The Diplomat's Wife

Paul is leaving again. He really is going to the Pacific, thousands of miles away. And meanwhile I am stuck here with no place to call home. Suddenly, I burst into tears. “Marta, what is it? What’s wrong?”

I can hold back no longer. Quickly, I tell him about Rose’s visa expiring, the embassy’s refusal to help. “I don’t know what to do,” I manage to say between sobs.

“So they wouldn’t extend the visa for you?”

I shake my head. “The woman said they couldn’t.”

An angry expression crosses Paul’s face. As he looks at his watch, I can see his mind working. “Come on.” He starts down the street toward the Servicemen’s Hotel.

I follow, looking back over my shoulder at the café, where the Frenchwoman has risen to her feet. “What are you doing?”

He does not answer but leads me to the hotel. At the gate, he takes my arm. This time, I do not pull away. His hand is warm through my thin cotton sleeve as he guides me inside, through the lobby to the bar, packed thick with soldiers. “Where’s Mickey?” he asks the bartender, shouting to be heard over the din of music and voices. The bartender points to a blond-haired soldier seated at the far end of the bar. His back is to us and he seems to be telling a story of some sort to a group of men around him. “Give me your visa,” Paul instructs. I reach into my bag and hand it to him. “Wait here.”

He disappears into the crowd and I stand alone, self-conscious at being the only woman in the bar. A minute later, Paul appears by the blond-haired soldier, pulling him off his stool and away from the others. I see Paul hand him my papers. Watching as he talks to the soldier, I remember our kiss goodbye, how he held me as I slept in the gardener’s shed by the lake. Warmth grows inside me. But then I see the soldier shake his head. Paul returns to my side, his face fallen. “No dice.”

I tilt my head. “I don’t understand.”

“I thought my pal Mickey could help with the extension. He’s helped a few people.” Struggling to hear and understand him over the noise, I lean closer. He bends his head toward me at the same time, causing our cheeks to brush. Closer now, I can smell his familiar pine scent, mixed with soap and spearmint gum. “He’s got a girl over at the British embassy who’s sweet on him. Or had, I should say. It seems they’re on the outs. I’m sorry, Marta.”

“I appreciate your trying,” I say, trying to contain my disappointment.

As Paul looks down at me, his expression changes, his jaw clenching stubbornly. “I have another idea.” Without speaking further, he takes my forearm and leads me toward the door of the hotel. I force myself not to shiver at his touch.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he guides me through the hotel garden and out onto the street.

“Back to the embassy.” As we walk back down the street, past the café, I glance at the tables, hoping that neither the Frenchwoman nor the waiter can see us.

I want to tell him that it is hopeless, that the embassy cannot renew the visa from here. “I didn’t think you would be in Paris, at least not so soon,” I offer instead as we pass the American embassy.

“Me, neither,” he replies. “That axle busted again not long after we left the camp. So rather than crowd us all into the other trucks, they let a few of us hop on a transport flight. We just arrived a few hours ago.”

As we reach the corner of the British embassy, my heart sinks. The visa line is as long as ever. If we wait, it is going to take hours. “You don’t have to …” I begin, but Paul leads me past the line and up the steps. I can feel the stares of the other applicants as we pass, wondering who I am, why I am getting special treatment by this soldier.

“Which one?” he asks as we enter the crowded waiting room.

“The woman,” I say, pointing to the window on the right.

“Hope she isn’t Mick’s girl,” he mutters under his breath. Leaving me at the back of the waiting room, he walks to the window. When the applicant who is standing there is finished, Paul steps in. The woman behind the glass opens her mouth to protest. Then her eyes dart to the sleeve of Paul’s uniform. Before she can speak, Paul pulls my visa from his pocket and slides it under the glass. He begins talking, gesturing to me, but I cannot hear what he is saying. The woman looks over Paul’s shoulder at me, but her expression is blank. She does not remember my situation; I am just one of many applicants she has seen that day. Her face remains impassive as she says something in reply. She’s going to refuse, I realize, watching the conversation. Not even Paul can help me this time. But she scribbles something on the visa, stamps it and hands it back to him.

“What happened?” I demand as he walks over.

“Your visa, milady,” he says, handing the papers to me. I look down at the papers in disbelief. The original date has been crossed out and a new stamp bearing tomorrow’s date added. One stamp. That was all the woman had to do to change a life.

“She would only extend it till tomorrow, so you’ll have to leave first thing in the morning. But you’re all set for England.”

“Really?” Relief washes over me. Impulsively, I jump up and wrap my arms around him. “Thank you.”

His arms close around me, warm and strong. For a second, it is as if we are in Salzburg once more. Then I hear someone clapping from the visa line behind us. My mind clears. We are not in Salzburg, I remind myself, stepping back from him. Remembering Paul seated beside the Frenchwoman at the café, I clear my throat. “We should go.”

A confused expression crosses his face. “Okay.” I refold the visa and tuck it back into my bag as I follow Paul from the waiting room and down the steps. “Now we can go to the hotel and get your tickets …” he begins as we reach the street.

“That’s not necessary,” I say, cutting him off. “I mean, I really appreciate all of your help, but I am sure you have other things to do.”

