Chasing Sylvia Beach

by Cynthia Morris

  “Well, then,” Sylvia said.

  “Good luck. Thanks for the book. It’s awfully generous of you.”

  Sylvia waved her hand. “Good-bye, then. Bon voyage.”

  No embrace, no handshake. Sylvia held the door open and Lily stepped out into the evening shadows. Then Sylvia shut the door, pausing for just a second, and turned the sign to Closed. Teddy stood at her side, his tongue hanging out, his eyes focused on Lily.

  Lily crossed the street to join Louise, whose cigarette punctuated the dusk with a red dot. Lily turned back for one last wave but Sylvia had already shut off the light. The shop was dark and Lily didn’t see any movement inside. Her throat clenched up and she hurried away.

  It was perhaps the last time she would see Sylvia alive. In this short week, Lily had only begun to understand the real Sylvia. Still, she knew more now than from her bookish pursuit. Lily knew that under Sylvia’s tough demeanor was a beautiful, generous soul who gave more than she took. She knew that Sylvia’s selflessness cost her more than she let on. Lost in her thoughts, Lily numbly accompanied Louise down the street.

  At the carrefour, the squealing of brakes brought her to attention. Karl and Heinrich leaped from a car a few feet away. Karl wore a look that did not bode well. Heinrich, behind him, frowned. They started toward Lily but Louise grabbed her arm and shouted, “Come!”

  Lily was tugged along, her feet stumbling as she ran to keep up with Louise. She heard the men’s footsteps behind her. Louise darted into a side road, right in front of a car zooming toward them. It jerked to a stop and the driver shouted, “Get in!”

  It was Harold. Louise leapt in the back and held the door open. Lily dove in, too. Louise shouted, “Go! Go! Go!” and Harold gunned it. The door slammed shut. Lily sat up to see Karl running alongside, trying desperately to grab the door. Harold accelerated, but Karl could not hold on. He fell and rolled on the pavement. Heinrich bent down to check on him. Harold took a sharp, fast turn onto the boulevard, and Lily thought that two tires lifted for a second before the car righted itself and zoomed away.

  Louise turned worried eyes to her.

  “You okay, Lily?”

  “Are you kidding?” Lily gasped, unable to say more, her heart beating, panic flooding her body. She leaned back against the seat, trying to catch her breath and calm her shaking. The car turned quickly onto a side street, then another, and yet another. Then it slowed and cruised along the embankment.

  “Well done! You’re safe,” Harold said, smiling at her in the rearview mirror. Lily couldn’t help but smile back, a nervous, excited laugh bubbling up. They drove along the quay and soon Lily calmed down. Louise lit a cigarette and Lily asked the question that had been bothering her ever since their meeting at Diana’s lair.

  “Are you really my aunt or was that another of your ruses?”

  Louise regarded Lily. “Can we call a truce? Can you forgive me for bringing you here? Can you honestly tell me it was so bad?”

  “If you answer my question.”

  Louise bent her head slightly. Lily stared at her, taking in her dark hair, her profile. And she saw her mother, bent at her garden: the same jaw, the same nose. The same aloof demeanor. She fell back, incredulous. Louise avoided the question.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to join us? You are more capable than you think.”

  Lily watched the buildings as the car rolled along the river. She wasn’t sure of anything. She didn’t like how she’d been manipulated. But if she were part of the group, maybe she’d be in on the decisions. She considered her apartment in Denver. The thought of never seeing it, or Valerie, or Daniel, or her father, no longer provoked a reaction in her. If she were a member of the Athenaeum Neuf, she could perhaps see Sylvia and Paul again. It was certainly more interesting than her life in Denver. And an interesting life made for interesting writing. She couldn’t deny she had written more since she’d been here than she ever had at home. And she could always quit when she wanted, like Harold did.

  “I don’t know, Louise. All I know is I don’t want a small life. This might be a chance to do some good for books.”

  Louise tilted her head in surprise. “You’re reconsidering?” She clapped her gloved hands in delight. Again, Lily was surprised to see Louise express such happiness over her. She nodded, wondering if she should take more time to make such a big decision. But she had gotten into this situation without any decision at all, and maybe this was the opportunity to live an interesting life befitting a writer even she couldn’t dream up.

  “I’ll do it,” she said.

