Moonlight Over Paris

by Jennifer Robson

  The moment she entered the shop she was transfixed by the stupendous amount of books on display. They were jammed into bookcases that went all the way to the ceiling, they were heaped on the floor, they were stacked in precarious piles on the windowsills and the staircase at the back, and they tiled the surface of the long oak tables that ran down the middle of the front room.

  The décor was eccentric, for much of the woodwork had been painted in bright colors, and in lieu of artwork there were scores of framed photos of writers, many of them signed, and a tattered poster proclaiming “The Scandal of Ulysses.”

  Miss Beach was sitting at a desk near the front, her attention on some papers she was collating. As Helena’s approach she looked up and smiled warmly.

  “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

  “Hello, Miss Beach. I’m Helena Parr. We met a few months ago at one of Miss Barney’s Friday salons.”

  “Of course, of course. Welcome to my shop, Miss Parr. May I help you in any way?”

  “Yes, please. I’d like to buy something for a friend. Sam Howard. I know he comes in here often.”

  Another smile. “Oh, yes. I’m very fond of Mr. Howard.”

  “I’m not sure where to begin. I was thinking he might like a novel, something new, but he also likes poetry. I wish I had a better notion of his taste in books.”

  “Why don’t I have a look in my files? I keep a record of everything I sell, and he’s a member of the lending library here, too, so that should help to narrow things down.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. Why don’t you have a look around, and I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  Straightaway she knew she would be coming back after Christmas to find something for herself. The shop was a treasure trove, with surprises waiting on every shelf. In less than five minutes she’d come across a Kelmscott Press translation of Beowulf, an early edition of Daniel Deronda, and a bound volume of Japanese woodcuts; with enough time, heaven only knew what else she might discover.

  The bell above the entrance rang, and when she looked over to see who had entered, for she was a little nervous of bumping into Sam, she recognized Hadley Hemingway’s husband. She smiled at him and was gratified when he returned the gesture.

  He went over to Miss Beach and spoke to her, the two of them laughing at some joke he made, and then he came over to Helena.

  “Hello,” he said. “You look familiar. Didn’t I meet you at Miss Stein’s the other week?”

  “You did. I was there with Sam Howard.”

  “Of course,” he said, and they shook hands. “I’m Ernest Hemingway.”

  “I’m Helena Parr. I came in to look for a present for Sam, though I’m not sure how I’ll make up my mind. It’s like Aladdin’s cave in here.”

  “What were you thinking of getting him?”

  “A novel, I thought. Or some short stories. You have a book of stories published, don’t you? Sam told me about them. He said he thought you are a very fine writer. Perhaps I ought to buy him your book.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” Mr. Hemingway said, evidently delighted by the compliment. “I’ve two books out. Let me talk to Sylvia.”

  He was back a few minutes later, shaking his head. “She’s sold all her copies of Three Stories and Ten Poems, and Howard already has the first two volumes of in our time. Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t apologize. It’s grand that you’re such a success.”

  He looked back at Sylvia, who had prepared a parcel of books for him. “I’m sorry, but I must go. I’m taking my wife and son to Austria until the new year.”

  “Good-bye, then. Do wish Mrs. Hemingway a happy Christmas.”

  “I will, and the same to you.”

  She resumed her search, never quite finding the right thing, and then, standing slightly proud of its fellows, she spied a slim volume with the words Al Que Quiere! on its spine. Some instinct urged her to pull it from the shelf, though she didn’t speak or read Spanish, and when she did the book fell open to a short poem titled “Danse Russe.”

  She read it through, and it was unlike any other poem she’d ever seen, and so she lingered over it, all but memorizing the lines where she stood. “I was born to be lonely. I am best so!”

  She could buy it for herself, but it was the only copy in the shop, and she felt, somehow, that Sam would like it. She took the book over to Miss Beach, feeling apprehensive as she held it out. What did she know, after all, of poetry and fine literature?

