Текст книги "The Diplomat's Wife"
Автор книги: Pam Jenoff
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 23 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 9 страниц]
They weigh the question, considering whether to help. “Americans,” the older woman says in a low voice, pointing in the direction of the embassy.
She must be confusing the British embassy for the United States. “I’ve already been to the British embassy and they wouldn’t—”
The woman cuts me off. “American,” she insists. I look again in the direction in which she is pointing. The flag on the British embassy has been taken down for the day. But on another building behind it, an American flag flies. She is trying to tell me, I think, that the American embassy can direct me to the Red Cross. But it is after five now; that embassy will surely be closed, too. I turn back to ask again for directions to the Red Cross, but the girls have looked away, disinterested, and resumed talking in their own language.
I start back toward the bench, but my spot is now occupied by a lady with a poodle. There is nowhere for me to go. Even the bench is taken. Suddenly, tears well up in my eyes once more. This time I let them overflow, run hot and salty down my cheeks, not caring who sees. As if on cue, it begins to rain, thick heavy drops dotting the water in the base of the fountain, splashing against the pavement. Feeling the drops soak through my clothes, I think of the storm that began as Paul and I sat in the rowboat on the lake. Was that really only two nights ago? It feels like another lifetime. But there is no gardener’s shed here, a voice reminds me. No Paul to row you to shelter. The voice, long forgotten, is strong and firm, the one that sustained me through prison.
I need to find shelter. I take off my glasses and wipe the water from the lenses. Then, replacing them, I look across the park. At the far end, on the opposite side of the street, sits a massive stone church. I walk closer. Looking up at its turrets climbing toward the sky, I am reminded of the Mariacki Cathedral in Kraków. The first time I saw it, crossing the market square on an errand for the resistance with Jacob, I was staggered by its size. I was even more surprised when Jacob told me that we were to meet our contact inside. As a Jew, churches had always been forbidden; even the tiny one-room church in our village, not much bigger than the synagogue, had seemed ominous. But to the resistance, the churches were safe havens, a place to go under the pretext of prayer, exchanging information with contacts in hushed tones in the back pews.
A safe haven, I think now, staring at the open door of the church. No one will bother me there. I make my way up the stone steps. Inside, the church is cool and dark, empty except for an older woman lighting a candle in an alcove to the right. I slip into one of the back pews, keeping my head low. The wood has an earthy, human smell that makes me think I am not the first to use it as a shelter. I look up. From the rafters, stone statues of saints stare down at me piously. What am I going to do? I ask silently. They look back mutely, their pity useless. Behind me, I hear voices. Two women remove kerchiefs from their heads as they make their way up the aisle, clutching rosaries. I wonder if they are regular parishioners, if they will know that I do not belong. But they do not seem to notice me. When they have passed, I sink back in the pew, suddenly exhausted. My entire body seems to ache.
I will go back to the British embassy tomorrow, beg to have the visa extended, I decide as I watch the women make their way to the front of the church and kneel. And if they refuse? a voice inside me—not the strong one—asks. I push the question down. I must get the visa extended. There is no other option. I wonder if the church is open all night, if I can perhaps stay here until morning. More parishioners enter the church, slipping into pews, spending a few minutes praying alone or in pairs before leaving again. I had always imagined Parisians to be elegant and fashionable. But the people I see are simply dressed, their faces careworn, reminding me that just a short while ago, Paris was occupied, too.
Outside, the church bells ring eight times. As if on cue, a man appears at the front of the church with a broom and begins to sweep. The church will close soon, I realize, as the last parishioners shuffle toward the door. I cannot stay here. I walk outside to the front steps, then hesitate. Where can I go? The rain still falls in heavy sheets, forming a large puddle at the base of the stairs. I look back at the front of the church. Stone columns stand to either side of the entranceway. I make my way toward the one on the right. There, where the column meets the building, is a shallow nook, a meter wide and half as deep. No one can see me here, I think, stepping into the space. I sink to the cold, hard floor, grateful for a place to stay out of the rain. A damp scent rises from the stone.
