by Hazel Gaynor
For once, I had stunned her into silence.
She glared at me for a moment before taking her coat from the stand and striding across the suite. She slammed the door behind her for good measure, sending the Degas tumbling to the floor.
I turned and stared at the empty case on my bed. I’d only just unpacked it and hung everything in the closet with such determination to enjoy myself here. I thought about the inscription on Nellie’s pocket watch: Never turn back. Why should I rush back to America just because my sister could never be happy for me? She was wrong about Charles, and she was also wrong about me. She expected me to flounder and worry. She expected me to fuss and fret and give up easily. So, I would prove her wrong. I would show Madeleine Sommers what I was made of.
I waited awhile to make sure she’d actually gone, then pulled on my gloves, studied the Paris street map on the wall, and set off for Notre-Dame cathedral. I was glad to be on my own, despite the daunting prospect of finding my way around an unfamiliar city.
Using a map as my guide, I walked on, until eventually I turned a corner and the majestic Notre-Dame cathedral filled the skyline. I craned my neck to see the highest point of the two bell towers that flanked the great door, the famous rose window above it. Tiny dogs barked insistently beside me as friends stopped to greet each other with a kiss on each cheek and proceeded to converse in a language so beautiful I could almost paint their words in my mind. I let out a long sigh and felt my shoulders relax. I was in Paris, and I mustn’t let my spiteful sister spoil it.
I found an empty bench and took out my sketchbook and pastels, working quickly to capture the cathedral’s majestic outlines and taking my time on the more intricate details. I turned my attention then to the scene around me: couples holding hands, family and friends flitting around like butterflies, pollinating each other with love and good humor. Hours passed in a happy daydream, marked only by the regular chime of Notre-Dame’s bells.
When hunger began to distract me, I gathered my things and studied my map, tracing narrow streets and bridges with my fingertip to remember my route back to the hotel.
As I set off, buttoning my coat against a light breeze, a gentleman bumped into me.
He apologized with a “Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle!” but as I looked up to acknowledge his apology, I found myself staring at a familiar face.
“Mr. Miller?”
“Miss Sommers! Goodness. What a surprise.”
“It is, indeed.”
“Did you lose your sister already?” he asked with a smile.
“Unfortunately not. We wanted to see different things today.” I closed the last button on my coat. “Your cousin is well, I hope?”
He looked a little confused. “Ah, yes. He’s perfectly well. And the show at the Moulin Rouge was everything you would hope for. Or not. Depending on how easily offended you are I suppose.”
Hadn’t he said his cousin was a woman? Yes, he’d even corrected me when he’d mentioned it during our conversation on the Queen Mary.
I forced a smile. “Well, I must be getting back to the hotel before Madeleine thinks I’ve fallen into the Seine.”
“Of course. Are you staying nearby?”
“In the eighth arrondissement. Not too far. And you?”
“The same. I wonder if . . .”
“Hotel George V?”
He laughed. “Yes! What are the chances! Can I walk you back?”
I politely declined. He might be charming, but his slipup over his cousin bothered me. “I’m happy to walk by myself, thank you. One has to get a little lost, now and again. It is, after all, the best way to explore a new city.”
“It is indeed, which is precisely what I intend to do right now.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and we bid each other farewell. “Send my regards to Madeleine,” he added.
“I will,” I replied, although I wasn’t sure I was even speaking to Madeleine let alone passing on other people’s regards to her, and especially not Mr. Miller’s. He had definitely referred to a female cousin when he’d spoken about it previously. What on earth was he up to?
The late morning sunlight scattered diamonds across the rolling wake on the water as boats slipped beneath the many bridges, and followed the gentle curves of the Seine. I imagined Violet standing here, watching the light in the same way when she was a young woman, her future stretching ahead of her. I wondered if the impact of my time in Europe would be as lasting as it had been for her. Like a fine French perfume, Paris had already settled against my skin.
