Crossing on the Paris Read Free

baskets; an overblown rose left after a florist had gathered his freshest wares; light strokes of dress silk from the Parisian ladies, so much taller than their own mothers.
    Julie Vernet used to be one of those children. About once every year, a great ship was launched and the local kids loved being part of the festivities. They’d mimic the stuffy first-class travelers withtheir cigarette holders and walking canes, and the foreigners, speaking funny languages. Clowning around in front of the photographers, they’d goad them into taking their pictures. A few little imps inevitably tried to sneak onto the ship, with the idea of stowing away and making their fortunes in New York.
    When she was ten or twelve, Julie enjoyed running around the dock, collecting all the longest, cleanest pieces of streamers she could find. She would tie them like ribbons in her hair or wrap them around her fingers and hands, making multicolored paper gloves.
    The first launch Julie could remember, at age five or six, she saw with her oldest brother. Jean-François held her hand so she wouldn’t be lost in the crowd, and when they got close to the bow, he crouched down to help her spell out the name of the vessel. L-A P-R-O-V-E-N-C-E. He explained to her that, like Le Havre, Provence was on the sea. But there, it was sunny and warm all year-round; the flowers, he added, smelled so sweet, the air was like perfume. Years later, when she was a teenager, Julie would still see that ship in the harbor from time to time and think fondly back on that launch. By then, Jean-François had been killed in the war. Who would have thought that an ocean liner, despite its monstrous size, could outlive a big brother?
    â€œMama, Papa.” She looked at the small couple dressed in black. “I should be going now. I still need to put on my uniform.”
    It was her first trip away from home; little Julie Vernet had gotten a job with the French Line and was going off to sea.
    â€œThat’s right,” her mother said with a nod. “You don’t want to be late.”
    With no more words, they gave each other four light kisses, kissing air, kissing ghosts. She put her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the steerage gangplank. Making her way through the crowd, Julie absently bent down to snatch up a long green streamer and quickly wrapped it around her hand, glad to see there were other crew members who still hadn’t boarded. Weavingthrough passengers and locals, she was startled by a photographer’s flash. Well, he wouldn’t be taking a picture of her!
    As she reached the ship, she saw a group of youngsters from her neighborhood, Saint François. Like tightrope walkers, they were fearlessly balancing on the fat mooring lines running from the ship to the dock, challenging one another to count the ship’s countless portholes, bragging that their fathers had welded this bit or that. They looked up at Julie.
    â€œ Au revoir, Julie!” the children shouted, waving from shoulder to fingertip, jumping on the corded hemp. “Bonne chance!”
    Now, with her parents behind her, she allowed herself a grin—“ Au revoir, mes enfants! Good luck to you too!”—then leapt onto the ramp. As Julie crossed the gangplank, she already felt a bit lighter. She was leaving behind the gray world of her family home, the nonlife of Le Havre, ready to start anew. No more wordlessness, no more emptiness. The water, clapping against the hull of the ship, applauded her arrival.
    Once aboard, she went out on the low-ceilinged third-class deck. Julie took advantage of her small frame to pass through the thick crowd, people packed around mooring machinery and cargo hatches. She made her way to the side of the ship and stationed herself on a narrow strip of unoccupied rail. She found her parents below; they had backed away from the crowd, as far from the ship as they could. She nervously began to wind the long streamer