Chasing Sylvia Beach (9 page)

ON HER WAY to the bookstore, Lily barely noticed the route. Absorbed in thoughts about Sylvia Beach, she paused for the light at the boulevard Saint-Germain. She tried to remember all the questions she’d had about Sylvia that hadn’t been answered by her research trip to Princeton.

Lily’s father had deployed a number of tactics to help Lily heal from her mother’s sudden death. For months he’d let her wallow in grief in their Chicago house, where she’d grown up. He’d encouraged her to finish her degree. He’d suggested places where she could work in Chicago, friends of his that could help her get a job. None of it appealed to Lily, until he mentioned that he was going to a conference in Princeton and would be there for several days. Would she like to come? Lily had read in a biography about Sylvia Beach that her archives—her personal papers, items from her bookstore, all the things that were left behind after her death—were in the university’s collection. Sylvia was originally from Princeton and had been buried there. When Lily told her dad she wanted to accompany him to New Jersey, he seemed relieved to have finally offered something that she wanted.

At the Princeton library, Lily gave her driver’s license to a man who guarded the entrance to the collections rooms, telling him she was there to see the papers of Sylvia Beach. He didn’t express interest in her or her subject. Not the chatty type, Lily thought. Then she spied the portrait on the wall.

“That’s Sylvia, isn’t it?” she said. He nodded, perking up slightly.

“Yes, it is. Done by Émile Bécat. It came with all the other things we got from her estate. We’ve even got the sign from the bookshop.” He pointed into the library.

Lily peered around him. The wooden sign hung as it would have at Shakespeare and Company, perpendicular to the wall. The beruffled Shakespeare was completely at home in the proper Princeton library, but for Lily it was stunning to see these artifacts in real life. She couldn’t help but gawk when he led her into the research room, a round space filled with blond wood desks and high windows that gave the room a quiet, open feeling.

Sunlight coming through the windows warmed the space. Two women sat at their desks, surrounded by stacks of books and papers. At the head of the room sat a larger desk, and at it an imposing black woman dressed in African garb. She bowed her scarf-wrapped head at Lily but said nothing. Lily was glad that she’d accepted her father’s invitation to come.

Lily scanned the collection catalogue the man had given her. Hundreds of boxes held the possibility of finding something secret about Sylvia, something she hadn’t read in the biography. She began noting the numbers of boxes she wanted to look at. Once she had her list, she paused. The room was starkly quiet. The sun warmed Lily’s back. The two other scholars were lost in their research. The African woman sat at her table still as a statue. Lily couldn’t tell if her eyes were closed or if she was reading something on the desk. The woman’s hands were folded in front of her. She could be mistaken for someone in meditation.

Lily scraped her chair back from the table. She hated to disturb the woman, but she only had two days here and there was a lot of stuff to look at. She approached the desk, a rush of anticipation making her hand shake and her list rattle.

“Excuse me,” she said. The woman opened her eyes. She had been sleeping, Lily thought. She smiled, enjoying that a proper librarian had been caught asleep on the job. But the woman’s gaze was clear and steady. It wasn’t the look of someone who had been napping on the job. Lily tried to keep her cheerful expression, but the woman’s demeanor penetrated Lily’s false politeness. “I’d like to see these boxes, please.”

The woman took the paper. She lifted her glasses off her enormous chest and settled them on her nose. The red, black, and yellow beads of the eyeglasses chain swayed slightly as she assessed the list.

“Sylvia Beach, hmm?” She raised an eyebrow at Lily. She had an accent, her English tinged with what Lily thought might be French.

“Yes,” Lily said. “Do you know of her?” Right as she said it, she thought, of course she knows of her! The collection is here, after all. The woman ignored the question. She set the paper down.

“Not many people come here after Sylvia Beach. Why are you interested?”

Lily flushed. She both liked the sense of being interested in an obscure public figure and wished that Sylvia had more fame. “I read about Sylvia in a book.”

