Chasing Sylvia Beach (3 page)

LILY SLAMMED THE door behind her and ducked down, hiding herself from the street. A voice called out: “Mais qu’est-ce qui se passe?”

It was a young man peering over the counter. Placing his book down, he emerged from behind the desk. Tall, with dark hair, he crouched next to Lily. She struggled to catch her breath. Glancing out the window, she glimpsed the man who had assaulted her passing by.

“Are you okay, mademoiselle?”

Lily huddled against the door, adrenaline flooding her limbs and making her whole body shake.

“Uh, non . . . oui.” She couldn’t look at him. She wasn’t safe here, either. Any minute that woman would come out and tell her to leave.

“Are you English?”

She stole a peek at him. He smiled down at her, his hazel eyes friendly. It was the first kind look she’d received all day. Her mind fumbled with her French. Nothing sorted itself into clear sentences. The memory of the man, his smelly breath and the grip he’d had on her arm, made her cringe.

“Come sit down,” the young man said in English, leading her to a chair near the reception desk. He walked over to the door, opened it, and peered out. Lily shrank away. The hotelier, though young, was a doubtful match for the mugger. He shut the door and said, “Don’t be afraid. You’re safe here.”

Lily leaned into the chair. The hotelier slipped away and returned with a glass of water.

“Did someone hurt you?” he asked.

She sipped the water, unable to reply.

“Do you want me to telephone the police?”

“Non!” Lily almost shouted. The police could be worse. She touched her ring, flooded with relief that she had gotten it back.

“I can take you home if you like. You live close to here?”

Lily snuck a look at him. He nodded gently, so she dared the truth. “Je n’habite pas Paris,” she said.

“Vous parlez francais!”

Lily nodded. “Je pourrais avoir une chambre ici?”

He straightened up and replied in English. “I am sorry, but we cannot rent room to single woman. It is the rule.”

Lily couldn’t believe it. It was as the woman had said—single women weren’t worthy boarders. Lily began to cry. The enormity of the danger she’d just escaped and the realization that now she had no money overwhelmed her. She sobbed without control.

“Ah, non, don’t cry, miss! I will find a solution.” Again, the hotelier knelt next to her. He reached his hand out as if to touch her shoulder but she pulled away. He spoke earnestly.

“Ecoutez. I have an idea. Since I work here throughout the night, it’s possible that you can pass the night in my room. While I am here. What do you say?” He gave her an encouraging smile.

Lily nodded reluctantly, her sobs tapering off. She wasn’t sure she wanted to stay in his room but she had no choice. He went behind the desk and returned with a large set of keys. After locking the front door, he gestured for her to follow him.

They went to a glass-paned door at the back of the reception area and entered a dark courtyard. Lily’s legs weren’t quite stable and a whimper escaped before she put her hand to her mouth. He used a key to open another door that squealed slightly. Putting his finger to his lips, he whispered, “Silencieuse!” He started into an unlit stairwell and Lily followed, touching the cold wall. The wooden stairs creaked as they made their way up. Lily lost count of the floors after three, the circular staircase making her dizzy.

Finally, they arrived at the top floor. They were in a small landing with only two doors. He unlocked one of them, hurried inside, and illuminated a lamp. The room was tiny, with a sloping ceiling. A small desk was heaped with messy piles of books and papers. He gathered a heap of rumpled clothes from the bed. Lily lingered near the door; the room wasn’t big enough for both of them to move. She didn’t see where he would put the clothes, but eventually, with a shameful look, he stuffed them under the bed. The room smelled dank, like dirty socks and dusty books. There was only one window: a skylight in the curved ceiling.

The young man turned from tidying up and said, “Voilà, you will be safe here.”

“Merci.”

He pried a key off the ring and put it on the desk near the door.

“Okay, I come back in the morning at eight o’clock?”

Lily nodded, standing near the bed. At the door, he paused.

“I am Paul,” he said.

“Lily,” she answered quietly.

With that, he left. Lily rushed to the door and turned the key in the lock, once, twice. The lock made a loud clicking noise, and for a moment, there was no sound in the hallway. Then she heard Paul’s steps as he hurried back to his station.