Paul stops, his brow furrowing. “Other things?”

“Yes.” I pause, swallowing. “Your friends from the café will be wondering where you have gone.”

“You mean my buddy, John?”

“Actually, I was talking about the Frenchwoman.” I can hear the jealousy in my own voice.

“Oh!” A light dawns in his eyes. “Marta, I know how it must have looked, but it isn’t like that at all. Last year, our unit was in Paris several times.” So he didn’t just meet the Frenchwoman, I realize, my heart sinking further. Perhaps she is his girlfriend. Paul continues, “John has been dating one of the women, Collette, long distance since then. Emilie, the other woman, is Collette’s cousin. Collette had to bring Emilie along, or she wouldn’t have been able to see John at all today. They invited me along so Emilie wouldn’t feel awkward. But I’m not interested in her.”

“Oh?” I study his face, wanting to believe him. “But don’t you need to get back to them?”

“I’m sure old Johnny can handle two Frenchwomen just fine on his own. And now that you’re here … I never imagined, I mean, I’m so glad …” He hesitates, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks. “Have dinner with me.”

My breath catches. Is it really possible that Paul wants to spend time with me, not the beautiful Frenchwoman? I open my mouth to accept his invitation, then hesitate. There is nothing I would rather do. But I cannot afford dinner, and I still have nowhere to stay tonight. I need to get to the Red Cross shelter. “I don’t know—”

“Please,” he pleads. “I’ll have the hotel clerk change your train and ferry tickets. Unless you would rather have that done at your hotel.”

“No,” I reply quickly. “I—I mean, they only seem to understand French at my hotel. I’m afraid they won’t get it right.” The lie slips out too easily.

“Then we’ll have it done at mine,” he says decisively. “And grab some chow, I mean, have dinner, while we wait for the tickets.”

Looking into his eyes, I cannot help myself. I would sooner sleep on the street tonight than leave Paul now. “That would be nice, thank you.”

“Excellent.” He claps his hands. “Where are you staying? I mean, do you want to go freshen up before dinner?”

“Th-the Hôtel Dupree,” I fib quickly. I hate lying to Paul, but I cannot bring myself to admit that I was planning to go to the refugee shelter. I glance down at the small satchel that holds everything I own, wondering if it might make him suspicious. But he does not seem to notice. “It’s rather far away, though. Is there a ladies’ room at your hotel where I can freshen up?”

“Sure.” We start down the street in the direction of the Servicemen’s Hotel. As we walk, I steal glances at him out of the corner of my eye. I am in Paris with Paul. It is almost too much to believe.

A few minutes later we reach the hotel and cross through the garden. Inside the lobby, Paul points to a hallway leading off to the right. “I passed a ladies’ room over there earlier. I don’t know what shape it’s in. Doesn’t seem to get much use these days. And while you’re doing that, I’m going to check in and get my key. Why don’t you give me your train and ferry tickets? I’ll see about having the front desk change your reservations and book you on the train to Calais for tomorrow morning.”

“That would be great.” I reach into my bag. As I hand my tickets to him, our fingers touch. We remain still, neither pulling away. Our eyes meet and I recognize in his eyes the same longing look I saw as we left the gardener’s shed that morning. I draw back, my hand trembling.

Inside the ladies’ room, I plug the sink and turn the left tap. As the basin fills with warm water, I look into the small, cracked mirror above it, horrified at the disheveled figure that stares back at me. If only I could take a bath, put on my other dress before dinner. I turn off the tap, then splash water on my face and smooth my curls as well as I can.

“Feel better?” Paul asks when I return to the lobby. I nod. “Good. Let’s go.” I follow him out the front door of the hotel to the street. He raises his hand and a taxi pulls up at the curb. “I know a great little bistro in St. Germain,” he explains. I nod, as though familiar with the area. “It’s not fancy, but the food is delicious.” He opens the rear door and gestures for me to get in, then climbs in beside me and closes the door, leaning forward to tell the driver the address.

The cab lurches forward. “My French is awful,” Paul remarks. He sits back, closer to me than is necessary on the wide seat.

“Mine, too.” The warmth of his leg against mine is mesmerizing. I force myself to breathe normally, to look out the window. We turn onto a wide thoroughfare lined with elegant shops and cafés. Since arriving in Paris, I’ve been so preoccupied—first by my rush to reach the embassy and later with my panic at not receiving the extension—I barely noticed the city. Now I stare wide-eyed at the magnificent architecture, the elegant shops that line the boulevard. “This is the Champs-Elysées. And that,” Paul says, pointing to the right, “is the Arc de Triomphe.” I follow his hand, taking in the massive stone arch.

The cab turns left and the arch disappears from view. We start across a bridge and I look back to steal a glimpse of the buildings that line the river. As I turn, my eyes catch Paul’s, locking with his. “It’s beautiful,” I say, my heart fluttering.

The taxi reaches the far side of the bridge and begins to climb upward through narrow, winding streets. The architecture is different here, the buildings close-set, rustic. A few minutes later, the taxi pulls up to the curb and Paul pays the driver. He slides across the seat and opens the door, moving away from me. Don’t, I want to cry out, instantly missing his warmth. He holds out his arm to me. “Shall we?”