Chasing Sylvia Beach (2 page)

With that thought, Lily opened her eyes. The questions weren’t getting her any closer to understanding how she’d gotten here. It was getting dark—where was she going to spend the night? And what after that?

Without a plan, without a purse, without a clue, she felt terribly exposed. If she were home, she’d have a pen and her notebook and would be able to at least write down the questions to stop them from nagging her. But she had nothing—just 100 francs.

Children squealed nearby and their nannies scolded them. The rhythmic rustle of the pebbles on the path gave her something else to focus on. Soon the everyday sounds of the garden evoked a tiny sense of normalcy, and she rested her head against the back of the chair, closing her eyes once again.

Briefly, the wonder of her situation overrode her confusion. Sylvia Beach. Lily shook her head and grinned.
I’ve just seen Sylvia Beach
. She had pored over Sylvia’s picture countless times, even spent two days at the Princeton University Library engrossed in Sylvia’s archives, touching Sylvia’s belongings. And now she was alive and at the helm of Shakespeare and Company bookstore and was not a person from the past. But how?

A sharp whistle brought her around. She opened her eyes, groggy. A man in a blue uniform with a small hat pulled over his forehead strolled by. “Fermeture!” he called, tooting his whistle again and nodding at her. People flowed toward the exit. The man with the newspaper was gone. Lily struggled up from the chair, sorry to leave its comfort. Where would she go now?

THREE WOMEN SAT in the back of a café in the 5th arrondissement, well away from the glances of passersby. A waiter approached their table, his tray laden with tea, coffee, and a pot of hot milk. They waited quietly while he served them. The youngest, Louise, a fortyish brunette, wore her hair in a wavy bob. She lit a cigarette and inhaled slowly. To her left, Adelaide, her older companion—graying hair, a simple dress with a cardigan—adjusted the reading glasses perched on her nose. The third, a striking black woman, stood out most of all. Erect and dignified, Diana wore a look of weary disdain, as if time were of no importance. She leaned in and focused on Louise.

“What made you think that was a good idea?” she asked.

Louise exhaled smoke. “Weren’t we preparing for this? Wasn’t she marked as a possibility?”

“She was. Yes. But I’m the one making decisions about new candidates, when and where they arrive. I choose their tests, not you.”

Louise sipped her coffee. “I’m sorry. But you have to agree the time was ripe. She was already coming to Paris. Alone. When would that happen again?”

“You really have some nerve. You’ve put our work in jeopardy.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Diana,” Louise said.

“I’m not. You well know how little control we have once you arrive.”

The older woman intruded, again adjusting her glasses. “She seems fine. Have faith in her lineage.”

Diana ignored her and spoke to Louise. “Yes, well, you better hope that she can pull it off. Otherwise—”

“Otherwise what?” Louise stubbed out her cigarette.

“Otherwise we’ll be looking to replace you as well.”

No one spoke. Café life continued around them, the hiss of the milk steamer, the clatter of dishes and cutlery.

“Diana, I can’t believe you’re thinking that. How long have I served?”

“You’ve served long and well,” Diana said. “But we can’t have our members making important decisions on their own. We have too much to lose. And you know it.”

Louise collected her cigarettes and rose to leave.

“Watch her, Louise. We need to let her integrate, see how she does. You can trail her, but don’t let her see you. We’ve got Harold making sure she doesn’t get into any trouble. “One more thing.” Diana paused. “Her success is in your hands. Since you brought her, she’s yours.”

“Understood.”

Louise left, and the two women sat in silence, the coffee growing cold between them.

THE COMFORT SHE’D experienced in the garden dissipated as Lily slipped into the bustle of the city. The sidewalks were crowded with students walking together in small groups. At the Place Edmond Rostand intersection, the café terrace overflowed with people enjoying conversations with friends. Catching sight of the Pantheon at the far end of rue Soufflot, Lily gasped. A memory rose from her student days at the Sorbonne. She had been packing and leaving in a hurry, unsure about whether she’d return. Lily blinked the memory away, along with tears that had gathered. This was her first time back to Paris since then.

She shook her head, trying to understand the collision of her Paris past with this, a familiar but strange Paris. Suddenly she was aware that she was standing dumbstruck in the middle of the sidewalk. A couple passed and the woman tsked. Lily hurried through the crosswalk and continued down the boulevard Saint-Michel.

Small shops lined the boulevard. She passed grocery stores and
tabacs
, shops that served the people who lived in the neighborhood, not tourists visiting from around the world. It was more like a village than a corner of a cosmopolitan city. And she was the beggar who had arrived in the village with nowhere to stay. She felt exposed and conspicuous on the busy boulevard.