As the church bells chimed the quarter hour, I turned from the river and made my way back to the hotel, steeling myself to confront Madeleine and her misplaced notions about Charles. I decided I wouldn’t tell her about bumping into Daniel Miller. She’d said he was nothing more than a passing amusement on the Queen Mary, although I didn’t believe for one second she was as unimpressed by him as she claimed.
* * *
MADELEINE HAD RETURNED before me. We studiously ignored each other as I hung up my coat and took off my shoes.
“I thought you were leaving,” she said eventually.
“I thought you should apologize first,” I bit back as I crossed my arms over my chest.
“You’re always telling me I should apologize first. Did it ever occur to you, Clara, that you’re not perfect, either?”
We glared at each other, but there was a hint of a smile at the edge of Madeleine’s mouth, and I felt one pull at my own.
“You are absolutely infuriating,” I huffed as I turned my face away from her, picked up the perfume from Charles, and dabbed it liberally against my wrists and neck. It really did smell dreadful.
Madeleine wafted the air away from her dramatically. “And you’re as stubborn as hell. But if you’re staying then I suppose we should call some sort of truce, for Violet’s sake.”
As she leaned against the window, the light caught her perfectly.
“Don’t move,” I said as I rushed to fetch my sketchbook. “Stay exactly where you are.”
“What for?”
“So I can draw you. The light is exquisite. It makes you look . . .” I fished around for the right word. “It makes you look nice.”
“Nice? Is that all?”
“Nice is a vast improvement on insufferable.”
Madeleine did as I asked, sitting patiently while I captured her on the page, the Arc de Triomphe just visible in the distance. The silence enveloped us as I studied her features, properly considering her for the first time in a year. I detected an air of dissatisfaction in her, a longing for something she couldn’t grasp and which she covered up with her breezy confidence and compulsion to shock and go against expectations.
I tried my best to capture her but I couldn’t get it quite right. I balled up my first attempt before pulling another piece of paper toward me and starting again, and again, but on every blank page I felt the gaping distance between us more keenly, a void filled with too many years of resentment and jealousy.
After an hour she grew bored and fidgety. “Are you ever going to finish? This is unbearable.”
“These things take time,” I said, letting out a frustrated breath. “But I suppose it’ll have to do.”
I closed my sketchbook, the likeness incomplete. Half a sketch. Half a person. Half a sister. Always some part of her I couldn’t fully grasp.
Maddie
The next morning dawned with a sleepy sky, blanketed with clouds. I woke early, dressed, and slipped out of the hotel before Clara had stirred. I’d committed to taking a morning walk of the city each day, determined to enjoy every single moment while in Paris, even if the weather wasn’t the best.
A pervasive damp chilled my skin as I strolled alongside the silvery waters of the Seine. I rubbed the goose bumps from my arms as my thoughts turned to Clara. Our argument the day before had cut me deeply, her words too close to the truth. Poor little Madeleine, always trying to keep up. . . . You make it impossible for people to love you. Maybe I did mak
e it impossible for people to love me, but only because if I let them in they eventually betrayed me. It seemed I was too difficult, that it was too hard for people to understand my brashness and unconventional ways.
I listened to the lonely cry of a mourning dove, its song echoing through the quiet streets. As I walked over a bridge dotted with ornate iron lanterns, I thought about Charles Hancock’s unscrupulous business dealings, and the troubled tenement neighborhoods in lower Manhattan. I’d been disgusted to discover what he was up to, and wondered how many other less-than-ethical dealings he was trying his hand at. I also wondered what Clara would say if she knew. Perhaps it was time to tell her.
On the other side of the bridge, I turned south, past a tabac that sold cigarettes and candies, and newspapers. The headlines that morning were troubling. Chancellor Kurt von Schuschnigg was running Austria more or less like his predecessor, as an autocrat, but he was emphatically anti-Nazi. In fact, he’d staved off more than one coup, or so the article I skimmed seemed to say, yet he was still playing nice with Hitler—and also with Mussolini to the south.
