Moonlight Over Paris(45)
“Are you enjoying your tisane, Miss Parr?” It was Miss Toklas, her raised voice instantly stifling the surrounding conversations.
“I am, Miss Toklas. And the pastries, too. They are delicious.”
Her hostess smiled thinly at the compliment but made no attempt to continue their conversation; in any event the table was a long one, and a sustained discussion would have been impractical. It was rather a relief to be seated so far away from Miss Toklas, for her downturned mouth, pinched expression, and sharp, knowing eyes were unsettling, though not precisely malign. Perhaps she was shy, or unhappy at having to entertain strangers. Perhaps she would have preferred to sit in the salon with Miss Stein and the men.
Helena was about to resume her conversation with Mrs. Hemingway when a knock sounded at the kitchen door. It was Sam.
“Sorry to interrupt, Miss Toklas, but I’m taking Miss Parr away now.”
“Leaving so soon?” she replied, as unblinking as an owl.
“Sorry. I have to head over to the paper. I didn’t want to interrupt Miss Stein—will you pass on my regards?”
Helena whispered her thanks, said good-bye to Mrs. Hemingway, and made her exit with alacrity, although she did draw out the process of putting on her coat and hat so as to have a few more moments to admire Miss Stein’s paintings.
“Was it worth it?” Sam asked as soon as they were back on the street.
“It was, if only to see all those paintings.”
“I wasn’t lying. I do need to stop by the paper. Do you want me to drop you off at home, or would you like to come along?”
“I’d love to see where you work, but I don’t want to get in the way. Not if you have work to do.”
“I don’t. I’m waiting for a cable from the States, that’s all. And it’ll be a far sight less exciting than Miss Stein’s. Just a roomful of sad-faced hacks and their typewriters.”
They found a taxi on the rue de Vaugirard, and only after Sam had given the driver the address did Helena realize she’d no notion of where they were going. “Where is your office?”
“In the ninth, not far from the Opéra.”
“I don’t know why, but I’d assumed it was on the Left Bank. I hadn’t realized it was so far from where you live.”
“It’s only a couple of miles. Takes no time at all to walk. Better than being cooped up on the Métro or a tram.”
“I suppose. Before I forget—who was that young man who shook my hand? Tall, quite young, with a mustache?”
“That’s Hemingway. He used to write for a Canadian paper, but I think he’s working on a novel now. At least he says he is. Just had some short stories published.”
“I sat next to his wife in the kitchen. She was very friendly.”
“Everyone loves Hadley.”
“Have you read any of his stories?”
“Only the one so far. I liked his writing but not the story—does that make sense? Miss Stein likes him, though.”
“What about your writing?” she asked. “Are you still sure you don’t have a novel in you? I remember our conversation, you know. On the beach that day.”
“Sure I’m sure. I know because of men like Hemingway. I look at him and I can tell he has a fire inside—I can see it, and so can everyone else. I’m a better journalist than he’ll ever be, but I’ll never write like he does. It’s the truth, plain and simple.”
“Don’t you wish you could?”
“Not really. We can’t all be Shakespeare. Although . . .” His words trailed away, as if he were hesitant to hear them aloud. “I’ve thought about trying for a dayside job. Working as a correspondent for one of the big American or British papers.”
“Is that what interests you?” she asked, truly curious. “Foreign affairs and politics and peace treaties?”
“Of course it does. It should interest all of us. Fascism is on the rise across Europe—just look at what’s happening in Italy with that clown Mussolini. Germany has been beggared by war reparations, and if history has taught us anything it’s that desperate times breed desperate men. Where do you honestly think Europe will be in twenty years?”
“I hadn’t, ah—”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to lecture you.”
“You didn’t, and if I’ve learned anything in the past few months it’s because of your articles. Have you inquired after any positions?”
He shook his head. “I want to, but it isn’t that simple. I—”
The taxi pulled to a stop just then, and by the time he’d paid and helped her out of the car the moment was lost. She would have to ask him again, and perhaps even press him on the subject if he proved reticent.
Sam led them to a modest entrance at the corner. “Most of the building is taken up by Le Petit Journal,” he explained. “They get the grand entrance on La Fayette and we use the tradesmen’s stairs out back. Watch your step—there’s hardly any light in the foyer.”
The newsroom was on the third floor, behind a door marked “Archives,” and was surprisingly quiet. She’d expected to see people rushing about and perhaps shouting at one another, but only four men sat at the central bank of desks, and the arrhythmic click-clack of their typewriters was the loudest noise in the room. The air was blue with smoke, with most desks anchored by an overflowing ashtray at one corner, and one of the men had an open bottle of Scotch whisky at his elbow.