Chasing Sylvia Beach (18 page)

“Charge what? Cash from where? What are we going to do without a bike?” Sylvia shook her head.

Lily stood. “Can I work it off? I can work toward paying off a new bike.” As soon as she said it, she felt a gripping in her stomach. She probably wouldn’t be making enough money from Sylvia to live on, let alone buy a bicycle. Lily didn’t know how much Sylvia was paying her. She’d been so excited to get the job, she hadn’t asked. Tears welled up and spilled over.

“I’m sorry, Sylvia,” she croaked.

Sylvia stubbed out her cigarette and waved her hand. “Please, stop apologizing, it will get us nowhere. And for goodness sake, stop crying.”

The phone rang shrilly and Sylvia turned to answer it. After drying off, Lily set to shelving books. She was content to melt into the stacks, losing herself in the simple process of tucking books into order on shelves. The afternoon passed with few customers. At closing, Sylvia spoke while they pulled the book bin inside.

“You know, Gertrude mentioned recently that she had an extra bike. You could go round and ask her for it on my behalf. Maybe she’ll take mercy on you, a poor young thing.”

Lily nodded eagerly. “Of course, I’ll do it. I’ll try anything. You’ve been so kind to me and this is how I repay you. I’m appalled at my own lameness.”

“Enough. Enough. You’re not lame, you can walk just fine. Tomorrow before you come to the shop, go to Gertrude and Alice’s. I’ll send word that you’ll be coming. Be polite but not too sweet. They can smell a swindler a mile away. They live at 27 rue de Fleurus. Do you know where that is?”

Lily did know. As a student, she had hovered in front of the security gate, trying to conjure up a sense of the literary salons that had happened inside. The wrought-iron entryway hadn’t revealed much, but Lily enjoyed her fantasies nonetheless. Sylvia shooed her toward the door.

“Now, go home and change out of those wet clothes. It looks like the rain has stopped. You’ll be safe out there now.”

Outside, Lily avoided puddles on the sidewalk as she walked to the hotel, rehearsing possible scenarios with Gertrude Stein. Everything she had read about Stein made her out to be an intimidating ogre. But she had no choice; she couldn’t let Sylvia down again.

THE NEXT MORNING, Lily skipped down the back stairs at the hotel, forgetting to be quiet. She had interrupted Paul the night before, getting ready for his graveyard shift. She wanted to tell him everything, but there wasn’t time. After he left, Lily removed her wet clothes and hung them around the room to dry. She pulled the pages she had written from their hiding place in the book stack. Had he found them? She couldn’t be sure. It might be safer to leave them in the room than to carry them with her, she decided. She replaced them, making sure the paper wasn’t visible. Even though it was early, she slipped into the comfort of Paul’s bed and promptly dozed off, waking in the morning after a night of uninterrupted sleep.

Now, nervous about meeting Gertrude Stein, she focused on what she would say instead of what she was doing. Rounding the last curve of the staircase, she jumped off the wooden stair and bumped into someone lurking in the courtyard. Startled, Lily said, “Pardonnez-moi,” before realizing it was Paul’s mother, blocking Lily’s only exit. She pulled back as the woman spat out, “Vous!”

Lily squawked, then threw her hand to her mouth. The woman leaned toward her, a fierce look in her eye.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she growled. Lily feigned ignorance.

“What?”

“You know what I mean.”

Lily drew back, trying to inch toward the courtyard entrance. “No, I don’t.”

“I know you have eyes for my son.”

Lily blushed despite herself. “Paul? Paul is very nice. He’s been very nice to me.”

The hotel keeper persisted. “Don’t think I don’t know everything that goes on in this hotel. I do. And I don’t appreciate foreign tarts making my son a dishonest man.”

Lily shook her head. “That’s crazy. I’m not a tart.” She didn’t feel that her French was up to this conversation. No matter what she said, Paul’s mother held all the cards. His mother insisted that the hotel wasn’t “that kind” and that she didn’t tolerate
conneries
.

Lily groaned with impatience.
Conneries
—tricks, games? She wished this were just a game. Where was Paul now to save her from his mother?

“You’re mistaken. Paul is a friend, he’s nothing but a friend.”

“Don’t try to fool me. You leave my son alone. He has places to go. He has a fiancée and a future, and not with you.”

Lily recoiled. Paul had a fiancée? He didn’t act like it. Still, there was a lot about Paul she didn’t know. She shrugged. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying anything with your son.”

“That’s right you’re not. You must leave the hotel at once. Like I said the first time we met, I don’t want to ever see you here again.”

“But . . .” Lily’s heart skipped. She clutched her purse. She’d left her writing and her money in Paul’s room.

“But what? Clear off now—point finale!”

