CAMILLE HURRIES DOWN Rue de l’Odéon, clutching the piece of paper that Sylvia Beach has given her. The address is a short walk away from the bookshop, and she sees no reason to waste any time.
She unfolds the paper. It reads:
ERNEST HEMINGWAY
6 RUE FÉROU
A writer, said Sylvia Beach. Camille has never heard of him. To her horror, she feels a tear run down her cheek.
Ernest Hemingway’s apartment is just around the corner from Rue des Canettes, where her husband is probably wondering if she is ever going to return.
All Camille really wants is to see Marie and hold her close.
The door at 6 Rue Férou is slightly ajar. Camille steps into the cool, dark interior. On the other side of the hall is a staircase. She crosses the room and climbs the stairs.
In front of Hemingway’s apartment she pauses for a moment. She takes a deep breath, and then knocks. Does he even speak French? she wonders. If not, she realizes, he won’t have been able to read the words she is so frightened of. Camille’s English is passable—most of the hotel’s guests do not even try and speak French and just assume that they’ll be understood if they shout loud enough—but still her stomach knots tightly in apprehension.
The door is opened by a woman. She is holding a cigarette in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. She wears long, flared trousers and a silk blouse, both dazzlingly white, and no shoes. Her dark hair is cut very short, almost like a boy’s, with a thick fringe swept across her forehead. This gives her a masculine air, despite the elegance of her clothes. She leans languidly against the doorframe and takes a long drag of her cigarette.
“Oui?”
Camille glances at the hand that is holding the wineglass, and sees a wedding band. “Madame Hemingway?”
The woman acknowledges this with a slow tilt of the head. She does not take her eyes off Camille. “Do you speak English?” she asks.
Camille nods. “A little, yes.”
The woman’s eyes are dark and flat and cool. Camille is suddenly aware of how tightly she is clutching her handbag. “How can I help you?”
“My name is Camille Clermont.” Camille beams. “I would like to speak to your husband.”
At this, the woman emits a short, bitter laugh. “So would I, madame. I’ve not seen him since he stumbled out of here this morning.”
Camille’s smile slips. “He’s not here?”
“Alas, no.”
“Is he writing somewhere?”
“I sincerely doubt it.”
“Do you know where I might find him, Madame Hemingway?”
“Call me Pauline,” says the woman. She takes another drink. “I’m afraid I don’t know where my husband is. We only arrived back from our honeymoon a few weeks ago, but I hardly see him anymore. He says he missed his friends while he was away, and so he’s been busy catching up.” She pauses. “Very busy.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“If the last few nights are any indication, it won’t be until very late, and when he does, he’ll be roaring drunk.”
Camille stares at her in horror.
“John Dos Passos is in town,” continues Pauline Hemingway. “My husband tells me that when writers get together they need their space, their freedom. No women to bother them, you understand.”
Camille nods, although she does not understand. She has never heard of John Dos Passos.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t complain.” Pauline sighs. “I’m probably better off on my own, anyway. Ernest has been in a foul mood ever since we got back from our honeymoon and he realized that he’d missed Lindbergh’s arrival at Le Bourget. He thought he should have been there. A witness to history, or some such nonsense.” She leans forward conspiratorially and cracks a small, lopsided grin. “He can’t stand the fact that Lindbergh is younger than he is, and more handsome, and a million times more famous. He’s as mad as a wet hen about it. And apparently it’s all my fault. As if I held a gun to his head and made him whisk me off to the south of France!” The woman laughs her short, bitter laugh again. “So here I am, abandoned by my new husband and left to fend for myself, with nothing but a couple of bottles of middling Burgundy for company.” She holds up her glass of wine and scrutinizes it closely.
“I really do need to find your husband,” says Camille.
Pauline looks at her. “What do you want with him?”
“He was at Shakespeare and Company earlier today. Mademoiselle Beach sold him something of mine by mistake. I came to ask for it back.”
“Ah, the lovely Sylvia. It was a book, I assume?”
“A notebook. Just a little thing. But it’s important to me.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you. He could be anywhere. For Ernest, Paris is a giant playground.” Pauline makes an unsteady sweep of her hand to indicate the city that lies beyond the apartment walls. “So many delights around every corner, and he doesn’t see why he should deprive himself of a single one of them.”
“Could you tell me some of the places he likes to go?” asks Camille.
“You could try any of the bars in Montparnasse.”
Camille’s heart sinks. There must be a thousand of them. “Thank you,” she says, and turns to go.
“Wait. I’ve just remembered. Do you know Le Chat Blanc?”
Camille shakes her head.
“It’s a jazz club in Montmartre. Sidney Bechet is playing there this week. Ernest said he might go tonight, with John.” The last of the wine disappears down her throat. “I heard Bechet play once, in Aix. I loved him. But do you think it occurred to my husband to ask his new bride if she would like to go and see him again? Do you think he thought to include me in his evening’s plans?”
Camille does not answer.
The newly minted Mrs. Hemingway looks at her wineglass for a long moment. “Anyway, yes. Le Chat Blanc,” she says. “Just look for the two loudest Americans in the room.”
“You’ve been most helpful,” murmurs Camille.
“I hope you get your little book back.”
“Thank you.” Camille turns and walks back toward the stairs. She can feel Pauline Hemingway’s gaze on her back as she hurries down the corridor.
“If you find my husband,” calls the American from the door of the apartment, “tell him to drink up and come home.”