Chasing Sylvia Beach

by Cynthia Morris

  “I’d love to drop everything and run off to Paris,” Valerie said. She pulled a box of cigarettes out of her bag. “Don’t kill me. I only do it when drinking.” She lit up and pocketed the lighter.

  “Thanks a lot. That helps, smoking in front of me.” Lily helped herself to more wine and stood up with her glass. She stepped off the paved patio and away from the cigarette smoke. “Well, why don’t you?” she asked.

  “Why don’t I what?”

  “Drop everything and run off to Paris.”

  “Excuse me? Did you notice I’m running a bookstore here?”

  Lily pulled her gaze away from the stars and looked at Valerie.

  “Hello! I know you are running a bookstore. That doesn’t mean you can’t take a vacation every once in a while.”

  “I’d love to. I’d love to have the money to go somewhere. I’d love to be able to leave the store for a week. But I can’t. Enjoy it while you’re free, Lily.” She stubbed her cigarette out. Lily sat back down.

  “Why do people always complain about their circumstances, like they have no control over them? Everyone has the ability to change their lives.” Even as Lily said it, she knew she was wrong. She’d seen enough people limping along Colfax Avenue to doubt that everyone was capable of positive change.

  Val cleared her throat and spoke quietly. “Lily, I’m sorry to break it to you, but you’re one of the complainers. I love having you at the bookstore and I know you want more. What about your writing? Susan gave you that chance to apply for that column on the paper. Don’t blow it,” she repeated.

  Lily sipped her wine to wash away Val’s feedback. She was a complainer? She thought she kept her bad attitude under cover. And what about Susan’s offer? Maybe she could write. But now she was going to Paris, and the time before her departure flew by.

  Lily accepted Valerie’s offer of a ride to DIA, and at the last minute Daniel asked to come with them. When Valerie pulled up in her blue VW Beetle, Lily wasn’t ready to leave him. In the car, Daniel sat in the back and reached forward to touch Lily’s hand in the passenger seat. Valerie had looked over at her and smirked.

  “Watch out for those charming French men,” she warned. “And be careful with those almond croissants!” As Valerie recounted a story of eating too many pastries after a particularly rowdy night with friends, Lily watched the flat plains unroll. It was hard to imagine that she’d be in Paris soon, and she doubted she’d be up all night partying with friends.

  They arrived late, prompting quick curbside good-byes. Lily promised Daniel she’d email him.

  “What about me?” Valerie teased. Lily gave her a last hug, blew a kiss to Daniel, and pulled her suitcase into the airport. On her flight to New York, she wrote in her notebook everything she would do and see in Paris:

  1) Eat an almond croissant for Valerie.

  2) Visit Shakespeare and Company (original one, rue de l’Odéon).

  3) Check out the Pompidou Center.

  4) Go to the Père Lachaise cemetery.

  5) Buy something for Daniel at a quayside bouquiniste.

  6) Buy French notebooks.

  7) Picnic by the Seine. . .

  Flying east away from the sunset, Lily realized that lots of activities might keep her busy enough to forget her last time in Paris, when her college education had come crashing to a halt. The colors in the sky intensified, pink deepening to orange, then maroon. Lily shook her head, and tucking her pen in her notebook, picked up her book to read.

  In the departure lounge at New York, awaiting the next flight, she telephoned her father and assured him everything was okay. Monique came on the line, wishing her a pleasant trip to Paris. Pleasant? Lily thought. Who said “pleasant” anymore? It irritated her, hearing Monique’s voice when she simply wanted to talk to her father. She barely had a chance to say good-bye to him before the call came to board her flight to Paris.

  Lily situated herself in her seat by the window, tucking her book in the seat pocket. As the seats filled with new passengers, she caught snatches of French phrases, and she experienced a little thrill—soon, she’d hear French all the time. She was ready to go, and best yet, no one had taken the seat next to her. She might be able to lie down and sleep a little.

