Crossing on the Paris (14 page)

Though they were quieted by the full bowls in front of them, Julie was saddened by these bursts of national pride. She knew these passengers were abandoning their homelands, forced to look beyond their borders for better circumstances. Julie realized that the ship was a No Man's Land, a gap between two worlds: their former lives and the next. What, then, did that mean for the people who
worked
on board? Were they forever in limbo, without country or home, tied to thankless tasks on a never-stopping ship?

Julie made her way up the aisles, now refilling glasses, and remembered how she and her friends had envisioned these ships from land. The transatlantic liners had always seemed the very image of beauty, luxury, wealth, and power. But here under the waterline, it was nothing of the sort. Far from glamorous and exciting, it was drudgery; Julie, who had always shunned the idea of working in domestic service, was doing the exact same chores. Here, she was a maid, but one who worked in an enormous tumbling machine that rendered her breathing shallow and her bowels functionless. And instead of serving stew to a bourgeois family, she was serving it up to eight hundred people!

Julie sighed and, looking up, was surprised to see Nikolai grinning at her from the corridor just outside the dining room. Her mouth fell open, then managed to grin back. She tried not to blush (impossible!) and quickly looked around to see whether anyone had noticed. She could hardly believe that they were all still chewing calmly, unaware that a man had come looking for her. She looked over at Mme. Tremblay's thin frame standing guard near the kitchen doors, then at Simone, smiling with her mouth closed at a passenger's pleasantry. Wheeling back around, she was relieved to
find him still there. With the exaggerated face of a question mark, Nikolai pointed at her, then at his watch. Looking at her own, she saw she should be finished in an hour. After she'd made the sign for one, he pointed toward the door with a quizzical shrug, trying to make plans to meet.

Julie was nodding with a smile, when suddenly she felt Mme. Tremblay beside her. She quickly snapped her attention back to her work, forcing herself to look serious.

“Please don't stop, Julie,” she said loudly. “The passengers to your right have empty glasses as well.”

“Yes, ma'am,” she uttered, moving on to the next passenger.

Lunch dragged after that with passengers fiddling with fruit peels and asking for second cups of coffee. Finally the last table was cleared and the dining room cleaned in preparation for the next meal. Before venturing out into the corridor, Julie took off her cap and ran her fingers through her silky hair. With a peek into the mirror over the riveted sideboard, she smiled at herself—trying to imagine what he saw—then groaned slightly. What did he see?

Cautiously, she peered out into the hallway. He was there, leaning against the metal wall and whistling softly.

“Hi there, Juliette!” he called, interrupting his tune. “Are you on break now?”

“Finally,” she said, joining him at the wall and catching a faint petrol odor coming from his jacket. “But, we serve so many shifts, that once the last passengers are finished with lunch, the first ones are ready to start dinner.”

“Well, do you have time for a little walk?”

“Of course!” she said quickly, letting him take her hand. “I'd love it!” she breathed. “Let's go outside. It'd be nice to get some fresh air.”

“How are you feeling, then?” he asked, leading her out the door to the mooring deck.

“Better, I guess.” She shrugged. Although she hadn't thrown up since the day before, she still had bouts of dizziness and breathlessness that made her wary of food.

“I've brought you the tea, Julie,” he said, producing a paper bag. “I hope it helps.”

“Oh, thank you for remembering, Nikolai,” she said, taking the package and glancing up at his face as they surfaced out into the sun. “You're so sweet. Are you sure you won't need it? We may have rough seas yet.”

“Ah, don't worry about this old sea dog,” he growled playfully, escorting her to an empty spot at the rails.

“All right, then,” Julie said, leaning on the rail next to him, their arms already touching. “I'll give it a try. There's just something about the air down there . . .” She wrinkled her nose. “How is it in the engine room?”

“Better than it used to be. You know, when I started working on steamers, they all had coal engines. There'd be a whole army of us—black-faced and sweating rivers—stoking those engines day and night. We called ourselves the Devil's Crew. It was like working in the pits of Hell.” Nikolai smiled nostalgically.

