Chasing Sylvia Beach by Cynthia Morris Read Free Book Online Page A

bank, lined the back of the room. A short fat man entered and passed her to get in line. She moved in line behind him. Lily counted five people in front of her and four people at the counters. No one in the line spoke. Lily imagined that everyone wanted to abandon their precious items as quickly as possible. From all walks of life, they would never rub elbows with each other without this painful problem of money that had them all by the throat. Her own hunger dug into her stomach after her long walk.
    To pass the time, she studied the others. In the front was a young man in a cap and ill-fitting clothing, behind him a man in his forties sporting a rather bourgeois hat, followed by a demimondaine of uncertain age, a blue boa draping her neck, overdone makeup, and cheap fragrance that reeked of desperation. Behind the demimondaine, the old woman Lily had followed clutched her handbag to her breast and pressed a handkerchief to her nose. Directly in front of Lily, the fat man ducked his head under his hat as if wanting to remain incognito. And Lily was one of these desperate strangers.
    The minutes dragged on. The men behind the varnished wood counter worked slowly, indifferent to the impatiently waiting people. Two others, a man and a woman, joined the queue behind Lily. The young man went to Window 3. From his pocket he removed a small canvas bag and presented it to the man working the window. The woman in the boa moved to the next open window, to the great relief of the lady behind her, who removed the handkerchief from her face.
    Suddenly a tall man dressed in an impeccable chauffeur’s uniform and cap entered and approached one of the tellers, disregarding the customer at the counter. Everybody in line shifted, outraged at this audacity. The fat man muttered recriminations. Others voiced their disapproval.
    “Who does he—”
    “He thinks he has a blank check, that one.”
    “In line like everyone else!”
    After listening to the quietly stated words of the chauffeur, the teller got up and disappeared behind a door. The chauffeur left, passing the queue without a glance. A few minutes later, a man no taller than Lily entered the waiting room by an interior door. He nervously adjusted his suit, nudging his round glasses up his nose, his gaunt face tight with anxiety. A hush of anticipation overtook the room. Time seemed suspended as everyone alternated glances between the waiting man tugging his goatee and the front door.
    Finally the chauffeur reappeared, carrying a black briefcase. This time he paused at the entrance, cap in hand, holding the door open. A haughty, elegant woman swept through. From behind a black veil hanging from her hat, she glanced around the room, her eyes resting on Lily for a moment.
    “Who does she think she is?” muttered the demimondaine.
    The man with the goatee hurried to the newcomer, bowing.
    “Madame la Comtesse, come in, please. You should have called! I would not have received you in this place,” he said. “Please, come in.” He escorted her into his office.
    He pulled open the door, bowing his head and clinging to the door handle. The countess removed an embroidered handkerchief from her pocket and, holding it under her nose, floated past them all and into the room. The driver followed with the black briefcase, and the little man scurried behind, closing the door with a click. A hint of the comtesse’s perfume briefly overtook the fetid air.
    “Pfft!” exclaimed the demimondaine.
    With that, the play was over and the waiting resumed. The sense of urgency, a desire to be done as soon as possible, reestablished itself on the queue. At last, Lily was at the front, practicing her script in her head, trying to find the correct French. She overheard snatches of conversation from the customers at the counter. Interpreting them, she became increasingly nervous.
    “I have a certificate from a reputable jeweler in the Place Vendôme for this bracelet,” proclaimed the man with the