Lovely War(69)

Don’t scoff at them. Young lovers may be ludicrous creatures, but I’ll have no sarcasm at their expense. Anyone who’s never been where they are is only to be pitied. The photographer kept any opinions to himself. He made his living off the love business and was paid up front.

I made sure the sun was as warm as it could be in mid-February. I didn’t want cold to rain on their day. Though it hardly needs my help to do so, I wanted Paris to shine.

They wended their way toward the Eiffel Tower. James gaped at its towering height. “Now that’s something I’d have liked to see being built.”

Hazel threaded her arm through his. “Can you imagine what it was like for the workers?”

Her nearness immediately eclipsed the steel monument. “You’re not volunteering to paint the top of the tower, are you?” he asked.

“I already told you,” she said. “My price is the Crown Jewels.”

James smiled. She’d remembered.

They purchased tickets and stood in a long queue. The colossal tower, looming beside them, made them feel very small indeed. The use of riveted steel felt so wonderfully modern. To James, it signaled change, new materials, new vistas, new possibilities for building a cleaner, stronger world. If there was anything left with which to build one in years to come.

There is something wonderful about being in love in a city where you know no one. Public opinion of your behavior isn’t worth a trifle. So, if you want to kiss your girl at the esplanade of the Eiffel Tower, you do.

And at the first-floor observation level, which might as well be the moon.

And at the second floor, from which all of Paris stretches before you in spectacular detail.

Then you board the hydraulic elevators that carry you all the way to the tower’s dizzying top, and you kiss like there’s no tomorrow.

From the top, you can see forever. The River Seine, winding about the city. The beautiful Trocadéro palace across the river from the tower. The gaudy dome of Napoleon’s tomb. The long, elegant green spaces of the Champ de Mars reaching away in the other direction.

Champ de Mars. Field of Ares.

They descended in the elevators, then found a café for lunch.

They strolled arm in arm along the banks of the Seine, an absolute requirement.

As they ate and walked they talked of their parents and families. Stories of Maggie and Bob, and Georgia Fake and Olivia Jenkins. About childhood summers spent at the seashore with grandparents, and year-round childhood in Poplar with no living grandparents. A great deal about Colette and Aubrey and their music, and about Frank Mason, Chad Browning, Billy Nutley, and Mick Webber. About Pete Yawkey, and the more battle-seasoned lads from 2nd Section. About American soldiers and American accents, and Mrs. Davies. About sniping, and life in the trenches, about artillery fire and the flowing river of wounded men, and the shell-blasted wasteland of no-man’s-land.

It helped so much to talk about it all. It helped James to have someone to tell.

They came upon chocolate shops draped in Valentine pomp and made the most of them. If James were a couple of decades older, he would’ve regained all the weight lost in the war that day alone. They decided to get in out of the cold by catching an afternoon film at a cinema. Neither one of them could tell you one thing that happened in the movie. Any language barrier had nothing to do with that.

They found their way to an elegant restaurant for supper. Might as well go out with a bang, James thought. He’d barely spent a farthing on himself since leaving London, and today was worth any cost. They surrendered their coats and found a table. A waiter greeted them, took care of the essentials, then left them to their solitude.

“There’s so much of Paris left to see.” Hazel sank her chin into her hands.

“We’ll come back.” He slipped his arm around her waist. “I promise.”

She buried her face in his neck. They’d had such a lovely day, and so much fun, but now, as darkness settled over the city, Hazel found it hard to keep sadness at bay. For his sake, she thought, she ought to stay cheerful and hopeful. She failed.

“Don’t go,” she whispered.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s run away together, shall we?”

She sat up. “In a hot-air balloon?”

“With a poodle for company.”

“A poodle?”

“Why not a poodle?”

She could think of no reason why not. “All right. A poodle.”

“We’ll pack chocolates for food,” said James.

“And roses for beauty,” said Hazel.

James shook his head. “We’ll have you. You’re all the beauty we need.”

She gave him a pointed look. If she hoped he’d believe she was irked, he was smarter than that.

“Otherwise,” he explained, “the hot-air balloon would be too heavy to fly.”

“With all that chocolate.”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

She remained unconvinced. “Then I suppose I won’t be able to bring a piano.”

“Oh, absolutely bring the piano,” said James. “We will need music, where we’re going.”

How she loved this boy who kept her laughing!

“And where, exactly, are we going?” she asked.

He considered this question. “The moon.”