Moonlight Over Paris (6 page)

“I was only saying that I'd give almost anything for a cold beer,” he answered, then looked ruefully at his glass of lemonade.

“You don't care for sherry?” she teased, her sense of equilibrium beginning to return.

He shook his head. “On a day like this? No. What I want, right now, is a beer that's cold enough to make my teeth hurt. That's one of the things I miss most about home.”

“Isn't it against the law to drink beer in America?”

“Ah, yes. Our delightful Eighteenth Amendment. A triumph of antediluvian legislation. Any American over the age of ten can walk into a corner drugstore and buy a bottle of patent medicine with enough laudanum in it to knock out a
platoon of GIs, but it's against the law for a grown man—or woman—to have a cold beer on a hot day.”

“Were you still living in America when it was enacted?”

“I was, but not for long. I've lived in France for a little more than four years.”

“Do you miss it? Home?”

“Apart from the beer I can't legally buy? Sure I do. I miss my family, and my friends there. I miss being able to watch a baseball game, and I miss having a real winter—not months of rain and damp like they have in Paris. But I'm not sure I'll go back, not for a while. What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you always lived here? Or is England still home?”

“I only have the one year here,” she admitted. “That is, my parents have been kind enough to let me come here for a year and study with Maître Czerny. But it's not a forever sort of thing. I can't just stay here.”

“Can't you?”

Flustered by his question, she took a sip of lemonade and considered how best to answer. “I could stay, I suppose. My aunt wouldn't mind. But I said I would come home after a year. They . . . well, they worry, you see. As parents do.”

“Yes, but most parents let their children grow up. How old are you, anyway?”

“I beg your pardon!”

“I don't mean to be rude. I just mean that you're not a child like Honoria. Why can't you decide where you'll live and what you'll do?” There was an edge to his voice as he spoke, as if her words had irritated or even offended him.

“I do. I mean, I have decided, and I'm happy to have just the year.”

He shrugged and looked away, and she was struck even more strongly by the notion that she'd somehow disappointed him. Which was a ridiculous thought, for it wasn't as if he knew anything about her, or what had happened after the war, or indeed only a few months earlier.

“Have you ever been to the south of France before?” she asked brightly, hoping to find a neutral topic of conversation.

“No, this is my first time seeing the Med. I've gone to the Atlantic coast, though. I went to Brittany last summer with some friends. Reminded me of home.”

“You grew up at the seaside?”

“In New York City. But we went to Connecticut most summers. My parents have a house there, right on the shore. I loved it.”

“Do your parents—” she started to ask, but was interrupted by whoops and cheers from the children. Gerald had just presented them with a map for the treasure hunt, and they spread it out on the mat next to Helena and Mr. Howard, Honoria reading aloud so her brothers could follow along.

“We have to draw lines between each of these places, I think, and at the bit in the middle where they go crisscross, we dig for treasure. Is that right, Dow-Dow?” she asked her father, using the name she'd given him when she was just a toddler.

“It is. Where shall we begin?”

“With the mermaid's perch!”

The children ran off to a chalk-white boulder at the shoreline, in their excitement forgetting to bring along the map. Helena stood, brushing sand from her posterior, and admired the beautifully detailed work of art that Gerald had created for his children, which resembled in every respect a child's expectation of what a pirate map should be, down to its charred
edges and weather-beaten appearance. He must have labored on it for hours.

Once the four markers had been located, the children decided that Mr. Howard, having the longest legs of anyone else on the beach that day, would pace out the intersecting lines. He readily agreed, though he complained piteously that the hot sand was hurting his feet. This just made the children laugh all the louder.

Once the X had been found, it remained only to dig down to find the pirates' “bunty,” as Patrick called it. Mr. Howard was again pressed into service, though he began to protest when the hole had reached a depth of two feet with no sign of the promised treasure.

“What if we got it wrong?” he asked. “What if we're digging in the wrong spot?”

“Noooo!” they cheered. “Keep digging!”

At a yard deep, Mr. Howard's little spade—he was using Patrick's sand toys to dig—scraped against something hard. A wooden box, tightly wrapped in oilcloth, emerged from the hole. As the youngest, Patrick was accorded the honor of opening the box, and he nearly swooned with delight when the lid fell back. Inside were heaps of golden coins, so many he gave up on counting them right away, and a letter from a long-dead pirate that, by some miracle, was addressed directly to the children.

Once the excitement had subsided and the treasure had been tidied away for later play—the coins were checker pieces that Gerald had gilded—the children insisted on going for a swim, and ignored Helena's protests that she'd already been in the water. Mr. Howard excused himself, explaining that he hadn't brought his swimming costume, but he promised to
stand at the edge of the water and keep watch for sea serpents or enemy submersibles.

