The Diplomat's Wife(35)

Our house. “It sounds perfect.”

“Then we can fill it with, like, twenty kids,” he adds.

I laugh. “Twenty kids? Let’s just start with one.” Suddenly I am concerned. “Paul, promise me that you’ll be careful.”

“I will.” His expression is solemn, but there is a twinkle in his eye. “I won’t eat too many croissants. And I won’t dance with a single Parisian girl, I swear.”

“Very funny.” I punch his arm lightly. “I’m serious. The war is over. Just be careful and hurry back to me.”

“I won’t take any chances,” he promises. “Not now. Not when we have so much to lose.” He looks over my shoulder at the clock. “But we should leave and get you to your train.”

Reluctantly, I roll away from him and climb out of bed. “You stay here.”

He sits up. “I want to take you to the station.”

I shake my head. “The city is quiet now. I’ll be fine. It’s better this way. Please.” Saying goodbye was going to be hard and I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. The only train station I want to see you at is the one in London, two weeks from now. And, anyway, I want to remember you just like this,” I add, pointing to the bed and trying to sound light.

He leans back for a second, relenting. Then he reaches over to his bag, which lies on the floor beside the bed, and pulls out a small notepad and pencil. “Write down the address where you’ll be in London for me.”

Uneasiness rises in me. “In case your plans change?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing will change. I just want to send you a postcard.” I pull my papers from my bag and copy the address from the visa. “Thanks,” he says as I hand the notepad back to him. I dress quickly. A minute later, I sit down beside him on the bed.

“Do you have enough money?” he asks.

“Yes,” I lie, nodding quickly.

He takes my face in his hands. “Two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” I repeat solemnly. “Be careful.”

“No chances,” he promises again. “You, either.” He looks long into my eyes, then kisses me hard. I close my eyes, inhaling his scent, wanting to hold on to the moment forever. But a second later I hear church bells in the distance, chiming the hour.

“I have to go.” Reluctantly, I pull away from him, then stand up and walk to the door. I turn back, fighting back the tears that fill my eyes. “Goodbye, Paul.”

He smiles. “See you soon. I love you, Marta. We’re going to have a great life together.” I nod, unable to answer without crying. Then I open the door and walk through, pulling it closed behind me.





CHAPTER 10




The bus screeches to a halt at the ferry terminal. The word Calais is painted on a large wooden board on the front of the two-story red-brick building. An hour earlier, my train from Paris arrived at a station bearing the same name. The air is different here, though, thick and salty. Behind the terminal I can make out several tall ships, set against a wide swath of sparkling water. My breath catches; I have never seen the ocean before. But there is no time to marvel. The other passengers are standing up, making their way to the front of the bus. I pick up my bag and follow them, stepping out onto the pavement.

The crowd shuffles toward the building. Inside, there are two lines leading to glass ticket windows. I hesitate, unable to comprehend the French signs above each. In the right line stands a woman carrying two large, worn suitcases, four children in tow. Their clothes are clean, but ill-fitting, repaired with crude stitching in several places. To the left, the travelers are better dressed, their bags smaller. A sandy-haired man in a white suit with thin, pale blue stripes stands at the back of that line. Unlike the woman, I do not recognize him from the bus. I join the line of more shabbily dressed travelers to the right.

The line shuffles slowly forward. I look out of the corner of my eye at the other line to see if it is moving more quickly. But the man in the striped suit is still standing parallel to me, shifting his weight from side to side, tapping his foot impatiently. Suddenly, he turns, meeting my gaze. He smiles, revealing small, even teeth, then rolls his pale blue eyes. I look away.

A few minutes later, the woman in front of me reaches the head of the line and sets down her suitcases to give the frowning man behind the window a handful of papers. He stamps them several times, then gives them back to her. “Lower deck,” I hear him say. “Next!”

I step forward, handing him my ticket and visa. He scans the papers, then speaks rapidly in French, pointing to the other line as though I’ve made a mistake. I shake my head, hoping that he will not make me go to the back of that queue and wait again. The ferry will be leaving soon. “Passport?” he says. I shake my head again, my heart pounding. I do not have a passport. Then I remember the identification card Dava gave me. I reach into my bag, fumbling and feeling the impatient stares of the people in line behind me. My hand closes around the card and I pull it out, then pass it to the man with trembling fingers. I hold my breath as he studies the card and papers. Is he questioning the extension, or whether I am really Rose? Finally, he stamps the ticket and hands everything back to me. I walk hurriedly from the window, clutching the papers, and proceed out the back door of the building as the other travelers did.