Chasing Sylvia Beach (14 page)

“I’m as happy as one can expect to be.”

Lily dragged the box out of the closet. “Come on. I want more than that. That’s just settling,” she huffed.

“Well, are you happy?”

Lily thought about her job at the bookstore, her apartment, her cat. “No,” she said.

LILY HAD STASHED the bag with her old clothes at Paul’s. She’d slipped in without being seen by his mother, but she didn’t feel comfortable lingering there in the daytime. Feeling fresh in her new dress, she made her way to the bookstore for the reading. She hurried through the dark city, fueled by nervous anticipation. She arrived early, too early. The shop wasn’t open, though a light glowed dimly from inside. It wasn’t cold but the air just after dusk didn’t feel hospitable, either. Lily lurked in the shadow of a doorway across the street, adjusting her dress. She remembered her lipstick and applied it without a mirror. She could not be any more prepared to confront Sylvia Beach, to insist that she be allowed access to the reading. Dozens of arguments caromed in her mind. She stamped her feet against the chill, bouncing lightly like a boxer waiting to duck into the ring. Down at the theater end, Lily glimpsed a sudden movement. It had happened so fast she might not have seen anything at all.

But no, there it was, the form of a man outlined in the light that poured from a large doorway. One by one, others joined him, chatting and laughing. The group coalesced, the door slammed shut behind them, and they moved down the street. Their voices preceded them, one American loudly booming, “There, now, Syl, you don’t really need me yammering away up there, do you?” This followed by a familiar British voice, “Oh, yes, she does, my friend.” The group approached the bookshop and finally Lily could pick them out: Sylvia, even shorter than Lily had remembered, especially dwarfed by the man looming next to her: Ernest Hemingway. Then Adrienne Monnier, wearing her long blue dress and a patient smile. And finally, arms spread as if shepherding them all down the sidewalk, Lily’s rescuer, Stephen Spender, wearing a look of bemused tolerance. They paused at the shop’s entry. A cluster of people lingered on the sidewalk nearby, chatting and smoking. From across the street, Lily heard Hemingway. He tilted his head, his hat making a jaunty angle, and asked Sylvia, “Say, what have you got for hooch?”

Sylvia tsked and drew away from him. “I’m running a bookstore, not a bar. And surely you had enough Irish courage at dinner?” She smiled despite her stern tone. Lily slipped across the street and lingered near the others out front. From here she could better hear Sylvia’s conversation. Hemingway peered inside the shop, then around the street. For a second Lily thought he paused when he caught her watching, but it was hard to tell where he was looking; the brim of his hat shaded his face. He focused on Sylvia.

“Say, I’ll be back. Come get me when it’s time?”

“Oh, you!” Sylvia mock-slapped his arm. But Hemingway slipped away, headed toward the boulevard. Sylvia turned to Adrienne and spoke in French.

“I’m not going to be able to go get him. I knew this was a bad idea. He’s going to need minding, isn’t he?”

“Don’t worry,” Adrienne replied. “Tout ira bien.” She ushered Sylvia into the shop, and Spender followed. Lily caught Sylvia’s response to Adrienne. “I’m not so sure everything will be fine. I’ve never seen him this wrecked. What am I going to do to keep him calm?” The door shut behind them, the bell muffled.

Lily exhaled, unaware that she’d been holding her breath. She inched past two men and two women who were having an animated conversation in English. “Well, the Spanish didn’t change him any,” one of the men said. “Last night I saw him at Cloiserie, and he was nattering on about a fight with a Spanish nationalist sympathizer.”

“That’s our Hem,” one of the women said. “Always the hero.”

Lily loitered outside with the tiny crowd that grew with every minute. She’d missed her chance, she chided herself. She should have approached Sylvia before she went inside. Clutching the strap of her bag, she paced out of Sylvia’s sight. After a few minutes, Sylvia opened the door, propping it with a doorstop shaped like a book. People tossed their cigarettes to the gutter and entered the shop. Lily reluctantly joined the queue that trickled from the door onto the sidewalk. From the back of the line, Lily could see Sylvia inside the entry, greeting people with
bises
and smiles. Adrienne moved about, turning on lights, straightening chairs. The line of people slowly advanced onto the steps, over the threshold, and into the shop. Lily fingered the ticket in her jacket pocket. What if Sylvia refused her?

