Chapter 6
6
A few days later, I cycle along Pont Caulaincourt, the only bridge in Paris that crosses over a cemetery. As usual, I’m running late. Guillaume will not be pleased. Summer is in full swing, and the heat is already slightly oppressive. I come to a stop and take a moment to catch my breath, leaning over the railing to wave at the tombs below. It’s become a habit and I’d hate to disappoint any ghosts who await these impromptu visits. I may not be able to see any spectres, but I firmly believe they see me, thus, I say my bonjours and continue on my bike. Guillaume is an antiquarian dealer who scours the French countryside for rare and unusual collectibles for clients. When he returns from a jaunt, we hold our business meetings inside these Montmartre cemetery walls. It might seem a macabre location for some, but Guillaume suggested it one sunny day a few years back because it’s close to where we both live and we’ve met here ever since.
It seems as fitting a place as any because to me, the dead are still very much alive. Not in a physical way, but in the essence of what they leave behind, the memories we hold fast to, mementoes that remind us of our loved ones. At the start, I only procured antique prayer books from Guillaume for my stall in the Marché Dauphine. They ranged from luxe editions with golden scrolled padlocks and monogrammed covers to delicate, jewel-like, illustrated pages from The Book of Hours.
There’s a huge call for these rare books, but my favourites are those unpretentious beauties with plain covers and no adornment. Those with passages underlined and swollen leaves that have thickened over time as if their owner’s love and very faith poured from their soul right into the parchment. They fire up my imagination. Who owned this prayer book? Why did that passage resonate so? How did this prayer book make its way to me?
Interestingly, at estate sales, personal effects are often sold in bundles though. So with the prayer books also come accoutrements like diaries and handwritten letters. The ephemera of those who came before, discovered when the next generation inherit a maison and empty the attic space, treating such paraphernalia as detritus of the past. Originally, only I would read these private diaries and correspondences, absolutely captivated, swept away, as if reading a historical novel. Afterwards I’d put them to one side, not quite sure what to do with them.
Then one day when a customer enquired why my nose was so firmly pressed inside a diary that wasn’t my own, and begged to read it next, I realised the value of such things. There’s a select group of collectors who covet these relics from bygone times, and my little flea market stall has become famous for them. Competition is fierce with my buyers, so I send out a newsletter when I get new stock so it’s fair to one and all.
My clients don’t care about trivialities such as proving provenance like one would with art; they only care about the story inside. A perk of the job is that I get to read each and every diary, letter or correspondence before I sell them on. Today, I’m hoping Guillaume has found untold treasures on his recent travels to the south of France. I find him sitting on our usual bench, sunlight making him squint. I lean my bike against a tree and join him.
‘Bonjour, Guillaume.’ We brush cheeks, the French custom known as la bise, before I sit beside him.
‘Late as always, Lilou,’ he says, his voice gruff. ‘You’re yet to make a meeting on time.’ He makes a great show of checking his watch in case I haven’t picked up from his words alone that my tardiness is an issue.
‘Sorry, sorry. I got caught chatting to Luc from the poissonnier.’ What I can’t say is that Paris Cupid applications have come pouring in since the Emmanuel Roux article, which has only added to the pressure. I’m doing my best to weed out imposters and hook-up merchants. ‘Luc gave me some tuna for the cats.’
Montmartre cemetery is home to around fifty cats. No one knows why they came here or why they stay. They stick to certain graves, sitting like sphinxes, guarding the gates to the afterlife. My theory is these foxy felines know exactly where their bread is buttered and are living the good life being fed by cat lovers. We could learn a lot from cats. A tabby feline we named Minou is the first to break ranks and slink over. He stops a few paces from our feet and sits, lazily licking his paw, as if showing us that, while we may be here to feed him and his feline friends, he will not stoop to grovelling in exchange for fish.
‘They must be the most spoiled cats in Paris,’ mutters Guillaume, who tries his best to hold on to his gruff reserve but fails when Minou bridges the gap and meows up at him. I hide a smile when Guillaume pulls a plastic container from his bag with fresh fish diced into small chunks.
