Crossing on the Paris (34 page)

Constance had not been able to finish lunch. Looking down at the open-eyed stare of her fish course, she had begun to feel queasy again. Had the storm managed to get worse? Making a vague excuse, she trotted back to her cabin to lie down. At first she felt better (away from the gaze of her sole—as well as that of Mrs. Thomas), but she soon began imagining all the different life-forms teeming under the seemingly solid ocean surface.

When Constance was a girl she used to spend hours in the family library poring over a big red book blazoned with the black and gold title
Wonders of the Universe.
It contained articles on nature and science and was filled with wonderfully rendered engravings, notable for their realism and accuracy: “Extraordinary Fingernails,” “Tattooed Islanders,” “The Cannonball Tree.” From the safety of her father's big leather armchair, cozy and warm in front of the fire, she was pleasantly horrified by the drawings of repulsive sea creatures.

Having looked through those pages so many times, she could now envision those images perfectly: the pelican fish with its huge faceless mouth and snaky body, the closest thing to a real sea serpent in the book; the savage sperm whale; the whimsical Portuguese man-of-war, with its long trailing curlicues (odd their touch should be so painful). But the entry which really captured her attention was on giant cuttlefishes. One engraving depicted a massive squid, a huge moving muscle with “suckers like saucepan lids,” attacking a boat; the other showed a dead calamary draped around a wooden stand, its languid limbs covered in tentacles, a thousand bulbous eyes.

She shivered thinking of these creatures below—not that they could harm an ocean liner—but what if one were pitched overboard? Or what if, like the
Lusitania,
the ship went down? The humans would be in
their
world then, she thought ominously, imagining the feel of frozen water on her skin. As a child, when her family had taken a rare outing to the shore, she had found the Atlantic too cold for bathing. If the thin waters washing the sands of Cape Cod were icy, what must the water be like here, fathoms deep?

Constance poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher and took a long sip, feeling the cold liquid's passage down her throat and into her near-empty stomach, then she sat in the armchair, trying to remain calm. It was her interest in the natural world, she reminded herself, that had softened her heart toward George. When they were
courting, he would confide the world's secrets in her during a garden stroll. He would casually mention that snails had tiny teeth or that dragonflies could fly in reverse; that lichen, which grew on the northern side of trees, were natural compasses; or that the butterscotch star up there was really Mars. Constance sighed. How was it possible that he had won her affection over a handful of facts? Had she been so very desperate to marry? Or, after Nigel had taken his leave, had she looked upon George Stone as her last chance?
Wonders of the Universe,
indeed.

Constance put down her water and picked up
The Mysterious Affair at Styles.
She'd finished it that morning but was still trying to decide what to write inside for Serge. “From your friend Constance on the
Paris
launch”? Or was that the dedication of a schoolgirl? “To a fellow devotee of murder and mystery”? Was that too flippant? During their private dinner, she wanted to give him a memento of their time together (Was it really just a few days?) but didn't know what to say. Was he planning a romantic evening? Or a meal between friends? If she could write her real feelings, she might put “To my impossible love.”

Lying in bed that morning, humming the
Lusitania
song (“some of them lost a true sweeeet-heart”), Constance had finally come to the realization that she was falling for Serge Chabron. She recognized the symptoms from when she'd first met Nigel Williams: the tingle in her belly, the ridiculous stuttering, and her thoughts, which, however disperse, always came back to him. Despite her feelings, she knew a lasting relationship with him was unthinkable; she could never leave her children. Constance toyed with the idea of taking the photographs of her family to his cabin this evening, to share with him the reality of her husband and daughters. But then, would he think she'd been deceiving him? Would he be angry?

To calm her nerves, she brought out her paints. She opened the sketchpad to the fruit pattern she'd started the day before, but after a few strokes of her brush, she wrinkled her nose, dissatisfied. With
the shifting of the ship she found herself unable to make clean lines. It looked like a child's painting anyway.

She sighed, thinking of Faith's artist friends back in Paris. Many of them went out of their way to be messy and careless with their work, even those who were truly talented. Michel, for example, had a good eye. He enjoyed sketching portraits of people on café napkins and could usually render a perfect likeness. But when he painted, he actually chose to create odd shapes and use the wrong colors, to make childlike figures that were comical or grotesque.

What might that be like? To
choose
to do the wrong thing?

She thought of her time in Paris, two weeks of tagging along behind Faith and her painter-lover to galleries, cafés, and other small apartments, each as filthy and kaleidoscopic as her sister's. She stood by watching as
Fée
did as she pleased, with no obligations to anyone.

She,
Constance,
had always been the obedient daughter, the one who respected the wishes of their substandard parents. At twenty, she had married an appropriate match and thus began her responsible, adult life of keeping house, raising children, and worrying. Faith's happiness made Constance feel its lack—she was incomplete, hollow—but her younger sister's notion that she
deserved
joy and freedom infuriated her.

“Go back to Worcester?” Faith had repeated in an incredulous tone. “Why would I do that? Seriously, Constance, you know it wouldn't help. No, I'm staying in Paris,” she said, her decision firm. “This is where I belong.”

