“And they didn’t tell you where they were going?”
“I am the concierge, not their confidante,” she said. “I do not ask questions. They pay their rent and what they do with their time is their own. The rent is paid until the end of the month. It matters not to me whether they are here or not.” And she gave a very Gallic shrug.
“But they are awaiting me,” I said. “I sent a cable from America. They replied that they were glad I was coming. They told me to send a telegram to inform them which train I was taking from Le Havre and they would come to meet me.” I fought to find the words to make this clear to her in French. “Did a telegram not arrive for them this morning?”
“The telegraph boy did come. I told him they were not here. He went again.”
By now the cabby had brought my bags into the hall and stood there behind me, waiting to be paid.
“This is mad,” I said, not knowing the word for ridiculous. “It doesn’t make sense. They are not the type of people who would depart and not tell me.”
But a small voice nagged at the back of my brain that they were that type of people. They did lots of crazy things on impulse. The one thing they wouldn’t do would be to let down a friend.
She shrugged again. “What can I say? If they are not here, you cannot visit them, can you? I suggest that madame return her bags to the vehicle and go to a hotel until her friends come back. If they decide to come back, that is.”
I was tired, I was weak. The floor was beginning to sway again as if I was back on the ship, and now I was angry too. “Absolutely not,” I said. I opened my purse and rummaged in it. “Look.” I waved a piece of paper at her. “Here is their cable. Do you see? I will translate if you don’t read English. It says, ‘So excited you are coming to stay. Send telegram with arrival time and will meet train at Saint-Lazare.’ You see. They are expecting me. Obviously something has delayed them but they will return shortly. Now please escort me to their room and I will await their return.”
My confidence in speaking a foreign tongue grew with my indignation until at the end I was gesturing with my free hand like a true Frenchwoman. She sighed. “Very well. I will take you to their rooms, if you insist. You’ll have to wait for the trunk. My husband will bring it up when he returns. Me, I do not intend to carry it up five flights of stairs.” She started for the staircase. “Follow me,” she said.
I hoisted Liam higher on my hip, and followed her up the stairs, then a second flight, then a third. Our footsteps echoed in the high stairwell. We passed closed doors on each landing, there was no sign of life except for the woman in black and myself. As we started the fourth flight my weakness overcame me and I began to feel dizzy again.
“I must stop and rest,” I said, leaning against the bannister. “I have been unwell. That was why I couldn’t travel on from Le Havre before this. I should have been here two days ago.”
She spun around, glaring at me. “I hope you don’t bring a sickness into this house. What was wrong with you?”
“Mal de mer,” I said. “The ship came through a bad storm.”
“Oh, mal de mer.” She shrugged again as if I was making a fuss over nothing. “You are not at sea now, are you?” And on she went again, up the next flight, leaving me to stagger after her with Liam in my arms.
I managed to keep going because I had to and I was terrified of fainting with Liam in my arms. At the top of the stairwell there was a skylight and rain drummed on it loudly. The concierge stopped outside one of the doors, now breathing heavily herself, and stood, hand on bosom, catching her breath, before she produced a bunch of keys from her belt. She examined them, selected a key, then turned it in the keyhole. “Voilà, madame,” she said, and motioned for me to go in. “As you can see. There is nobody here. I leave you to decide what action you wish to take.”
“I will stay and await my friends,” I said. “And I will need a key if I choose to go out. Do you perhaps have an extra one?”
“In my office, downstairs,” she said. “I will want a deposit of five francs.”
“Madame is kind,” I said, with sarcasm. “I am Madame Sullivan. May I know your name?”
“Hetreau,” she said. “Madame Hetreau.”
I nodded, not able to bring myself to say I was pleased to make her acquaintance.
“I’ll leave you then,” she said, and slammed the door shut behind her.
I stood alone in a large, light room; sparsely furnished and with a cold, damp feel to it. The smell of oil paints, linseed oil, and foreign cigarettes lingered in the air. The high ceiling was molded and an improbably grand chandelier hung in the center of it. On one side long windows opened onto a narrow, wrought-iron balcony. Rain was streaking those long windows.