Crossing on the Paris (11 page)

His warmth made her body sway in toward him. Nervous and embarrassed, she looked down and caught a glimpse of the blue tattoo. He bent down and whispered in her ear.

“May I kiss you, Julie?” His voice was soft, nearly liquid. “Please?”

She could feel him breathing in her hair and knew this was all going too fast.

“I have to leave,” she mumbled, untangling her hands from his. “The head housekeeper will be looking for me. She'll be angry. Really, I must go.”

“Oh, come on, Julie,” he coaxed, catching a strand of her hair. “Stay a little longer.”

“Good night, Nikolai!”

She had already started walking down the deck. She was afraid he might follow her—part of her wanted him to—but he stayed at the rails.

“See you tomorrow, my little Julie!” he called with a confident smile.

Her heart pounding, she began to walk faster and faster—as if she could escape her own excitement—until she was running. She flew along the corridors and spun down flights of stairs. She ran back to steerage, like a little mouse scampering back to its hole.

Outside the dormitory, she stood panting, trying to catch her breath. She slipped off her shoes, still wondering at what had happened. Nikolai wanted to kiss her! She thought of his ruggedly handsome face smiling at her, his lyrical voice whispering compliments, and stood for a moment in the corridor, fingering her birthmark in disbelief. Finally, Julie ducked back into the room, now
nearly full of sleeping women, and silently changed back into her pajamas. Under the momentarily cool sheet, she shivered, remembering the warmth of his skin and imagining the feel of his lips. Recalling his last words—that he would see her tomorrow!—Julie stared up at Simone's dark bunk and grinned.

The early-morning air was chilly, but Vera was glad to be in the sun. She was cocooned in her deck chair, snug inside the red steamer rug with Bibi curled up on her feet. Most first-class passengers preferred the nights on board the ship: playing long hands of bezique or euchre, roosting in wingback chairs sharing secrets with strangers, dancing the tango with one while exchanging glances with another . . . But Vera—too impatient, too tired, too old for such things—now opted for mornings.

In fact, even dressing for dinner and sitting to table with five or six unknown companions held no intrigue for her anymore. And she, who had always had a great taste for fine French wines and haute cuisine, could not work up much of an appetite, even for the sumptuous meals served in a French ocean liner's first-class dining room: velvety lobster bisque with just a hint of cognac, prime sirloin cooked rare, peach melba topped with fresh raspberry sauce and vanilla ice cream . . . The infinite courses and choices were now more of a chore than a pleasure. Last night Vera had picked at her food, barely aware of the conversation of her
dining companions, which faded into the distant buzzing of the engines. She'd realized, quite suddenly, how ancient and dull she must have appeared to them and, after dessert, quickly excused herself to lie down.

However, just as she could no longer truly enjoy eating, the delights of sleep now escaped her as well. In the past, Vera had frequently lingered in bed, lolling in quilts and eiderdown until almost lunchtime. But these days, her slumber was as light and as brief as her appetite. In the last few years she had lost all her Epicurean skills, forced into the austerity of a nun.

She picked up her carpetbag from next to the deck chair and pulled out her most recent journal, one of those written numerically. She nestled it on top of the warm blanket, then took out her fountain pen, toying with the idea of adding a new entry. After watching the Isle of Wight drift by yesterday evening, she'd been mulling over all the different transatlantic voyages she'd made in her life: from the first time she'd crossed, on a rickety paddleboat at the age of fifteen, off on her grand tour of Europe, to her honeymoon with Warren, to her permanent move to France, right on up to this last, uneventful voyage on the
Paris
. Today, she was contemplating adding the number 10 to her memoirs: Ten Crossings.

She posed her pen on a fresh page and wrote “X Crossings,” opting for the Roman numeral. Delighted with the boldness of the
X
, she began to elaborate on it, transforming the title into a treasure map. She drew a small schooner on the side from which a looping trail led, dot by dot, to the dramatic
X
in the center. “Crossings,” she mused, was an evocative word in itself.

The title completed, she stared at the page, shaking her head in frustration. She could no longer control her hand; it was now so unsteady that straight lines had been rendered impossible. This looked, indeed, like the work of an unschooled, half-drunk pirate. How very
authentic,
then. Aging was such a loathsome business.

She let out a large sigh, then put down her pen. No, she would
not write anything today. In fact, she'd been unable to add anything new to her journals for the last couple of years. Whenever she picked up one of the leather-bound books—which was more and more often—she found herself rereading the old entries instead. At times, she saw herself as a character of fiction, a heroine whose harrowing plights could move her to tears or whose youthful antics could make her laugh; at others, she felt like a time traveler, nostalgically reliving her experiences. Occasionally, she could even cajole herself into being surprised by their endings. She had ceased to be the writer of these memoirs, and instead had become their most avid reader.

Vera began thumbing through the journal, trying to decide which entry to read, when she suddenly remembered the gift Charles had given her. She put the journal aside and fished out the book of poems from the carpetbag. Upon opening it, she saw a dedication, written in his firm, architectonic hand: “To my love of this life. Until we meet on the other side. Yours, Charles.” She stared down at those words, tears welling in her eyes. He was obviously not referring to oceans here. So, Charles had finally been able to acknowledge the fact she was dying. Somehow, that made it even more real. Vera wiped her eyes with her dry hands, pondering a new life without him.

