The Invisible Bridge by Julie Orringer
On a chipped wooden chair in the corner of the yard, Polaner sat in state: Students crowded around him, and a gold medal hung from his neck. Someone had draped the tricolor over his shoulders. A photographer bent to a camera and shot pictures. When Rosen heard the new round of cheers, he rushed over to Andras and took him by the arm.
"Where have you been?" he said. "Everyone's been waiting for you! You won, idiot. You and your adorable partner. You won the Grand Prix. Your medal's hanging on display in the amphitheater."
Andras ran to the amphitheater, where he saw that it was true: Their Sportsclub Saint-Germain was crowned with a gold-stamped certificate and flanked by a medal on a tricolor ribbon. There were the judges' signatures on the certificate, Le Corbusier's and Lemain's and Pingusson's. He stood alone for a long moment, trying to believe it; he took the medal and turned it over in his hand. It was heavy and burnished, with a portrait of Emile Trelat sculpted in low relief upon its surface. Grand Prix du Amphitheatre, it read; on the back it was inscribed with Andras's and Polaner's names, and the year, 1939. He put the medal on, the weight of it pulling the tricolor ribbon against his neck. He had to see Polaner, and then Professor Vago.
"Levi," someone said, and he turned.
It was a pair of students who'd entered the contest, two third-year men. Andras had seen them around the Ecole Speciale but didn't know them; neither of them had been among his studio group or his third-year mentors. The tall fellow with ink-black hair was a Frederic something; the one with the broad chest and horn-rimmed glasses went by the nickname of Noirlac. The tall one reached for Andras's medal and gave it a yank.
"Nice trinket," he said. "It's a shame you had to cheat to get it."
"Pardon?" Andras said. He didn't trust his comprehension of the man's French.
"I said it's a shame you had to cheat to get it."
Andras narrowed his eyes at Frederic. "What's this about?"
"Everyone knows they gave it to you out of pity," said the one called Noirlac.
"They felt bad for your little friend, the one who got buggered and beat up. It wasn't enough that Lemarque had to hang himself over it. They had to make a public statement."
"We all know you work for Lemain," said the other. "And don't think we don't know about Pingusson and your scholarship. We know it was fixed. You'd better admit it to yourself. You'd never win for a monstrosity like that, not unless you were someone's little pet."
A muted cheer reached them from the courtyard. Andras could just make out Rosen's voice as he delivered a laudatory speech. "If you touch Polaner, I'll kill you," he said. "Both of you."
The taller man laughed. "Defending your lover?"
"What's going on, gentlemen?" It was Vago, striding across the amphitheater with a sheaf of plans under his arm. "Congratulating the winner, are we?"
"That's right, sir," said Frederic, and grabbed Andras's hand as if to shake it.
Andras pulled away.
Vago seemed to take in Andras's expression and the mocking smiles of the third-year students. "I'd like a word with Monsieur Levi," he said.
"Of course, Professor," said Noirlac, and made a half bow to Vago. He took his friend's arm and crossed the amphitheater, turning to give Andras a salute at the courtyard door.
"Bastards,"
Andras
said.
Vago put his hands on his hips and sighed. "I know those two," he said. "I'd kill them myself if it wouldn't get me fired."
"Just tell me. Is it true? Did you give us the prize to make a point?"
"What
point?"
"About
Polaner."
"Of course," said Vago. "To make the point that he's an excellent designer and draftsman. As are you. The entry isn't perfect, of course, but it was by far the most innovative and well-realized in the contest. The decision was unanimous. All the judges agreed, for once. But it was Pingusson who was your biggest champion. He said it was worth every cent to keep you here. In fact, he promised to increase the amount of your fellowship. He's keen to get you more studio time."
"But this design," Andras said, tweaking the hanging track with one finger. "It's absurd, isn't it? Le Corbusier was right when he said a thing like this could never be built."
"Maybe not in Paris," Vago said. "Maybe not this decade. But Le Corbusier's been making notes and sketches for a project in India, and he says he'd like to exchange some ideas with you and Polaner."
