Crossing on the Paris (22 page)

“If I finish this in the next day or so, you can just have my copy,” she offered.

“That's very kind of you,” he said, his eyes gazing into hers with undisguised tenderness.

“Doctor . . . Serge”—Constance blushed slightly—“could I bother you for some medical advice?”

“What is it?” he asked, immediately concerned. “Have you had more headaches?”

“No,” she said slowly. “There's a . . . nervous condition that runs in my family. Last night I had a bad dream—it was nothing really—but I woke up with my heart pounding so hard that it frightened me a bit. Well, I realized that I hadn't had a physical examination in years and thought that—if you had a spare moment—perhaps it would be a good idea.”

“Of course, I'd be delighted to help you in any way I can. Here,
why don't you sit up here on the cot?” He placed his stethoscope around his neck. “Now then, a nervous condition, you say? I doubt there's any cause for alarm, but let me listen to your heartbeat.”

Constance sat down, her feet dangling from the cot like a child's. She removed her scarf and waited, passive and silent. He leaned his head in toward her, listening as she breathed, in and out, in and out. Constance could smell his hair, feel the warmth from his body. She felt the pads of his fingers around the base of the stethoscope, moving around her chest, searching for her heart. Having him so near her, she found her pulse quickening again. She drew a quick breath, then bit her lip slightly, wondering whether her heart would betray any secrets to him. What would he learn about her, having listened to it so carefully?

“Your heart sounds normal,” Dr. Chabron said. “Strong, in fact. But let me take your blood pressure. Could you push up your sleeve, please?”

Constance mastered her embarrassment and slowly pushed her thin crêpe sleeve almost to her shoulder. She looked away as his hands delicately wrapped a black cuff around her upper arm, and then began pumping it full of air. It became tighter and tighter, until it felt like a violent hand were grabbing her. Using the stethoscope again, he listened to the sound of her blood coursing through her, the cool instrument moving softly around the tender baby-skin of her inner arm. Slowly, rhythmically, he deflated the pressure, until finally, he released the air from the cuff. She swallowed hard then, licking her lips, wondered whether her face was flushed. She could barely look at the doctor now.

“Everything sounds good, Constance. Now then, ehem . . .” His voice took on a clinical tone. “Could you lie down, please?”

Without a word, she swung her legs around and reclined back on the cot. With his brow furrowed in a serious expression, he began to knead her abdomen, feeling for the organs below. A tickling warmth rose from her belly, and she closed her eyes, hoping he
would perform more tests, elaborate ones. Remaining ever so still, she tried to breathe quietly, extremely sensitive to his touch.

There was a knock at the examination room door; someone was in the antechamber. Constance quickly sat up, dizzy and disoriented. Dr. Chabron turned toward the door, pausing to collect himself, to arrange his hair. After a second knock, he opened it to find that rickety French maid drawn by the tired old Scotty. Constance remembered this pair; they both belonged to the wealthy old woman she'd seen the first day.

Constance wrapped her scarf around her neck and waited patiently on the cot while Dr. Chabron tended to the woman. He spoke with her swiftly in French, and Constance noticed that his voice sounded different when he spoke his native tongue, deeper and more expressive; he even used more hand gestures. She tried to make out some of the conversation and caught the word
américaine
. And didn't
fièvre
mean fever?

The doctor asked the maid a few questions, then said something to induce the old servant—surely, she was long past the age of domestic service!—to wait in the antechamber. He turned back to Constance.

“You're as healthy as you are beautiful,” he proclaimed. “Really, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, watching him putting the stethoscope and a few other instruments in his bag. He took her hand and helped her down from the cot.

“I'm afraid I must go now. There's an emergency with an elderly passenger in first class.”

Disappointed their time together had been interrupted, she peevishly wondered whether her appointment would have been prolonged if the ailing old person had been in third class. He bent his head toward hers and smiled.

“I'll collect you for dinner at seven,” he said in a whisper. “I'm really looking forward to sharing the evening with you.”

“Me too,” she whispered back. The two short words came out like puffs of smoke; her insides were still simmering.

They all walked out of the infirmary, then Serge gave Constance a little wave as he left her behind in the hall to accompany the slow-moving pair to the elevator. After they'd gone, Constance let out a long sigh. How different her life might have been had she met Serge Chabron early on.

With a toss of her head, she decided to continue her treatment at the beauty parlor. White coats, piles of clean towels, the chemical odors of peroxide and permanents, little bottles and pomades: it was similar to a doctor's office, she thought, if the personnel wasn't too chatty. She wanted to do something different with her hair, something new, more daring. After all, she would be dining at the captain's table!

“Miss Vera.” Amandine knocked lightly on the door, then walked into the first-class cabin. “The doctor is here,” she announced, before retiring to her own room.

Vera was sitting in an armchair, wrapped in her shawl, looking at the doctor with a slight smile bordering on mischievous.

“Bonjour, jeune homme.”

This was one of the privileges of the elderly that Vera enjoyed exercising: referring to anyone, no matter what his station, as “young man.” At any rate, she had forgotten his name.

“Good morning, Madame Sinclair,” the doctor replied amiably. “How are you feeling?”

“I fear that Amandine, ever since she heard of the gravity of my condition, is overly worried. Perhaps she's afraid of coming in one morning and finding herself face-to-face with a dead body? I think she was rash in calling you today. It is merely an elevated temperature.”

He placed his palm on her forehead. “You do feel warm,” he said as he opened his bag. He put a thermometer in her mouth, checked her pulse, then prepared a cool compress at the sink.