Soon we’re surrounded by a motley crew who stare at us through half-lidded eyes. They eat their fill and slink away without a backward glance. ‘They act superior to us, even when we’re feeding them,’ I muse. ‘There’s a lesson in that, you know.’
‘I don’t have time to ponder it, since you were late.’
I do my best to appear contrite but fail. Guillaume shakes his head as if I’m a lost cause. ‘Now to business.’ He produces a folder and hands it to me. ‘I found a range of prayer books and a few diaries, some love letters and a book of handwritten poetry from the early 1900s.’
‘Magnifique!’ My customers will be delighted. ‘The diaries, are they special?’ Some diaries are mundane, featuring shopping lists, a record of guests who visited, day-to-day matters. I’m looking for a needle in a haystack, the type of diary that reads like fiction.
‘Oui. One of them particularly so.’
I flick through the binder, looking for the photocopied example. ‘Ah. This one.’ I point to a page filled with loopy cursive. The inscribed date is 1964.
Much to my parents’ horror, I broke off my engagement with Elliott today. He’s a great man with good prospects; however, he doesn’t ignite my heart or soul. And shouldn’t that be a priority? My maman says love goes from flame to a flicker eventually and that I’m making a terrible choice by abandoning a man who worships the ground I walk upon. She predicts I’ll end up an old lady who lives alone in this crumbling chateau being gossiped about in the village. It does give me pause, only in that I don’t see myself living here forever. I want to travel the world. Escape village life. Escape this prison of my maman’s making. Why shouldn’t I aim for such grand adventures? Why do marriage and children have to come into the equation at all? I’m not ready for such things, and some days I wonder if I ever will be. Love, Margot.
‘Please tell me the diary continues.’ Unlike fiction, sometimes the endings are ripped away, leaving us without answers. Another mystery in itself. Did they misplace the diary? Did ennui creep in and it became a chore to commit those words to paper each day? Why didn’t their words continue? Not knowing how their life panned out is often bittersweet.
‘It does, indeed. You will be pleased.’
‘Where did it come from?’
He shades his eyes with the palm of his hand. ‘A colleague in Carcassonne. She emptied a chateau for the new owners. That diary was found in a chambre de bonne.’
The maid’s room? Could Margot have gone on to become a maid? Swapping her own life at a grandiose chateau to work inside one for another wealthy family? All I know so far is she had the desire to leave her stuffy, supervised life. So many diaries, so many extraordinary stories from ordinary lives.
Guillaume continues to squint in the morning sun. ‘Don’t you feel like you’re trespassing on the dead when you read their most intimate and private thoughts, their secrets, their sorrows?’
I contemplate his question, searching for the truth. ‘It could be seen as an intrusion but if so, then why leave the diary where it would be found? Why not burn it, shred it, throw it in the river? To me, this is the same as reading a memoir; the narrative of a stranger’s life told honestly. These people live on, through the very words they’ve written. Their stories matter and if we were to discard them like junk, wouldn’t that be a form of sacrilege? Why did they write them if they didn’t want them shared one day?’
He shakes his head as if he doesn’t comprehend such a notion. ‘You’re a hopeless romantic.’ If only he knew about my alter ego.
I laugh. ‘Oui, I am. But Guillaume, these written diaries are often full of love in all its complicated glory. Unrequited love, like a punch to the heart. The devastation of lost love. The joy of second-chance love. First love. Love at first sight.’ I’ve read them all, different decades, eras, in French and in English, and been swept away by real-life romance stories about people I’ll never know or meet.
What a strange honour it is, to be able to become part of their story, an outsider peeking in for one moment.
As it’s expected, we haggle back and forth over the price for his latest discoveries, but I trust Guillaume implicitly and appreciate the lengths he goes to in scouring the countryside for these marvels, when really there’s a lot more money to be made for him in sourcing antique furniture for his other clients. We make arrangements for delivery for this coming Friday when the market is open to the public. The anticipation of what’s to come is a heady thing indeed. Waiting for delivery is going to be torturous, but that’s the way Guillaume works. Deliveries are on Fridays, no exceptions.
