Chapter 2
“This tea is really delicious!” squeaked the young girl dressed in white. She was perched on a small couch in our living room like a curlicue of cream atop a pastry.
I ignored her — as an act of survival for us both — and gazed out the tall windows of our living room. The very air seemed thin. Big clouds were speeding westward across the sky. They made me think about how time was passing so quickly and how I was wasting it, letting it melt away like sugar in hot tea. I had been with these women and their daughters for less than fifteen minutes, and I already felt overwhelmed with boredom.
I knew that Mr. Nelson was standing just behind one of the living room doors, and I envied him. He, at least, could smile in secret about the useless habits, the unkind gossip, and the meaningless conversations these women had.
My mother seemed to love these things so much. She told me she had missed the company during our vacation in Saint-Malo.
During the months we spent at the coast, her tiny, pale face did not tan even a little bit, and her slow and proper movements seemed to get even slower.
And how did she describe the time she spent on the beautiful Normandy coast to her friends?
Boring.
She managed to highlight all the problems she had with a place that I, on the other hand, thought was quite lovely.
Much better than being in Sedan! That’s what I wanted to say to remind her . . . at the same time we were vacationing on the coast of France, people were dying in battle on the opposite side of our country. But it would have been rude to say that.
I did not want to hurt my mother . . . I simply wanted not to be sitting there with that dull crowd.
So I decided on a sort of compromise. I would throw a small stone, so to speak, into the motionless waters of the conversation.
“This morning I heard some gunshots here in the main square. Have you heard anything?” I asked, biting into a piece of coffee cake. “It sounds like someone probably died!”
“Someone died?”
“Why was he killed?”
“Was he married?”
The little cuckoos got excited.
And once again I wished I could have seen Mr. Nelson’s face.
Bored by the chatter, I began to think of my friend Arsène Lupin. He had written to me a couple of days after I left Saint-Malo. It was lucky that his brief note got to me despite the war.
He wrote just a few lines. While it did not have the nice, lengthy sentences that Sherlock’s letter had, it was no less interesting. He wrote that he had been thinking about me for days, and I thought that admitting it to himself must have been difficult.
On the back of the postcard he wrote:
I’m leaving with my father, looking for shows. I hope you’re doing well and that we can meet again. Don’t try to get back to me — I don’t know what address I’ll be at. Kisses.
The way Lupin ended that letter showed all his confusion. Kisses.
Like it was normal to write this type of thing to a friend like me. Or like it was normal to kiss me.
The truth?
The truth is that while one of the prissy girls babbled on about some singing teacher at the Academy, I imagined Lupin’s face — his high cheekbones and floppy, black hair — right in front of my eyes. And I considered what it would be like to kiss him.
At the very thought, I blushed and laughed out loud, almost pouring tea on my dress.
“Irene? Is everything all right, my dear?” my mother asked. Her eyes were troubled.
My mother was charming. I say this without my usual sass. She could be admirable in a certain way. She could pretend she was talking to me while she was actually talking to her friends. While she was afraid of my unpredictability, she needed me there to show off what a wealthy and respectable family we were.
We could drink tea and have cookies even while the empire was falling apart!
I did not want to oppose her, even if it was difficult for me. I would rather be in the library with my books, or (I wish!) walking around town with Sherlock and Lupin.
But I was a girl, and from a good family. All the things that might have been allowed to a son were forbidden to me.
“Everything’s fine, Mother,” I answered.
I held in a yawn for all that surrounded me. It seemed unbelievable to me that while a whole army was marching toward the capital, people could waste away their days in a sitting room.
The torture lasted for another hour, until, thank goodness, my father came home. Slamming the front door behind him, he managed to dodge the staff and barge into the living room with his coat dripping water on the floor.
“Leopold!” my mother immediately scolded him.
The clouds in the sky were thick now. They let loose an angry, noisy rain on the city.
“How lovely!” I exclaimed. “It’s raining!”
Our guests gazed at me, shocked, from around the room.
“Irene!” my father greeted me enthusiastically. Then he added right away, “Good afternoon, ladies!”
He looked at me with those sharp eyes that made him look like a mischievous child — not like the railway and iron mogul that he was.
I looked back at him, feeling my cheeks burn under my mother’s envious gaze. Every time she saw Papa and me together she seemed to be wondering what the secret was behind the bond we shared.
“Go pack your bags!” my father said. “Both of you, go pack your bags. Next week Ophelia Merridew will be at Covent Garden, where she will be performing in the latest work of the famous Giuseppe Barzini!”
“Ophelia Merridew?” I answered in shock. She was the best opera singer of all time.
“Covent Garden?” my mother asked, nearly jumping out of her chair. Since there was no theater in Paris by that name, she added: “Covent Garden — where, my dear?”
“We’re going to London!” my father said, excited.
It’s not difficult to imagine that my father’s announcement created tension in the quiet Adler family.
But what I did not know then was that my life would be changed completely because of that piece of news . . . and because of the events that followed.
* * *
That evening, dinner was served at 7:30. We had a hearty chicken soup. I entertained myself by floating croutons on top and counting how long it took them to sink, while my parents began discussing London.
They had not talked about it yet, because my mother thought it was impolite to do so in front of her guests — even if the ladies, of course, would not have left anyway. Minding someone else’s business was too much of an attraction for some women!
