Chasing Sylvia Beach (10 page)

Lily shrugged. “I’m here to help someone out. They needed me and I couldn’t say no.”

“I don’t want to know. Now go away before I get really angry and ban you from the shop altogether.”

Lily couldn’t tell if Sylvia was serious or not, but she’d tested her limits enough for the moment. She mumbled an inane thank-you but Sylvia had already returned to the affairs on her desk. Lily sprang from the bookstore, hopping off the front steps to the sidewalk. The reading was tonight, and she was going to be there. No matter what.

OUT OF SIGHT of Sylvia’s windows, pretending to browse the cart of the antiquarian bookshop next door, Lily caught her breath. She shook as she replayed the contretemps in her head. A wave of shame moved through her. She picked up a book,
La Psychopathologie de la Vie Quotidienne
, and smirked. What about the psychopathology of noneveryday life? Meeting Sylvia Beach and being kicked out of the shop surely would merit years of analysis to make sure she wouldn’t become crazy. This was funny until she realized she was standing in an era where women were hauled off to insane asylums with very little proof of insanity. She dropped the book, nudging her thoughts toward the positive.

She’d had a run-in with Sylvia Beach—not so great. But she’d been bold, insisting on attending the reading. Not bad, she thought. In Denver, she would never have had the nerve to do that. She replaced the book and headed down the street, a slight skip in her step. At the corner, she pulled the invitation from her pocket. Why did she feel the need to go to the reading so badly? This was a clue, but to what, she didn’t know. But it was one of the few things she’d arrived in 1937 with, and it must mean something. It must mean she belonged at that reading. Her need to know what was happening to her overrode her concern about Sylvia. She straightened her jacket and stepped into the flow of people bustling along the boulevard Saint-Michel.

Soon she found herself inside the spiked fence ringing the Luxembourg Garden. Nannies trudged behind iron-wheeled buggies and chased after toddlers. A young couple huddled together on one chair, their intimate embrace like a Rodin sculpture. The gravel crunched under Lily’s feet, a rhythm accompanying and quieting her thoughts. She took a seat on a bench near the
pétanque
court. Men crouched and tossed metal balls along the ground. The click of the balls striking one another, the sound of the men’s conversation as they teased each other and disputed calls, all made for a pleasant background noise. Nearby, a patch of grass was tastefully bordered by a flowerbed, held back by a black ankle-height fence. She would have preferred to sit on the grass, but the most she could do was enjoy the green from afar, relishing the tiny patch of nature. Her mother would have laughed at the sign that forbade walking on the grass. She also would have been pointing out the flowers and telling Lily their names: teacup roses, elegant Queen Anne’s lace and cheerful red geraniums.

She wanted to be like her mother, the kind of person who knew the names of living things and could grow plants, but she was more at home with paper and books, words and ideas. When Lily was a girl, she loved going with her mother to shop for school supplies. It was their special tradition. It was the one time of the year her mother really came through, the one thing they shared in common—Lily even marked the day on the calendar. Together they made lists of things Lily would need. They always bought more pencils and pens than would fit into her zippered pouch, but the extras came in handy when she left something behind on the bus or in the gym at school. After buying notebooks and other supplies, they’d have lunch at Farrell’s in the mall. Lily would order the cheeseburger with fries and they would share a sundae, an annual indulgence.

Lily sighed. She didn’t eat cheeseburgers anymore but she’d do anything to sit across from her sensible mother and ask advice about how to get into the reading. But she’d have to figure that out herself.

Refreshed by her rest, she exited across from the Café Rostand. Pedestrians pushed past Lily. Passing a clock-making shop, she glanced in the window to check the time. Each clock—the cuckoo, the bedside alarm, the compact travel clock—all told her she was late for her meeting with Paul. She hurried on.

At the café she found Paul waiting outside, reading his book.

“Salut, Paul!”

He looked up. “Rebonjour, Lily! How was your morning?”

“Well,” Lily said. “I’ve had a . . . an odd morning. I just met Sylvia Beach. It didn’t go quite as planned.”

“Ah bon? Don’t worry about it; I have something to tell you. Let’s have lunch?”