Wrapping my arms around my knees, I look out into the street at the cold, unfamiliar city. How did I get here? Suddenly I recall once being in the woods outside Lodz. Jacob had left me hidden in a cluster of trees while he went to find our contact. Later I would learn that he had become lost on his way back to me. But in that moment, as I huddled in the pitch darkness, strange, unseen noises coming from the woods around me, I was terrified. What if he never came back for me? Remembering now, a chill runs down my spine. Until that moment, I had not understood what it meant to be completely alone. It was a thought that would later haunt my long, lonely days in prison. I had not thought of it since being liberated, but alone now, I am caught by the memory once more.
My thoughts are interrupted by footsteps. The man who had been sweeping stands in the doorway of the church, still holding his broom, looking at me. We stare at each other for several seconds. Without speaking, he disappears back inside the church. My heart pounds inside my chest. Is he going to make me leave, even call the police? A second later, the man reappears in the doorway and starts toward me, carrying something. A blanket, I see, as he sets it by my feet. “Merci,” I say, but he turns and walks back inside the church without speaking, closing the door behind him.
I stare after him for several seconds, caught off guard by his simple act of kindness. Then I reach down and unfold the wool blanket, pulling it up around me. The blanket smells of dirt and cigarettes. I wonder if it is his own, if he has shared it with others who have stayed here. I lean back, the scratchy fabric comforting against my arms. Not so completely alone after all. I look beyond the edge of the cathedral at the rain-soaked street, then up at the dark, cloudy sky, wondering what tomorrow will bring.
CHAPTER 7
I refold the blanket, looking toward the front door of the church. I would like to hand it back to the janitor and thank him, but the door is closed, the man nowhere to be found. Instead, I set the blanket neatly in the corner where I spent the night, then make my way down the steps.
It is morning now and the sun shines brightly, drying the last of the dampness from the pavement. The park is nearly empty, except for one disheveled old man I think I recognize from the previous evening, curled up on one of the benches under a damp coat. Did he spend the night there? I am more grateful than ever for the shelter of the church roof and blanket.
On the other side of the park, I pause, looking up at the Union Jack that flies high above the British embassy. My breath catches as I imagine walking up those steps and through the door, convincing whoever waits on the other side to extend the visa. It has to work. I cross the street and walk to the entrance, where a different guard from the previous evening occupies the booth. I take a deep breath. “I—I’m here about a visa,” I manage to say in English.
He points to the left. “Entrance is around the corner.”
“Thank you.” I walk to the end of the block. As I turn the corner, my heart sinks. There is a line of people starting at the corner and running all the way down the street. I walk to the man who stands at the end of the line, then hesitate. The few French words I know seem of little use. “Visa?” I ask hopefully, pointing at the door. Perhaps all of these people are waiting for something else. He shrugs, turns away. I walk quickly back around the corner to the guard booth. “Excuse me, I know you said that the entrance for visas is around the corner. But all of those people…?”
“Are waiting for visas, too. Take a number.”
I cock my head, puzzled. I did not see any numbers. “I already have a visa,” I say, trying again. “I need an extension.”
“Same line,” the guard replies, pointing once more.
I turn and start back around the corner, my shoulders slumped in disappointment. The line has grown even longer in the minute I was away, two more people joining the queue. I file in behind them quickly. There must be at least a hundred people ahead of me, men and women of every size and age. Some carry babies or hold small children by the hand. If only I had known, I could have waited here all night instead of sleeping by the church.
In the distance a clock chimes nine. Slowly the line begins to shuffle forward. Perhaps this will not be so bad, after all. But then the line comes to a complete stop. Thirty minutes pass, then an hour. I turn and look behind me. At least another twenty people have joined the queue, giving the appearance that it has not shortened at all. We stand motionless for what seems like an eternity, shuffling forward a few meters every half an hour or so. The clock chimes eleven and the sun grows higher in the morning sky, making the air warm and humid.
It is lunchtime, I think a while later, my stomach growling. I have not eaten since finishing the last sandwich the previous evening. The line seems to move more slowly as time passes. People lean against the embassy fence or drop to the pavement and sit in line. I can tell by the weary, accepting expressions on the faces of some of the people around me that they have done this before and are unsurprised by the wait. Anxiety rises in me as the early afternoon passes. What if they do not get to me? I look around, desperately wanting to ask someone if there is a quota, if they take only a certain number of people each day. But I do not know enough French to ask the others in the queue and I cannot leave the line to ask the guard.