  Her wish dissolved when a sophisticated woman who appeared to be in her forties came down the aisle, squinting at the numbers above the seats. Her dark hair was carefully coiffed in a thirties style and her lipstick was bright red. She stopped at Lily’s row and smiled. “Here I am.”

  Lily removed her notebook from the seat. So much for extra room, she thought. “Sorry,” Lily said, putting the notebook on her lap.

  “Not a problem,” replied the woman, taking her seat. She held her leather satchel in her lap until the flight attendant told her to stow it.

  When they reached cruising altitude, Lily unbuckled her seat belt and picked up her notebook. Because she’d stayed up late with Daniel the night before, she hadn’t slept much. Now she was paying the price. She wasn’t able to focus enough to write anything, so she put her journal away. Through the window, she watched the clouds scroll before her eyes, thinking, Only six hours before I arrive in Paris. She pulled the window cover over the window and shifted to lean against it. Sleep would be good, she thought.

  Opening her eyes, Lily awoke confused. It took a second to remember that she was on the plane to Paris. She had no idea how long she’d napped. The woman next to her was reading a book, peering intently through a pair of glasses attached to a chain of ruby glass beads. Her hair was as neatly arranged as it had been when Lily first met her. In comparison, Lily felt unkempt. She tried to read her own book but couldn’t focus. She began obsessing over Daniel, missing him, and spinning fantasies of their future life together. When she tired of that, she peeked over the woman’s shoulder to see what she was reading. Poetry, laid out in neat short lines, marched down the page. Lily sniffed. She didn’t have the patience for poetry. Stories led her somewhere, and poems usually tricked her into looking at her own life. She wanted to get into other people’s lives. Lily was staring at the page, thinking about Sylvia Beach, when the woman spoke.

  “It would be easier if I read it to you.”

  Lily shrugged out of her daze. “I’m sorry. How rude of me. I wasn’t reading over your shoulder. I was just—”

  “That’s okay.” The woman closed her book, carefully inserting a bookmark between the pages. Lily wished she hadn’t disturbed her. “I’m Louise. And you are?”

  “Lily Heller. Do you go to Paris often?”

  “I do. It gets a little tiring after awhile.” She sighed and brushed the front of her wool jacket. “How about you? Been to Paris much?”

  “I lived there as a student for almost a year,” Lily said. “Are you traveling for work?”

  Louise said that she was, but didn’t reveal anything else. Instead, she got Lily talking. Lily told her about the festival at Shakespeare and Company. She told her about her job at Capitol Books and the kinship she felt with Sylvia Beach. Louise knew of the bookseller, which excited Lily. During their in-flight meal, Lily asked about Louise’s work.

  “Oh, it’s boring. I can’t explain the details. No one understands and it’s a big waste of time.”

  Lily tried not to feel offended that Louise thought she was too dumb to understand her job. Louise was about her mother’s age, but Lily couldn’t imagine her mother and Louise talking. Louise was too proper, too cosmopolitan. Lily pressed a sliver of butter into the hard roll, scattering crumbs everywhere. Then she confessed to Louise what she told customers at the bookstore.

  “I want to be a writer someday.”

  “Do you?” Louise glanced at her sideways. “I see you doing something rather more exciting than that.”

  “What could be more exciting than being a writer? Making things up, telling stori
es. I love it. I read a lot.”

  “Mm-hmm. More exciting? Read less, live more. That’s the key, dear Lily,” Louise answered, tidying the debris from her meal. Lily’s tray was littered with crumbs and the crumpled plastic bag that had held the utensils and salad dressing. The flight attendant came through, taking the trays and removing the garbage. Lily was jealous of the simplicity of the woman’s work. She knew what she did and just did it. The bookstore was great for now, but what would Lily do in the future? Louise was right. She should be doing something more exciting.

  “And what do your parents think about this trip?”

  “Well, my father thinks it is a good idea because it was his. He bought me the plane ticket.”

  “And your mother?”

  Lily’s throat constricted. She tried to speak but her voice came out in a croak. Outside the window, the night sky seemed both far away and incredibly close.

