I set off for Bloomingdale’s and my first day in the warehouse. I was prepared for a stark contrast to my working life in Paris, knew that this wouldn’t be something I could smile my way through. I left Agnes in our little room with nothing but a handful of orders to keep her company: Don’t leave the room, don’t open the door, don’t talk to anyone.
There was noise everywhere. And unfamiliar words. People shouted, cars sounded their horns. Many more cars than in Paris. As I walked the few blocks to the warehouse, steam rose from the grates on the streets. I skirted them, not daring to walk over.
The manager who welcomed me spoke quickly. He pointed, gestured, nodded, smiled, talked again. And frowned when he eventually realized that I hadn’t understood. His pronunciation was a long way from Elaine’s clear articulation. Lacking the ability to speak lands you at the very bottom of the hierarchy, and that was where I found myself that day. I apologized for my ignorance by lowering my head.
I had been strong and hopeful before my first shift, but as the days passed, my feet grew heavier and the ache in my shoulders from all the lifting became worse. I was allowed to continue for a few more days, but then the manager shook his head and handed me my wages in cash. There had been too many issues with language; I didn’t carry out my tasks properly. I argued, but he just shook his head and pointed to the door.
What were we going to do now? We had only two nights left at the hotel. During my walk back, I became increasingly confused, increasingly full of worry. Where would we live, how would we manage to make a life for ourselves in this new country?
I recognized the messy brown hair from a distance. I stopped and stared, letting people pass. Although he had seen me, he too remained completely still. The bond between us was like a magnet pulling me toward him. When he got up from the steps outside the hotel, I started to run. I threw myself into his arms and cried like an abandoned child. He reciprocated my embrace and kissed away my tears. But that intense feeling of joy quickly turned to anger, and I started to beat his chest with my fists.
“Where have you been? Why did you leave me? Why did you leave?”
He stopped me by taking a firm grip of my wrists.
“Calm down”—his French was like music to my ears—“calm down, ma chérie. My mother was ill, as I wrote.” He whispered into my hair. “I had to be by her side. I wrote that letter to you the minute I got back. Why did you take so long?”
His arms were tight around me.
“I’m sorry. Oh, I’m so sorry, Allan . . . darling . . . I only recently received your letter. I came straightaway.”
He stroked my head. I buried my face in his jacket, breathed in the scent of him. It was just like I remembered. So many memories. So much comfort.
He wasn’t dressed the way I was used to seeing him dress. His pinstriped suit was double-breasted, and it fit him properly. Not at all like it was in Paris. I ran my hand over his jacket.
“Take me up to your room,” he whispered.
“I can’t, my sister is with me. She came to live with me in Paris after you left, and she’s up there now.”
“We’ll get another room. Come on!”
He took my hand and pulled me inside. The receptionist recognized me and nodded, listened attentively as Allan spoke. He was handed a key and we tumbled into the elevator. As the doors closed, he took my head in his warm hands and our lips met. It was one of those kisses that make time come to a standstill. I haven’t experienced many of them in my life. When we reached the room, he carried me to the bed, slowly lowered himself on top of me, and pressed his body against mine. Unbuttoned my blouse and gently caressed my bare skin, kissed me. We made love, and it felt like we had become one.
Afterward, we lay quietly, breathing in sync. We were so close. Even now, my heart beats more quickly when I think about that moment, how it felt. How happy I was when I fell asleep in his arms.
When I woke, it was night. He was awake beside me, his hands behind his head. I shuffled closer and lay my head on his chest.
“I’m leaving for Europe tomorrow morning,” he whispered, slowly stroking my back, tenderly kissing my forehead.
I turned on the bedside lamp and met his gaze.
“Sorry, what did you say? Europe? But you can’t, the continent is at war. Didn’t you know?”
“It’s because of the war that I’m going back. I’m a French citizen; it’s my duty to be there. My mother was French, and I was born in France; it’s where my roots are. I can’t betray my family, my blood. They’re counting on me.”
He stared gloomily at the wall. The intense gaze I was used to had dimmed, and now all I could see was sorrow. I whispered the words.
“But I love you.”
He sighed deeply and sat up on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. I crept up behind him and kissed his neck. Wrapped my legs around his hips.
“You’re going to have to cope without me, Doris. When I come back, I’ll still be married.”
I leaned my face against his back. Kissed his warm skin. “But I love you, don’t you hear me? I came over here for you. I would have come sooner, but your letter arrived too late. I thought it was the war that made you write. Agnes and I came as soon as we could.”
He pulled himself free from my embrace, got up, and started to button his shirt. I reached for him and asked him to come back. He bent down and kissed me, and I saw his eyes brim. Then he let go and pulled on the rest of his clothes.
“You’ll always be in my heart, my darling Doris. I wish I had written again when I didn’t hear from you, but I thought you didn’t want me.”
I got up from the bed, tried to hold him there. I was completely naked, and I remember that he first kissed one of my breasts, then the other, before abruptly turning away. From his wallet, he pulled out a wad of bills. I shook my head at him, appalled.
“Are you crazy? I don’t want your money. I want you!”
