Half Life Jillian Cantor (trending books to read .txt) 📖

study by the Society for the Encouragement of National Industry, researching the magnetic properties of different kinds of steel. And the possible outcomes, the idea of testing, day in and day out, in the lab, an experiment all my own, has been endlessly thrilling. But there isn’t enough room in Monsieur Lippman’s lab for all the equipment I will need to properly test the different steels, and I’m not exactly sure how I’m going to complete the study.

I’d confided this much to Monsieur Kowalski last night, after I’d attended his lecture. I know him, and his new wife, from back in Poland. They’re in Paris right now, both on their honeymoon and for him to give lectures. “Just come to tea tomorrow,” Monsieur Kowalski had said when I told him about my concerns last night. “I have an idea for you to fix your lab problem.”

Monsieur Kowalski is a prominent physicist in Poland, and it would’ve been too rude to turn him down. Though I also don’t know what he can truly do to help, given that he’s based in Poland, and I must stay in Paris for the time being, at least until I complete this study and my examinations. I have been dreading the idea of socializing with him and his wife today, though, as I anticipate so much stilted conversation, so much effort, and it is why I stayed so long in the lab to begin with, why I attended to all my unopened mail before leaving. Oh, Hela. Why did she even send that clipping to me?

I climb the stairs up to their suite now and knock on the door. Madame Kowalska answers with a bright smile. She has blond hair, pulled tightly back into a bun, and a pretty face like a cherub. Her cheeks glow pink—perhaps customary for a new bride on her honeymoon, and for the briefest moment, I wonder if this is what Leokadia looks like now too?

“Marya, come in.” It’s strange to hear someone call me Marya again, other than my sister. In Bronia’s voice it sounds like a pet name, a reminder of our childhood, but in Madame Kowalska’s voice, whom I barely know, it sounds all wrong.

“I’ve been going by Marie,” I correct gently.

“Oh yes, of course. That’s right. Marie.” She shakes her head. “You are very French now, I suppose?”

Perhaps she means to make a compliment, but it comes out sounding like an insult. I want to tell Madame that France is a place for me to learn, that I am still a Pole, just like her, and that I would never abandon our native country altogether, whether I’ve grown used to my adopted French name or not. But before I can say any of that, I notice a stranger, a man, standing across the room at the window. He leans his elbows on the window ledge, staring, as if entranced by the street below. He’s quite tall, and well dressed—his suit looks made of much newer cloth than anything I own, and it fits his lean frame nicely.

“Sugar in your tea?” Madame asks me.

“No, thank you,” I say, and when the man hears my voice, he turns, looks at me. His eyes are bright blue, and he immediately smiles, the corners of his mouth turning up just above his beard, making him seem younger than the few gray hairs in his beard might imply.

He walks over, picks up my hand and kisses it, the rough hair of his beard scratching just enough on the back of my hand to make me feel oddly delighted. It is the first time a man’s lips have grazed my hand since Kazimierz, and how strange it is to recognize now that it gives me a little thrill. “Pierre Curie,” he says.

He’s another scientist. We’ve never met before, but I recognize his name, having heard it come up in conversation in the lab once or twice. “Yes, I’ve heard of you, Monsieur Curie,” I say.

“Pierre, please.”

“Pierre . . . You are studying crystallography?” He nods, and his eyes light up, with curiosity, or excitement for his work. “Marie Sklodowska,” I say. “I am working with magnetic fields.”

“Ah, you have made introductions to each other before I got the chance.” Monsieur Kowalski walks in from the other room. “Here he is, Marie, the solution to your problem.”

“Solution?” I am genuinely puzzled. I don’t need another scientist’s help, particularly not one who doesn’t even specialize in what I’m preparing to research. And I’m certainly not about to hand my study over to a man. Am I going to have to spend the entire evening explaining myself, justifying my capabilities? The very idea of it is exhausting, and I wonder if I can leave now without appearing rude.

But Madame Kowalska has just poured everyone tea and invites us to sit around the table. I have no choice but to take my place, and thank her for her hospitality. She’s not a scientist, and she appears vaguely bored already, stifling a yawn. I take a seat across the table from Pierre, accept my cup of tea and take a sip. I feel Pierre’s eyes on me, and I look away, stare into my tea.

“Yes,” Monsieur Kowalski finally clarifies as he takes a sip of his own tea and smiles at his bride. Madame Kowalska blushes at the obvious attention. “Pierre, Marie is conducting an experiment and needs more lab space. Marie, Pierre has the extra space. I thought if I introduced you both, you could work on an arrangement.” Are they truly trying to help me? Many of the men I have encountered since I’ve moved to Paris want nothing more than to bring me down. No man likes giving up anything to a woman.

“Tell me about your study,” Pierre says. He stares at me, his eyes so attached to my face it is unnerving. Is this some kind of a test? Maybe he is like the men in my physics classes. And if that’s true, I would not