Chapter 22
22
30 NOVEMBER
The following Saturday we’re up early after a long night painting the guest lounge, which has taken far longer than we expected. The hotel is deathly quiet; JP and his crew have downed tools for the weekend and the backpackers are out. It feels suddenly strange that the place is bereft of so many bodies scuttling around, their radios blaring, the jokes they tell to make the day go faster. A scream every now and then when Manon pranks them.
‘What are your plans today?’ I ask Manon who is tucking into a buttery croissant, showering the island bench with crumbs. Around the corner we have the most beautiful boulangerie, Le Petit Lux, where we buy fresh croissants, pastries or a baguette that we heap with lashings of salty butter.
‘I’m going out with, uh… Kiki tonight, but aside from that not much. Unless you’ve got more painting that needs doing and, in that case, I’m busy all day.’
I laugh. ‘I was thinking we should start compiling books for the library room. We could use some of the collection from suite nineteen, but they seem too special, don’t you think?’
‘ Oui, until we know more, we should leave that room as it is.’
‘I agree.’
‘We need to figure out what we’re going to call the hotel library. I was thinking of Library Ana?s. What do you think?’
‘After yourself? I love it!’
‘Not myself! Ana?s Nin. One of the first and finest female writers of erotica, she was also a committed diarist who lived a more, shall we say… wanton lifestyle, and wrote titillating diary entries about it all. I’ve been reading a biography about her and she’s wild enough to be endlessly fascinating. There are so many wonderful quotes attributed to her, but one of my favourites is…’ I find my phone and pull up my notes app where I’ve been jotting quotes from the author herself and I read: ‘“I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.” Isn’t that perfect for the library room?’
Manon nods. ‘I must read this erotica… to make sure it’s appropriate for our guests.’ She winks, garnering a shake of the head from me. Trust Manon to get stuck on that part.
‘Actually, you make a good point. It’s not exactly child friendly. Perhaps we need a separate book area for children? We can set up some shelves and toys in a corner of the guest suite.’
‘Ah – oui ! When I cleaned out the cupboards in the laundry I found a box of toys. Not that old by the looks of it. An abacus, a xylophone, a train set, some board games. I’ll take a closer look at them and see if they’re in good enough condition for the children’s area.’
‘ Parfait . And we can buy some picture books. Why don’t we trawl round some bookshops today to find stock for the library? I want it to be an eclectic mix so there’s a curated selection to suit every taste. We can buy second-hand books, which won’t hurt the budget too much.’
Manon returns to her phone. ‘ Delta of Venus , by Ana?s Nin. I’ll start with that.’
‘ Oui, and we can hunt for not only her novels but biographies about her, with all the juicy details. Have you got that list of suite names?’ Manon gives me a nod. ‘Great. We can look for the books we named the suites after. Whatever we can’t find we’ll order online, but won’t the fun part be searching for books to make the library grand?’
‘I’ll get ready now while you think about where you’re taking me for lunch. I’ll need stamina for all this book shopping.’
The cold wind whips my hair back as we wander along the streets of Paris, book shopping. Is there anything more fun? We’ve been to Shakespeare and Co., where Manon got remonstrated for taking a selfie beside the sign announcing that photos are prohibited. Then it was off to The Red Wheelbarrow Bookshop, before continuing to the flea markets where we found untold treasures at a fraction of the cost of new.
Now we’re strolling along Les Bouquinistes, the booksellers along the bank of the Seine, looking for French language novels.
The tiny green book boxes run up and down the length of the river Seine and sell a variety of vintage novels, postcards and prints. We rummage through and find a copy of Delta of Venus by Ana?s Nin, and The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo. We make our purchases and head back in the direction of the hotel, arms laden with over-full carry bags and books.
‘Let’s go to the Rue Mouffetard Market,’ Manon says. ‘For fromage .’
‘My hands are full of books, there’s no way I can fit cheese in.’
‘I’ll find a way. Fromage is life.’
The bustling street market in a picturesque location is famous for selling the best and freshest produce and has been around for the longest time. Hemingway wrote about it in A Moveable Feast . He lived close by with his wife Hadley for a while at 74 Rue du Cardinal-Lemoine. And George Orwell stayed for a spell at 6 Rue du Pot de Fer. There’s a lot of literary history surrounding the area that leads out from the market. I always get a little thrill at the thought of walking where they once did. Of picking up a ripe, juicy plum and inhaling the perfume, did they stop and take it all in too, a memory, a snapshot for their own writing about Paris?