Each step made her more nervous. She tried to distract herself by surreptitiously studying the couple in front of her. They were American, and nattily dressed. It took Lily a few minutes to realize that the man and woman were actually both women, but one was dressed in a man’s suit and hat. Peering closer at the person under the top hat, Lily thought she recognized the mannish face with a prominent nose. The woman looked like Janet Flanner,
The New Yorker
correspondent who wrote a column called “Letter from Paris”. Lily edged closer and tried to eavesdrop but Janet—if it was indeed her—was engaged in conversation with her friend, a younger woman with strawberry-colored hair and an easy laugh. Lily had read Flanner’s missives from Paris; she’d introduced American readers to artists, writers, and notables in Paris, including Sylvia Beach. Her essays inspired Lily, who hoped to write about Paris life someday. This brush with literary fame distracted her enough to make the last few steps to Sylvia bearable. Lily watched while Sylvia greeted the women warmly, calling Janet’s companion, Martha, and mentioning something about reporting on the civil war in Spain.

At last the women moved to their seats and Lily was face-to-face with Sylvia. Looking up from the clipboard, Sylvia recognized Lily and sighed.

“Hello,” Lily said.

“You’re back. You are an intrusive one, aren’t you?” She peered around Lily, who sensed a crowd gathering behind her.

“I’m sorry, I just really want to be here. I’m dying to hear Hemingway read. I want to help, too. Can I some move chairs or something?”

“We already have the chairs set up. I don’t think we need your help.”

“Please!” Lily made a desperate attempt, suddenly grabbing Sylvia’s arm. Sylvia recoiled and Lily whispered again, “Please!” Several people who had taken their seats stared at the spectacle.

Adrienne approached, her back to the audience. “Who is this girl?” she asked in French.

Sylvia shook Lily off and replied, “Just a crazy American.”

“Come on!” Lily pulled herself upright. “Why be stubborn? I can help. I’ll do whatever you need.”

The foursome from outside had wandered in and chatted near the door. Sylvia glanced at them, then at Lily.

“No is no. Please, leave now. You’re obstructing the entry and disturbing my guests.” Sylvia turned her attention to the people behind Lily, welcoming them with a warm smile. Lily had no choice but to step back and out of the shop, shamed in the worst possible way—by her heroine, by not being on “the list.”

Outside, she balled her fists and shook them at her sides. “Ack!” she cried out, startling a woman waiting to get in. There was still a group queuing on the sidewalk. A large green car glided up the street. It was a limousine. The driver stopped, got out, and opened the back door with a bow. An older woman with an aristocratic demeanor emerged, the netting on her hat subtly glittering, her spring jacket buttoned around her considerable bulk. With a slight nod to the driver, she approached the bookstore, and, passing the queue, entered. Whispered questions about her rippled through the crowd and Lily thought she heard the name “Rubenstein.”

Lily couldn’t imagine how they were all going to fit inside. Sylvia wasn’t kidding when she said the reading was sold out. But she wasn’t going to be turned away. She had to get in. The ticket in her pocket wasn’t there by chance. Lily joined the line again, crafting her next approach. When she was again facing Sylvia, she spoke quickly and quietly.

“Sylvia. Where’s Hemingway? He’s not even here and you’re supposed to start in a few minutes.” Sylvia regarded Lily with her bright blue eyes. Lily saw a flash of panic cross her face. She spoke up. “I’ll go get him for you. You need to stay here; I can bring him back and the reading can start.”

Sylvia sighed with exasperation. “I don’t need you to—”

A crash came from behind the shop curtain, followed by a curse muttered loudly in French. Sylvia glanced toward the curtain, as did everyone in the nearly full room.

“Darn students, trying to come in the back way,” Sylvia said. She turned back to Lily. “Fine! All right! Go. Get Hemingway. He’s probably at the Danton. But don’t think that guarantees you a spot at the reading. We’re still full.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lily said.

Sylvia repeated impatiently. “Go,” she said.

“Thank you,” Lily said. Sylvia waved her away and hurried to the back to investigate the crash.