‘Speaking of romance…’ I say. ‘Did you give any thought to trying out Paris Love or whatever it’s called?’ Guillaume is in desperate need of a sweetheart. Widower finds love after loss.
With a weary sigh he says, ‘Not that Paris Cupid lecture again?’ There’s always a lot of head-shaking when we meet, as though I’m a pesky fly around his face. But if I don’t encourage him, then who will? ‘Lilou, I’ve told you a hundred times, love is off the menu. I’m old. Tired. Set in my ways. No one can replace Mathilde.’
Six years ago, Mathilde succumbed after a long illness. Before she got sick, she had a stall at the bottom of the stairs in the Marché Dauphine so we met for lunch often and got to be great friends over the years. I miss her still.
Loneliness has left its mark on Guillaume; it’s evidenced in every line and plane on his face. His shoulders stoop with the heavy burden of grief. Love would lift his spirits and his shoulders, I’m sure of it.
Guillaume is special to me, and love is the tonic for what ails him. However, I must tread carefully so he doesn’t suspect I’m Cupid. ‘Why not give love a chance? You deserve it as much as anyone.’
He makes a great show of harrumphing. ‘You’re a busybody meddler whose brain has been turned to mush reading too many private diaries.’
‘See, look at you throwing compliments around like confetti!’ I bite my lip and hope I’ve managed to convince him.
Lost in thought, he folds his arms across his once ample belly. Without Mathilde, Guillaume has taken to eating convenience meals, avoiding the long lunches they used to favour, making him a shadow of his former self.
‘Who would they find for tête-à-têtes, do you suppose?’ He feigns disinterest but his eyes sparkle as if the possibility of sharing a conversation over soufflé au fromage appeals to him. No one will ever replace Mathilde, she was such a darling woman, but that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy companionship and see where it leads.
I pretend to consider what Paris Cupid might offer when I clearly know very well. It strikes me that we’re both doing a lot of feigning today. ‘I’m not exactly sure on how that site works, but I’d expect there’d be some sort of application you’d fill out, to help match you with a companion who shares the same interests as you. From what I’ve heard from others who’ve joined is you write to your match first, get to know each other the old-fashioned way.’
Surprise dashes across his features. ‘That’s the way to do it. Everyone is always in such a hurry these days.’
I tip my head in agreement. Paris Cupid is designed for people just like him. A man who lost his twin flame, but still has love to give, who just needs encouragement. Needs reassurance that finding love after loss is perfectly acceptable.
‘Once you’ve established a solid connection with your match you can meet in person. You used to love dining out, and long walks after your meal. Why not aim for that? No strings necessarily attached, just a friendly face over the dinner table?’
What he doesn’t know is that I already have the ideal woman in mind. Clementine D’Amboise from the fromagerie on Rue Damrémont. Guillaume is a cheese enthusiast and Clementine enjoys simple pleasures, taken often. Her husband left her for his assistant a few years ago and she’d sworn off love until recently, when a friend suggested she try Paris Cupid, which she did with great reluctance. I’ve held off matching her because I feel it in my bones that Guillaume is the man for her, so now it’s just a matter of convincing him to join.
I can already picture them sharing a wedge of Brie de Meaux and a bottle of Beaujolais. Basking in the sun on the bank of the Seine. Walking arm in arm around Luxembourg Gardens and taking a tour of the beehives. Humble pursuits with the sun on his face and a gracious woman on his arm.
He contorts his mouth into a moue. ‘Well, I suppose if it’s good enough for the likes of celebrities, it’s good enough for a mere mortal such as me.’
‘Celebrities?’ I ask, my spine stiffening. Of all the people I’d expect to have heard about Emmanuel Roux, Guillaume would be the last.
A tabby cat we call Marmalade does figure eights around his ankles. Guillaume bends to tickle her ears. Marmalade is his favourite of all the cats with Minou a close second, probably because the ginger cat is affectionate and the tabby cat Minou prefers to be left alone – even if despite his frosty demeanour we’ve come to love him. Minou tolerates us and that’s enough.
‘Yes, that rather annoying man – from that TV series that never seems to end, despite every character dying in some unfathomable way. Last night he did an interview on the Late Show.’
