Chapter 11
11
On non-market days, I crisscross Paris buying stock for Ephemera. Today I zigzag along the left bank of the Seine, darting around clusters of tourists admiring the view. It’s easy to spot a foreigner in Paris, not only because of phones and cameras held high but more so that they meander, whereas a typical Parisian walks at a brisk pace. Summer is peak tourist season and as July creeps closer to August, the crowds thicken.
I’m running fashionably late to meet Pierre, a bouquiniste, who sells second-hand antiquarian books and vintage posters from the ubiquitous tiny green boxes on the bank of the Seine. The Seine is the only river in the world with over two hundred and forty booksellers on its banks. Literature is hallowed in Paris and no book is ever left behind. Second-third-fourth-hand books will always find a home here or in vintage market and second-hand shops.
Pierre has a plethora of contacts in the book trade and calls me when he’s found something that suits my line of work. We’ve been friends for years and he’s just what you expect a bookseller to look like: windswept hair, obligatory cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, faded knitted jumper and distressed denim jeans; the whole ensemble screams bookworm. ‘Bonjour, Pierre. Sorry I’m late. But I have coffee and madeleines!’
‘Bonjour, Lilou. Mieux vaut trad que jamais.’ ‘Late is worth more than never’ should be my middle name. Pierre takes the proffered coffee and paper bag full of small shell-like cakes dusted with icing sugar. ‘Merci bien.’ His life is what bibliophiles’ dreams are made of. Most days, you’ll find him nose-deep in a book, enraptured by other worlds that propel him far from here. The wiry bookseller has his regular visitors so well-trained that they bring him sustenance, so he doesn’t have to move a muscle. While I’m deeply envious of his job, he does suffer come winter when the rain falls and the wind whips off the Seine.
We make pleasantries as I sit on a deckchair beside him and sip coffee. The wind from the Seine flutters the pages of the books as if they’re waving a welcome.
‘How did the market reshuffle go?’
I sigh. ‘A little… rockier than I’d like. Do you know Pascale?’ While there may be eleven million souls – not including the ghosts – in Paris, everyone knows everyone in the antiquity trade.
With eyes scrunched up, Pierre takes a deep draw of a thin hand-rolled cigarette as he contemplates my question. ‘Sells vintage typewriters?’
‘That’s him. Inexplicably, he’s taken a disliking to me. Yesterday, my music bothered him. Too loud and too tinny, apparently. And that’s just one of many issues he’d found with me.’
Pierre frowns. ‘Like what?’
I wave it away as if it’s nothing. ‘A few complaints about this and that. He’s put my nose out of joint.’ Literally. ‘Geneviève arranged a surprise lunch for us to air out our differences and of course it didn’t go well. By the eighth course I was ready to stab him with my fork. I’ve never met a man so disagreeable in all my life. But no point crying over spilt milk.’ Or extra-hot café crème. ‘I’m sure it’ll settle down. The other two neighbours, Felix and Benoit, are lovely.’ I don’t go into more detail. I’ve already said too much probably, because Pierre isn’t one to get involved in the minutiae of others’ lives, not only because he doesn’t like gossip, but mainly because he finds it not the least bit interesting. He’d rather find his drama inside a book.
Pierre smiles as if the situation is amusing and not annoying, which is something at least. ‘I’m sure it will. He’s probably put out having to move.’ Pierre drops the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray.
‘Oui. He wasn’t happy being moved upstairs.’ I glance at my watch. ‘So what have you got for me?’
Pierre doesn’t call me often but when he does it’s always a sensational find. Love letters and cards, usually, the merest whispers of a stranger’s life dashed across paper and secreted away in books, hidden for a passage of time until they reveal themselves once more.
‘A letter. It’s brittle like rice paper and has the most wonderful calligraphy that you can only just discern. Whoever buys it from you will possibly be the very last person to read it.’
Even Pierre seems excited about the find, which is unusual. He’s always happy to save these trinkets for me but is usually more ambivalent about their charm and worth.
‘May I see it?’ He hands me a battered copy of Madame Bovary which I can’t help but sniff. The perfume of old books: earthy, musty nuttiness with hints of vanilla and sweet almond is like a drug.
‘It’s inside the book, which was found in a bedside cabinet in an abandoned penthouse in the 4th arrondissement. You should have seen the apartment, Lilou.’ He shakes his head at the memory. ‘Stuck in a seventies time warp. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Abandoned? Who’d do that?’ A penthouse in the 4th arrondissement is prime real estate. I can’t imagine anyone who’d give a place like that up.
Pierre nods. ‘It was eerie, as though they picked up one day and left in a hurry. There were coffee cups on the table, dishes in the sink and ashtray with the corpse of a cigarette that must have been left burning. The dusty cobwebby library room had books in many languages.’
I picture Pierre visiting the apartment to assess the library for its worth and finding the penthouse, stuck in the seventies like a living, breathing time capsule.
‘What? Where did they go?’
He shrugs. ‘No idea. The apartment sold recently, all done through some sort of trust. The new owners are gutting the place and want everything gone. A shame. You don’t see places preserved like that.’
‘Doesn’t it bother you, the not knowing?’
‘Nothing to do with me, but if I were a gambling man, I’d bet it was one of their many houses around the world and they left one day and forgot about their Parisian pied-à-terre.’
‘Are there really people that wealthy they forget about Parisian penthouses?’
His weathered face dissolves into a grin. ‘Hah – not us, Lilou.’ For a moment he stares off into the distance, his eyes reflecting the sun off the Seine. ‘We’re the ones who preserve what’s left behind.’