Lily turned around once, then twice, surveying the room. It was a mess of books and clothes. She sat on the bed, and the events of the day surged up: the bookstore, the dog, Sylvia Beach, the mean woman at the desk downstairs, the mugging, and now this, the inexplicable kindness of a stranger.

“What the hell, what the hell, what the hell,” Lily chanted, until the refrain dislodged something from her throat and she was crying uncontrollably. Falling back on the bed, she gripped the dingy pillow with one hand and sobbed. Her hand on the pillow was so known to her, in such a foreign environment. She touched her ring, studying its ornate gold setting cradling a fiery opal. So nearly lost to that creep! The ring was her talisman—of what she didn’t know, but she wanted to believe in talismans and their power to protect. It wasn’t but a minute before Lily slipped into sleep.

THE SOUND OF a door slamming in the stairwell made Lily start up from the pillow. Heart pounding, she strained to make out her surroundings. Dim morning light fell through the skylight, barely illuminating the shapes in the room. At the foot of the bed, a brown jacket draped the back of a chair. Heavy footsteps passed by the door and she froze. The person descended the stairs and Lily released her breath. What had happened the day before wasn’t a dream. She was in the thirties, and she had no clue how or why or what to do.

She lay there unmoving for several minutes, scanning the ceiling as if hoping a directive would slide down the sloping wall. A few wisps of cloud drifted by the skylight, offering only a thread of normalcy. A plane, far and high, floated across the sky and Lily had a flash of her own flight, of chatting with the bob-haired woman seated next to her, and of trying not to cry. The image passed and Lily lay quietly on the bed, trying to remember if it was an actual memory or just a dream.

Finally, she sat up, still wearing the clothes she’d woken up in the day before. Her mouth was terribly dry and hunger snarled through her belly. She rose and took up the pitcher on the table but it was for washing, not drinking. Pouring some water into the basin, she splashed her face. Hands wet, cheeks dripping, she searched for a towel. Not seeing one, Lily ran her fingers through her hair, drying them on her curls. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she groaned. Her eyelids were puffy from crying, and wrinkles creased her blouse in the wrong places.

She took up the jacket she’d shed the night before and wrestled herself into it. The wool jacket fit snugly. Lily noticed an interior pocket and tucked her fingers inside. Maybe there was more money. And there was something—a piece of paper. Pulling it out, she found a cream-colored card, slightly bigger than a business card, creased in half. Unfolding it, Lily’s scalp and neck tingled. The card was from Shakespeare and Company, the drawing of Shakespeare and the shop’s address on the left. In tidy handwriting, it said:

ERNEST HEMINGWAY and STEPHEN SPENDER who are in Paris for a few days will read—Hemingway

from his unpublished novel, Spender some poems—at the Shakespeare and Company bookshop on

Wednesday, May 12th, at 9 p.m.

Please let us know as soon as possible if a seat

is to be reserved for you.

Lily turned it over. The back was blank. A rush of emotions coursed through her. Delight—Hemingway and Spender, reading in a few days, and she held an invitation—how cool! Excitement—she could see Hemingway in person! Fear and confusion—how had she come to have this card? And how had she come to be in Paris in 1937?

She dropped the card and fell back on the bed. Something from Sylvia Beach’s bookstore—in Sylvia’s own handwriting, no doubt—giving her access to this very special reading. She was reaching to pick the card up when two knocks at the door startled her from her thoughts.

“It’s me, Paul.”

“Ah!” Lily squealed. She tucked the invitation in her pocket. After quickly checking her hair in the mirror, she unlocked the door. Paul held a wooden tray aloft, arranged with a bowl of milky coffee and a lumpy package wrapped in brown paper. Tucked under his arm was a paperback book.

“Did you pass a good night?”

“Uh, hi,” Lily said. He came in and nudged aside a stack of books to set down the tray. The smell of coffee pierced through Lily. Paul pulled the chair out and gestured to the food.

“Go ahead. It’s all for you.”

She approached and took up the bowl. Sipping the coffee, she made a small groan of relief.

Paul smiled. “But you can sit down. I bought you croissants, too.”

