The Siren of Paris

by David Leroy

  “Brilliant idea,” David said.

  They sat in the thick, brown leather chairs in a semicircle, Dora in the middle. Her back faced a giant golden lacquer wall mural. Their raucous laughter echoed through the empty room as they drank, smoked, and joked.

  “Please, please, can we have a bedtime story?” Nigel begged Dora.

  “Ah, how can I say no to my lovelies? I will tell you a bedtime story,” she said in her dry, nasally voice.

  “Goldilocks and the Three Bears were in Paris.”

  “Oh shit, they are so screwed,” David said.

  “Hush, hush now.”

  “Dora, is this going to be another Jewish tale?” Nigel said.

  “And they needed to get a room, so Papa Bear, in German, asked someone on the street for a room. But the man said, ‘Parler seulement francais.’”

  David’s and Nigel’s laughter filled the large room as passengers continued to dance in the lounge beyond the pocket doors. Marc could see his friends were drunk, but was amused all the same. The cocktail helped him to drop his guard for a bit.

  “Mama Bear went to another and asked in Italian for a room, but got the same response. Then Baby Bear went to another and asked in English, but again, the answer was no,” Dora continued, never once breaking character.

  Nigel continued to laugh. “Maybe they should have gone to Spain. I hear the war is now over.”

  “Hush now, children. Please. This is a serious story,” Dora said with a small smile.

  “So, Goldilocks finally says, ‘Fine, I will take care of this myself,’ and she goes over to another Parisian and comes back straight away and says, ‘Good news. We are staying at the Palace Hotel.’ The bears were amazed. ‘Goldilocks, what did you say?’ I just said in Yiddish, ‘Get me a room or I will close your bank.’”

  David and Nigel broke into laughter. Marc found it amusing but was perplexed by the joke’s meaning. Nigel turned to Marc. “Never do this. It will not work for you unless you are in a little red dress with three bears. The French will blow you off.”

  David could barely speak as tears streamed down his face. “Dora, I had no idea Goldilocks was Jewish. Who would’a known?”

  Marc gave each of them a warm good night after Dora finished her story. The others headed back to their rooms, but Marc decided to take a walk. Before he left the smoking room, Dora caught him and said, “I am sorry if my story seemed a bit rowdy. I have had a bit to drink. I want you to keep in touch when you get to Paris,” and then pushed into his hand a small piece of paper. “I know you speak French very well, but it is important to have friends. Here is my number and address. It is not what you think, although I could use a young man. In all seriousness, I want you to know that you can contact me if you need a friend.”

  “No problem, I understand, and I would like that,” Marc said, holding her hand.

  “I never asked you where you will be studying,” Dora said, looking embarrassed.

  “Oh, I am at Fontainebleau from the first of July to the first of September, and then I am not sure. I could be at the École Nationale Supérieure, or I might be starting at the Ateliers Académie Julian. I have not decided,” Marc said, his eyes lighting up.

  “Those are wonderful schools, Marc. I can introduce you to my friend Sylvia Beach. She owns a bookshop called Shakespeare and Company,” she said. She smiled and held his hands.

  “We can meet after the first of September, when you return to Paris. I can’t wait to introduce you to all the other lost Americans. Oh Marc, what do you need?” she asked.

  “Dora, I have everything taken care of. I don’t need any kind of help, but thank you.”

  “No, that came out wrong. I meant to say, what do you need to be happy?”

  “I don’t know. Friends. Finding love would be nice.”

  “You don’t know, do you? I know.”

  “Oh, you need to get some rest,” Marc said.

  “You need freedom. That is why you are coming to Paris. Freedom. I lied about the relationship. Oh, there was a lover, but my other lover, freedom, is what kept me in Paris.”

  Marc began to chuckle and then kissed her on both cheeks. “Sleep well, my new friend,” he said. Dora turned and left for her cabin.