“Aren't we running on coal?” Julie asked. “With those funnels blowing smoke up there, I just took it for granted.”

She remembered her brothers, who all worked at the port, talking excitedly about ship engines. Perhaps Nikolai was also fascinated by such things? Standing next to him, listening to his magnetic voice and feeling his body heat, she was relieved to be producing words of any kind.

“Oh no.” He shook his head. “Not on the
Paris.
This ship has a brand-new oil-fired turbine engine. No coal, no boilers pumping steam. The engine room is filled with huge cylinders and complicated little devices.”

“Well, even in steerage we can hear it,” Julie said. “It must be really loud down there.”

“You can't hear anything! You can barely hear yourself think! But this!” he said, gesturing with his arm toward the blue water, then bringing it back to hang around her shoulder. “This is worth coming to sea!” He squeezed her closer with a smile. “A beautiful day with a beautiful girl! Say, shall I buy you some pastries to go with the tea?”

“No, thanks,” she said with a pause. She didn't want to admit that she had been living off saltines and soda water since she'd boarded. And now, with Nikolai's arm around her, she couldn't even imagine eating crackers. “I had a late lunch.”

“Then, shall we take a walk around the deck?”

She looked up at his face, from his pleasant smile on up to his eyes. She was taken aback to see how cold they looked. Narrow and hard. Maybe it was the glare of the sun?

“Actually, I think I should be getting back to steerage. None of my fellow workers are out here,” she said, looking around, suddenly nervous. “It makes me wonder if there's something I ought to be doing. I still haven't gotten the hang of this job.” She looked a bit sheepish, then added shyly, “And you? If you're going back down to the engine room, maybe you could walk me to the women's dormitory?”

“I'd love to. Really, it's the only thing I can imagine that could tempt me back into that hole,” he said with a laugh.

He put his arm around her waist, making her stiffen. It seemed such an intimate place, there in the very middle of her body. Was this proper? The only time a boy had ever touched her there—years ago and oh, so lightly!—they'd been dancing. After a few steps, however, the difference in their sizes made it impossible for him to keep his hand in place and he moved it up to her shoulder. This too she found awkward; she wasn't used to walking in tandem. They began an ungainly descent to the ship's depths.

As they were reaching Julie's floor, he jumped to the landing, leaving her three steps above, now at his eye level. With a hand on
each rail, as if to bar her way, he leaned over until their foreheads were almost touching.

“Will you meet me on deck again tonight, little Julie?” he cooed softly. “Perhaps you'd allow me a dance? We could waltz outside the ballroom.”

She suddenly felt dizzy again; this time, she knew, it had nothing to do with stale air. With his face so close to hers, she could see his pupils enlarge, feel the warmth of his breath, but could only stammer out a few unintelligible syllables.

“Until tonight, then,” he whispered.

He touched her brow with his own, then drew back an inch to look at her. He scanned her face, moaning in approval—
mmmmmm
—then planted a kiss, forceful but brief, on her mouth. She gasped, staring at him with wide eyes, but did not move.

He pulled away with a smile. He began sauntering back down to the engine room, then called back up to her: “Enjoy your tea!”

She looked at the paper bag hanging limply in her hand; she'd completely forgotten about it.

“Thanks,” she called down to his head top, dreamily waving good-bye with the bag.

She darted into the empty dormitory and threw herself on the bed, more aware than before of the dull vibration coming from the machines below. With a shiver, she licked her lips, wondering whether Nikolai had left a trace there. Lifting her hand to examine her birthmark, to determine whether it had somehow grown smaller, she discovered, again, the paper bag. Smiling uncontrollably, she opened it.

Inside she found a small bag of ginger tea and a note. With trembling hands and a deep breath, she unfolded the paper. Although the spelling was faulty, the handwriting was surprisingly lavish, with flowery strokes and elaborate capitals; a profusion of nonsensical accent marks decorated the words, sprinkled on like dried herbs.