“
Sylvia Beach and the Lost Generation
,” the woman filled in.

“Yes! It was great. She’s so inspiring,” Lily gushed.

“And you’re lost, trying to find something here in her papers.”

Lily fidgeted. She didn’t consider herself lost. “My dad is here for a conference and invited me to come along. I’d heard that Sylvia’s papers were here, and I thought I’d check them out.”

“I see,” the woman said. She nodded as if she didn’t believe anything Lily had said. “Go back to your desk and I’ll have these boxes brought up to you.”

Lily thanked her and returned to her desk like a good schoolgirl. The woman inserted Lily’s requests into a fax machine. Every gesture was carefully executed. When she had faxed the sheet, the woman returned to her seat and watched Lily. She began making notes in a notebook. Lily squirmed. This woman was weird. Was Lily lost? She didn’t think so, but the librarian seemed to.

Lily’s leg bounced up and down. She couldn’t wait to see what was in Sylvia’s archives. The boxes had indicated that there were more than papers. Lily had ordered boxes of her personal items, too, things from her desk. Also correspondence, drafts of her memoir, and letters to friends.

After about ten minutes, a door in the back of the room opened and a young blond woman with cat’s-eye glasses wheeled in a two-tiered library cart lined with navy blue cardboard boxes. Scanning the room, she saw Lily, the only person not yet engrossed in study. The woman wheeled the cart to the side of the room. Lily went over. The young librarian handed Lily her request sheet, each item ticked off.

“I’ve got the first dozen boxes here. I thought I would give you these first. This should give you plenty to work with for a few hours. Just let Diana know when you want the others.” She smiled at Lily. “Sylvia Beach fan, huh? Me, too.”

Lily nodded, eager to get to the materials. The librarian left and Lily scanned the list. Choosing the box of personal items first, she carried it to her desk. She lifted the cardboard lid and peered inside. Tears filled Lily’s eyes. A silver cigarette case. A small metal rack for stamps. The rubber stamps that went with them, the rubber peeling away from the wood. The bottom of the box was littered with shards of broken rubber bands, the bits stiff and lined like desiccated inchworms. The cigarette case had Sylvia’s initials carved into it.

Lily sat with the objects, holding each one, touching Sylvia across time. An urge to take something, to have a piece of Sylvia for herself, overcame her. The cigarette case. A Shakespeare and Company bookplate. A piece of Sylvia’s manuscript. The thought was immediately followed by deep shame. That she would steal from Sylvia Beach was unthinkable.

A brush with a pedestrian snapped Lily back into the present, where she found herself across the street from the bookstore. The wooden sign that she’d seen at the library hung from a hook in front of the store, the paint still bright, Shakespeare’s superior smirk intact. A woman sat at the desk inside. Her back was to Lily, but her hairstyle and the way she sat was familiar. She resembled Lily’s mother. A chill passed through Lily as she recalled her mother seated on the wooden bench in her garden at dusk. Only now Lily understood the way her mother had always been so comfortable in her world, so in possession of herself. She sensed that same at-homeness in this woman.

Lily watched as the woman walked to a shelf, removed a book, and brought it back to the desk. It was Sylvia. She wore the same simple white blouse and brown skirt Lily had seen her wearing two days earlier. She appeared rather ordinary, not the uncomplaining heroine portrayed in her pictures. Her hair was combed in a sensible style, its brown waves cut to hang above her shoulders. She picked through a small stack of books, engrossed in her work. Lily steadied herself to enter Sylvia’s world.

LILY PLUNGED IN, setting off the bell at the door. Teddy lay on the floor next to Sylvia’s desk. He raised his head, sniffed the air, and rose to his feet. Sylvia acknowledged Lily with a nod and went back to her books. Teddy rushed to Lily and nudged her hand, his tail wagging. He yipped loudly and Sylvia said, “He’s friendly, don’t worry.” Lily gave a nervous laugh and was suddenly too shy to say anything to Sylvia.

