Lovely War(62)

APHRODITE


     Gare du Nord—February 13, 1918





I’D WAITED MONTHS for this. I was not about to leave anything to chance.

In all that vast metropolis, Hazel and James approached each other. Two needles in an enormous haystack. How easily they might have missed each other! But I was the magnet at the center. The nearer they drew, the stronger my hold upon them.

I flitted back and forth between them like a sparrow. Find the restroom, James; your face needs washing. Hurry along, Hazel, but not too fast; James needs to clean his face. Colette, buy that poor girl a flower. She’s as gray as her coat. Find some water, James. It’s been a long ride. Perhaps a mint while you’re at it. Breathe, Hazel. This is no time to pass out. Smile, James; you’re about to see Hazel. Don’t worry, Hazel. It’ll all be fine.

I like to keep a little bit of nervousness simmering. It keeps mortals alert at crucial moments. Sensitive to every detail. It imprints lasting memories. These moments belong to forever.

Everything now depended on this moment. When they saw each other, would they see their heart’s desire? Or a stranger they’d imagined they were fond of in a brief moment of loneliness?

At four p.m., by the clock over the door to the terminal, Hazel approached the grand stone fa?ade of Gare du Nord, the largest and busiest train station in Europe. It was enormous. It made her feel like a mouse, going in. Small, insignificant, and about as attractive.

She’d slept and bathed at Colette’s aunt’s flat. Colette made all decisions involving clothing and hair, as Hazel was, herself, completely incapable of thought. On their way, Colette bought a pink rose from a street vendor and pinned it onto her friend’s gray coat. When they reached the plaza outside Gare du Nord, Colette kissed both of Hazel’s cheeks.

“I’ll be in this café across the street with a book,” she explained. “If he hasn’t come in an hour, come find me. If you don’t find me, I’ll see you back at Tante Solange’s this evening.”

Hazel took a deep breath and went inside.

The grand entryway was dim in the late afternoon. Up ahead, the glass-and-iron train shed glowed with golden sunlight reflecting off the mist from steam engines. Train after train lined up in the shed, while thousands of disgorged people poured around her like water around a stone.

It’s so big, she thought. I’ll never find him.

French soldiers in their gray-blue uniforms and British soldiers in khaki were everywhere. Tradesmen and laborers, porters and conductors and engineers, businessmen and politicians, and mothers and children. James could walk right by her and never see her.

Where was the best place to see and be seen? Did she look pathetic and conspicuously desperate, standing right in the center of the station?

That’s not what James thought when he saw her.

He emerged from a second trip to the lavatory, rechecking his tie. It was 4:02. The terminal swarmed with people, but her stillness at the center drew his eye. There she was.

He stood a moment, watching her. That was her. That was the shape of her nose; he’d forgotten. Her hair was a bit different; her coat and hat were the same. She’d traded her dark blue wool muffler for a thinner, finer scarf of rose-colored silk (merci, Colette), and pink certainly was her color. Against the teeming backdrop of the vast station, she shone like an angel. Her cheeks were flushed, her face anxious, adorable, and dear as she watched for him to appear. For him.

He should go to her. He shouldn’t prolong her waiting. But he couldn’t move.

That there were females in the world! After weeks at the Front, they were a forgotten miracle, these beings who smelled clean and pleasant, and wore bright colors, and did not go about killing one another!

It wasn’t sex on his mind. Not lust. More of a baffled reverence. Like a child’s first sight of a Christmas tree. But give me time, and I’d supply whatever was lacking.

This girl had traveled all the way across France to spend a day and a half with him.

That he should be the reason this lovely girl was here felt like an outrage, a lie, an offense against nature. He had fleabites all along his ankles. The skin of his feet, where he hadn’t removed boots for weeks, looked like cheese. He should take the duffel bag he’d borrowed from Frank Mason, turn around, and get right back on the next train north to Bapaume.

Enough, James. Enough.

All right, Hazel. Look to your right.

She turned. She saw him.

What is it about uniforms? What magic spell do they cast? The service dress hat, the trench coat, the tunic with its brass buttons—to see it all draped over her boy from the parish dance, from J. Lyons tea shop, and the Royal Albert Hall—prepare herself how she might, she was slain by the uniform. She wasn’t the first. (The current war’s getup has much more sex appeal if you ask me, and you should.)

Even before Hazel dared to smile, her face lit up, and she took a step toward him. James knew then that, outrage or no, he was not getting back on that train. Ever, if he could help it.





APHRODITE


     Archimedes—February 13, 1918





IT WAS ARCHIMEDES of Syracuse who first said that the shortest distance between two points was the straight line connecting them. Far be it from me to ever cast a shadow upon the wisdom of a Golden Age Greek, but Archimedes had it wrong. The length of the straight line between two people who don’t dare admit they’re in love is infinite. Especially after months apart.