Last Twilight in Paris

2. Helaine

2

Helaine

Paris, 1938

You almost never know when it is the last time.

One Sunday, when Helaine was five years old, her father took her on their weekly outing to the Parc Monceau. They flew a kite until the string became tangled in the branches of an oak tree from the brisk September wind. Then her father bought a bag of salted nuts, and they sat by the pond, watching leaves and bits of newspaper blow by and send the pigeons scattering. Helaine leaned against the scratchy wool of his coat sleeve, smelling the lingering pipe smoke. Finally, she complained that she was tired, and they started for home.

She would not leave the house again. The next week, she died.

Almost died , Helaine corrected herself as she did her mother, every time she told the story. Maman always pressed her hand to her chest and fluttered her eyelashes, as though she was about to lose consciousness herself. She insisted that Helaine had stopped breathing and that the doctor had declared her heartbeat gone, his next sentence of condolence cut short by Maman’s singular wail.

Helaine had been looking forward to starting school in just one week’s time. Her new bag and shoes sat by the door waiting. But the fever came without warning. One moment she was fine and the next day bedridden, scarcely able to move or speak.

Helaine lay in bed, clinging to life, for weeks. Doctors came and went, shaking their heads apologetically and explaining that there was nothing more to be done. The Chief Rabbi of Paris called at their house to offer prayers.

Then, just as improbably, Helaine returned. She coughed and opened her eyes and sat up, the fever that had held her in its grip suddenly broken.

Except it wasn’t. The effects of influenza, which had swept through Paris and hit Helaine with stunning force, were long-term. Her heart was weakened and susceptible to infection. She struggled to walk even a few steps.

From that moment, Helaine’s world changed entirely. Her family no longer traveled. Helaine had vague memories of before she became ill, of grand summer vacations in the south of France, winter ski trips to St. Moritz. Suddenly, all of that stopped. Visitors to their home became practically nonexistent. Before Helaine’s illness, they had several servants. They were all let go to keep germs farther from her. Instead of Helaine starting school that fall, her parents hired a tutor. She watched enviously from her window as other children walked back and forth to school, yearning to feel the pavement beneath her feet and the sun on her face, unencumbered by a window sash.

It had been more than thirteen years since she had taken ill, and still she remained inside. Helaine, eighteen now, peered out the window at the grand street below. Though she had little to compare it with, Helaine knew from a young age that their home, a four-story town house with a courtyard, was extraordinary. Even in their elegant neighborhood in the 9th arrondissement, referred to by some as the “Beaux Quartiers,” the wide, gleaming house stood out like a shining jewel. Down the street, a moving truck idled along the pavement, the logo Le Castagne emblazoned on its side. As a young child, Helaine had always taken in the appearance of movers with curious enthusiasm, hoping that she might be getting new neighbors with a child her age. After her illness, though, her interest waned. Even if a child moved in on their street, she would not be allowed out to play with them.

Helaine looked away from the window, turning from the world that could not be hers to the one she was forced to live in. Once Helaine could no longer go outside, her mother had set out to make their already opulent house a place that Helaine would never want to leave. As a result, their home was a marvel of comforts. The walls were bright and decorated with cheerful paintings of faraway places. The furniture was softly upholstered with downy pillows Helaine could sink into until she was almost lost. Every book or toy Helaine wanted was hers for the having. As she had grown older, Helaine chose fabrics for her dresses, and they were made and brought for her to try on. But what good was having beautiful clothes with nowhere to wear them? It was as if she lived in a gilded cage.

She was sitting in the library now, her favorite room in the house, with her feet tucked up beneath her in the window seat. Walls of books climbed to the ceiling, so high that a small rolling ladder was needed to reach the top shelves. Helaine had been permitted for as long as she could remember to roam the shelves freely. No one ever said a book was too grown-up or that she shouldn’t read it. Her mind was as free as her body was trapped and so she learned to read early and voraciously. Here, the only limit holding her back from discovering the outside world was Helaine herself. There was a kind of pain in reading about all of the places she could not see beyond the walls of their house. But in these books, she could be anyone and go anywhere, and she gratefully took the ride.

In her hands, she held a small, leather-bound journal, one of her most treasured possessions. Helaine didn’t just read stories; she loved to write them as well. She wrote about a girl called Anna, her strong alter ego who could travel and do magnificent things. Helaine sent her on many great journeys. For the past few days, she had written about Anna visiting Italy and seeing the Spanish Steps and Colosseum, sights that Helaine herself had only dreamed about. She had created a friend, Sofia, whom Anna had met in Rome, and now the two girls were debating if they should head to Lisbon or Athens.