I’ll hang out for a few minutes first
, she decided, and headed for the bookshelf in the back. A young man lingered nearby at a bookshelf, craning his neck to look at titles up high. Lily approached the fiction section. On the shelves, Lily recognized some of the titles, but most were as unknown to her as if they were in a foreign-language bookstore, not just in one that existed seven decades prior to her own. She searched for familiar titles. There was Fitzgerald’s
The Great Gatsby. Dead Souls
by Gogol. She was suddenly aware that the customers talking behind her were dead souls and that she was not yet a living soul. Or was she?

Several books jutted from the shelf. They were old-fashioned but not old. It was strange to see them like this—usually by the time they reached her, books like this were worn at the edges, sagging at the spine, the fabric of their covers worn down to the stiff cardboard underneath. These volumes, without dust jackets and splashy author photos, were in good shape. Lily’s bookseller’s impulse took over. She tidied the shelves, tucking and aligning the books so that the spines were flush.

The bell above the door chimed. As if by instinct, everyone in the shop glanced up to see the newcomer. It was the man who had given Lily directions to Crédit Municipal. She grabbed a book from the shelf and ducked her head, unsure why she was hiding from him.

“Greetings, Sylvia!”

“Stephen, at last! Oh, it’s tremendous to see you.” Sylvia and the man exchanged air kisses. Lily’s eyes widened and she averted her face again. Her hero was Stephen Spender! Sylvia’s voice was warm and charming. Hearing it was like a space had been filled in, like she was watching a film with the sound finally turned on. The man took a seat next to Sylvia’s desk, leaning toward her. Lily paged through the book, then put it back, inching along at the
I
’s now.
Mr. Norris Changes Trains
by Christopher Isherwood. She plucked it from the shelf, turning her back to eavesdrop.

“Would you care to join me for lunch?” the man asked Sylvia.

Sylvia gave a short laugh. “You’re joking! I’d love to but I’ve got my hands full with the reading tonight. Keeping track of who’s coming, worrying that there won’t be enough chairs.” She threw up her hands in mock despair. “And with my assistant abandoning me—”

“Sylvia, I am beginning to wonder if you just like to worry.”

Sylvia laughed, though Lily could tell he had struck a chord.

“Oh, Stephen, I don’t like to worry, but I certainly am accustomed to it. I imagine that I have been worrying all my life.”

“Maybe that’s why your head hurts so badly, so often.”

“Oh, giving me analysis now, are you, Dr. Freud?”

Now Spender laughed. “No, of course not. I just want my Sylvia to be happy.”

“Oh, I’m happy enough.”

Lily could tell she was lying, even to a friend. Maybe Spender wasn’t a friend, but just another bookish acquaintance. Maybe all the people who knew Sylvia from the shop were merely surface friends. Still clutching the Isherwood book, Lily did what she always did when she picked up a novel: she turned to the last page. Most people judge a book by its first line, but Lily chose the last line instead as a barometer of whether she wanted to read the book or not. She’d arrived at the last page when the man’s question to Sylvia caught her attention.

“What are you reading now?”

Sylvia told him she was reading the French translation of
Voyage d’une Parisienne à Lhassa
by Madame Daniel Neel. She described how Neel had followed her passion for Buddhism and her curiosity all the way to Tibet, where she had gained an audience with the Dalai Lama.

“Sounds intriguing,” the man said. “I’ll have to look into it when you are finished.”

Lily enjoyed hearing Sylvia’s voice, deep and gravelly from smoking. She relished her enthusiasm for a great story and for adventure. She could see how Sylvia could talk anyone into a book that she was excited about, just like Valerie. She looked down at the page and read the last line: “What have I done to deserve all this?”

Lily made an involuntary noise, a sort of gasp laugh. All this, she thought, breathing in the scent of paper and the promise of a story, and Sylvia Beach is right over there. A rush of incredulity overcame her and she couldn’t stifle a giggle. Spender glanced over and to Lily’s dismay, recognized her.

