Chasing Sylvia Beach

by Cynthia Morris

  Lily shoved the briefcase at her, glad to be rid of it.

  “Take your stupid book,” she cried. “I don’t like what it’s cost me.”

  Louise chuckled. “Ah, but you don’t know what it’s bought you.”

  Lily stared at her, puzzled. Harold said nothing, maneuvering the car through the quartier. Lily shrugged and turned away to watch the Paris night slide by.

  The car made several turns, and she thought they passed by the same café several times. Finally, Harold came to a stop.

  “Here we are,” Louise said. They got out, Louise carrying the briefcase, and Harold drove away. Louise led Lily into a porte cochere, then a wide passageway. Their footsteps were soft on the giant paving stones that lined the narrow path. Louise knocked on a wide wooden door. Nothing moved in the dim alley. Finally, Lily heard footsteps on the other side of the door. It opened, and a short woman with a kind face welcomed them. Louise hurried Lily inside and the door shut with a loud click.

  They moved down a dim corridor lit only by a sconce on the wall emitting a steady orange glow. Louise whispered to Lily, “Don’t touch anything. Don’t pick up any books. They’re not for reading. Don’t ask Diana any questions. You’ll learn everything you need to know when you join us.”

  She glanced back down the hall, as if she expected someone to be following them. Lily felt a shiver travel along her neck. They passed several closed doors before turning into a large room on the right. The smell that Lily had sensed in the hallway was stronger here: decades of books, a musty and familiar odor. Lily knew it from Capitol Books, but there it was like an infant smell and here the scent was that of an ancient, wise crone. Lily rubbed her arms.

  The Princeton librarian stood in the middle of the room, as if expecting them. She wore her African garb again, a long dress crisscrossed with orange and green patterns, her head wrapped in a matching cloth. The woman made no sign of recognition when she saw Lily. Lily felt a weakness in her arms, a strange sensation of wanting to reach out and hug this woman. She’d seen her only briefly in Princeton and couldn’t claim to know her at all, but the fact that someone she had seen from 2010 was here with her in 1937 undid a knot of tension in her stomach.

  The woman moved to the desk and took a seat, resuming her posture from the Princeton library. Lily looked around: the room was appointed like a private library. Well-worn Persian rugs covered the paving stones in the center of the room. Dimly lit lamps dotted the periphery of the sitting space. A sideboard with a liquor cabinet stood near the door. All that was missing was a fire in the fireplace, but Lily immediately knew that no fires were ever burned in this space. The walls were lined with glassed-in shelves full of books. Locks gleamed on every case.

  On the sofa two women sat, formally dressed and at attention. It took a few seconds before Lily recognized them from the metro. Had they been following her this whole time? It felt oddly comforting to know that they’d been watching over her.

  “Have a seat.” Diana gestured to a wingback chair. Lily sat and perched on the edge of the red cushion. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” Lily said. She felt jittery, her adrenaline pumping. It was hard to keep her legs from jiggling. Louise poured herself a thimbleful of amber liquor and squirted in some seltzer. The bottle made a loud phhhhhht noise. The woman behind the desk spoke.

  “So you got the book?”

  “I did,” Lily replied. “What’s the deal—Norse mythology? What’s so vital about that book now?”

  Diana leaned forward. “You may have heard of the Nazis’ interest in the occult?”

  Despite her interest in World War II in high school and college, Lily hadn’t heard about this. She shook her head no.

  “Some believe they are working with black magic. Hitler dreams of developing a miracle weapon that would allow him to win the war, all wars, using ancient sources like Yggdrasil. If we can remove that possibility, we’re potentially saving a lot of people.”

  Lily found this hard to believe, that a book could have that much power. But she herself was proof that books could change everything. It was the book about Sylvia, after all, that had ultimately led her here.

  “That’s all well and good. But I want to go home.” She tried to sound firm.

  The woman tilted her head and nodded, like she found this very interesting. She crossed her arms.

  “So you’re in a hurry to resume your ‘normal’ life, are you?”

