The Diplomat's Wife
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.
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?”
“I—I …” I falter, my English failing me. Taking a deep breath, I try again. “I was on my way to London. I had to stop here to try to get my visa extended at the British embassy.”
“What visa?”
I hesitate, looking up. At the sight of him so close, my heart jumps. “Rose’s, actually.”
“I don’t understand….”
“She died, right after you left.”
“Oh, Marta, I’m so sorry.” He moves his hand from my arm to my shoulder, but I pull back. I don’t want his sympathy now.
“She had a visa to London, so Dava arranged to have it transferred to me.”
“And you’re traveling to London all by yourself?” I nod again, unable to bring myself to tell him about my failure to get the visa extension. “We just got into Paris a few hours ago. I haven’t even checked into the hotel yet.” I notice then that he is still wearing the same uniform as in Salzburg, but has added a matching jacket. His hair is freshly combed. In spite of my anger, I grow warm inside. “We’ve been given three days’ leave before shipping out for the Pacific.”
Paul is leaving again. He really is going to the Pacific, thousands of miles away. And meanwhile I am stuck here with no place to call home. Suddenly, I burst into tears. “Marta, what is it? What’s wrong?”
I can hold back no longer. Quickly, I tell him about Rose’s visa expiring, the embassy’s refusal to help. “I don’t know what to do,” I manage to say between sobs.
“So they wouldn’t extend the visa for you?”
I shake my head. “The woman said they couldn’t.”
An angry expression crosses Paul’s face. As he looks at his watch, I can see his mind working. “Come on.” He starts down the street toward the Servicemen’s Hotel.
I follow, looking back over my shoulder at the café, where the Frenchwoman has risen to her feet. “What are you doing?”
He does not answer but leads me to the hotel. At the gate, he takes my arm. This time, I do not pull away. His hand is warm through my thin cotton sleeve as he guides me inside, through the lobby to the bar, packed thick with soldiers. “Where’s Mickey?” he asks the bartender, shouting to be heard over the din of music and voices. The bartender points to a blond-haired soldier seated at the far end of the bar. His back is to us and he seems to be telling a story of some sort to a group of men around him. “Give me your visa,” Paul instructs. I reach into my bag and hand it to him. “Wait here.”
He disappears into the crowd and I stand alone, self-conscious at being the only woman in the bar. A minute later, Paul appears by the blond-haired soldier, pulling him off his stool and away from the others. I see Paul hand him my papers. Watching as he talks to the soldier, I remember our kiss goodbye, how he held me as I slept in the gardener’s shed by the lake. Warmth grows inside me. But then I see the soldier shake his head. Paul returns to my side, his face fallen. “No dice.”
I tilt my head. “I don’t understand.”
“I thought my pal Mickey could help with the extension. He’s helped a few people.” Struggling to hear and understand him over the noise, I lean closer. He bends his head toward me at the same time, causing our cheeks to brush. Closer now, I can smell his familiar pine scent, mixed with soap and spearmint gum. “He’s got a girl over at the British embassy who’s sweet on him. Or had, I should say. It seems they’re on the outs. I’m sorry, Marta.”
“I appreciate your trying,” I say, trying to contain my disappointment.
As Paul looks down at me, his expression changes, his jaw clenching stubbornly. “I have another idea.” Without speaking further, he takes my forearm and leads me toward the door of the hotel. I force myself not to shiver at his touch.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he guides me through the hotel garden and out onto the street.
“Back to the embassy.” As we walk back down the street, past the café, I glance at the tables, hoping that neither the Frenchwoman nor the waiter can see us.
I want to tell him that it is hopeless, that the embassy cannot renew the visa from here. “I didn’t think you would be in Paris, at least not so soon,” I offer instead as we pass the American embassy.
“Me, neither,” he replies. “That axle busted again not long after we left the camp. So rather than crowd us all into the other trucks, they let a few of us hop on a transport flight. We just arrived a few hours ago.”
As we reach the corner of the British embassy, my heart sinks. The visa line is as long as ever. If we wait, it is going to take hours. “You don’t have to …” I begin, but Paul leads me past the line and up the steps. I can feel the stares of the other applicants as we pass, wondering who I am, why I am getting special treatment by this soldier.
“Which one?” he asks as we enter the crowded waiting room.
“The woman,” I say, pointing to the window on the right.
“Hope she isn’t Mick’s girl,” he mutters under his breath. Leaving me at the back of the waiting room, he walks to the window. When the applicant who is standing there is finished, Paul steps in. The woman behind the glass opens her mouth to protest. Then her eyes dart to the sleeve of Paul’s uniform. Before she can speak, Paul pulls my visa from his pocket and slides it under the glass. He begins talking, gesturing to me, but I cannot hear what he is saying. The woman looks over Paul’s shoulder at me, but her expression is blank. She does not remember my situation; I am just one of many applicants she has seen that day. Her face remains impassive as she says something in reply. She’s going to refuse, I realize, watching the conversation. Not even Paul can help me this time. But she scribbles something on the visa, stamps it and hands it back to him.
“What happened?” I demand as he walks over.
“Your visa, milady,” he says, handing the papers to me. I look down at the papers in disbelief. The original date has been crossed out and a new stamp bearing tomorrow’s date added. One stamp. That was all the woman had to do to change a life.
“She would only extend it till tomorrow, so you’ll have to leave first thing in the morning. But you’re all set for England.”