Dearest Julie,

I want you to have this bag of tea, with hopes that it will prove to be a miracle for you, as you have for me. When you caught my hat that day, it was a sign. There is a connection between us and I know you feel it too.

Yours,

Nikolai

A love letter? Julie blinked a time or two. She could barely believe this was happening to her. A
man
—a big, strong, good-looking
man
—was attracted to her! For the first time in her life, she had an admirer.

Her hands warm and clammy, she opened the bag of tea and breathed in its aroma. The smell was intoxicating. The spices recalled the heat that radiated from Nikolai—his hands, his voice, his lips. This engineman was his own furnace, she giggled to herself. Her insides felt liquid; she sniffed the tea again with her eyes closed.

The dormitory door wrenched open and two washerwomen came in, complaining loudly about claret stains and ready for a nap. Julie curled the tea bag shut, then took her old book out of the locker: a worn copy of Jules Verne's
Michael Strogoff,
which had long served as a stronghold for her brothers' letters. Almost light-headed, she reread the lines again before carefully stowing this new letter between its pages. Then she headed toward the kitchen, eager to try Nikolai's miracle.

Julie had taken to Pascal, the head cook in steerage, when they'd first met the day before. He was a portly man, three times her age, with a big nose and just a ring of hair from ear to ear (“It keeps the chef's hat on!”). He was one of those rough old sailors who liked to think himself foul tempered, when in fact he was a warmhearted softie. Maybe Jean-François or Didier would have grown up to be a man such as this?

He took a moment out from roasting beef bones for stock to make Julie a cup of tea.

“Ginger, eh?” he said, sniffing the tea. “Not feeling well, are we? And with the seas like glass.
Pauvre petite.
”

He handed her the cup, giving her head a light pat, then went back to his preparations for the evening meal.

Julie went into the women's dining hall, juggling the hot cup, the bag, and the book. She had thought to read a few passages of the old novel while drinking her tea, but she couldn't concentrate. She pulled out Nikolai's note and reread it again and again. Tracing its loops and curls with her thumb, she focused on the words: “miracle,” “connection,” “Yours.” With a long sigh, she glanced at the other women in the room, mending hosiery or playing cards, to make sure they weren't stealing glances at her, curious about the letter in her hand. No, they were completely oblivious to the small girl holding a common piece of paper. She took a sip of tea—his tea—safe in the knowledge that she was neither floating nor aglow.

Suddenly, Simone plopped down next to her on the bench, her eyes shining with excitement. “You'll never guess what's happened!”

“What?” Julie asked with a jolt, nearly spilling her tea. For a split second, she thought Simone might give her some news about her Russian admirer.

“Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks boarded the
Paris
in Southampton!” Simone squealed. “They're right here! In first class!”

Julie, although amused by Simone's botched logic that first class was “right here,” was impressed nonetheless.

“No kidding!” Julie said with a whistle. “Wait, don't tell me you've seen them!”

“No, but Louise did. She picked up their washing a few minutes ago.” Simone sighed happily. “Hey, wouldn't that be wonderful if we got to meet them? Let's go up to first class tonight and peek into the dining room!” Simone clapped her hands. “Or maybe they'll be on deck, dancing in the moonlight—just like in the pictures!”

“That would be fun,” Julie admitted. “I was already thinking about going up on deck tonight.”

Julie thought for a moment, then, with no one else to confide in, decided to show Simone Nikolai's note. She pulled it out of her book, then hesitated, holding it in her hand.

“Simone, can you keep a secret?” she asked.

“Sure!” she said, staring at the folded paper. “What is it?”

Julie handed it to her, then, to hide her blush, stuck her nose into the cup and breathed in the last remnants of ginger. She watched Simone's eyes slowly read the note.

“Wow!” she said, looking at Julie in wonder. “Who is he?”

“He's a Russian engineman. I met him as we left port yesterday,” Julie explained. “We've seen each other out on deck once or twice. He asked me to meet him up there tonight.”

“You lucky dog!” she exclaimed. “You made a catch on our very first day out!”

“A catch?” Julie stammered.