Crossing on the Paris (21 page)

Pascal looked up to smile but gave her a concerned grimace instead.

“You're still looking pale, Juliette,” he said.

“I didn't sleep very well,” she replied with a shrug.

Pascal thought for a moment, then said, “Listen. Why don't you do me a little favor? I'd like for you to go up to the main kitchens and get me some lemons. I think on such a gray day, lemons would be nice for the tea, no?” He handed her a little net bag. “Eight or ten lemons, then. Say they're for Pascal.”

“My pleasure,” she said with a weak smile, happy to go up to the first-class galley and get a break from steerage (and Simone).

“And Julie,” he said softly, “take your time. While you're up
there, get some fresh air. Hey—why don't you fetch some of
that
for old Pascal!”

She was heading down the empty corridor when a hand suddenly grabbed her arm, pinching the skin. Terrified, she turned around and saw Mme. Tremblay. Her lips were a straight line, her eyebrows a V.

“Where do you think you're going?” She did not let her go but grasped her arm firmly, as if Julie were a prisoner trying to escape. With her other hand, the head housekeeper looked at her watch. “Aren't you supposed to be in the dining room?”

“Pascal sent me up for some lemons, ma'am,” Julie stammered, exhibiting the net bag as proof.

Mme. Tremblay dropped her arm but continued staring at her with her head cocked. Finally, she tucked a strand of hair back into Julie's cap.

“I'm going to need you tonight in hatcheck,” she said slowly. “Marie-Claire was injured last night—stuck herself in the eye with a coat hanger, if you can believe that!” She scowled. “I hope you won't be so clumsy!”

“No, ma'am.” Julie shook her head quickly, then added, “I have experience with hangers,” feeling stupid even as she said it.

“I'll find a first-class uniform for you to wear,” she said, looking her up and down, “though it'll have to be a child's size! Oh, and you'll wear your hair down.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Julie curtseyed with a grin.

“Marie-Claire should be fine by tomorrow,” Mme. Tremblay said sternly, wary of Julie's excitement. “It's just for tonight.”

As Julie climbed the steps up to first class, she imagined the evening ahead. As she assured all of the elegant passengers that she would take the very best care of their hats and coats, they would insist on tipping her generously. Then, when Douglas Fairbanks came by, he would give her a wink as he strolled into the dining room, a
Cuban cigar in his mouth and Miss Pickford on his arm, carrying dozens of roses.

When she emerged from the stairwell, her smile disappeared into the fog. In Le Havre, they had their share of mist and brume, but Julie had never seen it as heavy as this. The deck was empty, silent, even eerie. Looking around, she supposed the passengers were all seeking refuge from the damp in their drawing rooms and libraries. Vaguely disappointed, she doubted that any of the engine crew would be tempted above either. With a long sigh, she slowly began to make her way down the ship, using the rail as a guide in the white wintry landscape. When the low, two-note cry of the ship's foghorn blew out, she stopped to listen. The back of her neck prickled as Julie watched the fog's cloudy fingers moving around her—she could only see for a yard or two in any direction—and wondered, suddenly, whether this was what poison gas looked like. Were these smoky white tendrils like the ones that had slowly moved through the trenches?

She imagined the boys' terrified faces as they fumbled with their gas masks. Loïc had written to her about his fear of gas and how poorly the masks were designed. How, even during a drill, they would find they couldn't breathe in those monster masks with their big blank eyes and elephant trunks, and tear them off in a panic.

All of his letters—her last link to him—were so vivid that she'd been able to imagine the scenes perfectly; reading them, she could almost see his expressive gestures and hear his voice, a deeper version of her own.

“ ‘
Your big brother who loves you,'
” Julie murmured, quoting his letters' closing line. Of course, he had only begun calling himself her “big” brother after all of the others were dead. “
Loïc.
”

Julie supposed that Loïc had inherited his descriptive skills from their father, who, although illiterate, used to be a magnificent storyteller. It was he who had insisted that his sons go to school—at
least to the age of twelve—and was proud to buy his children the occasional book at Christmastime.

When it was Loïc's turn to begin school, he insisted Julie go as well, threatening to play truant if she were not allowed. Their parents finally agreed, especially since her mother was no longer able to teach her the tatting trade. Of all the family, it was Loïc who did best at his studies, though in the end Julie stayed in school longest, until the war broke out.

Loïc worked at the port like the other men in his family, until he decided to play soldier at seventeen. It was then he confided in Julie that what he really wanted to do was become a writer.

The night before he left for active duty, they were sitting together at the waterfront, watching the lighted ships. Their parents, far from feeling the ardent pride they'd displayed in 1914, were in the house, upset and angry. After a few minutes of silence, the water slapping the quays, Loïc reached into his pocket and brought out an article from a local newspaper. In no mood to read, Julie merely skimmed it—a poignant piece on how Le Havre, with all the international forces and military personnel stationed there, had changed during the war—until she got to the bottom, where her eyes were stalled by the initials
L.V.

“Is this you?” she asked quietly. She was so impressed she couldn't speak above a whisper.

He nodded with a shy smile.

“Julie, I want to write about the war,” he explained. “Not just articles, but a soldier's story. How can I, if I don't go? If I stay here at home like a little boy?”

And indeed, Julie could see the care Loïc took in the letters he wrote from the front; they were the obvious drafts of the book he was writing in his head. During training, they'd been rather innocent, filled with courageous words like duty, country, camaraderie. After he became a mole man in the trenches, his tone intensified as his experiences degenerated. It seemed that he wrote about events
to rid himself of them, to pack them away for later use. Loïc did not treat the matter with girlish kid gloves for his little sister, but with a hardened stomach and an eye for detail. Sometimes, brambles of barbed wire, disemboweling horses, black, frostbitten toes, or gushing head wounds entered into Julie's dreams, as if she had seen these things herself.

