Crossing on the Paris (15 page)

“Yeah! During the training course I heard that for every hundred men working on board, there are just two women. I thought that, for the first time in my life, the odds would be in my favor!” Her smile stretched so widely across her face, she looked a bit like a frog. “And these sailors are strong and able-bodied!” she continued. “Not like the men who came back to Harfleur after the war, missing this or that.”

Julie stiffened. She took the note back and tucked it away into her book.

“Very romantic, Julie,” Simone said with the air of an expert. “Say, I wonder if he has a friend?”

“A friend?” Julie repeated, regretting having mentioned Nikolai to her at all.

“Well, we can ask him when we go up on deck tonight,” Simone said, the evening plan already clear in her mind.

“About tonight,” Julie stumbled slowly. She didn't want Simone up there, embarrassing her by saying the wrong things. “I'm worried
about Madame Tremblay. I don't think she'd be too happy if she found us missing.”

“You don't think we'd lose our jobs if we got caught?” Simone whispered, looking from side to side.

“I don't know,” Julie said. “Let's think about it, all right?”

“Sure.” Simone nodded. “But I would really love to catch a glimpse of Douglas Fairbanks!
And
meet your new boyfriend!”

Julie turned red and looked away. She noticed that other women in the lounge were gathering their things—decks of cards, knitting needles, sewing kits—and looked up at the clock. Though it was only half-past four, it was time for them to return to work; the mouths in steerage were fed earlier than those above decks. Julie picked up her well-worn book.

“We'd better get going,” she mumbled.

“What've you got there?” Simone asked.

“It's a book by Jules Verne,” Julie said, grateful for the change in subject. “I've read almost all his books, but this one here is more of a souvenir.” Julie looked at the faded cover fondly. “My brothers loved his stories. In fact, that's why they named me Julie. When my mother was expecting me, my three older brothers each read this book. They decided, since our family name is Vernet, that they wanted a little brother named Jules. Well, they got me instead.”

“Lucky you! I only have sisters . . . five sisters!” Simone replied, rolling her eyes.

“Yes,” Julie said softly, holding the novel against her chest. Peeking back down at the cover, she smiled; the hero, brave Michael Strogoff, was also Russian.

Vera woke up on the deck chair, wrapped tightly inside a nest of warm blankets. She opened her eyes briefly, surprised to see it was already twilight. She noticed Bibi was gone, and her journal was
back inside the carpetbag. Amandine had, no doubt, decided to tidy up and take the dog for a stroll without rousing her. Since her sleep had become so precious and rare, Vera was generally cross when it was interrupted. Or perhaps, Vera mused, Amandine had thought she'd passed away and did not relish touching a corpse?

She was looking up into the evening sky with its sprinkling of early-rising stars, taking pleasure in not moving, when a shooting star fleeted past. She shivered in delight; seldom, at this stage, did Vera still feel life's little moments of magic. She thought back to April 1910 when, for nearly a week, Halley's Comet had hung over Paris like a gas lamp. To get a better look, she and Charles had taken off their shoes and climbed out on the roof. It was chilly on their bare feet, but how nimble she'd been out there, holding her skirts, without ever imagining she could fall. Was that only eleven years ago? Aging did not take place gradually, she sighed, but in sudden leaps, horrible jerks.

Halley's Comet . . . Vera was reminded of that quote by Mark Twain, who was born as the comet passed and rightfully predicted that he would die when it returned. “The Almighty has said, no doubt, ‘Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together.' ” Twain was one of the few great Americans in her opinion, only rivaled in humor and ingenuity by Benjamin Franklin.

Near her own end, she pondered his. It was well known that Twain's last years were ripe with cynicism and disappointment; but, how had he felt when he knew his life was coming to a close? Did he fear the comet's approach? Or long for its passing? Did he feel remorse at leaving this beautiful world so full of imperfection, or was he glad to let go, to leave humanity to rot? She thought of herself these last few months, reading and rereading her memoirs, reliving her past. Did Mark Twain also find himself studying the stories of his youth, eagerly perusing his
Life on the Mississippi,
his
Innocents Abroad
?

Mark Twain. She sat thinking of his mischievous eyes and white tousled hair, his intense gaze and Wild West mustache. Yes, she thought, even as an older man, he was attractive. And, judging by his quick, cantankerous wit, he was undoubtedly an excellent lover as well. Her lips curled into a slow grin, the first visible movement she'd made since waking (if nearby, Amandine would fear rigor mortis was twisting her face into a hideous death mask), then, Vera finally began to shift her limbs, rolling her shoulders and stretching her legs. Now
that
was a sure sign of old age, she decided, when you can see the allure of your contemporaries, those the young would view as sexless grandfathers with loose skin and looser teeth; when you look for Mark Twain's portrait in your mind and find a desirable bed partner.

Chuckling to herself, wondering whether she too were an “unaccountable freak,” Vera reached into her carpetbag and pulled out her alphabet book. She opened it in the middle, then let the pages settle themselves. She smiled upon a large letter
H.
A brief, lighthearted entry, it fit the moment perfectly. There was just enough light left to read a short piece such as this; though, truth be told, she knew most of the words by heart.

Handsome

One day, in my eleventh year, when at an Awkward stage of growth, my lips and nose both occupying more than their rightful share of my face, I was sitting in the window seat, my embroidery forgotten, watching the horses and buggies on the street. Was it the light from the window that drew her toward me? All of a sudden, Grandmother took my chin in her hard, cold hand (Less Human than marble, it was more like metal; nay, Lady Liberty's hands must be warmer) and peered at my face, moving it from side to side.

