Crossing on the Paris (18 page)

Vera's fallen face paled as she tried to take in Richter's words. Laszlo had killed himself? She clasped her eyes shut with a groan. What had those letters contained? Aching to flee, to be alone, she made herself return his gaze; she looked into the eyes of Laszlo's son.

“I can't tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Richter,” she said, her voice reedy and odd from the strain of not crying. What could she say to this miserable young man that would ease his pain? She considered a few kind words about his father, but thought that would be in bad taste. Instead, she tried atoning. “I've made many mistakes over the years,” she continued, sliding her long strand of pearls through her hand. “Done reckless things that have undoubtedly hurt other people. I hope one day you will be able to forgive me.”

She rose from the table.

“Again, you have my greatest sympathies,” Vera added, her voice now flat and tired. He finally looked away, suddenly impatient for her to be gone.

She excused herself from the others at the table and left, trying to hold herself straight, to right her posture. In all Vera's years, despite her many antics and exploits, she had never been cast out in society and intended to carry it off with dignity. She felt the heat
from the silent stares at the table behind her, and as she made her way through the room, she met questioning gazes from all the diners she passed.

No matter, she thought, as she smiled politely into those curious faces. Surely they would think a withering old woman incapable of causing scandal. It had all happened so quickly—the first course had not yet arrived—that anyone would assume that the poor dear was merely going to retrieve her dentures, her ear trumpet, or some other necessary apparatus lying forgotten in the cabin. She made it to the corridor before her face cracked.

Her eyes filling with tears, she leaned heavily on her cane and began the slow procession back to her quarters. Vera thought back on her long conversations with Laszlo. She remembered her shock when he told her about his own father, who had corrected his behavior with a horsewhip; her commiseration that last day when he told her about his wretched marriage, forced upon him by family ambitions. Though he was an unhappy man long before she met him, she supposed she was to blame for his suicide. Vera was guilty of exposing him to joy.

She passed through the arcade leading back to the first-class cabins. There, she caught a glimpse of a young couple dancing on the deck. Their sizes were so dramatically different that they looked like an illustration from a children's book, an amusing exaggeration depicting Big and Small. As the waltzing couple swung near, she recognized the girl. She was the member of the service crew she'd seen in the infirmary, the one with the face of a dirtied egg. Their eyes met for a moment and, despite her own sorrow, Vera couldn't help but smile at her. She looked so happy.

“Young lovers,” she sighed to herself, then shivered.

Did love ever end well? She had the sudden urge to warn the girl, to try to protect her from the clutches of a man's affection. As she passed the couple, Vera glanced back and shook her head. What advice could she presume to offer?

She was exhausted when she arrived at her cabin; from the physical exertion of walking down corridors, from not having eaten, but mostly from trying to keep composed. Vera sank down on the bed, letting her cane fall to the floor, and threw her face into her hands. She was still trying to absorb what she'd heard. All these years she'd assumed that Laszlo's letters had stopped coming because he'd finally come to terms with the idea that they couldn't be together. Now, she realized he never had.

After a few minutes, Amandine knocked softly and entered.

“You're already back?” she asked, concerned. “Are you unwell?”

“I don't know,” Vera answered truthfully.

“Would you like me to brush your hair?” When faced with the unknown, Amandine offered practical solutions. “Do you need help with your bedclothes?”

“You go on to bed,” Vera said. “Don't worry about me.”

Amandine silently hung Vera's cloak and poured her a glass of water. Before going back to her quarters, she filched the copy of
L'Atlantique
from the table. Earlier that evening, she'd noticed Miss Vera on the fringe of a poor-quality photograph. Skinny and white, she looked like a skeleton. It was the last thing she needed to see at the moment.

Once alone, Vera scanned the room for something to make her feel better. She looked at her journals on the table next to her bed but couldn't open them. Not tonight. She felt ashamed of the entry detailing her conquests, her Thirteen (unlucky!) Lovers. She then spied the telephone on the writing table. Upon its discovery after the launch, she'd found it ridiculous. Now it seemed a miracle.

She crossed the room and picked it up. After a few seconds' delay, she gave the number to the operator. The cranky mechanical ring sounded again and again; she was about to hang up when she heard him.

“
Allô
?” he said through the static.

“Oh, Charles!” she cried. The relief, the joy of hearing his voice made her throat tighten.

“Vera?” he asked in wonder. “But, where are you? Didn't you board the
Paris
?”

“My cabin has a telephone, if you can believe that,” she answered.

“What
is
the world coming to?” Despite the shaky connection, she could hear the smile in his voice. “Tell me, then. How is the voyage so far?”

“Oh, Charles, I feel like hell,” she said, trying not to cry. “Bloody, bloody hell.”

“Well, I see some kind sailor has been giving you elocution lessons,” he began.

“I'm serious!” she cut him off.

The buzz on the line seemed louder as he hesitated.

“It's not . . . your . . . condition, is it?” he managed.

“No, it's not my body. That would be easy! I'm afraid it's my conscience,” she said, her voice dropping.

“It's about time!” He laughed, obviously relieved not to have to discuss her illness.

“Oh Charles, stop joking.” She had to raise her voice to talk over the static. “Listen, do you remember some twenty years ago, I met a Hungarian man at Bad Ragaz? The one who used to send me all those letters?”

“Yes, in fact I do,” replied Charles, serious now. “You never opened a single one. You just jotted on them ‘
Retournez s.v.p
.' and back to the post they went. At the time I thought you suffered from an appalling lack of curiosity.”

“Well, due to an unfortunate twist of fate, his son was sitting next to me at dinner tonight.”

Charles said something in response, but Vera couldn't make out his words.