“What a mess,” I murmured to myself, paying the vendor with the correct combination of the little franc coins, and tucking the newspaper under my arm. It all made me anxious. Anxious enough, in fact, that I began to scrutinize faces in the street and couldn’t help but look over my shoulder when a policeman passed or someone acted, to my mind, suspiciously. It was absurd, I knew, but I was beginning to feel a little on edge. Perhaps I shouldn’t read the news for a few days.
I tried to bridle my thoughts and enjoy the rest of my walk.
After warming myself with a chocolat chaud, I took the Métro to Montmartre. Clara had questioned my intentions to go to the seedier side of the city and cautioned me about how unsafe it was for a woman to go alone. Admittedly, Montmartre was run-down and known for its pickpockets, but I wanted to see this village of struggling artists and dance halls for myself. At last, she’d given up, and said she would let me make my own poor choices. She planned to visit the Jardin du Luxembourg that morning to work on a collection of portraits she’d begun of our travels, and which she intended to give to Violet. It was a shame we couldn’t experience more of the city together, that each of us pulled in a different direction, but it wasn’t a surprise. Sharing a hotel suite and eating together was far more than we’d managed in the last twelve months.
When I emerged from the Métro into the daylight, I chose a table on the sidewalk, ordered a café crème and a crêpe au jambon, and watched the colorful Parisians and artists hawking their wares. Everyone was less polished here, humbler, more unique and distinctive than those I’d seen along the Champs-Élysées. As always, I was looking for inspiration, to find something—anything—newsworthy.
After a while, I opened my journal. Sheets of typed pages were stuffed inside, the contents of which I knew by heart: polite rejections from the New York Post, the New York Times, and The New Yorker. Exhaling, I gathered them into a neat stack and thumbed through them once more.
We regret to inform you . . .
Your article isn’t right for our publication.
We aren’t accepting unsolicited articles at this time.
I sighed and read a more encouraging letter from Ladies’ Home Journal.
While this article isn’t right for our publication, we’re currently seeking new writers for our Home Advice column, and would like to extend an invitation to submit your résumé and a sample.
I hadn’t applied. Domestic advice columns weren’t the sort of thing I wanted to write, and though Billy-the-Traitor told me I was foolhardy to turn down work, I couldn’t stand the thought of answering questions about things of which I knew little—motherhood, cookery, linens. Family. I wasn’t qualified for any of it, nor did I want to be.
But a more recent letter from the New York Herald Tribune had given me a real glimmer of hope:
Miss Sommers, you write with authority and a style befitting our publication. Though we aren’t able to place your article at this time, we invite you to submit again. Please direct your inquiries specifically to me, Gerald McDougal, at this address.
I felt a surge of determination every time I read it. I could do this. I would keep trying until I got the yes I was looking for.
There was another letter among the others: Edward’s letter to Clara. I still hadn’t talked to her about it, still hadn’t decided how to get myself out of the awkward situation I’d gotten myself into by taking it in the first place. Not wanting to spoil my morning by worrying about it, I slipped it back inside the journal, and tried to forget about it.
I cut a piece of crepe with my knife and forked a steaming bite into my mouth. I sighed as the melted Gruyère paired perfectly with the cured ham and tangy onion. Even the simplest of foods in Paris were better than any extravagant meal I’d been served back home. I savored every mouthful and silently thanked Violet for sending me to a city that tasted so damn good.
Energized, I strolled through the village past the majestic Sacré-Coeur, down the hill to a row of shops showcasing their wares on rotating racks: scarves in lavender and dove gray, lemon yellow and pale pink, and a collection of change purses printed with images of Marie Antoinette and the Eiffel Tower, and little French phrases I’d learned in school. Vive la France! C’est bon. La Ville Lumières. I continued on, winding through the narrow streets. Notably absent were the elegant boutiques and lace-covered strollers I’d seen on the other side of Paris. Here, beggars squatted on benches or hunched beneath the overhang of a doorway. Women with a cigarette dangling from their lips and in too-high heels rushed to some questionable establishment that looked as if it only came alive at night. The infamous Moulin Rouge appeared empty, at least for now, but I suspected that wouldn’t last for long. I was glad I’d ventured to the part of town Clara considered seedy and dangerous. It had character all of its own.