“
Idiots,
” she muttered sadly. “
Poor dupes.
” Nikolai couldn't really believe that; he was just a blusterer, making excuses for himself. With a shiver, Julie relived the compliments, the dancing, the warm kisses in the cool night air, his eyes shining with desire. Despite his crude words, she still hoped that she would see him again, that their story was not over yet.

She pushed herself off from the rail and stepped through the first door she saw. When she finally entered the large upper-deck kitchen, steamy and bright, its homey chaos cheered her up at once.

A dozen men in chef's hats and long aprons were busy at work, peering into ovens and large copper pots, ladles and utensils dangling above them like Christmas ornaments. She took a deep breath, savoring the different smells that would come together to make up the à la carte luncheon menu: subtle, buttery fish stocks, roasting lamb and beef, caramelized carrots, fresh bread. She spied the pastry chef in the corner, putting the final touches on an assortment of cakes and puddings, each dripping with fruit, nuts, cream, or chocolate. Julie licked her lips. In the dark kitchen under the waterline, where fried onions were always the base for the family-style meals, she was never tempted by hunger.

Julie spotted a cook—the robust grandfather type—pausing to wipe his hands on a towel and cornered him with her bag.

“Lemons, eh?” he shouted. “Next he'll be wanting a champagne cocktail!”

After he'd filled the net with his finest lemons, he handed it to Julie.

“These are for old Pascal. And this, mademoiselle,” he said, giving her a wink and a chocolate éclair, “is for you.”

Constance sat on the edge of her bed, wondering when she should venture down to the infirmary. Serge had said “the earlier the better,” but she didn't know exactly what time “early” was. She had noticed during her stay in Paris that the French seemed to have a different notion of time than Americans, often arriving late, dining late, staying late, sleeping late. She was restless in her room, but she didn't want to get to his office before
he
did.

Despite the powders, her sleep had been light and, at six, she was already up. She'd taken a long bath, applied talcum and perfume, then twined her hair up in a lilting bun like women were wearing in Paris. After eating a few pears, she'd tried on various outfits, unsure of what to wear: the long, loose dress with a tied waist was rejected when she remembered Faith saying it looked like a bathrobe; the soft blouse with the tiny pearl buttons was also ruled out. If Dr. Chabron had time to give her a physical (half remembering her dream, she blushed deeply), she didn't want to fumble around with seed pearls. Constance finally chose the sport suit with the straight plaid skirt, which was neither too formal nor too whimsical. Not only did it seem an appropriate choice for a call on a doctor, but the fit was so perfect, she nearly always received compliments when she wore it. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror.

In an attempt at patience, she'd then brought out her watercolors to practice some china patterns. Inspired by the fruit basket, she began painting a circular design, alternating apples and bananas, then using greenery and blue ribbons to round it out. But after fifteen minutes, she found it difficult to concentrate on the delicate strokes and she stopped with a sigh.

She looked at her watch—eight o'clock. Surely, not even a Frenchman could think her visit premature. She went to the washbasin and held the paintbrush under the tap until the water ran clear.

Constance picked up the detective novel and left the cabin. She quickly walked down the dark corridor, then out onto the deck, into the fog. She wrinkled her brow, her hand fluttering up to her neck to steady her silk scarf, caught by a gust of wind. Eager to see him, she realized how lonely she'd been—and not just in Paris, where Faith and her friends had nearly ignored her for two weeks, but in Worcester too.

The infirmary door was still locked when she arrived. She hesitated a moment, then knocked. Dr. Chabron opened the door and greeted her with a broad smile.

“I was hoping that would be you, Constance.” His eyes twinkled as he offered her his hand. “Please, come in.”

“Hello again,” she began shyly, reaching out for his hand. She was about to take it when she heard someone approaching from behind. Startled, feeling almost guilty, she turned and saw a small woman in a black uniform carrying a bulging sack of lemons with one hand and licking a finger of the other. It was the girl she'd run into right here in the infirmary on the first day, the one from the photograph. Such a pretty little thing—a pity about that birthmark.

“Good morning,” Constance said.

Wiping her hand on her apron, then shifting the sack, the girl smiled back at her. “Good morning!” she called, then nodded to them both. She was clearly in a rush to get to wherever it was that she was going. “Sir, ma'am,” she added in passing.

After she'd disappeared down the corridor, Constance gave Serge her hand and let him lead her into the infirmary.

Once inside, she noticed that the doctor's mustache was freshly trimmed, his nails immaculate, and he smelled of cologne. She smiled at him, thinking that, perhaps, he too had taken care getting
ready that morning. He guided her into the inner office, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders, and offered her a chair. He propped himself on a stool.

“I've brought you the detective novel,” she said, taking the book out of her bag and passing it over to him.

“My word,” he said, looking down at the cover with arched eyebrows. It showed a man in profile, walking with a candle, as two sinister-looking women looked on. “What's it about?”

“The proprietress of a large country manor is poisoned,” she said, her eyes flashing mysteriously in fun. “And a number of houseguests are suspected of murdering her—including members of her own family.”

“Not the bloodsucking stepsons and brother-in-laws!” he said, pretending shock.

“Quite so!” She laughed. “But, luckily we have a clever Belgian detective on the trail.”

“What a relief!” he said, wiping his brow, then added, “Truly, it sounds like good fun. I'll pick it up in New York, if I have time.”