“Take the money, you’re going to need it. Besides, I have it to give—I know I looked like a bum in France, but my family, well, my family has money to spare.” His voice sounded firm, but I could hear him fighting back the tears.
Now I understood the fancy suit, the ability to pay for the room. “When do you have to go?”
“Now. I have to leave. Take care, my darling. My most beautiful rose. Never let life or circumstances get you down. You’re strong. Stand tall, be proud.”
“We’ll see each other again, won’t we? Please, tell me I’ll see you soon.”
He didn’t answer my question, and I have always, over all the years that have passed, wondered what he was thinking. How he could manage to be so cold. How he could leave. How his hand managed to close the door.
I was left behind. Sitting on an unmade bed that smelled of sweat and love.
The Red Address Book
J. JENNING, ELAINE
Everyone experiences setbacks in life. They change us. Sometimes we notice; other times they happen without our knowledge. But the pain, that’s there the whole time, piled high in our hearts, like clenched fists ready to break free. In our tears and anger. Or, in the worst cases, in our coldness and introversion.
Even now, every time I see a TV program or hear someone talk about the Second World War, I imagine how he died. I have seen him riddled by bullets, seen his blood spray in every direction and his voice cry out in despair and terror. I have seen him running over fields, fleeing a tank that will eventually mow him down and leave him mutilated, his face pressed into the mud. I have seen him pushed overboard and drowned. Seen him freezing to death, lonely and afraid, at the bottom of a trench. Seen him stabbed in a dark alleyway, discovered by SS soldiers. I know it’s unusual, but the images continue to come to me. I can’t help it. His shadow has followed me through life.
That night is forever etched in my memory.
My love . . . we were meant for each other, and yet we weren’t. That thought still confuses me.
After Allan left, I spent a long time si
tting on the floor, my back against the edge of the bed and his dog-eared dollar bills spread out around me. I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t cry. And I couldn’t bring myself to believe that this had been the last time he would ever hold me in his arms. Eventually, sunlight found its way between the curtains and woke me from my thoughts. I left the scent of Allan, of us, behind a door bearing the number 225 in gold. While he was getting on a boat to Europe, heading toward war, I desperately tried to bury the memory of him in that hotel room.
Agnes shouted at me when I appeared. She was ashen-faced, exhausted from an anxious, sleepless night in a foreign land.
“Where have you been? Answer me! What happened?”
I couldn’t find the words to reply, and she continued to shout. I couldn’t explain what even I found difficult to understand. Instead, I frantically searched our luggage to find the tiny scrap of paper on which Elaine, our friend from the boat, had written her contact details. I threw things everywhere, onto the bed and onto the floor, but though I turned every pocket inside-out and shook everything I owned, I couldn’t locate it.
“What are you looking for? Answer me!” Agnes’s voice was louder now, as though my sense of panic had spread to her. Eventually, she grabbed my arm and forced me to sit on the bed.
“What happened? Where have you been?” she asked gently.
I shook my head, the tears welled up. She sat down and wrapped an arm around me.
“Tell me now, please tell me what happened. You’re making me so worried.”
I turned to look at her, but all I could manage was a single word. His name.
“A . . . Allan . . . Allan.”
“Doris, let him go . . .”
“I was with him. All night, here at the hotel. Forgive me, I didn’t think . . . I forgot . . . but he came to me.”
Agnes’s grip on my arm tightened. My head slumped against her shoulder.
“Where is he now?”
Her sweater against my cheek, wet from my tears.
“He’s gone . . . left me again. He’s going to Europe. To war.”
I sobbed uncontrollably. Agnes held me tight, and neither of us spoke for quite some time. At last I raised my head and met her eye. It calmed me, and I managed to find my voice again.
“This is our last night at the hotel,” I said weakly. “Though we have enough money for a few more nights, we need to find somewhere to live. I had a piece of paper with Elaine’s surname and address, but I can’t find it.”
“I remember it. Her name is Jenning.”
I sat in silence for a moment, trying to bring order to my swirling thoughts.
“Did she say where she lived?”
“No. But her son was a fisherman and lived somewhere on the coast. On a peninsula, I think. She said he lived right at the tip, looking out to sea.”
“My God, that could be anywhere. America is a big country; there must be hundreds of peninsulas! Where is that piece of paper!”
Agnes stared back at me. Neither of us spoke. We rummaged through bags and pockets. Suddenly, my sister exclaimed: “Hold on! When we were saying goodbye to her, she said she was looking forward to being home, that she only had a few hours to go . . . That must mean she lives somewhere close to New York?”
I held my tongue, my head full of worry.
But Agnes didn’t give up. She asked me what the English word for fish was.
I thought back to Elaine pointing to the types of food on the boat.
“Fish.”
Agnes rushed out of the room. A few minutes later, she returned with a map. She eagerly held it out to me. Three locations by the sea were circled.
“Look, it could be here! The receptionist circled a few places, but this is the only one on a peninsula. Which means it’s here, Montauk.”
