Chasing Sylvia Beach (17 page)

LILY WHEELED HER bike away, wishing Louise had given her answers. Instead she now had a task that she didn’t feel capable of achieving. Steal a book from Sylvia Beach? Inconceivable, even for her. At the end of the bridge she mounted her bike and pedaled away.

Bumping along the cobbled street, Lily tried to recall Sylvia’s directions. She pushed her bike along the quay, passing the
bouquinistes
. Distracted by the outdoor book market, she strolled slowly, attracted by the green boxes holding all kinds of books. She remembered an item on her list, buy a gift for Daniel at a
bouquiniste
. What would he think of all this? She wished he were here, someone smart to help her sort it out. But she was on her own. She gazed at the sepia postcards and the small cloth-bound books tucked in the wooden boxes. If she did buy Daniel something, would she ever be able to give it to him? She pushed that thought away. Eventually, the directions came back to her, at least part of them. The post office was on rue des Halles. She was to continue on rue de Pont Neuf until she arrived at the Place des Halles, then from there the directions had sounded simple enough. Lily mounted the bike and headed toward the post office.

At the Place des Halles, she found herself in a mass of controlled confusion. The square was packed with people and their wares; rickety wooden tables overloaded with vegetables, people pushing carts loaded with wooden crates. She dinged her bell to pass through, but was ignored. It was too crowded to continue by bike, so she parked with a group of others against a wall. She looked for a lock, but didn’t find one, so she untied the books from the bike rack and turned back to the market.

A row of giant pavilions loomed over the street, and the cast-iron buildings imposed a regal order on the market. Lily moved among the vendors who lined the street outside the pavilions, finding it easier to navigate on foot. Men in long aprons and rolled-up shirtsleeves bustled around the market. Scraps of paper and debris skirted the dusty ground, moving under the breeze kicked up by market-goers. The aisles were lined with straw baskets, propping up sacks overflowing with potatoes. Rough wooden tables held bunches of onions, their stringy roots clumped with dirt. At a low table, a woman ladled something hot from a large soup pot and served a thin man. A worker with a ladder strapped to his chest passed Lily, and she stepped out of the way. The ladder, piled with boxes, spilled leaves of lettuce. It was like a circus act, only the man was not performing, but working. He bent forward from its weight as he moved his cargo through the market’s aisles. Then someone jostled Lily from behind and she jumped back as a woman passed, pushing a wicker basket on a cart.

Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by it all—the crush of the people, the smells, the banging of crates and boxes. She searched for something to lean against but she was surrounded by people moving about their business. Bending down, she put her hands on her knees, trying to regain her equilibrium. She breathed deeply to fend off panic. It was too crowded, too smelly, too close. This wasn’t the Paris of her fantasies. Her mind returned to the conversation with Louise. What was that book? Why was she the only one who could get it? Why couldn’t they just buy it? She cursed silently as she slipped inside an arched entry and into the covered pavilion. It was quieter inside, but still bustling with activity. To the left and right, vegetable stands overflowed with crates holding giant cauliflowers, heaps of carrots. Burlap sacks of onions and potatoes lined the edge of the rows. Past the vegetables, the smell hit her first—a stew of repellent odors that made her stomach roil. She was in the meat row. She hurried past a stall that sold horsemeat and at the end of the aisle, she turned and entered the colorful arena of fruits and vegetables.

Here it was easier to breathe, though the vegetables gave off their own odor. The grocery stores back home were sterile by contrast. She often went to the farmers’ market, located in a big parking lot near the Cherry Creek Mall, but it was nothing like this. This was wild, loud, real, and raw. These working-class people bought and sold food for restaurants, not for chichi parties in downtown lofts. It was as if she had accidentally wandered into the docks in a busy, rugged port.