  “Ah—William Carlos Williams. I do love his work. He’s been overshadowed by Eliot in recent years, but these earlier poems are striking.”

  “Do you think that Sam will like them?”

  “There’s no way to tell. He won’t find them boring, though, and that’s the most important thing.”

  ON CHRISTMAS DAY, Étienne and Sam arrived at one o’clock, each bearing gifts: Sam had a bouquet of hothouse lilies for Agnes and a sweet little posy of violets for Helena, while Étienne had brought a bottle of Russian vodka for them all to share. This latter offering pleased her aunt to no end, and she ordered it put on ice immediately so they might enjoy it with their first course.

  In the dining room the table had been set for four, and though it had been reduced to manageable dimensions there was still a baronial gap between each of them when they sat down for lunch.

  They began with oysters, which Helena secretly detested, though she managed to gulp down two with the help of some champagne; she had thought it prudent to refuse the vodka. Foie gras on toast, smoked salmon on tiny buckwheat pancakes, and grilled herring with mushrooms followed; the latter, according to Agnes, had been Dimitri’s favorite dish.

  For the main course, Agnes’s cook had managed to find a turkey, which was served with chestnut dressing, haricots verts, and pommes de terres soufflés.

  “Helena told me how you miss your American foods from home, so I thought it would be pleasant if we had one of your roast turkeys. Is it prepared properly?”

  “It’s delicious,” Sam said. “Thanks for thinking of me.”

  For pudding they had a choice of Russian honey cake, English fruitcake, or bûche de Noël. The men ate heartily—Étienne in particular was able to consume vast amounts of food, to no ill effect—but Helena accepted only a wafer-thin slice of honey cake.

  Most of the conversation over lunch revolved around Agnes’s memories of grand Christmases past with Dimitri, for he had insisted on celebrating twice—once at the end of December, and again in early January, when the Orthodox feast was held. It all seemed terribly grand, a parade of caviar and royalty and Fabergé jewels, and Helena was still trying to wrap her head around the notion of Christmas breakfast in full court dress when her aunt turned to Sam.

  “How did your family celebrate Christmas?” she asked. “Are there any odd American customs I need to know about?”

  “Apart from eating turkey instead of goose? Not really. Most years we stayed in the city. It was just the four of us for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, but the entire family would always come for dinner. Aunts and uncles and cousins, and any waifs and strays my mother had invited. Friends without family of their own, or people who were traveling and had nowhere else to go.”

  “Rather like our little group today,” Agnes agreed. “Is it hard to be so far from home for Christmas?”

  He swallowed, his gaze fixed on the table, and nodded slowly. “It is, I guess. But it’s easier to stay away. My brother . . . he was killed in the war. My parents try, but it isn’t the same.”

  “I quite understand, and I do beg your pardon if I’ve upset you at all.”

  “No,” he said, and the smile he directed at Agnes was genuine. “This is the nicest Christmas I’ve had in years.”

  They repaired to the petit salon after lunch, and as Helena and Agnes had exchanged gifts the night before it remained only for her to give Étienne and Sam the presents she’d chosen so carefully. Étienne was very pleased with his brushes, and
came over to embrace her heartily right away; Sam, however, reacted in an altogether different fashion, and simply stared at his book, his brow furrowed.

  “Is anything the matter? I pulled it off the shelf, and one of the poems in it was so strange and lovely, and I had hoped . . .”

  Sam cleared his throat, and then he looked up, his eyes bright. “I met Williams last January. He was at the shop, visiting Miss Beach, and we talked for a few minutes. He must have signed the book then.” He held up the book, open to the title page, where a scrawling signature had been inscribed.

  “I didn’t know—I mean, I bought the book from Miss Beach, but I didn’t look at the title page. You like it, then?”

  “I do. I like it very much. Thank you.”

