by Lorna Lee
As he escorted her inside, she picked up her own coffee cup and saucer and uneaten pastry. Meri wrapped the pastry and put it in her pocket. The future looks bright again! Where will this path lead me? I don’t care! I’m out from under the thumb of Madame Dorval. Learning a new job will keep me busy so my mind won’t have time to think about Michel and what might have been. Maybe with this night job, I can spend my days working for another fashion house part-time. This is as much a victory for me as winning the war is for France.
Chapter 19: A Change of Plans
“They always say that time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.”
Andy Warhol
Meri learned about New York City for the first time in the boarding house. She overheard many conversations about endless opportunities in this large, exciting American city. Her housemates repeatedly said, “It’s a place where the streets are paved with gold.” Meri decided Paris had lost its appeal. This American city seems like the best place for Jeannine and me to find happiness and, perhaps, even some gold of our own. They must have as many or more fashion houses in New York City as we do in Paris.
But Meri had too many unanswered questions to even formulate a plan. Where is this New York City? How far away is it? How would they get there? How much would it cost? Were people even allowed to travel so soon after the war? Meri now had a job keeping her busy from mid-afternoon until well after midnight seven days a week, unless Gratien granted her an evening off. Finding answers to my questions is difficult enough. Formulating a plan is impossible. Meri quickly gave up the idea of working part-time for a fashion house in Paris. She was exhausted every day.
§
After three months of working at Le Bonaparte, Meri became a seasoned and only slightly jaded waitress. She learned enough English to communicate in the most rudimentary way with the patrons of the bar. Rarely did she get a drink order wrong, but she still did not understand the American soldiers’ banter. “Talk too fast. Anyway, no understand.” She would say to a gang of laughing, drunk men who all seemed to want her to pay attention to more than their drink orders.
New Year’s Eve, 1945 proved a particularly chaotic night. The Americans were behaving worse than usual, something Meri did not think possible. She had never seen so many men drink so much hard liquor—not even in Finland. How are they able to stand up and walk at the end of the night, with or without a French woman on their arm? Watching them was both comical and alarming.
On this night, the soldiers drank, shouted, and grabbed at the waitresses’ arms, legs, breasts, or derrières more than usual. Slapping away their hungry hands only made them laugh and try harder.
Usually the soldiers went for the younger waitresses. Meri had just celebrated her fortieth birthday without fanfare. For a “middle-aged woman” she still had a pretty face and curvaceous figure, but the tell-tale signs of a hard life filled with worry left their marks on her hands, around her mouth and eyes, and on her forehead. And most of Meri’s money went to the convent, not to a hair dresser, so her hair was not fashionably styled. As a result, the younger, sexier waitresses got the big tips. I don’t mind. I know how my coworkers earn their extra money. They stagger away with those drunken soldiers. I could do the same if I wanted to, but my dignity is worth my smaller wages.
On this riotous night at Le Bonaparte, however, the American soldiers fondled, grabbed, and harassed Meri along with the rest of the waitresses. The entire bar became an alcohol-fueled pandemonium. Even the waitresses were drinking.
“Here!” Gratien shouted every so often as Meri made her way back to the bar to fill an order. He handed her a shot glass of some amber-colored potion that burned her throat as it went down and warmed her belly.
She smiled at him and nodded. Meri noticed he did the same for all the waitresses and for himself. “Tonight,” he said, “drinking a little is a matter of survival. Vive la France!”
The night wore on to almost dawn. Many patrons, mostly American soldiers, had passed out on the floor or were draped over chairs or tables. A few waitresses ended up tangled among the hodgepodge of arms, legs, and torsos. Meri, however, was among the few still standing—wobbling, but upright.
She found herself back at her boarding house room, in her bed with a man she did not recognize. They were naked, except for his brown socks, which had holes where his big toes stuck out. Meri was as befuddled as she was repulsed by him and her apparently indiscrete behavior. The last thing I remember is being at the bar….
