Last Train to Paris by Michele Zackheim Page B

away.
    Crossing the turbulent Atlantic, I shared a cabin with a young man and woman who had just been married. We were on a tramp steamer that was loaded with pecans, cotton, soy oil, and we three courageous passengers. We were all seasick. And even though I was miserable, I had a good time between the visits to the railing or the sloshing buckets. The poor newlyweds could hardly stay on deck for more than a few minutes. They were both poets and would scribble away between their battles with the sea.
    Â 
    * * *
    Â 
    The day after the argument with Stella, it was still humid and overcast. But my spirits had lifted. I had wanted to take it easy. Maybe have my hair washed, do laundry–get myself together before seeing Clara and Stella again. I was sitting at Henri’s Café, drinking coffee and reading a book. But my attention was interrupted by the awareness of an unsettled feeling. Perhaps, I said to myself, it simply had to do with the drama of slapping Stella. I was afraid that Clara was angry with me–that I had disappointed her with my violent behavior–that I was an echo of my mother. I feared that now Clara would see through me, see that I was an immature, neurotic mess; see that I was a fraud, a two-bit hack, a nothing in comparison to the excitement of ‘our’ Stella.
    Then, without warning, a newspaper was slapped on my knee and I was rudely forced from my reverie.
    â€œDid you see this one, R.B.?” my colleague Pete Grogan asked, sitting beside me. Pete, a British freelancer, worked at both the
Paris Courier
and the
London Times
. He was a short man with a rotund belly that hung between his red plaid suspenders. A protruding chin, accentuated by his dark hair, which was parted in the middle, set off his face. He was one of the few writers who seemed to have a stable home life. I liked him. Actually, I envied him.
    â€œFor Christ’s sake,” I said, “I’m not working until tonight. Please. Go home to your beautiful wife.”
    â€œHa, I’d like nothing better,” Pete replied, “but Ramsey sent me to find you and give you this morning’s paper. It may be a sensational case,” he said, stretching out the word “sensational.”
    â€œWhat does that have to do with me? I’ve been covering politics for the past two years.”
    â€œWhat’s the difference?” he said.
    â€œOh, stop being a two-bit philosopher—leave me alone.”
    â€œJust read the article,” he said.
    â€œAll right, all right—but I need another coffee. Give me a few minutes.”
    Â 
    New York Actress Kidnapped. Just to the left of it was Soviet Union Begins Great Purge. “
The American actress Stella Mair is missing from her hotel in the rue du Vieux-Colombier, the Préfecture de Police announced last night
.”
    Oh, Stella! I thought, what have you done? With a sense of dread I rolled up the newspaper and put it in my pocket.
    As soon as I was halfway up the stairs of the newsroom, I was assaulted by the awful smell of stale cigarette smoke, mixed with old food and the humidity of the summer. I wanted to turn around and go home. It was only nine in the morning and already I could feel sweat meandering down my back.
    â€œHey, R.B.,” one of the reporters said. “Looks like you’re our gal for the most melodramatic story of the year. Of course,” he added, laughing, “now you can be assured of a long-running serial—just like the funny papers.”
    â€œCount me out,” I said. “I have to be in Berlin next week. The news is getting seriously grim. Yeah, I know,” I teased, “I know, it won’t sell papers. No one wants to hear the truth.”
    â€œYou might be right, R.B. But you’ll have to tell it to Ramsey. He’s in charge.” He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder toward the glass wall of the office. Ramsey was rolling a cigar in his mouth, shouting into the