  “She’s dead. The last time I was in Paris, she passed away and I had to come home early.” The last word clutched in her throat and she had to focus very hard on the hem of her dress to not cry. After a minute, she spoke again.

  “It’s been over a year but it still gets me sometimes. And now, going back to Paris, to the scene of the . . . of the finding out, I’m scared.”

  Louise nodded. “That’s understandable.”

  Lily blew her nose. Louise was friendly enough but aloof. She hadn’t done any of the normal consoling gestures: the patting on the shoulder, the desperate lunge for the tissue to stop the flow of emotion, the platitudes about grief and loss that Lily had been forced to endure whenever she told anyone about her mother. The flight attendant passed by with coffee and water. Louise pulled out her bag and removed a small pouch.

  “How about a nice tea? I’ve got one to help you relax,” Louise offered. Lily nodded. Louise ordered two cups of hot water, and removed two tiny cloth bags. She prepared the tea and passed a cup to Lily, who sipped the fruity, sweet brew.

  “You’re tired, dear. Why don’t you try to sleep a little before we arrive in Paris, hmm? How about if I share a poem with you?”

  “I’m not a big fan of poetry,” Lily confessed. “I prefer novels.”

  “Yes, poetry isn’t so fashionable these days. Let’s try anyway.” She turned to the table of contents of her book, a small leather-bound tome. “Okay, here’s just the thing. It’s Stephen Spender.”

  Lily wriggled in her seat to get comfortable, draping her lap with the blanket and tilting back her seat. Louise began reading, her voice rising above the drone of the plane’s engines.

  At Dawn she lay with her profile at that angle

  Which, when she sleeps, seems the carved face of an angel.

  Lily turned toward the window, observing the clouds.

  Her hair a harp, the hand of a breeze follows

  And plays against the white cloud of the pillows.

  Just like the poem, she thought, softening.

  Then, in a flush of rose, she woke, and her eyes that opened

  Swam in blue through her rose flesh that dawned.

  On the white screen of the clouds, she imagined Daniel’s face, smiling at her.

  From her dew of lips, the drop of one word

  Fell like the first of fountains: murmured

  She blushed, remembering their last kiss.

  ‘Darling’, upon my ears the song of the first bird.

  ‘My dream becomes my dream,’ she said, ‘come true.

  A red light blinked on the wing of the plane, lighting the night and the clouds with a warm glow.

  I waken from you to my dream of you.’

  Oh, my own wakened dream then dared assume

  Louise’s voice and the thrumming engines lulled her, and she relaxed, her book slipping to the side.

  The audacity of her sleep. Our dreams

  Poured into each other’s arms, like streams.

  Her eyelids grew heavy, and leaning against the window, she drifted to sleep. And that was the last thing she remembered before waking up at Sylvia Beach’s shop.

  SOMEONE WAS TUGGING on Lily’s skirt. She looked down to see a little girl. The child spoke French in a squeaky voice.

  “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle, why are you crying?”

  Lily did not know how to respond. She wiped her tears, assessing the girl. She had long brown hair pinned with a metal barrette, and wore a blue short-sleeved jacket with tiny white buttons and a short checkered skirt. Her tiny legs ended in black polished shoes and white socks. Lily tried to smile.

  “It’s nothing. I’m just have a little trouble,” she confessed.

  “Did someone hurt you?” Now the girl appeared worried.

  “No, don’t worry, cherie,” Lily said. She couldn’t resist the girl’s adorable voice, small and sweet, speaking French.

  “You’re lost, then?” the girl asked.

  “No, not quite.”

  “I am! I’m lost,” the girl cried, her eyes filling with tears.

  Lily crouched to face the girl. “Where’s your mother?”

  “Je ne sais pas. I was with my maman and brother on the bus. Maman told me to sit in the back, next to an old lady. I watched the cars go by. Then I turned around and maman wasn’t there. She had forgotten me!” Now it was the girl’s turn to throw her hands to her face and burst into tears. Between sobs, she tried to continue her story.

  “I . . . I got off the bus. I searched everywhere. No maman! I tried to find them and now—” She couldn’t continue, breaking into louder sobs.

