Pictures of the Past (5 page)
A
lthough this was not Taylor’s first European trip—twice before he had accompanied his parents on summer holidays in the south of France—this would be his first exposure to the metropolitan life of a European city, and his first independent passage. The itinerary was well planned and seamlessly executed. He boarded a train in Chicago and his first-class Pullman accommodations afforded him ample comfort and privacy to review his father’s instructions and all that had transpired in the last week.
Surprisingly, he was not consumed with thoughts of Emily. Initially, he had been worried that she might return to Newport immediately upon his departure, and he pictured her recaptured by the patterns of her youth, dancing in the arms of any number of young men who had pursued her through the years. And so, he was extremely relieved when she assured him she would remain in the Chicago area while he was abroad. She would still use her guest room at the Woodmere Estate in Kenilworth as her home base, but she would spend time with a rotation of girlfriends from school, as well as a cousin’s family, all in adjacent North Shore communities. He chose not to interpret her sullen mood and tearfulness as emanating from a lack of understanding and support, but just the disappointment of separation that tugged also at his heart.
“When I come back, I will have something for you…something very special,” he told her the last morning. He had dressed at 5:00 a.m. for the long car ride to Chicago’s Union Station, and while the chauffeur placed the suitcases in the black Packard, Taylor had quietly opened the door to Emily’s room and gently rubbed her back to wake her.
She heard the words as she emerged from sleep and with her eyes still closed there was a slight smile on her face. “You will have something for me?”
“Ah, ha. I knew that would improve your mood and chase away your frowns.”
She maneuvered herself to a more upright position against her considerable collection of pillows and made no attempt to adjust the bodice of her nightgown, which revealed a generous glimpse of her right breast. Taylor kissed her there, then drew her to him in a tight embrace. He planted more kisses in the rich thickness of her glorious hair before his lips finally settled on hers, and then he pulled back for a lingering look into her eyes.
“I love you, Taylor,” she said. “I will miss you so much.”
“Wait for me…I will come back to you soon,” he promised.
A representative from the
SS Normandie
was waiting at Grand Central Station in New York when he arrived to take him to the harbor and assist with his luggage. The
Normandie
was twice the size of the
Titanic,
and was built to be the most powerful and fastest ship ever constructed, boasting modern turbo engines and a new hull design.
Taylor was not one of those who let out an audible gasp when he ascended the boarding plank and entered the foyer of the grand ship, nevertheless he was truly awed. There was a museum quality to the structure, with sculptures and paintings that were rarely seen in public spaces. And this was a deliberate new direction for the models of such luxury liners. While refugees to the United States had previously filled ships with lower-class passengers and even steerage, the declining immigration quotas had now influenced the steamship line to design a ship geared mainly toward amenities for first-class passengers.
Carrying just his briefcase, he approached the purser’s desk where there was only a short wait until it was his turn and he presented his boarding papers.
“Mr. Woodmere,” a young, uniformed officer of the ship addressed him after glancing at them for his name, “Welcome to the
Normandie
and please tell me any way I might be of assistance to you during the cruise.” The purser did not speak with the French accent that Taylor had anticipated and so he surmised that among the special considerations that would make American first-class passengers feel most at home was the hiring of employees who spoke their language and understood their needs. The European traveler might require a fuller bulk to his pillows and duvets, might expect a larger meal at lunch and lighter fare in the evening, and might want to begin that repast at an hour when the Americans would be folding their napkins and pushing their chairs from the table. The French would want their morning café, the English their afternoon tea, and the Americans an enormous dessert display.
“And I’m glad to know that you will personally be available to me,” Taylor said in the friendly, joking style that sometimes only Americans can understand. “I am traveling on business to Paris and I may need to communicate with Chicago during our crossing. Is that possible or do I sound impossibly naïve to even ask?”
“Sir, that is a reasonable question. Every ship will have its own capabilities, but not every ship has the efficacy of communications as does the
Normandie.”
He went on to explain that the ship was fitted with the most advanced technology that would well service his needs. Thanking the purser for his help, Taylor left the desk while reviewing a simplified blueprint that he had been handed. He was anxious to explore the vessel, but lingered to overhear the conversations of the other passengers now waiting in the growing line.
“How y’all doing? Told my friends I was booked on the largest ship afloat,” one man said with a thick, colorful Texas accent. “And in my first hour I have not been disappointed.” He continued speaking to no one in particular, perhaps waiting to catch a response from a fellow passenger. “Did you see the dining room? I mean they say it is more beautiful than the Palace of Versailles.” His mispronunciation of that venue was so egregious an assault on their language, that the group of returning Frenchmen passing by exchanged incredulous glances and grimaces with each other.
Behind the man, an elegantly dressed middle-aged woman in a sleek royal blue skirt suit, unaware of the unattractive run snaking up one leg of her textured nylon hose, bent down to the child behind her. “Oh, just wait, young man, until you see the pool. There is even a shallow beach end for you, honey.” Rising back up while cautiously trying to maintain her balance on her thick high heels, she addressed his mother next. “And I know that I am ready to use that hydrotherapeutic steam bath for myself.”
“Tell her about the animals,” the little boy said, looking up at his mother and pulling on her sleeve. “Tell her not to be scared—they are not real.” The young mother then explained how they had seen only a small portion of the ship and that her son had been mesmerized in the children’s café, where enormous images seemed to have leapt from the pages of a
Babar the Elephant
book onto the walls.
