Crossing on the Paris (20 page)

It was a little after dawn when Vera woke up, vaguely rested from a brief, dreamless sleep. From the window, a hazy white light filled the room; a thick cloud of fog hung in the outside air. She liked the idea that just some overzealous precipitation was able to make an ocean liner—a floating island decked with city lights—invisible. It was like waking up to discover she had become a ghost overnight.

Vera crawled down to the foot of the bed, waking Bibi in the process, then snatched her cashmere shawl from the top drawer of the trunk. Charles had given it to her for her sixtieth birthday, claiming it was just the thing for venerable old ladies. However, Vera's secretary, Sylvie, had joked that, so soft and sky blue, it would make a perfect baby blanket for a tiny boy. “That's what we need, my love!” Charles had cried enthusiastically. “A baby!”

Her smile instantly turned to a frown as she peered over at the telephone. Perhaps she should call him again, explain in detail what
had happened at dinner last night? They could discuss what she could do to alleviate this strange heaviness inside her, or devise ways of making Laszlo's son understand. No, she couldn't bear to hear the static, the audible reminder of the distance now between them. She looked toward the window, thankful for the fog; she did not want to see their swift progress across the Atlantic, toward America.

She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and snuggled back under the covers, wondering how to spend her day. The third day, the midpoint of the journey, always carried with it an air of ennui. Even for novice travelers, by day three there was little on the ship left to be discovered; they had already met their fellow passengers, explored all the decks and rooms, inspected the engines, and made attempts at various games. It was on the middle day afloat that people on board began growing restless, seeking entertainment in other forms—usually cocktails.

Vera thought back on her other, more lively voyages—fox-trotting for hours with a dapper gentleman from New Orleans, playing badminton with Charles until their shuttlecock flew into the sea, getting tight with that master fencer—then suddenly remembered how she and Laszlo, during their one-month affair, had also discussed crossing the Atlantic together. It was just the beginning of a plan, the germ of an idea: New York, Boston, Niagara Falls.

She looked out into the fog again. Perhaps she should not have been so noble. Would young Richter be a happier man today if his father had merely left his mother for another woman? Would it have worked out between them? If Vera had stayed with Laszlo, would he be here with her now?

By taking his life at the age of forty-two, she thought crossly, he had certainly limited his possibilities. Braiding her long, white hair, she wondered how he had chosen to do it. Though Vera knew she had no right to know, to be privy to the details, it had always been
important for her to envision a death to believe in its finality. In her mind's eye, she had seen her parents swept away by the flood; her former husband thrown from the horse; her grandmother wasted away to mere skin and confusion. And Laszlo?

Pondering all the ways one might commit suicide and keeping his character in mind—his private nature, his discretion—Vera finally settled on hanging. Its simplicity, lack of undue gore, and muffled silence made it a likely candidate. How had he felt as he climbed onto the chair? Trembling? In despair? Or . . . victorious?

There was a light knock and Amandine poked her head through the door.

“Good morning,” she said. “I thought I heard you moving around. Would you like me to help you get dressed?”

“Good morning, dear.” Vera forced a smile. “With this fog, I don't think I'll be going out. Perhaps I'll spend the day in my dressing gown.”

She saw no reason to don awkward-fitting clothes to stay in the cabin. Remembering her once inviting body, she now hated the sight of it—the skinny limbs, bulging varicose veins, pickled breasts, ribs ripe for counting—and avoided it as much as she could.

“And your meals, ma'am?” Amandine asked.

The wrinkles on her brow deepened as she called to mind the scene at dinner: young Richter's accusatory tone, the shocked stares from their fellow diners. Of course, those trifles could not compare to the revelation of why Laszlo's letters had stopped coming.

“I'll take them here today,” she said.

“Shall I order breakfast, then?” Amandine asked.

“Just a pot of tea for now, thanks,” she answered, ignoring Amandine's tentative look of concern.

“Come, Bibi,” she called. “Let's go order some tea.”

With a pointed lack of excitement, the old dog trudged over to the door and waited patiently for Amandine to secure the leash.
When they were gone, Vera bravely picked up her journal, leafing through various entries until she came to “Thirteen Lovers.” Although she knew what words it contained, her heart was pounding. She scanned the first few pages, skimming the bit about when she and Pierre Landeau, a photographer from Marseilles, were first alone together:

I studied his face and was surprised to find that his lips fit together like jigsaw puzzle pieces; the subtle arches were perfectly matched, the weighty pout expertly joined. I then understood why he had neither mustache nor beard: beyond those Lips his face needed no further decoration. My eyes were then distracted by a jagged row of lower teeth. I longed to run my tongue slowly across them, to see if they might cut me.

Vera gave her former self an indulgent smile. Although she recognized her handwriting, sometimes she found the words themselves rather foreign. She flipped forward a half dozen pages, then paused again. Here was the rupture with Roderick Markson, the Scottish journalist she'd been with for some six months.

The relationship had come to its irretrievable end and had its proper burial, and like the Executor of a will, I made a complete inventory of everything that was left: a wee anthology of letters, an artful poem (Had it truly been composed for me? Or for one of my predecessors?), a dozen dazzling smiles, a small collection of well-wrought romantic compliments, and seven thin bracelets, mere gypsy-bands, which made a silvery ripple when worn together. I thought hard what to do with this Estate. There was no one to inherit such mediocre treasure, no one to purchase the used memories of a lost romance. The paper, I burned. The
bracelets, one by one, I cast into the Seine, imagining their dire Repugnance as they began to attract ugly, whiskered fish-admirers. The other, less tangible items I had to make disappear like the magician at the circus.