Lily agreed and they entered the café. It was crowded, the bar lined with men in suits arguing over tiny espresso cups, students filling most of the other tables. A clutter of newspapers was heaped at the end of the bar and the room was filled with smoke.

Paul turned to Lily, “How about the terrasse?” She nodded and they wove their way through the crowd of tables outside until they found a small one near the back. “I have something for you,” Paul said.

Just then, the waiter whisked up tableside, nodding at them, then looked away. “Je vous écoute,” he spoke to the air. Lily glanced at the menu and asked for a cheese sandwich. Paul placed his order, adding water for them both. He then reached into his jacket, pulled out a small manila envelope, and slid it across the table to Lily. She tucked her finger under the flap and peeked inside. A stack of francs, all for her.

“Oh, Paul! You were able to pawn the ring?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t able to get 2,250 francs,” he said. “But that should be enough for you for a while.”

“How much?”

“One thousand.” He swallowed and smiled slightly.

“That’s great! That’s a ton of money. Isn’t it?” Lily had no idea of the value of one thousand francs in 1937. She could get her own room, buy a new dress, a notebook. Almost as soon as these thoughts arose, she knew what her father would say: save your money. And she knew that was the better idea. Who knew how long she’d be there?

Paul laughed. “A lot of money, yes. It would take a long time to save that kind of money now. What will you do with it? Do you have a purse?”

Lily realized the envelope wouldn’t fit in the small pockets of her jacket. “Oh, no,” she said. “I can’t take this now. I can’t carry all this.”

“Yes, it’s not safe. Especially since you were already stolen.”

Lily laughed. “I wasn’t stolen, my money was. I was mugged.”

“Mugged?” Paul tilted his head.

“Robbed in the street,” Lily said. “By a mugger.”

Paul repeated the word mugger, his French accent making the word sound charming. Lily laughed and Paul smiled with her.

“Bon, écoutes, you can take some money for today with you and I can hide the rest of this in my room for whenever you need it. Alors, where should I put it? I will hide it in my civil law book? Under my mattress? Hmm . . . in one of my stinking socks, peut-être?” Paul seemed to enjoy practicing his English vocabulary. Lily laughed.

“No! Not in your stinking socks, please!” She stopped laughing to consider it. She didn’t want him poking around his books and finding her writing. “Okay, how about under your mattress?”

Paul agreed and gave her half the cash. Their sandwiches arrived, shot onto the table by the precise and hurried garçon. Lily opened her demi-baguette, revealing two slices of cheese surrounded by wide swathes of butter. Even this blandest of bland sandwich was appealing now. They chewed together in silence. Lily cast about for something to talk about, but what came to mind were subjects she didn’t feel safe revealing to Paul. After a few minutes, Paul spoke quietly.

“Et un ange passe,” Paul smiled.

“What’s that?”

Paul appeared surprised that Lily didn’t know this expression. “It’s what we say when there’s a moment of silence in a conversation. An angel passes by.”

“You believe that? An angel just went by?” Lily didn’t believe it, but she glanced up, her gaze falling on the balconies across the street, potted flowers cheering up the wrought-iron balconies. She smirked, but she liked the idea of angels nearby. “Look! There’s one now!” She pointed at one balcony in particular, the window open, a lace curtain waving in the breeze.

Paul laughed. “It’s not really something to believe, it’s just an expression. To make you smile.”

It worked; Lily couldn’t help but smile. With Paul it was easy.

“You know, Lily, this morning, my mother was a bit intrigued by my strange new behavior,” he continued.

“Uh-oh! She knows about us?”

“No, when I went downstairs with the breakfast tray this morning, she questioned me.” Paul adopted a new voice. “‘I see you take your breakfast upstairs now,’” he mimicked. Lily smiled and he continued. “‘Normally you’re down here with me, hmm? And why are you eating again, as if what you had upstairs went down a rabbit hole instead of in your stomach?’”

Paul paused in his imitation to explain to Lily that he had to eat his own breakfast, there in front of his mother.

“‘Mais maman,’ I told her, ‘I am a growing boy, n’est-ce pas?”’

“And she believed that?” Lily chuckled.

“She didn’t disagree. Just went back to sorting the mail.” Paul smiled as if he enjoyed thwarting his mother.

