Crossing on the Paris (31 page)

Some of us lost a true sweetheart

Some of us lost a dear dad

Some lost their mothers, sisters, and brothers

Some lost the best friends they had

It's time they were stopping this warfare

If women and children must drown

Many brave hearts went to sleep in the deep

When the
Lusitania
went down!

Holding on to furniture, Constance lumbered over to the bureau, picked up her photographs, then quickly sat down on her bed. Elizabeth, now six, still had the round face she'd had as an infant. And Mary . . . Mary had just been born when war was finally declared, and there she stood, a delightful little girl. For several minutes she studied her daughters, their little bodies, faces, smiles, and then took a peek at her husband. The serious, card-stock face seemed to be expressing disapproval, judging her, as if the photograph itself suspected her attraction to the ship's doctor. With a long sigh, Constance wagered that, without a doubt, Serge would have shown more sensitivity about the sinking of the
Lusitania.

After storing the photographs away, she picked up an apple, thinking back on every detail of her evening with him, beginning at seven sharp: the orchids, the lavish dinner, the waltz, the near-kiss. She took a bite. Was it possible that Serge was married too? If he were a bachelor or a widower, it seems he would have made an allusion to it, either in jest or in sorrow. She had heard that Europeans had looser mores than Americans. Could a kiss, then, be just a sign of affection between friends? Faith's friends, when coming and
going, had certainly been very generous with their pecks on the cheek.

Finishing off the apple, she sat on her bed, trying to decide what to do next. It was still frightfully early; there was no point in getting dressed yet. Hopefully, in another few hours, Serge would pay her a visit and see how she was faring with the storm. She considered ordering some coffee, but felt rather queasy. She would lay flat on her bed and finally finish
The Mysterious Affair at Styles.
That way, tonight, she would be able to offer him a keepsake: a thriller by a woman, dedicated to him.

Imaginary hands, tongues, hairy bodies against her, Julie awoke in a sweat, her heart racing, but managed not to cry out. All the other women were still asleep. Although there was almost no light, she could make out the strings from Simone's apron, hung on the bunk's peg the night before. They were swinging back and forth, like a slow-moving pendulum. The sea had become even rougher; Julie could feel its pitch lying down. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe deeply, but she knew she was going to be sick again. Grabbing her robe and her shower bag, Julie hopped out of the bunk bed and ran barefoot to the bathroom down the corridor.

After a quarter hour hovering over a toilet, her stomach contracting despite its emptiness, she tottered into the shower room. The tile floor cool on her feet, she hung her clothes outside the stall and closed the curtain. Looking down at her delicate skin, past the gold medallion, she discovered oily splotches, soft bruises, blue finger marks; it was as if she too were tattooed, permanently marked by her evening with Nikolai. She quickly closed her eyes and stood under the lukewarm water. Exhaling deeply, she began scrubbing, determined to be spotless, to smell only of soap. She gently washed herself between her legs, the dried blood and the gluey secretions.
Near tears, she examined the stained washcloth, shaking her head in wonder.

“Nikolai loves me,” she said out loud, then braced herself on the wall, fighting another wave of nausea. What would happen now? Would they get married? Would they be happy? She coughed up some spittle, wiped her mouth with her hand, then cleaned it in the trickling shower jet. Julie turned off the water and got out.

When she returned to the dormitory, all the women were up, silently getting dressed, their feet unsteady on a floor that was swelling and shrinking with the sea. Even the most veteran seafaring women on board were feeling the effects. After putting on her uniform, Julie lurched to the galley with the bag of ginger tea.

“Good morning, Pascal,” she said, grabbing on to the counter next to him, making no pretense to smile.

“Morning,
mon petit chou,
” he replied, looking at her with his usual paternal concern. “I don't need to ask how you are.”

“None of us girls are feeling too well what with this weather. Would you mind using this tea for everyone's breakfast? Perhaps it'll help us all get through the morning.”

“Sure.” He smiled. “Let's give the ginger another try, shall we?”

They exchanged a nod, then Julie staggered into the women's dining room, intent on sitting down. She put her head against the cool metal table. Nikolai had certainly been right about her needing his special tea this morning, she thought, concentrating on the beginning of their evening, when he'd been warmhearted and pleasant. She liked the idea of sharing Nikolai's tea with the other girls; dare she tell them that it was a gift from her boyfriend? For, surely now they were a formal couple? She glanced over at the doorway (would he be coming by first thing?) only to see Simone bustle in.

Surrounded by her entourage, Simone first smirked at Julie, then made a show of ignoring her. Julie could feel them whispering about her at the back table. If Simone only knew how tedious
her evening in first class had been, she wouldn't be jealous.

When Marie-Claire came in, Julie hoped they could have a laugh about hatcheck—the clients' aloof “ehem”s, their affected hat-and-cane gestures, the ladies' ridiculous cocoon cloaks—but she promptly sat down beside her pretty friends with the upper-deck jobs. Really, though, there was no buzz of conversation in the dining hall this morning, only lone voices expressing communal discomfort. All of the women were under the weather, and most sat silently, sipping at their tea, picking at their toast.

“I haven't felt a sea like this in a long time,” said a green-faced woman who had made dozens of crossings, ironing clothes all day in a windowless metal room.