Lily sat down and opened the package. Two croissants nestled inside, butter darkening the paper. She pulled the end off one of the pastries and ate it. The buttery croissant melted in her mouth. She nearly moaned with the simple pleasure of eating. She devoured it and drank half the bowl of coffee before noticing that Paul had sat down on the bed and was watching her. He smiled, encouraging Lily to take the second croissant. She ate more slowly, peeking at Paul. Calmed by the food, Lily noticed that he seemed to be in his twenties, too, and was cute in a studious kind of way, with brown hair waved up and back from his forehead. His kind, hazel eyes smiling, he questioned her, his English not quite perfect.

“Where do you come from? You are English?”

“No, American.”

“Ah, l’Amérique,” Paul said. “Where in America?”

“Denver.” Lily replied. She hated these “where are you from?” conversations, and it was even worse now that she had something to hide.

“Denver, I do not know it. Do you have grates-ciel?”

“Gracielles? What’s that?”

He raised his arm up above his head. “The big buildings in New York!”

“Oh, skyscrapers!” Lily responded. His enthusiasm for New York architecture made her laugh.

“It’s good to see you smile,” he said.

She blushed and glanced away, noticing croissant flakes scattered on her shirt. Brushing them away, she adjusted her jacket.

“You have skyscrapers in Denver?”

She liked the way he pronounced the word, drawing out the syllables in an attempted American accent.

“Sure.” She shrugged. She didn’t know what Denver was like in the thirties. She’d given all of her historical interest to Paris and Europe. Pointing to the book on his lap, she asked, “What are you reading?”

He held up a tattered white paperback. “
Le Coup de Lune
. It is a detective novel that takes place in Afrique.” Paul handed it to Lily. She inspected the front and back covers, then opened to the frontispiece. She knew of Simenon—yet another Belgian the French would love to appropriate as their own hero—but she had never read any of his mysteries.

“I read detective novels some nights at work. It helps me to stay awake. But I’m meant to be studying this.” He held up
Le Droit Civil
. “For my law studies.” Paul brought his hand to his mouth to cover a yawn. “Désolé,” he said.

“Oh, you’re tired! I should go.” She began to rise but Paul gestured for her to stay.

“Non! Yes, it’s true, I’m tired. I worked all night and I have to go to class this afternoon.” Paul lay back on the pillow. “I just go to close my eyes, who hurt a little. But you can stay here—that does not bother me.”

He held his book across his chest and closed his eyes. Lily watched Paul settle in, envying him the simple comfort of falling asleep in his own bed. He had a small mole just above his lip, and his dove-gray shirt, meticulously ironed, had come un-tucked from his pants. His chest rose and fell, moving the book like a small ship moored on his body. Lily was about to speak when she realized that he had already nodded off. His lips fell apart and a small poof of air escaped.

She relaxed for the first time since she’d awakened. The coffee and croissants had soothed her. Surveying the desk, she scanned the titles of Paul’s books:
Philosophie du Droit, Code Civil, Thomas Hobbes et le Droit Naturel
. They all sounded awfully boring to Lily. She drifted into a reverie about the books she had on her desk at home: a couple of novels, a volume of essays, a book about how to write. She lay her forearms, then her head, on Paul’s desk, and let her eyes close. The gentle rhythm of Paul’s breathing lulled her toward sleep. Images skittered across her mind’s eye: a book closing, the inside of a tilting airplane, a card fluttering to the carpet.

The last scene jerked her upright. That card! she thought, pulling it from her pocket. Yes, it was clearly an invitation to the reading at the shop. This confirmed her instinct to go back to the bookstore.

But just as she decided to leave, Lily’s thinking became confused.
I’m safe here
, she told herself.
If I leave, who knows if I will find shelter again. I don’t want a replay of last night. And what if that man is searching for me?
A shudder passed through her body. But at the same time, she couldn’t stay there doing nothing. She frowned, wishing Paul were awake to help her sort it out. The card from Shakespeare and Company couldn’t have been in her pocket by chance. She must go back and talk to Sylvia Beach.