  She couldn’t have said, afterward, what they talked of that afternoon. Étienne and Agnes worked their way through most of the vodka, and Helena and Sam polished off the rest of the champagne, and by the time her friends got up to leave her head was spinning.

  She said good-bye to both men with a chaste kiss on the cheek, for she knew better than to expect a passionate farewell from Sam while Étienne stood nearby. As soon as the door closed behind them she returned to the petit salon to thank her aunt, and to ask if she might return to her room for a nap.

  “Of course, but first come and sit with me awhile,” said Agnes, who had the look of a cat sated with cream.

  “Is anything the matter?”

  “Not at all. You realize, of course, that he’s halfway to falling in love with you.”

  For a moment Helena thought she might be ill. She pressed her fingers to her temples and took several deep, steadying breaths. “What? No, he can’t be. I mean . . . we’re only friends. I’m sure that’s all we are.”

  “The man is smitten with you. It’s as plain as the freckles on his nose.”

  “No, no . . . you’re wrong. He can’t be. It’s impossible.”

  Sam was fond of her, and he certainly was attracted to her, but she felt certain that was all. If anything, he was feeling just as she did: confused about the path their friendship should take but reluctant to do anything that might threaten the bond between them.

  No matter how he felt, he certainly wasn’t smitten with her. That sort of thing happened in romantic novels, but not in real life.

  Agnes patted Helena’s hand, her shrewd gaze missing nothing. “Surely he’s given you some notion of how he feels. Has he kissed you?”

  Helena’s hands flew up to cover her face. She wasn’t having this conversation with Agnes. She wasn’t. She’d had too much champagne and rich food; that was all. She would go upstairs and rest and the world would make sense again very soon.

  “I’m not your mother, my dear. I won’t have the vapors if you’ve shared a kiss with a man who cares for you.”

  “The night . . . the morning he took me to Les Halles,” Helena mumbled, still hiding behind her hands. “He kissed me then. And then, the night of my birthday, I thought he might. But he didn’t. Which was probably for the best, I suppose.”

  “Why would you say that? He’s a terribly attractive man, and you’re evidently fond of him.”

  “I am, and there have been, well, a few moments when I’ve wondered if there might be something between us, but I can’t let myself hope for anything more. That life . . . it isn’t for me.”

  “You mean marriage and babies and all of that?”

  “Yes. Once I wanted it, or at least I told myself I did, but now . . . I’m not so sure.”

  “And what’s to stop you from becoming his lover?”

  Helena was so stunned she could only stare, openmouthed, at her aunt. Surely Agnes wasn’t suggesting—

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not your mother. I won’t condemn you for doing as I did at your age.”

  “I honestly don’t know what to say.”

  “Would you consider it?” Agnes pressed.

  “No! I don’t know . . . perhaps? But what if he doesn’t want me? He’s only ever kissed me the one time, and that was weeks ago.”

  “Perhaps he is waiting for you, hmm? In any event, you don’t have to decide anything today. Remain his friend, or become his lover—the only thing that truly matters is your own happiness. That, my dear, is the mark of a modern woman.”

  Chapter 21

  January was a miserable month, cold and perpetually rainy, and Helena began to think she might never be warm again. It felt like months since she’d seen the sun, and with the dawn of each gray day she found her spirits wilting, inch by inch, their only prop the satisfaction she found in her work and the company of her friends.

  Nearly every Saturday she, Étienne, and Mathilde went to dinner at Chez Rosalie. Helena always invited Sam, but his editor had been keeping him busy with writing assignments, and he’d only been able to join them once in the weeks following Christmas.

  Her aunt was absent, having departed for a long stay in Antibes, and without her animating presence the great house on the quai de Bourbon felt awfully cold and lonely. Agnes had taken Hamish with her, and Helena was surprised by how much she missed her walks along the Seine with the little terrier. There really was nothing like a dog to make one feel as if one mattered to the world.

