Page 27 of One of Them

I n late August Anne sailed to Europe on a large ocean liner that had seen better days.

An outdated brochure showed photographs of its first-class dining room, lounge, grill room, swimming pool, theater, and winter garden.

But the ship had been used as part of the war effort, and the present reality did not live up to the travel agent’s promises.

Yes, there were still spectacular entryways, grand rooms, and long, wide staircases, but everything, from the stained carpets to the frayed draperies, had a battered, beaten-down air.

Anne’s room was spacious and well-appointed, but the drawers of both bureaus were missing knobs, the dressing table surface was scratched, and every time she sat in either of the faded velvet armchairs, the cushions exhaled small clouds of dust.

None of this really mattered, though; she was consumed by seasickness and spent much of the trip either vomiting or trying hard not to.

It was better when she was on deck, where the wide expanse of sky above and the dark, glittering ocean below calmed her stomach.

On a couple of occasions she parked herself in a wooden deck chair and, covered by several blankets, slept there all night long.

Finally, after seven interminable days, the ship docked in Le Havre, where she boarded the train that would take her to Paris.

Paris! The very word was magical. Her nausea mercifully gone, Anne now felt invigorated, as if she’d just woken up from a fevered sleep.

She sat by the train’s window, riveted by even the most commonplace of sights—a tangle of bushes, a wooden fence, a willow tree, a flock of small, dark birds whose name she did not know.

These were French bushes, a French fence, French birds, and so were special in ways that were not quite apparent to her but would be soon enough.

The dormitory where the foreign students were housed was on the Left Bank, and as she tried to get her bearings during those first few days, Anne saw street names she recognized—rue du Bac and rue Madame were just two of them.

Delia had mentioned those streets, and others too.

Delia: she seemed to be everywhere in Paris, hovering at the periphery of Anne’s awareness.

Anne could easily imagine that Delia had played in the Tuileries and the Jardin du Luxembourg and licked a glace au chocolat while strolling along the rue de Rivoli.

Delia had stood in front of the paintings at the Jeu de Paume, had looked down from the Eiffel Tower, walked briskly across the Pont de Neuf.

Delia’s imaginary presence was a small torment, and one Anne had not expected.

The vast distance between them did nothing to erase the knowledge that she had behaved shamefully.

But there was nothing she could do about it now.

Her name had been on the letter the dean received, and as they had all expected, Delia had been asked to leave Vassar.

Virginia had gleefully reported this to the rest of them.

Anne told herself that she had to put this out of her mind. If not, Paris would be ruined for her.

The city seemed a little shabbier than she had imagined, and dirtier too; the war had taken its toll.

It had a slightly ravaged beauty that shone through, perhaps because, and not despite of, the suffering it had endured.

There were still the wide, spacious avenues, the enduring majesty of the old buildings.

Unlike London, Paris had surrendered to the Nazis and thus had not been bombed—the gardens, the plazas and squares, remained untouched.

And she felt an excitement, even a giddiness, in the air.

People seemed so happy to be engaging in the ordinary life of the city.

Young women hurried along the cobblestone streets and down the steps leading to the Métro.

Were they off to work? To meet friends, or perhaps boyfriends?

A couple sat ignoring their steak frites in a bistro, instead holding hands and leaning over to whisper to each other.

Two silver-haired ladies, one in a dark dress and the other in a bright-red one, were sitting close together at a marble-topped round table and chatting amiably.

A solemn-eyed baby in a starched bonnet surveyed the world from her vantage point in a shiny black pram; three little girls in navy pinafores, jackets, and berets skipped down the street, one of them holding a yellow balloon, buoyant and bright against the gray of the sky.

Bakeries and patisseries propped open their doors, enticing potential customers with the smells of butter, vanilla, cinnamon, and caramel; charcuteries displayed their cured meats and their patés, fromageries sold cheeses she’d never tasted—never even heard of—in an impressive array of geometric shapes: wheels, wedges, blocky rectangles or squares.

She passed shop windows filled with chic hats trimmed in flowers, ribbons, or both, with handbags and shoes of the softest, most supple leather.

Here was a store that sold only handkerchiefs, the merest scraps of printed or embroidered cotton and silk, lavish lace trimming their borders; another sold perfume, silk stockings galore—no more rationing!

—satin slips, brassieres and tap pants, umbrellas, gloriously patterned scarves, and jewelry.

And then there were the Parisian clothes—dresses, suits, coats, and sweaters in fabrics and styles that surpassed anything Anne had ever seen or tried on before.

She’d seen a photograph in Harper’s Bazaar in which a model, viewed from behind, was caught as she walked across the place de la Concorde, her full, flared skirt opening out around her like petals stirred by a breeze.

Delia had worn a suit in that style the last time Anne had seen her, in the dining room at Vassar.

Although they hadn’t spoken that night, Delia’s expression seemed to say that she knew Anne had betrayed her.

While Anne was falling in love with Paris as so many Americans had before her, Paris also engendered in her a kind of melancholy she hadn’t expected, something that had nothing to do with Delia.

Try as she might, she felt she would never measure up to the glamour and sophistication with which the women here seemed to have been born.

She’d hoped that if she came here, some of it might rub off on her.

Her French was improving, but her accent was still poor—there were sounds, like the r ’s that came from deep in the throat, that she simply couldn’t master.

And keeping up in her classes—all taught in French—was more of a struggle than she’d imagined.

She’d met very few actual natives; the French students were intimidating or else seemed tightly bonded to each other, with little interest in outsiders like Anne.

The dorm where she lived was filled with American students like herself.

At least she was able to make some friends among them, chiefly her new roommate, Nancy Gilchrist. Nancy’s French was even worse than Anne’s, but to Anne’s surprise, it didn’t seem to bother her at all.

She spoke gamely and without any apparent embarrassment to waiters, shopkeepers, museum guards, and anyone else who crossed her path.

There was something refreshing about Nancy’s ease with herself; this, along with her affable nature and her ready smile—punctuated with a single dimple on one side—was a balm to Anne’s own insecurities, and she was able to relax in her new friend’s company.

Nancy came from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and didn’t know any of the girls Anne had known in New York—another reason Anne could let down her guard a bit.

So when Anne decided she wanted to explore the vast marché aux puces that she remembered Delia talking about, she invited Nancy to go with her.

After consulting her guidebook, she led the way to the Métro, which they rode to the Porte de Clignancourt station.

When they emerged, they found themselves at the Puces de Saint-Ouen, which the guidebook listed as “the oldest and largest antique market in Paris.” According to the book, it was best to walk along the rue des Rosiers, so that was what they did, stopping at the Marché Malassis, where a menagerie’s worth of porcelain animals—lions, monkeys, bears, rabbits, dogs, and more—were lined up as if waiting to board the ark.

On the next table was an elaborate three-story dollhouse filled with exquisitely crafted miniature furnishings, and then they came to the Marché Dauphine, crammed with brocade sofas, gleaming dining tables, and row upon row of chairs, and farther on, the Marché Biron—chandeliers dripping crystals, an imposing pair of alabaster lamps.

They passed stalls selling long-stemmed wineglasses, goblets, pitchers, and vases; sterling flatware and platters; stacks of gold-rimmed plates, delicate teacups and saucers.

Anne, who had grown up in a realm of plenty, was still dazzled, even overwhelmed, by the sheer volume.

Finally they came to Marché Vernaison. “We’re here,” Anne said.

“Where?” Nancy looked around at the tables piled high with clothing, and the hangers from which were suspended everything from ball gowns to nineteenth-century bathing costumes.