  “Simple as my life is, I’d like to go back.” Lily clasped her hands in her lap, feigning the good girl.

  Louise joined in. “I’m not surprised. You prefer to have a small life than something . . . nobler. You adapted well but there’s something, I don’t know, timid about you.”

  “Timid? How can you say that! I did everything you asked. I got your book. I think you owe it to me to help me get home.”

  “Owe you? We could just leave you here, you know.” She sipped her drink. “Then you’d really find out what you’re made of. This has been a romp in the playground compared to what you would find in a few years.”

  “Louise, that’s enough,” Diana said.

  Lily tried not to squirm. Would they really abandon her here?

  “Despite Louise’s misgivings about your ability to be detached, we invite you to join us,” Diana said, and the women on the settee nodded agreement. Lily gazed at each of them, breathing in the scent of the books. It was what she’d always wanted. To be part of something. To be surrounded by strong women. To be a strong woman herself. But if she did, she’d be one of them. She’d be a person stealing from someone else. She wasn’t convinced that the Athenaeum Neuf was serving such a noble purpose. They hadn’t really explained what they were doing with the books. Finally, she spoke.

  “Louise wouldn’t tell me everything. But from what she said, I don’t think this is for me. Spending my life as an invisible person, forbidden from making friends, from living a normal life—that seems sad.” But as she spoke it, she was unsure. What was in Denver for her? Valerie, Daniel, the bookstore . . . a small life. She wanted to write, but was that enough? She wanted an interesting life. She wanted to be part of something, not reading about people who lived interesting lives.

  “One more thing you might want to know,” Diana said.

  “What now?”

  “There’s another reason you may want to join us.” She glanced at Louise, who took a sip of her drink. Diana continued. “It’s part of your heritage.”

  Lily turned quickly. “What do you mean?”

  “Have a seat, please,” Diana insisted.

  Lily sat and one of the women set a glass of water on the table next to her.

  “Your mother, Claire, was a member of the Athenaeum Neuf. She made the choice you’re trying to make now—going for a safe, normal existence.”

  Lily nearly choked. “What! My mother? Claire Heller?”

  “Claire Abbott. She was about your age when she started. Claire pulled off several successful operations. Then something happened and she wanted out. Only Louise knows why.”

  Lily turned toward Louise, who merely sipped her drink and avoided Lily’s gaze.

  Lily rose and rushed toward Diana’s desk.

  “Tell me! Just tell me everything. I’ve had it with your secrets!”

  Diana pursed her lips and took a deep sigh before speaking.

  “Your mother and Louise were partners. On this same operation. But something happened, and Claire couldn’t go through with it. She slipped back, leaving Louise in a dangerous situation. Now, Harold’s pulling the same thing. Louise needs a partner, and she’s convinced herself she wants you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you remind me of her,” Louise said softly. “You’re just like her.”

  “I’m nothing like my mother! Are you ki
dding? She was a near recluse in her garden.” Lily couldn’t believe that her whole life she’d felt so different than her mother and now she was being chosen because of their similarities.

  “She left Athenaeum Neuf for you. She wanted to have a child, and she got one. You.”

  “But she ignored me most of the time! She went and died on me, even!” Lily choked back tears, unable to believe that her mother was behind this whole thing. The last thing she wanted to think about was her mother.

  “When you put her ring on, it alerted us. Wearing that ring means you’re part of the group. It’s what allowed Louise to track you and be on that plane coming over with you. Then you gave it to that nice French boy, but luckily by then we had you covered. You were easy to track.”

  Lily slumped back in the chair. She had been a puppet for these people—a player to get them what they wanted. Her mom had probably sat in this very room. And here was Lily making the same decision she’d made—to leave, and have a life of her own.

  Diana rose and came around to Lily. She placed her hand on Lily’s shoulder, and for a second, it felt incredibly comfortable. Then Diana spoke. “You belong with us. You know it.”

  Lily sat up and shrugged Diana off. “I’m sorry, but I can’t join your group. Part of me wants to, but really, I want my own life. I think I can do something with it. I know I can.”

