Pictures of the Past (8 page)

“Have you seen the fair yet?” Sarah had asked at dinner the night before. He could barely concentrate on what she was saying, so absorbed he was in memorizing the details of her face, the contours of her neck and shoulders. When he responded that he had indeed been down the promenade, visiting just one building, she persisted. “No, have you really
seen
the fair—seen it from the Eiffel Tower? That is the only way.”

She was right. The view was breathtaking, but not the sites she was pointing out—the highlights of the fair, and then the famous landmarks of Paris—the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Seine snaking through the city. The view of her perfect face and figure framed by the strong rays of the afternoon sun was all he cared to see.

When they returned to the street level, Sarah pulled her father close to her and whispered something in his ear. And then she repeated it aloud to Taylor. “I am telling Papa that I think this tour has taken a toll on him and he looks tired and a bit out of breath.” She patted her father lovingly on his chest and kissed him on each cheek. “Papa, I would understand if you had enough for the day. Would you allow me please to have dinner with just Taylor this evening? We will be fine.”

He looked at her as the most loving parent, proud, yet cautious of his precious princess, as he considered his answer. “Well, of course, darling. I promised your mother not to overdo,” he said.

The services of Taylor’s guide, Francois, had been excellent, not just in the translations necessary when conversing with the conference participants who did not feel comfortable speaking in English, but also for helping to navigate from one location to another. He also helped Taylor acclimate to the French culture, from ordering breakfast to converting the U.S. dollar into French francs. But at this point, Francois, also, was gracious enough to take his leave from the young pair.

“Mr. Taylor,” he had said quietly to his ear. “Perhaps you would not mind if I attend to some pressing business.”

Taylor was delighted when they entered the café. The decor was exactly as he would have imagined from what he had seen in magazines and movies. The windows were etched with an arch of thick gold letters reading
Cafe du Couer.
Inside, there was the requisite blackboard easel, wood framed with soft wisps of canary yellow, listing the menu choices. The painted ceiling had a marbleized quality that imitated the clouds of a spring day and was bordered with robin’s-egg blue arches that gave it a gift-wrapped feel. Linens of blue and yellow adorned the small round café tables. Against the wall, surrounding a protruding window affording a view to the kitchen, were shelves eight rows high, filled with jars of marmalade and other preserves, bottles of wine, and cans of olive oil. The wood-paneled walls appeared a bit chipped and battered, either aged purposefully to give it a timeworn look, or the natural result of generations of diners. The floor had sections of the same old wood planks, alternating with black and white tiles.

A pleasingly plump matron, presumably the owner’s wife, stood at the cash register, greeting the guests and managing the business. The proprietor’s corpulent stature was obvious even though he was half hidden behind the kitchen opening, his chins so numerous and full that he appeared to have ingested the yeast of his own recipes, and had become as fully risen as his newly baked loaves.

The waiter, returning with the soup they had ordered, exited the swinging doors of the kitchen with too broad of a sweep, and splashes of their vegetable bisque joined the dots of red wine already visible on the folds of his white shirt. They watched him by the server’s stand perfecting the presentation of the dishes by wiping them carefully with a napkin, and then he self-consciously and apologetically served their first course.

“Please enjoy,” he offered and turned abruptly, undoubtedly anxious to soap down his shirt or exchange it for a spare.

There was a certainty that he would not be returning momentarily to refill their wine glasses or offer a second croissant and so Taylor reached for Sarah’s hands across the small table.

“I was just wondering what you are doing after this,” he said.

“After this? You mean later this evening? I think by the time we finish this dinner…”

“No, not later tonight. Just later.”

“Later?”

“Yes,
fraulein,
later—after this—and for the rest of your life…”

She tried to think of some funny retort, but nothing came. “Well, that is a hard question.”

“Not for me. Ask me.”

“But I know what your answer will be.”

“Then just say you feel the same way.”

“Can we take one day and then think about the next?”

“No—because I feel…I know it seems crazy, Sarah…but I felt from the moment I saw you, when I first looked at your beautiful face, when I heard the melody of your beautiful voice, that I have known you my whole life.”

She knew what he meant; last night, sleep had eluded her. She too had felt a certain anticipation, an excitement, accompanied by an unfamiliar anxiety.

“But we only met yesterday,” she said. “You have known me for one day—less than one day—not even twenty-four hours. So you meet a German girl—in France, with a face you have never seen before and an accent you have maybe never heard before and you say that you have known her your whole life.”

“I know it’s implausible. But I need you to understand—I have known you my whole life…because yesterday was the day I was born.” He had been holding her hands and gently caressing them as he spoke, but now he released them. “Everything before that was prelude, preparation, all to be in that place at that time…to meet you.”

She couldn’t look directly at him. She didn’t know how to answer. But she knew what he meant, though she was too shy or cautious or confused to say it. It was impossible not to be seduced by this handsome man, by the masculine elegance of his demeanor, by the quiet tones of his voice, by the hypnotic gaze of his dreamy eyes, by the sincerity of his smile. When she finally looked at him again, there was no need for her to answer. He answered for her. He leaned farther across, knocking a small bud vase to drip into the bread basket, and he kissed her gently on the lips. When he could see the delight in her eyes, he moved his chair closer to hers and they kissed once again.

Taylor believed one thing now—that the only true love was “love at first sight.” With Emily, he had been proud that she finally accepted him as her intended— he felt triumphant parading with her on his arm. His parents were pleased, his friends impressed, and he felt happy and satisfied.

But since he’d met Sarah, since last night, everything had changed. She was the girl he wanted, he desired, the girl with whom he was meant to spend his life. He now knew that “happy” and “satisfied” were not the true emotions of love. Suddenly, with Sarah, he felt things he’d never felt before; he was “elated,” “exhilarated,” and “impassioned.” He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything before.

