Chasing Sylvia Beach Read Free

out of her if she tried to speak French now. And small talk? Forget it.
    “Quel beau soir,” he said, tipping his fedora. She shook her head, waving a hand next to her ear. Her student year in Paris had given her near fluency in French, but time away had diluted her confidence. And because of her inexplicable situation, she didn’t feel safe speaking to anyone. It was better to be invisible until she had a plan.
    The man scooted his chair closer to hers and opened his newspaper. It reminded Lily of her French professor at the Sorbonne warning her of draguers . Perhaps he was one of those sleazy men who preyed on young women lost in Paris. If she fixed her gaze on the little red flowers ruffling in the breeze, she could tune him out. The man didn’t appear concerned with Lily; instead, he flipped the pages of his newspaper, quickly scanning the articles. Lily saw a headline that mentioned Hitler and an increase in immigration from Eastern Europe into France. Of course. The war was imminent. A few years away. But Hitler’s actions were already causing ripples of fear across the continent. She closed her eyes. Think, she urged herself. Who had dressed her and given her the money? How had she traveled through time to arrive in Paris 1937 and not in her own time? Before getting on the plane to come to Paris, she’d been focused on getting ready for this trip that had been her father’s idea. Did he know she was in the past?
    With that thought, Lily opened her eyes. The questions weren’t getting her any closer to understanding how she’d gotten here. It was getting dark—where was she going to spend the night? And what after that?
    Without a plan, without a purse, without a clue, she felt terribly exposed. If she were home, she’d have a pen and her notebook and would be able to at least write down the questions to stop them from nagging her. But she had nothing—just 100 francs.
    Children squealed nearby and their nannies scolded them. The rhythmic rustle of the pebbles on the path gave her something else to focus on. Soon the everyday sounds of the garden evoked a tiny sense of normalcy, and she rested her head against the back of the chair, closing her eyes once again.
    Briefly, the wonder of her situation overrode her confusion. Sylvia Beach. Lily shook her head and grinned. I’ve just seen Sylvia Beach . She had pored over Sylvia’s picture countless times, even spent two days at the Princeton University Library engrossed in Sylvia’s archives, touching Sylvia’s belongings. And now she was alive and at the helm of Shakespeare and Company bookstore and was not a person from the past. But how?
    A sharp whistle brought her around. She opened her eyes, groggy. A man in a blue uniform with a small hat pulled over his forehead strolled by. “Fermeture!” he called, tooting his whistle again and nodding at her. People flowed toward the exit. The man with the newspaper was gone. Lily struggled up from the chair, sorry to leave its comfort. Where would she go now?

THREE WOMEN SAT in the back of a café in the 5th arrondissement, well away from the glances of passersby. A waiter approached their table, his tray laden with tea, coffee, and a pot of hot milk. They waited quietly while he served them. The youngest, Louise, a fortyish brunette, wore her hair in a wavy bob. She lit a cigarette and inhaled slowly. To her left, Adelaide, her older companion—graying hair, a simple dress with a cardigan—adjusted the reading glasses perched on her nose. The third, a striking black woman, stood out most of all. Erect and dignified, Diana wore a look of weary disdain, as if time were of no importance. She leaned in and focused on Louise.
    “What made you think that was a good idea?” she asked.
    Louise exhaled smoke. “Weren’t we preparing for this? Wasn’t she marked as a possibility?”
    “She was. Yes. But I’m the one making decisions about new candidates, when and where they arrive. I choose their tests, not