  Marc walked out on the promenade, around the nighttime decks. The impact of his decision to leave for France rested uneasy in his mind as he leaned over the rail, looking out at the black sea. The smile he wore for the others had waned while he considered his choices. He continued his walk to shake off his doubts.

  Entering through the doors to the upper aft foyer, he stopped in front of the bronze statue in the center of the staircase. He noticed that it was different from the one in the dining room. The bronze woman gazed forward in a proud and defiant pose, holding a wreath to one side.

  Marc asked a passing steward the name, and he said, “La Normandie. She is France.”

  “And the wreath?”

  “For the fallen of war,” the steward replied as he continued toward the grillroom. Marc studied the statue, taking in its full presence.

  Descending down the stairs, he walked slowly around the edge of the smoking room, studying each of the massive murals. One had peasants taking in the harvest; another depicted Egyptians on boats sailing the Nile. Marc took a chair facing the large mural of horses where Dora had entertained them with her story. Two men on horseback chased five other horses and had caught one with an outstretched rope. It rose from the floor to ceiling of the room, about three decks high. Though Marc’s eyes were heavy, he was not yet ready to retire, instead studying the mural, holding onto the sweetness of the evening, thankful he was not left to dine alone.

  The lights of the Normandie blazed alone through the waves. Wind whistled through windows of the promenade. A couple left the main lounge to their cabin for a drink. The mighty La Paix stood faithful in the dining room as the lights extinguished one by one. Marc awoke to a steward in French, “Il est tard, monsieur. It is late sir, one thirty. You fell asleep.”

  “Wait, my watch says twelve thirty,” Marc said.

  “Eastbound, we lose an hour each night, remember?” the steward said.

  “Oh yes, I forgot. Thank you for waking me.” Marc then made his way through the halls to his cabin and left the golden horses alone for the night.

  In the morning, Marc could not help but notice just how few passengers were departing the ship at Cherbourg. He purchased his rail ticket to Paris and turned toward a long line of passengers waiting to board the ship heading westbound. The line of travelers wrapped out of the dock and down the street. Marc glanced at all the anxious faces as he made his way to the train station.

  Chapter 3

  “Marc, Marc,” a voice called out from the bustling Metro crowd. Marc turned, but could not see who had called his name, and doubted if it was even for him. As he turned back, he heard his name again. David emerged from behind a crowd of young school children.

  “Shouldn’t you be out at Fontainebleau?”

  “Hey, yes, I am heading back now. I came into Paris to line up my next flat,” Marc said, shaking David’s hand.

  “Dora said the same, plus that she had been showing you off around town,” David said as the crowd of young school children moved around them.

  “Ah, yes, the gang. How is Nigel?”

  “Good. He is out of town right now on some banking business. I have been busy as well. I have a new supplier and have been lining up the contracts back in the States.”

  “David, I need to catch this train.”

  “No problem. When you are in Paris, we can meet up at Dora’s for a Sunday brunch.”

  “You bet.”

  Marc patted David’s shoulder and left to board the train that would take him to the southeast side of Paris.

  On board, a woman moved through the cabin toward the rear, passing row after row of school children. “Are all you little ones going on a holiday?” she said as she passed.

  “We are going south in case
the Germans bomb the city,” a boy said, looking up at her.

  “That is absurd. Nothing will happen, but you have a good trip all the same.”

  After making a connection back to Fontainebleau, Marc spent the evening drawing.

  “How was Paris?” his roommate asked.

  “A bit tense. It appears they are sending the little ones out of the city.”

  “The drama of it all. I bet that was the government’s idea. Always trying to convince us of the impending doom.”

  “You think it is all a hoax?”

  “Don’t you?”

  A light breeze entered through the open windows of the third-floor life-drawing classroom the following afternoon of September 1, 1939. Marc could not quite figure out if the room at one time had been a drawing room, dressing room, or parlor. The gold leafing of the plaster molds was barely visible. The mirrors held cracks in the gilding. He knew it was not a valuable room; otherwise, it would never have become home to an art class. The entire school might be held within the servants’ quarters, but Marc preferred not to ask and instead allowed his imagination to run wild.