OUTSIDE, LILY INHALED the crisp night air. She hadn’t ma’amed anyone for years, if ever. But she liked the idea of being Sylvia’s errand girl. She wondered how drunk Hemingway had managed to get before the reading. She made herself tipsy with a fantasy of befriending the great writer. She hurried to the corner, on a mission to get her friend Hem. He counted on her to help him with these kinds of events. After the reading, they’d go together with friends for drinks and she’d get him to reveal his editing secrets. He’d share his writing tips, encouraging her efforts. She’d blossom under his tutelage and become a famous writer in her own right.

At the door of the café, she saw him immediately, surrounded by a couple of admirers. He leaned on the bar, his foot propped on the railing near the floor. He wore a brown suit complete with vest. His cropped hair, ruddy cheeks, and smiling eyes drew Lily toward him. He drank beer from a mug and spoke to the man next to him. Lily hovered nearby, listening. He recounted a story in which he was helping a young Spanish couple whose mule had collapsed. The short man next to him laughed and leaned in to catch every word. Lily inched closer, drawn to the story, forgetting her mission. Hemingway finished with a loud clap signifying the death of the mule. The men laughed loudly. Hemingway waved toward the bartender and shouted, “Patron! La même chose!” Lily approached and stepped into his line of vision.

“Excuse me,” she said.

Hem regarded her with interest. “Hello there,” he said, sweetening his tone.

“Sylvia sent me to get you. The reading is in a few minutes.”

He frowned. “Damn! I was trying to forget all about that.”

The next round arrived. “What’re you drinking?” He eyed Lily as he said this, taking in her face, her figure. She felt inspected, researched as if for a character in one of his stories.

“I’m not drinking anything, and neither should you. We have to go! Sylvia’s waiting. And the audience who came to hear you.”

“You had to mention that.” He sipped from the fresh beer. The man with him chuckled and winked at Lily.

“I don’t mean to be pushy, but Sylvia is counting on you. And she’s counting on me to bring you to the shop.”

He set the beer down. “Listen, dollface.” He towered over her. His eyes were warm and friendly despite his tone. “Let me tell you one thing you gotta learn in life. A woman should never pry a man away from his drink.”

Lily laughed. She wanted a drink, something fancy and French. She wanted to stay here all night with Hemingway, basking in his glow. But she had a job to do and it had to be past nine o’clock by now.

“Okay, tit for tat. Let me tell you one thing.”

Now both men were looking at her.

“Perhaps you’re accustomed to making women wait. But Sylvia Beach is not a woman to be kept waiting.”

“Right you are!” He slammed his fist down, then finished his beer in one gulp. “It’s nerves, that’s all. No disrespect meant for Sylvia.” He threw some coins on the counter. “Hasta la vista, Robert!” he yelled to his friend, who was right in front of him.

They left the café. Lily couldn’t believe she was escorting Ernest Hemingway. He stepped into a
tabac
while Lily waited outside. She thought about
The Old Man and the Sea
. Here she was with the man who had written it, before he had written it. For some reason this bolstered her courage.

Hemingway burst out the door, holding a lighter to a ciga-rette. He moved like a ship steering through a storm—tilting first this way, then that way. Clutching his cigarette in one hand, he gripped his hat on his head as if protecting it against a gale wind. Lily scooted along behind him like a tugboat. He was talking, but she couldn’t tell if he was speaking to her or to himself. She caught up to him, pacing herself so she was at his elbow.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“I said, I don’t know why I agreed to do this.”

“What’s the big deal?”

He pulled up short and took a drag from his cigarette. They were a few doors away from the shop. A group of people lingered at the doorway, waiting to get in.

“‘What’s the big deal?’ Have you ever read your stories to a group of snippety Parisian assholes?”

Lily laughed. She had never heard the word snippety. “No, I haven’t.”

“Well, then, who are you to talk?” he said. She couldn’t believe that Mr. Bravado, Mr. Ambulance Driver, Mr. Hunter of the Wilds was afraid to read in public.

“Oh, just suck it up,” she told his back.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Suck what up?”

“Get over it,” she replied. “Get over your big bad self.”

He smiled. “You are one weird bird,” he said.