  Lily couldn’t finish. She’d wanted so badly to get home but now sadness accompanied her determination to return home. Sylvia and her shop, and her mother with her garden . . . it was that kind of commitment that she wanted to express no matter where she was.

  Diana sighed. “It’s a shame. You could have done good work here. And now who knows what you’ll do with your life?”

  “Something different,” Lily said.

  Diana gave her a long look. “You do look exactly like your mother. She was a brave, good woman. You have the same determined look.”

  Lily didn’t try to hold back her tears.

  Diana shrugged. “Fine. If you’re sure. Harold will take you to the bookstore to say good-bye to Sylvia. Not a word of this to her.”

  Lily nodded reluctantly. She couldn’t imagine Sylvia’s reaction if she tried to explain this.

  “Louise will come get you later. Be ready to go.”

  AT THE BOOKSTORE, Sylvia was on the phone. Lily waited, trying to absorb every detail about the shop: the smell of paper and linen and cigarettes and dog, the disorder of Sylvia’s desk, the enveloping sense of all the books. When she hung up, Lily approached, unsure of how she’d say good-bye.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “Better now that you’ve arrived just in time for closing.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s been crazy. I . . .”

  Sylvia started rifling through a stack of papers.

  “I can’t find the invoice for the books I shipped to Carlotta last week. Have you seen it?” Sylvia asked.

  “I’m pretty sure I filed it with the others.”

  Sylvia shook her head. “Well, it’s not here.”

  “Under B for Briggs?”

  Sylvia let out an exasperated sigh. “No, it should be under C for Carlotta.”

  “Oh. I thought you alphabetized by last name.”

  “I do, but not for friends.”

  No wonder your shop is in the pits, Lily thought, and tears came to her eyes. She thought of all that Sylvia had put into this place. In 1941, she would box everything up and take it upstairs, hiding the shop from the Nazis. Lily wasn’t sure what became of all those books.

  “Aha! Here it is.” Sylvia pulled out the invoice and shuffled it to the top of the pile. She peered at it over her glasses.

  They passed a companionable half hour in silence, Sylvia going through papers and Lily trying to pretend she was present while sorting out everything she’d just heard. Did she really insist upon going home? Maybe joining the group was the best choice. She wished she could talk it over with Paul. She was no longer certain she’d been wise to not let him know what was happening with her. She was staring blankly at Teddy, lost in her thoughts, when the bell over the door rang. It was Louise.

  “Hello, ladies.” Sylvia took a few steps into the shop.

  Lily rushed over. “So soon?” Lily said.

  Louise nodded. “It’s time.”

  “What? Just like that?” Lily glanced nervously at Sylvia.

  “Hello, Louise,” Sylvia said.

  Lily began to speak, but Louise ignored her and greeted Sylvia.

  “You’re Lily’s aunt?” Sylvia asked with suspicion.

  “I am,” she said, gazing at Lily fondly.

  Lily stared back. Was she adept at fictionalizing, too? Of course she was; her whole life was steeped in trickery.

  “Lily’s mother, Claire, sent her to help me move,” Louise said. “She’s been remarkably helpful, and I’ve heard she’s had fun helping you, too.”

  Sylvia smiled. “Lily’s done quite a bit for our ragged shop.”

  “I’m sorry to take her away from you.”

  “But you’re not leaving Paris forever, Louise. You’ll be back, right?” Sylvia asked.

  Lily was stunned. Did Sylvia know about the Athenaeum Neuf? Was that why she hadn’t pressed Lily about Heinrich’s claim that she’d stolen the book? If she joined the Athenaeum, she might be able to see Sylvia again. Lily felt her nose prickle and her throat constrict. She was sure Sylvia could see the emotion in her eyes, but she didn’t mind. She tried to convey everything in that one look—how much Sylvia inspired her, how sad she was to leave her, how she wanted to assure Sylvia that she’d survive the war and retire in peace, how she’d refuse Heinrich her personal copy of Finnegan’s Wake, and how she, Adrienne, and friends would quickly dismantle the entire bookstore and hide its contents away upstairs. If Lily wasn’t mistaken, she saw a glimmer in Sylvia’s eyes. Understanding? Tears? Lily would never know how Sylvia really felt, even after all this.