“Really?” Relief washes over me. Impulsively, I jump up and wrap my arms around him. “Thank you.”
His arms close around me, warm and strong. For a second, it is as if we are in Salzburg once more. Then I hear someone clapping from the visa line behind us. My mind clears. We are not in Salzburg, I remind myself, stepping back from him. Remembering Paul seated beside the Frenchwoman at the café, I clear my throat. “We should go.”
A confused expression crosses his face. “Okay.” I refold the visa and tuck it back into my bag as I follow Paul from the waiting room and down the steps. “Now we can go to the hotel and get your tickets …” he begins as we reach the street.
“That’s not necessary,” I say, cutting him off. “I mean, I really appreciate all of your help, but I am sure you have other things to do.”
Paul stops, his brow furrowing. “Other things?”
“Yes.” I pause, swallowing. “Your friends from the café will be wondering where you have gone.”
“You mean my buddy, John?”
“Actually, I was talking about the Frenchwoman.” I can hear the jealousy in my own voice.
“Oh!” A light dawns in his eyes. “Marta, I know how it must have looked, but it isn’t like that at all. Last year, our unit was in Paris several times.” So he didn’t just meet the Frenchwoman, I realize, my heart sinking further. Perhaps she is his girlfriend. Paul continues, “John has been dating one of the women, Collette, long distance since then. Emilie, the other woman, is Collette’s cousin. Collette had to bring Emilie along, or she wouldn’t have been able to see John at all today. They invited me along so Emilie wouldn’t feel awkward. But I’m not interested in her.”
“Oh?” I study his face, wanting to believe him. “But don’t you need to get back to them?”
“I’m sure old Johnny can handle two Frenchwomen just fine on his own. And now that you’re here … I never imagined, I mean, I’m so glad …” He hesitates, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks. “Have dinner with me.”
My breath catches. Is it really possible that Paul wants to spend time with me, not the beautiful Frenchwoman? I open my mouth to accept his invitation, then hesitate. There is nothing I would rather do. But I cannot afford dinner, and I still have nowhere to stay tonight. I need to get to the Red Cross shelter. “I don’t know—”
“Please,” he pleads. “I’ll have the hotel clerk change your train and ferry tickets. Unless you would rather have that done at your hotel.”
“No,” I reply quickly. “I—I mean, they only seem to understand French at my hotel. I’m afraid they won’t get it right.” The lie slips out too easily.
“Then we’ll have it done at mine,” he says decisively. “And grab some chow, I mean, have dinner, while we wait for the tickets.”
Looking into his eyes, I cannot help myself. I would sooner sleep on the street tonight than leave Paul now. “That would be nice, thank you.”
“Excellent.” He claps his hands. “Where are you staying? I mean, do you want to go freshen up before dinner?”
“Th-the Hôtel Dupree,” I fib quickly. I hate lying to Paul, but I cannot bring myself to admit that I was planning to go to the refugee shelter. I glance down at the small satchel that holds everything I own, wondering if it might make him suspicious. But he does not seem to notice. “It’s rather far away, though. Is there a ladies’ room at your hotel where I can freshen up?”
“Sure.” We start down the street in the direction of the Servicemen’s Hotel. As we walk, I steal glances at him out of the corner of my eye. I am in Paris with Paul. It is almost too much to believe.
A few minutes later we reach the hotel and cross through the garden. Inside the lobby, Paul points to a hallway leading off to the right. “I passed a ladies’ room over there earlier. I don’t know what shape it’s in. Doesn’t seem to get much use these days. And while you’re doing that, I’m going to check in and get my key. Why don’t you give me your train and ferry tickets? I’ll see about having the front desk change your reservations and book you on the train to Calais for tomorrow morning.”
“That would be great.” I reach into my bag. As I hand my tickets to him, our fingers touch. We remain still, neither pulling away. Our eyes meet and I recognize in his eyes the same longing look I saw as we left the gardener’s shed that morning. I draw back, my hand trembling.
Inside the ladies’ room, I plug the sink and turn the left tap. As the basin fills with warm water, I look into the small, cracked mirror above it, horrified at the disheveled figure that stares back at me. If only I could take a bath, put on my other dress before dinner. I turn off the tap, then splash water on my face and smooth my curls as well as I can.
“Feel better?” Paul asks when I return to the lobby. I nod. “Good. Let’s go.” I follow him out the front door of the hotel to the street. He raises his hand and a taxi pulls up at the curb. “I know a great little bistro in St. Germain,” he explains. I nod, as though familiar with the area. “It’s not fancy, but the food is delicious.” He opens the rear door and gestures for me to get in, then climbs in beside me and closes the door, leaning forward to tell the driver the address.
The cab lurches forward. “My French is awful,” Paul remarks. He sits back, closer to me than is necessary on the wide seat.
“Mine, too.” The warmth of his leg against mine is mesmerizing. I force myself to breathe normally, to look out the window. We turn onto a wide thoroughfare lined with elegant shops and cafés. Since arriving in Paris, I’ve been so preoccupied—first by my rush to reach the embassy and later with my panic at not receiving the extension—I barely noticed the city. Now I stare wide-eyed at the magnificent architecture, the elegant shops that line the boulevard. “This is the Champs-Elysées. And that,” Paul says, pointing to the right, “is the Arc de Triomphe.” I follow his hand, taking in the massive stone arch.