The market is busy. Vendors display fat, juicy, plump olives, deep purple artichokes; the spoils are rich. Roasted chestnuts scent the air. There’s a stand with oozy gooey raclette, melted cheese piled onto a plate ready to be eaten with a chunk of baguette.
Christmas bunting shivers in the wind. Children clutching hot chocolate shriek and laugh, dodging in and out of the crowds.
‘ Fromage ?’ Manon asks. ‘Or saucisson ?’
‘Why not both?’
Manon orders thinly sliced saucisson with fennel and garlic and a thick wedge of aged Comte.
While Manon flirts with the vendor in the hopes of free samples, I move along to a flower stall. There’s no excess funds for such frivolous purchases but the fragrant blooms are beautiful. Ideally, I’d like to start staging some areas for photographs for the website. I pick up a bouquet of soft pink peonies, whose petals fold in like a secret. As I’m debating with myself over spending ten euros for flowers, there’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn to find Noah standing there, holding a large zucchini. It’s rather phallic and laughter bursts out of me.
His eyebrows pull together but a smile tugs at his lips. ‘I’m happy to see you, Anais.’
I flick my gaze to his long, thick zucchini and say, ‘I can see that.’
I bite my lip but when he computes, laughter burbles from us both. ‘It’s for balls.’
My mouth falls open.
‘Ah – deep-fried zucchini balls.’
‘I, uh – see.’
There’s an awkwardness between us, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the pendulous zucchini or my drunken behaviour at the death metal evening. Probably both.
‘So…?’ I say, scrambling to think of something, anything, to say.
‘ Delta of Venus ,’ he says, pointing to the books in my arms. ‘I wouldn’t have figured you for a fan of erotica.’
Just when we get on solid ground, he says something jarring. ‘Oh, why’s that? Do I come across as a prude to you?’
He double blinks as if shocked by my question. ‘ Non, non , not at all. In fact, after the other night I understand you’ve got two very different sides to you.’
I feel a blush go from my head to my very toes and only hope it isn’t obvious to Noah.
‘The other night I was clearly out of my mind after those petrol-flavoured cocktails. I mean, why would you sell a cocktail like that?’
‘You said you loved them.’
‘Drunk me is an idiot.’
He laughs again. ‘Right. So you do like erotica then? I’m so confused.’
‘Why does it matter to you?’
‘It doesn’t. It’s just Ana?s Nin originally wrote that book for an anonymous client of hers who asked her to write only pure sex, without any poetic flourishes. I’ve always been fascinated by her, but her life’ – he shakes his head, his eyes widening – ‘was rather scandalous.’
‘I’m aware of her life and the things she did.’
‘I’m not saying you’re not, but a lot of people don’t know the… scope of it. It’s a little eyebrow raising, wouldn’t you say?’
‘ Oui , there’s a lot of debauchery.’
He scoffs as if he knows better. ‘And then some. And I see you’ve got a George Orwell novel too. Well, he…’
I hold up a hand to stop him nattering on any further. ‘ Merci , Noah, but that’s enough educating for one day, don’t you think?’
Confusion dashes across his face. ‘Oh, sorry. I tend to ramble… at times.’
‘Is that what you call it?’ I shoot him a pointed look.
‘Sorry, I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Acted superior.’
‘You have.’
‘I get carried away when I talk literature. Speaking of, did you find out anything more about the writer from suite nineteen?’
‘A little.’
He waits.
I sigh and begrudgingly share in case Noah can shed any light on the matter. ‘We found out the Toussaint family owned the hotel at the time. In suite twenty are Impressionist-style paintings signed by an L. L. Toussaint. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘Toussaint? Non . You think the painter is the writer?’
‘I’m not sure. There are beds in each suite, so Manon thinks that implies two separate people stayed in suite nineteen and twenty. But there are no personal belongings like clothing, shoes or anything in suite nineteen. It’s her library, her office; it’s where she wrote in all those notebooks.’
‘And suite twenty has clothing, shoes, things that belonged to a woman?’
‘ Oui. ’
‘It makes sense she used one as an office and one to sleep in.’
‘I think so too.’
Manon finds us heads bent together, deep in conversation, going over possible theories.
‘How can you expect Noah to speculate when he hasn’t seen inside suite twenty? Why don’t you stop past and take a look?’
The busybody meddler. Noah waits for me to agree, so I give him a small nod. Maybe two heads are better than one in this situation?