S
ylvia Ageloff was studying French in the Hotel St. Germain when the front desk called to say Mademoiselle Weil was there to see her.
“Oui, oui! Très bien!”
Sylvia said, unable to think of the words to say
send her up
. She'd taken French in high school, but nothing would come back when she needed it. “One minute,” she called, when she heard Ruby knock.
When she opened the door, Ruby, standing in the hall, had struck a pose to show off the black-and-white polka-dot dress she was wearing with a broad-brimmed black straw hat. Her eyebrows were plucked to pencil-thin lines and her large lips painted bright red. “How do I look?”
“Oh, very nice. Very glamorous.”
“And look at you!” Ruby exclaimed. “Such a bookworm! Here you are in Paris studying your old French textbook!”
“Well, I want to learn some French.”
“But you have to be with people who speak it. You'll never do it holed up in your hotel room, though this isn't bad. Not bad at all.” Ruby strolled to the window, pulled the drapes to look across the Rue du Bac at the row of tall narrow façades, the stone stained almost black, the rows of balconies and windows setting off opposing and complementary rhythms. “Are you having fun?”
“Yes. Very much,” Sylvia answered. She didn't consider Ruby a true friend, so she found it odd having her in the room, and it had been odder still sharing a cabin with her on the ship coming over. “And you?” Sylvia asked. “Have you been having fun?”
“My sister has shown me the most divine time.”
“Is Corinne here in Paris?”
“Yes, off with some of her glamorous friends. She's been so generous, but I can't tag along the entire time. So, I thought I'd see if you wanted to go out.”
“I suppose I could do something.”
“I know! Corinne gave me a letter of introduction to a man here in Paris. I think he might be some sort of aristocrat. She said he was very attractive. Let's call him.”
“Ruby, I didn't come here to meet aristocrats.”
“I'm not sure that's what he is, but let's call him. Let me use your phone!” She picked up the receiver and made a face for Sylvia's benefit while she waited for the hotel operator. “Do you speak English?” she asked. “Yes, I want to call out.”
She gave the operator a number and a moment later was introducing herself, saying that she was at the Hotel St. Germain. “You do? Really? You live that close? Yes, well, I'm here with my friend. Let me ask her.”
“He's just a few blocks from here and wants to come over.”
“Ruby, I don't know.”
“He sounds so French. I'll go down and meet him, and if he's attractive, I'll give you a call.”
Ruby freshened her lipstick, touching the corner of her mouth with the nail of her little finger. “How do I look?” she asked, turning to Sylvia.
“You look fine, very pretty.”
Sylvia tried to go back to her book but Ruby had broken her concentration. She waited for Ruby to call so that she could say she really wasn't interested, then, as the time passed, began to think that Ruby had forgotten her altogether. Finally the phone rang.
“Sylvia, you have to come down. I'm serious. If you don't come down, I'm coming to get you.”
“Oh Ruby!”
“Please!”
“I'll be there in a few minutes.” Sylvia put her book aside and stopped to glance at the mirror. She was fair and slim. She felt pretty until she put on her glasses, which, despite the pale blue translucent frames, weighed upon her as a handicap. She occasionally dispensed with her glasses when meeting an attractive manâa dubious strategy that made the man blurry and her squintyâbut she was confident that she wouldn't be interested in anyone Ruby knew. She ran a comb through her hair and applied fresh lipstick.
As she walked into the lobby, she felt a little shock of recognition when she saw a man sitting in one of the armchairs, smoking a cigarette. For a moment she thought he was someone from her past, or that he might be an actor she'd seen on the stage in New York or in a film. Sylvia found it vaguely reassuring that he was wearing glasses, a pair of tortoise-shell horn-rims. Ruby was sitting at his side, her eyes shining with pleasure. He rose as Sylvia approached, making a little bow. “Ah, you're the other girl from New York.”
She nodded, taking in the accent and his casual, elegant clothes.
“And you're from here,” said Sylvia, resisting the urge to take off her glasses.
“I live in Paris, but no, not from here. I was just telling Ruby that I'm Belgian, but you would never guess where I was born.”
“Not Brussels?”
“No, it's more complicated. Tehran.”
“Is your family Persian?” She smiled.
