As if he heard my silent question, James began to describe the building of the Métro and its introduction at the World’s Fair. Despite hating him, I enjoyed hearing about the construction of this public transit system that ran under all of Paris. A metaphor, I thought, for all that which we think but don’t share. All the secrets we keep under the surface of things.
We waited with dozens of others. When the subway train arrived, the crowd moved slowly, almost as one into the passenger car. There were only two seats left by the time we were safely inside. James insisted on holding on to my suitcase and standing while Fiona and I took the last seats. He wrapped a hand around the metal pole as the car lurched forward. I pushed my heels into the floor to keep from sliding off the chair.
With his wide shoulders and long legs, he was built like a farm boy, this James West, but his accent was identical to Lord Barnes’s. Was this what book editors looked like? Had Fiona fallen for him because he was like her father? Was he a good man as Lord Barnes was? If I couldn’t have her myself I would make sure whoever it was would be a good man. I owed Lord Barnes that much, not to mention my concern for Fiona.
“Do I seem different to you?” Fiona asked, shifting to get a better look at me. “Older? A woman of the world?”
I smiled, absorbing every inch of her small face that fit perfectly between my hands. Or so I imagined, anyway. How I wished I could cup both sides of her face and kiss her. “You seem like the same Fiona to me.”
She stuck out her bottom lip, pretending to pout. “Here I thought you’d hardly know me. I’m a sophistiquée now, aren’t I, James?”
“Yes, absolutely.” James grinned down at us. “She’s been very excited to show you Paris.”
Who was he to tell me anything about Fiona? I knew her as well as I knew myself. Who did he think he was? Out loud, I said, “I’ve been looking forward to seeing Paris as well.” I turned to look into her deep blue eyes for a moment, falling in for an indulgent second as if she were my favorite swimming spot on the river. If I were a better musician, I would write a song that reflected the exact color of those eyes. However, I was not good enough to create something as magnificent as Fiona Barnes’s eyes.
“Our friends are all coming over tonight in your honor,” Fiona said.
Our friends? As in, hers and James’s?
“I’ve promised we’ll play music for them at some point, but it doesn’t have to be tonight,” Fiona continued. “They like jazz and blues, nothing too stuffy. They’ll talk and talk and drink and drink, even the women. Everyone will be drunk by the end of the night. You might be shocked.”
I chuckled. She was still Fiona. “Thank you for preparing me.”
“No one cares one bit about things like race or religion,” Fiona said. “Not here in Paris.”
“Not our nearly corrupt friends anyway,” James said.
James. Apparently he was able to participate in the conversation whenever he chose.
Yes, I hated him. Intensely.
“They’re not corrupt,” Fiona said. “Unconventional. Colorful. One of them lives with a man she’s not married to.” She leaned closer to whisper in my ear. “Also, sorry about the subway smell.”
“It is a bit pungent.” The subway car, packed with humanity, smelled of body odor, dirty hair, and urine. I leaned close to take in her flowered honey scent. “You smell fine though,” I whispered back to her.
Her breath caught as her eyes found mine. “Thank you.”
After a second, Fiona went on in the same excited tone of voice. “The woman wears only trousers and curses like a man. Somehow, I don’t mind, even though she makes me blush. Her name’s Saffron and her man is Reynaldo.”
Part delight and part shock ran through me. She’d not been exaggerating about the colorful nature of her new friends. Was she right about Paris? Were people allowed to be whatever they were? Would I be welcome here?
Fiona chirped away, her voice soothing me as nothing could. “And there’s Sandwich, of course, and the Coopers. Sebastian’s a novelist. James is his editor. They worked together on a book that’s now being published in New York. Sebastian knows Hemingway. They used to meet in this one café and they’d all drink too much—all these artistic people—and talk about books and philosophy and writing. The Hemingways are no longer here in Paris or maybe we could meet them. Wouldn’t Mama and Papa be over the moon? Although, from what Sebastian said, Mr. Hemingway’s left his wife Hadley and taken up with a woman named Pauline. People get divorced and remarry all the time here.” She giggled. “Have I confused you babbling on this way?”
“A little,” I said, truthfully.
“Everything will become clear when you meet them,” Fiona said, sounding happy.
Where had all these new friends been when Fiona’s virtue had been threatened by this Basset fellow?
“How did you become an editor so young?” I asked James, hoping he’d tell me how old he was.
“He’s clever,” Fiona said.
“I’m nothing special, believe me,” James said. “I met Sebastian through my friends I grew up with in England. Sebastian needed eyes on his manuscript, and I offered to help.”
“You’re not an editor who works for a publishing company?” My mood brightened considerably to learn this fact about our friend James West.
“No, not yet, anyway.” James frowned. “I’m hoping to secure a position after Sebastian’s book comes out and he tells everyone how instrumental I was in helping him with the story.”
James didn’t actually have a job? No wonder he was penniless. Calling oneself an editor for reading early versions of a novel didn’t make one so. Surely Fiona could see that? Or was she too dazzled by his smile?
“This is our stop,” James said, pointing toward the doors of our subway car.
I helped Fiona stand and the two of us followed after James, who still carried my suitcase in his large hand.
We traipsed up the stairs and into the light of day, emerging like moles. Cars and trucks blared horns and swiped in and out of traffic, reminding me of toy cars in the hands of Flynn Barnes when we were young. I caught a whiff of smoked meat and then another of cinnamon sweet rolls before the exhaust from a car erased both.
The temperatures were hot and the air muggy. Sweat pooled at the base of my spine. I longed to take off my jacket. However, as I inspected the swarm of people on the sidewalks, I decided to keep it on. Parisians seemed to be dressed in their finest clothes, as if they were going to church.
“That way is Notre Dame, which we can visit anytime you wish,” Fiona was saying. “You can’t see the Seine from here, but we can walk down to see it later. All these boats sail down the river every night and people wave to those of us on the shore.”