Another hour of shuffling and waiting. Finally, I reach the gate and make my way, slowly, painstakingly, up a set of stairs and through a door. Inside, the line snakes through a waiting room. Three glass windows line the far wall, a woman and two men seated behind them. The air here is pungent from too many people in a cramped, warm space. Typewriters clack in the background. I watch as each of the people in front of me in line approaches one of the windows. Some present papers, others simply talk. I cannot hear what they are saying. At the middle window, a woman argues with one of the male clerks for several minutes. When she turns away, I can see that her cheeks are wet.
Finally, it is my turn. “Next,” the woman in the far right window calls. I step forward, my heart pounding. As I reach the window, I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I am supposed to be Rose.
The woman holds out her hand. “Yes?”
Catching my reflection in the glass, I hesitate. My dress is wrinkled, my hair wild from sleeping outside. I should have taken time to freshen up. But it is too late now. I push my papers through the slot at the bottom of the window. “I have a visa to England, but it expired yesterday.” My words, which I practiced on the train, tumble out in a rush, accented and, I fear, nearly unintelligible. “I was not able to get a train out of Salzburg until yesterday and we were detoured to Paris because of broken tracks. So I am unable to make it to England in time. I tried to come yesterday but the embassy was already closed. I was wondering if it would be possible to get an extension.”
The woman scans the papers. “You cannot renew this class of visa here.” Her tone is cold, her French accent thick. “The inviting person must apply for an extension.” She pushes the papers back through the slot at me.
“I have to get to England. Please.”
The woman’s expression remains impassive, as if she hears such things every day. “I’m sorry, but it’s beyond my control.”
“But what am I supposed to do?” My voice rises with panic.
The woman shrugs. “As I said, the only possibility is to get the person who invited you to England to apply for an extension. But you will need to go back to your home country or the country of origin while you wait.”
“Dominique,” a male voice calls from behind the window. “Telephone.” The woman speaks to someone I cannot see in a low voice. Then she turns back to me. “I’m afraid there’s really nothing to be done about it.” Her voice is curt, dismissive. “Good day.”
“But…” I begin. The woman disappears from the window.
I stand before the window for several seconds, not moving. The visa cannot be extended. For a minute, I consider waiting until she returns, but I know that arguing further will be pointless. I turn and push through the crowd of applicants still waiting to be seen and race back down the stairs. When I reach the street I stop, struggling to breathe. Tears fill my eyes, spill over. I can feel the stares of the applicants still waiting in line as I pass, sobbing openly.
At the corner, I cross the boulevard and make my way into the park. I sink to one of the benches by the fountain, still sobbing. My visa was not renewed. I have failed. What am I going to do?
I study the papers still clutched in my hand. The visa is expired, worthless. I start to throw them in the trash bin beside the bench. Then I stop. These are the only papers I have. But the visa will not get me to England. I wonder for a moment if I could stow away. If I cannot get to England, where will I go? I do not have the money to go back to Austria. Looking at the empty bench across from me, I remember the au pairs I’d spoken with the previous day. Perhaps I could stay in Paris, find work taking care of children or cleaning or in a restaurant. But I have no idea if such things are possible without a French visa, without speaking French.
I tuck the papers back in my bag. The contents of the bag—a second dress, some undergarments, a few coins and the papers—are everything I have in the world. No food. I do not even have a place to stay tonight. I look across the park at the church. Maybe if I go there, they will help me. But I know that the caretaker had little more than the wool blanket to offer, and I cannot sleep on the church steps forever.
The Red Cross, I remember. If I can find the Red Cross, I may be able to get food, a place to stay. Perhaps they can even get word to Dava of my plight. The au pairs had pointed me to the American embassy. I turn around. Behind the British flag, an American flag flies high against the blue sky. It is the same as the one that was sewn to Paul’s uniform sleeve, I realize, feeling a small tug at my heart.
I stand up and walk from the park, crossing the street. As I pass the line of applicants still waiting at the British embassy, I keep my head high. But sadness and anger bubble up in me. Would it have cost that clerk anything to bend the rules this one time and extend my visa?
I approach the guard booth at the front of the American embassy. “Consulate is closed, miss.”