“Do I look Persian? No, my father was ambassador there. But you didn't come to Paris to hear such things.”
Sylvia noticed that his English sounded formal and a bit old-fashioned, as if he had learned it from a textbook. “Did you go to school in England?” she asked.“ You speak English so well.”
“No, my parents sent me to an English primary school in Brussels. I don't have the chance to use it so often, and if you listen long enough, you'll encounter some rusty spots. I was just asking Mademoiselle Weil what she'd seen of Paris. It's a beautiful day and my car is on the street. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to show you a bit of the city.”
Ruby was nodding eagerly, but Sylvia, sensing something, a connection between the two, decided not to interfere. “No, thank you. I'd better not.”
“Sylvia!” Ruby complained.
“You're very kind, but I'm not free.”
“Sylvia!” Ruby hissed at her, taking her arm and pulling her aside. “What are you doing?”
“Go ahead. You'll have fun.”
“But I can't go alone. I don't know him. Please, do this one last thing for me.”
Sylvia looked at Jacques pretending to ignore the exchange and, for some mysterious reason, found herself compelled to say, “Okay, but I have to go up to my room to get my handbag.”
When Sylvia returned, Jacques led the way out to a gleaming black Citroën. Knowing how flirtatious Ruby was, Sylvia insisted on sitting in back, assuming she would be quickly forgotten. The interior, the tan leather seats, smelled liked saddle soap. The day was warm, the pattern of light and shadows on the street swaying gently beneath the trees. “Ah, pardon!” Jacques said as the car lurched abruptly from the curb. He smiled at Sylvia in the rearview mirror. “The clutch is new, a bit stiff I'm afraid.”
From the backseat, she watched St.-Germain-des-Prés pass by, catching a glimpse of an ancient square down a small side street, a pocket of smaller, darker buildings. Compared to Paris, New York had no past. Sylvia was aware of the layering of time in Paris, the great freight of history bearing down on the present, threatening to break through the scrim of her perceptions.
Turning onto one of the broad rectilinear streets that Haussmann had cut through the medieval heart of the city, suddenly they were crossing a bridge, the towers of Notre Dame leaping up before them in all their Gothic gloom. Slowing the car to a halt, all of them craning their necks to the windows, Jacques pointed out the flying buttresses and the gargoyles.
They crossed the Ile de la Cité then turned west on the Rue de Rivoli, passing a gray stone flank of the Louvre, then the open expanse of the Jardin des Tuileries before arriving at the Place de la Concorde, a vast square paved in stone. Sylvia felt the cool spray of mist from the fountains blowing in the breeze, beading the windshield, the silhouette of the Egyptian obelisk rising to be echoed by the Eiffel Tower in the far distance. Jacques pointed out the Petit Palais, the Grand Palais, and the Hotel Crillon; then, leaving the parklike area, they were heading up the Champs-Ãlysées, the traffic becoming thick and loud, the Parisians blowing their car horns incessantly, the air growing dense with exhaust fumes. All of the traffic merged in a great gyre rotating around the Arc de Triomphe, which stood apart and impassive like an enormous packing crate. Jacques maneuvered the car from lane to lane until breaking free of the centrifugal force; they went sailing off onto a tree-lined avenue lined with stately houses that led them into the leafy calm of the Bois de Boulogne. “This is quite peaceful, almost like being in the country,” Jacques said as they watched a group of young women in riding habits cantering past on horses, the hooves raising powdery little echoes of dust.
Leaving the park, they crossed the Seine once more, then drove up along the Left Bank, returning to the St. Germain-des-Prés where rows of café tables beneath plane trees beckoned to them. This was the Paris Sylvia had dreamed of. This was summer, heightened by that feeling, that reality that war was coming, that it was all about to change, that it would never be the same again. With the dusty afternoon light filtering through the trees, Jacques looked at home in his suit, the young women reflected in his dark glasses.
Struggling with French, Sylvia and Ruby marveled as he spoke to the waiter, disappearing into that other language and culture, becoming someone unknowable. But he wanted to make it all accessible to them. He knew the right apéritif to drink on a warm summer afternoon. He had that thing called
savoir faire.