He had always considered himself to be a cautious, rational person. How could such a transformation occur within him in such a short time? This sudden, but profound love, these overwhelming new feelings, were a shock to him. But he was certain that she was his destiny, that just as allegiances were shifting on the larger world arena, so in his own heart and mind, the wheels of fortune and of fate were realigning. First, it was his father needing him to travel abroad, introducing him to the world of international commerce, and then making a point of praising a Jewish businessman from Germany, Emanuel Berger, who would just happen to have his thoroughly enchanting and beautiful daughter accompany him to the conference.

By the third day, Taylor couldn’t name one thing about Sarah that he did not love. “You are perfect,” he would say to her. And she would wave off the words with a flick of her fingers, which he found adorable. He loved that she asked permission from her papa each time they were left alone. He too had always wanted to please his father. He briefly wondered if his new intentions might tarnish the sterling reputation of the Woodmere family. Would there be society talk of him “jilting” poor Emily Kendall? Though he had been enamored—besotted, actually, with Emily—now he admitted to himself that he had hesitations about her before he’d left. Why else would he still be hiding her ring in his bureau drawer instead of displaying it on her finger?

He was often irritated by her spoiled manner and insensitivity. She was steering him always to friends she thought more acceptable than ones to whom he was drawn. She had admonished him for the almost brotherly way he treated the younger staff.
“My family has always believed in setting boundaries,”
she would say.

She was constantly shopping. He was forever apologizing to the maid or the cook for her endless demands and harsh criticism. And this, while she was just a guest! What would it be like when she was managing a household?

“At Newport we can’t go ten feet without another tray of fresh lemonade brimming with ice…at Newport we never carry our own bags to the beach… at Newport, Daddy wouldn’t consider joining this new club or that (not our type of people). “

He knew what he wanted from life now, but he was apprehensive about displeasing his parents. And so he began to formulate strategies that might lead Emily to leave him and therefore spare her any indignities.

However flattered by his loving attentions, Sarah often tried to divert Taylor’s fascination with her to a more worthy subject. She loved Paris and she wanted him to know and love the city also. Although Taylor’s father had arranged for his French translator to accompany his son, Monsieur Francois Benet was often left in the late afternoons and evenings to his own devices, while Taylor explored the city with Sarah. Over the course of the conference, as he spent an increasing amount of time with her, meeting her for walks and meals whenever he had free time, he came to appreciate that her mind was not, like Emily’s, an inventory of possessions, but filled with ideas.

In the Louvre, she took his hand and led him to her beloved masterpieces. But he said that Mona Lisa’s smile did not approach Sarah’s own and that he felt no passion for the Venus de Milo, who could not fully embrace him with her arms. “I expected more from you,” Sarah said as they left the museum. “You sound like a silly schoolboy,” she chided him.

“Well that is your fault. Show me no more women; they will only pale in comparison to you.”

With that she remembered how she had been told not to miss the Spanish exhibit at the fair, which was rumored to be a controversial showcase of the most influential artists of that country.

Sarah and Taylor approached the pavilion with the eagerness of children in line for an amusement ride. But even at the entrance, they understood that this exhibit would be different. People were emerging with disgusted looks, shaking their heads. Sarah interpreted for Taylor as one pair passed by. “We did not come to a world’s fair to see such misery. People should be warned.”

A group of Spanish intellectuals and artists were brought together by the architect Jose Luis Sert to create this first ever Spanish exhibit at a world’s fair. These artists, however, did not wish to show the world the beauty of their country. They were united by a need to show the world the gruesome reality of the Spanish Civil War. Joan Miro and Alexander Calder were among the most celebrated artists of their country who had contributed work in support of the Republican cause. Protesting Fascism, they had all created statement pieces, graphically or symbolically depicting the horrors of war. Photographs, films, and paintings exposed the brutality of Franco’s army. But it was Pablo Picasso’s enormous
Guernica,
a black, gray, and white abstract interpretation of the devastation of the German and Italian bombing of Guernica in the Basque region and the suffering of the innocent townspeople that drew the most attention.

Over the weekend, when the conference was not in session, Sarah took Taylor to her favorite places. After the grand concourses, the Champs Elysees, the Boulevard Saint-Germain, the Place Saint-Michel in the Latin Quarter, she led him to the narrow passageways off the Rue de Rosiers in le Marais, the Jewish quarter. There, poor Jewish immigrants had settled—rabbis, tailors, butchers, and shopkeepers. She wanted to introduce Taylor to the smells and fabrics of her heritage.

“You know how much I care for you, Sarah, more than care,” he said to her, as they shared a traditional
latke,
a delicious potato pancake. “I know how close you are to your father. I feel he likes me, but I know that sometimes there are boundaries that are hard to cross. Would he ever accept your being with someone who is not Jewish?”

“Taylor, you are so funny and sweet,” she said, tilting her head in the most coquettish manner. “We are not
shtetl
Jews from some small villages in Russia. We are part of the German cultural nation—only now, that madman Hitler is singling us out. He began by organizing boycotts of our businesses, and then placing more restrictions on our lives. We cannot own land, we cannot work in many of our professions, we are restricted from many schools…But, still we are different. Of course, my father accepts you—You are not aware, but my mother is Christian. In Jewish law—I am not even considered Jewish, as I do not have a mother who is Jewish either by birth or conversion. Although you must understand already, I feel Jewish and I have been raised Jewish and we do identify with the Jewish community in Berlin.”

“Sarah,” he said, as tenderness and relief washed through him, “if something could possibly build between us, I would never ask you to give up your legacy. And my father—before I came—told me how he respects Jewish people, and especially, your father. I am confident there would be no objections from my family either. My parents will be as drawn to you as I am. Of that I am sure.”