The Diplomat's Wife(25)
Paul is leaving again. He really is going to the Pacific, thousands of miles away. And meanwhile I am stuck here with no place to call home. Suddenly, I burst into tears. “Marta, what is it? What’s wrong?”
I can hold back no longer. Quickly, I tell him about Rose’s visa expiring, the embassy’s refusal to help. “I don’t know what to do,” I manage to say between sobs.
“So they wouldn’t extend the visa for you?”
I shake my head. “The woman said they couldn’t.”
An angry expression crosses Paul’s face. As he looks at his watch, I can see his mind working. “Come on.” He starts down the street toward the Servicemen’s Hotel.
I follow, looking back over my shoulder at the café, where the Frenchwoman has risen to her feet. “What are you doing?”
He does not answer but leads me to the hotel. At the gate, he takes my arm. This time, I do not pull away. His hand is warm through my thin cotton sleeve as he guides me inside, through the lobby to the bar, packed thick with soldiers. “Where’s Mickey?” he asks the bartender, shouting to be heard over the din of music and voices. The bartender points to a blond-haired soldier seated at the far end of the bar. His back is to us and he seems to be telling a story of some sort to a group of men around him. “Give me your visa,” Paul instructs. I reach into my bag and hand it to him. “Wait here.”
He disappears into the crowd and I stand alone, self-conscious at being the only woman in the bar. A minute later, Paul appears by the blond-haired soldier, pulling him off his stool and away from the others. I see Paul hand him my papers. Watching as he talks to the soldier, I remember our kiss goodbye, how he held me as I slept in the gardener’s shed by the lake. Warmth grows inside me. But then I see the soldier shake his head. Paul returns to my side, his face fallen. “No dice.”
I tilt my head. “I don’t understand.”
“I thought my pal Mickey could help with the extension. He’s helped a few people.” Struggling to hear and understand him over the noise, I lean closer. He bends his head toward me at the same time, causing our cheeks to brush. Closer now, I can smell his familiar pine scent, mixed with soap and spearmint gum. “He’s got a girl over at the British embassy who’s sweet on him. Or had, I should say. It seems they’re on the outs. I’m sorry, Marta.”
“I appreciate your trying,” I say, trying to contain my disappointment.
As Paul looks down at me, his expression changes, his jaw clenching stubbornly. “I have another idea.” Without speaking further, he takes my forearm and leads me toward the door of the hotel. I force myself not to shiver at his touch.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he guides me through the hotel garden and out onto the street.
“Back to the embassy.” As we walk back down the street, past the café, I glance at the tables, hoping that neither the Frenchwoman nor the waiter can see us.
I want to tell him that it is hopeless, that the embassy cannot renew the visa from here. “I didn’t think you would be in Paris, at least not so soon,” I offer instead as we pass the American embassy.
“Me, neither,” he replies. “That axle busted again not long after we left the camp. So rather than crowd us all into the other trucks, they let a few of us hop on a transport flight. We just arrived a few hours ago.”
As we reach the corner of the British embassy, my heart sinks. The visa line is as long as ever. If we wait, it is going to take hours. “You don’t have to…” I begin, but Paul leads me past the line and up the steps. I can feel the stares of the other applicants as we pass, wondering who I am, why I am getting special treatment by this soldier.
“Which one?” he asks as we enter the crowded waiting room.
“The woman,” I say, pointing to the window on the right.
“Hope she isn’t Mick’s girl,” he mutters under his breath. Leaving me at the back of the waiting room, he walks to the window. When the applicant who is standing there is finished, Paul steps in. The woman behind the glass opens her mouth to protest. Then her eyes dart to the sleeve of Paul’s uniform. Before she can speak, Paul pulls my visa from his pocket and slides it under the glass. He begins talking, gesturing to me, but I cannot hear what he is saying. The woman looks over Paul’s shoulder at me, but her expression is blank. She does not remember my situation; I am just one of many applicants she has seen that day. Her face remains impassive as she says something in reply. She’s going to refuse, I realize, watching the conversation. Not even Paul can help me this time. But she scribbles something on the visa, stamps it and hands it back to him.
“What happened?” I demand as he walks over.
“Your visa, milady,” he says, handing the papers to me. I look down at the papers in disbelief. The original date has been crossed out and a new stamp bearing tomorrow’s date added. One stamp. That was all the woman had to do to change a life.
“She would only extend it till tomorrow, so you’ll have to leave first thing in the morning. But you’re all set for England.”
“Really?” Relief washes over me. Impulsively, I jump up and wrap my arms around him. “Thank you.”
His arms close around me, warm and strong. For a second, it is as if we are in Salzburg once more. Then I hear someone clapping from the visa line behind us. My mind clears. We are not in Salzburg, I remind myself, stepping back from him. Remembering Paul seated beside the Frenchwoman at the café, I clear my throat. “We should go.”