Moonlight Over Paris

by Jennifer Robson

  “Hello,” said the woman at Helena’s left. “I’m Hadley Hemingway.” She had an American accent and was very pretty, with hair the color of a new penny and a wide, ready smile.

  “How do you do? I’m Helena Parr.”

  “Are you here with your husband?”

  “Oh, no. He’s a friend. I mean, I’m here with my friend. Sam Howard. Do you know him?”

  “I do,” she said, her expression brightening. “He and my husband are friends.”

  “Is your husband at the Tribune as well?”

  “No. He was with a Canadian newspaper, but he’s given that up so he can work on his novel.”

  “Do you write, too?” Helena asked.

  The question seemed to take Mrs. Hemingway by surprise. “Me? Oh, no. I’m not a writer. I—we—have a little boy. John, but we call him Bumby. He’s just over a year old. Taking care of him and Ernest fills my days nicely.”

  “I’m sure it does,” said Helena.

  “Are you visiting France, or do you live here?”

  “I’m living with my aunt while I go to art school, so a bit of both, I suppose?”

  “And how do you know Sam?” Mrs. Hemingway asked.

  “Through mutual friends. Sara and Gerald Murphy.”

  The mere mention of Sara’s name prompted a broad smile from Mrs. Hemingway. “We’re friends with them, too. I’m surprised you and I haven’t met before now. Isn’t Sara the nicest person?”

  “She is,” Helena agreed. “She has, well, I suppose I’d call it a knack for friendship. She and Gerald both. And I—”

  “Are you enjoying your tisane, Miss Parr?” It was Miss Toklas, her raised voice instantly stifling the surrounding conversations.

  “I am, Miss Toklas. And the pastries, too. They are delicious.”

  Her hostess smiled thinly at the compliment but made no attempt to continue their conversation; in any event the table was a long one, and a sustained discussion would have been impractical. It was rather a relief to be seated so far away from Miss Toklas, for her downturned mouth, pinched expression, and sharp, knowing eyes were unsettling, though not precisely malign. Perhaps she was shy, or unhappy at having to entertain strangers. Perhaps she would have preferred to sit in the salon with Miss Stein and the men.

  Helena was about to resume her conversation with Mrs. Hemingway when a knock sounded at the kitchen door. It was Sam.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Miss Toklas, but I’m taking Miss Parr away now.”

  “Leaving so soon?” she replied, as unblinking as an owl.

  “Sorry. I have to head over to the paper. I didn’t want to interrupt Miss Stein—will you pass on my regards?”

  Helena whispered her thanks, said good-bye to Mrs. Hemingway, and made her exit with alacrity, although she did draw out the process of putting on her coat and hat so as to have a few more moments to admire Miss Stein’s paintings.

  “Was it worth it?” Sam asked as soon as they were back on the street.

  “It was, if only to see all those paintings.”

  “I wasn’t lying. I do need to stop by the paper. Do you want me to drop you off at home, or would you like to come along?”

  “I’d love to see where you work, but I don’t want to get in the way. Not if you have work to do.”

  “I don’t. I’m waiting for a cable from the States, that’s all. And it’ll be a far sight less exciting than Miss Stein’s. Just a roomful of sad-faced hacks and their typewriters.”

  They found a taxi on the rue de Vaugirard, and only after Sam had given the driver the address did Helena realize she’d no notion of where they were going. “Where is your office?”

  “In the ninth, not far from the Opéra.”

  “I don’t know why, but I’d assumed it was on the Left Bank. I hadn’t realized it was so far from where you live.”

  “It’s only a couple of miles. Takes no time at all to walk. Better than being cooped up on the Métro or a tram.”

  “I suppose. Before I forget—who was that young man who shook my hand? Tall, quite young, with a mustache?”

  “That’s Hemingway. He used to write for a Canadian paper, but I think he’s working on a novel now. At least he says he is. Just had some short stories published.”

  “I sat next to his wife in the kitchen. She was very friendly.”

  “Everyone loves Hadley.”

  “Have you read any of his stories?”

