Lost in Paris

by Elizabeth Thompson

  Looking back on that day and knowing what I know now, the cold shadow Germany casts over this city makes me shiver.

  God help us all.

  Twenty-Five

  February 2, 2019—10:00 a.m.

  Paris, France

  Marla stuck around to help, and she even came in with a last-minute request for a straggler to join the tour. I almost said no because we were at capacity, but she persisted. Apparently, the woman is only in town this week and was so captivated by the sound of the tour that Marla told her she would see what she could do. The softy that I am caved.

  I can’t wait to find out where she heard about us. Perhaps the seeds Marla claims to have planted with travel writers really are paying off.

  “What’s her name?” I ask. “I’ll add her to the roster.”

  Marla puts on her readers and holds up the booking slip. “Her first name is Venus. Middle initial D. Last name is Milo.”

  As Marla spells it, T, Emma, and I break into a chorus of laughter.

  “Venus D. Milo?” I say, pen poised. “Are you kidding?”

  Marla looks confused.

  “Is that her real name, then?” Emma asks.

  Marla frowns. “That’s what she said. Why should I doubt her?”

  “Well, we are very happy to welcome Ms. Milo to the tour,” says Emma. “Marla, I’m so proud of you for doing such a bang-up job filling the seats.”

  Marla beams with pride, and it annoys me because she’s been absent more than she’s been here recently. At least she showed today when we’re desperate for all hands on deck.

  The plan is this: Emma will come along with me on the tour, Tallulah will help Aiden set up dinner, and Marla will stay back at the office, answering the phone and fending off any reporters who come sniffing around for the scoop on the manuscript.

  “Bonjour et bienvenu!” I say to the twenty-one people crowded onto the sidewalk in front of the Heart to Heart Tours office.

  “Hello and welcome to the inaugural run of the brand-new Les Années Folles tour. I am so honored that you have decided to join us on this adventure. There is one slight change to the schedule. I have a surprise for you that we didn’t advertise. Since you’re our very first group, Heart to Heart and the Les Années Folles tour is treating you to dinner tonight on the Champ de Mars, near the Eiffel Tower. We’re calling the dinner our moveable feast. You are in for a real treat.”

  Sounds of delight ripple through the crowd.

  After we ask about food allergies, I get into character and reintroduce myself as Ivy. We set out on foot for our first destination: Gertrude Stein’s home at 27 rue de Fleurus.

  I’m curious to meet Venus D. Milo. As we walk, I have everyone introduce themselves.

  Before Ms. Milo takes her turn, I get an urgent text from Marla.

  SOS! SOS! I think Venus D. Milo might be the reporter who called this morning. I was processing the credit cards and found out her real name is Desirae Montpellier.

  I quickly type a text to Emma, asking her if she can handle Desirae. I can’t carry on knowing someone in my group is snooping on me, but I don’t want to embarrass Desirae by calling her out, especially if she’s a potential press contact.

  After Desirae introduces herself as Venus Milo, Emma quietly takes her aside and speaks with her. While they’re talking, I’m nervous that Desirae might make a scene or start asking questions about the manuscript in front of the other guests. But when they return, they’re both smiling.

  A moment later, I get a text from Emma.

  No problem. I made a deal with her. If she writes a positive article about the inaugural Les Années Folles tour, you’ll give her the exclusive on the Andres Armand manuscript when you’re ready. She agreed. I hope that was okay.

  Of course!

  I know that the story about the apartment and the manuscript will have to come out sometime. Better that we have a chance to develop a relationship with the reporter—and control Ivy and Andres’s narrative—before the story goes live.

  We head south toward the boulevard Saint-Germain, then walk to 37 rue de la Bûcherie and stop in front of the green-and-gold storefront that is the Shakespeare and Company bookshop.

  I explain that this is not the original location of Sylvia Beach’s shop and give a brief history of how American George Whitman originally called the shop Le Mistral and renamed it Shakespeare and Company in 1964 after Beach bequeathed the name to him.

