Crossing on the Paris (27 page)

Then, next to her grandmother's white Bible, Vera saw it. The silly mechanical bank—a painted, cast-iron girl and dog—she'd found at the flea market after the war. When a coin was placed on the girl's hand, the mechanism began: her jointed arm swung around and fed the coin to the dog, who wagged his tail. She had always loved the absurdity of it (a dog eating coins!) and heaved it out of the trunk with a gleeful smile. This old iron bank had always fascinated Charles's nieces and nephews and it was sure to delight Master Richter as well. Yes, this was it.

Vera slowly got to her feet, finally ready to dress for the day. She knocked on Amandine's door, then pulled a skirt out of the closet. She gathered together a blouse, jacket, and stockings; she was deciding on a pair of low heels when her maid walked in.

“Are you going out, ma'am?” Amandine asked, clouds of worry and surprise in her dark eyes.

“I just want to take a little jaunt to the drawing room,” she answered. “Could you help me get dressed, please?”

“Of course,” Amandine murmured, arranging loose cloth and fastening buckles. “You still feel warm, you know. If you needed anything, I'd be happy to order—”

“I fancy a change of scenery,” Vera said, glancing around the paneled walls of her cabin. “I've also been told that Laszlo Richter's grandson, Max, is in there now. I'd like to meet the boy.”

Amandine nodded silently, brushing Vera's hair. She twirled it back in a plump bun and pinned a chic felt hat on top. Finished with her toilette, Vera stood up—but much too quickly. Dizzy, she fell back down in the chair.

“You are quite sure you want to go out?” Amandine said in a whisper.

“Yes, of course,” Vera said, reaching for her cane and pulling herself up by degrees. “Oh, Amandine, would you mind carrying that mechanical bank to the drawing room for me? I thought it might interest Master Richter.”

The two women entered the lounge, which was nearly empty as most everyone in first class was now dressing for dinner. Vera spied the couple in a corner; the boy looked even smaller inside an over-stuffed armchair, his feet nowhere near the floor. He didn't see them, as his face was hidden behind a large picture book, but his nanny, who was tiredly mending stockings, looked up.

They found armchairs at a watchful distance from the boy and his nurse. Amandine sat the bank on the coffee table while Vera brought out her coin purse. She put a centime on the girl's hand, which caused a slow, deliberate
whir-r-r,
then
clank!
The figures moved and the coin disappeared.

The small boy peeked around his book, curious to see what had made the noise. Vera pretended not to see him but fed the machine
another coin with a trembling hand. After two more, she had the boy standing right next to her with his nurse behind him.

“May I try, ma'am?” he asked eagerly. “May I give the girl the next coin?”

“Of course, young man,” Vera said, her eyes bright. “Here you are.”

Vera gave him a handful of coins, then sat back to watch his delighted face as the girl and dog repeated their moves, again and again. She scrutinized his features, looking for bits of Laszlo. With a touch of sorrow, she recognized the full bottom lip, the shape of his eyes, his slim hands. Although she could see some of her former lover in the little boy, it was difficult to imagine Laszlo, an old soul at forty-two, as a child.

“What is your name, young man?” Vera asked, when he had exhausted the supply of centimes.

“Maximilian Laszlo Richter,” he said, articulating precisely. “Or Max.”

“Maximilian Laszlo,” she said slowly, drawing it out. Although she wasn't surprised by the boy's middle name, hearing him say it had given her a chill. “What a lovely name.”

“They're my grandfathers' names. But they're dead,” he added with a slight shrug.

“Oh,” she said, taken aback. Vera wondered what this child knew about his dead grandfather. Sadly, it seemed, Josef had not seen the best side of his father. “Well, how do you do?” She took his small hand in hers and gave it a formal shake, making him giggle.

“How do you do?” Max replied, a bit bashful. He looked down, at the iron bank. “Where did you get it? I want one too!”

“I bought it at a big flea market in Paris,” Vera said, giving the bank girl's head a tap. “You know, they don't sell fleas there, but funny old things. This bank was on a table between a broken cuckoo clock and a bowl painted with blue windmills. I think I made the best purchase, don't you?”

“Oh, yes!” he said.

He looked up at her with curiosity. Did he recognize her as the woman his mother had visited earlier, the sick old lady still in her dressing gown in the late afternoon?

“What's
your
name?” he asked.

“Well, Master Max,” Vera hesitated. She could not tell the boy her real name, as she did not want to risk his father's anger. “You can call me . . . Miss Camilla.”

It just popped out. She stared at the boy, dumbfounded. Without thinking, Vera had given him the name of her grandmother. Of her own volition, she had finally made the fortune-teller's prediction come true. And wasn't he, the mystic, that poet, also called Max? Life is a carousel, she thought, spinning around in great circles.

“Miss Camilla,” Vera repeated with a smile. “It's a flower, you know.”

When seven o'clock chimed, Dr. Chabron appeared at Constance's door, dressed for dinner and carrying an orchid corsage.

“You are stunning, Constance,” he declared as he took in every detail, from her Marcel waves to her blond satin pumps. She found him very handsome as well; he looked every bit as comfortable in his white-tie dinner jacket as he did in his white coat. “Let me help you with these.”

“They're lovely, Serge,” she managed, rather timid now that their casual acquaintanceship had moved on to a dinner engagement.

He bent over to fasten the corsage onto the folds of blue silk at her shoulder. Her whole body tingled as he stood next to her, so close she could feel his breath. When the orchids were in place, he lingered by her side, letting his hand graze the length of her arm. Trembling, she stepped back.

“I think I'll need my shawl,” she breathed.