In that moment, I didn’t have much choice but to listen to my little sister and allow her enthusiasm to drown out my worry. We packed our things, placed our bags by the door, and spent one last night at the hotel. I can still remember the cracks in the ceiling, how my eyes traced their lines as if searching out new routes across a brownish-gray sky. Agnes later told me that she too had not slept. We laughed at the fact that we hadn’t spoken, that we had both tried to lie as still as possible so as not to wake the other. Talking might have made our concerns and loneliness easier to bear.
The skirt I put on the next morning was loose around my waist. I rolled up the bottom of my blouse twice beneath it to try to fill it out, but it didn’t help. It slipped down to my hips all the same. Life in America was taking its toll on me.
We carried the bags together, each gripping one handle on the heavier suitcase. We took turns carrying the other one for short distances. Our hands, arms, and shoulders ached, but what choice did we have? Somehow we made it to the right station. Using the map and Agnes’s sign language, we managed to buy bus tickets to Montauk. We had no idea what we would do if Elaine didn’t live there—we didn’t even dare consider the possibility. As the bus pulled out of the station, we sat in separate seats, up against a window, staring out. Fascinated by the tall buildings we could barely see the tops of, by the streetlights and power lines strung across the roads, by the bustle of the people and cars.
13
The laptop is on her stomach, and it moves with every breath she takes. It has been balanced there all morning. The painkillers are making her sleepy, but she fights to keep her eyes open. If she nods off now, the night will be an anxious one. A Word document takes up most of the screen, though she has left a little space for the Skype window in the top right corner. She is waiting for Jenny, counting down the endless hours that remain of the San Francisco night.
She writes a few words, sorts some memories, wonders whether she has managed to get things in the right order, whether she is repeating something already mentioned in an earlier section. There are so many events to keep track of, so many people, now dead, who meant so much to her. The names in her address book—people who, passing through, made an impression on her—she gives them life again. So few of them lived for as long as she has. A shudder passes through her, and the loneliness of the cold room feels more tangible than ever.
Her breakfast is still on the tray table next to the bed, and she reaches for the half-full glass of the hospital’s brown apple juice. She has taken only a single bite of the cheese sandwich on the plate next to it. The bread tasted of rubber. She still hasn’t gotten used to Swedish bread: it doesn’t crumble, doesn’t crunch, doesn’t taste like bread should. Her tongue feels rough and dry, and she smacks it against the roof of her mouth several times before raising the glass to her lips and letting drops of juice run down her throat. She feels the wave of liquid spreading, quenching her thirst. She greedily takes another sip, then another. She glances at the time. It’s finally almost morning in California, and Jenny and the kids will soon be waking up. They will crowd into the light-green kitchen, wolf down their breakfast, and then rush out to whatever adventures the day has in store. Doris knows that Jenny always connects to Skype when only she and the little one are left at home. Just a few more minutes now.
“Time to get some rest, Doris. You can put the computer down for a while.” The nurse gives her a stern look and closes the lid of the laptop. Doris protests and reopens it.
“No, I can’t. Leave it alone, I’m waiting for someone.” Her fingers brush the Wi-Fi dongle sticking out of a USB port. “It’s important.”
“No, you need to rest. You aren’t getting sleep if you’re always on the computer. And you really do look tired. Your body needs as much rest as possible if you want to get back on your feet. So that you have the energy to start walking again.”
It’s difficult being old and unwell, unable to decide for yourself when you’re rested, tired, or somewhere in between, and what you should or shouldn’t do about it. Doris gives in and lets go of the computer, and the nurse places it on the bedside table. But she says, “Leave it on, with the lid open. So I can see if anyone tries to contact me.�
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“Let’s do that.” The nurse angles the screen toward Doris and then holds out a cup of pills. “Here, you need to take your medicine before you doze off.”
Doris obediently washes them down with the last of her apple juice. “There, happy now?”
“Are you in a lot of pain?” the nurse asks gently.
“It’s fine,” Doris replies, waving her hand in the air. She squints, fights the sedative effect of the medicine.
“Get some sleep now. You need it.”
She nods and lets her head slump to one side, her chin grazing her bony shoulder. Her eyes are fixed on the computer screen, but everything is becoming blurred. She breathes in her own scent. She smells like a hospital. Not like her own washing powder, not like her perfume. Just a faint scent of cheap detergent and sweat. She closes her eyes. The last thing she sees is an orange curtain fluttering.
The Red Address Book
J. JENNING, ELAINE
The rounded window at the back of the bus was almost completely covered by a short curtain made of thick orange fabric. It fluttered back and forth as the bus bounced along the uneven road. I gazed out the window, unable to stop looking at what we were leaving behind. The tall buildings of the Manhattan skyline. The cars. The suburbs and their beautiful houses. The choppy waves. I dozed for a while.
We got off the bus a few hours later, at a stop that was nothing more than a simple sign on the side of a country road and a weather-beaten bench. The air smelled strongly of salt and seaweed, and the wind carried small grains of sand, which stung our cheeks like small, sharp pins. We hunched our shoulders and walked slowly along the deserted road, accompanied by waves crashing on the beach. The wind was so fierce that we had to lean sharply to the right to keep our balance.
The Red Address Book Page 11