Andras squinted at him in disbelief. "He wants to exchange ideas with us?"
"Why shouldn't he? The best ideas often come out of the classroom. After all, you haven't spent years dealing with planning commissions and zoning boards and neighborhood associations. You're more likely to imagine something impossible, which is how the most interesting buildings come into being."
Andras turned the medal over in his hands. The third-years' insults were still fresh in his mind, his temples still beating with adrenaline.
"Jealous men will always try to take you down," Vago said. "It's the way of humankind."
"A fine species we are," Andras said.
"Oh, indeed. There's no saving us. Eventually we'll destroy ourselves. But in the meantime we've got to have shelter, so the architect's work goes on."
At that moment Rosen appeared at the entrance to the amphitheater. "What's keeping you?" he called. "The photographer's waiting."
Vago put a hand on Andras's shoulder and led him to the courtyard, where a group had gathered in a grassy corner. The judges had emerged to be photographed with the winners; Polaner stood between Le Corbusier and Pingusson, a look of deep solemnity on his pale boyish face, and Lemain stood beside them, proud and grave. The photographer placed Andras next to Le Corbusier, and Vago on his other side. Andras adjusted the medal around his neck and drew his shoulders back. As he looked toward the lens of the camera, still trying to shake off his anger, he saw Noirlac and Frederic watching him, their arms crossed over their chests, reminding him of what seemed to be one of the central truths of his life: that in any moment of happiness there was a reminder of bitterness or tragedy, like the ten plague drops spilled from the Passover cup, or the taste of wormwood in absinthe that no amount of sugar could disguise. And that was why, even though it was the only photograph he'd ever have of himself at the Ecole Speciale, he would never hang that picture on his wall. When he looked at it he could see nothing but his own anger, and the source of it staring at him from the crowd.
That summer, the constant subject of discussion was the fate of the Free City of Danzig. The papers reported that Germany was smuggling armaments and troops across the border; officers of the Reich were reported to be training the local Nazis in war maneuvers. While Britain and France stalled over a military-assistance agreement with Russia, the radio carried rumors of deeper cooperation between Berlin and Moscow. In early July, Chamberlain pledged Britain's help to Poland if Danzig were threatened, and on Bastille Day the Champs-Elysees bristled with French and British tanks, armored cars, artillery. Two days later the Polish flag mysteriously appeared above the offices of the Reich in Breslau. How that act of defiance had been accomplished, no one could guess; the building must have been crawling with guards. Polaner, who'd had a string of anxious letters from his parents all summer, was sick with the need for good news. Having received that piece, however small, he proposed that they all go to the Blue Dove and let him buy them drinks. It was a hot July afternoon, the streets still littered with Bastille Day trash, the sidewalks awash in greasy bags and empty beer bottles and tiny French and British flags. When they arrived at the Blue Dove they found Ben Yakov already installed at a table with a bottle of whiskey before him. A look of drink-eased resignation had settled over his features.
"Good afternoon, darlings," he said. "Have a drink on me."
"The drinks are on me today," Polaner said. "Did you hear about the Polish flag?"
"I heard it's scheduled to be replaced," Ben Yakov said. "I hear they've come up with something in blac
They'd never seen Ben Yakov drunk in public. His handsome mouth looked blurred around the edges, as if someone had been trying to erase it.
"Going to see the rabbi?" Rosen said. "Why should we congratulate you for that?"
"Because it'll make me a free man. I'm going to get a divorce."
"What?"
"An old-fashioned Jewish divorce. I can do it, you see, because we've got a note from the doctor saying Ilana's barren. That means we qualify. How's that for chivalry?
She can't bear children, so I can cast her off." He bent over his glass and rubbed his eyes.
"Have a drink, will you?"
