Hahn - Francie again: adventures in Portugal

Francie Again

Adventures in Portugal

Emily Hahn

CHAPTER 1

Clouds held them up at Le Bourget. The plane circled around in the mystifying manner of its kind, so that a few passengers were able joyfully to point out landmarks to each other but then lost sight of them temporarily and were angry with the pilot when they spotted them again, farther away. However, the hostess said everything was under control, and she obviously meant it.

It had been a rough crossing, and habit, not vanity, made Francie look at her reflection in her compact mirror. She had seldom cared less how she looked. She had been tossed around, her legs were cramped from sitting still, and the air was stuffy in spite of the air-conditioning system she had been reading about during the past hour, for want of something better, in the glossy booklet of the air company.

It seemed years since she had been happily excited about boarding the plane in New York and embarking on this adventure. Everything was different after a nearly sleepless night. She scarcely dared look ahead to the winter which had seemed so lovely before, when Aunt Lollys letter arrived and she read it in Pops hotel apartment. Only the present was actual, and that seemed grimy, though the plane was the air lines pride and the people on the passenger list had possessed nearly as much glamouryesterdayas their impossibly soigne prototypes in the booklet illustrations. That woman across the aisle, for example, who said she was going to France on a buying trip for her Fifth Avenue employers: yesterday at the New York airport she had been as smart and impeccable as if she had just arrived from Paris, rather than being on the way there, but now she looked dowdy and cross.

About as dowdy and cross as I do myself, Francie reflected. Thinking of her own childish scowl, she laughed and immediately felt better. There was no reason in the world for bad temper, unless hunger and sleepiness could excuse it. Nobody was ever in a better spot, she thought. With the career she wanted ahead of her and plenty of friends to help her on the way, with Aunt Lolly waiting for her, no doubt only a few hundred yards away this minute, and Paris for the winter, and the famous Plessis studio to work in, could any girl want more? Well, yesfood would be very nice.

Also, she felt just a bit uncertain about things in general. At eighteen, most people would not mind uncertainty, and when Francie was normally fed and rested she didnt, either. But now, in one swift gloomy moment, she could not help remembering an earlier time of upheaval, not quite a year before, when she had been suddenly whisked away from home and plunked down in an English boarding school. It had all turned out for the best, but oh, those first few days at Fairfields School! Still, it had turned out for the best, and this time was different. This time she would not be on her own, but visiting darling Aunt Lolly, who made it home wherever she was.

And this time, thought Francie, Im different myself. Ive found myself. I know what I want to do in life.

She was going to be a great painter. That was settledat least it was settled for Francie and she had met with no obstacles from the two people who directed her life. Pop, her father, wasnt opposed to the idea at all.

If thats what you want to do, said Pop, I guess the sooner you go ahead with it the better. I dont like the way some kids hang around doing nothing.

That was Pops wayquick, decided, and, if the truth were told, just a bit absent-minded. Francie always said he didnt ever really wake up unless he was talking to somebody connected with the oil business. It was a family joke between them.

The only other person who had influence over Francie was Laura Barclay, her Aunt Lollyan auntby-courtesy, really. She had been the best friend of Francies mother, and, as the girl could not herself remember her mother, she knew how lucky she was to have such an understanding older woman to depend on.

Aunt Lolly was dependable, said Francie to herself. She was better than that; she often turned up with glamorous plans that somehow fitted in beautifully with Francies serious desires or ambitions. How like her it was, when she found out that her husband Martin Barclay was to be in Paris for a year on United Nations business, to remember a talk she had had with Francie about Plessis.

Francie had said, Hes the best teacher in the world. Id give anything to study under him for a while! But I dont guess Ill have any such luck for years. Pop says he wont let me go and live alone in Paris until Im older.

It was like Aunt Lolly not to have forgotten, and to have written straight off to Mr. Nelson when she knew she could offer Francie a home. Thinking about her, Francies shreds of ill humor vanished. At the same moment the plane made up its mind really to land, at last. They came down gently, rode along a sunny field, and halted.

Francie glanced again into the compact mirror, refreshed her lipstick, tugged at her hat, and smiled at the Fifth Avenue buyer. The looking-glass reflection had done its part to cheer her up. She was bright-eyed and fresh in spite of the bad night, and she still liked the looks of the blouse she had bought on Fourteenth Street and made over, just before she took the plane. Pop had been a little startled by the effect, but she was sure it was good. Yes, thought Francie, she might yet be able to face the critical eyes of Paris (for of course everyone in Paris would be critical) without shaming Aunt Lolly, or feeling apologetic about her education. After all, it was perfectly good Middle Western Jefferson, and it had a thin veneer of England. Aunt Lolly would help wherever necessary. Aunt Lolly would tell her if her appearance or behavior needed moderating. Francie took comfort in this thought, as she always did. Laura Barclay would never allow her to make a spectacle of herself in Paris.

How slow they are, said the buyer. This is always the worst of arriving by plane, isnt it?

Always, said Francie, hoping she sounded bored and experienced. Actually it was her first long plane voyage and her first time in France, but she had no desire to confess such matters to any of the other passengers. They all seemed blas about Europe; they were people of the world. She didnt want them to look down on her as a gushing teen-ager.

Then at last the door opened, the air hostess stood at attention by it, and the passengers filed out to the welcome sun, glittering on France.

Slowly descending the steel steps at the heels of the Fifth Avenue buyer, Francie looked eagerly toward the crowd of welcomers who stood beyond the barrier. This was Europe againEurope, which she had not expected to visit again for years. It wasnt England, but still it was the other half of the world, and for a second she had the experience, so difficult to describe, of seeming to be a much earlier self, wearing another, well-remembered shell of personality. She was Francie the schoolgirl, a stranger, homesick in England. Then she glanced down at her pretty suit, her reassuring shoes and slim nylon ankles. No, she was todays Francie, thank goodnessno faltering schoolgirl but a well-bred young woman, coming to Paris to visit the popular Mrs. Barclay.

Incidentally, where was the popular Mrs. Barclay? She should have been there in the front row, smiling and waving. The passengers came close to the barrier and Francie scanned the crowd carefully, face by face, but no Aunt Lolly was there.

Oh well, shes probably had trouble parking, she decided, and went through the gate. She had not looked at the men in the crowd, so she was startled when a man seized her arm and said, There you are, young woman, and about time, too. I thought you were never coming down to earth.