by Jane Thynne
How funny about all the heiling, but isn’t it a bit too much like Oswald Mosley’s frightful Blackshirts? And can you laugh without being arrested?
All my love, darling, and I’d ask you to give Ernst a kiss from me if I weren’t certain he would regard it as improper, so please pass on a respectful salute…
Stepping off the platform at Saint Lazare, Cordelia looked up and down the Rue d’Amsterdam and struggled to suppress every unsophisticated manifestation of delight. Though she had spent months in Lyons, this was her first time in Paris, and it was everything she had hoped and more. The trees, stone, and skyline were bathed in a pure crystalline light, and the warm air was saturated with the mingled scents of food and decay. Stock images of Paris had long existed in her mind—cafés with red cane-bottomed chairs, expensive boutiques on the Right Bank with their jewel-stacked window displays, the haute couture ateliers, and the swirl of purple and azure in the windows of Notre Dame—but imagination often provided a treacherously rosy tint. She was hungry to see how reality shaped up.
Only a shortage of money threatened her idyll. Although Mr. Evans had offered three guineas a week, her pay had not been advanced. Nor could she bear to petition her parents, who had greeted the loss of their remaining daughter with dismay. Despite his protestations of friendship to other nations, Dad had loudly berated Henry Franklin for his offer, ignoring Cordelia’s reminder that she had already lived in both France and Germany without being trafficked into white slavery and could speak the language practically like a native. Her father argued that in both cases she had stayed under the protective roofs of people known to the family, whereas to wander the continent alone, unsupervised, was another thing entirely. The result was that Cordelia had been obliged to leave in the teeth of opposition, emptying her own savings account and removing her passport from its drawer in her father’s study. She left her parents a letter promising she would write as soon as she had an address and could meanwhile be contacted at the Paris Bureau.
Her savings, though, would stretch only so far. Now she headed north, up toward Montmartre, through backstreets with half squares and cobbled alleyways crazily tilted like paintings by Georges Braque. Fetid drains exuded the stench of fish mixed with old gas, and the buildings had chunks of plaster missing from their ugly façades. After a few hours of wandering, she found a place called the Hotel Britannia and, encouraged by the name, ventured inside.
Plumped in a shabby armchair in the hallway sat a mountainous figure with violent orange hair and a gamy odor who introduced herself in rasping tones as Madame Dechaux, the concierge. Together they labored up six flights of a cast-iron staircase and along a linoleum corridor, passing a bathroom where Cordelia was startled to see a beautiful young woman, entirely naked, squatting over a bidet douching herself. Another girl, equally nonchalant about personal modesty, flounced past in a filthy negligee and barged into the bathroom without knocking. The taciturn concierge made no comment, not even when an older man left his room with an angry slam and elbowed past them muttering a savage “Merde.”
The vacant room was right up in the eaves of the building, where the nightly rate was cheapest. It was easy to see why. It had wooden floorboards, partly covered with a faded rug, a misshapen window that didn’t fit properly in the sash and rattled in the breeze, and it was infernally noisy, with banging doors and odd shouts coming from downstairs. The tap in the cracked porcelain sink issued only cold water, and the mattress might as well have been stuffed with pebbles, but the bed was capacious, apricot light streamed in through the window, and if you craned your neck you got a view of a magnolia tree. Cordelia decided instantly that she loved it.
It was two o’clock by the time she had stowed her luggage and, complete with typewriter, made her way to the newspaper bureau in the Place de l’Opéra. It was on the fifth floor and smelled of polish and old wood. Pushing open the frosted-glass door, she found the sole occupant of the room standing on a chair with his back to her, attempting to tack a large map of Europe to the wall without it folding on his head. He moved quickly, precisely, uttering little grunts of effort, and Cordelia hesitated, wondering whether to interrupt or to support the chair to prevent accidents, until he sensed her presence and turned awkwardly.
“Can I help?”
“I’m Cordelia Capel.”
“Excuse me?”
“The new secretary…assistant.”
“That can’t be right.”
“Well it is. In fact…” Straightening, she focused more closely on his face. “We’ve seen each other before.”
It was the slender young man who had quoted poetry and winked at her when Henry Franklin was showing her around the newsroom. The hank of hair that fell into his brown eyes was unmistakable. The high forehead creased in confusion.
“So we have. Though frankly I wasn’t exactly expecting…” He scrambled down and adjusted his shirtsleeves and braces. “Never mind. Delighted to meet you, Cordelia Capel. I’m Torin Fairchild. I do remember you, of course. Girl in the London office. I was only over for a couple of days.”
His warm hand clasped hers. Close up, she could see that his eyes were tigerishly splintered with gold, and she smelled a citrus shaving soap. She was aware of the hair damp on her neck and the cotton dress sticking to her skin. To avoid looking at him she scrutinized the room, whose walls were covered with maps of France, Germany, Poland, Italy, and Czechoslovakia.
Torin Fairchild didn’t seem especially ready to assign her a desk, so she prompted him. “Could you show me where I’m to sit?”