She got up quietly and quickly, trying to get dressed before he woke up. He slept so soundly, she discovered, she could have jumped on the bed without waking him. Now that she was dressed, with a pounding headache to complete her ensemble, she needed to get this stranger out of her room. Having a “gentleman caller” in her room after ten o’clock p.m. violated one of the boarding house rules. Meri looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand: 11:12 a.m. He did not appear to be a gentleman, either.
Mon Dieu, I came home with an American soldier! She saw the evidence all around her on her bedroom floor: his cap, trousers, shirt, jacket, and overcoat all in the dreadful olive army color. The one shoe she saw was brown. She looked for the other shoe and found it under one of her roommate’s beds.
My roommates! On her hands and knees retrieving the shoe, Meri slowly turned her head to see who, if anyone, besides the sleeping soldier occupied the shared room. Only one bed other than her own was still full. The young woman seemed as oblivious to the morning as the man in her bed. What did she see? Will she report me?
Meri had no time for conjecture. She needed this man out of her bed, her room, and her life as soon as possible. She poked him with his shoe.
He grunted, rolled over from his stomach to his back, and began snoring. She could see his face now and was not pleased. How much did I drink last night? My taste in Americans is terrible! The man had the largest nose and ears she had ever seen on a real person. His head was very round and too big for his body, which was compact. Everything about him—except for his head—was economical: short and sinewy arms, abbreviated fingers, hairless chest. Not exactly plump, his belly was only slightly rounded. She stopped there. So did the rumpled blankets and sheets. The only other part of him showing was his big toes covered with his socks. They seem small for a soldier’s feet.
Meri grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.
He moaned and flailed his arms as if trying to block his “attacker” without much vigor.
“Réveillez-vous! Vous devez partir!” Meri whispered, desperate to wake him up and get him out of her bed and room.
“Wha? Hold…hold on. Where am I?” He rubbed his eyes, then his whole face.
Meri, not understanding these English words, repeated her request in French for him to wake up and get out.
“What you sayin’, miss? It sure sounds nice, whatever it is. I need my glasses. You seen my glasses?”
Meri threw her hands up and heaved a monumental sigh.
He understood. “Yeah, I hear you. Ain’t no fun yappin’ at each other and gettin’ nowhere, eh?” He scratched his head and gave Meri a crooked, mischievous grin. “We must’ve spoke the same language last night.” He pulled the sheets up and looked under. “Yup!”
She understood. Meri put her hands over her face, and then on her hips. She glared at him pointing to the door while furtively glancing around the room to make sure her roommate was still sleeping calmly. Hopefully she’s drunk, too, and won’t wake up easily.
“Okay. Okay. I git it. Actually, this happens a lot. But I gotta find my glasses, so hold yer horses, miss.” He made his forefingers and thumbs into “O’s” and put them up to his eyes.
Meri realized he wanted his spectacles and helped him search. She bent down to look on the floor and spotted them under the bed. What did we do last night?
As Meri reached for his glasses, she noticed him moving to get out of bed. She raised her hand in the air and said a bit more sharply than she w
anted to “Arrêter!” She did not want him getting out of bed naked with her in the room. Maybe I had sex with him last night, maybe not. Either way, I don’t remember and I want to keep things that way. Meri grasped onto her amnesia—a small comfort—with the might of a person hanging on to the edge of a steep cliff.
She handed him his glasses without looking at him.
“Thanks, miss.” He put them on. “That’s much better.”
Meri glanced at him without turning her head. Her natural curiosity got the better of her.
He smiled and nodded his head in apparent approval as he scanned Meri from top-to-bottom with his corrected vision. “Ain’t you just the perrttiest site I seen in a lifetime? I don’t usually get the pertty girl. I got lucky last night! I bet 1946 is my lucky year!” He settled back on the pillows, his arms folded behind his head.
