Crossing on the Paris (43 page)

As they approached Vera's cabin, they were surprised to see the door ajar. They exchanged a glance, and Constance gave it a knock, opening it yet farther. Trunks were scattered on the floor and the bed was heaped with clothes: an array of dresses, blouses and skirts, sashes and scarves. On top of the pile lay a pair of marionettes and a framed drawing. Amandine stood in the middle of it all, the plum-colored coat in her hands, a confused expression on her face. Bibi, the dog, was inspecting the trunks, sniffing around as if she'd lost something. They'd obviously caught the maid in the throes of packing Vera's things and she looked completely frazzled.

“Good morning,” Constance said, “we're here to meet Mrs. Sinclair. We're having lunch together at eleven.”

As Amandine turned to them, her brow creased.

“Oh, and I've brought the clothes from last night,” Julie said, as she pulled them out of her bag and added them to the pile on the bed. “Thanks again.”

For a moment, the two women stood near the door smiling,
waiting for the maid to say something, but Amandine just stood frozen, staring back at them. The doors in the suite were open, exposing empty spaces; Vera was obviously not there. Finally, Constance broke the silence; she spoke slowly and used plain English, thinking, perhaps, Amandine had not understood.

“We're sorry to bother you,” she said, taking a step toward the maid, who then retreated. “We can see you're very busy. But, could you please tell us where we can find Mrs. Sinclair?”

Amandine fell down onto the bed, on top of the puppet's legs, the coat still clasped in her hands.

“Miss Vera isn't here,” she mumbled in perfect English, then paused. She clenched her eyes, her mouth twisted. Finally, she blurted out the words: “She died this morning.”

“What?” gasped the two women at the door, bursting into Vera's room, completely stunned. Julie wedged in next to Amandine on the messy bed, took the servant's hand, worn smooth, and held it closely in her own.

“I'm sorry,” Julie said, her eyes welling with tears. “So, so sorry.”

“My God,” Constance uttered, pacing in front of them and shaking her head. She understood why the maid seemed so addled; she couldn't believe it herself. “What happened?”

“When I came in this morning, I found her,” Amandine said quietly, looking at the floor. “There was a little smile on her face, but I knew something was wrong. When I touched her she was cold.” She looked up at the other women. “I fetched the doctor, but there was nothing he could do. She was gone. Miss Vera had been very ill for a year now.”

Amandine paused and her lips disappeared, tucked away, trying not to sob. Julie and Constance stared at each other in disbelief.

“The doctor,” Amandine added with a deep breath, “he said it wasn't a painful death. He said she just stopped. That was his word. ‘Stopped.' ”

“She didn't suffer, then,” affirmed Julie, wiping her eyes with her hand. “I suppose it was what they call a good death.”

They fell into a moment's quiet. Their eyes trailed around the room, alighting on Vera's belongings, the things she'd left behind. Her presence was everywhere: the tartan robe still hanging on the bathroom door, her dirty teacup next to the chair, her glasses, folded neatly on top of a slim book. Constance could almost hear her voice. Just the night before, the three of them had been here together, sharing secrets, and she had envisioned spending much more time with her. She'd relished the idea of having an older woman in her life to confide in, to learn from. She perched on the edge of the armchair and picked up the teacup. Wrapping her fingers around the cold porcelain, she stared down at the dark brown ring at the bottom of the cup; her vision began to blur. Their relationship had ended far too soon.

Julie bent over to pet Bibi, who stared back up at her with black, mournful eyes. That morning, while consulting with the others about her possibilities in New York, she had decided to ask Mrs. Sinclair whether she could pay her the occasional call. Julie imagined entrusting the elderly lady with her future successes in America and making her proud, as if she were family. She had hoped to become close with her makeshift fairy godmother.

“Frankly, I never imagined Miss Vera would die,” Amandine said suddenly. “I've been with her since 1890, back when we were both rather young. I've seen royalty come through her door and traveled with her to faraway places . . .” Amandine's voice grew fainter; it was as if she were talking to herself. “How could she just ‘stop'? I still don't understand it.”

