10 In the Shadow of Notre-Dame
In the Shadow of Notre-Dame
Like many streets in many cities, on Sunday afternoon the rue de Seine was dead.
Not a soul in sight, not a single passerby.
The shutters were closed, and the shops lay in darkness, as if in an effort to let the paintings sleep.
Only a bird or two, unaware of unions and work calendars, made music with their wings.
The taxi driver who ferried her from Croissy to Galerie Anouk had left behind the winding of the river and entered the street through Square Honoré-Champion, turning the corner that led to Paulina’s destination without realizing she was going the wrong way.
Paulina decided it was better to get out there than have the driver go all the way around.
She asked her to stop the meter in front of the statue of Voltaire, and in her white shirt and new jeans, she walked past twenty or so shop windows before finding Jean-Pierre again, who greeted her with a kiss and twelve peonies.
Paulina forgot all about her cousin’s interrogation once she was with the gallery owner.
Julie had cornered her at the doorstep and had accusingly asked what she’d done with Jean-Pierre the night before, where they had eaten, what he had shown her, where he had taken her, what they had talked about, what he thought of the wedding, whether she knew what he thought about her husband, whether she had called home, what she planned to do that Sunday, why she was wearing the new Calvin Klein jeans that made her legs look long and her figure slender, whether she would be seeing Jean-Pierre again on Sunday, where they would meet, at what time, whether she planned to go up to his apartment, whether she’d be back early for dinner with Alain at Croissy, whether . . .
More happy than overwhelmed, Paulina played dumb.
She smiled and answered laconically, with a simple yes or no in a monotone.
She resisted falling into Julie’s trap. In this game of questions, any variation might betray her.
She only answered that yes, she had spoken with Gina, that everything was fine in Barcelona, that her daughter was the best in the world, that she had enjoyed her time with Jean-Pierre, that he was an interesting man, and that, first of all, they weren’t seeing each other on Sunday.
But yes, thank you, now that she offered, she could call a taxi to take her down to Paris so she could stroll around Montmartre or Le Marais or maybe, depending on her mood, she might go into a theater to watch Chariots of Fire, which she’d heard good things about during the wedding aperitif.
The one thing she was sure of was that they shouldn’t wait up for her for dinner.
She wanted the newlyweds to be on their own at home.
She had played third wheel long enough, and would rather they spend a Sunday afternoon just the two of them so they could realize how rare Sunday evenings are for a married couple.
Due to Paulina’s determination and because she wore her happiness plainly on her cheeks, Julie guessed her cousin was planning something.
Jean-Pierre had been copying art dealers’ phone numbers into a new address book, one by one and in alphabetical order, while he waited for Paulina. He finished his task.
“Ready to walk?”
“You won’t be able to keep up with me in my espadrilles.”
“You look really . . .”
“You like it?”
“Yes.”
“Really what? Can you finish the sentence?”
“Spectacular.”
“You don’t sound very convincing . . .”
“I’ve seen you at the wedding, and in yesterday’s dress. But the jeans and simple shirt look really good on you.”
“Thank you.”
“The best cook in the world isn’t the one who makes the most complicated dish, but the one who can fry up the best egg.”
“Don’t complicate things. Just go with it. That knit shirt looks good on you too.”
“Let’s go.”
“What do we do with the flowers?”
Jean-Pierre went into the back room, took out a vase with a handful of water, placed the Santa Clara peonies inside, and set it in the shop window at the foot of Le Corbusier.
“This is the best place for it. You’re right.”
“‘Fifteen minutes before the end of the world.’”
“Can I say something? I don’t like that quote you have in the doorway. Who said it?”
Jean-Pierre didn’t respond. He locked the gallery and set off down the rue de Seine with the intention of showing Paulina where she should look for him if he ever went missing.
Once they reached the Institut de France, they turned toward the Quai des Grands Augustins, above the river in the direction of the ?le de la Cité.
“I know where you’re taking me. It’s not hard to guess.”
“Where?”
“To Notre-Dame.”
“Do you really take me for someone so cheap . . . ?”
“No, come on.”