Not sure of the answer, Helaine closed her journal and picked up Little Women , which she was reading for the third time. Normally, she preferred more adventurous books, like The Three Musketeers . But she identified with Beth’s confinement and the way that Jo felt torn between home and seeing the world. Helaine looked out at the Paris streets, which seemed to beckon. Why not go outside? she thought suddenly. She had no physical impairments anymore and she had not been sick for years. Rather it was the fear of illness (her parents’ fear, really) that kept her from living fully.

Helaine heard footsteps down the corridor and knew without checking that it was Maman. It was not just the lightness of her step. Her mother was the only other person who was ever there. Papa traveled the world for his business. When he did come home, he would first quarantine in a small flat off Rue Petrelle so as not to bring germs from his travels and make her sick.

Or so he said. Helaine knew that really he went there to meet his lover. Her mind reeled back to when she was eight and saw Papa’s limousine pull up on the street in front of their house. Her heart had skipped a beat. Papa always brought fun and light, the whiff of foreign countries and a welcome break from her solitary confinement. And gifts. Helaine watched with anticipation as the rear door of the limousine opened. As the top of Papa’s familiar hat appeared, she glimpsed something else through the car door. A woman’s leg. The dress hem and shapely calf be neath seamed nylons were unmistakably feminine. At first, Helaine assumed that it was her mother. Maman was downstairs, though, and the leg bore no resemblance to her own matronly form. Helaine could not ignore the fact then that her father was unfaithful. Even though she did not know exactly what that meant at such a young age, somehow she understood.

Helaine’s father was not an unkind man. He provided them with every material comfort. But so many French men, especially wealthy ones, kept lovers on the side and there was nothing to be done about it. Maman pretended not to notice. That was the charade and they all maintained it. Helaine often wondered if it was her illness and the burden of caring for her that had ripped her parents’ marriage apart, or if the infidelity was culturally inevitable.

Restless now, Helaine walked from the library toward the kitchen. As she passed the china cabinet in the hallway, she spied her grandmother’s tea set. Sadness rose in her. One of the things she missed most after getting sick was going to her grandmother’s house, a dusty mansion in Neuilly-sur-Seine with an attic that had endless trunks for a child to explore. Helaine’s grandmother died when Helaine was nine and Helaine never got to see her or visit her house again. They had just a few things of hers, including the silver tea set.

Looking at the tea set now, it seemed to represent everything Helaine had lost, her grandmother, her freedom. Her life. She had accepted her solitude, but as she had gotten older, her desire to explore the outside world had grown. It burned inside her now, hotter than ever. She could not go on like this any longer. Impulsively, she returned to her room, changed clothes and found her coat. It was a size too small, and she had never actually worn it.

She walked downstairs to where her mother was just pulling a tray of croissants from the oven. Though they could afford an army of servants, Maman insisted on doing everything herself for Helaine, cooking healthy meals, overseeing her education and her care. Sometimes Helaine found her mother watching her as she slept. She would reach out and touch Helaine, as if to make sure she was still there. Her mother was constantly in motion. Helaine had no early memories of her sitting down. Only later would Helaine realize that her mother’s perpetual movement was not only to help and care for Helaine, but to stave off her own loneliness.

Helaine’s mother came over and put her arms around her. Helaine buried her nose in the familiar place in her mother’s neck, inhaling her sweet scent. Maman smelled like cherries and vanilla, and Helaine never quite knew if that was natural or perfume or the aroma of the delicious baked goods she always made. Helaine always felt in her mother’s embrace not just love, but the sadness of all of the things she had not been able to give her, her freedom, or at the very least a sibling as company. Helaine knew that there was disappointment mixed in as well. Her parents didn’t talk of the hopes they had for her if she had been healthy, but she could see it in their eyes. They wanted Helaine to marry someone important and carry on the family name with her children. But all of that was gone now. She had been told that the illness she suffered as a child had left her unable to have children of her own. She was an empty vessel, a should-have-been.

Helaine’s mother held out a croissant to her. Normally, Helaine loved the flaky, buttery treats, but today she had other things on her mind. “No, thank you.” Her mother’s expression was puzzled; it was not like Helaine to turn down one of her delicious baked goods. Then, seeing Helaine’s coat, her brow furrowed.

“I’d like to take a walk,” Helaine said, scarcely managing the words. It was not the first time Helaine had thought about going. But something, the fear of it angering her parents or perhaps of it being too much, had stopped her from pushing to go. Now, though, something felt different. She was driven to see the outside world.