“Oh, anywhere! Wherever you can. Everything’s chaos, of course, but then so is Europe at the moment, so I suppose it’s appropriate.”
She cleared part of a desk, extracted her typewriter from its case, gave it a hasty polish with her handkerchief, and set it up. Then she tucked her handkerchief back in her sleeve, sat, and awaited instructions.
None were forthcoming.
“Is there anything you’d like me to do?”
“Not particularly. What did you want to do?”
She decided she might as well take the initiative.
“Well, eventually, I’d like to be a journalist, so I thought I might start by writing something about fashion.”
“Fashion? What on earth for? I don’t think fashion’s what we’re here for.”
“Perhaps you have some letters for me to type, then.”
She hoped not. The only person she had written to so far was Irene, and she knew practically nothing about typing letters, except how to end them. Yours faithfully to a stranger; Yours truly to a slight acquaintance; and Yours sincerely when the person you were writing to was known to you. And she had yet to get to grips with the typewriter. She was still trying to comprehend the purpose of the feed roll release lever and the writing line indicator, before stabbing laboriously at the keys with two fingers and obliterating each mistake with an X.
“Sure. Maybe we can write to the owner of this building about why he’s asking me to pay such an exorbitant rent. Only joking.”
Having abandoned his attempts with the map, Torin Fairchild went back to his work. Silence prevailed for a few minutes.
“What were you expecting then?” Cordelia demanded.
He looked up, with a mix of puzzlement and amusement, then laughed.
“A man, of course. Franklin sent me a telegram explaining that an assistant was arriving. He didn’t give much detail, so I naturally assumed he would be male.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m not disappointed.”
She bent her face to the typewriter to hide the sudden blush. “It’s William Cory, by the way.”
“What is?”
“The author whose last lines you couldn’t remember. You were reciting it in the office.
“They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead, / They brou
ght me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.”
“Ah. So it is.” He studied her thoughtfully.
“It goes on: I wept as I remembered how often you and I / Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.”
“Thank you.”
He returned to his work, then casually asked, “What are you doing tonight?”
She had pictured herself spending as few of her precious francs as possible on cheap bread and cheese to be consumed in the privacy of her attic room, before taking a sedate and, more important, free walk along the Seine. Perhaps a glance into the flickering twilight of Notre Dame.
“I’m not sure. I might look up some friends. See a play.”
“Come to dinner with me.”
* * *
—
THE WINDOWS OF THE DÔME were misted by the breath of a hundred customers, and a babble of languages clashed in the glitter of its pendant glass lamps. The café was one of the liveliest places in Montparnasse, its mirrors and chandeliers casting a shine over the crowd of artists, writers, travelers, and sightseers crammed around the tiny marble tables. Touting their trays at shoulder height, waiters in bow ties and white aprons wove nimbly through the diners powered by trademark Parisian disdain.
Torin had secured a corner booth, from which they were able to survey the clientele in all its drunken, argumentative, grand, and shabby glory. At his urging, Cordelia ravenously consumed oysters, spinach gratin, and confiture d’oignons. Scalloped potatoes oozing in cream and a crispy skinned poulet resting in a glistening pool of its own juice.
Torin devoured a steak, mopping up the gravy with his bread. “Delicious. Even if it’s not beef.”
“What is it then?”
“Horse probably.”
“No!”
“They eat them here. That’s one of the customs you’ll have to get used to.”
Although a carafe of rough red wine already ran through her veins, warming every extremity, Torin ordered brandies in large glass balloons. Leaning back, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, he retrieved a roll of tobacco from his pocket and filled a pipe, tamping it down with his thumb.
“So, Cordelia Capel. Aren’t typists supposed to be able to type? Or am I missing something?”
“What do you mean?”
“I was watching you. I could go faster than you with two fingers and a blindfold.”
She bristled. “I’m sure I’ll pick it up.”
“Let’s hope,” he replied amicably. “Any shorthand?”
“Afraid not.”
“Well, I don’t suppose it was your secretarial skills that got you hired.”
“Why do you say that?”
“When you walked through the office in London, the men were awarding you points for your looks.”
For a second, curiosity wrestled with outrage, but curiosity won.
“What did I score?”
“If you really want to know, they gave you seven out of ten. I’m sorry if that sounds frightfully ungallant.”
She flushed indignantly. “Not at all. I give you seven out of ten for daring to tell me.”
“Before you ask, I did not participate in the voting.”
“I suppose you want another point for that?”
“Please don’t be offended. It’s just the way they do things there. Secretaries are chosen for their breeding. And their legs.”
“No different from horses then.”
“Exactly…” He removed his pipe and leaned forward. “That’s why I wouldn’t want any part in it.”
Cordelia shifted on the buttoned leather banquette. It was hard to read this man’s mind. Even though his manner was forthright, stern almost, the curve of his mouth suggested he was not being entirely serious.
“Anyway. Points out of ten aside, what perplexes me is why someone who owns such a fine typewriter can’t type.”
“You mean the Underwood? The truth is, my sister gave it to me as a going-away present just before she left.”
“Where’s she gone away to?”
