Pictures of the Past by Deby Eisenberg Page A

means.”
    Her words meant a great deal to him and would reassure him for weeks—at least until he received the next letter from his father.
I understand your team took seconds in crew — and I am thinking now that they should choose a more assertive coxswain. But that would be a waste of your talent and could be filled by a smaller boy; truly, your place is at stroke position. You do have the most fluid, strongest motion, and there you can best help the team increase their strokes per minute. I will drop a note to your coach on that. I assume you will be captain next year.
    And then the anxiety would resurface and the pressure would mount and the distance between the Taylor in the mirror and the Taylor in his soul would return.
    Taylor did not lack for company during his days and nights aboard the luxury ocean liner. During the days, he would try to relax on a deck chair away from the bustle of the pool and attempt to study his materials. But after a short time, an energetic crowd of college students would seek him out and lure him to participate in a game of water polo or shuffleboard. With the distractions of endless meals, professional concerts, cinema and live stage, a vibrant nightclub and stimulating conversations with the impressive list of passengers, the time moved as swiftly as the Blue Riband pennant-winning ship. In four days they had reached Southampton and by early the next morning they arrived at Le Havre, the gateway to Paris.
    Monsieur Francois Benet was holding the “Woodmere” sign when Taylor arrived.
    “Bonjour, Je suis Francois Benet,” the man said, extending his hand as Taylor approached. “I hope your trip was easy and I would like to be the first to welcome you to France.”
    “ Bonjour, Je suis Taylor Woodmere, and that may be just about the extent of our conversations in French,” he replied.
    “I am delighted to be your translator and your tour guide during your stay, as I have done often for your very gracious father and your grandfather, as well. May I please inquire first as to their health?”
    “Oh— très bien, très bien —I’m surprising myself— maybe a few courses in French were not wasted, Monsieur Benet.”
    “Francois, please. And I shall help you to expand that vocabulary as we travel—but not so much that you would no longer require my services.”
    “Your job is safe, of course.”
    “Of course— bien sur,” Francois replied almost automatically.
    And Taylor repeated, “Bien sur.”
    Monsieur Benet was a slightly built man, his finely chiseled face and wiry hands protruding from a loosely fitting three-piece suit. With a flamboyant ascot and matching pocket handkerchief, he presented a spirit that seemed much stronger than his physique. Taylor was reluctant to hand him his small bag and briefcase and was relieved when he directed another man, the driver and valet, to take them and then to lead the porter with the rest of his luggage to the waiting automobile.
    After a three-hour car ride, they arrived at the Hôtel de Crillon, perfectly located at the cultural heart of the city on the Place de la Concorde. The former palace of the Comte de Crillon and his descendants, it had been converted to a luxury hotel in 1909. Not surprisingly, it was even more opulent than the ship, with an expansive inlayed marble floor, glistening chandeliers, and Louis XV style décor. After Taylor was settled into his suite, however, he had no interest in exploring the hotel; he was eager to finally visit the city of Paris and the World’s Fair.
    Having accompanied Taylor to his room and sitting momentarily at an elegant writing table, Francois pulled from his own briefcase the most updated conference schedule and saw that they would have enough time for a first look at the Exposition if they went at least partway to the entrance by automobile. The driver brought them to a location on the Champs de Mars, and after quickly exiting the backseat, Taylor immediately began perusing the