Ducking down the first side street, she found herself on rue Monsieur le Prince. A few steps in and a quiet descended, allowing her to assess her situation calmly. First, she needed to find a place to sleep. Then something to eat. She had 100 francs—how much was that in 1937? And who had put it in her pocket? Where had the clothes she was wearing come from?
Stop asking questions,
she chided herself.
Think. What do you know?
The last thing she remembered was being on a plane, on her way to Paris, to attend a literary festival. Then—bam—awakening in Sylvia Beach’s bookstore. Nothing made sense.

Finally, a coherent thought arose. Surely being in Sylvia’s bookstore wasn’t an accident. Lily liked to believe in serendipi-ty, but this couldn’t be a coincidence. She had to go back. She had to do what other Americans had done—throw herself on Sylvia’s mercy and ask for help. The thought of actually speaking to Sylvia made Lily feel numb with fear. But she had no choice. She would go back to the bookstore and see if Sylvia could help her somehow, help her figure out how she had gotten here, why she was wearing clothes from the thirties, and what to do next.

Moving with purpose now, she soon arrived at the Carrefour de l’Odéon. A flutter of fear shadowed her. What would she say? As she approached the bookstore, a dim light warmed the window and gave her hope. But the shop was closed and nothing moved inside, not even the dog she’d met earlier.
Of course,
Lily thought.
She was closing when I left. I’m not thinking straight. I have to find somewhere to stay tonight.

On the boulevard Saint-Germain, she crossed the street and entered rue de l’Ancienne Comédie. She paused at Le Procope, where she had dined once with her parents. Supposedly the oldest restaurant in Paris, it had served mediocre food that she hadn’t cared for. Her dad loved it, relishing the history that seemed to sparkle from the chandeliers. Her mom was uncomfortable in such a fancy setting, dressed in her sensible khaki pants and black top and requesting ice for her soda.

A small group of people passed Lily, talking and laughing loudly, nudging her from the restaurant’s blue façade. A few streets away, she recalled that she had a reservation during the literary festival at the nearby Hotel Saint André des Arts. Perhaps the hotel existed in 1937. Her parents had stayed there when they visited her. Maybe she could get a room there. Certainly the cheap lodging she’d had as a student wasn’t available and besides, those tiny rooms required proof of student status and a long application process. She wandered in the narrow and angled streets of the neighborhood before she found the hotel.

With relief, she recognized the street even if it wasn’t illuminated with bright and gaudy neon signs. Gone were the throngs of tourists she’d known to crowd this intersection. The corners of the streets were still dotted with cafés and restaurants, but the atmosphere of the neighborhood was somber compared to the bright, busy quartier she’d known. She hurried down the street looking for the hotel. Yes, it was there; in fact it was nearly the same as when her parents had stayed there. Only the door was different—the entrance was now in the middle of the windows and not to the side. Light filtered through the lace curtains. Lily sighed with relief. She was just minutes from a safe haven. She gathered her courage and went inside.

Lily found herself in a small reception area, facing a desk with a high counter. The half-timber walls and the exposed wooden beams darkening the staircase made the reception area feel cozy and inviting. A door to another room behind the desk was ajar, and Lily heard a newspaper rustling from inside. She tapped a bell on the counter. The sound of a chair scraping on the floor came from the room.

The hotel keeper, a woman with graying hair pulled back into a bun, walked out and stood behind the desk. She wore a sleeveless blue housedress that stretched tightly across her breasts. Sizing Lily up, she frowned and grunted, “Oui?”

Lily asked for a room in her most polite French. The woman peered around Lily. “You are alone?” she said.

Lily nodded yes. At this, the woman frowned and asked where her husband was. Lily’s blouse dampened with sweat. Mustering her courage, she pressed on in hesitant French.

“I’m not married. I just want a room for the night.”

The hotel keeper raised her eyebrow and shook her head. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. This is a hotel of good reputation. It’s not the kind of place to harbor an unaccompanied, unmarried woman.” With that, she closed the ledger on the desk and gave a scooting nod, urging Lily to leave.

Lily wavered, wanting to get away from the woman but needing a room more. She had money. Just because she didn’t have a husband didn’t mean she was immoral. Pulling herself upright, she spoke in what she hoped was correct French.

“What do you take me for? I can pay!”

The woman gave a mean smirk. “I take you for a foreigner! And here, rules are rules whether you have money or not. Now, please, I ask you to leave.” She made as if to come out from behind the counter.

Lily gathered her dignity. “You are without heart, madame,” she said, and turned to leave.

“And you are rude, mademoiselle,” the woman rebutted.