When they had finished their swim, which was really just an excuse for the children and dogs to frolic in the shallows, he brought her a fresh towel, which fortunately was large enough to act as a makeshift cloak. He didn't wink or smirk or even smile at her—was perfectly well-mannered in every respect—but she did feel uncomfortable. If only he'd thought to bring a swimming costume. That would have made things easier, since they'd have been on equal footing, sartorially speaking.

“When do you start your classes?” he asked, his gaze focused on the sea.

“In September. At the Académie Czerny.”

“The name is familiar. Do you know the address of the school?”

“It's on the rue du Montparnasse, just off the boulevard.”

“Then it's not far from where I live.” He turned his head, one hand shading his eyes. “Will you look me up when you're back in Paris? You can send me a
petit bleu
at the paper.”

“A little blue . . . ?”

“A pneumatic message. I doubt your aunt has a telephone—hardly anyone does—and the post isn't very efficient. You can buy the forms at the post office or stationers.”

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow. I could only wrangle a few days off from my editor. Blochman fell down the stairs last week, and he and I are the only ones that can make much sense of the cables from New York. So back I go.”

“Is he all right? Your colleague?”

“He'll be fine. Will teach him to avoid stairs when he's had a snootful.”

It was the first time she'd ever heard that term, but for once it didn't have to be explained to her. American words were so terribly expressive.

“I had better go home,” she said presently. “My aunt will be expecting me.”

“Looks as if Gerald and Sara are marshaling the troops, too.”

It really was a shame he wouldn't be staying longer. She wondered if she'd have the courage to find him in Paris. “Thank you again for your help yesterday.”

“You're welcome, Ellie. Or should I say ‘duchess'?” He smiled again, for the first time since she'd admitted her decision to stay only a year in France. “Look me up, will you? It's always nice to have an old friend in a new city.”

“I will, though it may be a while. I'll need to get settled at my aunt's house, and I don't know how much time I'll—”

“I don't mind. I'll wait.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Howard.”

“Call me Sam. Please.”

“Good-bye, Sam.”

He walked away, holding little Patrick's hand as they followed the path up to the seawall, his head bent to listen to the child's happy chatter. She watched them until they were hidden by a stand of palm trees, and then she clipped Hamish's lead to his collar and set off for home.

Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?

—Ernest Hemingway,
The Sun Also Rises

T
he last weeks of the summer slipped by in a languid, sun-drenched blur. Agnes departed for St.-Malo in the middle of August, taking Vincent and Hamish with her, and without her animating presence the villa felt cold and silent, even on the hottest of days. Jeanne and Micheline stayed on, for they remained in Antibes year-round; and though they were friendly enough, their work kept them too busy to offer much in the way of company for Helena.

It would have been unutterably lonely if not for the Murphys. If ever she felt at loose ends, or in need of conversation, she had only to wander over and they made her welcome. Sara even invited her to stay with them at the hotel, but Helena hadn't wanted to intrude, or to be seen as presuming on their friendship. She still saw them at the beach most afternoons, and often went with them, too, when they paid visits to their villa, where renovations were nearly finished and the garden was in full, riotous bloom.

“It was here when we bought the place,” Gerald explained. “The fellow who owned the villa before us was a diplomat, and every time he traveled he brought back something exotic.
We'll have to do some pruning and weeding, but not much of either.”

Gerald had set up a studio at the hotel, too, for art was as vital to him as the air he breathed. He had begun a painting he hoped to exhibit at the Salon des Indépendants the following spring, a huge canvas that portrayed a disassembled watch, or perhaps clockworks; it was hard to tell at such an early stage.

At the end of August she packed up her things and bid a fond farewell to the Murphys, who wouldn't be returning to Paris until later that autumn, and even then would be living in St.-Cloud, a suburb on the outskirts of the city.

“It's too far for visits during the week,” Sara advised, “but you can always visit on the weekend. Besides, we'll be at our apartment on the quai des Grands Augustins often enough—at least once a month, if not more.”

V
INCENT WAS WAITING
at the Gare de Lyon when her overnight train arrived, not far past dawn, on the first of September.

“Good morning, Vincent. How are you?”

“I am well, Lady Helena. This way, please.”

It was more than he'd ever said to her before; perhaps the man was warming up to her. Or perhaps she had worn him down. Either way, she was almost certain she caught him smiling, though only a little, as he bent to collect her valise.

It was only a short drive to her aunt's home, a grand old town house at the western end of the Île St.-Louis. She hadn't visited since before the war, but the exterior hadn't changed at all, nor had the neighborhood.

Vincent went to park the car in the old stables, and rather than walk back through the gates to the front, Helena went in through the side door. “Hello!” she called out. “Auntie A? Are you up?”

