Chasing Sylvia Beach

by Cynthia Morris

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “I said, I don’t know why I agreed to do this.”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  He pulled up short and took a drag from his cigarette. They were a few doors away from the shop. A group of people lingered at the doorway, waiting to get in.

  “‘What’s the big deal?’ Have you ever read your stories to a group of snippety Parisian assholes?”

  Lily laughed. She had never heard the word snippety. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, then, who are you to talk?” he said. She couldn’t believe that Mr. Bravado, Mr. Ambulance Driver, Mr. Hunter of the Wilds was afraid to read in public.

  “Oh, just suck it up,” she told his back.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Suck what up?”

  “Get over it,” she replied. “Get over your big bad self.”

  He smiled. “You are one weird bird,” he said.

  “What are you reading from tonight?”

  “The latest. To Have and Have Not.”

  Lily didn’t know it. But now that she’d met him, she wanted to read everything he wrote. And confront him about his womanizing.

  They arrived at the shop. Sylvia hovered near the threshold.

  “Hem!” she called. “Get in here!”

  He tossed his cigarette aside and went in. Lily followed and Sylvia, with a slight shake of her head, let her pass. A chorus of voices filled the space, crowding out the books and shrinking the space in the shop. A buzz of anticipation circulated through the room and Lily caught her breath as she was pulled into the excitement. Several younger people sat on stools near the front. Spender calmly surveyed the scene from the front of the room. He saw Lily with Hemingway at the door and winked. She smiled back.

  Lily lingered out of the way near the fiction section, watching the literati trickle in. Most of them were older than her. There were a lot of men speaking French, and Lily knew that if they wore name tags, she’d recognize some of France’s most famous writers. Sylvia and Adrienne welcomed the last guests. They laughed and chatted but Lily could tell that Sylvia was anxious by the way she gripped the clipboard to her chest like a breastplate. She scanned the crowd.

  A man wearing a shabby white suit and thick glasses entered with a sad-looking woman. They greeted Sylvia coolly. She returned the man’s hello and smiled warmly at his wife. As he made his way to his seat, Lily realized it was James Joyce. He appeared skinny and sickly, but carried himself like someone important. Taking a seat near the back, he removed a tiny book from his jacket pocket and proceeded to read, ignoring his wife. Spender reappeared and Sylvia pulled him aside, pointing to the readers’ table. Hemingway moved along the side of the crowd toward Spender. The pitch of conversation rose with the heat. A bouquet of perfumes produced an almost visible cloud above the crowd, not quite masking the body odor. The women wore neat bobs and heavy makeup. Many were adorned with tiny swaths of fur, a bit of trim on a wrist, a bit wrapping a neck. The men all wore suits and held their hats in their laps.

  A group near the back was especially exuberant. The woman in the middle threw her head back, laughing with the man next to her. She wore a burgundy velvet jacket trimmed in some kind of black fur with a jaunty matching cap. The brooch pinned to her jacket caught Lily’s eye. Lily had the feeling she had seen that woman before. She looked like the woman on the plane, the one who had offered her tea and poetry. Was it? How could it be possible? Lily held still, trying to grasp it.

  The heat in the room overcame Lily. She fell back, pushing over a rack of magazines with a loud clatter. Sylvia glared at her as Lily quickly righted the rack. The noise brought the rest of the chatter in the room to a halt as everybody looked at Lily. Heat rose up around Lily’s neck like a ruff. The woman studied her a second longer than the rest of her friends, her eyes narrowing. A shiver of certainty passed through Lily. This woman recognized her. No doubt about it, she was the woman from the plane. The man next to her also inspected Lily. The thin mustache above his lips twitched when he smiled. He winked and gave a series of nods like they were agreeing on something together. Lily frowned. She averted her eyes, desperately trying to get the attention of the woman sitting next to him. She had to speak to her. She started forward, but Sylvia assumed her position in front of the room. Lily clenched her fists and held her ground.