Helaine’s mother looked at her as though she had suggested juggling knives. “But how can you possibly?”

“Just a short walk,” Helaine replied quickly. “It’s early, so there won’t be many people out.”

“It’s too dangerous,” her mother protested. “You might catch something and get sick.” Helaine watched as her mother’s eyes grew dark, and Helaine knew that she was remembering the fear and sadness of Helaine’s childhood illness once more.

“I will be safe. The doctor said fresh air will do me good.”

“He meant short walks around the garden. Not running the streets of Paris.”

Still, Helaine would not be dissuaded. “Once around the block. I’ll go now, early in the morning when no one else is out. Please. I cannot stay in this house forever.” Helaine’s voice rose uncharacteristically. She and her mother had never fought. Helaine asking to walk was their first disagreement now, though, a fissure.

Helaine’s mother stared at her skeptically and Helaine was certain she would refuse. “Fine,” she relented. Helaine looked at her mother with disbelief. Helaine was eighteen years old now, though. She could hardly keep her prisoner. “But just down the street.”

“And back straightaway,” Helaine replied, doubting the promise even as she made it.

“Shall I come with you?” her mother asked.

“No,” Helaine said quickly, regretting it as a hurt look crossed her mother’s face. It was not that Helaine disliked her mother’s company. To the contrary, they had been one another’s only companions for a long time now and had always gotten on well, moving like two appendages of the same body in their shared space. But this was about freedom, and to Helaine, having her mother beside her, hovering and worrying, was the very opposite of that.

“You shouldn’t go by yourself,” Maman pressed.

“I need to do this myself.” Helaine feared that her mother would insist on going.

To Helaine’s surprise, her mother did not argue further. “Fine,” Maman said again, her voice begrudging. Helaine realized then that her mother liked their solitude and being shut off from the world, because she felt safer where she could control everything. Almost everything. “But come back in a few minutes or I shall have to come looking for you. And be sure to leave yourself enough strength for the journey home.” Helaine’s mother walked from the kitchen and a moment later returned with a blue wool beret. She put it on Helaine’s head and pulled it low, drawing it so close around her ears that it squeezed. Her expression was solemn and intent, as if by that one gesture she could keep Helaine safe. Then she handed her a few francs. “In case you need anything,” she added. Helaine wanted to point out that she was only going down the street, but she knew that to her mother, Helaine going even that short distance felt far and unpredictable.

“Thank you.” Quickly, before Maman could change her mind, Helaine walked from the kitchen. She started down the stairs, half expecting her mother to come after her. But the house behind her remained still.

As Helaine stepped outdoors into the chilly March morning, her excitement grew. She had looked down at their street through the window so many times over the years, but to be standing on it was something else entirely. Everything seemed so much brighter and crisper, the colors of the early spring flowers in the window boxes more vibrant. Helaine ran her hand along the iron gate in front of their house, savoring the feeling of cool condensation against her skin.

But she only had a short while; there was no time to linger. Helaine started for the corner, then hesitated, considering which route she should take. She needed to pack the absolute most she could into her brief walk. She set out east in the direction of Rue de Paradis, with its cluster of lively storefronts. The world looked so different from the outside than it had from her window. She drank in the still-shuttered cafés and shops, which would have seemed dull and ordinary to anyone else, like water after a drought.

When Helaine reached the intersection, she paused. Her heart raced and her lungs burned. Her legs felt a bit wobbly and she eyed a bench across the way, fighting the urge to go to it and sit down. The cobblestones were slick beneath her feet. Helaine hesitated, her mother’s doubts reverberating in her mind. Maman was right, Helaine decided. She could not do this. She was in no shape. But Helaine somehow sensed that if she did not continue on now, she would be a prisoner forever. She took a deep breath and, with renewed determination, stepped forward.

And with every step, Helaine felt a bit stronger. Once she started again, she did not stop. Her confidence grew. Helaine thought she might grow tired. Instead, the exertion brought a certain kind of energy and elation. She was strong enough after all.

Helaine turned onto a wide thoroughfare lined with grand shops. She paused in front of an elegant department store. Lévitan , the engraved brass sign atop the marble entranceway read. She had a vague memory of being there once before she had taken ill. She could not have been more than three or four at the time.

Helaine peered through the glass window. The store had loomed large in her memory during the years of her confinement, hazy images of soaring ceilings and counters of fine goods as far as the eye could see. Some memories, she found, were outsized in her mind’s eye and looked smaller with the distance of years. But the department store with its terraced balconies and grand displays was as elegant as she had remembered.