  “Sylvia Beach opened her celebrated bookstore on the rue de l’Odéon in 1921. It was a gathering place for expat writers. Hemingway and Gertrude Stein first met here. Sylvia Beach was the one who published James Joyce’s Ulysses in 1922, back when it was considered too scandalous for the mainstream. In 1925, she published Andres Armand’s Un Homme de Parole, which translates to A Man of His Word.”

  I catch and hold Desirae’s gaze. She offers an almost imperceptible nod, but that simple gesture tells me everything I need to know. She is agreeing to play nice.

  Later, after we’ve eaten lunch at the brasserie Les Deux Magots and made our way over to the rue de Rivoli, where the group is busy shopping, Desirae and I have a chance to speak.

  “I appreciate your interest,” I say. “Would you mind telling me who tipped you off?”

  Desirae is a petite woman with curly brown hair and soft amber eyes. She’s American. She barely looks old enough to be out of high school, much less working for a paper like The Guardian. But more power to her. I never underestimate the capability of a smart woman, no matter her age.

  She smiles sweetly. “I wish I could, but a good reporter never reveals her sources.”

  “I can respect that. This discovery is still new to us, but if you will give us time to get our affairs in order, I will happily give you the exclusive. And I can promise you a bonus story that will make it worth the wait. It shouldn’t be much more than a few weeks.”

  Her eyes are large. “Sounds intriguing. Will you give me a hint?”

  “A good source never reveals her story until it’s time. I hope you understand.”

  “Touché,” she says. “I look forward to learning more.”

  “And I look forward to reading your review of the tour.”

  Later that evening when we arrive at the Champ de Mars, Marla flags us down and leads us to the picnic that she, Aiden, and Tallulah have waiting for us.

  The sight takes my breath away: They’ve set up white blankets decked out with sprigs of lavender and dozens of white candles in short jars. Boards of foie gras, fruit, nuts, and bread are set about for the first course. Aiden stands at the ready in his chef’s coat, prepared to ladle out the French onion soup from a large insulated pot.

  The group laughs when I explain that alcohol is not allowed in the park and I don’t want to lose my license on the first day. Instead, Marla and T distribute mugs of hot cider.

  I call the group to attention and raise my glass. “I’d like to quote the great Ernest Hemingway, who said, ‘If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris… wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.’ Even if you’re visiting, I hope you’ll take a piece of Paris home in your heart.”

  My charges raise their glasses to me amidst a chorus of cheers, santé, and hear, hear. We toast a successful first day for Les Années Folles, new friendships, and the romance of Paris.

  April 15, 1940

  Paris, France

  Dear Diary,

  It has been a while since I’ve written. Forgive me, faithful friend. So much has changed. Our lives have turned upside down. This war that I never believed would amount to much is suddenly of monumental concern. The situation is bad enough for Andres to send me away, home to Bristol to stay with my cousin Abigail. I leave on the ship that sails tomorrow from Calais to Dover.

  Andres has given me enough money to stay in a hotel as I make my way to Bristol and to purchase what I might need, as I can only take what I can carry.

  I implored him not to send
me away. I tried to convey how desperately I do not want to leave him alone in Paris. Alas, he confessed, it is not that he doesn’t want me here. He has work to do, and the fewer people coming and going, the better. His apartment has become a workshop for a forger who creates papers that allow Jewish families to assume new identities until they can reach safety. He acts as a courier to transport the papers to the people who need them. He is doing all he can to maintain the appearance of normalcy, so that the neighbors do not become suspicious.

  It’s not safe for me to be there, but it’s just as risky for me to remain alone at my place on the square la Bruyère.

  I wish I could do more to help him, but he said knowing I will be safe with my cousin is help enough because our eventual reunion will be his reason to survive. I have resigned myself to believing that my going to Bristol without my beloved is my way of fighting for the resistance. It is my sacrifice until I get settled and find things to do to help combat the Germans—even small things like mending uniforms for the allies and cutting cloth into bandages for the wounded.

