Page 97 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
‘Nor I,’ I replied. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it? We owe so much to her. I wish we’d had an opportunity to thank her for all she’s done for us.’ I sat down on our threadbare sofa, which Elle had tried to cheer up with a hand-knitted throw.
‘I know, Bo. But Florence died long before we were given the Prix Blumenthal.’
‘I think that makes my heart ache all the more,’ I replied.
Elle joined me on the sofa. ‘What about Eugene Meyer?’ she asked. ‘We could write to him and tell him about the difference his sister made to our lives.’
I sighed. ‘I have a feeling that the president of the World Bank Group is unlikely to receive our correspondence.’
Elle nodded, and thought for a moment. ‘Okay then. Let’s go and see him.’
‘What?’
‘Why not? Now the war is well and truly over, what do we have to lose? Plus’ – she smiled – ‘I’ve always wanted to go to the United States.’
I laughed. The idea of travelling freely to a new country without having to flee was still a novel concept to me. ‘It’s a nice thought, Elle. But I doubt Eugene Meyer will just agree to meet us.’
Elle gave me a pat on the leg. ‘Isn’t that what your high-flying Swiss lawyer is for? Can’t you have him write to Eugene’s office in America?’
‘Oh, I...’ The shop bell rang downstairs, indicating the presence of a customer.
‘Think about it!’ Elle giggled, as she stood up and walked out of the door.
It took Mr Kohler less than a week to hear back from Eugene Meyer’s personal secretary. She informed Eric that her employer was very fond of his late sister, and would be open to a brief meeting. Needless to say, Mr Meyer was incredibly busy. However, he would be in New York in one week’s time. Could we make it then?
I thanked Eric and put the telephone receiver back on its stand.
‘It sounds like it’s one week or never,’ I told Elle, who was waiting in anticipation.
‘I told you Mr Kohler would produce a result! I’ll pack the bags!’ she squealed excitedly.
‘Hang on,’ I laughed. ‘Are you sure that we can just up and leave? Who will look after the shop?’
Elle rolled her eyes. ‘Bo, we’ve hardly had a day off in a decade. I’ll telephone Louise. I promise you, there’ll be no issue.’ She ran up to me, grabbed my shirt and gave me a gentle peck on the nose. ‘We’re going on a holiday! A real-life holiday!’
Two days later, we found ourselves crossing the Atlantic on theQueen Mary. Although our second-class quarters were very comfortable, as were the ship’s lounges, I spent hours out on the viewing deck. There was something about the emptiness of the open ocean which soothed me. It had the effect of ordering my thoughts. It was akin to me rearranging the bookshelves after a day of customers browsing, but in my own mind.
Elle was ecstatic to be on board. It made my heart swell to see the joy she took from every aspect of the journey, whether it was the fresh coffee served at breakfast, or the jazz singer who performed in the evenings. After the four-day voyage, we checked in to the Winter Quay Hotel in Manhattan early on a Wednesday morning. Elle and I were taken up to our room in the ‘elevator’ by a young man in a red cap and jacket. He proudly showed us the skyline view from the twentieth floor, which was staggering. I am not ashamed to say that it had a dizzying effect, and I was forced to sit down on the bed. Once he had brought our bags in, the man in the red cap gave us a wide smile and stood expectantly by the door. Mr Kohler had prepared me for the uniquely American custom of ‘tipping’, and ensured I had some dollar bills tohand. I took one from my pocket and handed it to the man. He tipped his hat.
‘Thank you, sir. Have a great stay.’
‘I feel like we’re on top of the world!’ Elle said as she pressed her face to the glass window and took in the overwhelming view.
‘Me too. But I’m not sure my stomach has accepted it yet... Now, I must get to the lobby and call Mr Meyer. Remember, he leaves this evening.’
‘All right, my love. I’ll unpack our suitcase.’
I made my way back down to the slightly sterile white lobby, and over to one of the wooden telephone booths near reception. I reached into my pocket and removed the number given to me by Mr Kohler. Then I put a quarter coin in the machine and dialled.
‘Hello?’ a man with a gruff American accent answered tersely.
‘Mr Meyer? It’s Bo D’Aplièse here.’
My name seemed to soften him. ‘Bo! You’re the guy that knew my sister, right?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, before correcting myself. ‘Well, no, actually. I don’t know if the situation has been explained to you, but I was one of the recipients of your sister’s Prix Blumenthal.’
He exhaled forcefully and I guessed he was puffing on a cigarette. ‘That’s great, great. Listen, just to save us both time, there’s no more funds from my sister’s will for previous winners. I hope my people told your lawyer that.’