“Germany. She’s living in Berlin.”
The levity vanished from his voice. “That sounds foolhardy.”
“I don’t see why. Her husband’s rather rich.”
As a wedding present Ernst had given Irene a Cartier watch studded with diamonds around the face that had probably cost as much as a small house.
“I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about war. Everyone expects another war. I know no one who even doubts it.”
“My brother-in-law doesn’t seem worried.”
“What’s he do? Where does he stand politically?”
“I don’t think Ernst gets mixed up in politics.”
“Everyone in Germany is mixed up in politics whether they like it or not. And it’s not only in Germany. Look around you.” Torin gestured briefly at the table next to them, where Austrian accents were intercut with a harsh grating of Hungarian. “German politics has spilled over everywhere. There’s four million refugees in France, and Paris is full of them. By refugees, I mean people of great courage who have crossed several countries to get here. People who have dared to stand up to Hitler’s status quo. I hope you don’t walk around with your eyes closed. That’s no good for someone who wants to be journalist. This is a serious time, and it requires serious people.”
“Who says I’m not serious?” Cordelia was stung.
“Perhaps I phrased that badly.”
“What did you mean then?”
He paused to puff a cloud of smoke. “What I mean is, I fear life comes too easily for some people.”
“People like me?”
“Who have private incomes and connections. Who don’t understand that journalism involves an intimate knowledge of the facts. Who think journalism is, I don’t know, writing about fashion.”
Any friendliness between them evaporated faster than the haze of the brandy in her glass. Cordelia could feel the heat rising to her face.
“Mr. Fairchild. We have been acquainted for precisely one afternoon. You knew so little about me that you assumed I was a man. You have no idea what I’m like, so I’d be grateful if you’d stop making generalizations. If you want to be the kind of journalist who relies on no facts whatsoever, perhaps it’s you who should be writing about fashion.”
His eyes widened. Then a broad grin lit his face and he held up a hand.
“Touché. I’m sorry. That was pompous. Fact is, I’ve never met a lady journalist before, let alone one who speaks the language. Most people posted out here rely on the Speak English Loudly school of French, and I stupidly assumed you were one of that crowd. Then when you mentioned about fashion— Well, all I can say is, I don’t think a knowledge of French fashion is going to help any of us with what’s on the horizon. I wish to God I knew what will.”
“A lot of my friends think the answer lies with the Left.”
Grimly, he shook his head. “Then your friends are naïve. Have you read Muggeridge’s Winter in Moscow, about the mass deportations and starvations in the Ukraine? People making the case for Russia are no wiser than those arguing for peace and understanding with Hitler. Do you know what Stalin calls them? Useful idiots.”
Cordelia had a sudden image of her father at Birnham Park in their drawing room, amid the glorious clutter of Venetian glass, Sèvres china, Indian figures, and jade monkeys, objects as eclectic and various as the friends he liked to cultivate, talking about the tremendous improvements of the Soviet Union. His arms spread wide in openhearted enthusiasm. Stalin’s a man of vision.
“Though I can’t deny,” Torin continued, “I was in that camp myself at first. When I was at Cambridge I joined a group of men going to Russia with Intourist. It was entirely stage-managed. The Russians gave us tours of the Hermitage and the Metro with all its lov
ely painting and marble, and we saw factories and collectivized farms, and heard talks about the Five-Year Plan and the industrial growth rates and so forth. Most of our chaps were starstruck. To them Russia appeared a vast, mysterious land where all the evils of our Western world could be erased. I couldn’t help thinking that what we were seeing was like the gilding on the Hermitage: just glitter to obscure the darker reality. The first thing a journalist learns is to never look at what people want you to see.”
He grinned. “Unless it’s a man wanting you to see the finer sights of Paris. Shall we go?”
* * *
—
AS THEY STROLLED THROUGH the hidden courtyards and cobbled streets north of the Luxembourg Gardens, Cordelia decided Torin Fairchild was unlike any man she had ever known. He talked fluently and knowledgably about the buildings they passed and any other subject she chose to mention—church architecture; David Copperfield; the election of Léon Blum, the French Prime Minister; King Edward and Wallis Simpson; and the situation of the poor in the north of England. His quicksilver mind was matched with a biting sarcasm and a reserve she found hard to penetrate.
In the Rue de l’Odéon, he hesitated in front of a dark lacquered frontage. Cordelia peered inside to see a warren of book-lined passageways, with racks of volumes stacked floor to ceiling, and on one wall a gallery of author photographs: D. H. Lawrence, W. B. Yeats, F. Scott Fitzgerald, T. S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, James Joyce.
“It’s a lending library and bookshop,” Torin told her. “You must have heard of it.”
She looked up to see the name Shakespeare and Company. She had heard of Shakespeare, certainly.
“You must meet Sylvia Beach, the owner. She’s the most remarkable woman; she’s like an ambassador to France, Germany, the United States, Ireland, and England rolled into one. Sylvia’s currently worried that she might be obliged to close the shop, but André Gide has organized a committee for subscribers to attend readings. You should go to one.”