“What are you reading from tonight?”

“The latest.
To Have and Have Not.
”

Lily didn’t know it. But now that she’d met him, she wanted to read everything he wrote. And confront him about his womanizing.

They arrived at the shop. Sylvia hovered near the threshold.

“Hem!” she called. “Get in here!”

He tossed his cigarette aside and went in. Lily followed and Sylvia, with a slight shake of her head, let her pass. A chorus of voices filled the space, crowding out the books and shrinking the space in the shop. A buzz of anticipation circulated through the room and Lily caught her breath as she was pulled into the excitement. Several younger people sat on stools near the front. Spender calmly surveyed the scene from the front of the room. He saw Lily with Hemingway at the door and winked. She smiled back.

Lily lingered out of the way near the fiction section, watching the literati trickle in. Most of them were older than her. There were a lot of men speaking French, and Lily knew that if they wore name tags, she’d recognize some of France’s most famous writers. Sylvia and Adrienne welcomed the last guests. They laughed and chatted but Lily could tell that Sylvia was anxious by the way she gripped the clipboard to her chest like a breastplate. She scanned the crowd.

A man wearing a shabby white suit and thick glasses entered with a sad-looking woman. They greeted Sylvia coolly. She returned the man’s hello and smiled warmly at his wife. As he made his way to his seat, Lily realized it was James Joyce. He appeared skinny and sickly, but carried himself like someone important. Taking a seat near the back, he removed a tiny book from his jacket pocket and proceeded to read, ignoring his wife. Spender reappeared and Sylvia pulled him aside, pointing to the readers’ table. Hemingway moved along the side of the crowd toward Spender. The pitch of conversation rose with the heat. A bouquet of perfumes produced an almost visible cloud above the crowd, not quite masking the body odor. The women wore neat bobs and heavy makeup. Many were adorned with tiny swaths of fur, a bit of trim on a wrist, a bit wrapping a neck. The men all wore suits and held their hats in their laps.

A group near the back was especially exuberant. The woman in the middle threw her head back, laughing with the man next to her. She wore a burgundy velvet jacket trimmed in some kind of black fur with a jaunty matching cap. The brooch pinned to her jacket caught Lily’s eye. Lily had the feeling she had seen that woman before. She looked like the woman on the plane, the one who had offered her tea and poetry. Was it? How could it be possible? Lily held still, trying to grasp it.

The heat in the room overcame Lily. She fell back, pushing over a rack of magazines with a loud clatter. Sylvia glared at her as Lily quickly righted the rack. The noise brought the rest of the chatter in the room to a halt as everybody looked at Lily. Heat rose up around Lily’s neck like a ruff. The woman studied her a second longer than the rest of her friends, her eyes narrowing. A shiver of certainty passed through Lily. This woman recognized her. No doubt about it, she was the woman from the plane. The man next to her also inspected Lily. The thin mustache above his lips twitched when he smiled. He winked and gave a series of nods like they were agreeing on something together. Lily frowned. She averted her eyes, desperately trying to get the attention of the woman sitting next to him. She had to speak to her. She started forward, but Sylvia assumed her position in front of the room. Lily clenched her fists and held her ground.

“Welcome, friends,” Sylvia began. Just as she spoke, two more people squeezed in, taking up positions near Lily. They removed their hats and she took them in: two handsome men, well dressed, one wearing a thin mustache, the other blond and tall. The tall man peered at Lily and gave a slight nod, which made her glance away nervously. She tried to pay attention to Sylvia, whose voice, though authoritative, did not carry over the audience. Lily could barely make out what she was saying. Spender and Hemingway had seated themselves at the table. Hemingway sweated visibly, his forehead damp. Spender maintained his calm. Both of the men had books in front of them, and Spender held a sheaf of papers. A bottle of whiskey stood on the table. From what she could gather, Hemingway would read first. Sylvia gave an introduction, mentioning the books he had published, his place on the frontier of the short story. As she spoke, Sylvia gazed at Hemingway with a soft expression and a sweet smile. She finished her introduction and the room broke into applause. Hemingway rose, offered a slight bow, and resumed his seat. Clearing his throat, he picked up a thin book and coughed. He began talking about writing and war and what it was like to write in a fascist country. Finally, he flipped through the pages and plunged in.