  “Welcome, friends,” Sylvia began. Just as she spoke, two more people squeezed in, taking up positions near Lily. They removed their hats and she took them in: two handsome men, well dressed, one wearing a thin mustache, the other blond and tall. The tall man peered at Lily and gave a slight nod, which made her glance away nervously. She tried to pay attention to Sylvia, whose voice, though authoritative, did not carry over the audience. Lily could barely make out what she was saying. Spender and Hemingway had seated themselves at the table. Hemingway sweated visibly, his forehead damp. Spender maintained his calm. Both of the men had books in front of them, and Spender held a sheaf of papers. A bottle of whiskey stood on the table. From what she could gather, Hemingway would read first. Sylvia gave an introduction, mentioning the books he had published, his place on the frontier of the short story. As she spoke, Sylvia gazed at Hemingway with a soft expression and a sweet smile. She finished her introduction and the room broke into applause. Hemingway rose, offered a slight bow, and resumed his seat. Clearing his throat, he picked up a thin book and coughed. He began talking about writing and war and what it was like to write in a fascist country. Finally, he flipped through the pages and plunged in.

  I took a quick one out of the first bottle I saw open and I couldn’t tell you yet what it was. The whole thing made me feel pretty bad. I slipped along behind the bar and out through the kitchen in back and all the way out. . . .

  Lily tried to focus on his words, acutely aware of the man next to her. His height emphasized his formal posture. He held himself very alert during the reading as if tasting every word, digesting every sensation Hemingway described. She risked a peek. He was quite handsome, his sculpted face focused in a look of concentration. He glanced down at Lily and raised one of his shaggy eyebrows. Blushing, Lily glanced away. A woman in the middle of the row cupped her hand around her red-lipsticked mouth and called out, “Louder, please, sir.” Hemingway looked up, startled that someone had interrupted him. He cleared his throat, pulled himself up in his chair, and continued. This time he spoke as he had in the bar, loud and strong.

  The presence of Sylvia and the woman from the plane, the tall man standing so close to her, all made it difficult for Lily to pay attention. The exploits of a Florida smuggler and his gangster friends were distant and uninteresting. Joyce wore a look of studied boredom. The genius was bored. Of course, Lily thought. The other people in the audience appeared engrossed in Hemingway’s words. The only sound in the room was his voice, now projected with an air of authority.

  Lily’s impatience overrode her ability to listen. It wouldn’t be long before she could corner the woman from the plane and get answers to her questions: What was the woman doing here? How had she, Lily, gotten to this era? And above all, how was Lily to get home?

  When Hemingway finished, the audience clapped and he gave a tidy bow, then reached for the whiskey bottle. Spender adjusted his ascot again, preparing for his turn. The audience took the opportunity to stretch as delicately as one could in suits and furs. Joyce rose with a jerky movement and scooted past the knees in his row. Without a glance at anyone, he left the shop and slipped into the night. How rude, Lily thought. A hurt look passed over Sylvia’s face. Lily checked to see how the man beside her reacted. He scanned the room as if taking roll call of the guests. Sylvia squelched the murmurs of the audience to begin her introduction of Stephen Spender.

  “Thank you very much, Ernest,” she said. “Your reading was enjoyed by all, I am sure.”

  “Not Mr. Joyce,” Hemingway replie
d. He tossed back the whiskey.

  “Well, then. Perhaps you inspired him to rush home and write.” The audience tittered. Sylvia continued with the introduction.

  “Now I have the pleasure of welcoming a young talent. He is one of Britain’s up-and-coming poets. He, like Mr. Hemingway, was also in Spain during these last months of the war, so we are very grateful to have him here tonight. Without further ado, I present to you Stephen Spender.”

  The audience clapped politely, gloved taps muffled among more assertive applause by the men. Spender cleared his throat and picked up a sheaf of papers. He had the most incredibly sculpted lips Lily had ever seen. His blue eyes shone as if glossed with tears.

  “I have prepared a few poems for tonight,” he began. His formal British accent contrasted sharply with Hemingway’s casual American diction. He proceeded to read. Lily listened to see if she recognized the poem the woman had read to her on the plane, but none were familiar. She stared at the woman, letting the poet’s voice lull her.

