Crossing on the Paris (9 page)

“Hello there,” Simone said, joining Julie at the wall. “Aren't you from Le Havre? Didn't we do our training together?”

“That's right. I'm Julie Vernet,” she said, returning Simone's four kisses. “You're Simone, aren't you? Is this your first assignment too?”

“Yes! Don't you love it? Though, I must admit, I was disappointed when they told me I'd be working down here. I wanted to hobnob with the rich and famous in first class!” Her lips stretched into a closemouthed grin. “And you? What do you think?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I'm having a hard time so far,” Julie answered. “I've never been on a ship before and I feel just awful. I keep having to rush off to the toilets, but I'm trying to hide it from Madame Tremblay. What a nightmare! And pretty soon we'll be
serving dinner—garlic soup and rabbit? God, I hope the passengers can keep it down!”

“You're not kidding! I've cleaned up enough throw-up for one day,” she said, rolling her eyes, then remembered Julie too was unwell. “Oh, I'm sorry to hear you're feeling bad.”

“And you? What's your secret?” Julie asked, slightly hopeful.

“No secret. I guess it never even occurred to me that my life here wouldn't be perfect,” she said with a shrug, then glanced down at her watch. “Already half past four? It's time to start setting up the dining room.”

Julie groaned as they set off down the metal corridor. There, they ran into four other girls heading toward the steerage kitchens and they fell into step. Simone, who had already met them, began talking enthusiastically to everyone at once.

“Have you been in the kitchens yet?” Simone asked, her eyes wide with excitement. “Have you ever seen so much food in your life? And the portions served up—even here in third class! When I think of all the rationing during the war . . . The seagulls following this ship eat better than we did!”

The other girls nodded and laughed; Julie tried to smile despite her nausea. She had overheard the purser and cooks discussing the astonishing quantities of food needed for the five-day voyage: twenty-five tons of beef, ten tons of fish, five tons of bacon and ham, eighty thousand eggs . . . The higher up on the ship, the more food the passengers consumed. Since the launch that morning, she herself had only been able to eat some dry toast. How people were tempted into gluttony aboard a moving vessel was beyond her.

The girls gathered the white tablecloths from the linen closet, covered the long tables, then sat down to begin their premeal task of folding napkins. Julie listened to the chatter around her—Simone leading discussions on the amenities in first class, the wonders of New York, the best-looking crew members—and, although she said very little, she was happy to be a part of the group. Wishing she felt
better, Julie picked up a napkin and twisted it into kinks and knots: an echo of her insides.

Vera could see the soft cliffs of the Isle of Wight out her cabin window; the ship was cruising toward the Solent and the port town of Southampton. There they would dock for an hour, collect passengers and mail, then set out for America in earnest. She put on her coat and grabbed her cane.

“Bibi,” she murmured, attaching the leash to the dog's collar, “let's go out and take a last look at old Albion.”

On deck Vera looped the leash around the rail, though the dog had already made herself comfortable at her feet, and reached into her pockets for her gloves. It was decidedly chilly out now. Looking at the hills and sea ledges of the British island—was that village over there Bembridge or Ryde?—she couldn't help but think of Charles.

The last time she'd been on an ocean liner, he'd been with her; off on an American adventure, they'd crossed the Atlantic on the
France.
Side by side, they had watched the channel isle go by, perhaps at this very point on the deck. He told her about the childhood holidays he and his family had spent on the Isle of Wight after Queen Victoria had made it so fashionable. That evening, nearly a decade ago, as they passed the quaint villages tucked into bays, they'd discussed the possibility of renting a cottage there one summer. Vera sighed. So many things left undone.

The ship was now maneuvering toward the mainland, up to port. She chuckled to herself, remembering the silly jokes they'd made about the Southampton rivers: the Test and the Itchen. How she wished Charles were with her now!

Vera pulled up her collar with a frown, wondering how it had come to this. This entire decision of returning to America had been hastily made one rainy Parisian afternoon, while playing a game of
chance. Really, she had only wanted to shake Charles up a bit, to remind him that she would not be around forever. She'd felt his absence keenly this past year and wanted their friendship to retrieve its former glory, for him to revel in her company like he had before the cancer.

Just as Vera had known those who fed off the unwell—people who enjoyed wielding power over the weak or those who relished the protagonism of the sickbed martyr—Charles was on the opposite end of this spectrum. He abhorred illness. He couldn't bear Vera's sunken face, her thin frame; he grieved to see her constant fatigue, her forgetfulness. When they were together these days, he could no longer pretend they were still in their prime. She had become a grim reminder of mortality—his own as well.

Although she couldn't stand the way he'd been looking at her (or, rather, how he avoided meeting her eye) since she'd become ill, she'd missed his provocative conversation, his generous laugh. Vera had not been alone this last year; every day friends had visited and she'd been invited to dozens of soirées. But those relationships could not compare to the camaraderie she'd always had with Charles.