“But you have to be careful! What would she do if she caught me there?”

Paul shrugged. “Oh, don’t worry. She’s just very involved with what I do. Too much! She wants to direct my whole life. She thinks she knows better than me what’s best for me.”

“Huh,” Lily said, taking another bite of her sandwich.

“Yes, listen to this.” Paul sat up straight, forgetting his own sandwich. “So she finishes with the mail and comes back to interrupt my breakfast. She starts in again with Claudine.”

“Clémence?” Lily interjected.

“Non, Claudine! Dieu, the famous Claudine! She’s the daughter of the antiques dealer down the street. We grew up together. Our whole lives, my mother and her mother, Marie, plan for me to marry Claudine. Mais non! It’s not what I want.”

“You don’t like Claudine?”

“Non, I like her very much. But not like that. She’s my friend. We went through school together before she went to study painting at L’Ecole des Beaux Arts. We don’t see each other so much now, but my mother still has her in mind for marriage. Like I can’t find my own wife!” Paul shook his head and resumed his imitation of his mother. ‘Paul, you know, yesterday I ran into Marie and Claudine. Et mon dieu! Claudine is truly radiant. You should see her.’ Paul smiled and winked. “‘Yes, maman,’ I replied, drinking my coffee to avoid saying something regrettable. So she continues!

“‘I invited them for coffee this afternoon. Claudine is impatient to see you again.’ To which I immediately thought, Oh poor Claudine, she, too, got caught in this conspiracy of mothers!

“‘Don’t let me down, Paul! I count on you to be here at four o’clock.’” Paul shook his head like a dog as if to release the memory. “After that, she then insisted on telling me to dress well! As if I cannot dress myself like an adult!”

Lily laughed. Indeed, Paul was dressed like an adult, not wearing the short pants of a boy.

He looked at Lily, his eyes smiling warmly. “But I am a good son, I will be there.”

Lily liked watching his lips move, subtly shifting shape when he spoke French. His face lit up with his narrative and the animation of imitating his mother. She enjoyed being with Paul and hearing his stories. And she appreciated his loyalty even as she could tell it bothered him to be so controlled by his mother.

Encouraged by her smile, he related how his mother loved to shame him with a photo of him as a baby. She never tired of showing it to her friends. There he was, posed naked on a red cushion, looking like a plump little pig. His mother loved, he recounted, to point out his pretty little cheeks. And his plump, rosy butt, her friends never failed to add.

“The horror!” Paul cried, and Lily laughed, repeating, “Quelle horreur!”

Paul continued. “Even Claudine had been shown this beautiful view of my backside. Merci, maman,” he said.

“Oh, that’s so bad!” Lily commiserated. But she liked the idea of baby Paul naked on a cushion, cute and vulnerable. Her mother had never shown any pictures of Lily to friends. In fact, her mother didn’t have friends, only her garden. This thought sobered Lily. Paul noticed the frown on her face and spoke quickly.

“We take a coffee?”

Lily attempted a smile. “Yes, that would be great. I love your stories! I could listen all day.”

“Oh, no, I will not bore you with stories any longer. But watch this.” He got two coins out of his leather change purse and showed Lily a magic trick. With dexterity, Paul made the coins appear and disappear through his fingers. Lily leaned forward, trying to figure out how he did it.

“Tell me! How do you do that?”

Paul shook his head and wagged his finger. “Never reveal the secrets. I just learned this from one of our regular guests. Mr. Armant is a wine merchant and I’m sure he uses this trick to hypnotize his customers!”

“Are you trying to hypnotize me?” Lily smiled in a different way now.

“Mais non, just trying to make you smile. Le sourire te va bien,” he said.

Lily thought he’d said the smile did her well, but didn’t know how to respond. Paul changed the subject.

“And what about that meeting with Sylvia? What happened?”

Lily hesitated as the waiter approached, and Paul ordered coffee for both of them. Lily wasn’t sure how much to tell him about Sylvia. But after he’d shared his stories, she felt safer revealing her own. She got the invitation out and showed Paul.

“I found this invitation to a reading at Shakespeare and Company tonight. And I really want to go. But when I showed it to Sylvia, she was suspicious. She refused me, said the reading was completely full.”