His smile improves his looks a little, Meri thought reluctantly. Meri put her palms up and shook her head. “Je ne parle pas Anglais.” She did not speak English well enough in the three months Meri had been working as a waitress to converse with a man in her bedroom—in a barroom, however, she managed to communicate in English well enough. Her vocabulary consisted of either single words or very short phrases: Yes. No. One moment. Nice to see you. Thank you. What would you like? My name is Meri. What’s your name? Are you hungry? And the English words for numbers and drinks (two beers, three whiskeys). None of her bar-talk English did her any good with this man in her bed. “No” might come in handy.
Meri began picking up his clothes. She pushed them toward him. Since she figured out he did not understand anything she said, she went on a French rampage, “You’re not welcome here. I was too drunk to make good decisions last night. This is a big mistake and I want you gone before I get into trouble.” She turned and began to walk out of the bedroom, not caring if her roommate woke up or not.
He took his clothes and chuckled. “Hot damn, you talk as pertty as you look. My buddies in New York’ll never believe I landed me a French doll like you.”
Meri, about to close the door, stopped. “New York?” She said with her back to him.
“I come from New York, sure. You know somebody there or somethin’?” Meri could hear the sounds of clothes being put on; still she did not dare turn around.
New York City? Maybe last night is not such a bad mistake after all.
“My name is Meri.” She said in the clearest English she could muster.
“Well, Meri, pleasure to meet you. My name is Joe. Joe Trottier. Hey,” he said, “we finally understand each other.”
“Yes.” She said softly as she closed the door. Joe Trottier from New York City. I’m glad you didn’t understand me when I was throwing you out.
§
Meri stood outside the door hoping Joe would be efficient. If he feels the same headache and nausea I do, he probably will be moving slowly. She did not want to leave her post outside her bedroom because she wanted to make sure he left with a good impression of her and he left without her landlady seeing him. A wave of sickness came up from her stomach. Meri rushed to the bathroom and vomited.
As she cleaned her face and mouth, she noticed several used condoms in the wastebasket. The sight nearly made her sick again. “Mon Dieu! Are these all from me? Non! Impossible! New Year’s Eve must be a naughty night for lots of girls. At least I hope so. I’m talking to myself. This isn’t good.” Repulsed by the used condoms but more afraid of what might happen if her landlady found them; Meri took a hand towel and scooped them up from the wastebasket. I’ll get rid of them later—after Joe is safely out of the house.
Too late.
Meri heard voices. Loud, frantic voices.
Her roommate yelled in French. “Who are you? Get out of my room now or I’ll call the police! You pervert!” Then she launched into a series of more vulgar insults and intimidating threats, including cutting off his private parts.
Joe’s voice rose in self-defense. “Hey! Stop flingin’ them shoes at me! I’m tryin’ to git outta here. For cryin’ out loud, I’m sorry. I’m leavin’ as quick as I can….”
Meri heard a bunch of gibberish and then a door slammed. She prayed she did not hear her name. She peeked out of the bathroom. Her landlady labored up the stairs with her heavy cane. The cane was partly the old woman’s helper and partly an intruder’s worst nightmare. So far, Joe could be anyone’s man, not just Meri’s man. Run past her, Joe, and keep quiet!
“Not another one! Who are you?” The landlady spoke astonishingly clear English.
“Joseph Trottier, Private, First Class. American Army, ma’am.” Joe stood erect, his arms glued to his sides. Meri could see from her bathroom vantage point that his shirt was buttoned improperly, not lining up on the top or the untucked bottom.
The landlady huffed. “I run a respectable house, Mister. If you’re preying on one of my boarders, I’ll have you arrested before you can say ‘American Embassy’ or whoever you think will get you out of trouble. You think we French will be forever at your feet because you came in and saved the day. Think again. We fight our own battles and run our own affairs. Go back home.”
“Yessir! I mean, yes ma’am.”
“Your battalion needs you more than I do. Get out now before I change my mind and call the police.”
“Thank you, kindly, ma’am,” he said as he ran down the stairs two at a time.
Meri came out of the bathroom with the most innocent look she could conjure. “What happened?” They had spoken English so her curiosity was genuine.
“Some man spent the night here. Actually, another man. I’ve thrown out several men this morning. It’s always this way on New Year’s Day and the morning after Bastille Day.”
