Last Train to Paris (4 page)

Waiting until they had gone out the door, I stepped up to the concierge's desk but was informed that my Aunt Clara was out.

 

Why did I have such a hard time seeing Stella with a handsome man? I could have approached her and said hello—she might even have been happy to see me. But I was envious of her. I can still remember how I felt diminished by the drama of the moment—longing to be Stella, wanting her confidence, her glamor. I felt homely, sorry for myself. What the hell, I thought, I would just embarrass her.

Now, I'm surprised that I harbored those feelings. After all, two years before, my life had blossomed.

 

* * *

 

In 1935, I had met a man at a bar.
Der blaue Himmel
, the Blue Sky, in Berlin's Wilmersdorf neighborhood, was a bar frequented by newspapermen, artists, political émigrés, communists. The man was sitting alone, reading a book and drinking. I was doing some reading and drinking myself. Indeed, that was all my acquaintances and I did in our spare time. Too much drinking was no longer something to joke about. We were drinking on purpose; as foreign correspondents, we knew too much. The left-wing German nationals who patronized the bar were part of the ten percent of the population who had not voted for the Nazi candidates in the March election. I watched them and listened to them and sympathized. I had thought that being an American would make me immune to their fear. It wasn't true. For everyone, seeking solace had become an obsession.

The man asked if he could sit down, and did so without waiting for an answer.

“You're an American?” he asked.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Your friends told me. Name's Leon Wolff,” he said, and we shook hands.

I struggled with my manners. At first I wanted to say something biting, but his face showed no guile, simply curiosity. I wasn't bothered by his straight talk. It reminded me of the shepherds I had known in Nevada who cut to the core of a conversation, having no time or inclination for chatter. I smiled at the memory.

“What's so funny?” he asked.

“Just an old memory, sorry. I've never seen you here before.”

“Well, I've noticed you,” he said, “but you've been too occupied with your friends or your books to look around. And I don't come often—just when I get restless from working alone.”

His deep voice sounded like an echo. Perhaps he was nervous, but he kept using his fingers to comb back his thick, dark hair. And each time he did this, he revealed his beautiful blue eyes. I was infatuated. My hands were sweating; the waistband of my slacks was uncomfortable. My entire body felt awkward.

“I'm a journalist,” I almost stuttered.

“I know you are,” he said. “I know some of your colleagues.”

“And, what do you—”

“I'm an artist—in the style of George Grosz. Now he's gone.”

“Did he die?” I asked.

My question made Leon laugh.

‘No, no, he's still alive. At least I hope so. Grosz emigrated to America. He was one of the smart ones. Anyway,' he said, ‘like Grosz, I used to love drawing on location. Café life; singers–jazz musicians–fat, opulent industrialists out on the town.' Leon had a faraway look on his face. ‘Now I make my living as an engraver. Jewelry, watches, baptismal cups, anything needing a steady hand and an exacting eye.'

“I've never known an engraver. Is that why your hands are so dirty?”

Leon smiled. “Yes, of course,” he said, “it's the silver tailings—impossible to keep them clean. And I can't wear gloves because they get in the way.”

 

I thought Leon wonderful. Still do. I remember his smell. It was the odor of metal and heat, which came from his working with a soldering iron. One day, many years later, I walked past a man who smelled like this. “Leon!” I said, and a stranger turned to look at me.

 

At first, I tried to convince myself that my affair with Leon was a pleasant interlude, nothing more. He appeared to think the same. We were both curious about the world's problems—spoke about them, dissected them, came up with brilliant solutions. We had a good time together, in all ways. But I was fearful of love. I didn't think I could be in love and at the same time be a successful female foreign correspondent. And Leon? Well, he was difficult to read.

Why was I so fearful? I knew little about being in love. I had no models, except for women in books. I think my parents had lived under the illusion that I didn't see their problems with each other. And there was no one else in their community whom I could learn from: my mother's best friend was a retired, unmarried prostitute, my father's best friend was a Catholic priest, and Mrs. Cheng's husband only returned home late at night after closing his shop, and I rarely saw them together.

