James Joyce and Sylvia Beach with Adrienne Monnier
Marcelle added somewhat seriously, “I read Joyce’s Ulysses in translation. Adrienne has a superb copy.”
Sylvia replied, “Well, you could try it in English,” and adding her own little mischief, she said, “You could read it with Dexter. He might be able to help you with some of, shall we say, the more colorful idiom.”
Marcelle gave a light laugh and said, “I would hope that I am unfamiliar with some of the words, and besides,” and she hesitated while her eyes darted right and left as she searched for words.
Dexter jumped in, “She would not like to give any false sense of familiarity or intimacy to her friendship with me.”
Marcelle’s expression lightened and she said, “Yes, exactly,” and turned laughing eyes at Dexter.
Sylvia laughed and said with self-satisfaction, “See, there you are. You finish each other’s sentences like an old married couple.”
Marcelle’s face reddened as if the words poked her in a vulnerable place. Sylvia saw the anger flash in her eyes, an anger like she used to see sometimes in her mother’s eyes, the anger of a woman determined not to be hurt again. Sylvia looked sympathetically at her.
Dexter also saw the anger and decided to stand back and let it settle.
Marcelle quickly composed herself and added apologetically, “I am a widow. It has been years since I have been described as a married woman. It just startled me. Excuse me.”
Adrienne moved to put the discomfort in the past and took a half-step forward and started to speak in her version of a West African French patois, “Dexter is a great mimic. He has promised us a performance over at La Maison des Amis des Livres. Show us Dexter.”
Marcelle looked momentarily startled at hearing the West African dialect.
Dexter smoothly started to give a lilting imitation of the West African patois of the native women bargaining away with the fruit and vegetable sellers at the morning wet markets.
Marcelle turned towards Dexter, her face almost white in blank astonishment. Sylvia and Adrienne looked quizzically at her. Now what? they thought.
Marcelle blurted out. “When were you in Dakar?”
Dexter, a bit surprised at the suddenness of the question, answered, “I was a vice consul there between 1929 and 1931.”
Marcelle, eyes looking wistfully up at the ceiling, started to recite in the same beautiful lilting French patois a couple of sentences describing almost forgotten trips to the morning markets. Yes, she remembered.
Adrienne and Sylvia were totally captivated by Marcelle’s revelation and the beauty of her remembered conversations. The trilling of her West African French was like a songbird answering her suitor, thought Sylvia.
Dexter looked on with keen interest. An answer to something lay in the next couple of sentences, he thought.
Marcelle murmured, “I was in Dakar from 1926 to 1928.”
All faces turned to her for further explanation.
Marcelle thought back, like remembering a once cherished dream, and said simply, “I went there a bride and came back a widow.”
Sylvia asked, “What happened?”
“My fiancé and I were married. He had just graduated from L’École Polytechnique. He was an ingénieur. Our future was assured.”
Adrienne nodded her head at Sylvia to reinforce the truthfulness of Marcelle’s statement about L’École Polytechnique; it was the gateway to a life of distinction and prominence.
“There was just the question of his military service. He was of course posted to an elite engineering service. Scientific work.”
She sighed. “The expedition, he went as surveyor, trekked way out in the desert, past the farmlands, to survey the border between the Moslem lands and the African lands. It was just a skirmish, they said, the result of a misunderstanding. They buried him out there, in the land between their God and our God.”
Dexter looked at her, now plain and forlorn, a whole crushed look had swept over what moments ago to him had been one of the most self-assured women in Paris. He was struck by the change and deeply sympathetic.
Marcelle continued, “I came back to Paris. His advisers at L’École Polytechnique, who were beyond kindness, guided me towards a civil service position at the ministry of labor. Recommendations, introductions, and of course the right word to the right person.”
And she said with a touch of pride, “I am still invited to tea over there. The warmth of their interest in me has been the finishing touch to my confidence all these years.”
Dexter looked at her; it was a beautifully perfect explanation to the self-assured presence of this fascinating woman.
Dexter gently asked, “So your fascination with André Malraux and Man’s Fate?”
Marcelle replied, “A little bit. I think revolutionary forces will struggle against colonialism. The rest of the world is not Europe.”
Sylvia and Adrienne nodded in understanding.
Dexter said to the two booksellers, “I promised Marcelle an early evening. So we better be leaving, but Sylvia, if I could have a word with you,” and he nodded towards a corner. The two stepped away from the group. Adrienne picked up the conversation with Marcelle about life in West Africa.
Dexter said in a low voice to Sylvia, “Here is an envelope. André,” it was clear to Sylvia he meant Gide, “told me about the Friends of Shakespeare and Company. Here is my subscription. I, and hopefully Marcelle, will look forward to attending the readings.”
Sylvia replied, “Thank you, Dexter,” and she added looking over at Marcelle, “she has had, and possibly leads, a fascinating life. She has the courage of her judgment.”
Dexter looked momentarily reflective, then said, “Yes.” He turned and walked over to Marcelle, said goodbye to Adrienne, and took Marcelle’s arm and guided her towards the door.
In the darkness walking towards rue Monsieur, Marcelle said, “You won’t mind if we do not read Ulysses together?”
Dexter laughed, “Hardly. I am admirer of the Odyssey.”
“Yes, so am I. But I place The Iliad first. The pride of men, the fall of civilizations.”
Then she turned to him, “What do you like about The Odyssey?”
Dexter laughed and said, “I don’t want to offend you. But I was thinking about Penelope sitting at her loom working away at the never-to-be completed tapestry. Surrounded by the nettlesome suitors. Possibly you are a modern Penelope.”
“Faithful and constant?”
“Oh, I am sure you are those, but I was thinking of you working tirelessly at the great unfinished task.”
“So you think I work away while pining for my long lost husband?” She paused and said with businesslike finality, “Unlike Penelope, I know he is not coming back.”
Dexter said sympathetically, “I know. But maybe you are keeping the suitors away.”
She stayed silent for several seconds, pondering Dexter’s comment, and then she replied, “I don’t think so. It was always something else.”
Coming up to the door at 7 rue Monsieur, she got out her key and put it in the big door lock and turned it; the door cracked open. She turned and faced Dexter. Dexter said, “Maybe someday you will tell me?”
She smiled. “Maybe.”
Dexter asked, “A reception, at the end of the month on Saturday night. The staff at the weekly Marianne knocks back drinks at the printers on Saturday night after putting the magazine to bed. And the latest issue of Nouvelle Revue Française will be out.”
“And you have an invitation?”
“I knock about with that crowd a bit.”
“Yes, I would be delighted,” and she presented her right cheek to him for a kiss, then her left. Then she grasped his right hand in both of hers. “Yes, it has been a wonderful evening, though I am afraid that maybe I said more than I should have,” and she dropped his hand.
“Not at all,” and he watched as she turned and went through the door. He started down the sidewalk towards home as he thought ba
ck about Dakar. It had been different for him.
Paris 1935: Destiny's Crossroads Page 19