“Do you know who he was…ah, visiting?”
“Non, and I don’t care as long as no one here makes a habit of it. Twice a year, eh! I remember being young.” She touched Meri on the shoulder. “Go back to bed. You look like shit.”
§
Le Bonaparte closed only two days a year—New Year’s Day and the day after Bastille Day. Meri now understood why. Thank you, Gratien! I have a wise and compassionate boss. Perhaps he, too, needs a rest after these wicked nights of indulgences. Meri stayed in bed for most of the day. First, she disposed of the hand towel with clumps of used condoms in a garbage bin several blocks away from her boarding home. It galled her to think she carried the disgusting waste when, indeed, she might not have had sex with Joe…from New York City. She chose to focus on him as her possible escape plan from Paris, making the task seem tolerable.
As she lay in bed, wafting in and out of sleep, questions and possible answers began to crystallize into a plan. Jeannine wanted to leave Paris. New York City was, by all accounts, a place where anyone’s dreams could come true. Joe lived in New York City. All Meri had to do was keep Joe interested enough in her to bring her to his home. Once she was there, Jeannine and she would live together and make a good life for themselves. Joe provided a way out of Paris and away from a life of serving others. Surely people in New York City, Meri reasoned, need hard-working women with a talent for sewing and designing fashions.
How will I convince Joe to take a teenage girl and a forty-year old woman across the ocean? Americans all seemed to have plenty of money, but did he have enough money for both of us? Meri knew of only one way to keep a man’s interest. Will he still be interested in me without the glow of liquor to cloud his senses? Women in Paris appeared healthier and prettier every day. If I capture his heart, will he let me do as I please in New York City? Men are possessive with their women. Should I tell Jeannine? Non. Not until I’m sure about what our future holds.
Plotting the future exhilarated and exhausted Meri. She had to get some real rest. Tomorrow, Le Bonaparte would be open. I’ll have to work and be ready to put my plan, such as it is, into action. Will he even be there? I never saw him before last night. I can’t think about that now. He’ll come back. He must. Or perhaps another soldier from New York City….
/> §
Every night at work Meri looked for Joe-New-York-City (she could not remember his last name). She planned on being very nice to him if she ever saw him again. His unmistakable round head, big nose, protruding ears, and thick black glasses never appeared among the crowd of Americans having a good time. Meri’s disappointment deepened with each failed “chance” meeting.
Since she had no one to talk to about his apparent disappearance, she ruminated alone. Did I scare him away? Did he find another place for relaxation and entertainment? Is he injured or dead, even though the war is officially over? Did he get reassigned to another place in Europe or, worse, did he return to America?
Meri had no answers to any of her questions, and her enemy became the idle time she had to consider the possible answers. I’m sure something bad happened to him, he found another woman or he’s already gone back to New York City. Nothing ever goes my way.
Her roommates in the boarding house spoke about the American soldiers leaving Paris. If I’m going to get to New York City with Joe or another soldier, I have to make it happen. But how? What if Joe-New-York-City vanished and I never hear the magic words I need to hear? If only she had heard another soldier say “New York City,” she would have flirted with him and hoped he liked his French women “mature.”
On July 4, 1946, Meri saw Joe again, seven months after their first meeting. The Americans filled the bar, the scene just as boisterous as New Year’s Eve.
“What’s going on here today?” Meri asked Gratien as he frantically filled drink orders.
“Mon Dieu! It’s America’s Independence Day. They go crazy.”
“Independence Day?” She shrugged.
“July 4th is like our Bastille Day.”
Meri nodded. Now it makes sense.
Joe came into Le Bonaparte dressed more formally than his friends: his uniform pressed, his cap on straight. Even his shiny shoes tried hard to be noticed. Meri spied him first. Her tepid reaction surprised her. After all these months of wondering and worrying, Joe-New-York-City had returned. She finally had her chance to woo him. Studying him briefly, however, she wondered why she fussed so much over him. “He hasn’t gotten any more attractive,” she said aloud.