  This war has changed him in so many ways. Not only has he shown he is willing to put his own life on the line to fight for what is right and good, but he has also promised that once we are reunited, he will make me his wife.

  I never thought I would see the day that he would get down on one knee and propose. But he did. He put a gold band with a small ruby on my ring finger. He said it belonged to his grandmother and it was proof of his undying love. I cried—tears of joy mixed with bitter sadness. His promise is the hope to which I am clinging. That, and the belief that Hitler will not prevail.

  I set sail tomorrow into what I hope will be a future of prolonged peace. But I shall not rest until Hitler is defeated and Andres and I are together again.

  Twenty-Six

  February 3, 2019—6:00 p.m.

  Paris, France

  The final day of the first tour ends at 6:00 after I leave my charges to enjoy dinner at Auberge de Venise Montparnasse. The first run has been a success by all accounts, even if I still have a few things to iron out.

  After Emma leaves to catch the train home, I tell Tallu and Marla to take the next two days off. They’ve worked hard and deserve to relax before the next tour starts, three days from now.

  I’m writing up notes in my office when I’m startled by a knock on the door. It’s Marla.

  “Do you have a minute?” she asks.

  “Sure. I thought you’d left with Tallulah.” I motion for her to come in, and she sits in the chair across from my desk.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  She starts with awkward small talk—how well the tour went, how pleased Emma seemed to be with our work—and I wonder if she’s about to ask me for a raise or something equally absurd.

  “So, yeah, I need to talk to you about something.”

  Here we go.

  “I didn’t want to say anything to you until I was one hundred percent sure, and I wanted to wait until after the first tour was over.”

  She licks her lips and then stares at her hands. Even though the silence weighs a million pounds, I give her the time she needs. Maybe it’s the opposite of a raise; maybe she’s about to quit Heart to Heart.

  Strange enough, despite everything, I don’t want her to.

  After a moment, she takes a deep breath and says, “It’s about your father, Hannah. Would you like to know who he is?”

  I drop my pen and sit back in my seat.

  “Well, yeah. Of course.”

  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded letter-sized envelope and hands it to me.

  I open it and see what looks like a lab report on stationery that says PATERNITY TESTING OF ENGLAND. Subheadings say, “Understanding Your Report” and “Definition of Terms.” Following that is a grid of five columns with numbers labeled “DNA Analysis.” My eyes skip to the bottom row that’s labeled “Paternity Probability: 99.99%.”

  Marla’s name is on the report and so is—

  “Who is Darius?”

  “He’s your father.”

  “Okay, but this says Darius Gaynor. Like Martin Gaynor? Is that Martin’s real name?”

  Marla shakes her head. “Darius is Martin’s brother.”

  I can’t quite wrap my mind around what she’s told me. I guess I’d been expecting her to finally come clean and confess that it was Martin, so the Darius twist throws me. My first impulse is to ask when I can meet him. Then dozens of questions flood my mind and I feel like I’m drowning.

  “Darius Gaynor.” I test the name. It sounds strange to my ears.

  Marla nods like a bobblehead. I hope she will offer more, but she just keeps nodding.

  “How did you meet him?” I ask. “I mean, I know you followed Martin Gaynor and the Wellies on the road. But how did you meet Martin’s brother?”

  “Actually, he was the original drummer for the Wellies, but once they started to catch the eye of A&R types, the producers thought Darius wasn’t edgy enough for the image they were trying to cultivate for the band. They basically fired him.”

  A nervous hiccup of laughter escapes Marla’s throat and she clamps her mouth shut.

  “Why are you telling me this now? What’s changed? And wait—if Darius Gaynor is my father, why were you meeting up with Martin and not him?”