She walked the length of the main floor, popping her head into its various reception rooms—all empty. They'd been redecorated in an elegant but rather clinical contemporary style since she'd seen them last, in startling contrast to the faded and faintly shabby grandeur of the house itself. She walked upstairs, to the first floor with its bedrooms, calling out for her aunt as she went.

“Auntie A? Hello?”

“Helena? But you're early! Do come in—I'm at the end of the hall.”

Agnes was sitting up in bed, the morning's newspapers scattered around her, wearing a silk and lace bedgown that was more confectionery than garment. Her breakfast of buttered toast and
chocolat chaud
sat on a japanned tray at her side, and Hamish, snoring loudly, was sprawled across the bed's embroidered silk coverlet.

“Helena, my dear! I wasn't expecting you for another half hour at the least.”

Helena sat on the edge of the bed, rather a feat as it was impossibly high, and deposited a kiss on her aunt's cheek.

“How was your journey? How are you?” Agnes asked.

“Very well. How was St.-Malo?”

“Exceedingly tiresome, I'm afraid. Crammed with sad old bores, and the weather was frightful. I really ought to have stayed with you in Antibes. Are you hungry? Do you want any breakfast?”

“No, thank you. They fed me on the train.”

“I thought I'd let you choose your room. Not the blue room, though—it smells of damp.”

“I suppose it can't be helped when one lives so close to the river.”

Agnes sighed dramatically. “My dear, if you only knew how many tears I have shed over this
ruin
of a house. It costs the earth to maintain, and every time it rains there is water in the
sous-sol
. I would leave, but dear Dimitri and I were so happy here. I couldn't bear it.”

“But I thought . . . I thought you were only married for a few months before he died.”

“Yes, my dear, but we lived here together for nearly ten years before that. Such a happy time.”

Helena had always known her aunt was unconventional, but this was astonishing news. “You did? I had no idea . . . I mean, Mama never said a thing.”

“Of course she didn't. She and your father were horrified. But love is love, and we weren't about to be parted simply because his wife wouldn't divorce him. Horrid woman.”

Helena's head was reeling. “Is that why you never visited? Never introduced him?”

“Yes, but let's not talk of all that. So disheartening to think about. And I made my peace with your parents ages ago. Now you go along and choose a bedroom while I finish my
petit déjeuner
. Once I'm dressed we can go for a walk and talk about everything I missed when I was away.”

The bedroom next to her aunt's was grandly furnished, all burnished walnut and quilted satin coverlets, and was clearly the best of the guest rooms; she would never sleep well there. The next room along was nearly as bad, but the last—perhaps it had been reserved, once, for a maiden aunt or some other overlooked relation—was perfect.

It was furnished with the simple neoclassical pieces of a hundred years before, now sadly out of fashion but much more
to her taste than modern furniture. Two tall windows offered a pretty view of the central courtyard, with its arching plane trees and manicured flower beds. She opened the window nearest to the door and, leaning on the wrought-iron balustrade, let the beauty of the city seep into her bones.

She stood at the window and thought of her aunt and Dimitri, and understood, at last, the reason she'd seen so little of her aunt when she was younger. The reason that Agnes had never come to visit her family in England, and had never introduced Dimitri until after their marriage.

Their lives, if they'd lived in England, would have been unendurable. Would have been
made
unendurable, she corrected herself. They would have been outcasts, the object of pity, scorn, and contempt. No one would have received them, their own families included. But they had been happy together in France.

T
HE FOLLOWING WEEK,
on the Friday before term began, Agnes greeted Helena with an announcement at breakfast.

“I think it is time for you to experience your first Paris salon. I've just had a note from Natalie Barney, and she's back from Normandy a little early this year. Such a fascinating woman, and friends with
everyone
in Paris.”

“What happens at her salon?”

“Not much of anything, to be perfectly honest, but that's why I like it. One goes for the company, and of course the delicious food, and she keeps any attendant folderol to a minimum. Some obscure poet might recite a few lines from his or her newest work, but that will be the sum of it.”

“What time does it begin?”

“Around four o'clock. You'll want to wear something chic—
your frock with the
broderie anglaise
will do. Oh, we shall have such fun!”

Vincent drove them to Miss Barney's house on the rue Jacob, although it was scarcely a mile away, and after parking the car on the street he escorted them to a set of green doors, wide and high enough for a carriage to pass through. Beyond was a cobbled courtyard, rather overgrown with moss, a small and very pretty pavilion, and, astonishingly, a grove of chestnut trees. Here in the heart of Paris, where trees were ruthlessly pollarded, and where they were expected to grow in straight lines flanking straight boulevards, a remnant of wild and ancient forest had somehow survived.

“Such a surprise,” she murmured.

“The trees?” Agnes asked. “Or the temple?”

