Julie Orringer - The InvisibleBridge

“Are you all right?” Andras asked, studying his features.

“I haven’t slept since I got your letter,” Tibor said.

“When did you arrive?”

“Last night. I came to your building, but you weren’t there.”

“I was at work all night. I just got your note.”

“So you haven’t spoken to her? She doesn’t know I’m in Paris?”

“No. She doesn’t even know I wrote to you.”

“How is she, Andras?”

“Just as before. Very sad. But I think that will change shortly.”

Tibor gave his brother a bemused smile. “If you’re so sure she’ll be glad to see me, why did you chase me all the way here?”

“I suppose I wanted to see you first!” Andras said, and laughed.

“Well?” Tibor spread his arms.

“Hideous as ever. And me?”

“Shoes untied. Ink spots on your shirt. And you haven’t shaved.”

“Perfect. On our way, then.” He took Tibor’s arm and turned him toward the rue de Sévigné. But Tibor didn’t move. He put a hand on the bridge rail and looked down into the Seine.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” he said. “I’m petrified.”

“Of course you are,” Andras said. “But now that you’re here, you have to do it.” He cocked his head toward the Marais. “Come on.”

They walked together, both of them lightheaded from lack of sleep. On their way, Tibor bought a bouquet of peonies from a corner florist. By the time they reached Klara’s corner, Andras had absorbed his brother’s misgivings; he worried that they should have sent word that they were coming. He looked through the windowpanes into the tranquil light of the studio, still empty before the first class, and regretted their intrusion upon the quiet of Saturday morning at the Morgensterns’.

But all was already in chaos there. The front door opened at Andras’s touch; from upstairs came the sounds of some disaster-Klara’s voice raised in panic, Mrs. Apfel shouting. For an instant Andras thought they were too late: in her despair, Ilana di Sabato had taken her own life, and Klara had just now discovered her body. He grabbed the banister and raced up the stairs, and Tibor followed.

But Ilana was nowhere to be seen. It was Mrs. Apfel who met them at the top of the stairs. “She’s gone!” she said. “The little vixen ran away!”

“Who?” Andras said. “What happened?”

“She’s gone off to America with her Monsieur Camden. Left her mother a note. I could strangle that child! I could wring her neck.”

From down the hall came a great clattering of something bulky and rigid. Andras went to Klara’s room to find that she had just pulled a suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe. She threw it onto the unmade bed, flung it open, and pulled her driving coat out of its brown paper.

“What are you doing?” Andras said.

She looked at him, her lovely features raked raw by grief. “Going after her,” she said, and thrust a note into his hands. In her round childish script, Elisabet explained that she must go, that she couldn’t wait any longer, that she was afraid the situation in Poland might push France toward war before they could sail. They had left Paris by train that morning; they would depart for New York the next day on the S.S. Île de France, and would be married by the captain on board. She apologized-and here the letters were blurred-and the next thing he could read was might be easier for everyone if I, and then another illegible line. Will write when I arrive, the note concluded. Thanks for trousseau and everything else. Love, &c.

“When did you get this?”

“This morning. All her things are gone.”

“And you’re going to try to catch her?”

“I can follow her to Le Havre. If we drive, we can get there by this afternoon.”

Andras sighed. The bond between Klara and Elisabet would be a difficult one to break; he could see why Elisabet might want to get a running start. But it made him furious to think of Elisabet moving her things out quietly in the night, those carefully packed crates of clothing and linen Klara had assembled for her. “Did you hire a car?” he asked.

“I had Mrs. Apfel call. It should arrive in a moment.”

“Klara-”

“Yes, I know.” She sat down on the bed, holding the driving coat on her lap. “She’s a grown girl. She’s going to leave anyway. I ought to allow her to go off and do what she wants to do.”

“Are you going to try to stop her? Do you think you can convince her not to sail?”

“No,” she said, and sighed. “But since she’s determined to go, I’d like to see her off. I’d like to say goodbye to my daughter.”

He understood, of course. Elisabet’s war of independence was over; what Klara wanted now was to negotiate the peace in person, rather than from opposite sides of the Atlantic. If there was a remnant of struggle in her capitulation, he understood that, too. She had been fighting this battle for years, and couldn’t so easily give up the habit.

“I’ll come with you,” he said. “Or I won’t, if you’d prefer that.”

“I want you to come. Please come.”

“But Klara, there’s something else I have to tell you,” he said. “Tibor’s here.”

“Tibor? Your brother is here?”

“Yes. He’s here right now, in the apartment.”

“You didn’t tell me he’d written back!”

“I didn’t get the letter until this morning.”

“Ilana,” she said, and they went down the hall to deliver the news.

But Ilana and Tibor had already found each other. They were sitting together on the sofa in the front room. On her face was a look of disbelieving joy; on his, relief and exhaustion. They were not unhappy to learn that Andras and Klara were going to Le Havre, and that they would have to spend the day in each other’s company.

“But you’ll call us when you get to Le Havre,” Tibor said. “Let us know if you’ve found her.”

From downstairs came the double blast of a klaxon; the rental agency had delivered the car, and it was time to go. Mrs. Apfel handed over a basket of things she’d packed for the journey. Minutes later they were off, weaving their way through the streets of Paris, Andras white-knuckled in the passenger seat, Klara resolute and grim behind the wheel. By the time they hit the countryside, Klara’s forehead had relaxed. Morning sun flooded the rippling lavender fields ahead of them, the scent of gasoline a thrilling counterpoint to that sweetness. They didn’t talk above the wind and engine noise, but when they reached a stretch of open road she took his hand.

There was no secrecy to Paul and Elisabet’s plans; they were staying at the very hotel they’d settled upon a month earlier when it was decided they would leave from Le Havre. Andras and Klara went into the high white lobby and inquired at the desk. They were told to wait, and then were told to follow the bellman. The couple themselves were seated on a veranda overlooking the port, where the S.S. Île de France could be seen in her strict nautical uniform, her crimson smokestacks circumscribed in black. Klara rushed across the veranda, calling Elisabet’s name, and Elisabet rose from her chair with an expression of surprise and relief. Andras had never before seen her look so happy to see her mother. And then she did a remarkable thing: She threw her arms around Klara’s neck and burst into tears.

“Forgive me!” Elisabet cried. “I shouldn’t have left the way I did. I didn’t know what else to do!” And she wept on her mother’s shoulder.

Paul watched the scene with evident embarrassment; he gave Andras a sheepish nod of greeting and then ordered a round of drinks for everyone.

“What were you thinking?” Klara said when they’d sat down together. She touched Elisabet’s face. “Couldn’t you have allowed me the comfort of an ordinary goodbye? Did you think I’d lock you in your room and keep you there?”