  She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a breath in through her nose, and exhales noisily through her mouth. Then looks directly at me.

  “I had to make sure. This is still embarrassing to admit, but Darius wasn’t the only one that summer. I told you I went a little crazy. First I lost my dad, and then the only other man I ever loved basically ghosted me.”

  “Are you talking about Darius?”

  She nods. “I loved him, Hannah. As trite and starry-eyed as that sounds, I did. He and I connected. He was my first—if you can believe that. He told me he was going to get out of music, get off the road, and quit the drugs. He wanted us to have a life together. I was barely eighteen, but that’s what I wanted, too.

  “Then they fired him and he left. He left me and all his stuff on the bus and disappeared. He said he hated life on the road, but I guess he’d wanted to leave on his own terms, not get fired from the band that he had founded with his brother.

  “I followed the band a little while longer, mainly because I hoped to reconnect with him. I thought he’d come back—that was dumb wishful thinking, I know. When it became clear that wasn’t going to happen… like I said, I turned to other men. That was my revenge for him dumping me.” She huffs humorlessly. “When I found out I was pregnant, I felt in my heart Darius was the father, but I didn’t know for sure. I wasn’t proud of it, and I didn’t want to give you his name since I wasn’t sure. Those were the days before the internet, and I didn’t know how to find him. He didn’t try to find me.

  “Because of my situation with Gram, I knew how bad it felt to know a parent didn’t want you. I thought you would be better off not knowing than to chance tracking him down and having him reject you.

  “I must confess, however, that ten years ago, I googled him on a whim. I saw that he was married with two kids. That sealed the deal for me. Since I wasn’t one hundred percent certain he was your father, I didn’t want to rock his happy world. But then, on the day we saw Martin pulling out of his driveway, I looked Darius up again and saw he’s divorced. I figured I could at least try.

  “You know those times recently, when I disappeared and wouldn’t tell you where I was? I was figuring out a way to talk to Martin. He seemed like the best place to start. At first he tried to blow me off, but I promised him I wasn’t after money, just answers. He said he would help me, but he had stipulations. He would take a DNA test to see if you and he were a match. If so, then he would introduce me to Darius to figure things out. That’s why I borrowed your hairbrush, toothbrush, and lipstick. I figured one of those would do it. The lipstick wasn’t any help.

  “Martin got in touch with me after the DNA results were in
. He said he wanted to meet. He only had a short window of time because he was leaving for a Buddhist retreat in Thailand and would be gone several months. He wouldn’t tell me the results over the phone—dramatic, I know—and I needed to know one way or the other before he left. That’s why I went to London after I went down to Antibes. Now do you understand the reason I couldn’t tell you about that leg of the trip? I didn’t want to get your hopes up only to dash them. Even after Martin told me his DNA matched yours, I didn’t want to tell you until after I had talked to Darius. I needed to make sure he wouldn’t reject you.

  “But he took the news well and even offered to take a paternity test. Those are the results on that paper, Hannah. You can see it’s a near-perfect match.”

  I nod incredulously.

  “So if Darius is my father, that makes Martin Gaynor my uncle.”

  Tears are streaming down Marla’s cheeks. She reaches into her other dress pocket and pulls out a photograph of her looking young, beautiful, and glam-punk. In the photo, her curly hair is dyed bright carrot-red and is slicked back on the sides and molded into a magnificent ’90s faux-hawk. She’s sitting in the lap of a cute preppy-looking guy who has his arms around her and is gazing at her adoringly.

  “That’s Darius, Hannah. That’s your father.”

  I see myself in the shape of his face, his nose, his too-full lips. I blink to clear my blurry vision.

  Darius Gaynor. My father.

  Marla blows out a breath, swipes at the tears. “I haven’t even told you the best part. He wants to meet you, if you’re interested. He called the night before your tour started. I knew you had a lot on your mind with everything. That’s why I waited until now to tell you. Will you please say something so I know what you’re thinking?”