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

hat, who was at Window 4.
    “Can you justify a direct debit?” That from Window 2.
    “You must complete the identification form to pawn your watch and receive the money that we propose,” from the teller at Window 3.
    The old woman tucked a wad of banknotes into her bag, and, pressing it to her bosom, rushed away, leaving the window open for Lily.
    Lily hesitated. Certificate? Proof of residence? Identity card? She had none of that. She had nothing but the card from the bookshop and her ring. How could she justify a direct debit? What address could she give? Certainly not 1640 Emerson Street, Denver. The address of Paul’s hotel? She didn’t know it. She didn’t even know where she would sleep tonight. A small whimper escaped Lily’s pressed lips. Behind her, people grew impatient, the queue already full of new faces.
    “Are you going or not?” The man behind her voiced his annoyance.
    Lily approached the window, twisting her ring. A fiftyish man sat behind the counter, his hair plastered to one side with hair cream. He peered at Lily from behind his bifocals. He wore black sleeve protectors over his white shirt, like a bank teller.
    “Bonjour,” he said, as if it was a question.
    “Bonjour. Je voudrais vous donner ma . . .” She lost the word for ring again, and pulling it off her finger, held it up to show him.
    “Your bague. Bon, put it here.” He handed her a silver tray.
    She placed the ring on the tray, the sound of metal ringing in her ears above the murmurs of conversation around her. She felt dizzy and swooned against the counter. The teller raised an eyebrow but Lily just nodded as if nothing were amiss. The teller pulled the tray through the grille. He jotted something on a piece of paper and tucked it under the ring.
    “An expert will determine its value. Afterward I will make you an offer,” he said, raising his head. Lily nodded, trying not to look worried. He carried the tray to a long table in the back where men inspected the treasures brought before them. A man examined the ring with a jeweler’s loupe. He then weighed it on a small scale, and tapped the opal with a small metal hammer. He took his time inspecting the ornate gold band from every angle. These few minutes felt like forever to Lily, who had begun to sweat, seeing her ring in this man’s hands. Finally, he wrote on the paper and gave it to the teller. The teller resumed his position. He nodded at Lily and placed the tray with the ring and slip of paper on the counter.
    “I can offer you 2,550 francs, mademoiselle,” he announced. “With the proper paperwork and your identity card.”
    Lily wasn’t sure she heard him correctly, and the sum he mentioned rendered her speechless. She didn’t know the value of 2,550 francs in 1937, but it seemed like a lot.
    “Alors? Are you satisfied?” The man prodded a response from Lily.
    “Oui,” Lily whispered. He pulled a sheaf of forms out and dipped his pen in his ink bottle.
    “Bon, I need your name and place of residence.”
    “Uh . . .” Lily wasn’t able to get anything but that out.
    “Oui, votre nom?”
    “Lily. Lily Heller,” she stammered.
    “Lili Elaire?”
    Lily could feel his patience dwindling. “No, Heller . . . H—E—L—L—E—R.” She slowly spelled it out, pausing to make sure she was using the correct French letters. He wrote painstakingly while she watched.
    “Adresse?”
    “Uh, je n’ai pas,” she said, her French disintegrating as her nerves grew.
    “You are in a hotel perhaps?” he suggested, poking his glasses up his nose. A tone of suspicion had crept into his voice. Lily didn’t know what to say. He pressed her.
    “Well? At a hotel? At someone’s home? You are a foreigner, you certainly have a passport.”
    Lily looked at him, her light blue eyes betraying her panic. She glanced at her ring, then back at the man, a foggy confusion overcoming her.
    “Mademoiselle?” The man spoke gently. A long minute passed. “Mademoiselle?”