Sylvia slipped back into her old life—the large apartment near Columbia University she shared with her sisters, a job as a social worker at the Welfare Department—but she was a changed woman. In her mind and in her heart, she was married to Jacques Mornard, a Belgian aristocrat. She wrote him almost every day, and rushed home every evening to look for his letters and always smiled as she read, “My Darling Blonde Bird.” He was having difficulties with his visa in Brussels, where his father was once again interfering. The jobs at the French Pavilion were for French citizens only. But there was always the possibility of freelancing in the United States for one of the European papers.
After two months, Sylvia received a wire from Jacques saying that he would sail soon. Suddenly she noticed that it was spring and life would be glorious. A crossing took six days. He could be there in a week or ten days.
She began planning a dinner party for his first night in town. She would invite all of their New York friends they had seen in Paris. Clemmy would make a special dinner—a leg of lamb, scalloped potatoes, green beans, and floating island. To prepare for Jacques’s arrival, Sylvia bought a new dress and had her hair cut and styled. To hurry the time along, she made a long list of chores. The apartment had to be cleaned, floors waxed, the windows washed. She bought champagne and stocked the liquor cabinet, planned outings to entertain Jacques.
When another telegram arrived from Jacques saying his ticket had been canceled, Sylvia sat down on the floor and cried into her hands. For a moment, she felt a wave of anxiety, that he might disappear again. When his letter arrived, he expressed his own disappointment.
The opening of the World’s Fair came as a reminder of Jacques’s absence. Spring turned to summer, long, hot weeks of waiting. On August 23, Stalin signed a nonaggression pact with Hitler, confirming the worst fears of Sylvia and her friends about the Soviet Union. On September 1, Nazi troops invaded Poland.
Sylvia felt that giant doors were slowly swinging shut and Jacques would be trapped on the opposite side of the Atlantic. Then, the first week of September at eleven on a Saturday morning, Sylvia’s sister Ruth answered the telephone in the apartment. “It’s for you,” she said, handing Sylvia the receiver. “I think it’s Jacques.”
Sylvia took the telephone receiver, her hand trembling. Something had to be terribly wrong for him to make a transatlantic call. Sylvia said hello in a small, fearful voice.
“Sylvia, it’s Jacques,” he said, his voice happy.
“You sound so close—like you’re just around the corner.”
“I am. I’m at the Hotel Marseilles on 103rd Street.”
“You’re here? In the city?” This couldn’t be right. When he arrived, she would meet him at the dock and wave to him through the streamers as he came down the gangway. When he arrived, she would have days to prepare.
“You’re on 103rd Street?”
“The Hotel Marseilles. I just checked in. Shall I come there? Or why don’t you come here?”
“Why didn’t you let me know you were sailing?”
She felt left out, somehow cheated.
“Sylvia, I sent you a wire.”
“You did? It never arrived.”
“Well, you know a war has started. Do you want me to come there? Or would you like to come to the hotel? I have all sorts of wonderful news.”
Sylvia glanced around the apartment, which was in a state of disorder. “I’ll come there.”
“Well, hurry. I can’t wait to see you.”
She wanted time to think, to have her hair done. She wanted days and days of happy anticipation, but she took a quick shower, applied her makeup, and put on a white pique sundress that had a small bolero jacket. Entering Jacques’s hotel, she noticed then ignored an odd impulse to ask at the front desk when Mr. Mornard had checked in. But all of her uneasiness evaporated when Jacques opened the door to his suite, his tie loosened, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. Here was Jacques, handsome and so appealing. “Finally,” he said, taking her in his arms, kissing her.
A large trunk stood in the middle of the living room. Through the bedroom door she could see suitcases lying open on the bed. “Let me look at you,” he said. “Your hair is different.”
“I had it waved, and it’s grown out. Don’t you like it?”
“I liked it better the way you had it in Paris, but we can always have it cut again.”
“Yes, however you like it. I’m just glad you called today or you would have missed me. We’re going away for the weekend tomorrow, taking a group up to our family’s lake house. Of course, you have to come.”
“Sylvia, I just arrived.”
“It’s a big holiday here, Labor Day weekend. No one stays in town. You’ll have fun. Walta and Manny will be there. You can relax and recover from your trip. There’s no way I can get out of going.”
