Chasing Sylvia Beach

by Cynthia Morris

  Another time, she had lingered nearby while her mother crouched in the vegetable patch, arranging mulch around the leafy basil plants. With her folded legs splayed out to the side, she looked like a large insect. Lily sat nearby, under the oak tree with a book. She was reading a short story about a man who had a shoe fetish. She wanted to rename the character but didn’t know what name to give him. All the ones she tried, Harvé, Pierre, Mack, didn’t work.

  “Mom, how did you give me my name?”

  Her mother paused, her trowel dangling from her hand, staring into the tiny purple and white flowers on the basil leaves. “It was early spring and you were about to come,” she said. “I didn’t have a name for you. I was so desperate for my garden, for the green, that I’d lie awake at night going through the flowers in my mind. I would catalogue them and go over their ideal conditions, what they signified, and what time of the year they bloomed. It was a garden in my mind. I made up a contest—best flower. I gave categories, and went through all of them. Each one won a prize for something or other. And when I came to lily, it won the prize for most elegant flower, most noble.” She paused, sitting back on the ground by the tomato cages. Lily realized how her mother got the mud flap impressions on her jeans.

  “Suddenly it was clear—the name for you was Lily. It bloomed right there in front of me. Everything I wanted for you was contained in that name—elegance, class, beauty, fragility.”

  “Fragility? Why would you want that for your daughter?”

  Her mother broke off a stem of basil. “So you’d always remember how precious life is.” She sniffed the basil, her eyes closed, a look of ecstasy smoothing her face.

  “Well, I don’t think I’m any of those things.” Lily felt anything but elegant in her tank top and running shorts. She felt like an oaf, clunky and clumsy. But she favored her mother’s features: the reddish-blond hair, the round face, the small lips and chin. She was her mother now, or as close as she would get.

  “Oh, but you are. You just don’t know it. You’ll see it someday, trust me.”

  Lily pulled herself away from the window and headed for a shower. It was easy to cry under the water, her sobs masked by the flow.

  The next morning she and her father were in the closet, packing her mother’s clothes into a big box. Every time she moved, she snuck a look at the ring.

  “I see you found that,” he said.

  She held her hand out, admiring it. She liked to think her mother had some sense of femininity, that even if she didn’t wear the ring, she at least had it.

  “I love it. Would you mind if I take it?”

  “Not at all. It was your grandmother’s.”

  “Why didn’t Mom wear it?”

  “I don’t know. Probably because of the gardening.”

  They continued folding the clothes without speaking much, Lily’s mother in between every fold, every decision. Lily was sick at the thought of her mother’s clothes being worn by some poor stranger who shopped at thrift stores. She struggled to not cry but tears blurred her vision. The ring kept catching her eye, filling her with its color.

  “Did Mom get along with her mother?”

  Her father knelt at the shoes.

  “She was estranged from her family. They had an argument when Claire was in college and never really reconciled. She was a good woman, your grandmother, but a bit ‘out there.’ Always reading books. You get that from her.”

  Lily liked that she was wearing a book lover’s ring. It belonged to her.

  “Your mother loved you, you know.”

  “Dad. She loved her garden.”

  “Lily, don’t.”

  Lily yanked a couple of flannel shirts off their hangers, rolled them up, and threw them in the box. She just wanted to be finished with the folding up of her mother’s life.

  “She loved you very much and she gave up her dream to have you.”

  “What dream?”

  Her father stuck his hand into a black dress shoe. It was new; Lily had never seen her mother wearing it. He put the shoe and its twin in the box with the other shoes.

  “She was a brilliant student at Princeton. She wanted to be a biologist, and I think she could have done it.”

  “But she married you instead and became a wife.”

  He flinched slightly and kept packing the shoes.

  “So she gave up her dream for you, not for me,” Lily continued.

  “She gave it up for both of us.”

  Lily had reached the end of the rack. The wall that had been hidden behind the clothes held a wisp of cobwebs. Lily stared at it, hoping a pattern would appear and reveal something about her mother. She closed the lid on the box.

