On this particular day, however, Claudia allowed herself a moment of self-pity as she daydreamed about the ventilation a pretty sundress would’ve offered in such stifling conditions. (It seemed a further injustice that she was so close to the Mediterranean without even a hint of a sea breeze.)
She also briefly regretted her refusal to let her unseemly landlord give her a ride to the train station. Since she’d managed to rebuff his advances for her entire stay in Marseille, depriving him the satisfaction of carrying her suitcase was a victory she wasn’t willing to relinquish. As the leather handle of the battered suitcase slithered in her sweaty grip, she tightened her hand determinedly and readjusted the bulging satchel on her shoulder. Independence was worth a little discomfort, she reminded herself. Besides, she had one last stop to make before she boarded the train to Paris. One final purchase to keep her company on the long journey home to New York City.
Le Bateau Bleu bookstore sat about five minutes’ walk from Marseille’s Vieux Porte, and ten from the diminutive attic apartment that Claudia had rented for next to nothing. The store had been her retreat, her oasis, her buffer against the waves of homesickness and loneliness. Books had always been her solace during a turbulent upbringing with parents who loathed each other. Amid the constant verbal warfare that carried through the walls of their townhouse, Claudia would tuck herself in her closet with a pillow and a flashlight, and lose herself in a story. Later, as an adult, whenever she needed a moment of calm, she’d escaped to the nearest bookstore (she knew most of them in Manhattan). And though her fiancé didn’t really care for reading, he always knew where to find her after they’d argued.
Claudia’s heart swelled as she rounded the corner of the narrow rue where Le Bateau Bleu perched exactly halfway up the hill. Its awning was painted an incongruous cherry red, which angered local purists because it didn’t match the dreamy pastel Mediterranean palette of the rest of the city. But that rebellious spirit only broadened Claudia’s affection for the bookstore.
A sliver of shade—the warped silhouette of a lamppost—slashed the sunbaked pavement outside the store. A shaggy Jack Russell had elongated its body to fit within the slim confines of the shadow—belly pressed into the cool concrete, the pink of its hind paw pads pointing toward the sky. The dog opened a weary eye as Claudia’s own shadow crossed its path. Setting down her suitcase, she wiped her damp palms on the linen of her trousers (at least they were good for something) and knelt beside the scruffy pup. Tenderly respecting its space, she offered her hand for an inspective sniff. The dog forwent all formalities, nudging its forehead into her palm appreciatively. As it rose to a seated position, Claudia saw that the dog’s right shoulder simply rounded into its chest, like there’d never been a leg there at all.
She took out a flask from the tightly packed possessions in her satchel and poured some tepid water into her cupped hand. The dog lapped gratefully, stopping to lick her wrist as if to say an extra word of thanks. When she took a swig from the metal bottle, only drops remained. She had no regrets about sharing the last of it.
The door of the bookstore jangled merrily as it opened and Claudia stood to avoid blocking it. From the way the dog perked up, she figured that the young man standing in the doorway was its owner. His tangle of curls also matched the scruffiness of the Jack Russell’s coat.
“Matelot!” The man addressed his faithful friend enthusiastically, bending down to cradle its face between his tanned, calloused hands. Then, as if remembering his manners, he straightened up abruptly, a broad smile giving way to a slight gap between his top two front teeth.
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle.” His English was heavily accented, but spoken with ease.
Embarrassed that her foreignness was so obvious, Claudia wished she’d worked harder on her French.
“Good afternoon,” she said, noting the small crescent of a scar disrupting the stubble on his chin. “I was just saying hello to your friend here. Matelot, did you say his name was?”
“Yes, Matelot! It means sailor. Like me!” The scar compacted with his grin. “He’s my—how do you say—deckhand?”
The thought of this man sailing the seas with his scruffy three-legged deckhand was enchanting. Claudia nodded at the stack of books under his arm. “I imagine you have plenty of time to read on the boat then?”
“Yes, I plan to sail to Corsica tomorrow.” The man clutched the books appreciatively to his ribs. “And these will keep me company.”
“I’ve heard Corsica is a lovely little island,” Claudia said. “Regrettably, I’ve never been.”
“Well, it’s not too late, you know. I see you’re already packed for the trip.”
On other men, his forwardness would have been sleazy. But on this lanky, young Frenchman, it was beguiling. “Sadly, I’m on my way to the train station,” Claudia said, her disappointment unfeigned.
“Actually,” he responded, accentuating each syllable, “you are on your way to the bookstore.”
“Guilty.”
“Perhaps after the bookstore and before the train station, you will have a drink with us?” Both man and dog looked at her hopefully.
“Well, I don’t know you.”
“Then let us fix that.” The man wiped his free hand on his shirt and offered it to her. “I’m Hugo.”
She wiped her own hand before taking his. “And I’m Claudia.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Claudia.” The scar disappeared into a dimple. “And may I say, I like your trousers.”
* * *
By the time I’d finished telling Sylvie the story of Claudia and Hugo, we’d reached the front of the café line. We followed the server to one end of a long, oak communal table and took our seats on the aluminum stools.
“‘I like your trousers,’” Sylvie repeated in an affected French accent. “What a line! Hugo does sound smooth—no wonder she was tempted away from her controlling fiancé.” She unfolded her napkin and draped it across her lap. “Imagine if he’s still alive somewhere on a boat in the Mediterranean, pining for her too.”
The bittersweet prospect pulled at my heart. What was it like to feel a love so strong that it still lingered with you more than sixty years later?
33
Impending death is a fickle thing. Someone with a terminal diagnosis might be vibrant and robust one day, only to spiral the next, as if mortality had suddenly set its foot on the gas. In the three days since I’d last seen her, Claudia clearly had been at the mercy of that acceleration. Though she was sitting in her usual wicker garden chair, it now looked oversized in comparison. Her body had shed its surplus weight, making her diminutive form harshly angular and her skin pallid, almost translucent. A distinct melancholy dulled the usual cheeky glimmer in her eyes.
No matter how many times I witnessed this rapid decline, it was still jarring to watch someone become a shell of themselves. And it hurt a little more this time, seeing Claudia robbed of her vibrancy. I’d grown attached to her in a way that was unusual for me. I wasn’t sure if it was my involvement with Sebastian, her thwarted romance with Hugo, or something else. But even without medical expertise, I’d intuitively learned to estimate how long someone had left. She likely wouldn’t see the end of the month.
“I’m a little caught up in the blues today,” Claudia said as I joined her at the garden table.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I noticed her shiver against a nonexistent breeze, struggling to pull the blanket higher up her torso. I tucked the thick mohair closer to her chest. “What’s on your mind?”
“You mean aside from the fact that my days are numbered?” The rest of her body might be diminishing, but Claudia’s dry humor was not. She fiddled with the edge of the blanket, her knuckles like knotted rope beneath her skin. “You know, when I found out, I wasn’t exactly surprised—I am ninety-one, after all, and I’ve known for a long time that my body wasn’t working the way it used to.” A deep breath rattled in her chest. “It’s just that, well, I suppose I feel a little guilty.”