  “They say in the papers nearly 16,000 children have now left the city,” Marc overheard from a discussion next to him.

  “I believe they are now passing out the gas masks,” another student said in a hushed tone.

  “Take out a pencil and a sheet of paper. Place it to one side of your desk where you cannot see it,” the older instructor told the students. “Now, please, eyes forward. Marie, can you please remove your robe and give the class a comfortable pose? I want you to draw the contour of Marie’s body, without looking at the paper. This exercise will be seven minutes.” Marie gazed confidently at the nude, auburn hair with brown eyes, her figure full and hourglass.

  “Why can’t I look at the paper?” a student complained from the rear of the room.

  “How will I know if I am drawing her right?” one of the female students echoed.

  “You won’t know,” the instructor retorted.

  “This makes no sense to me,” another complained.

  “This is the final? You have led us to a point of drawing without looking?” another complained bitterly.

  “Do as I ask. And now, silence. My God, all of this worry and fuss over a certificate of attendance. You will get your paper but, right now, focus on Marie. Draw her slowly. Do everything you can to overcome the desire to check your work. Do not look at your hand, paper, or the pencil. Just look at the model.”

  When the instructor turned his back, nearly everyone in the class looked, including Marc. The temptation inside him became overwhelming but the glance at his page did nothing to relieve his frustrations, fears, or doubts.

  “Who just looked?” There was silence. “Liars,” he chuckled with a smirk. The time was finally over. “Now, let’s take a look.”

  Sighs and murmurs filled the room. Students glanced away from their drawings. The man in front of Marc turned his paper over.

  “What do you see?” the instructor demanded.

  “I see a really shitty drawing,” a woman in the middle of the class said, her tone sharp.

  “Excellent. Who else?”

  “Mine looks good, not perfect, but good,” another student replied.

  “Were you looking?” he asked.

  “No, I did just as you asked,” the student answered.

  “Amazing. Maybe later you can demonstrate for us this miracle gift you have,” the instructor said. A few laughs floated amongst the students. “The purpose of this exercise is not to draw what you think you see, but what you actually see. Most of the time when we draw, we are focused upon the paper instead of the model. You look up with a glance, and then look down at your paper and continue to work. But you are not drawing the model. You are drawing what you think you see as the model. This exercise is not about training your hand, but your eyes. Unless you really see your model with all your sight, you are just drawing from your imagination.”

  Marc studied his own poor example. The shape he had drawn was nearly unrecognizable as a human form. He felt irate with himself as he stared at the distorted proportions and contorted lines.

  A sound could be heard outside in the hallway, muffled by the door.

  “This is the foundation of my class if you continue with me at École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts. You know how to draw, but you lack the ability to see,” he continued.

  The noise became far greater outside the class. People in the hall spoke loudly; the stomping feet of someone running down the corridor grew closer.

  “Marie, please replace your robe,” the instructor said, and then walked toward the noise.

  As the door opened, Marc heard, “Guerre! La guerre!”

  “Stop! Silence, please. I have a class in session. Have you gone mad?” Students from other classes poured into the hallway.

  “No, sir. I was told to tell everyone of the war.”

  “What war?” he asked.

  “France. France is at war with Germany. If you have a radio, turn it on. They are calling up the troops.” The students gasped, and their teacher stood in the doorway, stunned.

  That night, Marc’s roommate packed for the front. “It is all a farce. I am going to be bored to death,” he complained bitterly. “France is not Czechoslovakia, or Austria.”

  “The war is not official yet. France and Britain made demands, but nothing is official until the third,” Marc said to him.

  “Perhaps I am packing for nothing?” he snorted.

  Marc left in the morning for the city to take up his next flat. People bustled about, making preparations for the war. Sandbags lined the fronts of prominent buildings; posters announced air raid stations. Marc stopped and joined a crowd gathered in front of one of the posters. As he read, it occurred to him that it said nothing different from what he’d heard on the radio or read in the papers, yet, somehow, none of it seemed real to him.