With a deep breath, she shut her eyes, imagining a typical day in Paris, her life before boarding the
Paris
. She imagined waking in her high-ceilinged apartment, then taking Bibi on a morning stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg. They would pass the Guignol puppet theater, where a group of children were laughing at the French Punch, up to his old tricks. On the way to meet Charles at an outdoor café, she would buy a baguette, bite off the tip, then send the crumbs flying toward a flock of fat pigeons. He would be waiting for her, impatient as always, and quickly stand as she approached, nearly upsetting the off-balance table. She could see every detail. She could almost smell the bread.

Vera closed the book sadly, incapable of reading poetry. Reaching down to pet Bibi's side, to stroke her ears, she again deemed this voyage rash, ill planned. To forget the present, she chose to immerse herself in better times; she gathered up the journal again, leafing through the pages to get off this ship. Vera would be arm in arm with Charles once more.

TURNING 50

A week before I was to turn fifty, one late breakfast, whilst spreading a thick layer of butter on a thin slice of bread, I suddenly decided what to do to mark the occasion: I would treat myself to one of Paul Poiret's marvelous gowns. Charles would want to accompany me of course. He always enjoyed an outing to the design houses of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, elegant palaces of haute couture where fashionable women were fitted and draped (and, on occasion, seduced by young dandies as well). But I also thought it wise to invite my friend Mme. Pauline Ravignan, who was known for her exquisite taste. Charles, I knew, could have very well convinced me to buy harem pantaloons or a hobble skirt.

On the day, we three took a cab to the shop, where M. Poiret, donned in striped trousers and a canary yellow jacket, paid us the honor of greeting us at the door. This Man of the Cloth welcomed us graciously, leading us past statues and flower arrangements to an all-white sitting room where we would be shown various models.

Here, women came out in a brilliant array of colors (no lilac or pink chez Poiret!) in his day-wear collection of svelte tunics and kimono coats, in evening gowns inspired by the Arabian Nights, and in long robes with loose folds, like the Greek statues in the Louvre. We were the captivated
audience of a fabulous parade, a walking ballet, the Beaux Arts Ball! So sensual and exciting it was.

With Pauline's help, I chose an extraordinary red gown covered in black and silver beadwork. As we were making plans to come back for alterations, I mentioned to Paul Poiret that his ball gown was my birthday present to myself. He was delighted to hear that it was my birthday and, clapping his hands like a boy, exclaimed that I should celebrate by having my fortune told.

“Oh, please, monsieur!” I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. “Don't tell me you keep a palm reader here on staff?”

“Not here, but yes, I know a man who is a true visionary. I ask his advice on all things!” He stroked his pointed beard with a ringed hand, looking like a magician himself. “Would you like to take a trip up to Montmartre and meet him? I think you will find it amusing even if you don't believe what he tells you.”

Charles stepped in with a sly grin to accept this invitation, affirming that, indeed, we would not miss it!

After Poiret had swaddled my and Pauline's heads in linen scarves and put on driving gloves and goggles, the four of us climbed into his open automobile, a bright red Cottereau Phaeton with gold accessories, and took off toward the Butte. As we drove under the affable May sun, he told us more about the man we were about to meet.

“He's a poet by the name of Max Jacob,” he said, shouting over the roar of the engine. “Lives in dastardly conditions up on the hill with all of his artist friends, but he's a mystic all right. What insight the man has given me over the years!”

Montmartre never seemed like part of Paris to me, but rather a quaint village in the country. We breezed past the windmills and wooden houses, bumped along the unpaved streets dotted with gas lamps, till M. Poiret finally stopped
the shiny crimson automobile. Truly, Captain Nemo's submarine would have been no more conspicuous on that lane! He led us through a courtyard to a small Shed, squeezed betwixt two buildings of a more reputable size. The rich designer was pleased with our open-mouthed surprise as he dramatically whispered that—voilà!—we had arrived to the home of the mystic.

He tapped on the door with his walking stick. A pale man, wearing a monocle and a well-tailored, though rather tattered, frock coat, ushered us into his home with an elaborate sweep of his top hat, exposing a bald head. Refraining from looking us in the eye, he politely requested we wait in the corner a few minutes as he was currently occupied with another client.

We certainly needed this time to adjust our eyes and noses to this novel ambience, this dizzying gloom. In marked contrast to the delightful spring morning outdoors, the air inside was heavy with a swirling combination of tobacco, incense, ether, and oil. The oil was from the lamp, the only light in the one-room shed. I looked around his poorly lit chamber and saw it was only fitted with the most basic furniture: a mattress, a table, two chairs, and a trunk. On the largest wall, pictures were drawn in chalk; I could make out the signs of the zodiac, a religious icon, and various verses, poem scraps. This hovel reminded me of the set for Puccini's
La Bohème,
though perhaps the lowly garret onstage at the Opéra de Paris was more sumptuous.

The occupant of these lodgings was at the table, talking to an old woman in low tones while carefully inspecting the bottom of her morning coffee cup. Finally, she nodded somberly, pulled a small sack of potatoes out of her bag as payment, and walked out the door, her Destiny foretold. He
then bowed lowly to M. Poiret, inquiring what services we needed of him that day.