Pas encore! I mute my shock and say, ‘What was the interview about?’
Guillaume picks up Marmalade, whose meows turn into a purr when he rocks her like a baby in his arms. ‘It was him gushing over an incredible woman he’s met on Paris Cupid. He claims she’s changed his whole outlook on life. Really, I detested the man before, but after watching his interview, my opinion changed somewhat.’
‘Ooh, interesting.’ I don’t believe a word of it. Emmanuel Roux is many things, but faithful clearly isn’t one of them. Is he using this latest tactic to stay relevant in the media? Anything to get more attention in the press. I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place.
I’ll call émilienne again and ask how she’s going with her new love. Since she sent me the text confiding she’d fallen madly in love and encouraged me to try Paris Cupid, I haven’t heard a word back. I’ve texted her a few times but she hasn’t replied. She must know by now he’s not Remy Tatou. There is no Remy Tatou! It appears this isn’t going to blow over as quickly as I’d hoped. The next logical step is to reach out to ‘Remy’ as Paris Cupid and remind him of the clause in the application that says you must be honest about who you are.
A subject change is in order or else I’ll be stuck on a mouse wheel worrying about Emmanuel Roux all day. ‘If you were to choose, where would your first dream date be?’ Marmalade spots her best friend Minou and springs off Guillaume’s lap to play. They impishly swat at each other before somersaulting onto the grass in a messy heap, tumbling and turning like acrobats. Eventually they give up and stare into each other’s eyes. Even the Parisian cats are in love!
‘A simple bistro dinner. It mustn’t be too noisy. The youth of today treat these outings as if they’re performing for a crowd. Like they’re on display. Taking photos of their food, those blinding flashes, those silly pouts they do. It’s just bad manners, is what it is.’
I hide a smile. ‘You should mention that when you join.’ When it’s time, I’ll suggest La Maison Rose, an iconic bistro in Montmartre known for its pink walls. A famous haunt back in the day for the likes of author and philosopher Albert Camus and singer Dalida. Guillaume won’t care a jot about that, but the seasonal food is well regarded and it’s a charming, quiet spot to dine. The pretty pink fa?ade is a popular tourist spot to take pictures, but rarely do they venture inside, so it should fit his criteria.
‘Fine. If you insist, I’ll join later today.’
‘Magnifique.’
‘I’m only agreeing to this so I can prove to you that I’m far too old for love.’ He can lie to himself all he wants if that’s how this is to unfold – gently like a flower blooming in the midday sun.
As we say our goodbyes and head out of the cemetery, Minou stares regally from his high perch, sunbaking on a tomb while Marmalade sleeps curled up beside him.
Later that evening, I log into Paris Cupid, curious to see if Guillaume has joined. I reel when I see membership applications have exploded. The Emmanuel Roux effect! I scroll through the many hopefuls, searching for Guillaume, and eventually find his application. He writes a heartfelt passage about his beloved Mathilde, how the world has lost all colour since she’s been gone. It brings a tear to my eye, knowing my faux-gruff friend has been so lonely. I accept his application and tell him I’ll be in touch with his match in the fullness of time. It can’t be seen as too quick, or he’ll doubt the process. I call émilienne but her phone goes straight to voicemail. It’s not unusual for her to have periods of quiet; if she goes on a retreat or is on a health kick, she often disconnects from technology for a while, but I find it strange it’s happening now when all this has blown up. Perhaps the media have already found her so she’s in incognito mode.
I send her a text:
When can we catch up so I can hear all about your Paris Cupid match? I’d love to know more about it myself! Liloux
Next, as Paris Cupid, I pen an email to Remy, AKA Emmanuel Roux, and ask him to kindly refer to his membership agreement which has a whole paragraph about being honest during the application process, which he clearly was not. I ask him to email me to discuss these rules once he’s refreshed his memory. I remind him that Paris Cupid is a small matchmaking platform meant for genuine people who feel they’re unlucky in love or wanting to up their romance game. It was never meant to become part of a media circus, which the small team cannot cope with. Small team. There’s just me and my alfalfa plant and, between us, it’s really not pulling its weight. I hit send.