Crossing on the Paris (19 page)

Running her fingers over the cheap pulp, wrinkled and soiled from wear, she thought of her brothers. She found dark smudges that looked like fingerprints, grease from their oil-stained hands. On one page she found a long, thin stain, as if someone had once used a blade of grass for a bookmark. Which one of them might have done that? And here, had a gnat been killed between these pages? Leafing through this book, she felt connected to all four of her brothers at once; she felt their presence.

From its splayed pages, she began pulling out letters, dozens of thin letters from Loïc, the rare postcard from Didier and Émile.
Idiots.
She thought of her brothers, uniformed, mustached, and smiling.
Poor dupes.
They hadn't felt that way about the war, had they? Surely they had found meaning in what they were doing,
waiting to die
? Did they know what they were fighting for? Or had they too thought it nonsense, madness?

Among this precious correspondence, she picked out a yellowed envelope: the last letter Loïc had sent her. She opened it carefully;
like all the others, the creases of the thin pages were fragile from all the times she'd folded and unfolded it. From the random spots of ink and the scrawled handwriting, Julie had always imagined Loïc writing this letter on his knees while squatting in the trenches.

31 October 1918

Dear Julie,

As you can see from the date above, tomorrow is All Saints' Day. Do you remember going to the cemetery when we were children? How serious we were as we lay flowers on our grandparents' graves? Tomorrow will you go and honor our brothers as well? Here, between the fighting and the Spanish flu, we would need a train to carry the flowers to remember all our dead.

It is cold and rainy in the trenches, but we mole men are used to mud and worms. At the moment, with an army blanket over my shoulders and some bitter coffee to take off the chill, I'm listening to my fellow soldiers talk of going home. You see, there have been rumors of peace here lately. After the fierce attacks of spring and summer, they say the Germans are coming to the end of their resources. But here in my underground home, it's hard to imagine a normal life. And, sadly, many of the things I used to enjoy somehow seem pointless to me now.

I often think of Jean-François, Émile, and Didier
—“les grands
”—and wonder if they too were cold and miserable. Did they dream about Maman's oyster fritters and tripe like I do? Did they relish each cigarette and look forward to the odd shot of pastis? Did they love their comrades? And their officers? Were they gallant men, worthy of ordering troops to their death? I do hope so.

If all this talk of an armistice is true, then I should be seeing you shortly.

Your big brother who loves you,

Loïc

Julie had already written the response, a lighthearted missive about life in Le Havre, when they got the official letter with the military seal. It was November 11.

“No!” her mother screamed. “Not Loïc! Not my baby!”

The postman had delivered it around nine; the church bells began ringing at noon. The streets overran with people, sporting impromptu tricolor ribbons and breaking out dusty bottles of liqueurs and wine to toast on the streets. Groups erupted into “La Marseillaise” but only a few could sing more than a few lines without crying, tears of pride, joy, and relief streaming down their cheeks. Saint François was celebrating, but Julie and her parents remained at home, indignant at the unfairness of fate. The armistice would not bring Loïc home.

Julie took the last letter she'd written him and carefully folded it into a paper boat. She walked outside to the canal that ran behind their house and placed the boat in the water. She'd watched it float, bobbing up and down, until it got heavy, waterlogged, and sank. Then, finally, she burst into tears. The church bells were clanging merrily, but for her, it was a death toll.

She refolded his last letter, returned it to its frail envelope, and tucked it back inside the book. She closed her eyes and imagined her brother's face. Unlike their older brothers, all three ruddy and stocky, Loïc had looked more like Julie. They shared the same pallor, copper hair, agate eyes. She imagined them walking along the waterfront, skimming stones on a summer day, the sun gleaming off Loïc's hair, a mirror of her own. In her mind, she saw her parents smile again, like they used to before the war.

Julie was stowing the letters and cards, one by one, when she
came across the letter from Nikolai. She opened the thick, clean paper and reread the words.
There is a connection between us
 . . . Impossible! A man who had left his comrades in the trenches to later insult their memory? How could she have been so excited about such a man? She didn't even know him. Julie angrily flicked the stiff paper with her finger. She was tempted to rip it to pieces, to wad it into a ball and throw it across the room. Instead, however, she stored it alongside the letters from her loved ones. She then closed the book and tried to sleep, willing herself to dream of Loïc, of all her brothers. To hear their voices and laughter again, to see them move.

Constance's eyes flew open in the dark. Terrified and confused, she groped for George's sleeping body, only to bang her hand against a bed rail. Where was she? She fumbled for the light and was finally able to pull the chain of a small lamp she couldn't remember ever seeing before. Panting hard, her heart pounding, she scanned the tiny, wood-paneled room with the slow realization that she was (implausibly!) in an ocean liner cabin. She sat up and breathed out. She could still see the last, fleeting images from the nightmare that had woken her.