  “Only the one so far. I liked his writing but not the story—does that make sense? Miss Stein likes him, though.”

  “What about your writing?” she asked. “Are you still sure you don’t have a novel in you? I remember our conversation, you know. On the beach that day.”

  “Sure I’m sure. I know because of men like Hemingway. I look at him and I can tell he has a fire inside—I can see it, and so can everyone else. I’m a better journalist than he’ll ever be, but I’ll never write like he does. It’s the truth, plain and simple.”

  “Don’t you wish you could?”

  “Not really. We can’t all be Shakespeare. Although . . .” His words trailed away, as if he were hesitant to hear them aloud. “I’ve thought about trying for a dayside job. Working as a correspondent for one of the big American or British papers.”

  “Is that what interests you?” she asked, truly curious. “Foreign affairs and politics and peace treaties?”

  “Of course it does. It should interest all of us. Fascism is on the rise across Europe—just look at what’s happening in Italy with that clown Mussolini. Germany has been beggared by war reparations, and if history has taught us anything it’s that desperate times breed desperate men. Where do you honestly think Europe will be in twenty years?”

  “I hadn’t, ah—”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to lecture you.”

  “You didn’t, and if I’ve learned anything in the past few months it’s because of your articles. Have you inquired after any positions?”

  He shook his head. “I want to, but it isn’t that simple. I—”

  The taxi pulled to a stop just then, and by the time he’d paid and helped her out of the car the moment was lost. She would have to ask him again, and perhaps even press him on the subject if he proved reticent.

  Sam led them to a modest entrance at the corner. “Most of the building is taken up by Le Petit Journal,” he explained. “They get the grand entrance on La Fayette and we use the tradesmen’s stairs out back. Watch your step—there’s hardly any light in the foyer.”

  The newsroom was on the third floor, behind a door marked “Archives,” and was surprisingly quiet. She’d expected to see people rushing about and perhaps shouting at one another, but only four men sat at the central bank of desks, and the arrhythmic click-clack of their typewriters was the loudest noise in the room. The air was blue with smoke, with most desks anchored by an overflowing ashtray at one corner, and one of the men had an open bottle of Scotch whisky at his elbow.

  “Look lively,” Sam said to the men at the desks. “I’ve brought a lady in for a visit.”

  They smiled at her, every last man looking as if he’d just rolled out of bed and onto his desk chair, and one by one they came forward or reached across their desks to shake her hand.

  “Gentlemen, this is Miss Helena Parr. Helena, these are my fellow deskmen. Fraser, Blochman—you’ve met them before—and here’s Small and Calmer. Where’s Paul?” he asked of no one in particular.

  Blochman answered with a roll of his eyes. “He was howling at the moon earlier. Last I saw he was sleeping it off in a booth at Gillotte’s. It’s a quiet night, though. We’ll be all right.”

  “Planning on joining us there later?” asked Fraser.

  “Not tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow. Just came in to fetch that cable. You remember the one I was talking about?”

  “It’s probably on Darragh’s desk. Nice meeting you, Miss Parr.”

  Helena followed Sam to a fantastically messy desk at the far end of the room and stood by as
he rifled through a towering stack of paper. Not far from the desk was a round table heaped with newspapers, all much fatter than the slim, eight-page European edition. She wandered over, curious, and saw they were day- and week-old copies of Paris and London papers.

  “Keeping an eye on the competition?” she asked.

  “Borrowing from them, more like it. Only our front page is written in-house. The rest is rewrite and filler. Mainly from the Paris papers, but we plug the gaps with whatever comes in from London and New York. Here—let me show you something.”

  He pulled a cable form from a wire basket and handed it to her. She read it, her incomprehension growing with each puzzling word.

  GENLPLUTARCO ELIAS CALLES OATHTOOK OFFICE PRESIDENT SMORNING ADNATL STADIUM MEXCITY STOP PRES CHEERED PAROMNI GLADSOME CROWDS COLORFUL CEREMONY ATTENDED AILINGGOMPERS ETAMERICAN REPSLABOR STOP ELN PRESCALLES SECURED CUMSUPPORT LATAMUNIONS FUT DTF UNRATIFIED YESTERYEAR BUCARELI TRTY STOP

  “What on earth is this?”