Taylor had studied his ship documents on the train from Chicago and had seen the reviews of the
Normandie,
promoting it as the pride of France, a floating wonder featuring the best in French design and craftsmanship, and offering the finest French cuisine. Now, with the ship’s schematic in hand, Taylor stopped first for a peek at the dining room. Twelve soaring columns of Lalique’s signature frosted crystal were the focal masterpieces along the ornate glass sculptured walls. A waiter who was putting finishing touches on a table setting told him that each evening the room would accommodate over seven hundred passengers. As if he captained the ship himself, he proudly explained that despite the summer temperatures, the guests would be content in their formal attire, enjoying the presentation of courses in the comfort of air-conditioning.
Passing next through the grand salon, Taylor found red, black, and white floral upholstered chairs, settees, and chaises, and a brilliantly polished ebony piano. He was once again impressed by the ship’s interiors, and understood why its moniker was “Ship of Light.” Following this theme in the salon, four oversized torchieres illuminated the room where rich wood pillars alternated with the art deco murals.
He spent another hour just walking the outer perimeter—around the impeccably maintained decks of the ship. He began on the lower levels and worked his way to the top, where against the backdrop of the city skyline, the men below, busily hauling passengers’ suitcases and trunks, looked like worker ants. As an experienced sailor himself, he was intrigued with any seagoing vessel, but the boats that had crossed the Atlantic from Europe and had navigated the channels of the Great Lakes to reach Chicago were more often old, rusted cargo carriers. Standing now in the bustling harbor of New York, he was instinctively turning to his father to share this experience. It was the first time on his trip that he absorbed the impact of being alone, that he understood just how much he needed to be an adult now.
Inside once again and in search of his cabin, he tipped his hat as he passed clusters of lovely young ladies and their mothers. After he passed, he could hear one group stop and discuss him, making no effort to keep their voices discreet. “He’s soooo cute,” he heard them say before he was out of range, and when he turned slightly back toward them with a smile, they quickly spun around, covering their giggles with gloved hands. Once, a pair of sisters, probably no older than fourteen and fifteen, followed him down a long corridor until they finally had the nerve to address him. “My sister says that you are an American, but I think you are French,” the braver one said. And when he answered them smartly with
“Je ne comprehends pas,”
the one phrase he used most often on his past trips to the
Cote d’Azur,
they stood dumbfounded and then, laughing, mimicked the swoons of actresses.
It was no wonder that Taylor Woodmere inspired such reactions from impressionable young ladies, for at twenty-two years of age he was a perfect specimen of a young man of good breeding. He was six feet tall and his physique was athletic, but not overly so. His full, medium brown hair was highlighted by blond strands left over from his summer sailing on Lake Michigan. Sometimes he slicked it down with tonic and combed it to the side to present himself formally, but just as often he left it natural and casual. He had the habit of running his fingers through his hair when in conversation and more than one young woman wished her hands could follow that path.
He was unusually handsome, his eyes the startling sapphire blue of his mother’s side, the pupils edged by a light brown. Back in Chicago, he had frequently been sketched or photographed for the society pages, his likeness often featured in reports on theater or charity events. Since his college years, he had become a favorite of the Chicago gossip columnists. But Taylor Woodmere’s true gifts were less superficial and these he assiduously cultivated—his intellect, his strong sense of responsibility, his sincerity. He had the gift of truly listening to others, not with that appeasing quality that many have when they are waiting for their turn to interject a thought, but with a truly interested and empathetic ear.
Few people would have believed that as an adolescent Taylor was prey to all of the emotional insecurities typical of that age. By the time he was a junior at University Preparatory, his boarding school in New Haven, Connecticut, the students and faculty alike had identified him as a leader—bright, confident, ambitious, and popular. They had no idea, however, that the young man behind that façade, the young man who saw in the mirror the same exterior that others perceived, when lying alone in his bed at night, conjured fantasies of mediocrity. He longed to be able to blend rather than excel, to receive less than perfect grades and be praised for “good tries,” not only for successes. He longed to escape from the demands for perfection and the burden of being an only child.
Only his mother could read the fear behind his eyes. “Taylor, you do not have to be perfect to be fine—even to be great,” she would assure him. She would sit on the edge of his bed when he returned home during school vacations, and affectionately stroke the side of his face even though the softness of his childhood cheeks now was roughened by the bristles of puberty. She would push the thick strands of hair from his forehead and massage his temples as he pretended not to be listening, as he stared out the window. But they both knew that he drank in her words—"Don’t judge yourself so harshly, so strictly,” she would say. Eventually he would turn his head back toward her and she would love capturing the smile that would emerge. “Don’t be afraid to make a mistake—it’s not the end of the world—just smile when you do and the world will smile back at you. My darling—people will be more attracted to you if you are more approachable and more like them—human—with all that it means.”
Her words meant a great deal to him and would reassure him for weeks—at least until he received the next letter from his father.
I understand your team took seconds in crew
—
and I am thinking now that they should choose a more assertive coxswain. But that would be a waste of your talent and could be filled by a smaller boy; truly, your place is at stroke position. You do have the most fluid, strongest motion, and there you can best help the team increase their strokes per minute. I will drop a note to your coach on that. I assume you will be captain next year.
And then the anxiety would resurface and the pressure would mount and the distance between the Taylor in the mirror and the Taylor in his soul would return.
Taylor did not lack for company during his days and nights aboard the luxury ocean liner. During the days, he would try to relax on a deck chair away from the bustle of the pool and attempt to study his materials. But after a short time, an energetic crowd of college students would seek him out and lure him to participate in a game of water polo or shuffleboard. With the distractions of endless meals, professional concerts, cinema and live stage, a vibrant nightclub and stimulating conversations with the impressive list of passengers, the time moved as swiftly as the Blue Riband pennant-winning ship. In four days they had reached Southampton and by early the next morning they arrived at Le Havre, the gateway to Paris.