“You will never be pretty, my dear,” she declared, shaking
her head. “With luck—and I say, With Luck—you will be rather handsome.”

She gave me a serious look, then recovered her chair, put her pince-nez in place, and went back to her book.

Tears filled my eyes. I was devastated by this prophecy (what was a woman worth but her appearance?) made by one of the great beauties of her generation, my grandmother, Camilla Wright Sinclair. I sat in the afternoon light, wondering what it could possibly mean.

I learned in the years that followed, as I quickly developed into one, what exactly a Handsome Woman was. They are not ugly, of course, nor plain, nor excessively manly. But unlike their soft, rounded sisters, with pouty lips and precious eyes, these women tend to have a fine jaw, a noble brow, and eyes that, rather than beautiful, are oft described as Intelligent. These facial characteristics are usually accompanied by a straight back and a long, swift stride. Therefore, unlike Beauties, decorative objects whose task it is to adorn a room, to provide visual delight to others, the Handsome Woman, unable to evoke approval and appreciation by her appearance alone, is free to contribute and develop in other ways.

Many women claim to admire these looks and a few odd men, mainly those referred to as Men of Character, are irresistibly drawn to them, spellbound. Such men have the sensation of being a Discoverer, the first to spot beauty in a wasteland. And thus, he feels the explorer's pride in there planting his flag. Intrepid, he cares not that few others would envy that particular territory.

I myself have met my share of this rare breed of man. The first time, I was fourteen. Standing with friends at the Autumn Ball, a tall, slender boy approached me. After a few minutes of artless small talk, he stopped, gape-mouthed, and
earnestly stammered out the clumsiest compliment I have ever received:

“Hang it! I don't care that my friends don't think you're pretty. I think you're Beautiful!”

Indeed, this is the fate of these Men of Character, to want a prize that so few value. In one's youth, that is. But then, one finds that the handsome woman ages so much better than her pretty sisters. Compare the loveliness of dried leaves to the pathetic unsightliness of the dead flower, bloated and ill smelling.

Perhaps Grandmother's prophecy, so damning, so malignant, was truly an unintentional blessing. A Fairy Godmother's Gift.

Handsome indeed, she thought with a smile. In her prime she had certainly had her successes with the opposite sex. In fact, she had written a journal entry a few years back entitled “Thirteen Lovers,” detailing her exploits with all the men—an archaeologist, a wealthy banker, a photographer, a handful of writers, and so on—she'd been with after giving up on marriage. Who knows? Perhaps she would have even been able to captivate Mark Twain.

The sky was considerably darker now, high time to retire from the decks. She looked around and saw that the deck steward had already stored away all the other rugs and deck chairs. He was leaning against the rail, smoking a cigarette, undoubtedly waiting for her to return to her cabin so he could finish his evening task.

She reached for her cane, tucked away under her chair, and pulled herself up. Vera stretched again, picked up her bag, then walked to the rails. Looking out on the ocean, a lovely shade of dark green at this time of the evening, she noticed that, on the deck below, people in second class were already dressed and filing into their dining room in twos and fours. Odd, she thought. I'm still not hungry.

Constance decided to wear her nicest outfit for dinner, the new gown she had bought in Paris: a pink sleeveless silk with a champagne-colored sash. Uncomfortable exposing her bare arms, she pulled out the lace shawl—pleased to find an occasion to wear it—to put around her shoulders. She was satisfied with the effect. Faith's ring did not exactly go with this outfit, but she left it on anyway; it made her feel younger, more chic.

Not wanting to make a grand entrance on her own, she skirted around the edge of the dining room, past mirrors and potted palms, alongside the bar and the wine steward's station. Passing other second-class diners, she glanced around, idly wondering where the doctor ate—with the crew, with first class, alone in the infirmary, in his rooms?

“Good evening, everyone,” she greeted her fellow diners when she finally arrived.

Already engaged in conversation, the men at her table only granted Constance brief nods and slight smiles as she sat down.

“Good evening, Mrs. Stone,” Mrs. Thomas whispered, not wanting to interrupt them.

The waiter soon appeared, in a short white jacket and bow tie, managing to look extremely busy yet unruffled. He gave them three or four choices for their first course, none of which Constance understood, then poised his pencil on his pad and waited with an air of faux patience while the guests made up their minds.

“I'll have the crème vichyssoise,” Captain Fielding said so decisively that the other, less traveled guests opted for the same. The waiter made a careful note before taking off in great haste.

The wine steward then sidled up to the table, offering them a chilled bottle of white wine. After everyone had been served, Mr. Thomas raised his glass to give a toast.

“Here's to the end of Prohibition!” he cried, tossing the wine back in one gulp.

Constance's hand was on the stem of her glass, expecting a conventional toast regarding health, good cheer, or friendship. Taken aback, she felt uncomfortable lifting her glass; wouldn't that imply she was rather too fond of drinking? Unlike many women she knew—those who had heartily campaigned for the Eighteenth Amendment—she was not a teetotaler. George had always liked brandy with his cigars and, before the ban on alcohol passed the year before, she had occasionally joined him with a dash of sherry. She peeked over at Mrs. Thomas, who was smiling quietly but not joining in on the toast, and followed suit. However, the European men at the table were delighted and lifted their glasses high.