  Nigel complained to Marc in the café that night while having a smoke. “This is absurd. Suddenly now, everyone is bustling about as if the loudmouth himself is at the border, but the entire German army is in Poland. This is just another short crisis. I am sure there will be a new agreement in a few weeks.”

  “I hope you are right,” Marc said. “If all the students are at the front, how many classes will there be?”

  “Oh Marc, if you get bored of drawing lovely naked women, you can join the troops at the front and earn your glory and honor. It is the hero’s calling, you know, and you are a citizen of France, so you can be drafted in case the calling does not come through,” Nigel teased. Marc suddenly remembered he was born in France. The thought struck him as odd that he could be called up for the draft.

  “Oh, I have the dogs of war in me, but I prefer not to feed them and, besides that, the French don’t know what to do with a man born in France, yet a citizen of the United States. I don’t even have a French passport,” Marc crushed out his cigarette.

  “Smart. No worry Marc, you will find your glory another way I am sure, but, as for me, I have no dogs left in me at all,” Nigel said, a look of bemusement on his face.

  “Are you leaving soon?”

  “Of course I am, even though I’m sure everything will work out. But if this doesn’t calm down, I want to be on the other side of the pond.” Nigel looked out to the street.

  “Well, I have class in the morning all the same,” Marc said. “If I do not see you before you leave, I hope you have a safe trip.”

  “You will see me. I am not leaving that fast. David will be back and I will be at Dora’s for lunch. Don’t stay up too late dreaming of all your drawings,” Nigel said, and left the café.

  On September 2, Marc saw a line out the door of the travel offices of the Cunard Line agency. He found this odd for a Sunday. Then, as he turned the corner, he saw the same with the French and Italian Line offices on Rue Auber. As he passed en route to the opera house, he heard excited conversations with the ticket agents. Marc caug
ht the back of Nigel’s head among the would-be passengers.

  “You must have something?” Nigel said.

  “I do, just not in cabin class. I can get you on the Champlain, in tourist, in two weeks’ time,” the agent said, looking over Nigel toward the door.

  “Any larger ship? What about the Ile de France?”

  “No, all booked. If you want bigger, then maybe check with Cunard next door,” the agent said. Nigel looked down at his shoes, searching for a decision to come. He had just left the Cunard office and already knew they had no solution. The conversation was exactly the same, just in a different language.

  The morning of Tuesday, September 4, all the papers were filled with the fantastic headlines. Marc could not avoid them if he tried.

  “Athenia Hit!”

  “EMPIRE AT WAR!”

  “Athenia, Terrible Loss of Life!”

  “10-year-old Girl from Canada a Victim of German Wolf Pack.”

  “28 Americans Among the Dead.”

  “What does it say, Marc?” Dora asked him from across the table.

  “More of the same. It was dark, and that perhaps it was a mistake. It seems more people died trying to get over by boats to the rescue ship than from the blast of the torpedo. One flipped, and another was sucked into the propeller of the ship,” Marc said, scanning the article.

  “Right up the rear staircase,” David said, staring at his tea.

  “They think because the ship was zigzagging with lights out, the U-boat believed it was a cruiser instead of a passenger vessel,” Nigel said. He looked up at Dora.

  “Right, and passenger ships do look so much like naval cruisers. It could have been the British, to bring America into the war.” David looked at Nigel.

  “Well, what a world this has become.” Nigel’s face twitched.

  “I think staying is better than trying to go,” David said, his face stark and serious.

  “I am not so sure, David. I think we should at least consider making some other plans to leave,” Nigel responded, worry thick in his brow.

  “Well, if you need a place to stay, you are welcome to stay with me,” Dora said. Marc sat quietly listening to his friends. He pondered his own plans at the same time. There was no pressing need for him to return to America, and Paris was safer than a lifeboat at sea. Marc looked up from the paper at David and Nigel, more worried for them than for himself.