“Let me see,” he murmured, reading the thermometer. “Thirty-eight. I believe that is 101 degrees Fahrenheit. A moderate fever. Nothing to worry about, I shouldn't think.”

“I'm sure it's just cabin fever.” Vera smiled. “With this fog, I haven't been out all day.”

“And, I think you should probably stay in,” he said as he applied the compress. “Have your maid change these when they get warm. And don't forget to ingest fluids. Plenty of fluids.”

She looked into the doctor's handsome face, the strong jawline, the hazel eyes, and found something of Laszlo there.

“Doctor,” she asked suddenly, “have you ever known a case where a person has died—literally died—of a broken heart?”

He looked at Vera's curious expression and knew she wasn't joking.

“I have heard about people who, once they've failed at love, have lost the will to live,” he answered gently. “I haven't treated those cases personally; my experience lies mainly with war wounds and seasickness. And truly, I don't know if one would go to see a doctor for such a condition.” He paused a moment, turned the compress over to its cool side, then asked, “Is there some reason you ask?”

“An old friend of mine died thus,” she answered sadly. “I just heard about it yesterday.”

“I'm terribly sorry,” he said. “Did you receive a wire?”

“No.” She blinked the tears from her eyes. “It happened over twenty years ago. I've just met his son here on board.”

Her voice trailed off, then stopped. By her tight-lipped, pensive expression, Dr. Chabron could see their interview had come to an end.

“Now, get some rest,” he said. He picked up his bag and turned
at the door. “Tomorrow morning I'll come to your cabin and check on you, if that doesn't interfere with your plans.”

He smiled at her and bowed, then was out the door. When he had left, Amandine came back into the room with her yarn and knitting needles and sat down in the small armchair next to Vera's.

“Yes, you were right,” Vera answered her questioning eyes. “I do have a fever.”

She turned away from her maid's concern and looked out the window. Everything seemed quieter in that white haze, as if cotton wool were smothering the sounds. Amandine's needles clicked softly, followed by a silent pause at the end of each row. Vera stared into the blankness, caressing her pearls, lost in thought.

“I was inside a cloud once, you know,” Vera said abruptly. Amandine stopped her knitting midrow. “Back in 1903, when this century was new and full of promise, poor thing. Charles and I went down near Fontainebleau for a ride in a hot-air balloon with Franck.”

“Franck, ma'am?”

“Yes, Franck Lamont. A handsome young man, we met him at one of the Baroness d'Oettingen's marvelous soirées. He was bragging to us foreigners that the French had come up with all the most diverting inventions: the motion picture, the bicycle, the gyroscope, the hot-air balloon . . . He told us he was a balloon pilot—I didn't know such things existed—and he asked us to join him, up in the clouds.”

“Ah!” Amandine murmured on cue.

“Charles and I took the train and Franck met us at the station in his motorcar—what a passion the lad had for machines! We had a picnic first and when Franck went into the woods for a private moment, Charles began teasing me about the young man. He said that he'd been stealing glances at me, that it was obvious he was enamored with me. Even though I was old enough to be his mother!” Vera's lips curled into a devious smile.

“Then he took us to the balloon itself. It had a purple and yellow harlequin pattern, like an enormous Easter egg! We climbed in, the gas fire raging above our heads, and, with a quick jerk, we were up! How wonderful it was! Everything looked so different from above. The fields were like a patchwork quilt, and the roads like ropes, twisting through the trees. The buildings were mere boxes and parcels.

“The gusts of air lifted us precariously. We were in a wicker basket, you know. No iron or steel—just a basket! Like a modern-day Moses taken out of the Nile and into the sky!” She opened her hands in a grandiose gesture, then sighed with momentary satisfaction. “Then with a laugh, Franck navigated us into a cloud. A thick, puffy summertime cloud. And when we were enveloped in the mist, it was not my hand he searched for! It was Charles's!” Vera chuckled to herself. “So, it was not a proper Oedipus complex after all!”

Amandine nodded politely through her look of bewilderment, the usual result of these misdirected conversations, when Amandine became the recipient of Vera's private thoughts turned oral discourse.

“It sounds lovely,” Amandine said, getting up. “I'm going to order something to eat now. Is there anything you'd like?”

“The doctor said something about fluids, but bring whatever you want, Amandine,” she said. “Take Bibi out, will you? She would probably enjoy a little stroll. Thank you.”

When Amandine had left, Vera opened the window and put her arm out into the fog to touch the wet haze. Her cloud felt a bit like that, she thought, closing the window again.

After that afternoon, Charles had disappeared with Franck for a few weeks, to be sure. As for Vera, she loved the notion of being airborne, encompassed by clouds, and had always wanted to take to the skies again. But, between the opera season, travels, horse races, and balls (and later, of course, the war), she hadn't, and now it was too late. Ah, if she were Daedalus's daughter, she would fly right off
this ship—leap from the funnel!—and head back to Paris. She wouldn't soar to the sun like Icarus but would fly straight and true. As it was, she sighed, this was the closest she'd ever be to a cloud again.

Odd, she thought, she never wrote about that experience in her journals. How many things never got written! And the things that
were
written . . .

Her brow furrowed, thinking again of Laszlo Richter. Vera had treated their affair in a lighthearted way in an entry that described relationships with twelve other men. If the people she had written about had given their versions of the events, what different tales they'd have told! Each one would have emphasized moments she neglected, omitted parts she deemed essential, and altered the story past all recognition. Even Charles, after reading Vera's accounts, often claimed that their joint adventures had happened in a completely different way.