But as time went on, I was seeing Leon more and more. The anticipation, the flushing of my cheeks, these were all new feelings to me. There was no hiding from it. I had fallen in love and didn't have a clue what to do about it.

 

* * *

 

But now it was 1937, and I was back in Paris. I had to deal with Stella and Clara. The next morning, as I was walking past Monsieur Henri's café, he beckoned to me. ‘R.B.,' he said, ‘you have a message.'

“Stella's missing! Call me. Clara.” I didn't bother to call but went directly to her hotel.

 

I still had not seen her. Oh, no, I thought, what a terrible way to welcome them to Paris. Without saying hello, Clara said, “I can't believe Stella would do this to me. She's always been theatrical, but never rude. I just don't understand.”

I hugged her, but she was somewhere else.

“Tell me,” I said. “What happened?”

“We were sitting in the lobby,” Clara said. “A handsome man approached and began a conversation. He spoke excellent English and gave us advice about Paris. We were grateful. There was a
thé dansant
happening at the bistro next door—a pretty bistro with a dance area with palm trees around it. He asked Stella to dance. His name is Bobby Hunter, and he's the son of an industrialist. He was charming. A perfect gentleman.”

“How old?”

“About thirty, maybe a little older. I went off to do some shopping and when I returned they were still talking. Yesterday, early in the afternoon, after more sightseeing, we returned to the hotel to rest. Shortly before three Stella went downstairs to meet Mr. Hunter.”

“Did she say anything to you before she left?” I asked.

“Just that she would see me later. I'm sorry, Rosie,” Clara said, “I've overwhelmed you with this and haven't even really said hello. Let's go. I need to get something to eat or I'll faint.”

We walked to a café on the boulevard St. Germain and sat at a table outside. I ordered for both of us–
paté maison
, salad
,
Camembert, and Vouvray
en carafe
.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” Clara said, obviously relieved that I had taken over.

We were quiet while waiting for the food. Then, as soon as Clara took her first sip of wine, she said, “Rosie, I don't know if I should call the police. It's alarming that she's missing, but I wouldn't be surprised if she simply decided to stay with Mr. Hunter overnight. But I don't understand this kind of behavior. On the other hand, what if something has happened and the police could help? Oh, I wish she had your sense of responsibility.”

I didn't consider that a compliment.

Then, all of a sudden, Clara yelled, “Stella! Stella! Over here.” And Stella nonchalantly strolled over.

“Oh, oh—Stella, you're alive!” Clara shouted with relief.

I was furious. And before Stella could say a word, I stood and slapped her across the face so hard that some of the patrons jumped up.

“You bitch!” I screeched at her in English. “What did you think you were doing? Clara's been sick with worry. Are you trying to kill her?” And I raised my hand again.

“Don't you raise your hand to me, you ugly witch,” Stella said, curling her lip. “A homely girl like you could never have as much fun as I just did. So go to hell.

“Come on, Aunt Clara, let's go back to the hotel. I'm exhausted.”

And Stella spun on her shiny, red high-heeled shoes, put her arm through our stunned aunt's arm, and they walked away.

 

I was staggered by her behavior. How could Stella be so inconsiderate? How could she say such nasty things? We had always gotten along. When I lived in New York we often spent time together. Now, four years later, this was a new Stella. I wondered if this was what happened when you became famous. I knew that she was well known for both her beauty and her sex appeal. And although she was a little old to be playing ingénues on the stage, she had received sterling reviews for her sophisticated, ageless talent.

And my behavior? I was startled by my rage. I thought I had cleansed myself—had banished my mother's behavior toward me to the clouds. But no. Now I was a mirror image of my mother. My own rage had been held up to the light—and there I was in the reflection, an exact replica of everything I detested.

Indeed, around Stella, I forgot that Leon thought me beautiful. Forgot that my Aunt Clara loved me. Forgot that I was talented in my own right.