“How disappointing. You think that if I ever went missing, you should look for me in a church?”
“In a cathedral. And not just any.”
“You’re getting colder, colder. Careful.” He grabbed her hand. “We’re crossing here.”
In the shadow of Notre-Dame, on the other side of the river, on a corner of a street where two cherry trees in bloom made it appear like a small square, at number 37 rue de la B?cherie, there appeared, like an oasis, Shakespeare and Company.
A bookshop. The capital letters of the shop sign, black against a yellow background, made an impression on any passerby who happened upon that secret corner of Paris by chance on their leisurely stroll.
Only the S in Shakespeare, painted a blood red, and the two portraits on the facade of the man who authored so many comedic and tragic lives, added any color to a bookshop that introduced itself in English: “Antiquarian Books.”
“It’s beautiful, Jean-Pierre. This place is so serene.”
“Has your cousin never brought you here?”
“Never. I’ve never even heard of it.”
“Well, the bookshop is just like you. It’s even better on the inside.”
Paulina was too distracted to notice Jean-Pierre’s compliment.
She was astonished, observing the green wooden enclosure of the shop on each side of the two entrances.
The color matched the little Wallace fountain that stood in front of one of the windows and broke any sense of symmetry.
Symmetry, palindromic numbers, and proportional gardens had unsettled Paulina ever since she was young.
“If you’re thirsty . . .” He pressed the fountain. “You can drink the water.”
“Is it good luck to drink it?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Does it mean I’ll come back to Paris?”
“Not necessarily. But it does quench your thirst, which is enough.”
“I do hope I come back.” She approached the fountain. “Just in case . . .”
Paulina leaned forward on tiptoe, trying not to wet her feet. She let a good stream of water run before drinking.
“They say there are a hundred fountains identical to this in Paris, but I’ve never counted.”
If Paulina had brought a camera with her, she would have taken tons of photos of the fountain, the facade, the shutters, the letters, the peacefulness, the two winter magnolias in their pink spring bloom, the boxes of books stacked outside on the street like fruit.
If Paulina had been able to, she would have photographed those days, those streets, those walks, and that special man.
“Enter. Enter alone, Pau. I don’t want to tell you anything. You go in, and then we’ll talk.”
“You’re not coming with me?”
“Enter, and maybe you’ll see why, if I ever go missing, you should look for me here.”
“But . . .”
“Go upstairs, look out the window, enter every room, don’t hold back.
Look around, rummage through the books, breathe.
Stay as long as you need. I want you to discover it on your own.
Take your time. I’ll wait for you here.” He raised his hand, his pipe was smoking.
“George doesn’t like me puffing like a chimney inside. ”
Paulina decided to go in cautiously, like she was setting foot inside a haunted house.
Her eyes were wide open, her senses heightened.
Ready to feel, ready to perceive—what special days these had been—she crossed the doorway like one opens a book.
She let herself be carried away by the magical world of imagination.
The bookshop was narrow, labyrinthine, and crowded.
The ground floor, at least, was full of winding nooks and uneven inclines at every step.
No two steps were the same. In some stretches she stepped on carpet so worn it had lost its elegant burgundy.
In others, her timid footsteps landed on wood or on the original stonework, which was slippery, as if to cruelly remind her that time erodes everything.
There were books everywhere she looked, from floor to ceiling, in boxes, on shelves that were warped and crooked.
There was the occasional straight one, an exception of nature, held upright by the stillness.
Her gaze was inevitably drawn to the ocean of books, many yellowed, most topped by the dust of time and having been untouched by a rag.
Poetry, novels, histories of history, titles written in English, in French . . .
She had to let a group of Americans, excitement shining in their eyes, descend so she could climb up to the second floor.
She cautiously scaled the only staircase.
It was very steep, with narrow, uncomfortable steps.
She bent her head to avoid bumping into anything.
The paradise of old books widened and brightened upstairs.
Natural light, spilling in from the street or skylight, gave the space a gravity and depth the cluttered ground floor lacked.
The landscape, though, was the same: spines and more spines covering every wall from top to bottom, without a single gap.