Lily knew it was useless to argue. She walked away without another word. She could find Paul at his school and tell him what happened. Passing through the neighborhood, she barely saw the shopkeepers tending their sidewalk displays, gesturing and arguing with their neighbors. She leaned against a blackened building, tears forming. Where was she going to stay? Suddenly the familiar streets seemed menacing, the soot-dusted buildings looming against her. The people were all living utterly normal and probably boring lives, and she was in the middle of it with this incomprehensible dilemma. She tried to put the scene with the hotel keeper out of her mind. The last thing she needed before her meeting with Gertrude Stein was to be polluted with these negative thoughts.

At the Luxembourg Garden, Lily began to feel calmer. She skirted the fountain, heading toward the trees that surrounded a playground. Children ran and shouted in play, kicking up the gravel. Lily envied them their freedom from fear and worry. Past the tennis courts, she moved down the majestic and wide aisle that bisected the park. Before long she entered rue de Fleurus. If she were braver, she would be excited about going to see the famous author. But everything she had read about Gertrude Stein told her this was not a woman to suffer fools, and after leaving Sylvia’s bike open to predators at Les Halles, Lily felt like a supreme fool.

She consoled herself with a fantasy. In her mind she stayed for tea, spending the morning with Gertrude and Alice. They discussed writing, and Gertrude read a few lines from the essays Lily was working on. In the company of greatness, Lily felt witty and smart, and was invited back for salons any time she wanted.

At the majestic entry to Gertrude’s apartment, she found no buzzer, no panel with names. The entry, two large gate-like doors with a stern bas-relief face at the top, didn’t appear locked. She pushed the door open, surprised to gain access so easily. But she was only one step in before a door just inside the entry creaked open. A short woman in a brown housedress said, “Vous cherchez qui?”

“Mademoiselle Stein,” Lily responded.

The concierge frowned. Stepping into the dim foyer, she indicated the courtyard at the back, telling Lily that Mademoiselle Stein’s residence was on the left. Lily thanked her and passed into a small courtyard, open to the sky and filled with plants. She wondered who had the privilege of witnessing the famous people who passed through the entryway. Lily was aware of her every footstep tracing the route of countless others who had gathered their glory around Gertrude. She lingered in the courtyard, admiring the mini jungle of potted plants until the concierge’s voice urged her on, “Par là!”

Lily scurried toward an entrance on the left and knocked. After several minutes, footsteps approached and the door was opened by a flushed woman wearing a flower-patterned apron. In Lily’s best French, she explained that Sylvia Beach had sent her to talk to Miss Stein about a bicycle. The woman moved into the salon, gestured toward the sofa, and slipped out of the room. Lily gawked at the paintings clustered on the wall, works hung so closely together that it was difficult to see any one of them. There were many cubist works by Picasso. Suddenly, she noticed a pattern: almost all the art depicted Gertrude. She was studying a sketch when Gertrude spoke from the doorway.

“Everyone looks like that when they see my collection, a purely stupid look, a look of vapid unintelligence that even my dog has never mastered.”

Lily turned and gave a curtsy. She’d never curtsied to anyone, but her body did an involuntary dip. Gertrude crossed the room and took a seat in a low-slung armchair. She wore flat leather sandals with socks. It comforted Lily that someone so powerful could get away with such a fashion faux pas.

“It’s impressive, your collection.”

“Interested in art?”

“No . . . yes—I mean, of course. I’m . . . I want to be a writer.”

Gertrude eyed Lily and cleared her throat. “You’ve got some living to do first, I’m sure. Now what’s this about a bike?”

Lily explained that Sylvia thought Gertrude had a bike she didn’t want anymore. She tried to avoid admitting she’d been responsible for losing Sylvia’s bike, but Gertrude pried it out of her. Lily confessed that this had happened to her before, back home.

“It’s living, I mean, something to write about, these stolen bikes?” Lily offered. Gertrude grunted and shook her head. She hauled herself out of the chair and motioned for Lily to follow. They passed through the kitchen, a tiny room floored with uneven tiles, packed with cooking tools, and haunted by the smell of onions. The woman who had opened the door for Lily was plucking feathers from the pink skin of a dead bird on her lap. Beyond the kitchen was a door. Gertrude opened it, reached in, and clicked a light on.

“Down there, in the back,” she said, pointing down the dim staircase. Lily hesitated before descending into the musty basement. At the bottom of the stairway, she shivered. She was in a dimly lit storage room stuffed with household items: lamps, a leaning end table with three legs, a collection of paintings stacked against each other. Lily nearly choked. What masterpieces might be lurking in the indignity of storage? The bike leaned against a birdcage that still harbored a few feathers.

“Wait,” Gertrude said from the top of the stairs. She spoke to the cook, who called out, “Pierre!” Lily took the opportunity to peek at the paintings. She thought she recognized a Gauguin, but wasn’t sure in the dim light. Moments later, she heard footsteps descending, and looked up to see a man wearing a cap and rough wool pants held up by a pair of suspenders.

