The Diplomat's Wife. Pam Jenoff

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СКАЧАТЬ one. It’s such a big place. You’ve got the south, where I’m from, then places farther south where they talk even funnier.” I cock my head. “That was supposed to be a joke. Not all Americans talk like me. The states in America are kind of like your countries over here, but instead of languages, we just have different ways of speaking English, faster, slower, pronouncing words differently. Anyway, there’s the Midwest and California, which I’ve never seen. Then there are the big cities, New York, Chicago. There’re just so many places to go.” He takes another bite. “When I get back after the war, I’d like to drive across the United States. Maybe get a convertible—that’s a car where the roof comes off—and just drive, see the whole thing.” His eyes dance, as if he’s considering the idea for the first time. I imagine myself, seated beside Paul in a car, with my hair pulled back in a kerchief, wearing large dark sunglasses like the women I’ve seen in the movies. “I could go visit the guys from my unit,” he adds.

      “The others, they are not from North …” I struggle, trying to remember the name of his home.

      “Carolina?” He shakes his head. “Nah. Well one of the guys, Bill McCauley, is, but he’s from clear across the state. The rest are from all over, Texas, New Jersey, Maine. It’s funny, we’ve lived together, sleeping and eating, for so long. It’s hard to imagine going back to our own separate lives.”

      “You’ve grown close to them,” I observe, taking a sip of wine.

      “Like brothers,” he agrees. Suddenly his expression grows grave. “I had one, you know. A brother. Jack was five years older than me. He got killed in a car accident when I was twelve.”

      “I’m so sorry.” I fight the urge to reach across the table, put my hand on his.

      “It was really hard,” he continues, looking away. “I mean, I love my parents, adore my baby sister, Maude. But Jack was my hero.”

      “He would be really proud of you,” I offer.

      “You think so?” He looks back, his eyes brightening. I nod. “I hope you’re right. That means a lot. Thanks, Marta.”

      We continue eating in silence. I think about Paul losing his brother. I was an only child. Friends like Emma and Rose and Alek are the closest I have come to siblings. Rose. My heart aches as I see her lying in bed the night before she died. I reach down and touch my bag beside my feet, thinking of her possessions inside. I will get to England for you, Rosie, I vow silently.

      I look up. Paul has stopped eating and is gazing at me, his eyes intense. My breath catches and I look away quickly, feeling heat rise from my collar. Then I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the restaurant window. My hair is still frizzy, my face plain behind my spectacles. What can he possibly see to make him stare so?

      When I turn back, Paul is focused on his plate, eating the last of the chicken, scraping the sauce from the plate. But his wineglass is still nearly full. “Don’t you like the wine?”

      He shakes his head. “The wine is wonderful. I could drink the bottle without thinking twice. But you …” He breaks off, looking away. “There was this girl who made me see I was drinking too much out of self-pity. So I’ve pretty much decided to stop.”

      “Oh.” I think back to our conversation on the lake, struck that my words had such an effect on him. “I’m sorry if I was preachy.”

      “You were right.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand once more. “You reminded me who I used to be before the war. I want to be that person again.” This time I do not pull away.

      Henryk appears at the table then and clears his throat. “Dessert?”

      Remembering the chocolate torte earlier, I am tempted, but I don’t want to appear unladylike. “I couldn’t possibly.”

      “I think we’d best be going,” Paul adds, handing Henryk several bills.

      Henryk puts the money in his apron pocket without counting it. “Before you go I would like for Mademoiselle Marta to meet my Marie.” Before either Paul or I can respond, Henryk takes me by the arm and leads me through the restaurant. The dark-haired woman at the piano stops playing midsong as we approach. Up close, she is elegant, with sparkling green eyes and large gold hoop earrings. Henryk speaks to her in French, then turns to me. “This is my wife.”

      Marie stands and takes my hand, her bangle bracelets jingling. “Enchanté.” She turns to her husband, speaking rapidly in French, still holding my hand.

      “My wife is quite good at reading palms,” Henryk says. “She wants to know if she can look at yours.”

      I hesitate. Growing up in Poland, I had heard of gypsies from the Roma community who could tell the future from the lines of the palm, but I have never met anyone who claimed she could actually do it. I shrug.

      Henryk nods to his wife. She turns my hand over, cradling it in hers. Then she raises it to the light, running her thumb over my palm several times, and speaking to Henryk, who translates. “You have suffered through hard times.” That is hardly a prediction, I think. Everyone suffered during the war. “But your life line is strong, and your heart line is very deep. You will have great love …?” As he says this, Henryk looks meaningfully at Paul, who has come up behind me. I shiver. “And that love,” Henryk prompts, but Marie stops, placing her hand on Henryk’s arm to silence him. A troubled look crosses her face. She runs her hand over my palm twice, as if wiping something away. Then she drops my hand as if it is hot and looks up, shaking her head.

      “What is it?” I ask.

      “Nothing,” Henryk replies quickly, but I can tell from his tone and his wife’s expression that there is more. “I should get back to the other guests.”

      “Of course,” Paul replies, shaking Henryk’s hand as Marie turns back to the piano. We make our way to the front of the restaurant and onto the street. It is getting dark now and the gaslights have come on, casting a yellow glow on the pavement. “They’re lovely people, but palm reading is a silly game.”

      “Perhaps,” I reply slowly, still troubled by Marie’s refusal to say all that she had seen.

      “Are you tired?” Paul asks. I shake my head quickly, not wanting my night with Paul to end. “Good. Why don’t we walk?” He leads me away from the restaurant along a winding street. The buildings here are narrow, seeming to lean on one another. Voices and laughter spill out from the cafés and bars onto the street. Paul points at the window of an apartment on the third floor of one of the buildings, illuminated in yellow light. A young woman sits on a bed reading to three small children clustered around her. “Can you imagine growing up here?”

      I do not answer. In my mind, I imagine this street during the occupation. What had those children been through? I think then of the children in the ghetto orphanage where my mother and Emma had worked. What had become of them? I wonder, my stomach aching at the memory.

      We walk in comfortable silence. Soon the street ends at the river. “Look.” Paul points to an island where an enormous cathedral sits, its turrets and buttresses bathed in light. “Notre Dame.” I stop, staring up at the massive structure. The church that seemed so massive when I sought shelter the previous night is dwarfed by comparison. “You know, they call Paris the City of Lights,” Paul offers.

      I continue to gaze at Notre Dame as Paul leads me left along a path that runs parallel to the Seine. Soon we reach a wide stone bridge that crosses СКАЧАТЬ