Chasing Sylvia Beach Read Free Page A

you.”
    Louise sipped her coffee. “I’m sorry. But you have to agree the time was ripe. She was already coming to Paris. Alone. When would that happen again?”
    “You really have some nerve. You’ve put our work in jeopardy.”
    “Don’t exaggerate, Diana,” Louise said.
    “I’m not. You well know how little control we have once you arrive.”
    The older woman intruded, again adjusting her glasses. “She seems fine. Have faith in her lineage.”
    Diana ignored her and spoke to Louise. “Yes, well, you better hope that she can pull it off. Otherwise—”
    “Otherwise what?” Louise stubbed out her cigarette.
    “Otherwise we’ll be looking to replace you as well.”
    No one spoke. Café life continued around them, the hiss of the milk steamer, the clatter of dishes and cutlery.
    “Diana, I can’t believe you’re thinking that. How long have I served?”
    “You’ve served long and well,” Diana said. “But we can’t have our members making important decisions on their own. We have too much to lose. And you know it.”
    Louise collected her cigarettes and rose to leave.
    “Watch her, Louise. We need to let her integrate, see how she does. You can trail her, but don’t let her see you. We’ve got Harold making sure she doesn’t get into any trouble. “One more thing.” Diana paused. “Her success is in your hands. Since you brought her, she’s yours.”
    “Understood.”
    Louise left, and the two women sat in silence, the coffee growing cold between them.

THE COMFORT SHE’D experienced in the garden dissipated as Lily slipped into the bustle of the city. The sidewalks were crowded with students walking together in small groups. At the Place Edmond Rostand intersection, the café terrace overflowed with people enjoying conversations with friends. Catching sight of the Pantheon at the far end of rue Soufflot, Lily gasped. A memory rose from her student days at the Sorbonne. She had been packing and leaving in a hurry, unsure about whether she’d return. Lily blinked the memory away, along with tears that had gathered. This was her first time back to Paris since then.
    She shook her head, trying to understand the collision of her Paris past with this, a familiar but strange Paris. Suddenly she was aware that she was standing dumbstruck in the middle of the sidewalk. A couple passed and the woman tsked. Lily hurried through the crosswalk and continued down the boulevard Saint-Michel.
    Small shops lined the boulevard. She passed grocery stores and tabacs , shops that served the people who lived in the neighborhood, not tourists visiting from around the world. It was more like a village than a corner of a cosmopolitan city. And she was the beggar who had arrived in the village with nowhere to stay. She felt exposed and conspicuous on the busy boulevard.
    Ducking down the first side street, she found herself on rue Monsieur le Prince. A few steps in and a quiet descended, allowing her to assess her situation calmly. First, she needed to find a place to sleep. Then something to eat. She had 100 francs—how much was that in 1937? And who had put it in her pocket? Where had the clothes she was wearing come from? Stop asking questions, she chided herself. Think. What do you know? The last thing she remembered was being on a plane, on her way to Paris, to attend a literary festival. Then—bam—awakening in Sylvia Beach’s bookstore. Nothing made sense.
    Finally, a coherent thought arose. Surely being in Sylvia’s bookstore wasn’t an accident. Lily liked to believe in serendipi-ty, but this couldn’t be a coincidence. She had to go back. She had to do what other Americans had done—throw herself on Sylvia’s mercy and ask for help. The thought of actually speaking to Sylvia made Lily feel numb with fear. But she had no choice. She would go back to the bookstore and see if Sylvia could help her somehow, help her figure out how she had gotten here, why she was wearing clothes from the thirties, and