“She was a remarkable woman,” Constance said. “That was clear to anyone who spent time with her, no matter how little.”

“Yes, remarkable.” Julie nodded, turning to Amandine.

Hunched over the lumpy coat on her lap, the elderly maid looked like a disheartened old wanderer who had lost her compass.

“Do you know what you'll be doing next?” Julie asked, slightly worried. She wondered whether Amandine might try to emigrate as well, whether she could presume to help.

“I am returning to France on the next ship,” Amandine replied. “There is nothing in New York for me. I called my mistress's longtime companion, Mr. Charles, to let him know about . . . what happened. Despite his own grief, he was kind enough to remember me. He will engage my services. He said he's been wanting to steal me away for years.”

Amandine's smile immediately crumpled into a teary grimace.

“I'm glad you'll be taken care of, especially by a close friend of Mrs. Sinclair,” Julie said gently.

Julie looked up at Constance; both thought it time to leave Amandine to her suffering. She looked overly ready to grieve and they were merely strangers.

“Before we go, would you like any help packing her things?” Julie asked.

“No, thank you. It's painful to go through it all, but it fills me with her spirit.” She sighed, sliding her hand through a stack of silk scarves. “Although, I know if it were left up to her, she'd have me throw it all in the sea!”

“I wouldn't doubt that.” Constance smiled. “When we met her, she was busy tossing her journals overboard.”

“That's why I couldn't find them!” Amandine said with a little snort, almost amused. “Always full of surprises!”

They stood to go.

“Good-bye, Amandine,” Constance said, giving her a slight embrace. “And bon voyage.”

“All the best to you,” Julie said, kissing the old woman on the cheek. She then bent over to pat Bibi's head. “To both of you.”

Constance and Julie went outside under the clear skies. No longer hungry for lunch, they would stand outside, watching for the islands. Julie looked down: on the deck below, legs were sticking out
from deck chairs and small groups were walking purposefully around. Today, the fickle sea was blue and cheerful.

“She was so weak and thin”—Constance frowned—“you could tell she was ill. Though, last night”—she paused, thinking of the woman's bright eyes, decisive manner, her knowing smile—“she seemed so very
alive,
didn't she?”

“She must have lived a very full life,” Julie said, “judging by those big, heavy journals she threw into the sea. And I thought it was a baby!”

Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes at her mistake as they filled with tears again.

Constance sighed. “I'm sure they were fascinating. I should have loved to have read them.”

“Yes,” Julie answered softly, thinking that perhaps the most interesting events in one's life are not necessarily the best ones.

“When I saw Mrs. Sinclair on deck last night, in her bathrobe, her white hair flying, she reminded me of my mother. Maybe that's why I ran out there,” Constance said in a near whisper. She turned to Julie. “Don't you think she would have made a wonderful grandmother?”

“Absolutely!” Julie nodded with a smile, wiping her eyes.

“Say, shall we buy some roses?” Constance asked, suddenly inspired. “While we're still at sea, we could hold a little memorial for her.”

“Oh, Constance, what a lovely idea!”

They bought two long-stemmed red roses at the florist's, then walked to the edge of the steamer. Compared to the night before, the ocean seemed still, the wake of the liner providing its only wave. Together they reached out and tossed the roses into the water.

“To our very dear friend, who we just met!” cried Julie.

“To indispensable strangers!” cried Constance.

“To Vera Sinclair!” “Here's to Madame Sinclair!” they shouted.

They bowed their heads to observe the ephemeral ceremony of the rose-red drops on the slate-blue surface.

“What a wonderful coincidence, the three of us all being on deck last night at the same time,” Constance said.

“Did you see the launch photographs in
L'Atlantique
?” Julie asked, pulling the old novel out of her bag and showing her the raggedy newspaper clipping. In it, Julie and Constance stood next to each other, while Vera faded off to the side. “Here we all are! We were all walking together toward the ship that day!”

“I'm so glad you kept that!” Constance looked at the photograph with a chuckle. “It was so horrible of me, I didn't even want it.”

“Of you!” Julie laughed. “It's horrible of all of us!”