She passed into another row, where cheese makers sold their products. The smell here was more pungent than in the meat aisle, more pleasant but only slightly so. She inhaled the scent of tired feet and old leather. She paused at the goat cheese stall. The cheeses came in all shapes and sizes, tidy stacks and bricks, oozing rounds that puffed out like pillows she wanted to lay her teeth into. Square bricks, scored with indentations. A small man with a cap and a cigarette butt in his mouth winked at her.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Some cheese from my sweet goats?”

“No, I’m just admiring them, thank you.”

She smiled and moved on, out of the building and into the light. The books were starting to weigh down her arms. She had to find the post office. The sky had become overcast while she was inside the market, threatening rain. Pausing at the edge of the fracas, she tried to recall the directions. The buildings loomed, impervious to Lily’s search. Skirting the square, she finally found rue des Halles. A statue of a woman guarded the corner from her niche high above the street. The post office was right there, a cream-colored building flying the French flag from its pointed roof. Lily looked for a sign, and there it was: La Poste.

Inside, it took forever to find the right line, to stand in it, to fill out the forms, and then be directed to another line. While waiting, she read the painted signs and tried to memorize French names for customs, shipping, and insurance. Lily could see why Sylvia sent her. This was tedious. She couldn’t imagine Sylvia waiting through all of this. The French bureaucracy was maddening.

Relieved of her duty, she stepped out into the day. Lily was hungry. She slipped back into the market. The vendors were closing down. Scraps piled up along the back of the stalls. Boys with giant brooms pushed debris. At the goat cheese vendor, Lily ordered a small round of cheese. Further on, Lily surveyed the remaining offers from the baker: a few baguettes, a squat and seeded
pain de campagne
. She chose a demi-baguette. The baker enveloped it in a piece of thin paper, twisting the end to a sharp point.

Outside, she found a bench. Behind her, a pair of old men occupied their own bench, chatting under a cloud of cigarette smoke. Lily settled in, their heated conversation about the Front Populaire a backdrop to her lunch. The bread was crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, the cheese sharp and tangy. She munched, watching the market workers finish their day. What would these people do when the Germans commandeered the city? When food became scarce, surely they would be among the first affected. Lily stopped chewing. Could she do something to change what was coming? What could she do to stop Hitler, to eliminate the suffering of millions of people? She swallowed, doubting her ability to alter the course of history. Weren’t time travelers forbidden to affect change? She finished the baguette, shaking her head. The fictional rules of time travel seemed silly now. She had no idea what forces had allowed these bizarre circumstances. All she knew was getting the book for Louise was her next best step.

Dark clouds gathered overhead. Lily brushed the sharp crumbs from her skirt and hurried toward where she’d parked the bike. But the bevy of bicycles only confused her. They all looked the same: solid, heavy, banged out of metal. She looked for Sylvia’s book rack and didn’t see it. A rivulet of fear trickled down her spine. Taking a deep breath, she tried to remember the shape of the seat, the color of the paint. Nothing came to her. She hovered for a long time, growing anxious. How could she face Sylvia having lost the bike? The first day on the job and she’d already messed up. She searched the crowd for a clue, for a kid who may have stolen it, any sign. Only rain came, spattering the pavement in large drops.

Desperate, she finally found it. At least it looked like Sylvia’s, a rack on the back, the bell on the left side of the handlebars. But when she grasped the handlebars, she knew it wasn’t Sylvia’s. Lily glanced around. No one was watching her; people now rushed to avoid the imminent rain. Lily eased the bike away, her hands sweaty. She pushed it, heavier than Sylvia’s, away from the others. Weaving around the men pushing wheelbarrows piled with empty crates, she tried to appear nonchalant. Lily was almost at the end of the block when a shout arose right behind her. “Ey, oh!” the man’s voice pierced her back. Feigning calm, she turned, but when she saw the man bearing down on her, she let out a little scream.