Wrapped loosely in lace, she took Serge's arm and they strolled together toward the dining room, their conversation safe and impersonal. From second class, they had to go up two flights in order to make their entrance down the grand stairway.

“Oh, Serge,” Constance whispered from the top, peeking around at the billowing Art Nouveau designs covering the walls, arches, and dome. “It's magnificent.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, smiling at her delight.

Constance relished the descent, one hand twined around Serge's arm, the other daintily grasping her skirts. She felt like royalty, a fairy-tale princess. She imagined a plump valet in white livery announcing her name to the milling crowd below, causing dozens of admiring faces to turn to her expectantly. But, she thought, her brilliant smile faltering slightly, what name would he call out? Mrs. George Stone? Who exactly was that?

They continued down the corridor, discussing the magical interiors of first-class
Paris.
They were passing the elegant smoking room—a manly, conservative space with great wingback chairs—when Constance saw two elderly women heading toward them. It was the feverish American and her teetering maid, the same ones who had interrupted her appointment in the infirmary that morning. It seemed like every time she was with Serge, those two made an appearance. She watched their approach. For the life of her, she couldn't imagine
ever
being that old. She was correcting her posture when the doctor stopped in front of them and bowed.

“Ah, Mrs. Sinclair! You must be feeling better! Are you heading to the dining room? Shall I escort you?”

Constance looked over at him in surprise and saw him scanning the old woman's outfit. It was certainly fine for tea, but was far too casual for the first-class dining room.

“Please, do not add senility to my list of maladies, dear doctor!” Vera chided him playfully, gesturing toward her clothes. “No, I'm
too tired for formal dining. I've been engaged this last half hour in the most invigorating conversation, and now I'm off to my rooms to order dinner.”

Constance noticed that the maid was carrying an old curio, a mechanical bank, which made her wonder what mischief those two white-haired ladies had been up to.

“I'll come by your cabin tomorrow during my morning rounds, as promised,” the doctor said, with a slight bow. “
Bon appétit
!”

“I hope you both enjoy a lovely evening!” Vera smiled, nodding graciously at Constance.

“Thank you,” she replied softly, suddenly self-conscious, aware of how intimate she and Serge looked, standing arm in arm.

As the old woman and her maid took their leave, Constance heard Mrs. Sinclair mutter, “We've seen that pretty young woman before, haven't we? It's like a word you've recently learned—afterward, it seems to pop up everywhere! In the crossword, on the editorial page, at tea . . .”

As the elderly woman's voice faded away, Constance smiled weakly at the doctor. Did being compared to new vocabulary make her sound dull?

Before arriving at the dining room, they passed a series of discreet, useful spaces: the powder rooms, telephones, the cloakroom. At this last, she noticed an impatient line; half-past seven was a fashionable hour to dine. As they strolled past, Constance caught a glimpse of the girl behind the counter, a lace ruff pinned to her copper-colored hair. The other woman from the launch photograph! She was constantly crossing paths with those two. At the moment, the small girl was nodding soberly at a man who was shaking his finger in her face, warning her not to lose his wife's mink. Poor kid! She didn't seem to be enjoying her evening in first class.

After a few more steps, Serge ushered Constance through a large archway, past towering palms, and into the dining room. A
double staircase led down to the main floor with a lookout landing at the top. They stood together, taking in the view.

“Ohh,” she sighed, squeezing his arm as she looked around the room.

It was like an opera house, with an immense glass ceiling and, on each side, porticos and pillars holding a mezzanine. Each table was splendidly set with fine porcelain and fresh flowers; in the corner, airs of Chopin came from the grand piano. Lights and mirrors illuminated the room, which was humming with conversation and muted laughter.

They swept down the stairs, then made their way to the captain's table in the center of the room. Constance glimpsed around, hoping to spot the famous actors, but they were nowhere to be seen. No matter, she thought, as she and Serge breezed past tables of well-dressed patrons sipping whiskey sours and brandy alexanders. Even without Hollywood stars, this evening was full of promise.

When they arrived at their table, the other three guests were already seated: Mr. and Mrs. Pickens, an oil tycoon and his wife recently of Manhattan (formerly of Tulsa), and a famous war aviator, a Belgian ace called Lieutenant Fernand Jacquet. The commodore of the ship, Captain Yves Duval, a uniformed man with graying hair and handsome eyes, was addressing the sommelier when they arrived. After choosing the wines, he stood and greeted them both.

“Ah, I would like to present the ship's doctor, the invaluable Dr. Serge Chabron.” Serge nodded to all seated, then the captain continued with a smile, “And this must be the young lady from Massachusetts.”

“Yes, allow me to introduce Miss Constance Stone,” the doctor said. The men rose and Constance dipped her head at each person at the table, blushing slightly at the erroneous title.

They took their seats and picked up the colorful menus on the plates: aspic de foie gras, Cullis of grouse, Carmelite velouté, Soufflé
Rothschild . . . Constance thought she would let Serge choose for her; he would know the best options. She had never tried any of the dishes before and didn't relish any more cold soup. The Pickenses deliberated aloud, raising skeptical eyebrows; French cuisine, although highly revered, seemed to be short on beefsteak and fried potatoes.

“The Pickenses have been telling me about the fascinating world of Oklahoma,” Captain Duval told them. “I should truly like to go there, though it is very far from the sea. Tell me, Miss Stone, about your home. I believe Massachusetts is on the Atlantic seaboard?”

“Yes, and it certainly has a long coastline,” she began, “but my family is from the interior, a town called Worcester.”

“And what does one do in the interior?” he asked with a smile.

Avoiding the subject of George, she chose to talk about her father instead. “Well, sir, my father is a professor of psychology at Clark University.”

“Psychology!” Serge chuckled. “Don't tell me he's a dream doctor!”