Helaine wanted to stroll the aisles. But it was not open yet, and even if it had been, she had not brought money with her beyond the few coins her mother had given her. Perhaps she could persuade Maman to come with her and they might browse together, making up for the years they had lost.

Helaine continued on past the department store. She yearned to keep going and never stop. But Maman’s words reverberated through her head: leave yourself enough strength for the journey home. Helaine didn’t want to stay out and worry her mother either, for fear of risking her anger and not being allowed to go again. Reluctantly, she started back. Her blood surged warm with excitement. Helaine knew after that she would walk these streets every single day for the rest of her life.

Helaine returned home, exhilarated. Next time, she resolved, she would go farther. Maman leaped to her feet when Helaine entered, her brow furrowed with concern. “How was it?”

“Wonderful.” Helaine smiled.

But her mother did not share her excitement. “That was too much,” she fretted. “You went farther than just down the street.” Her tone was less accusatory than concerned. “Your cheeks are flushed. I will draw you a bath. You must be exhausted.” And somehow, hearing the words, Helaine was.

The next morning, Helaine awoke early. Though her limbs ached a bit from the previous day’s walk, she was filled with anticipation about the prospect of going again, and farther. She slipped from the house before her mother awoke. Maman had given permission the previous day, but Helaine feared she might say no if she asked a second time. It was not yet light as Helaine set out in a different direction, eager to explore. The still-damp streets sparkled and the pavement gave off an ancient smell, like a secret whispered. The bistros were still closed, but the proprietors were setting down the wicker chairs and drying the small round tables. Helaine walked faster now, turning new corners, heedless of how far she went or the possibility of getting lost.

Halfway down an unfamiliar street, Helaine heard music coming from an open window of a house. At first, she thought someone might be playing a gramophone or radio, though it seemed too early for that. Then, hearing the clearness of the sound, she realized that someone was actually playing. She walked toward the window, curious. There was a man seated alone in a semicircle of chairs, playing some sort of chamber music on a cello. Helaine knew that she should not be spying on him. But she was drawn to the richness of the sound. Her eyes fixed on the cello and the way the bearded man who played it ran his hands over the large instrument, caressing it.

Then the cellist looked up abruptly and his eyes met hers. He had seen Helaine watching him. She pulled back from the window and started away swiftly. The music stopped. She hurried down the street.

“Wait,” a voice called from behind. The man had come to the door, followed her. She noticed as he neared that he had a slight limp. What had she been thinking, Helaine berated herself silently, peering into a stranger’s house?

She started quickly away once more. Her foot caught a crack and she fell, smacking her hands against the pavement. Feeling the pain, she let out an involuntary cry. She was not badly hurt, though, and for a moment, she considered running. But Helaine did not have the stamina to go for long and the man could surely catch her if he wanted.

He loomed over her now, tall and broad-shouldered. Longish brown hair brushed into his eyes. His face was lined with concern. “Are you hurt?”

Helaine shook her head, for although her knees still stung beneath her dress, she could tell that the skin was not broken. “Just clumsy,” Helaine managed, feeling her face flush.

The man reached down to help her up. Helaine pulled back, afraid. But the man’s cheeks were rosy and his wide smile genuine. In his expression, there was not the slightest bit of guile. Helaine was certain in an instant that she could trust him. She took his hand. His fingertips felt calloused and cracked, but the palms were smooth and strong.

I know him. That was Helaine’s first thought as she stood and looked up at the man, though of course that was impossible. She had not left the house or met anybody in years. But there was something instantly recognizable about him. Helaine was struck by his features, which reminded her of puzzle pieces that, although each one was distinctive, formed the perfect image when placed together. His full lips were framed by a goatee and the flecks of gray said that he was older than her, though she could not tell by how much. His expression was a mixture of warmth and concern.

“Not at all. These sidewalks are a disgrace. I saw you at the window,” he added.

Her cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been there.”

“I’m glad you were. What good is music if people do not listen? Do you play an instrument?”

Helaine shook her head, thinking of the piano in her living room. There had been no one to teach her. “You should get back to your music.” Helaine started to leave, eager to get away and yet somehow oddly reluctant. This man was one of the few people she had met outside of her family and she was curious to know him.

“Wait,” he said. Helaine turned back. “I was actually just finishing. Will you have coffee with me?”