“Oh, hello there!” He smiled and made a slight bow toward Lily. She shut the novel quickly and tried to reshelve it.

“Hello there,” she replied. Nodding at Sylvia, she fumbled along the shelf trying to replace the book. Sylvia frowned slightly.

“Did you find ma tante?” he asked.

Flustered, Lily spoke quickly. “Yes, I did, thank you very much. I did, I found it. After a long trek, I must say, but yes, indeed, my aunt all right! Right there. Yes.” She trailed off, clutching the book, dampening its linen cover with her sweaty palms.

“Very good. Well then, you’re in good hands here with Sylvia. Lovely to see you again.” He nodded to Lily, and turning back to Sylvia, asked, “What time am I expected for the reading?”

Sylvia rose and came around the desk toward him. She was nearly a foot shorter than him, but together they made a lovely picture framed by bookshelves, a stack of books between them.

“Please come around for dinner at Adrienne’s. Number 18, just down the street.”

“Lovely, I’ll see you later. It will be my pleasure to read at your shop.”

“Ah, well, we’re delighted. It will be splendid, you and Hemingway.”

He put his hat on, made a deep bow to Sylvia, grabbed the strap holding his books, and left the shop. Lily buried her face in the Isherwood, marveling that she’d seen him twice in two days.

The young man who had been examining books as carefully as Lily now took a stack of them to Sylvia’s desk. Sylvia pulled a card from the file box on the desk and noted the titles he was borrowing. They chatted in French while she completed the transaction. After he left, Sylvia rose and stretched, then lit a cigarette and asked Lily if she needed help finding a book.

“No, thank you.” Lily replied, stuffing the book back. “Well, actually . . .” She pulled another from the shelf.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
. “I’d like to get this.” She approached the desk. Lily never bought books on a whim. And Joyce? Overriding her doubt, she thrust the book toward Sylvia.

The bookseller scrutinized Lily. “Weren’t you here the other day? Trying to get in at closing time?”

Lily gave an awkward laugh. “Yes, that was me. How much is this?” She watched while Sylvia wrote down the title in the ledger. A tiny leather notebook sat on the desk next to the stamp carousel.

“That’s two francs. You know Stephen?”

Before Lily could answer, the dog emerged from the side of the desk and licked her knee. She reached down and patted his head.

“That’s Teddy,” said Sylvia.

“Hello, Teddy. Does he read?” Lily smiled at Sylvia, who politely smiled back.

Suddenly Teddy jumped up, his paws grabbing Lily around the waist. “Teddy!” Sylvia shouted. “You’re a dirty, naughty dog.” Rushing around the desk, she pushed him off of Lily. “I’m terribly sorry,” Sylvia apologized.

“It’s okay,” Lily said.

“Teddy only bothers people he likes.”

“Yes, well . . .” Suddenly Lily realized that she didn’t have any money to buy the book.

“Do you have information about joining the library?” Lily asked.

Sylvia pulled a leaflet from a drawer and handed it to Lily. The Shakespeare and Company logo marked the cover. An arch framed Shakespeare’s head. He held a pen and a piece of paper, like he was in the middle of writing a masterpiece. His small mouth and mustache was eerily like Hitler’s.

“Okay . . . um, I left my purse at the hotel. Can I come back later to get this?”

“Certainly,” Sylvia said. “And I promise the attack dog won’t pounce on you again.” Now she smiled for real, taking the book from Lily.

“No problem, honestly,” Lily said, returning the smile. “Oh, I have this.” She pulled the invitation out of her pocket.

Sylvia took the card and squinted at it, then at Lily. “What is your name?”

“Lily. Lily Heller.”

Sylvia sat at the desk and pulled out a ledger. Lily spied a list and recognized it from the Princeton archive. It was the guest list for the Hemingway-Spender reading. She began to sweat.