  “Was she ever happy?”

  “She was happy in her garden. She had that.”

  “Are you happy?”

  He closed his box. The closet was now off balance, filled with his suits and dress shoes on one side, empty and haunted on the other side. They only had the dresser and the gardening shed to clear out, and that was it. So much for a life, Lily thought.

  “I’m as happy as one can expect to be.”

  Lily dragged the box out of the closet. “Come on. I want more than that. That’s just settling,” she huffed.

  “Well, are you happy?”

  Lily thought about her job at the bookstore, her apartment, her cat. “No,” she said.

  LILY HAD STASHED the bag with her old clothes at Paul’s. She’d slipped in without being seen by his mother, but she didn’t feel comfortable lingering there in the daytime. Feeling fresh in her new dress, she made her way to the bookstore for the reading. She hurried through the dark city, fueled by nervous anticipation. She arrived early, too early. The shop wasn’t open, though a light glowed dimly from inside. It wasn’t cold but the air just after dusk didn’t feel hospitable, either. Lily lurked in the shadow of a doorway across the street, adjusting her dress. She remembered her lipstick and applied it without a mirror. She could not be any more prepared to confront Sylvia Beach, to insist that she be allowed access to the reading. Dozens of arguments caromed in her mind. She stamped her feet against the chill, bouncing lightly like a boxer waiting to duck into the ring. Down at the theater end, Lily glimpsed a sudden movement. It had happened so fast she might not have seen anything at all.

  But no, there it was, the form of a man outlined in the light that poured from a large doorway. One by one, others joined him, chatting and laughing. The group coalesced, the door slammed shut behind them, and they moved down the street. Their voices preceded them, one American loudly booming, “There, now, Syl, you don’t really need me yammering away up there, do you?” This followed by a familiar British voice, “Oh, yes, she does, my friend.” The group approached the bookshop and finally Lily could pick them out: Sylvia, even shorter than Lily had remembered, especially dwarfed by the man looming next to her: Ernest Hemingway. Then Adrienne Monnier, wearing her long blue dress and a patient smile. And finally, arms spread as if shepherding them all down the sidewalk, Lily’s rescuer, Stephen Spender, wearing a look of bemused tolerance. They paused at the shop’s entry. A cluster of people lingered on the sidewalk nearby, chatting and smoking. From across the street, Lily heard Hemingway. He tilted his head, his hat making a jaunty angle, and asked Sylvia, “Say, what have you got for hooch?”

  Sylvia tsked and drew away from him. “I’m running a bookstore, not a bar. And surely you had enough Irish courage at dinner?” She smiled despite her stern tone. Lily slipped across the street and lingered near the others out front. From here she could better hear Sylvia’s conversation. Hemingway peered inside the shop, then around the street. For a second Lily thought he paused when he caught her watching, but it was hard to tell where he was looking; the brim of his hat shaded his face. He focused on Sylvia.

  “Say, I’ll be back. C
ome get me when it’s time?”

  “Oh, you!” Sylvia mock-slapped his arm. But Hemingway slipped away, headed toward the boulevard. Sylvia turned to Adrienne and spoke in French.

  “I’m not going to be able to go get him. I knew this was a bad idea. He’s going to need minding, isn’t he?”

  “Don’t worry,” Adrienne replied. “Tout ira bien.” She ushered Sylvia into the shop, and Spender followed. Lily caught Sylvia’s response to Adrienne. “I’m not so sure everything will be fine. I’ve never seen him this wrecked. What am I going to do to keep him calm?” The door shut behind them, the bell muffled.

  Lily exhaled, unaware that she’d been holding her breath. She inched past two men and two women who were having an animated conversation in English. “Well, the Spanish didn’t change him any,” one of the men said. “Last night I saw him at Cloiserie, and he was nattering on about a fight with a Spanish nationalist sympathizer.”

  “That’s our Hem,” one of the women said. “Always the hero.”