I stopped to peer over the shoulder of an artist as he worked diligently at his easel. Impressed by his work, I bought a small painting of the Sacré-Coeur for Clara, as a peace offering, and a replica of a Toulouse-Lautrec dancing girl for myself. As I pulled out a crisp bill of twenty francs to pay for my purchases, the artist smiled, revealing a large gap between his two front teeth.
“Merci, mademoiselle.”
As he handed me the change, I said, “Non. C’est pour vous.” I didn’t need the money as much as he did. I returned my change purse to my coat pocket. The artist thanked me several times, and wrapped the portraits in brown paper.
I tucked them under my arm and continued on my way. As I took a left down a narrow side street, someone behind me whistled loudly. I turned to see a man in brown workman’s slacks and boots, and a filthy dark coat. He whistled again and shouted in French, but I didn’t understand him.
I picked up my pace, heading to the end of the street where I knew I could find a taxicab, but as the man called out again I turned, and in that instant, I felt a tug on my pocket. Before I had time to react, another man sprinted away.
“Stop!” I shouted. “That man stole my money!”
A few people glanced in my direction but went about their business, no doubt used to seeing this sort of thing all the time, so I took off to chase the thief myself. He must have watched me buy the paintings and seen me slip my change purse into my pocket. The whistling man was purely a distraction. I cringed at my naivety and continued to chase the thief to the end of the street, but he was too fast. He ducked behind a building, and disappeared.
I gave up, bent over to catch my breath, and then started to laugh. I’d gotten the proper French welcome after all.
* * *
I RETURNED TO the hotel resigned to the loss of the hundred francs I’d foolishly kept in my change purse and made my way to the lounge for a much-needed drink. I knew I shouldn’t sit at the bar if I were any kind of lady, especially in Paris, but I didn’t care. My feet were sore and I wanted a glass of hard liquor, tout de suite.
There was only one oth
er customer at the bar, a man sitting alone. I offered a friendly bonjour as I smiled at him—and did a double take.
“Daniel?” I said, my eyes wide. “What are you doing here?”
“Madeleine!” He stood up from his stool, a broad smile on his face. “I’m staying here, too. Didn’t Clara tell you? We bumped into each other yesterday.”
“No. She didn’t mention it. It must have slipped her mind.” I wondered why she hadn’t told me. “But anyway. What a surprise! Of all the hotels in all of Paris!”
“Well, the George V is the only place to stay, isn’t it?” he replied with a playful wink. “But it’s a happy coincidence.”
“Do you mind if I join you?” I asked. “I could really use a drink.”
“Please,” he said, pulling out a stool beside him. “I could really use the company.”
I set down my purchases on the bar and ordered a brandy.
“Good choice. You look like a woman with Paris running through her veins. France clearly suits you.”
I smiled. “I like it here. I spent most of the day in Montmartre.”
He looked surprised. “Alone? I’ve heard it can be a little rough there.”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” I decided not to bring up the pickpocketing incident, especially if he was crossing paths with Clara. “I passed the Moulin Rouge earlier. Did you see your show there yet?”
He shifted on his stool and took a sip of his drink. “Not yet. That end of Montmartre is the worst. The beggars and nightclubs and all of that.”
I felt myself brighten. “I’d love to go back at night, go to a club. Drink absinthe with the literary set.”
At this, he laughed. “I’d be very happy to accompany you.”
“Clara would be horrified.” I grinned. “Let’s do it!” I took a warming sip of brandy as soon as the bartender placed the glass in front of me.