“Well, if you insist. Are you hungry? I thought I would have lunch sent up, a bottle of Champagne to celebrate. I have to tell you my news! You know all the difficulties I was having because of my father.”
“Yes, problems with your visa.”
“Well, Mama finally came to my rescue. She gave me ten thousand dollars and told me to buy a new passport.”
“A fake passport?”
“Wait!” He went into the bedroom and returned with a leather envelope that contained a stack of bills and a Canadian passport, which he opened to the photograph.
“It looks just like you.”
“It is, silly. That’s my photograph. But look at the name.”
“Frank Jacson?” She tried a French pronunciation.
“Jackson,” he corrected
“But they left out the k.”
“Yes, an error, an odd spelling, but the Jac is just as you write it.”
“This is illegal.”
“It’s only a document, a technicality.”
“Must I call you Frank?”
“In Mexico, you should probably refer to me as Frank Jacson, but, of course, I will still be your Jacques.”
“Mexico?”
“Yes, that’s the other part of my news. Mother arranged for me to work for a great friend of hers. Peter Lubeck is a financier who specializes in commodities. He’s opening an office in Mexico City and has hired me to be his assistant. He believes the war will create tremendous competition for raw materials from Latin America. It’s a great opportunity for me. He plans to make a killing.”
“Isn’t that profiteering?”
“Sylvia, don’t be a goose! Someone will make money on the war. That’s the way it always is. Lubeck’s paying me fifty U.S. dollars per week and giving me a letter of credit. And you’re going to join me in Mexico as soon as I get settled.”
“When do you leave?”
“I’m not sure. I have to wait for Lubeck, but I think I’ll be here for about a month. I thought I’d rent an apartment in the Village. He’s paying my expenses, but I don’t want to spend a fortune on a hotel.”
“Greenwich Village?” She was surprised that he sounded so familiar with the city.
“Yes, in Paris didn’t you keep saying that St.-Germain reminded you of Greenwich Village?”
“I might have. I don’t recall.”
“Of course you did. Lubeck has an associate who can set me up there.”
“It’s a long way from my apartment.”
“You’ll stay with me. A wife’s place is with her husband. And while I’m thinking of it, I want you to keep some money for me.” He had started to count out hundred-dollar bills. “Here is three thousand dollars. I want you to hold it for me.”
“Why don’t you put it in the hotel safe?”
“I won’t be here that long, and I want you hold it.”
“What will I do with it?”
“Whatever you wish. I trust you completely.”
Jacques stayed in New York for a month. That first weekend, he and Sylvia went to the Ageloffs’ lake house in the mountains north of the city. The place had a ramshackle charm with screen porches on both floors looking out at the water. Jacques lay in his bathing trunks on the wooden dock in front of the house while the others listened to the radio and talked about the war. England had started to evacuate civilians from London, and the Nazis were invading Poland. For exercise, Jacques rowed the Ageloffs’ dinghy, making the small boat jump beneath the oars.
September flew past in a blur for Sylvia. Suddenly, almost as abruptly and mysteriously as he had arrived, Jacques was leaving. Sylvia accompanied him to Grand Central Terminal, a second taxi filled with Jacques’s luggage. It was a crisp October day, and he looked particularly good in sunglasses, a tweed jacket, a green-and-black striped silk tie, and charcoal-gray wool slacks. Distracted, he watched the city pass, then, as if recalling Sylvia, he covered her hand with his. “It won’t be long. You’ll come down in December.”
“Yes, I hope so.”
“Don’t worry about money. I’ll pay for everything. But try to come for a month or two.”
“I’m not sure I can get that much time away. This is a new job.”
“Can’t you ask for a leave?”
“I can ask,” she said and laughed, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll get it.”
“Well, I wish you could just quit your job and move down with me, but we had better see how the situation works out there. I know I seem impatient, but I don’t like to be without you.”
In the train station, Sylvia and Jacques followed a line of porters carrying his bags across the great echoing hallway. The crowds, the commotion, and the hurry were already pulling them apart. Jacques was intent on his tickets, on getting his luggage properly checked, and passing out tips. She followed him onto the train to his compartment. She heard the porter calling “All aboard! All aboard!” and felt the car jerk beneath her feet as Jacques kissed her goodbye. He stood on the stairs as the train began to move and she walked along the platform. He was still waving to her, smiling as the train disappeared into the dark tunnel.