“Me neither,” agreed Louise. “Yesterday, I heard a passenger—a former sailor, he was—say that, of all the seas, the Atlantic is the trickiest. It's the foggiest, iciest, stormiest ocean there is!”

“Is it so wild?” asked the girl from the flower shop. “You'd think, lying between Europe and America, it would be more civilized!”

Although the women groaned at the gullible notion of a tamable sea taking cues from the refined folk on its shores, they were uneasy with the idea of being atop an unpredictable, dangerous ocean. Usually on an ocean liner, this was conveniently forgotten.

Although the day had hardly begun, Julie was wishing it were over. Tomorrow, around midday, they would be reaching New York. She wondered whether the crew would be able to disembark and enjoy a few hours at port, in the city, on
land.
She imagined walking through the busy streets, arm in arm with Nikolai, looking in the shops nestled at the foot of towering buildings. She thought back on what those Irish boys had said the first night: you can find whatever you want in New York. Maybe she and Nikolai should just stay there and settle down? Barely four days into her first cruise, Julie had already had enough of life at sea.

To go ashore! she thought longingly. No more endless stairs,
no more wavy floors, no more seasickness. She had heard that some sailors, after an extended time on a ship, felt nauseated without the roll of the ocean under them, finding the earth's surface too solid, uncomfortably still. She was thinking how terribly unfair land-sickness seemed when she heard someone at the door. She peeked over at the door with a nervous smile, sure this time it would be Nikolai, only to find a cross-looking Mme. Tremblay, gesturing her into the hallway.

“It has come to my attention that you returned to the dormitory at an indecent hour,” she said, her low voice articulating the words with cutting precision. “May I ask where you were?”

“Hatcheck duty ran very late, madame,” Julie answered nervously. Mme. Tremblay's face had never looked so severe. “The last people reclaimed their things around two.”

“A girl with a bunk near yours maintains that you didn't come back until past three,” she said.

“Well.” Julie swallowed. “I went to the bathroom, then I took a little walk. I'd never seen such beautiful rooms before!”

“You are not a tourist here, mademoiselle!” She paused to click her tongue at the outrage. “And you will not be working in first class again! Now, where is the uniform you wore yesterday?”

“I've already taken it to the laundry, ma'am,” Julie said with some relief. She was sure that Mme. Tremblay would have been able to smell her lie on the fabric.

“And the cap?” she asked.

“It must be in the dormitory,” Julie said. “I'll go get it.”

“No,” she said, with a stiff shake of the head. “You will begin the breakfast shift now. You can give me the cap later.”

She marched off, leaving Julie trembling. Where was she going to find a lace cap? Maybe she could ask Nikolai to look for it? Reliving last night's shame—from stripping off her camisole, to her nakedness, his hugeness, to the struggle and the pain—her breathing grew shallow. No, she would not ask him to search for missing
clothes. She remembered her panties, now gray, drowning by the mattress, and didn't want him to find them. With a deep blush, Julie realized that it was highly possible that another engineman, a shirker taking a quick break, already had. Were they parading her dirty drawers around, laughing, and slapping Nikolai on the back? Were they talking about her? Calling her names (tart, slut, pig, whore)? And Nikolai? What would he say? That he loved her? Or would he be laughing too?

Her hand slid along the rope railing as she walked toward the steerage dining room. The ginger tea had only calmed her stomach slightly and she wasn't looking forward to the strong smells of Pascal's cooking. Behind her, she heard the heavy footsteps of Simone and the other girls.

“I don't know why Old Tremblay chose her to work in first anyway.” Simone's vicious whisper rang out in the corridor. “It looks like someone spit a wad of tobacco on her face!”

Julie was struck by the harshness of her words but pretended not to notice the chorus of giggles behind her. She tried to take comfort in the fact that, although she had a flaw, Nikolai thought she was beautiful. Simone, with her lank hair and pimples, would never be able to arouse such passion in a man.

Vera's sad sigh was interrupted by a knock.

“Madame Sinclair! It is I, Dr. Chabron,” he called through the door.

Wishing Amandine was there to open the door, she crawled out of bed, put on her tartan robe and slippers, and let the doctor in.

“Good morning, Doctor,” she said, trying to give off some semblance of dignity in her nightclothes, to stand tall despite her shaky frame and the stormy seas. Vera had been especially mindful of the
physical illusion of honor and respect since her ousting in the dining room.

“Please, get back in bed, lie down,” the doctor urged her. “I assumed your maid would be with you when I came.”

“Perhaps we should get her up. Would you mind knocking on that door?” Vera asked. “She should be in here shortly. Now, how may I help you?”

He took a seat on the edge of the bed. “I came to see if you were feeling any better. Tell me, how are you this morning?”

“Much like the day, I'm afraid.” She motioned toward the window with her chin. “Chilly, gray, and a bit rocky.”

He bent over to touch her forehead. “You're very warm. Let me check your temperature.” He put the thermometer in her mouth and prepared a new compress. “Did you sleep well?”

The thermometer bobbed up and down as Vera nodded.

Waiting for Vera's temperature to take, the doctor walked to the window and peered out. The rain was pelting down, the rough seas below were impossible to make out.