“So this Ophelia, my dear —” my mother started.
That was all my father needed to begin a passionate review of the singer’s hits, list a summary of the positive responses she had received from critics around the world, and an account of how Merridew enchanted every audience for whom she performed.
“But, Leopold, in this circumstance . . .” my mother said. “Circumstance” was the strongest word she ever used to refer to war.
I sipped a spoonful of broth. I guess I was too loud, because they realized I was there.
“Even Irene loves her,” my father said. “Don’t you, sweetie?”
I nodded. I did not have to pretend. Ophelia Merridew was the role model of almost every singing teacher I’d ever had.
“Mrs. Gambetta says that Ophelia’s voice is outstanding, and that having the chance to listen to her is an absolute privilege,” I said.
“See, my dear?” my father said. “An absolute privilege. And do you really want to give up an absolute privilege in times like these?”
“Leopold . . .” My mother sighed. “Irene and I only just came back from our vacation at the coast. I’m exhausted. Just the thought of traveling again frightens me. And how would we get there? Is transportation even running? I heard that the whole city is shut down and that there’s a mass of people coming to Paris from the countryside —”
My father made his lips snap. “Nonsense,” he said. “I have already planned everything.”
“You have already planned . . . without asking my opinion?” she asked.
“Oh, come on dear!” he countered.
“Don’t be pushy, Leopold.”
“I’m not being pushy.”
“Yes you are.”
They kept arguing in their usual style. It was like witnessing a bizarre fight between knights wearing rubber armor, the sword strikes just bouncing off one another.
Even if I did not have the slightest idea what was really happening in Paris, I understood what Papa was trying to do. He was trying to send us as far away from the war as possible.
During a break in the argument, I intervened, “Mrs. Gambetta said that if only Ophelia had come to Paris, she would have done anything to take us students to see her. Because you cannot know the true essence of song if you haven’t heard her sing.”
A long, embarrassed silence followed. It was my mother who pushed me to take singing lessons, for she considered a good singing voice necessary to be part of the high-class society.
“Did she really say that?” Papa asked, satisfied by my support.
The truth was that Mrs. Gambetta was convinced that she herself was better than the most renowned opera singer of that time. She thought that by simple bad luck, no one could appreciate her voice. That, or there was some type of conspiracy against her.
“Yes,” I confirmed anyway. “That’s exactly what she said.”
I avoided looking into my mother’s eyes, but I felt shivers down my spine.
“And when did Mrs. Gambetta listen to, uh . . .” she whispered, rattling her silverware, “Ophelia Merridew?”
“Oh,” I answered. “You’d have to ask her.”
“If Mrs. Gambetta said that, though . . .” my father whispered, taking a big sip of wine.
Mama did not reply. She was defeated. I had to stop myself from glancing at my father.
“So, are we really going?” I asked while Mr. Nelson took the dishes away.
“Well . . .” Papa answered. He wore a big smile. It was a polite way of acknowledging his victory.
I went upstairs to my bedroom just in time to avoid listening to more of their argument. From the stairs, I could still hear bits of their conversation. I went to my desk, grabbed some paper, ink, and an inkstand, sat down, and stared into the shaky light from the oil lamp.
I did not write a single word. I stood up and opened my window, letting the soft noise of the rain into the room.
The city was dark, and a curfew was in place. It was so quiet that each step on the sidewalk roared. I saw lightning far away to the east, and I pictured soldiers falling on the front line, wherever that was now. I could not even imagine it: war.
I thought about London, and, of course, I thought about seeing Sherlock and maybe Lupin again . . . if one of his father’s adventures landed him there.
At the bottom of his letter, my English friend had left an address. Maybe, once I got there, I could try to stop by and say hello.
Or maybe it would be better to let him know beforehand that I was coming. What were the odds that a letter sent during war could get there before its sender?
I sat down again, staring at the blank piece of paper. I chewed my pen, and then I began writing.
My dear Sherlock,
You cannot imagine what just happened to me . . .
* * *
The next morning, I hurried downstairs looking for Mr. Nelson. I found him standing at the front door, staring at the road that was still wet with rain.
I handed him the envelope holding the letter I had written last night and asked, “What say you, Horatio Nelson? Will it get there in time?”
Mr. Nelson took the envelope and read the name on it. He did not look surprised. He smiled and began walking away, taking the letter to whatever post office was still open in this war-torn city.
“Mr. Nelson?” I called to him.
“What is it, Miss Irene?”
“Will you come to England with us?” I asked.
He answered, raising the envelope as if to suggest a link between the letter and what he was about to say. “Your mother, Miss Irene, has asked me to look after you when she is not there and has told me not to leave you alone for a second.”
Why would she not be there? I thought. Does that mean she isn’t coming to London with us? And why not?
I quickly ran inside and found my mother fully dressed, eating breakfast.
When I asked if it was true that she would not be coming with us, she said, “I won’t leave my house. I won’t leave everything we have to those barbarians.”
At that point, I couldn’t imagine the looting and destruction that would haunt this town after battle. Could it be, perhaps, that my mother had a better grasp on this matter than I did as a young girl?
“And what did Papa say?” I asked.
“He said that this house is not important,” she answered mysteriously.
What he had actually said, I would later learn, was that the house and our belongings were not more important than our safety. He told her that if he could not take us all away, he would at least take me away.