Lily inspected herself in the mirror. She looked a little better after eating, her blue eyes bright again now that she’d slept. She looked younger somehow, younger than twenty-three. She fixed her hair, pulling the waves over her ears. Adjusting the lapels of her jacket, she took a deep breath and convinced herself she was ready to face the city. She opened the door and slipped out. Before closing it completely, she snuck a peek at Paul. Seeing him dozing so peacefully made her smile. He had saved her. What would have happened without him? She sent him silent thanks and closed the door with a small click. Lily descended the stairs as noiselessly as possible, but they released a whine with every step. She cringed with each note, afraid of being caught.

When Lily reached the ground floor, two women were talking in the small courtyard. She pressed herself against the wall in the dark stairwell, not daring to peek to see if one of them was the woman from the day before. They chatted on and on. Finally, the women left and silence fell in the dim yard. Lily peered out to make sure no one was looking out their window onto the courtyard, then slipped through the porte cochere and onto the street.

The Paris morning swirled around her. Merchants stocked their stalls with fruits and vegetables from crates. Smartly dressed passersby hurried on their usual path to work. Children skipped on and off the sidewalk, swinging their briefcases and getting in the way of housewives carrying their shopping baskets to the market. The coal man made his rounds, delivering enormous bags of coal on his back.

Lily shook her head in amazement. Her life back in Denver existed far away from this morning bustle. She, Lily Heller, was here! In the middle of all this . . . this normal Paris morning. It was crazy. She expected people to gawk at her, but she was the one staring in disbelief at the street life passing by. She gathered her courage and slipped into foot traffic on rue Saint André des Arts. It was odd to enter the city carrying nothing, no purse, no backpack, no passport. The streets felt much friendlier during the day, the shutters tucked up and away, revealing windows displaying here a dried goods shop, there a cobbler with a shoe stretcher and a pair of spats arranged as if ready to dance out of the window. She slowly eased into what was familiar about the city: the narrow streets forming cozy warrens, the spacious boulevards promising access. From her days as a student at the Sorbonne, she knew this neighborhood.

She made her way toward Shakespeare and Company, feeling the same anxiety that she had before landing her job in Denver. It had taken Lily weeks to work up the nerve to ask if they were hiring. Capitol Books had been like a closed world, one she could only hope to enter. But with pressure from her father to get a job, she had finally approached Valerie. There weren’t any positions open, but Lily had persisted, taking refuge in the bookstore every day after dull temp jobs typing in downtown offices. Finally, Valerie had called her for an interview.

But in Paris, Lily wasn’t looking for a job. She only knew she needed to be at Sylvia’s bookshop—the first place where she opened her eyes to this nightmare. The card, inviting her to a reading. She would find answers there. What story would she use to explain herself? “Hello, I’m Lily Heller. I’m your biggest fan and I’ve come from the future”? Maybe she could pass herself off as another writer wandering through Europe, searching for the bohemian life. She shook her head, trying to still her impatient thoughts with an imagined scenario.

She would enter the shop, and its bookish chaos would welcome her like an old friend. Sylvia, perched at the desk, would greet her warmly. Lily would linger, savoring the familiar aroma of ink and paper, hoping to find the perfect book. It wouldn’t be long before she and Sylvia would be chatting about literature. And then Sylvia would somehow come to her rescue.

Lily shook herself from her daydream. She had to deal with the reality of her situation.

She arrived at rue de l’Odéon. The hubbub from the boulevard slipped away. The street was quiet. She passed two women dressed in hats and jackets that nipped the back of their waists. They stood outside a French bookstore with a book-laden cart parked near the entrance. A deliveryman pulled his wooden cart along the gutter toward Lily, whistling and winking as he approached. She glanced away and nervously approached Shakespeare and Company. But there was a sign in the window announcing an unexpected closure for the day. “See the concierge” was scrawled at the bottom of the sign.

Lily didn’t want to see the concierge; she wanted to meet Sylvia. But this gave her a chance to inspect the shop that she’d rushed away from yesterday. She stepped back to take it in. A wooden façade covered the blond stone of the building. The name was prominently painted in gold letters on the lintel above the window. A smaller sign hung in the door’s window, announcing:

Shakespeare and Company, Famous Bookshop

and Lending Library.

The Latest in English and American Books and