‘The keepers of forsaken treasures.’ Would they care, these invisible people whose mementoes we pore over then sell on? What might be rubbish to the new homeowners, another chore on their list, is our bright spot. Every person’s history matters, not just those more notable among us. Why does a bundle of letters from a historical figure like Napoleon matter more than, say, a domestic worker who had big dreams and aspirations? Both are of equal importance and both ought to be preserved for history’s sake.
‘It seems fitting you should have the book and the letter since they were found together. But please, Lilou, don’t open it in this breeze. The parchment is so delicate I fear it’ll become confetti and then the words will be lost forever.’
I run my hand over the cover of Madame Bovary. Will this secreted letter explain why the people in the penthouse in the 4th left so abruptly and never returned? Like most letters, it will probably leave me with more questions than answers, but it’s another thread to the past that will be cherished, instead of hidden away, lost and forgotten.
‘What is it worth?’ I brace myself. Pierre is always reasonable with pricing, but he’s also usually more casual about his finds. This level of enthusiasm may be costly.
He waves me away. ‘Nothing. It might not last long enough for you to sell it and the book is, shall we say, very well loved.’
‘Merci, Pierre.’ There’s a sense of anticipation about it but I have other suppliers to see before the return journey home. I don’t dare open the book and find the letter until I’m safely ensconced in my apartment where nothing can damage the fragile paper. I wrap my silk scarf around the book and place it in my handbag. I fight the urge to cancel my other appointments and dash home, but I can’t let my suppliers down. Competition for collectibles is rife in Paris and while I may be a touch delayed from time to time, I always keep my word.
It’s strange; it’s almost like I can feel the letter beating from inside my bag, as if the words themselves have a pulse.
Once I’ve met with the rest of my suppliers, I turn in the direction of home. I dodge tourists holding phones aloft snapping pictures, their faces full of wonderment. Ah, Paris, the city of lights. Once you’ve been to Paris, you’re never quite the same. It gets under your skin, like a long-lost love. It’s in your heart forevermore.
With aching feet from so much walking, I arrive home, throw my keys on the kitchen bench and flick my flats off all in one movement. I say ‘bonjour’ to my alfalfa plant that sullenly ignores me as usual. The letter thrums in my handbag. I gently unwrap the silk scarf from Madame Bovary and place the book on the table, as gently as if it were a newborn baby. On closer inspection, the book itself is weathered, its cover wrinkled, pages rumpled, as if it’s been well read and had a long illustrious life. I find the letter snug between two middle pages. Careful with the delicate parchment, I gently unfold it. My heart drops. The ink has almost faded beyond recognition. It’s hard to decipher the curl of the calligraphy in the stippled afternoon sunlight. I slip the letter back into the book and take it to the bathroom, hoping the bright lighting will help.
I switch on the light and the words appear as if by magic. It’s a short passage written in formal calligraphy.
Late at night when I wander the streets of Paris, my thoughts turn to her. The woman who sees beauty where others do not. I walk alone. The only accompaniment is the echo of my footsteps while I conjure her in my mind. I see her pretty face, always adorned with a smile, her laughter that draws my attention. Everyone wants to be in her spotlight, yet she has no idea how special she is. It’s a marvel. How do I tell her how I feel? Perhaps I need to show her…
I’d been expecting more of a clue as to why the penthouse in the 4th had been abandoned back in the seventies. Really, who leaves a grand apartment such as that, never to return? But this is all about love! Unrequited love? Or oblivious to love?
So many questions flutter in my mind. So many possibilities. Did he indeed confess his love to the woman and she didn’t reciprocate his feelings? Or did he wait in the shadows and was left despondent when she chose another because he never spoke up? Maybe he never confessed his love as he waited for a sign to act. Why didn’t he scream his love from the rooftops? Isn’t love always worth it, even if there’s a chance of rejection?
There’s another possibility.
This mystery man confessed his love and romanced her in such a way that every other suitor paled in comparison. They were swept up in each other, and one day they spontaneously decided to leave Paris behind and go on a grand adventure to discover the world! They enjoyed a nomadic existence and, in their haze, forgot all about their fabulous pied-à-terre in Paris, because their love was tangible and the only thing that mattered.
At least, that’s what I hope happened. Why shouldn’t love win?
This letter, its ink slowly seeping into the atmosphere, is too delicate to sell. Too special. A fluttery sensation hits me and at first, I push it away as frivolous. But it returns.
Is this letter a sign meant for me?
A sign to stop living in the past and trust my heart to love again? I’ve spent too many evenings sitting here alone. Too many weekends cooped up and unsure. Paris Cupid has been my outlet for helping others find love, but it doesn’t stop my own loneliness. That’s always just below the surface.
I want a love story like the ones I find on the pages. Burning with longing and passion and an intensity that disturbs my very routine. And I’m never going to find that standing on the periphery, orchestrating the love lives of strangers while mine remains shuddered to a halt. Perhaps I should be more like Geneviève. She’s never wary in the pursuit of love; in fact, she’s the opposite and throws herself with wild abandon into it. There’s something beautiful about a woman who doesn’t let the past determine the future. I need to stop treading water.
I snap photographs of the letter before I find a picture frame and place the letter inside. I pop it on my bedside table, hoping that the glass frame will protect it and the words won’t fade away completely. My heart thrums in my chest, as if the energy of the letter writer has transferred to me. The author of the letter said he planned to ‘show her’. Perhaps I need to show myself I’m capable of love and being loved. Just like my Paris Cupid matches.
Who is my Mr Right? Annoyingly, Pascale’s scowling face springs to mind. I shove the thought aside and Felix’s flirty smile appears. Before long, Benoit’s deep unfathomable dark eyes draw me in. It’s a sad state of affairs when the only men I’ve got to dream about are my new neighbours. Unless… it means one of them is right for me.