An insult that Lily’s French classmates used came to her, and while opening the door, in a low voice, she said, “Vieille truie!”

“What!” the woman cried, her voice quivering with shock. But Lily kept going, propelled by the injustice of it. Before the door closed, the concierge shouted, “Don’t let me see you again here!”

“That’s right,” Lily groused to herself. “You won’t ever see me in your hotel again.” She stormed away, lost in anger, not noticing that night had fully fallen and that there were few people on the dark street.

It wasn’t until she reached the Place Saint André des Arts that she realized there were few women on the street. Lily paused, her anger replaced by a growing hunger. She stuck her finger into her pocket, touching the 100-franc note. Crepe shops and pizzerias didn’t yet line rue Saint André des Arts. The shops she’d passed were closed and shuttered for the night.

A few couples strolled by. Men lingered, engrossed in conversation. Lily noticed a man smoking a cigarette near a kiosk with a poster for the upcoming Exposition Internationale. The image on the poster was dreamy, with “Paris” written in neon blue script. Lily studied it for a minute before realizing the man was watching her. He wore his brown fedora low on his forehead, making it hard to see his expression. Suddenly Lily felt like prey, stranded in the middle of the square with no sense of where to go next. She tried to orient herself but without a clear destination, no direction presented itself. Taking a left, she headed toward the Seine.

Reaching the river, she immediately breathed easier. The open space gave her a chance to think. She strolled along the wall, watching the water and weighing her options. She could find somewhere to sleep outside. People did it all the time. Henry Miller had slept outside when he first came to Paris. But as pleasant as the river was, she sensed it wasn’t a good place to take shelter for the night. She turned down rue des Grands Augustins, passing a group of well-dressed people leaving Lapérouse. The smell of perfume, cigar smoke, and roasted meats wafted out of the restaurant. Her stomach cramped with hunger. She caught a glimpse of red velvet as the door closed and the group moved down the sidewalk, laughing. Lily wanted nothing more than to be inside, warm and fed.

The street, dark and quiet, didn’t yield shelter. Lily passed what seemed like private offices, but no small park or alley presented itself. As she approached a side street, a man emerged. She quickened her pace, hoping she didn’t appear as afraid as she was.

“Ey, ma jolie!”

Lily startled, though she pretended to have heard nothing. She kept walking, looking straight ahead. But rapid footsteps made her turn around. It was the man from the square catching up and coming alongside her. He addressed her in accented French.

“Where are you going like that?”

Lily walked faster. She could see the end of the street shining with light. The man merged toward her, opening his arms wide and forcing her against the wall.

“Ah! Leave me alone or I’ll scream,” Lily said, stumbling over the French. The man pressed closer, and he gave a creepy leer. Razor stubble covered his chin. “Non!” Lily shouted, trying to push him away. A loud click sounded and then his hand was in front of her face, an open switchblade almost touching her nose.

“I advise you to not shout,” he warned. Lily paled and pressed herself against the wall.

“Give me everything you’ve got, fast,” he said. Lily fumbled in her jacket pocket but found nothing. “Allez!” the man shouted, pushing her shoulder.

Lily whimpered and remembered the slit pocket in her skirt. “Wait!” she cried. She pulled out the 100 francs and gave it to him. “That’s all I have,” she said. He grinned and pocketed the money, keeping his knife out and open.

“Now give me that ring.” He nodded toward her hand. Lily hid it against her belly, covering it with her other hand.

“Mais non! It’s my grandmother’s!”

He poked at her with the knife. “Ah!” Lily cried, twisting away. The man folded the blade away with a click, shoving the knife into his pocket. He grabbed Lily’s fist and tried to pull the ring off. When she struggled, he quickly pinned her with his forearm. He pried the ring from her finger, wedging Lily against the wall. He put his hand against her mouth and whispered in her ear.

“You think you’re going to get away so easily? Not yet,” he said. “We’re going to have a nice moment here together.” He reached to put the ring in his pocket, and as he did, Lily gathered all her strength and kneed him in the groin. He bent over in pain and Lily pushed him away. He fell, dropping the ring. On the ground, hands over his crotch he croaked, “Salope!”

“Jerk!” Lily cried. She grabbed her ring and dodged away.

At the end of the street, Lily slipped the ring on, muttering “Crap! Crap!” Scanning the neighborhood, she saw only steel-shuttered windows and shadowy doorsteps. A dim streetlamp didn’t dispel the darkness. A pair of men emerged noisily from an alley, startling Lily. They headed in her direction and she darted toward the only lit shop front on the street. She had the door open and was inside before she realized that she wasn’t likely to receive warmth here, either. It was the hotel where she had been so cruelly refused.