Looking out on the lights of Southampton, Vera shook her head softly. Why in the world was she on this boat? She couldn't imagine enjoying her slack family ties and the brittle society of Manhattan. Paris was her real home. Was she really just trying to teach Charles a lesson? How strangely one behaves in the face of Death!

Night had fallen abruptly and it was time to dress for dinner. She made a little clicking noise to rouse Bibi, then slowly made her way back to her cabin, thinking herself a perfect fool.

On her eastern voyage across the Atlantic, Constance had discovered that in the absence of social obligations or family duties, errands
or chores, one was forced into a state of utter leisure. Besides relaxing on deck chairs, reading, dancing, and sports, on an ocean liner, adults found themselves playing parlor games and participating in silly contests. Without a doubt, however, the key events on board were meals: luncheons, teas, cocktails, snacks, and dinners. The French Line was renowned for its delicious food, and passengers, not to be outdone by the wonders on their plates, dressed up to eat, donning lace, velvet, flowers, and jewels.

Since she was traveling alone, Constance had not reserved a table for the voyage but had left her evening diversion, her dining companions, to chance. In her lavender satin, she slowly entered the large room, which was already filled with people. Feeling self-conscious, she was ushered to a table toward the back; not the most prestigious place on the seating chart, she noted. Only one seat was empty; everyone else had arrived.

She smiled around the table, which was made up mostly of men, and introduced herself. In turn, she met the others: two business partners from Holland with excellent English but unpronounceable names; a British military officer, Captain Fielding, a quarter of his face still pink and shiny from its reconstruction; and the Thomases, a married couple from Philadelphia.

Mrs. Thomas, though probably only a half dozen years older than Constance, had already resigned herself to middle age; stout and serious, even here in the dining room of a luxury steamer, she was wearing a brown woolen suit. Constance smiled at Mrs. Thomas, her only female companion at the table, but received a rather cold nod in return. She was obviously not delighted to be sharing this group of male diners with such a young and attractive woman, particularly one who was traveling alone. Although she was a graying matron, Mrs. Thomas still maintained the quiet pout of a spoiled child.

“Well, Mrs. Stone, what brings
you
on board the
Paris
?” asked Captain Fielding. Obviously, before she'd arrived, this question and
its complaisant answers had already made their way around the table.

“I've been visiting relatives in France,” she replied, not wanting to attract any attention. “I'm returning home.”

“France, you say?” repeated Captain Fielding. “How did you like eating frogs? And snails?” He made a face.

“I'm afraid I didn't try them,” she answered, smiling politely.

“Did you just stay in France?” asked Mrs. Thomas, her brows knit in an exaggerated gesture of surprise. “You went all the way to Europe, but didn't travel farther afield?”

“No, I was mostly in Paris.”

“What a shame to cross the Atlantic and not visit Venice!” Mr. Thomas exclaimed.

“Although it is my hometown, I can objectively say that Amsterdam is every bit as charming,” said one of the Dutchmen. “I daresay we have even more bridges and canals.”

“Hang the cities! The most beautiful place in Europe is the Alps,” argued Captain Fielding.

A debate ensued of all the best places to go on the Continent, and Constance had visited none of them. Again, she sat in silence with a gracious smile on her face, as she had been doing for the previous two weeks.

She had been prepared for questions about her trip alone, her family, her life, and this time around, she was determined not to discuss any of it. She had invented a tale about visiting an aunt, her Parisian husband, and their houseful of children, her fictitious cousins. She was even considering the idea of passing herself off as a widow. But these dining companions were not curious about her in the least. Constance felt greatly relieved and mildly snubbed.

“They might call this fine dining,” said Mr. Thomas with a chuckle, when the fish course arrived, “but back home we cut off the head and tail before bringing it to the table!”

Constance was surprised at his willingness to expose his provincial
background. She preferred her fish filleted as well, but would have never voiced this aloud.

“Do you gentlemen fish in Europe?” Mr. Thomas inquired, absently straightening his hairpiece.

The men went on to have a lively discussion of that sport, including a lengthy conjecture about the types of rods and reels one would need to fish directly off an ocean liner and exactly how long the line would have to be.

“I'd say a hundred yards long . . . at least!” Captain Fielding guessed. “It would be like trying to fish off a ten-story building. And if you caught anything worth saving, what a struggle it would be to haul it up!”

Since, again, she knew nothing about the subject at hand, she let her eyes wander around the large paneled room. A father in tweed was lecturing his adolescent son, who was pointedly ignoring him; a velveteen mother was wiping purée off her toddler's chin. Constance wondered what the ambience would be like in first class. Surrounded by beauty, would the conversation be better crafted as well? And steerage? Would the working-class chatter be raucous and risqué? She imagined that in either case, dinnertime would have to be more interesting than it was at the table where she sat.