  Louise grinned, reaching out to squeeze Lily’s arm. “I’m so pleased you’ve changed your mind. You’ll love being part of our little group.” She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray in the door, then opened her purse and handed Lily a card. In an elaborate script, Lily read Louise’s name and phone number and almost cried out. The last name was Abbott, her mother’s maiden name. Lily gaped at Louise.

  “You really are my aunt.”

  Louise touched Lily’s cheek with a gloved hand. “Maybe you will be able to trust me now. I’m so glad we’ll have this time together.”

  Lily could only nod, unable to imagine any future scenarios. For once, the present was enough.

  The car drove across the Pont Neuf, and Lily sighed. The open space offered by the river made her love Paris every time she saw it. The car turned left on rue de Rivoli and after a minute pulled up in front of the Palais Royal metro station. Louise stepped out and gestured for Lily to follow. They stood in front of the Guimard entry, its curved green arches providing a graceful entrance to the subway. The women paused and Lily took a second to savor the rush of Paris around her: the grumble of traffic on the boulevard, bikes zooming past gracefully, the scent of cigarettes and perfume. She closed her eyes to hold it in her mind forever.

  “Come now, Lily, we need to go now.”

  “Go where?”

  “We’ll take the train to our next mission. Let’s go.”

  Lily gulped. It was all happening so fast. She watched Louise descend the stairs to the metro. I can just vanish if I want, Lily reminded herself. I’ve proven I can make my own way. I don’t need the Athenaeum Neuf to live a big life. She took one last look at Paris, 1937, then followed Louise. The further they penetrated the underground system, the fewer people they passed.

  After walking in silence for several minutes, Louise finally turned into a deserted, dark tunnel. They descended a short flight of stairs. A train waited, the platform empty. At the open door of the nearest car, Louise gestured her in with a smile. Lily clutched her bag, Ulysses heavy inside. Her notebook was in there, too. She hoped to make some notes quickly while it was all still fresh. The women took seats in the empty car. The train started up with a lurch and slowly creaked away, its wheels squealing. Lily closed her eyes and whispered, “Good-bye, Sylvia.”

  fin

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Infinite gratitude to the brilliant people who cared about this novel and offered their help and support: David Hicks, Djellel Dida, Jody Berman, Valarie Abney, Gigia Kolouch, Carl Fuermann, Corinne Brown, Dorothy Williams, Niels Schonbeck, Heather Neher, Rosemary Carstens, Aevea, AJ Moses, Melanie Mulhall, Heather Stimmler-Hall, Cameron Kruger, John Talbot, Alyson Stanfield, Dan Blank, Charlie Gilkey, Rich Wagner, my Boulder book club. Thanks to all my writing friends who helped me write the best book I could.

  Thank you to Ian Shimkoviak and Alan Hebel of theBookDesigners for making this a beautiful book.

  Thank you to the Alliance Française de Denver for the cultural and artistic grant that allowed me to do research in Sylvia’s archives. Thank you to the Princeton University Library Special Collections staff for your help. Thanks to La Muse writing retreat and my writing friends there.

  Special thanks to Noel Riley Fitch, whose book Sylvia Beach and
the Lost Generation: Literary Paris in the Twenties and Thirties introduced me to Sylvia Beach so many years ago.

  Thank you to my parents and family who have always unconditionally supported my unconventional path.

  Much thanks to my Original Impulse community, whose belief in this book and me made it happen

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  These were the main books I turned to for research on this time and place.

  Beach, Sylvia. Shakespeare and Company. New York: Harcourt Brace and Company, 1959.

  Benstock, Shari. Women of the Left Bank. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1986.

  Fitch, Noel Riley. Sylvia Beach and the Lost Generation: A History of Literary Paris in the Twenties and Thirties. New York and London: W. W. Norton & Company, 1983.

  Flanner, Janet. Paris Was Yesterday, 1925–1939. New York and London: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1988.

  Hemingway, Ernest. A Moveable Feast. New York: Bantam Books, 1965.

  MacDougall, Richard, translator. The Very Rich Hours of Adrienne Monnier. Winnipeg, MB: Bison Books, 1996.

  Weiss, Andrea. Paris Was a Woman. San Francisco:Harper, 1995.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Cynthia Morris has been in love with Paris for as long as she can remember. Her literary heroine Sylvia Beach provided inspiration to dare a life of creative adventure. Cynthia is the author of Create Your Writer’s Life: A Guide to Writing with Joy and Ease. She coaches writers and artists from Denver and visits France annually.