“Will you speak up, dear? I can't hear you over all this crackling,”
she was saying when the line went dead. Vera stared into the receiver for a moment, considered calling him back again, then hung up. She kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed, curling herself into a ball, missing Charles and feeling more alone than she had since childhood. Vera began to cry, hard painful sobs that burned her throat. She wept for Laszlo, yes, but she also wept for herself.

Shivering with cold, Julie sat on the metal bench, nervously watching Nikolai dance with Simone. During their last waltz, he'd said he felt sorry for her, just standing there, looking on. Julie would have found him gallant and thoughtful if they didn't seem to be having so much fun; ever since the song started, they'd been chatting and laughing like old friends. She was sure that Simone had clever things to say and undoubtedly had not once mentioned ship engines or seasickness. How did she do it? Simone seemed so at home in a man's arms. In comparison, Julie was anxious, stiff, dull.

When the song finally came to an end, Nikolai and Simone walked back to the bench wearing satisfied smiles.

“Well, I'm going to leave you two lovebirds alone,” Simone called out to Julie's horror. “Don't be too late getting back to the dormitory!” She winked, then waved. “Great meeting you, Nikolai! See you around!”

As they watched her sashay back to the stairwell, he shook his head with a grin.

“Your friend's a real hoot!”

“Yes,” Julie begrudgingly agreed.

Nikolai nested himself on the narrow bench and pulled Julie onto his lap.

“You, on the other hand,” he said, whispering into her hair, “are something much more special.”

He quickly rubbed the warmth back into her arms, then wrapped her in a long embrace. Closing her eyes, she thawed with a little moan. He
was
interested in her. Perhaps Simone was the kind of girl boys liked being friends with, but nothing more?

Nikolai cupped her face in his massive hands, then reached down to kiss her. His lips played on hers, grazing, pecking, nibbling, until he gently toyed hers open and kissed her passionately. Julie felt her pounding heart fall into her stomach; light-headed and trembling, she was glad she was sitting down. When he pulled back to look at her, she reached her hand up to his face, timidly exploring his chin, his lips, then slid her fingers through his shaggy hair.

He was bending down to kiss her again when a half dozen first-class tourists began filing out on deck. Dinners finished, cigarettes in hand, they had come out to enjoy the moon before going up to the ballroom. Passing alongside the bench, one of the women was startled by the couple in the shadows.

“Oh my!” she said, clutching her breast and raising her lorgnette to see them better, as if this were a comical scene from an operetta where she herself discovers two lusty servants.

Nikolai and Julie jumped up; he grabbed her hand and began to run. Dodging strollers and air vents, they bolted down the deck hand in hand until they reached the bow. Panting, they stood for a moment grinning at each other, trying to catch their breath. Nikolai then grasped her waist and began waltzing around in circles.

“Odin, dva, tri—odin, dva, tri—odin, dva, tri
 . . .”

He counted in Russian as he spun her faster and faster, until they both fell back onto the rails, laughing. He put his arm around her and, facing the water and the moon, they were hushed by the dark and the silence.

“Oh, Nikolai, you must miss Russia very much,” Julie said softly, suddenly realizing that she too had left her homeland.

“Yes, I do,” he said, nodding slowly. “But I miss a Russia that
doesn't exist now. It's changed since the revolution, you know. We Russians are emotional, sentimental, spiritual people. That's why my father took me to get this tattoo.” He showed her the dark intersected lines on his arm. “It's the orthodox cross. He wanted me to remember the real Russia, not what it is now. Those Bolsheviks are cold, godless machines.” He breathed heavily, squeezing Julie closer. “Now, it seems everything's changed.”

“I understand what you mean.” Julie nodded. “France has also changed since the war.”

“Eh, the war!” Nikolai spat.

She looked up at his face, wondering what he meant.

“Did you fight?” she asked.

“For about two weeks!” He barked out a bitter laugh. “Then I got out. What idiots those men were, rotting in the trenches!”

“Idiots!” she cried. “Those were brave men who fought and died. And you? What were you? A deserter? A coward?”

“Hey, hey! Calm down!” He grabbed her shoulders and stared into her face. “I am no coward! If I'd been alive when Napoleon invaded Russia, I would have fought—and proudly! But this war was madness! Just nonsense!” Nikolai sneered. “None of those poor dupes in the mud knew why they were down there, just waiting to die.”

“My brothers were those poor dupes!” she shouted, furious now. “And, yes, they died! But they would have never left their comrades in the trenches and deserted. How could you!”

She whisked around and ran. She heard him calling her name, but she quickly darted into the first door she saw. Her feet sank on the deep-pile carpet. Skittering down the corridor, she slid her hand along the mahogany paneling, grazed the damask curtains. Perfume hung in the air. Still shaking with indignation, she slowed down to admire the beautiful place she'd wandered into. With a snort, she realized it was merely a hallway, a lowly passage from one magnificent place to another. How different life was up here!

When she finally found a stairwell, she made a rapid descent down to more familiar quarters: metal walls, rope railings, linoleum floors. Back in steerage, she snuck back into the dormitory as quietly as possible. Julie peered over at Mme. Tremblay's bunk, searching her narrow bulge in the covers. She wasn't there. Was that good or bad? She was relieved to see Simone was asleep; she certainly didn't feel like talking to her about Nikolai. Silently taking off her dress, she smelled him there, a light scent of petrol sweat. Strangely, she did not find it unpleasant.

She got into bed, where, on the pillow, lay her book, a Christmas gift her brothers had received before she was born. When her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, she studied the cover: there was Michael Strogoff, the czar's courier, on horseback, ducking rebel fire, speeding bravely ahead.
That
Russian was no deserter. To calm herself down, Julie began flipping through the pages.