None of it was news to Andras. For the past month, Ilana had been living under Klara's roof again, occupying the other half of Klara's bed. Klara had offered to take care of her while she recovered; Ilana had gone to the rue de Sevigne when she'd left the hospital, and hadn't gone home since. She was miserable, she told Klara; she'd come to understand that Ben Yakov didn't love her, at least not as he once had. She understood that he felt caged by their marriage. She'd long suspected that he was seeing someone else. When Ben Yakov went to visit her at Klara's, they would sit together in the front room, scarcely saying a word; what was there to say? She was often inconsolable with grief over the baby, a grief Ben Yakov was surprised to find he shared; he grieved, too, Klara said, for the loss of a certain idea of himself. And then there was the unanswerable question of what might be next for Ilana. On the other side of her recovery was a blank page. There was nothing to keep her in Paris now, but she didn't know how her parents would receive her if she went home. Her letters to them had gone unanswered.
Andras hadn't mentioned Ilana's situation in his own letters to Tibor. He hadn't wanted to worry his brother, nor, on the other hand, to raise Tibor's hopes. But a week earlier, Ben Yakov and Ilana had met at Klara's to discuss how they might extract themselves from their marriage. Ilana told Ben Yakov they might be granted a divorce if the doctor would attest that she could no longer bear children. It was uncertain whether that was really true, but the doctor might be persuaded to say so. Ben Yakov had agreed to pursue that avenue. Once they'd made the decision they both seemed to feel some relief. Ilana's health began to improve, and Ben Yakov went back to the studio to make up the work he'd missed that spring. But now that the first meeting with the rabbi was approaching, Ben Yakov had broken down. The possibility of divorce would soon become reality, evidence of what a disaster he'd made of Ilana's life, and his own.
As the four of them drank together, Ben Yakov laid himself bare without shame.
Not only had his marriage with Ilana fallen apart; the beautiful Lucia, tired of waiting, had left him too. She was spending the summer under the tutelage of a master architect in New York, and there were rumors that the architect had fallen in love with her and that she might be leaving the Ecole Speciale for a design school in Rhode Island. The rumors had arrived through a string of mutual friends. Lucia herself hadn't written to Ben Yakov since she'd left Paris.
At the end of the evening, after they'd spilled onto the sidewalk outside the Blue Dove, Andras volunteered to take Ben Yakov home. Rosen and Polaner clapped Ben Yakov on the back and expressed the hope that he'd feel better in the morning.
"Oh, I'll feel grand," Ben Yakov said, and the next moment he bent over beside a lamppost and sent a stream of vomit into the gutter.
Andras gave him a handkerchief and helped him clean himself; then he put an arm around Ben Yakov's shoulders and led him home. At the door there was some fumbling for a key, and as Ben Yakov searched he came dangerously close to crying. At last he located the key in his shirt pocket, and Andras helped him upstairs. The place looked exactly as Andras had imagined: as though the person responsible for making it habitable had departed weeks before. Dirty plates choked the sink, the geraniums on the windowsill had died, newspapers and books lay everywhere, and on the unmade bed there were croissant flakes and piles of discarded clothes. Andras made Ben Yakov sit in the chair beside the bed while he stripped the linens and replaced them with fresh ones. He made Ben Yakov take off his soiled shirt. That was as much as he could manage; the rest of the place saddened and daunted him. Worst of all was the little table with its empty teacups and its crust of bread: Andras recognized a tablecloth edged with forget-me-nots, Klara's wedding gift to the bride.
Ben Yakov crawled into bed and turned off the light, and Andras picked his way to the door. The ancient lock confounded him. He bent to it and fiddled with a rusted latch.
"Levi," Ben Yakov said. "Are you still there?"
"I'm here," Andras said.
"Listen," he said. "Write to your brother."
Andras paused with his hand on the doorknob.
"I'm not an idiot," Ben Yakov said. "I know what happened between the two of them. I know what happened on the train."
"What do you mean?" Andras said.
"Please, don't--don't try to shield me, or whatever it is you're doing. It's insulting."
"How do you know what happened on the train?"
