands on her face, she released a deep sigh. Looking good was the least of her worries, but she didn’t want to be taken for a bag lady, either.

Grabbing the pitcher, Lily slipped into the hallway. There were two other doors in the hallway. One was closed, the other ajar. Sure enough, inside was a tiny bathroom with an open shower stall and a child-sized sink. She filled the pitcher and brought it back to the room, then removed her blouse. Pouring some of the water into the basin, she applied a small, rough cloth and a yellowed bar of soap to clean herself. She used her finger and some toothpaste from a crinkled tube for her teeth. A proper bath would have to wait, until when, she didn’t know. In the mirror, her face was pale, her freckled skin even lighter than usual. Her thick hair was flat on one side and scrunched up on the other. She frowned, then tried to smooth the desperation from her expression. She squinted, trying to imagine herself as a woman in the 1930s. She couldn’t think of a future beyond tomorrow morning, when she’d go back to the bookstore and RSVP with her invitation to the Hemingway reading. She didn’t want to depend on Paul forever. The bigger question of how she got here and how she would get home loomed, but this question tipped her into overwhelm and she forced herself to stop thinking about it.

Instead, she dried off with a musty towel, put her blouse back on, and sat on the bed. From her jacket pocket she pulled out the pen. Heavy and solid in her hand, the gray and red barrel was smooth against her fingers. She pulled the cap off and poked the gold nib with her finger. A tiny drop of ink marked her skin. Scanning Paul’s desk, she found a sheaf of blank pages tucked into a book and pulled a few out. Sitting at the desk, she tried the pen.

She wrote for a few minutes, pouring her troubles onto the page. It felt good to write, and she wanted to keep going, but after a few pages, the ink thinned and then stopped. She shook the pen but it was dry. Recapping it, she tucked it in her jacket. Not sure what to do with the pages she’d written, she folded them and slipped them in a book at the bottom of a stack on the floor. It wouldn’t do for Paul to find what she’d written.

Fully clothed, she lay down on top of the bed and pulled the rough wool blanket over her. She was hungry, but was getting used to the lack of food. Just then, a knock came at the door. She froze.

“Lily, it’s Paul.”

At the door, Paul handed her a small basket with an apple, pear, a bit of bread and butter, and a hard-boiled egg.

“Here, some dinner,” he said. “This is all I could find. I hope it’s enough. I must go!”

With that, he closed the door and his steps faded away down the stairs. He had fled so quickly she hadn’t even been able to thank him. She took the basket to the desk and enjoyed the simple meal like she’d never enjoyed a meal before. She couldn’t believe her luck.

Even so, she couldn’t go on like this for long. How to get money, and how to get home, she mused, eating the pear. Her mind spun through scenario after scenario, trying to figure out how she could have gotten here, what she had been doing before she arrived that might lead to some understanding of this incomprehensible situation. The more she thought about it, the more her stomach tightened. Maybe sleep would bring an answer.
That’s it,
she decided, standing and dusting the breadcrumbs from her lap.
Tomorrow morning I will know what to do.
She snuggled into the bed, this time climbing under the covers. She turned off the desk lamp and fell asleep under the soft glow from the skylight.

A SOFT KNOCK woke her, accompanied by a muffled “Lily!” A wisp of a dream—a crowded bookstore, a man reading aloud, a woman glowering at her—slipped away. Opening her eyes, Lily recognized Paul’s small room, her jacket hanging on the chair, the stacks of books and papers on the desk. She was irritated to be awakened from the dream. Again the soft knock, followed by a muted “Lily, bonjour!” When she opened the door, Paul held a small tray arranged with a bowl of milky coffee and half a baguette with a small pot of butter.

“Bonjour,” he sang cheerfully. But Lily didn’t mirror his cheer. She eyed the bed, knowing that Paul would be taking his turn. She wished for her own bedroom in Denver. But the coffee smelled good, so she sat at the desk. As he had done the day before, Paul took a seat on the bed and watched.

“I’m sorry it’s not more,” he said.

“Mmmm,” she murmured, chewing on the baguette. Paul rubbed his hands together, then studied them, then rubbed again. Finally, he clasped them together and began pacing the small room. He stopped in front of Lily.

“Maybe I have an idea.”

“Maybe?” Lily took a sip of her café au lait. “About what?”

“I could help you sell your ring.”

Lily started forward, nearly spilling her coffee. Carefully, she set the bowl on the desk.

“Do you really know another place to sell my ring? Crédit Municipal was going to give me 2,250 francs.”

Paul winced slightly. “I think I can get you more or less that.”

“Really? Where?”

“Don’t worry about where,” he said. “You can trust me. I take the ring and give you the money later.”

Lily glanced down at her ring. He’d been so kind, so selfless; he wouldn’t steal from her or otherwise harm her. Still, the ring was her only asset, and she was loathe to part with it. But she realized that it was only worth something to her if she could get money for it. And she needed money; she couldn’t rely on Paul forever.

“I just want to pawn it, not sell it. I want to be able to get it back when I can,” she said.

Paul sat on the bed. Reaching his hand to cover hers, Paul reassured her that she could trust him. Looking into his eyes, she knew she had no choice. She agreed, slipping the ring off her finger and placing it in his palm. He squeezed her hand and suddenly Lily wished she could hand herself over to him, tell him everything, let him help her sort this mess out. But she couldn’t; kind as Paul was, he would surely think she was crazy. She pulled her hand back quickly.

“How can I ever thank you?”

“How about to smile?” Paul said, encouraging her with his own.

She managed a smile to cover her discomfort.

“Okay, then, it’s settled. I can meet you later with the money. First I need to sleep, then I can meet you before my first class. Say, at midday? We will eat something.”

They made plans to meet outside a café near the Sorbonne. Lily told him that she was going to Sylvia’s bookstore to see about the reading. “She might be able to help me, too. She’s known for that,” Lily said.

“For what?”

“For helping Americans in distress.” Lily shrugged. “I guess that’s me.”

Paul said that he knew the bookstore. Lily couldn’t hide her surprise. He grinned.

“How do you think my English is so perfect?”

“So you know Sylvia?”

“I have talked to her. I would not say ‘know,’ but yes, I borrow books there. It’s a good place to practice my English.”

Lily wished she could stay and talk with him all day, but he had to sleep and she had to see Sylvia. Standing, she put her jacket on, feeling the weight of the pen in the pocket.

“Okay, then,” she said.

“Okay,” Paul echoed.

She laughed. His accent was cute, and the more time she spent with him, the cuter he became. She turned to the door.

“Don’t let my mother see you leave,” he cautioned, following her.

“No way! See you later. And thank you, Paul.”

He stared at her and for a second Lily thought that he was going to say something, that she had revealed herself to him. But he just leaned over to give a
bise
.

“À bientôt, Lily.” Paul said, his voice close to her ear. She held very still and accepted his gentle kiss on her cheek. Turning, she left the room and quietly descended the stairs.