“Attention,” he said. Lily stepped back while he reached for the bike. “Vous pouvez remonter,” he said, and after watching him scrape the bike against the birdcage, she scampered up the stairs. Back in the living room, Gertrude sat in her chair, pouring a cup of tea. She didn’t offer Lily any.

“Thank you, Miss Stein. I know Sylvia really appreciates this, and so do I.” This would likely be her only chance in Gertrude’s world. “May I ask you a question about writing?”

She sighed. “Everybody does.”

“What advice do you have for a writer just starting out?”

Gertrude’s face deepened into a frown. “What do you write, anyway?”

“I’d like to write short stories. Or essays. And maybe a novel someday.”

Gertrude seemed to soften and nearly smiled. “Read then. Read everything and then forget it all. You have to find your own voice. Don’t go trying to imitate someone else’s style. Just be yourself.” With that, Gertrude settled back in her chair with her teacup. Lily couldn’t believe that was the advice—that simple counsel was all that Gertrude had for her about writing.

“Thank you. Thank you, that helps.”

“Pierre, put the bike in the courtyard, there. Sylvia can have it. And good riddance to it!”

“Thank you.” Lily paused. Despite Gertrude’s gruffness, she didn’t want to leave. “Okay, well, I’ll be going now.” Gertrude appeared to have already dismissed Lily, and sat reading from a sheaf of papers. Lily slipped out the door and into the courtyard. The bike waited, its tires deflated and the frame out of alignment. But she wasn’t about to reject it or Gertrude. With difficulty, Lily maneuvered the bike through the foyer and out the door. On the sidewalk, she noticed cobwebs draped in the spokes. Clutching the rubber handle grips, she paused to regain her breath. She repeated aloud what Gertrude had said so she wouldn’t forget it. “Be yourself. Find your own voice.”

It took almost an hour to wheel the heavy bike from Gertrude’s to Sylvia’s through the park. For the first half hour, she was energized and pleasantly astonished that she had encountered Gertrude Stein. She had gotten a bicycle and writing advice. Things were looking up. She replayed the scene with Gertrude, writing the story in her mind. She’d recount it in her notebook as soon as she had the chance.

When she arrived at the bookstore, it wasn’t open yet. Sitting on the steps munching a
pain au chocolat
, she imagined going back to the hotel that night, but then remembered that she had been kicked out. At least she didn’t have to sneak around, constantly worried about running into Paul’s mother.

She mulled over possibilities of where she could stay. She didn’t know how long her money would last. A hotel would cost a lot. She didn’t even know where to start looking for a place. She could ask Paul for help, but when would she see him again? Going back to say good-bye meant she might encounter his mother again. The thought of never again seeing Paul brought up tears. But no. She knew where his classes were; she could try to find him at the Sorbonne to say good-bye and arrange to get her money back. But what about her writing?

She’d have to figure out a way to see Paul, and a way to get her pages back before he saw them.

The sound of the door being unbolted prompted Lily to her feet. She greeted Sylvia, who smiled slightly.

“You got the bike, I see.”

“I did, and I met Gertrude. She gave me advice on writing.”

“Of course,” Sylvia replied. She eyed the bike. “No wonder she wanted to get rid of that. It’s in a fine state. Well, we can take it to the repair shop and see what can be done. Bring it in.”

Sylvia stepped aside as Lily wheeled the bike through the stillness of the shop and stored it in the courtyard where the other bike had been. Returning to the shop, she noticed the tiny back room. She hadn’t paid much attention when Sylvia had shown it to her, but now the cot in the hallway could be a possible refuge. It sagged and the pillowcase was gray rather than white. Racks for magazines and stacks of boxes filled the space between the bathroom and the stairs. Perhaps she could stay here. Perhaps she wouldn’t be homeless after all. She took a deep breath and pushed past the curtain and into the shop.

“Put the bin out, will you?” Sylvia gestured at a wooden box of books near the front door.

Lily knelt at the box. She had done this at Capitol Books. Part of the morning ritual involved wheeling out the cart of books that people still bought for a quarter outside the store. An old man came almost every day and stooped over the cart, fingering the pages, his hooked nose dripping in the cold. He’d hold the books close to his face and peer at the words. Lily would watch him from inside and wonder how much he could see. He’d shuffle in with a stack of five books, because if you bought four you got one free. The man would unfurl a crumpled dollar bill and fish a few coins out for tax. She witnessed his whole life in those gestures. He carted the books home, most likely a tiny apartment in Capitol Hill crammed with other people’s unwanted books whose covers curled back on themselves. The smell of all that paper, the slight moldy scent that clung to the pages that had been sprinkled with rain, filled his home. His cat curled up in a musty chair and he inched his way around precarious stacks of books. He spent his entire day reading, eating Campbell’s soup for dinner. He was Borderline Homeless Guy.