“No,” Helaine answered too quickly, caught off guard by the unexpected invitation. She immediately regretted her response. But the question seemed a silly one, for surely there were no cafés open at such an early hour. The man looked instantly saddened. Helaine loved the way his face seemed to shift rapidly, telegraphing his emotions without pretension. Helaine had grown up in a world of reserve and conventions, and the stranger’s directness was a breath of fresh air.

“Are you certain?” he pressed.

She faltered. Part of her wanted to accept and get to know him. Talking to someone she had met by happenstance was one thing, though. What he was suggesting sounded almost like a date. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I have to get home.” It was the truth. Helaine hadn’t told her mother that she was going out this time, and if Maman woke up and discovered her gone, she would be alarmed.

“Well, I will be in this same spot tomorrow rehearsing and I hope you will walk this way once again.”

Helaine nodded. She could not imagine why he would care so much if she met him again. Did he like her? Helaine’s cheeks flushed and she started away, hoping he had not noticed. “Wait!” he said again.

Helaine half turned back, keeping her head low. “Yes?”

“What’s your name?”

“Helaine,” she replied, lifting her head slightly so that her eyes met his. “With an e .” It was only after she hurried away that she realized she had not learned his.

When Helaine awoke the next day, the sky was gray above the slate rooftops and a faint drizzle misted the windowpanes. She hoped to slip from the house once more, but Maman was already in the kitchen, kneading dough. “You can’t possibly go out in this,” Maman fretted.

“A short walk,” Helaine said. “I will carry my umbrella and bundle up. I have to go,” she added. “I left my scarf on a bench.” This was, of course, a lie.

“Oh, Helaine!” She thought her mother would be mad at her for losing her expensive silk scarf. But Maman was only concerned for her. “I can send someone for it. It probably isn’t even there anymore.”

“No, I know just where I dropped it. I need to go myself.”

“Just straight there and back. The weather is dreadful.”

She gave Maman a kiss on her cheek, as if the press of her lips could erase her mother’s worries. Despite their family’s wealth, Helaine’s mother did not have the easiest of lives, and the last thing Helaine wanted to do was worry her more.

“You’ll hurry, won’t you?” Maman pressed. Helaine left without answering, swiping a parasol from the coat stand before hurrying out the front door.

As Helaine retraced her steps from the previous day, it began to rain more heavily, sending the last few well-heeled pedestrians still on the sidewalks scurrying like ants. Drops rolled off the edge of the umbrella, splashing her coat and seeping down the back of her dress. Her shoes grew damp from the dirty puddles that kicked up from the pavement as she walked. For a moment, Helaine considered turning back.

When Helaine reached the building where she had seen the man play, the window was closed. Helaine peered through the glass, worried that perhaps she had the wrong address. The chairs where the musician had sat were in the exact same arrangement, though. Only this time, they were empty. She turned away, feeling foolish.

“Helaine-with-an- e !” a voice called. She spun to see the man from the previous day coming toward her carrying a basket, his gait awkward. He did not have an umbrella, and his hair and beard dripped with rain. “I’m sorry I was late. I went to get these.” He held up a bag of pastries. He reached to open the door to the house, but it was locked. “Bah!” he exclaimed. Then he looked around. “Come with me.”

“But…” Helaine began to protest as he led her across the street to a small park. Did he expect them to sit outside in the rain? She followed him to a clearing off the main path where a thick canopy of trees created a kind of shelter. He dried off one of the large flat stones beneath the trees and gestured for her to sit.

Helaine hesitated, imagining Maman’s disapproval when she came home with her dress soaked. Her hair was already curled with moisture, though, and her stockings damp beneath her feet. As she sat down, he smiled. “I didn’t know if you would actually come.” He had doubted her return, just as she had his.

He pulled a white cloth from the basket and spread it before him, then produced a coffee press and two cups. He poured her a cup from the carafe, then removed two chocolate croissants from the bag. Helaine was surprised. She had not expected him to return to meet her, much less bring a picnic. It seemed in that moment the nicest thing anyone other than her mother had done for her in her entire life. “You wouldn’t come for coffee, so I brought coffee to you,” he explained, seeming to read her thoughts. “I’m Gabriel.”

Helaine took the cup he offered, still surprised that anyone would go to such trouble for her. “A pleasure to meet you.” She took a bite out of the croissant. “Delicious.”

They ate in silence for several seconds, Helaine studying his face out of the corner of her eye. His beard was somewhat unkempt and flecked with premature gray and his curly hair was tousled. He wore no coat, despite the rain, and his clothes were a bit rumpled, as if he had picked them up off the floor instead of hanging them. “Do you live there?” Helaine asked when she had finished chewing. She gestured across the street to the house where she’d heard him playing the previous day.