  Lily loitered outside with the tiny crowd that grew with every minute. She’d missed her chance, she chided herself. She should have approached Sylvia before she went inside. Clutching the strap of her bag, she paced out of Sylvia’s sight. After a few minutes, Sylvia opened the door, propping it with a doorstop shaped like a book. People tossed their cigarettes to the gutter and entered the shop. Lily reluctantly joined the queue that trickled from the door onto the sidewalk. From the back of the line, Lily could see Sylvia inside the entry, greeting people with bises and smiles. Adrienne moved about, turning on lights, straightening chairs. The line of people slowly advanced onto the steps, over the threshold, and into the shop. Lily fingered the ticket in her jacket pocket. What if Sylvia refused her?

  Each step made her more nervous. She tried to distract herself by surreptitiously studying the couple in front of her. They were American, and nattily dressed. It took Lily a few minutes to realize that the man and woman were actually both women, but one was dressed in a man’s suit and hat. Peering closer at the person under the top hat, Lily thought she recognized the mannish face with a prominent nose. The woman looked like Janet Flanner, The New Yorker correspondent who wrote a column called “Letter from Paris”. Lily edged closer and tried to eavesdrop but Janet—if it was indeed her—was engaged in conversation with her friend, a younger woman with strawberry-colored hair and an easy laugh. Lily had read Flanner’s missives from Paris; she’d introduced American readers to artists, writers, and notables in Paris, including Sylvia Beach. Her essays inspired Lily, who hoped to write about Paris life someday. This brush with literary fame distracted her enough to make the last few steps to Sylvia bearable. Lily watched while Sylvia greeted the women warmly, calling Janet’s companion, Martha, and mentioning something about reporting on the civil war in Spain.

  At last the women moved to their seats and Lily was face-to-face with Sylvia. Looking up from the clipboard, Sylvia recognized Lily and sighed.

  “Hello,” Lily said.

  “You’re back. You are an intrusive one, aren’t you?” She peered around Lily, who sensed a crowd gathering behind her.

  “I’m sorry, I just really want to be here. I’m dying to hear Hemingway read. I want to help, too. Can I some move chairs or something?”

  “We already have the chairs set up. I don’t think we need your help.”

  “Please!” Lily made a desperate attempt, suddenly grabbing Sylvia’s arm. Sylvia recoiled and Lily whispered again, “Please!” Several people who had taken their seats stared at the spectacle.

  Adrienne approached, her back to the audience. “Who is this girl?” she asked in French.

  Sylvia shook Lily off and replied, “Just a crazy American.”

  “Come on!” Lily pulled herself upright. “Why be stubborn? I can help. I’ll do whatever you need.”

  The foursome from outside had wandered in and chatted near the door. Sylvia glanced at them, then at Lily.

  “No is no. Please, leave now. You’re obstructing the entry and disturbing my guests.” Sylvia turned her attention to the people behind Lily, welcoming them with a warm smile. Lily had no choice but to step back and out of the shop, shamed in the worst possible way—by her heroine, by not being on “the list.”

  Outside, she balled her fists and shook them at her sides. “Ack!” she cried out, startling a woman waiting to get in. There was still a group queuing on the sidewalk. A large green car glided up the street. It was a limousine. The driver stopped, got out, and opened the back door with a bow. An older woman with an aristocratic demeanor emerged, the netting on her hat subtly glittering, her spring jacket buttoned around her considerable bulk. With a slight nod to the driver, she approached the bookstore, and, passing the queue, entered. Whispered questions about her rippled through the crowd and Lily thought she heard the name “Rubenstein.”

  Lily couldn’t imagine how they were all going to fit inside. Sylvia wasn’t kidding when she said the reading was sold out. But she wasn’t going to be turned away. She had to get in. The ticket in her pocket wasn’t there by chance. Lily joined the line again, crafting her next approach. When she was again facing Sylvia, she spoke quickly and quietly.

  “Sylvia. Where’s Hemingway? He’s not even here and you’re supposed to start in a few minutes.” Sylvia regarded Lily with her bright blue eyes. Lily saw a flash of panic cross her face. She spoke up. “I’ll go get him for you. You need to stay here; I can bring him back and the reading can start.”