"I
know. I could tell something was wrong when they got here. And she confessed, one night when I'd said some cruel things to her. But it was already obvious.
She tried--to fight it, I mean. She's a good girl. But she fell in love with him. That's all.
I'm not the sort of man he is, Andras, you ought to know that." He stopped and said, "Oh, God--," and then pulled the chamber pot from beneath the bed and threw up into it. He stumbled to the bathroom in the hallway and returned, wiping his face with a towel.
"Write him," he said. "Tell him to come see her. But don't tell me what happens, all right?
I don't want to know. And I can't see you for a while. I'm sorry, really. I know it's not your fault." He got into bed, turned over to face the wall. "Go home now, Levi." His voice was muffled against the pillow. "Good of you to look after me. I'd have done the same for you."
"I know you would have," Andras said. He tried the stubborn latch again; this time the door opened. He went home to the rue des Ecoles, took out a notebook, and began to draft a letter to his brother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The S.S. Ile de France
ELISABET'S ELOPEMENT was not really an elopement in the true sense of the word; by the time it happened, Klara had known of her impending departure for months.
Paul Camden came to lunch nearly every Sunday afternoon in his quest to earn her trust and favor. In his slow French with its flattened vowels, he told Klara about his family home in Connecticut, where his mother raised and trained show horses; about his father's position as the vice president of an energy conglomerate in New York; about his sisters, who were both in school at Radcliffe and who would love Elisabet. But the problem remained of what Camden pere and mere would think of their son's returning home with a moneyless Jewish girl of obscure parentage. The best solution, Paul thought, was for the wedding to take place before they left for New York. It would be simpler to travel as husband and wife; once they reached America, the fait accompli of their marriage would make everything clear to his parents, whatever their objections. Paul believed they would welcome Elisabet once they'd gotten to know her. But Klara begged that they wait to get married until after they'd arrived, until Paul had revealed everything and had a chance to bring them around to the idea. If he married Elisabet without consulting them first, Klara was certain they'd react by cutting off their son. In any case, as a safeguard against that eventuality, Paul had begun saving half of the astonishing sum his father's accountant sent him each month. He had moved to a smaller apartment and begun to take his meals at a student dining club, rather than having them sent in by restaurants; he had stopped adding to his wardrobe and had bought used books for his classes. He had learned these economies from Andras, who had found him to be profoundly ignorant of the most basic prin
"But everyone will see it's your old hat," he protested, and then repeated the last words in English: "Old hat. In the States, it's a pejorative. It's what you call something predictable or trite or demode."
"All you have to do is change the hatband," Andras said. "No one will know it's your ohld het. If you think anyone looks that closely at what you're wearing, you're mistaken."
Paul laughed. "I suppose you're right, old man," he said, and let Andras show him where a hat could be taken to be reblocked.
Often, on those Sundays when Paul came to lunch, Andras would see Klara retreat into watchful silence. He knew she was observing her daughter's intended, sizing him up, taking note of how he treated Elisabet, how he responded to Andras's queries about his work, how he spoke to Mrs. Apfel as she served the kaposzta. But she was also watching Elisabet. There seemed to be a kind of urgency in her watching, as if she had to record every nuance of Elisabet's existence. She seemed acutely aware that these were the last days her daughter would live under her roof. There was nothing Klara could do to stop it; Elisabet had been on her way out for years, slowly but unmistakably, and now she would be gone for good, across the ocean, into a fledgling marriage with a non-Jewish man whose parents might not accept her. To make matters worse, there at the same table sat Ilana di Sabato, newly divorced: evidence of how a marriage between two very young people might go wrong. Ilana sat in lonely despair, hardly touching her food; she'd cut her gorgeous dark braid at the nape of her neck when she'd married Ben Yakov, and her hair clung forlornly to her head like the kind of close-fitting cap that had been fashionable a decade earlier. Old hat, Andras thought. It was painful to look at her. He had not yet received a reply to his letter, and didn't want to speak to her about Tibor until he did.