“No, that’s the studio where I rehearse. My flat is in the north of the city in Montmartre.” Helaine had visited the area a few times as a child and had vague memories of the artistic neighborhood, set on a steep hill beneath the white domes of Sacré-C?ur and brimming with cafés and galleries.

“I walk sometimes and listen to the sounds when the park is still. I’m a cellist with the Orchestre National,” he added. Helaine was awed. In the world where she had grown up, there were bankers and businessmen and lawyers. Practical jobs, her mother would say. She had never met anyone before who worked in the arts.

“And you?” he asked.

Helaine faltered, wishing that she had something equally grand to say. “I just live with my parents.” She considered telling him about her illness, a kind of alibi for why she had not done more. But she didn’t want him to think of her—or treat her—any differently. “I do like to read and write.”

“You should become a journalist,” he replied. As if it were that simple. What made him think she could do such a thing? “Report on the war in Spain. It’s a terrible thing, the way the people are suffering. Do you know much about it?”

Helaine shook her head. Although she read constantly, it was primarily fiction. The real world, from which she had been cut off for so many years, had always felt like someone else’s problem. Until now. The events of the outside world suddenly loomed large and it seemed important to learn about them. “Tell me.”

Helaine listened, rapt, as Gabriel talked about the conflict in Spain between Franco and the loyalists and the way people were suffering and dying, why it mattered. “You should take time to read about it.”

“I shall,” Helaine promised. “We do get a few newspapers. Les Echos for its financial reports, and anything with news of the Jewish situation abroad.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Your family is Jewish?”

“Yes.”

Gabriel’s face turned somber, and he did not speak for several seconds. Perhaps he was one of the French who did not like Jews. Although Helaine’s family was one of the oldest and most respected Jewish families in Paris, there was an unspoken divide because of the anti-Semitism that ran through some parts of French society. This had been truer than ever in recent years, when far-right politicians stirred anti-Jewish rhetoric, and political cartoons and editorials in the paper blamed the Jews for France’s woes. She worried that Gabriel would not want to see her anymore.

“There is a great darkness spreading across Europe,” he said finally. Helaine nodded. He did not dislike Jews; she could tell instantly. Rather, he was worried for her. The news of what was happening across Europe was impossible to ignore, even for someone like her who had been isolated from the outside world. Hitler had claimed power in Germany and was trying to take control of Austria. And no one, not France or England, seemed willing to stop him. Gabriel continued, “I’m afraid that much of it has been directed at the Jews, unjustly of course. Has your family considered leaving?” he asked.

“No.” Helaine was caught off guard. “Our family has been in Paris for centuries. How could we possibly leave?” She turned the question over in her mind, considering it for the first time. Her parents treated her like a child, told her so little. Perhaps they had considered emigrating and not mentioned it to her. The thought of leaving her childhood home and setting out for parts unknown filled Helaine with both sadness and excitement. But she brushed the thought aside just as quickly. Helaine’s parents didn’t even want her going out of the house. They would never contemplate leaving the country.

“This is Paris,” Helaine said firmly, trying to close the subject. After all, they were in the capital of France, one of the oldest and most sophisticated cities in the world. “Things like that can’t happen here.”

Gabriel looked as though he wanted to argue. “Yes, of course,” he said, but Helaine could tell he didn’t mean it. Annoyance rose in her. She had spent her whole life being placated and condescended to, and she feared now that Gabriel was going to turn out to be just like everyone else.

“You think differently?” she pressed, now unable to leave it alone.

“I think,” he replied gently, “that nothing is what it once was. We can’t assume. But I don’t want to quarrel.”

Neither spoke for several seconds. The rain was falling heavier now, the steady torrent of drops too much for the canopy of leaves above to withstand. “I should go,” Helaine said, not wanting to worry her mother further by staying out in the downpour. They stood and she helped him pack up the picnic. When they finished, they stood facing one another. “I hope that I shall see you again,” she said.

“You can count on it.” He looked deeply into her eyes. Helaine turned away, feeling her cheeks flush. “Of course, that would be easier if you would tell me where you live.” Helaine did not reply. “Shall I see you home?”

“No, thank you.” She could not risk her mother seeing her with Gabriel. “But I’ll come again tomorrow.” She turned and left, feeling Gabriel watch her as she went. As she started for home, she could not escape the certain feeling that something new and strange and wonderful in her life had begun at last.