  It was as well that she had precious few distractions, since her preparations for the Salon des Indépendants consumed her waking hours. Although there was no guarantee that the Salon organizers would accept her or any other student’s work, Maître Czerny was a member of the placement committee, and this, Étienne assured her, was a virtual guarantee of their each having at least one piece admitted.

  The maître had instructed them to prepare no more than three works of art, in any medium, for his inspection, and he would make the final decision on which to submit for consideration. This had kept Helena awake for more hours than was good for her: how to guess what would appeal most to her teacher, and thereby win a place in the Salon? Whether she cared for a given piece was immaterial; what Maître Czerny liked was key. And he was a difficult man to please, even on those rare days when he was in a tolerably amiable mood and didn’t shout himself hoarse before lunchtime.

  Since Christmas she’d been occupied with a series of paintings based on her drawings from Les Halles, and she’d begun to believe she might, one day, be capable of producing a grander piece—a painting that incorporated all the clamor, noise, filth, beauty, misery, and despair that she’d witnessed in her few hours at the market. But she was a slow painter, especially when working in oils, and she would never be able to finish such a painting in time for the Salon.

  So instead she was focusing on a character study of the farmer’s wife, but there was something missing, some animating spirit, from the preparatory drawings she had executed so painstakingly. In her mind’s eye she could see the woman so clearly, see the way she’d brimmed over with life and joy despite her hardships, but time and again Helena wasn’t able to capture her memories with charcoal and paper. The drawings were flat, hopelessly so, and she was running out of time. The opening reception, or vernissage, for the Salon des Indépendants was set for April 25, little more than three months away, and her other completed works were simply not good enough.

  There was also the matter of Jean-François d’Albret, who had not forgotten her promise to dine with him. Just after Christmas he’d sent her a letter, which she had rather shamefully ignored; but it was followed by another, then another, and on two separate instances he had also sent her flowers. Each posed the same question: when will you be free for an evening of dinner and dancing?

  Yesterday she’d received a petit bleu from Sam with the news that he was busy working on a story and once again couldn’t come to dinner at Rosalie’s on Saturday night. She had sat on the end of her bed for a good half hour, simply staring at his untidy handwriting that she now deciphered so easily. And then her gaze had fallen on her dressing table and the pile of messages from Mr. d’Albret, all unanswered, and she had decided she might as well give in and go to din
ner with him.

  She’d written out a response, posted it straightaway—and had immediately regretted it. The man, after all, had been a complete bore at her aunt’s party the month before. What did she expect? That he would magically be transformed into an agreeable and interesting person?

  His response arrived first thing the next morning, the expensive stationery smelling faintly of eau de cologne.

  17 January 1925

  My dear Lady Helena,

  You cannot imagine the delight with which I opened your message. I had begun to fear that my pleas were falling on barren ground, so it is with the utmost pleasure that I accept your invitation to dinner this very evening. I will collect you at eight o’clock. Until then, please be assured of my sincere regard and heartfelt good wishes, for I remain,

  Your devoted servant,

  Jean-François d’Albret

  It was a perfectly polite and proper response, although his choice of words was perhaps more flowery than she would have liked. She’d bristled at his suggestion that she had issued the invitation, but he was writing in a foreign language, after all, and it would be unfair to parse every word of the message.

  All Saturday she worked alongside her friends and said nothing, not wishing to color her day with dread of the inevitable. It was also the case that she had a pretty good idea of how they would react.

  Only when it was time to leave for dinner at Rosalie’s, and they were putting on their coats and dousing the lanterns in the studio, did she admit the truth of her plans for the evening. Both Étienne and Mathilde were horrified; fortunately Daisy had already left, so she wasn’t present to cast a third condemning vote.

  “Are you mad?” Mathilde asked. “The man is un cochon . . . Étienne?”

  “A swine.”

  “Yes. And I do not say this as a critique, for you are a lovely girl, I hope you know it, but this d’Albret person is in search of a fortune. Remember what your Sam said at dinner that night—”