Perfectly barbered and scented, the shadow of beard visible beneath his fine olive skin, he was European down to the tips of his nicotine-stained fingers. But beneath the languor, he was alert, tightly wound, and finely tunedâalmost as if there were two people occupying the same skin. When he spoke about his family, it was with an inaudible sigh, a deep hurt. “My mother, you would have to know her to understand. She's beautiful and charming and forceful. I love her but hate what she stands for. She's from a noble family in Brussels and is intent on perpetuating the aristocracy.”
“And your father?”
“He is from a family of merchants, wealthy but not aristocrats. Of course, they disapprove of the way I live here in Paris. It's an old story. I'm the third son. The money I have from the family isn't enough, so they think I should have a rich wife or a career to earn money.”
“And what would you like to do?”
His lips tightened and suddenly he looked grim. “That's the problem. I'm not suited for anything.”
“But there must be something you love doing.”
“Yes, but it's difficult to get a job as an alpinist.”
“Mountain climbing?”
“You see, it isn't really a career unless you are famous for your exploits, climb the north face of the Eiger like the Germans. The truth is, I haven't had the chance to climb so very much, just enough to get the taste.”
“It isn't frightening?”
“Exhilarating. The higher you go, the more difficult it is, but also the more beautiful. Everything is clean and pure. It's just you and the mountain, unless you're with a team.” He laughed. “But I like sports and am studying journalism. Perhaps that will lead to something.”
“Does your family worry about what's happening in Germany?” Sylvia asked.
“Of course, everyone worries. Hitler is a fool and perhaps a madman, but what can anyone do? He uses the hatred of Jews to his advantage. Everyone is anti-Semitic. It's a fact of life. Even my parents, if they saw me sitting here in this café with two attractive Jewish girls from America, they would very much disapprove.”
Sylvia laughed to mask the little sting of bigotry. “Isn't that rather archaic of them?”
“Everything about nobility is archaic. But that's their problem because I do what I want. I hate politics. I hate hearing about politics. I take people for what they are.”
He signaled to the waiter for the
addition.
The day was coming to an end. Dusk was falling. It was the blue hour, the sky turning to indigo then cobalt. Birds flocked into the treetops, and somewhere in the neighborhood church bells tolled. Jacques paid the bill and grew distracted and remote as they left the café.
“I can walk to my hotel,” Sylvia offered. “It's just a few blocks.”
Jacques smiled sadly. “This has been so pleasant, I hate for it to end.”
“Yes, we've had so much fun,” Ruby agreed.
Again the smile that suggested a fundamental sadness, perhaps the dread of being alone. “I don't want to monopolize your time, but I know a perfect little restaurant, the sort of place Americans such as yourselves would never find on your own. The cuisine is superb. If you've no other commitments I would like to invite you to dinner this evening. I can take you to your hotel. Everyone can rest a bit, refresh themselves, then I'll return at a proper time.”
Ruby looked to Sylvia.
“You would be doing me a favor,” Jacques entreated.
“Oh, Sylvia! We have to!” Ruby exclaimed.
That evening, Sylvia dressed with care, choosing a tailored navy skirt and jacket, with a white blouse that tied at the neck. She studied her reflection with her glasses, then without, her image becoming softer, the lines blurring. Jacques wasn't the sort of man she had gone out with in New York. He wasn't an intellectual who cared passionately about ideas and politics. He was as an archetype she recognized from movies and books, an aristocrat, a rich playboy. He had to know countless people in Paris, and, if Ruby was any sort of indication, he was attractive to women in a superficial way. She turned her face slightly for a more flattering angle. For a moment her mind went still, then, giving herself a small shake, she decided he wasn't her sort.
Nevertheless, at dinner, after a glass of wine, she removed her glasses to look prettier in the candlelight. Jacques talked about Paris, barely glancing up when Eitingon and Caridad came in to take a table across the room.
Jacques was telling Sylvia and Ruby about the best places to hear jazz, the most exciting shows, but food was his favorite topic. When the waiter came, he discussed the menu and wines at length. He knew the recipes, what made the various dishes special. He spoke with confidence that there was a correct way to eat and drink, that these quotidian things in life were fundamentally important. When their plates came, he insisted on carving the chicken, handling the cutlery like surgical instruments.