He was short, his lip jerking as he shouted at Lily. She didn’t understand what he said, but his gestures at the bike made it clear. He lunged to grab her arm, but she jerked away, releasing the bike. As the man reached for it, Lily ran, pushing people aside. For once she didn’t care about being polite and not causing a scene. The clouds broke, sending rain pouring down, making the cobblestones slippery. She darted through the thinning crowd, the man’s shouts following her. Another man tried to grab her but she slipped away, making a primal, piercing shriek. She was desperate, out of control, all the fear that had been lurking under the surface rising. The crowd gave way and she ducked down a side street. She didn’t stop running until she reached the Seine. Pausing at the bridge, she leaned on the stone railing to catch her breath.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered. The rain cascaded over her. She sobbed, her breath coming in sharp bursts. The danger she was in—and had put herself in even more by trying to steal—overcame her. Leaning on the stone of the bridge, she wailed, not caring who saw. No one knew her, no one cared about her, no one would ever even know if she was in jail to come rescue her. Perhaps she could just slip in, tumble into the rushing stream and let all of this go. Looking out over the bridge, she leaned toward the water. She wouldn’t have to tell Sylvia anything, nor make her way out of this mess. She wouldn’t have to deal with Louise and figure out what she was doing here and how to get home. She leaned further, leaning until the memory of Louise brought her back. Louise had mentioned her mother’s name, Claire. How did she know her mother? Lily had to know. And if she fell into the Seine and didn’t die, then she’d really be in trouble, explaining the inexplicable at the hospital. It would be better to tell Sylvia and risk being fired.

Sodden, Lily pushed away from the wall and headed toward the shop. Normally, she would offer to pay for the bike. She would put it on her credit card or ask her father to loan her the money. But she had no idea how much a bike cost, and how long her money would hold out. She wasn’t expecting to be paid much for her work at the bookstore. Sylvia didn’t have a lot of money. Despite her intellectualism, her books, and her friends, Sylvia was in the same position as the workers at the market: at the mercy of what was coming to Paris. But at least they had a position. Lily, on the other hand, was without status, without a home, without the means to work her way up. She might be forced to steal to survive. She had thought she was finished with stealing. The pen theft had happened without thought, but the bike was different. She wouldn’t steal anymore. It was too risky. But what about the book that Louise wanted? Would she have to steal that, too? She pushed her wet hair off her forehead. She wished she could tell Paul. Louise hadn’t forbade her to tell anyone, but how could Lily explain that she was time traveling when she didn’t understand it herself?

Back at the bookstore, she plunged in, allowing no time to lose her nerve. Sylvia held the big black phone receiver against her ear and jotted notes, listening intently. Lily dawdled near the door, trying to not drip on the books. She silently rehearsed her apology speech. Finally, Sylvia hung up.

“I see you didn’t take the umbrella.” She went into the back room and returned a second later. She gave a small hand towel to Lily, who tried to sop the rain off her hair with the stiff air-dried towel. “You’ll have to change out of those clothes,” Sylvia said, lighting a cigarette.

“Never mind about that, Sylvia. I have some bad news.”

Sylvia was back at her desk, reviewing the notes she’d just made. “Bad news, hmm? I’m used to it. Do tell.”

“I’ve lost your bike. I mean, it was stolen . . . I think.”

Sylvia looked at Lily, blowing out smoke. “You’ve misplaced my bike.”

“Well, I put it with all the other bikes at Les Halles and when I came back from my errand, it was gone.”

Sylvia threw up her hands. “I forgot to give you the lock. Zut! Still, Les Halles? What were you doing there?”

Lily shrugged. She couldn’t say that she had to visit a site that no longer existed.

“Are you a foolish tourist or my assistant?”

Lily didn’t have an answer, for she was neither, really. She melted onto the stool at the shipping desk. Her throat constricted and she felt the sobs coming back. She forced herself to speak, trying to squelch the tears.

“I’m sorry about your bike, so sorry. I . . . can I replace it? I mean, I can’t afford to replace it. I . . .” Lily gripped the now-soggy towel. “I wish I could just charge it or get some cash from an ATM.”