  A wave of applause snapped Lily out of her daze. The handsome man next to her had removed a small notebook from his jacket and had taken notes during Spender’s reading. That’s odd, Lily thought. Who would take notes on poems? After Spender finished, the applause faded and the audience broke apart, standing and pushing chairs aside, calling to friends across the room, reaching into purses and pockets for cigarettes. Sylvia bustled around the table where Hemingway and Spender had been positioned for the reading. Placing trays on the table, Sylvia transformed it into a buffet for the reception. Lily peeked at the woman from the plane, who was chatting with the man next to her. Lily pressed her way through the crowd toward Sylvia. She reached the table just as the man who’d been taking notes greeted Sylvia. Lily lingered nearby, but couldn’t hear what they were saying. The man appeared to be questioning Sylvia and though she remained polite, it didn’t seem that Sylvia was giving him answers. Lily thought the man spoke with a German accent. After a moment of conversation, he left, glancing at Lily as he passed. Sylvia resumed her task of situating a tray of small glasses.

  “Please, can I help?”

  Sylvia sighed. “You again!”

  Just then Spender, who’d been signing a book for a woman nearby, caught sight of Lily. “You again!” he cried, but his tone was far different than Sylvia’s exasperated one. Lily brightened.

  “Hello,” she said. “I loved your reading.”

  Spender mock-bowed. “I’m glad it’s over,” he confessed.

  Sylvia put her hand on his sleeve. “It wasn’t so awful, was it? How do you two know each other?” She raised an eyebrow at Lily.

  Lily threw a desperate look at Spender, but he just smiled. “Oh, mutual acquaintances, isn’t that so . . .”

  “Lily,” she rushed to insert.

  “Yes, of course, Lily. We’ve forgotten how we met. No matter.” He smiled again but Sylvia didn’t appear convinced. She nodded toward Lily.

  “She insists upon helping me.”

  Spender shrugged. “Well, then, why not let her lend a hand? Why refuse help so graciously offered? You certainly can use it.”

  Sylvia threw up her hands. “Fine. Quick, then, fold up these chairs so there’s room for the reception.” Turning back to the table, she added, “But leave a few in place.”

  “Of course. Done.” Lily said. To Spender, she whispered, “Thank you!”

  Moving through the aisles, she folded the small wooden chairs and stacked them against the wall in the tiny alcove at the back of the shop. The room was dark, unused bookshelves towering in the small space. She made out a cot and small sink. But there was no time to dawdle, for now Sylvia was calling her to help serve the guests. In that way Lily became the unofficial, and unqualified, bartender. Sylvia was serving cheap white wine from unmarked bottles and small bowls of nuts. Clusters of French men lingered nearby, discussing the authors and their own publishing efforts.

  Lily greeted and served Paris’s literati, filling the tiny glasses and passing them out as fast as she could. She knew she was among some of the great modern writers but luckily did not recognize them by sight. If she knew exactly who they were, she might be too tongue-tied to even smile. Flushed with activity, she had just replenished the wine from a wooden crate in the back when she turned and found herself facing the woman from the plane.

  “A glass of wine, please.” The woman spoke as if she had never met Lily.

  “Hello again,” Lily replied. The woman cast a bored glance around the room.

  “Don’t I know you?” Lily pressed. “I mean . . .” She lowered her voice and leaned across the table, handing the woman her wine. “Didn’t we sit next to each other on the plane?”

  The woman pulled back, taking her wine to her lips before responding. The din of the crowd rose.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” She made as if to move away.

  “Wait!” Lily threw her arm out to stop her. “I need to talk to you.”

  But the woman slipped into the crowd, the little face of the fox on her stole the last thing Lily saw before she lost sight of her. “But, but—” Lily sputtered, trapped at the table, able only to watch the party from the sidelines.

  A man came over for a drink. It was the woman’s companion. Up close, he was familiar to Lily, but she wasn’t sure how.

  “Hello there,” he smiled. He was tall and much older than she had thought. He had dark green eyes and a saucy expression.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Harold Pindale.”