I swallow nervously. “I—I was wondering if you could tell me if the Red Cross has a shelter in the city.”
The guard pauses, considering. “I don’t know. Sergeant Smith might, but he’s gone for the day.” My heart sinks. “Why don’t you try asking at the Servicemen’s Hotel. It’s just around the corner.”
“Servicemen’s Hotel.” I repeat the unfamiliar English words. “Thank you.” I start to walk in the direction in which the guard pointed. Around the corner is a tall building, set back from the road. U.S. Armed Servicemen’s Hotel, the sign out front reads. Several soldiers cluster by the entrance, talking and smoking. Seeing their dark green uniforms and close-cut hair, I cannot help but think of Paul. One of the other soldiers mentioned something about Paris, I remember suddenly. In my panic to get the visa extended, I had nearly forgotten. Could he possibly be here? But he was in Salzburg only two days ago, I recall, picturing the lumbering row of trucks as they pulled from the palace grounds. It seems unlikely that he could be here so soon.
Focus on finding the Red Cross, I tell myself. Taking a deep breath, I walk up to the door of the hotel, feeling the eyes of the soldiers on me as I pass. Inside, I hesitate. The lobby is bright, a thick halo of cigarette smoke hovering in the air. Loud voices and music come from a bar off the back of the lobby. I make my way to the reception desk, which sits to the right. “Can I help you, miss?”
“Can you tell me whether the Red Cross has any shelters in the city?”
The clerk pauses, scratching his head. “I think so. Lemme see.” He turns and pulls a thick book from the shelf behind him, then thumbs through the pages. “Here we are—Red Cross. Nearest shelter is at St. Denis du St. Sacrement—that’s a church—in Marais. Go left to the corner and take the number-five bus…here, let me write this down for you.” He pulls out a piece of paper and scribbles something I cannot read, then hands it to me.
“Thank you.” I start to walk away. Then, looking across the lobby at the bar, crowded with soldiers, Paul’s face appears in my mind once more. Easy, I tell myself. Even if Paul was in Paris, there’s no reason to think he would be at this particular hotel. There are thousands of soldiers in the city. He could be anywhere. Impulsively, I turn back toward the desk. “Excuse me again,” I say, then hesitate. “I’m also looking for a soldier named Paul. Paul Mattison.”
The clerk opens a large register that sits on the counter in front of him and scans one page, then another. “Mattison…nope, don’t see no Mattison.”
Of course not. I chastise myself inwardly for my folly. Had I really imagined that Paul might be here? “Thanks again.” I cross the lobby and exit the hotel, feeling foolish.
Outside I start walking toward the bus stop. I pass a café, the tables in its front garden filled with soldiers and civilians, talking merrily over late-afternoon drinks. A delicious aroma of baked goods wafts under my nose. It’s not coming from the café, I realize, but from the small patisserie next door. Curious, I walk closer. A delectable display of pastries sits in the front window, a mountain of chocolate tortes in the center. My mouth waters. I reach into my bag, fingering the money Dava gave me. It would be completely irresponsible to spend some of the little money I have on sweets. And I need to get to the shelter right away. But I walk into the shop, unable to resist.
I point through the glass at the plate of chocolate tortes, then raise my index finger. “S’il vous plait.” I carefully count out the proper amount of coins as the shopkeeper puts a torte in a paper bag and hands it to me. Outside again, I open the bag, inhaling the rich chocolate aroma. Then I pull out the torte, which is still slightly warm. I know that I should go back to the park or at least find somewhere to sit and eat the pastry, but I cannot wait. I take a large bite, closing my eyes as the chocolate flavor washes across my tongue. Eat slowly, I tell myself. Save some for later. But my mouth seems to have a life of its own, devouring the pastry in several large bites. A moment later it is gone.
I stand motionless on the sidewalk, holding the empty bag, overwhelmed by the rush of sweetness. I look at the people sitting at the café adjacent to the patisserie, casually eating cakes like the one I have just devoured. If all of the food in Paris is this good, perhaps I should forget about London and find a way to stay here.
I look back over my shoulder longingly toward the patisserie, wishing that I could spend money on another torte. Suddenly I hear a loud, familiar laugh. My head snaps in the direction of the tables at the café.
Seated at one of the tables, his arm draped around another woman, is Paul.