Constance's mission had failed with no discussion; she would return to America by herself to deal with the family crisis on her own. As angry as Constance was with Faith, she couldn't help but envy her, her obstinate, daring, and carefree conviction. Part of her wished she had the strength to follow her own bent.

The brush still in her hand, Constance began to paint long, flat strokes over the fruit pattern, again and again, smudging the colors
until the whole page was streaked an ugly brown. She ripped out the sheet, crumpled it into a sticky ball, and threw it into the wastepaper basket. One by one, she squeezed the small tubes of paint between her fingers until the colors oozed out and her hands were stained—vermilion, cobalt, ocher—then chucked the empty husks into the bin as well. Painting was not for her.

“Would you like some hot chocolate?” Vera offered her guests.

“Just a bit, please,” said Emma Richter.

Max, far more interested in the toy bank, didn't look up. Vera had placed it on the writing table before they'd arrived, along with a heaping pile of centimes. He was already at work, feeding the dog coins.

Vera poured cocoa into cups and Amandine handed them out, cautious, the rocking of the ship tempting her to spill. She then took her place in a straight-backed chair at Vera's side. The three women were silent a moment as they sipped. Vera brought the cup to her lips, but, feeling hot and sticky herself, couldn't drink it.

When the supply of centimes was used up, Max reached for a cake; the rough seas had not affected his sweet tooth. He licked cream from the corner of his mouth. “The cakes are yummy, Miss Camilla,” he said, making her wince and smile at the same time.

Emma gave her son a sidelong glance but didn't comment on the false name.

“Yes, Mrs. Sinclair.” She nodded to her hostess. “Thank you for inviting us. It is a delightful distraction on a day like today.”

“Thank you so much for coming,” she said, walking toward the wardrobe with a slight stumble. “Max, I thought you'd especially like to see these.” She pulled out the two marionettes, the Italian knight and his lady. “My parents gave them to me when I was a child.”

He came over and touched the knight's sword.

“They're wonderful!” he said.

“Would you like me to give you a little puppet show?” she asked.

“Yes, please!” he cried.

Vera sat on the bed and gave the boy a cushion to sit on the floor in front of her.

“Now then, let me see,” she started slowly, as if she hadn't been planning this performance all afternoon. She picked up the puppets, making the mustachioed knight salute, then bow. “This is the Chevalier of Melancholia and this is . . .” She maneuvered the other puppet into a curtsy. “What shall we call her?”

“Hmm.” Max squinted one eye, thought visible on his brow. “How about Daisy?” he said finally.

“An excellent choice. And this is Princess Daisy. Once upon a time, Princess Daisy found the chevalier lost in the mountains. ‘I'll save you!' she cried.”

“That's silly!” Max laughed. “A knight being saved by a princess! It's the other way around!”

“But Daisy was a fairy princess with magical powers,” Vera countered. “She saw that someone, long ago, had put the Spell of Sadness on the good chevalier. Here, look at his face, his eyes. You can see for yourself.”

Vera made the knight walk over to Max and kneel before him. The boy looked at the painted features on the wooden head and nodded sagely.

“He does look sad,” he said.

“So the fairy, disguised as a princess, gently touched his cheek and said, ‘Smile, oh Chevalier of Melancholia!' ”

“ ‘Ow!' cried the knight. ‘I can't do it! It hurts my face!' ”

The puppet covered his face and the boy giggled.

“Yes, you can, my good man. I will help you smile. And even laugh!”

Vera made the princess puppet do a silly jig, go upside down and do the splits.

“ ‘Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . . ' Very slowly the knight began to laugh a slow, rusty laugh. A laugh that had been trapped inside a long, long time. ‘Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . .' ”

She made him walk around in a circle, his neck jutting out like a chicken at each “ha.”

“For the rest of the summer the fairy stayed with him up in the mountains, taking walks, picking flowers, dancing and singing together.”

Vera made the puppets dance and sing, hitting faint though piercing high notes followed by low, gravelly ones. Max's eyes shone with delight.

“When summer came to an end, the fairy said, ‘My dear Chevalier, the spell is now broken! You are free from the curse of sadness and can be happy as long as you live! However, I must leave you now.' The princess puppet kissed his cheek and began to walk away. ‘No!' cried the knight. ‘It is you who brings me happiness! I will be sad again if you go!' ”

The knight puppet implored her on one knee, his hands lifted in prayer.

“ ‘But I have taught you to smile and laugh, to love the world, and to feel joy in your heart!' ”

The princess puppet pulled him to his feet, then Vera paused; her voice felt too tight to continue. A tear trapped in her lashes, she looked down at Laszlo's grandson with affection. Enthralled by the story, he was staring at the puppets, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open. Vera hoped that
he
would never make another person responsible for his own happiness.

Emma didn't know whether she felt touched by the tale itself or Vera's sorrow in telling it. Remembering the old love letters, written twenty years past, she stole a glance at the elderly lady, wondering how their lives would be now if Vera had read them.
Max too looked up at the puppeteer, confused by the story's abrupt ending.

“But, what happened then?”

“Well,” Vera said with a stifled sniffle. “What do you think happened?”