  “A cable from New York. They cost a bomb to send, so we’ve developed a sort of language to shorten them. ‘Cablese,’ we call it. Do you want me to translate?”

  “Yes, please. It can’t be in English.”

  “It is, after a fashion. Let’s see . . .

  “‘General Plutarco Elias Calles took the oath of office and was sworn in as president this morning at the National Stadium in Mexico City. Thousands of onlookers cheered the president in a colorful ceremony that was also attended by an ailing Samuel Gompers and American labor representatives. The election of President Calles, which was secured with the support of Latin American trade unions, has put the future of the as-yet unratified year-old Bucareli Treaty in doubt.’

  “That’s the gist of it. Could use a bit more color—some background on Calles, Gompers, the treaty. But it’s mainly there.”

  “So you take cables like these and translate them, and then you turn them into a story?”

  “There’s an art to it. This cable is pretty informative, but sometimes they’re only five or six words long. Try spinning that into five hundred words.”

  “I see you what you mean. I—”

  “Found it.” He pulled a page from the pile and pocketed it swiftly. “A cable from home. From my parents. Nothing serious, though.”

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  “We’re done here. How about I see you home?”

  They said good night to the deskmen and, after a few minutes’ wait in the cold, found a taxi on La Fayette. When Sam got in as well, she realized he meant to accompany her and also pay for the taxi, the third they’d taken that night.

  “Sam, don’t. It’s too expensive. I can pay.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m flush tonight. Got paid yesterday.”

  The taxi was an old one, its backseat terribly cramped, and rather than fight to maintain her distance she let her head fall against his shoulder, softly, easily, as if she had a right to be so near to him. He was her friend, just as Mathilde and Daisy and Étienne were her friends, and it would be utterly foolish to think of him as anything else. As anything more. So why had her heart begun to flutter in her chest, and why were her palms faintly damp beneath her gloves?

  “Seeing your office was terribly interesting,” she said after a while. “It was nothing like what I’d imagined.”

  “That boring, huh?”

  “Not at all. I’d had it in my head that it would be loud, and rather disorganized, and people would be running around shouting at one another.”

  “At some of the big papers it’s like that, but we’re small potatoes. No point shouting when it’s only the half dozen of us sitting around.”

  “I think you ought to write as many pieces as they’ll let you,” she said. “I think you’re a fine writer.”

  “I am? How can you say that?”

  “I buy the paper every day. I’ve seen your, ah . . . your byline? Is that the word? I’ve seen it nearly every week. You may not wish to admit it, but you and I both know there’s a lot more to you than rewrites and translations of cablese.”

  The taxi stopped; they’d arrived at her aunt’s.

  “Thank you for today, and for dinner, and for Miss Stein’s. And most of all for showing me the newsroom.”

  “You’re welcome, Ellie. I—”

  “Sweet dreams. I’ll see you next Saturday.”

  Chapter 18

  “Dépêche-toi, Hélène! We were meant to be downstairs ten minutes ago.”

  Helena stepped back from the pier glass in her dressing room and cast a final, critical eye over her appearance. Her Vionnet frock was enchanting, like so much golden spun sugar, and it fit her so perfectly that it was all but weightless.

  When it had been delivered, the afternoon before, its box had also contained a gift: someone, likely one of the seamstresses, had fashioned a bandeau for her hair from the same gold charmeuse fabric as the frock, and finished it with a posy of lace flowers that echoed the gown’s metallic trim. It looked wonderful, far better than the simple diamanté clip she’d been planning to wear, and was so decorative that she decided against wearing any jewelry.

  In deference to the occasion she’d applied, with advice and assistance from Mathilde, some rouge on her cheeks and lips, a sweep of cake mascara to darken her pale lashes, and just enough powder to blot the shine from her nose. Her mother would have swooned at the sight but Helena liked the way she looked—modern, confident, and striking.