I took a quick one out of the first bottle I saw open and I couldn’t tell you yet what it was. The whole thing made me feel pretty bad. I slipped along behind the bar and out through the kitchen in back and all the way out. . . .

Lily tried to focus on his words, acutely aware of the man next to her. His height emphasized his formal posture. He held himself very alert during the reading as if tasting every word, digesting every sensation Hemingway described. She risked a peek. He was quite handsome, his sculpted face focused in a look of concentration. He glanced down at Lily and raised one of his shaggy eyebrows. Blushing, Lily glanced away. A woman in the middle of the row cupped her hand around her red-lipsticked mouth and called out, “Louder, please, sir.” Hemingway looked up, startled that someone had interrupted him. He cleared his throat, pulled himself up in his chair, and continued. This time he spoke as he had in the bar, loud and strong.

The presence of Sylvia and the woman from the plane, the tall man standing so close to her, all made it difficult for Lily to pay attention. The exploits of a Florida smuggler and his gangster friends were distant and uninteresting. Joyce wore a look of studied boredom. The genius was bored. Of course, Lily thought. The other people in the audience appeared engrossed in Hemingway’s words. The only sound in the room was his voice, now projected with an air of authority.

Lily’s impatience overrode her ability to listen. It wouldn’t be long before she could corner the woman from the plane and get answers to her questions: What was the woman doing here? How had she, Lily, gotten to this era? And above all, how was Lily to get home?

When Hemingway finished, the audience clapped and he gave a tidy bow, then reached for the whiskey bottle. Spender adjusted his ascot again, preparing for his turn. The audience took the opportunity to stretch as delicately as one could in suits and furs. Joyce rose with a jerky movement and scooted past the knees in his row. Without a glance at anyone, he left the shop and slipped into the night. How rude, Lily thought. A hurt look passed over Sylvia’s face. Lily checked to see how the man beside her reacted. He scanned the room as if taking roll call of the guests. Sylvia squelched the murmurs of the audience to begin her introduction of Stephen Spender.

“Thank you very much, Ernest,” she said. “Your reading was enjoyed by all, I am sure.”

“Not Mr. Joyce,” Hemingway replied. He tossed back the whiskey.

“Well, then. Perhaps you inspired him to rush home and write.” The audience tittered. Sylvia continued with the introduction.

“Now I have the pleasure of welcoming a young talent. He is one of Britain’s up-and-coming poets. He, like Mr. Hemingway, was also in Spain during these last months of the war, so we are very grateful to have him here tonight. Without further ado, I present to you Stephen Spender.”

The audience clapped politely, gloved taps muffled among more assertive applause by the men. Spender cleared his throat and picked up a sheaf of papers. He had the most incredibly sculpted lips Lily had ever seen. His blue eyes shone as if glossed with tears.

“I have prepared a few poems for tonight,” he began. His formal British accent contrasted sharply with Hemingway’s casual American diction. He proceeded to read. Lily listened to see if she recognized the poem the woman had read to her on the plane, but none were familiar. She stared at the woman, letting the poet’s voice lull her.

A wave of applause snapped Lily out of her daze. The handsome man next to her had removed a small notebook from his jacket and had taken notes during Spender’s reading. That’s odd, Lily thought. Who would take notes on poems? After Spender finished, the applause faded and the audience broke apart, standing and pushing chairs aside, calling to friends across the room, reaching into purses and pockets for cigarettes. Sylvia bustled around the table where Hemingway and Spender had been positioned for the reading. Placing trays on the table, Sylvia transformed it into a buffet for the reception. Lily peeked at the woman from the plane, who was chatting with the man next to her. Lily pressed her way through the crowd toward Sylvia. She reached the table just as the man who’d been taking notes greeted Sylvia. Lily lingered nearby, but couldn’t hear what they were saying. The man appeared to be questioning Sylvia and though she remained polite, it didn’t seem that Sylvia was giving him answers. Lily thought the man spoke with a German accent. After a moment of conversation, he left, glancing at Lily as he passed. Sylvia resumed her task of situating a tray of small glasses.