Vera looked affectionately at the amusing illustration she'd made of a hideous, lascivious monkfish eyeing a slim bracelet with open desire. Then, with a slight moan, she turned the page to Bad Ragaz. Only three pages were dedicated to Laszlo Richter.

The very first evening, after taking a cursory glance at the guests, I remarked to Mathilde on the Anomaly of the handsomest man in the room dining alone in a corner. He was somberly staring into his consommé as if to read his future. I immediately got up from the table—not bothering to deliver a message via waiter—and asked him if he would care to join us. He looked at me in astonishment.

Closing her eyes, a tear sliding down her cheek, she could see his face perfectly, his quizzical stare slowly turning into a smile as he got up and followed her. He was shy and the ladies had to prod him into telling them—in uneven French, until they discovered his English was impeccable—about his life in Budapest. Even on that first encounter, he had chosen not to mention his family. Was his attraction firm from the start? He ate prawns that night; his long fingers with their pearly-white nails peeled them expertly with a knife and fork. She'd laughed and said, “From
birth,
we Americans are incapable of such table manners!”

She opened her eyes and shut the journal. Really, it was unnecessary to reread the entry—the long strolls, his gentle lovemaking, his urgent begging, the lonely train ride home. She remembered it all perfectly.

Vera suddenly noticed how warm it felt in the room. Shedding
her shawl, she felt her forehead. The withered skin was scorching. Was it fever or Laszlo's memory? She couldn't decide which she preferred.

Julie was lying in bed, drenched in sweat. Panting heavily, she couldn't get enough air; would she drown down there under the waterline? She stared up at Simone's bunk with the horrifying sensation that it was going to come crashing down on her.

She'd had that nightmare again, the same one she'd been having ever since she lost Loïc. In the dream, she is by herself when three men come silently into her parents' house. She can't see their faces, but their bodies, half-covered in filthy rags, are hideously scarred by large, deep pox and raised, red splotches. They quickly begin filling their sacks; the speed of their long, thin fingers is supernatural. “Please, please,” Julie cries out, begging the thieves, “just let me keep what my mother gave me! These few things here, they are valuable only to me.” She grabs the lace as a voice from upstairs screams, “No!” Those fast, slinky fingers snatch it from her hands. They disappear into the night, leaving Julie alone again in an empty house.

Even the first time she'd dreamt it, she woke up knowing, understanding. The valuables her mother had given her were not the piecework but her brothers. She had not been allowed to keep them and Death made quick work of taking them away. Her breathing almost normal now, Nikolai's thoughtless jeers came to mind. She dug her nails into her palms, angry still.

Looking around the room—under the bare-bulb lights, women were pulling up stockings and twirling their hair into buns—Julie realized she'd slept late. She quickly got up, then, dizzy, steadied herself on the bedpost. She closed her eyes, inhaling, exhaling, then began to pull on a fresh uniform. Such a simple cut—a plain shift
with big buttons and cotton drawers underneath—was easy to put on swiftly.

Although she still had no appetite, Julie went into the lounge for a quick cup of tea before serving breakfast to the passengers. She found a place at the end of a bench, sat down, and, gently blowing the steam off her cup, listened to the other women talk.

“I sold Douglas Fairbanks a dozen roses yesterday,” boasted a pretty blonde. “He's a gentleman,” she said with a knowing nod. “
Very
polite.”

“I know!” exclaimed a tall, graceful woman down the bench. “He came in and bought Cuban cigars too!”

“Didn't you just love him in
The Mark of Zorro
?” Simone asked, receiving many dreamy sighs in response. “And
His Majesty, the American
?” she added. “He was so charming!”

“I saw Mary Pickford yesterday on deck,” added another. “Her hair is as beautiful in real life as it is in the pictures!”

“Yes, but do you think it's a permanent wave? Or is it natural?” asked one of the hairdressers, considering the matter worthy of serious debate.

“Hmph!” One of the nannies gave a loud snort. “Those American actors cannot compare to our Sarah Bernhardt! Even now, with only one leg, she could run circles around those hams!”

Suddenly, Mme. Tremblay entered the room, clapping her hands.

“It's seven already! Let's go, ladies! Time to get working!”

The women glanced up and sighed at the clock, then went off in different directions. Simone sidled up to Julie as they were leaving the lounge.

“Tell me, then!” she whispered with a grin. “How was your moonlit rendezvous? You two looked every bit like Fairbanks and Pickford, dancing up there on deck!”

“Well,” Julie started, looking around anxiously, trying to decide what to say. “Getting to know him a bit better . . . I guess he's not the man I thought he was.”

“Really?” Simone's expression squirmed about, trying to mask its own glee while looking disappointed for Julie. “He seemed so serious about you! When we were dancing, that's all he could talk about!”

“Is that right?” Julie raised her eyebrows, surprised to find herself feeling resentful. “I'm sure you two had other things to talk about besides me.”

“We
did
have a laugh!” Simone smiled innocently. “What a shame it didn't work out between you!”

“I didn't say that!” Julie declared, suddenly jealous. “We just had an argument. Oh, it was nothing really.”

“I see.” Simone shrugged. “Well, keep me posted!”

Julie tried not to pout as they entered the dining room. Had things not worked out between them? Was her romance already over, just as it was getting started? Mechanically, she began setting the tables—walking up and down the narrow room, arranging the long rows of cups and saucers, spoons and plates—but her thoughts kept going back to those kisses. With an ill-tempered huff, she went into the kitchen to collect the sugar bowls and honey.

“Good morning,” Julie greeted the chef.