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.
CHAPTER 8
Paul! Though I had asked about him at the desk, I never really thought…I blink several times, wondering if he is an illusion, expecting him to disappear. But he remains seated at the café table, smiling broadly, eyes wide. It does not seem possible. What is he doing here? Joy surges through me. I take a step forward. Then, focusing on the pretty young woman seated beside him, I stop. Who is she? Anger rises in me as I watch him smile, then say something to the woman. Was his story about shipping out to the Pacific a lie?
I should give him a good piece of my mind, I decide, starting toward him once more. Then, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the patisserie window, I stop again. My plain pink dress, the same one he saw me wearing two days ago, is wrinkled from the long train ride. Dark circles ring my eyes and there are chocolate smudges on my lips. A disheveled Polish country girl. As I look over at the Frenchwoman, with her perfectly coiffed chignon and low-cut silk blouse, my heart crumbles. How could I ever think that Paul really liked me?
I turn blindly away, crashing into a waiter who is carrying a tray between the patisserie and the café. Cups and plates crash noisily to the pavement. “Oh!” My face grows hot as I stand helplessly, staring at the scattered dishes. I feel the scornful eyes of the café patrons upon me as the waiter begins to berate me in French. Desperately, I push past the waiter and race down the sidewalk. A moment later I hear the waiter’s heavy footsteps behind me. I panic. Is he going to try to make me pay for the broken dishes? Has he called the police? I run faster.
“Marta, wait.” Not the waiter, I realize. Paul. He must have seen me when the dishes fell. I keep running, uncertain what to do. But Paul reaches me easily with his long strides, catches my arm. “Marta, please.” I stop, too embarrassed to face him. “Are you okay?” I nod. “I’m so glad, that is, surprised…” He pauses. It is the first time I have heard him at a loss for words. “I mean, what on earth are you doing here?”