  Preparations for the party had begun before dawn, but when Helena had offered to help—it was a vague offer, as she hadn’t the practical skills to help with anything important—Agnes had laughed and sent her off to the studio for the day. At the end of the afternoon Mathilde and Étienne had come home with her and, banished from the lower floors, the three of them had sought sanctuary in Helena’s bedchamber.

  Daisy had arrived at half-past seven, a good hour before the party was set to begin, and although her frock was not to Helena’s own taste—it was an elaborate confection of pink chiffon that rather overwhelmed her friend’s delicate prettiness—her excitement was so infectious that she soon had the four of them seized with giddy anticipation.

  “You’ve no idea how long it’s been since I had an evening out like this,” she’d said with a happy sigh. “Daddy insists on living so quietly, and we hardly ever entertain. So this is just wonderful.”

  When it was time to change into their evening clothes, Helena had sent Étienne and Mathilde off to two of the spare bedrooms, but both had returned at lightning speed while she was still buttoning the straps on her shoes.

  It wasn’t fair to keep them and Daisy waiting, though, so with a last look at her transformed self, she gathered up her gloves and joined them in the corridor.

  “What do you think?” she asked, suddenly nervous. “Will I do?”

  “I have only one word,” said Étienne. “Ravissante. All three of you are perfection.”

  Mathilde had borrowed Helena’s turquoise and gold frock, which suited her very well; Étienne, who didn’t own a dinner jacket, wore his usual dark suit, albeit with a freshly laundered shirt. His necktie was a startling shade of purple, however, which might not have passed inspection at the Élysée Palace but wouldn’t be out of place among the rather bohemian crowd already gathered downstairs.

  “Shall we go?” Helena suggested. “From the sounds of it most of the guests have landed already.”

  It was a relief to enter the grand salon and have her friends—her allies—at her side. In the five years since the end of her engagement, she’d spent far too many evenings standing alone in corners, or trailing after her mother or siblings. This was a very different gathering, of course; although she didn’t know her aunt’s friends especially well, she was confident no one would deliberately shun her or whisper gleeful insults behind her back. And if they did? She would laugh in their face, and toast her newfound courage with her friends at her side.

  The house’s reception rooms had bee
n transformed, their furniture rearranged against the walls so guests might stand and circulate freely. On every table and mantel there were huge arrangements of orchids, lilies, and tuberose, and though the flowers were very pretty their scent, in the rising warmth of the rooms, was quite overpowering.

  All told, there were thirty invited guests at dinner that evening. As Helena led her friends from room to room, she made introductions and, if guests were already engaged in conversation, supplied their names sotto voce to her friends.

  She introduced them to Natalie Barney and Lily Gramont, then to Djuna Barnes and Thelma Wood; others received a smile and wave as they passed by. “That’s Mina Loy, just there, and Nancy Cunard . . . and Peggy Guggenheim is standing at the doorway. And there’s Romaine Brooks, the painter; you’ll have heard of her, I think. She’s the one wearing a man’s frock coat.”

  “Who is that very handsome young man by the window?” Étienne asked. “Fair, not too tall, standing with the dark-haired girl.”

  Helena stood on tiptoe; it was difficult to see, as there was rather a crush of people in the library now. “Oh, that’s George Antheil and his—I suppose she’s his girlfriend. He’s a composer, and quite a radical one, from what I’ve heard. They live above Shakespeare and Company, the English bookstore on the rue de l’Odéon.”

  “Where is Sam?” Daisy asked. “I thought you said he would be here.”

  “He will. He was working earlier and thought he might be a bit late. But he’ll be here.”

  Sara and Gerald were there, too, and though they had been at their house in St.-Cloud for some weeks it was the first time she’d seen them since the summer.

  “When are you going to visit us?” Sara asked. “You must all come out and have lunch one day. The children are forever asking when their Ellie is going to visit.”

  “We will, I promise. Let me finish showing my friends around, and then we’ll talk some more.”