  Lily didn’t know what to do. She reached out and grasped the girl by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. Gently but firmly, she asked the girl to look at her. The little girl responded, her big brown eyes glistening with tears.

  “What’s your name?” Lily smiled to encourage her.

  “Emilie,” she replied, sniffling.

  “Listen to me, Emilie. My name is Lily and I promise you one thing. I’ll help you find your mommy right now. Please stop crying.” When the girl’s sobs abated, Lily pressed for more information. “Which direction did you come from?”

  Emilie pointed to the end of the street. “That way!”

  Lily held out her hand toward the girl. “Let’s go find your maman!”

  The girl sniffed, wiped her face with her forearm, and took Lily’s hand, pressing it hard. Lily had no idea how to go about finding the girl’s mother, but she had made a promise, and she would keep it.

  Lily tried to get Emilie to retrace her steps. They came to the stop where the child had gotten off the bus. They waited for a bit, Lily prompting the girl to look around to see if she recognized her mother among the passersby. But Emilie did not recognize anyone and grew more upset from trying. Finally Lily decided to retrace the bus route, stop by stop. She optimistically felt sure that they were bound to come upon the girl’s mother. Holding Emilie’s tiny, damp hand, they walked a long time. After nearly an hour, still nothing and the child was growing tired. At a pedestrian crossing, waiting to cross, Emilie began to complain.

  “I’m hungry!”

  Lily looked at her, frowning. It was almost noon. She became aware of her own hunger pains.

  “I know, but we’ll find your mom soon.”

  She couldn’t say anything more, afraid that any more promises would risk not coming true. They continued across the road. But Lily was worried. She would like to be able to buy something for the girl to eat. But she had no money. What could she do? It crushed her that Emilie viewed her as her savior, as exhausted, hungry, and as lost as she herself had been just the day before. She had to do something, but she didn’t know what, so she kept walking, now nearly pulling Emilie behind her.

  Around them, people went along their way, heading home to eat lunch in comfort. Several times,
they passed open windows, the smell of a simmering meal wafting out. The feeling of hunger tortured her, and she thought she heard Emilie’s stomach growl in between sniffles. Lily stopped on a small street empty of people. She squatted down and spoke to the girl.

  “Listen, Emilie, you stay here and wait for me a few minutes.” She gently guided the girl to an unoccupied stoop. “I’ll be right back, but don’t move. Understood?” The girl nodded, tucking her skirt under her and crouching on the stoop.

  Lily rose and glanced around. She spied a housewife’s straw basket, overturned and drying on the stoop in an alley. No one was around. It was noon, the only noise the sound of cutlery engaged in the noon meal, accompanied by a song warbling from a window. A mangy brown cat crossed the street, jumped to a windowsill, and disappeared in the opening. Lily acted quickly, grabbing the basket. She paused to wave at Emilie to reassure her. Then she slipped into the adjacent street, stopping in front of a small grocery store. Through the window, she saw it was empty except for a small woman who guarded the cash register. Lily entered, the basket swinging on her arm. A bell jingling above the door announced her entrance. The woman turned, greeting Lily with a short “Bonjour.”

  “Bonjour,” echoed Lily.

  In the tiny shop, shelves of canned food, meticulously stored by category, towered toward the ceiling. Several bags of grain lined one wall, and fruit and vegetables were heaped in crates near the cash register. The woman watched Lily peruse the wares. Lily approached a crate of shiny red apples. She smiled at the shopkeeper, pretending to search for something. She pointed randomly to an object on the top shelf. In her best French accent, she asked to see it.

  “The potato masher?” asked the shopkeeper.

  “Oui,” Lily said.

  “Wait, I’ll get the ladder.” The woman turned and disappeared behind a door Lily hadn’t seen before.

  As soon as she was gone, Lily snatched an apple and dropped it into the basket. The woman reappeared, struggling with a short ladder. Lily gave her what she hoped was an innocent smile. The woman regarded her briefly, then situated the ladder against the shelf. She climbed up, reaching toward the potato masher.