  He presented his hand. Lily took it and he flipped his wrist and hovered his lips over her hand. He leaned forward, giving her a faux seductive look. His mustache tickled her hand as he brought his lips to it and planted a firm but delicate kiss on her hand.

  “I see you’ve found the only girl in Paris who doesn’t know your tricks,” a woman’s voice interrupted. She had returned without Lily noticing. Lily tried to pull her hand away but Harold held on.

  “Oh, no, my dear,” he said. “This is a new friend. This is—”

  “Lily.” She yanked her hand away. “And you?” she asked, turning to the woman.

  Her eyes, small like a cat’s, narrowed. “Louise,” she replied.

  “Didn’t we meet on the trip over?” Lily insisted.

  “I don’t think so. Harold, let’s go.”

  They moved toward Hemingway, who was recounting a story to Janet Flanner and her companion. The young woman leaned close to Hemingway, and when they laughed together it was clear they’d already done a lot of laughing already. Spender spoke with a French man nearby clutching a book to his chest. The rest of the audience had left and only a few remained, saying good-byes to Sylvia at the door.

  Confused by the brush-off, Lily considered following Louise. She was certain it was the woman from the plane, and she couldn’t lose her only lead. Now, Louise and Spender were engrossed in conversation. Lily abandoned the drinks table and hovered near the group that formed around Sylvia. The woman who’d arrived in the limo mentioned wanting to do a reading of her own poetry at the shop. Sylvia nodded politely and caught Lily’s eye.

  Sylvia excused herself from the conversation. She grasped Lily’s elbow and steered her away from the group. “Thank God,” she muttered. Lily was pleased to be singled out. “Miss Rubenstein can be quite persistent.”

  Lily laughed. That was Helena Rubenstein? Lily shook herself. She couldn’t get distracted by celebrities. Sylvia and Lily stopped by the front desk.

  “Thank you for your help. I hate to say you were right, but I will. It was useful to have you here.”

  “But it’s a pleasure to help you. It’s easy,” Lily said.

  “I’d like to talk to you. I have an idea. How long will you be in Paris?”

  Lily didn’t know how to answer. “I’m here . . . indefinite
ly,” she said.

  Sylvia asked if Lily could come by the next day, mentioning a proposition. Lily couldn’t believe it. Her usefulness had paid off. Sylvia wanted to offer her something—maybe a job. Lily nodded eagerly. They arranged to meet and Sylvia returned to her guests. Lily watched the bookseller hug a flushed Hemingway. Lily wanted to talk to the famous author, but she needed to stick with Louise. She searched the room, but Louise must have left while she was talking to Sylvia. She had lost her chance. Lily grabbed her bag from where she had tucked it behind the maga-zine racks and rushed out. Outside, most of the people from the reading had dispersed. Across the street, a woman entered a cab. When she turned her head toward the driver, Lily saw that it was Louise. She leaped forward, but the cab driver gunned away. Lily swore under her breath, distraught to have lost her. Shivering, she wondered if she should go back inside to help Sylvia break down the party. Just then, Paul stepped from the shadows across the street.

  “Lily! There you are!”

  She’d completely forgotten that Paul had planned to pick her up from the reading. A flush of relief passed through her. Paul looked so much younger than the people at the reading, and for all their erudition and savvy, she was more comfortable with him. They strolled back to the hotel and Lily recounted the highlights: fetching Hemingway, seeing Janet Flanner, and finally, having a meeting with Sylvia. He listened and seemed happy for her successes. At the hotel, they went through the now-familiar ritual. He handed her the keys and went back to the desk while she ascended to the room she now considered comforting.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Lily hurried through an overcast Paris toward Shakespeare and Company. The façade, the door, and the scent of the shop were all becoming familiar. She hurried in, excited to see Sylvia. Inside the shop, a woman in a gold tweed jacket spoke with Sylvia near her desk. Holding a stack of books, Sylvia greeted Lily, asking her to wait. Teddy thrust his nose into Lily’s hand and leaned against her leg, his paw pressing into Lily’s foot. Smiling, she patted his side. This somehow helped her breathe easier.