And there it was, a perfect, tiny, classical temple, its pediment supported by four Doric columns. “Natalie calls it her ‘temple of friendship,'” Agnes explained. “It can't be any older than the pavilion itself, but it does look impressive, doesn't it?”

It had begun to rain, so they hurried to enter the pavilion. At the door, greeting Miss Barney's guests, was an elderly Chinese butler, who smiled and ushered them along. They walked to the end of a narrow, dark hall and moved into a large room, already so crowded with guests that Helena could discern little of its décor beyond the closely hung prints and portraits on the faded red walls. The light in the room was faintly green, tinted by the overarching boughs of the chestnut trees outside, and what few lights there were did little to dispel the late afternoon gloom.

“Agnes, my friend. You're here!” A woman approached them, her smile ready and genuine; it could only be Miss Barney. She might have been any age between thirty and fifty,
for she had a beautiful, unlined complexion, and her chin-length hair was either blond or silver; in the dim light of the sitting room it was difficult to tell.

“Of course,” Agnes replied gaily. “When have I ever refused one of your summons?”

“And is this your niece?” Miss Barney asked.

“Yes, indeed. Helena, allow me to introduce you to Miss Natalie Barney. Natalie, this is my niece, Lady Helena Montagu-Douglas-Parr.”

Helena suppressed a sudden urge to curtsey, for there was something terribly regal about their hostess, and instead shook her outstretched hand. “I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Barney. Thank you for including me in your invitation.”

“It is entirely my pleasure, I assure you. Agnes tells me you are an artist.”

“Yes, ma'am. I've come to Paris to attend classes at the Académie Czerny.”

“I see, I see. Excellent school. Fabritius does have an eye for talent. You'll do well with him. We must talk some more—I can think of any number of people you ought to meet. Do excuse me; I must say hello to some people.”

And with that she was gone, her attention drawn by the arrival of another group of guests.

“There. You have met the grande dame herself. Now, shall we have something to eat? We just need to squeeze past these people here.”

Agnes looped her arm through Helena's and steered them toward the dining room, and as they made their way through the crush of people, nearly all of them women, she put names to faces for her niece's benefit.

“That's Djuna Barnes, I think; haven't seen her here before. Can't remember where I first met her. And there, with the Valentino look-alike, is Colette—yes,
the
Colette. Hasn't written anything worth reading in years, but she does add a certain spark to these affairs. That's Lily Gramont, the duchesse de Clermont-Tonnerre; she's one of Natalie's dearest friends. No sign of Romaine Brooks today, but that's no surprise. Let me see . . . the women over there, the ones in the awful suits? They're Sylvia Beach and Adrienne Monnier. Miss Beach owns Shakespeare and Company, the English-language bookshop. She published Joyce's
Ulysses
when no one else would touch it. Ah—here we are. No one feeds her guests as handsomely as Natalie.”

The table before them was tiled with tray after tray of cucumber sandwiches, éclairs, meringues, almond
tuiles,
and
palmier
biscuits. Helena filled a plate, accepted a cup of tea, and followed Agnes to a relatively uncrowded corner of the dining room.

“As soon as we've eaten I'll take you round and introduce you properly,” her aunt promised, and once they'd emptied their plates Agnes took her arm and led Helena on a tour of the salon and its sophisticated guests.

Nearly all the conversation was in English, for almost everyone was American or English, and though she could have taken part Helena simply stood and listened to the discussions of poetry and fiction and art and dance that swirled around her.

They left after an hour, in concordance with her aunt's theory that one must always leave a party when everyone is at their most amusing, and after thanking Miss Barney and promising to come again, they left the hidden courtyard behind and found Vincent waiting with the car.

“What did you think of Natalie and her friends?” Agnes asked immediately.

“I liked them, very much. They were all so interesting, and their conversations were interesting, too. None of the usual drivel about husbands and quarterly allowances and problems with the help.”

“That's because none of them have husbands, or if they do the men are just window dressing.”

“I don't understand.”

“Natalie and her circle are nearly all of them lesbians.” Agnes let her words sink in, and then, a frown creasing her brow, turned to look Helena in the eye. “You aren't one of those tiresome people who rail against such relationships?”

“Of . . . of course not,” Helena stammered, more than a little embarrassed by her naïveté. She knew that women might be drawn to other women, just as men might desire other men, but until that afternoon it had been an abstraction, no more real to her than Sappho on her island.

“I didn't know it was possible to live so openly,” she added after a moment. “Aren't Miss Barney and her friends bothered by the police?”

“Not usually. From time to time the authorities become obsessed with homosexual activity in Pigalle, at places like Chez Graff and the like, but prosecution is rare here. I'm not sure if lesbianism is even considered a criminal offense in France.”