 

Once, when I was in my late fifties, a yellow cab in New York City almost hit a friend I was walking with. I got so angry that I kicked the door of the car. The driver leapt out, yelling at me in Farsi and pointing to the dent in his door. I began to yell back when I noticed that I couldn't put weight on my foot without it being excruciating. “Oh, no,” I said. “I think I've broken something!” After much commotion, the cab driver kindly helped me into his cab and drove me to the emergency room. He wouldn't charge me. I had broken a bone and had to wear a cast and use crutches. Have I learned to control my anger? I have to confess that I don't think so.

 

I paid the bill, not even bothering to taste the wine and the food that was placed so appealingly on the table. Bowing my head to avoid people's glares, I walked to the Jardin du Luxembourg, where I watched seemingly normal people taking a stroll. My mind was blank. I presume I was in shock. I was aware of a large flowerbed of Madame Pompadour pink roses
directly in front of me. But I refused myself the pleasure of their beauty.

Slowly, I became uncomfortably warm from the full sun. I had to see Clara. When I arrived at the hotel, the concierge waved me upstairs to her room. She was lying on the bed with an ice bag on her forehead.

“Aunt Clara, I need to speak to you.”

“Come in, Rosie,” she mumbled. “Come in and close the door behind you.”

I squeezed a small chair next to the bed, sat, and took her hand. “I'm sorry you had to go through this. I don't know what else to say.”

“There's nothing to say, Rosie,” she said, and she sat up and leaned against the headboard. “I feel betrayed and alone and I want to go home.”

“I understand,” I said, “but I don't know how to make this better for you.”

“You can make it better,” she said, “by trying to understand something that's important to me. I must support Stella.” And she began to cry. Between wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, she said, “I can't abandon her—she knows I'm deeply disappointed in her—she knows I don't trust this Bobby person—but she can't help herself.” And Clara threw herself into my arms and wept.

I realized that what Clara said was painfully true. Stella was family, and Clara was going to honor her, no matter what had happened. She had accepted the facts: Stella was impetuous, selfish, lost in her own world. And if I were going to continue to be part of the family, I would have to find a way to accept and forgive.

That evening I forced myself to knock on Stella's door. Bobby Hunter opened it. We stared at each other for a moment. He had obviously been told what happened. “Who is it?” Stella called out. “Oh, it's you, what do you want?”

“I've come to beg your pardon.”

“Geez, you sound like a Victorian greeting card, Rose. But I accept your apology. And I'm sorry for causing everyone such worry. And I know you'll learn to love Bobby,” she gushed, putting her arm through his and snuggling into his side. “He's such a gentleman.”

 

The next day Stella told Clara that she was meeting Bobby Hunter for lunch and would be home in time to get ready for the opera,
Ariadne and Bluebeard
. Clara went shopping for ribbons and buttons for her store.

Early that evening I walked toward the Seine, thinking I would browse the bookstalls and have an early night. On the rue de Grenelle I ran into Andy Roth and we decided to have dinner together. My friend Andy was a wiry, quiet man with almost-orange hair, given to dreaming. He was married to a gorgeous woman; her name was Ruby and she seemed to be forever in London visiting her family.

After the first few drinks, we got into an intense argument about newspapers. Andy believed strongly in straight-shot writing—no flourishes, no embellishments. I felt, and still feel, that journalism could be more literary.

“Look, Andy,” I said, “why can't we be more poetic, like Colette?”

“Oh, come on, R.B. She's a fiction writer for girls!”

“You're impossible,” I said. “She's brilliant. Read her work carefully and you'll see. Haven't you ever read her essays in the papers?”

“Naw,” Andy said, “don't have the time, and my French stinks. All I can manage is
s'il vous plaît
and
merci.
”

‘Well,' I said, not willing to give up, ‘how about Janet Flanner?'

“You mean the lesbian who writes for the
New Yorker
? The one who calls herself ‘a gentleman of the press in skirts'?”

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Andy, so what! Not only is she a fine essayist, but also a true intellect.”