Sylvia frowned and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Lily, I don’t see your name on the list.” She picked up the card and inspected it more carefully. “Where did you get this?”

Lily laughed nervously. “I, uh, ha! Now that’s a story. I won’t bore you with the details.”

Sylvia frowned. “I made out all the invitations myself and, well, I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not on the list. And I don’t know you.” She eyed Lily.

“I’d really like to be there,” Lily said. “I’d do anything—do you need help? I can help! I’m really good at—”

Sylvia shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t need help. We’ve got everything in hand. And anyway, we’re full up. Didn’t you see the sign out front?” She gestured to the window. Lily turned and could see a handwritten scrawl on the reading’s sign. Even backwards she got the meaning: sold out. Lily faced Sylvia again.

“I could help. I could set up the chairs, take them down after the reading. I work in a bookstore back home.”

Sylvia harrumphed and Lily could see she’d gone too far. “Really, we’re set, and we have actually overbooked, so even one more person would—”

“Please, I am very useful. At the bookstore where I work, we hold readings all the time. I help organize them and seat people.” Lily stopped. It was hard to tell if she was bothering Sylvia or getting closer to accessing the reading. “Et je parle le français,” she added.

“And with a good accent,” Sylvia replied in French.

“I hate to be a bother, but it really is important that I be there.”

“Why? So you can gawk at Hem?”

“Well, no, not exactly.” She didn’t know why, but the invitation in her pocket meant something. It was her only clue. “It’s just . . . I’ve come a long way to be in Paris and I would really like to go to a live reading. I love books and . . . I want to be a writer.” Lily could feel how silly her reasons must sound. She needed something better than that. “How can I convince you that I can help?”

Sylvia sighed and pushed the stack of papers to the side.

“I already have so much work. I cannot waste time showing you around.” She pushed her hair back off her forehead. “Do you know how many assistants I’ve had? How many pretty girls who were useless when it came to shelving and organizing and taking notes and giving me my messages?”

Lily did know. She had read about the assistants that Sylvia had and how tough she was on them. Sylvia, though kind, was a stern boss. But Lily could handle some abuse for a few weeks. Much as she liked Paris, the last thing she wanted was to be there during the Occupation that was coming shortly. The images she’d seen—crowds of desperate people lined up to cash in their rations, Nazis marching Paris’s street—were not ones she herself wanted to inhabit. If she stayed in Paris, she would have no rations. Without identification papers, she wouldn’t be part of the system. Maybe she would be interned like Sylvia and hundreds of other foreign nationals living in Paris. Her stomach turned at this idea.

“I’m coming,” she said.

Sylvia started back. “Oh? And what if we don’t let you in?”

“You won’t need to pay me. I can be a volunteer. I will come early and help you set up. You won’t be sorry. Trust me, I can help.”

“I’m not sure where you get the idea that I so desperately need your help,” Sylvia replied. Her voice had lowered an octave and had a menace in it like a growling dog. “And I’m not sure I like your pushy ways. You’re just another American, here to drink in cafés all day and pretend to write. Now, please buy something or leave. I have work to do. The reading is tonight and I’m expecting a full house.”

How did Sylvia know that she had fantasies of writing in cafés? Still, Lily held her ground.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Sylvia didn’t reply, but stood and straightened her worn jacket.

“Good-bye.” Lily turned to leave. “Wait—”

Sylvia exhaled a deep sigh.

“What if I come early and I promise to only help and not get in the way?”

Sylvia gave the tiniest of smiles, nearly an incredulous smirk. “I cannot believe you. You have some nerve. What is your name again?”

“Lily. Lily Heller.”

“I’m Sylvia Beach,” she said.

“I know.”

“Aha! I’ve seen your type. Arriving on a one-way ticket, dreaming of a hypothetical artist’s life in Paris, and after few weeks, coming to me desperate for a job. But it’s been years. No one comes around anymore. What are you doing in Paris anyway? Don’t you know? All the Americans have gone home.”