The Diplomat's Wife(30)

In the distance, I can see the Eiffel Tower, climbing toward the sky. I lean against the wall of the bridge, staring. “This city…I mean, I couldn’t have imagined…”

“It kind of defies words,” Paul agrees, moving so that he is standing close behind me. “Hard to believe just a few months ago it was still occupied by the Germans.” He puts his arms around me from behind and I can feel his warmth, his heart beating against my back. Other than our brief embrace in the bar, we have not been this close since Salzburg. My desire swells and breaks wide open.

Suddenly, there is shouting on the street behind us, followed by a series of small explosions. We turn toward the commotion. “What on earth…?” Paul steps forward, putting me behind him protectively. His hand drops to the gun holstered at his waist. There is more shouting, followed by someone singing. On the bridge, traffic has stopped. Car horns begin to blare.

“Sounds like a celebration of some sort,” I suggest.

Paul does not answer but takes my hand and leads me across the bridge to the street, where a small crowd has gathered, shouting and cheering. Some people are drinking directly from bottles, others dancing alone or in pairs. The gathering swells as dozens more revelers come running from all directions. Paul grabs an American soldier by the sleeve as he runs past us. “What’s going on?”

“The Japs have surrendered. The war is over!” The soldier lets out a whoop, then continues running to join the crowd.

Paul turns to me and we stare at each other, too stunned to speak. “The war is over,” he repeats at last. He bends down and picks me up. “The war is over!” He spins me around, faster and faster, until the city is just a blur of lights. Then he sets me down, his arms still around me. We look at each other breathlessly for several seconds. Suddenly he brings his lips to mine, and without hesitation I am kissing him back, my mouth open, body pressed tight to his. It is as if we will never stop, as if the street and the people and the world around us no longer exist.

There are more explosions, breaking us apart. “I’m sorry,” Paul says quickly.

“Don’t be. I’m not.” I take a step back, smoothing my skirt. “Look.” I point across the water. Bright flashes of light, red and blue, fill the night sky.

“Fireworks,” Paul remarks. I nod, staring in wonder at the waves of color that fill the sky like confetti. I have heard of fireworks but never seen them before. “You would think after all of the bombings, everyone would have had enough of things exploding,” he says a minute later. “Let’s get out of here.” For a second I hope we will return to the bridge and gaze at the skyline once more. But he leads me through the streets back, I can tell, toward the Servicemen’s Hotel. The war is over, I think, as we walk in silence. I was thirteen years old when the war began and I spent the past six years running for my life.

“What are you thinking?” Paul asks.

“Lots of things. Mostly about what I lost during the war.”

He smiles. “Careful, you’re starting to sound like me.”

Recalling how I had chastised him for self-pity the night on the lake, I laugh. “I suppose I am. I really was preachy, wasn’t I?”

“Not at all. You were right about being grateful to be alive, earning the chance we’ve been given. And now, with the war ending, getting to go home. It really is a second chance, isn’t it?”

Home. Paul will be leaving, returning to America for good. He stops walking and turns to me suddenly, his expression troubled. “The only bad thing is leaving you.” My heart pounds against my chest. “I mean, I realize we haven’t known each other very long, but…I’m going to miss you, Marta.”

So don’t go, I want to scream. “I’ll miss you, too.”

We stand staring at each other for several seconds, neither speaking. “Well, it’s getting late,” he says at last. “We should get back and pick up your papers.” We continue walking and, a few minutes later, approach the Servicemen’s Hotel.

Through the closed hotel door, I hear shouting and singing, soldiers celebrating the end of the war. “Why don’t you wait here?” Paul suggests. “Once I get your papers from Mickey, I can escort you back to your hotel.”

My hotel, I think, panicking. In my excitement at seeing Paul, I had nearly forgotten that I was supposed to get to the Red Cross shelter. “That won’t be necessary…” I begin, but Paul is already through the hotel door.

A minute later, he reappears. “All set,” he says. There is a new number scrawled across the front of the train ticket. “Front desk called the station and reserved you a seat on the seven-fifteen train to Calais. It’s a bit early, I’m afraid, but the only way you’ll make the ferry.”

“Thank you again.” I tuck them into my bag as he leads me down the path to the curb, hailing a taxi.

“Paul, my hotel is clear across town,” I say as the taxi pulls up. “There’s no need for you to ride all the way there.”

He opens the rear door. “But the city is crazy right now with all of the celebrating. I’m glad to escort you.”

“I know. But I’d rather you don’t. Please.” It begins to rain then, thick drops splattering on the pavement.

“I don’t understand…”