  Louise broke the moment. “One never knows when one will be back in Paris.”

  “Good, then. Do visit when you’re here.” Sylvia smiled politely and Louise moved for the door.

  “I need to say good-bye to Sylvia,” Lily said.

  “Of course,” Louise nodded. “I’ll wait outside. Good-bye, Sylvia.” With that, she stepped outside.

  “Well, that’s nice,” Sylvia said. “You can leave just like that. No warning.” She paused to light a cigarette, her hands trembling. “I guess that’s how you arrived—just showed up and barged in. Now you’re just barging out.” She straightened some books on the desk without looking at Lily. “Have a good trip home with your aunt.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lily said. “I was really getting comfortable here. I’m so grateful to have had the chance to work here, with you.”

  “That’s fine. They all leave at one point or another. Come and go, and I alone remain.” It sounded like the refrain of a sad, sad poem.

  “I’m sorry, Sylvia. I wish I could stay. I can always come back and see you.” She heard how ridiculous that sounded. Certainly she would come back, but not for a long, long time, and not in this era. Not if she could help it.

  “Well, you did turn out to be helpful, after all. Despite your spunky attitude.”

  Sylvia sat back down. Lily watched her shuffle papers. She would go on at the store as if Lily had not been there. Lily might have made a difference for Sylvia or not. She’d never know. Sylvia slapped her hand on a stack of paperback books.

  “Oh, bother. I don’t have money to pay you now.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Sylvia.”

  “Hush.” Sylvia pulled a thick book out from under a stack of other books. It was covered in a light blue dust jacket. She handed it to Lily. It was Ulysses, heavy in her hand.

  “Sylvia,
you can’t do this. You can’t give this to me. It’s far too valuable. I mean, it will be.” She blushed.

  “Second edition. Not as valuable as the first, but it is signed.”

  Lily opened to the frontispiece. There, under the title, a scribble of two arcing J’s. She closed the book and rubbed her hand across the cover. It was pristine—no nicks, no bumps. The spine was intact, as was the dust jacket. This was worth a fortune. Rare first editions went for thousands of dollars. Even though this wasn’t a first edition, it was bound to be a rare book, with Joyce’s signature.

  “Don’t cut the pages. It will lose value if you do. I’m sure you need money like anyone, but I hope this is a better substitute. And you need to read it anyway.”

  Lily ran her fingers along the nubby edges of the pages. She flipped through the book, and the pages bowed out.

  “Sylvia, I can’t take this. I couldn’t work a lifetime and have earned this.”

  “Well, it will have to do. I have to confess I’ve developed a soft spot for you. I don’t know what it is about you, but I will miss you when you are gone.”

  “Merci.” Lily couldn’t believe it. Not only was Sylvia giving her a book that could fund a year off of work, she was admitting that she liked Lily. It made it even more difficult to leave, knowing that Sylvia was about to face Hitler’s troops, an occupied city, internment in a camp outside Paris, and the demise of the shop. Should Lily warn her?

  “Sylvia . . .”

  Sylvia continued to paw through the mail on the desk. It was as if she was done with her flash of sentimentality and wanted to move on as quickly as possible.

  “If I didn’t have to leave, I wouldn’t. I love it here and I even like working as your minion. But I have a feeling that you will be all right. No matter what, you’ll be okay.”

  Sylvia glanced up at Lily. For a second Lily thought she saw a softening, a wave of relief washing over Sylvia, as if she actually believed what Lily had said. She smiled and returned to her cluttered desk with a muffled thanks. Lily took the book to the wrapping station and carefully centered it on the desk. She pulled a sheet of brown paper off of the rack and laid it on the shipping table. Valerie was going to flip. She wouldn’t believe it. The book would be Lily’s proof that she had time traveled. She didn’t have to tell Louise about this. She finished wrapping the book and tucked the package into her bag.