  Sylvia sighed with exasperation. “I don’t need you to—”

  A crash came from behind the shop curtain, followed by a curse muttered loudly in French. Sylvia glanced toward the curtain, as did everyone in the nearly full room.

  “Darn students, trying to come in the back way,” Sylvia said. She turned back to Lily. “Fine! All right! Go. Get Hemingway. He’s probably at the Danton. But don’t think that guarantees you a spot at the reading. We’re still full.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lily said.

  Sylvia repeated impatiently. “Go,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Lily said. Sylvia waved her away and hurried to the back to investigate the crash.

  OUTSIDE, LILY INHALED the crisp night air. She hadn’t ma’amed anyone for years, if ever. But she liked the idea of being Sylvia’s errand girl. She wondered how drunk Hemingway had managed to get before the reading. She made herself tipsy with a fantasy of befriending the great writer. She hurried to the corner, on a mission to get her friend Hem. He counted on her to help him with these kinds of events. After the reading, they’d go together with friends for drinks and she’d get him to reveal his editing secrets. He’d share his writing tips, encouraging her efforts. She’d blossom under his tutelage and become a famous writer in her own right.

  At the door of the café, she saw him immediately, surrounded by a couple of admirers. He leaned on the bar, his foot propped on the railing near the floor. He wore a brown suit complete with vest. His cropped hair, ruddy cheeks, and smiling eyes drew Lily toward him. He drank beer from a mug and spoke to the man next to him. Lily hovered nearby, listening. He recounted a story in which he was helping a young Spanish couple whose mule had collapsed. The short man next to him laughed and leaned in to catch every word. Lily inched closer, drawn to the story, forgetting her mission. Hemingway finished with a loud clap signifying the death of the mule. The men laughed loudly. Hemingway waved toward the bartender and shouted, “Patron! La même chose!” Lily approached and stepped into his line of vision.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  Hem regarded her with interest. “Hello there,” he said, sweetening his tone.

  “Sylvia sent me to get you. The reading is in a few minutes.”

  He frowned. “Damn! I was trying to forget all about that.”

  The next round arrived. “What’re you drinking?” He eyed Lil
y as he said this, taking in her face, her figure. She felt inspected, researched as if for a character in one of his stories.

  “I’m not drinking anything, and neither should you. We have to go! Sylvia’s waiting. And the audience who came to hear you.”

  “You had to mention that.” He sipped from the fresh beer. The man with him chuckled and winked at Lily.

  “I don’t mean to be pushy, but Sylvia is counting on you. And she’s counting on me to bring you to the shop.”

  He set the beer down. “Listen, dollface.” He towered over her. His eyes were warm and friendly despite his tone. “Let me tell you one thing you gotta learn in life. A woman should never pry a man away from his drink.”

  Lily laughed. She wanted a drink, something fancy and French. She wanted to stay here all night with Hemingway, basking in his glow. But she had a job to do and it had to be past nine o’clock by now.

  “Okay, tit for tat. Let me tell you one thing.”

  Now both men were looking at her.

  “Perhaps you’re accustomed to making women wait. But Sylvia Beach is not a woman to be kept waiting.”

  “Right you are!” He slammed his fist down, then finished his beer in one gulp. “It’s nerves, that’s all. No disrespect meant for Sylvia.” He threw some coins on the counter. “Hasta la vista, Robert!” he yelled to his friend, who was right in front of him.

  They left the café. Lily couldn’t believe she was escorting Ernest Hemingway. He stepped into a tabac while Lily waited outside. She thought about The Old Man and the Sea. Here she was with the man who had written it, before he had written it. For some reason this bolstered her courage.

  Hemingway burst out the door, holding a lighter to a ciga-rette. He moved like a ship steering through a storm—tilting first this way, then that way. Clutching his cigarette in one hand, he gripped his hat on his head as if protecting it against a gale wind. Lily scooted along behind him like a tugboat. He was talking, but she couldn’t tell if he was speaking to her or to himself. She caught up to him, pacing herself so she was at his elbow.