“Who would have guessed what a wonderful souvenir a bad photograph could be?” Constance mused. “That we would all become friends?”

“It was fate, I suppose,” Julie said, carefully putting the newspaper clipping back inside the book and into her bag.

“Or luck?” Constance murmured, remembering Captain Fielding's poker chip and the delicate balance between fortune and misfortune.

“Fate, luck, chance.” Julie shrugged. “I've been thinking a lot about that. It's all just a question of change.” She looked over at Constance. “I mean, good luck might be sudden riches, the perfect opportunity, or a new friend. And bad? Well, death, ruin, meeting the wrong person . . . But it's all about change, isn't it? About newness, about metamorphosis.” She drew out this last word, enjoying the sound of it, so scientific, so
Vernian.
“And, since we can't do anything about it, we must embrace it, make change our friend, our ally.”

“You're right, Julie. Luck
is
change. Heck,” Constance said, with a laugh, “
life
is change.”

They stood in silence, lost in thought, watching the waves.

“Look!” Julie exclaimed, taking Constance by the arm. She could
now distinguish the coastline, the New York islands,
land.
They would be docking soon; the voyage was almost over. Just the day before—sick, exhausted, devastated—it had seemed interminable.

All of a sudden, from up top (a funnel, perhaps?), a man's straw hat—a boater—blew down, passing right before the two women. With a grim smile, Julie watched it fly by, her hands firmly held to the rails. The hat dove into the sea like a gull; for an instant, it bobbed, tiny and insignificant, then was taken under by the ship's great wake. As it disappeared, Julie felt she had witnessed a proper burial to her troubles on board. Like the ship, she was moving firmly ahead.

Constance, oblivious to the hat, began pointing out to the horizon.

“Look ahead, Julie! It's Lady Liberty!” She turned to her, smiling, her eyes shining with excitement.

“Yes!” Julie cried. “I can see her!”

The first time I heard of the SS
Paris
was in 2007, when my husband and I translated the catalog
Gigantes del Atlántico: Los Paquebotes de la French Line
(
Giants of the Atlantic: The Steamers of the French Line
) for an exhibition at the Valencian museum the MuVIM. After working on the project for a week or two, I became fascinated by the history and sociology, the mechanics and the aesthetics of these ships, which not only boasted cutting-edge design and technology but were veritable microcosms of modern society.

In the novel, most of the details about the ship are accurate. At the beginning of its service, weighing in at 34,569 tons, the
Paris
was the largest transatlantic liner in France; its sumptuous, upper-deck interiors varied from Art Nouveau to traditional “palatial,” and was the first liner to use the sleek emerging style of Art Deco; in
first class, valets and maids were given adjacent rooms to their employers and, indeed, some cabins were equipped with private telephones—which was highly innovative, even as an
idea.
The
Paris
was able to transport 567 passengers in first class, 530 in second, and 844 in third.

Travelers in steerage were much more comfortable aboard this ship than those who had made the voyage some ten or fifteen years previously. Back then, families were separated and put into same-sex dormitories called berthing compartments, which were vastly overcrowded and smelled of unwashed bodies and sewage buckets. The genteel classes, when weary of finery and elegance, would go down to steerage as curiosity seekers, and some took advantage of the fact that young women were unprotected by fathers or husbands. On the
Paris,
steerage passengers had cabins, bathrooms, a lounge, and plenty of food.

Although the
Paris
was laid down in 1913, World War I delayed its maiden voyage across the Atlantic until 1921. These voyages were media events, causes for celebration that captivated the nation—somewhat like a space launch today—and were followed in the news. Sadly, however, despite its beauty and size, the
Paris
did not have a successful career in the years to come: in 1927, it collided with a Norwegian ship in New York Harbor, resulting in twelve casualties; in 1929, a fire on board required six months of repairs. Then, in 1939, eighteen years after its maiden voyage, a fire broke out in its bakery on the eve of another Atlantic crossing. Although the art headed to the New York World's Fair was quickly evacuated, the
Paris
was soon taken by flames. The massive amounts of water used to extinguish the fire caused the ship to capsize and sink at the Le Havre dock. The wreckage remained there until 1947.