In the dream, Constance had obviously done something horrible. Her mother, grimly dressed as a pilgrim, was furious. A black chicken in her hand, she stopped plucking to point at her daughter, who was only the size of a child. “How could you, Constance! How could you!” Feathers flew around her as she cried out, loudly accusing her daughter of some unknown abomination. Constance breathed out again. What a relief to find it was only a dream, that no crime had been committed.

As she closed her eyes, the image of her mother was still clear
in her mind. Although it was disturbing to see her looking so angry, it was a refreshing change to see her talking (shouting, even) and wearing different clothes. An unlikely outfit, perhaps—a black dress, an apron and bonnet, like Constance herself had once worn in a Thanksgiving play at elementary school—but it was clean and pressed. In the real world, Lydia had not spoken, washed, or changed her clothes in months. She had been haunting the family home in her nightgown—now a filthy gray rag covered in stains—her long hair loose and stringy, her body reeking of sweat and urine. A furtive, ghostly creature, she startled her husband, Gerald, in the kitchen at night, or in the back garden at dawn.

These last six months, Constance had been visiting her parents every day. With patience and care, she'd tried to soothe her mother, to encourage her to bathe, to talk; sometimes she treated her like a small child, at others she used reason. But Lydia rarely acknowledged her, and when she did, it was to put a safe distance between them. Constance had never captured her mother's imagination, had never interested her in the least. It almost seemed as if her attempts offended Lydia, the
thought
that her neurosis could be cured by the inane chatter of a daughter nearing middle age.

It was her father's despair that had led to this round-trip Atlantic voyage, his naïve idea that seeing her younger daughter might help (as if Faith's self-absorbed conversation was any more therapeutic!), though truly, no one—not even Gerald himself—believed it. Now, without Faith or hope, Lydia would be committed to an institution.

Constance shuddered under her warm blankets, dreading her return home. Near tears but unable to cry, her throat grew constricted and dry. She got up and poured herself a glass of water, her nervous hands spilling half of it on the floor. Swallowing the water in uncomfortable sips, she glanced at her travel clock; it was four in the morning. She eyed the sleeping powders on the bureau. Not
wanting to risk sleeping late—she didn't want to miss seeing the doctor in the morning—she shook just a tad into her water, swirled it around, and gulped it down.

With a fidgety sigh, she climbed back under the covers of the compact bed, wondering what she might have done in the dream to make her mother so angry. Perhaps, she mused, it was future fury, reserved for the day they took her to the mental hospital. Really, though, Constance didn't believe in dreams. Meaningless little vignettes, absurd cabaret acts, this was how the mind entertained itself at night.

She turned off the light and, in the dark, felt her throat, still tight, for lumps. Was this just nerves? Or could she be coming down with something? Making an effort to control her breathing—inhaling deep, exhaling long—she slowly began to relax.

When she was younger, Constance had taken a great interest in her health. As a child, she always enjoyed a visit to the doctor's: the sterile smell of the office; the serious instruments; the caring, attentive faces of the doctors and nurses; their cautious explorations to determine what was wrong. As a young adult, convinced that a sound body led to a sound mind—and anxious not to repeat her mother's mental history—she underwent a variety of cures. Before her daughters were born, she had experimented with innovative, modern treatments—from vegetarianism to sexual abstinence, to enemas and Fletcherizing—and had routinely spent a few weeks a year in sanatoriums. Faith had always had a mocking attitude about Constance's devotion to her physical well-being, calling it a “pathetic hobby.” But her sister—with her cigarettes, wine, and endless cups of coffee—was certainly not one to talk about health.

Feeling her brow with a cool hand, she thought that perhaps Dr. Chabron, if he wasn't too busy, could have a look at her when she brought him the mystery novel. She hadn't had a physical examination for ages—when Elizabeth was born six years ago, she had
begun focusing all her attentions on her little ones—but after a fortnight in Paris with its mold and Old World dust, she thought she could use one. The ship's surgeon seemed an excellent professional (didn't Captain Fielding credit him with saving his life?) and was certainly kind and mannerly. Yes, in his hands, she was sure she would be well cared for.

No longer tense—the powders seemed to be taking effect—she nestled down into the blankets, determined to sleep, to dream, but not of her mother. As she began to doze, she was imagining the aseptic whiteness of the doctor's infirmary, the sheet of the cot pulled stiff. Dr. Chabron's eyes brimmed with worry over her, as his clean hands gently inspected her neck, then clasped her wrist to check her pulse. “I don't know what to make of your case,” he was saying, his voice grave, yet passionate. “I'm going to have to examine you thoroughly . . .”