those two days were everything;
those two days were so full of love;
those two days were enough.
Everything: and from the moment when
on the staircase
transformed to a snail’s shell all around them,
a perfect spiral, a sinuous helix,
Tatiana finally brushed her lips against the skin
of Eugene’s neck,
at the very edge of his jumper’s collar,
pulling it back
like the taut entrance of a tent …
from the moment
when he lost himself in her hair and the voices in his head
began to sing,
they lived through
absolutely
everything.
*
I’m not going to draw you a picture.
It’s not as if I watched …
well, not much,
I hardly saw anything really,
just a glimpse between the curtains,
but still …
you know, dear reader,
or you will, those explorations,
those treasures,
those pleasures, those elations,
those comings and goings, those speedings and slowings,
those thousand astonishing tiny details,
those kisses like stones skimmed across the sea
of our bodies,
those melodies
modulated ever more exactly, as their fingers learn to know
the tone of each key beneath their touch,
the softening or sustaining of the pedals;
and I know that you know – that you will know –
where to find,
in the most hidden nooks and crannies,
all those funny secret little handles;
and so it was that they liberated scores of shivers,
like birds released from cages unsuspected
with keys and keyholes unexpected,
and they followed their flights upwards to the skies
with wondrous sighs,
noting the ideal weight to be pressed and time to be waited,
taking it in turns to be locksmith and liberated;
they entered those new uncharted lands,
clumsy and solemn as children,
discovering
those sudden little folds of skin
that are instrumental,
releasing the music of clarinet
or violin.
And you know perfectly well what I mean when I say
that it was beautiful
the next morning,
that exhausted light of six a.m.,
and that it was a glorious day outside in the din
of the binmen’s lorries,
forcing them awake, and then –
since it was impossible to say no –
picking up what they’d let go
barely a few hours ago,
crumpled in the creases of their sheets:
their love.
You know all that,
I trust you do. And so
Tatiana and Eugene,
during those forty-eight hours of bliss,
broke the evil spell of adolescence,
rediscovering its delights without its defiance,
and that is what I wish for myself
and it’s what I wish for you too, darling
reader: that we will perhaps experience
this everything:
a love
like a nectarine, as perfect, round and smooth,
a love
that can be held in both hands and can soothe
the tremors in your soul,
a love that is whole:
the love that Eugene and Tatiana shared –
unbridled, uninhibited, unembarrassed,
unique and universal –
for those two days in his single bed
in that attic room in Paris.
8
And with that, my task is done.
I am rid of them.
I promise
that they will be happy
for at least two days.
And afterwards?
I should warn you,
I can’t promise that two years from now,
when she returns from California,
they will leap into each other’s arms …
although you never know.
I want to believe so, for I do have a heart.
But I can’t swear to anything.
Because, it seems to me, and this can’t be ignored,
that a love like theirs is perfect for two days.
After that, however,
we’d probably all
get a little bit bored together:
you and me, maybe,
of the two of them;
the two of them, perhaps,
of each other.
Acknowledgements
The French version of this novel already contains a million mercis, so I won’t repeat those here. To any potential readers of both versions: they still stand. And actually, if you are a reader of both versions … well, thank YOU. My goodness. You are my favourite kind of geek.
I could not, obviously, begin without thanking Sam. His translation – which I prefer to call a version – is a work of unbelievable wit, creativity, audacity and charm. Reading the first full draft of Sam’s translation was doubtlessly one of the most wonderful and uncanny experiences of my writing life so far, and working with him over the next few months was exhilarating, intellectually and artistically rewarding, frustrating at times and above all really a lot of fun. Alors merci, Sam. Je suis devant ta traduction comme une poule qui a trouvé un couteau.
Huge, huge thanks to Kirsty McLachlan and to Phi-Anh Nguyen for selling the rights to Faber. I’m grateful beyond words and still amazed that this particular text made it beyond the French borders. And Faber picked it because Leah Thaxton and Camille Morard managed to convince everyone. I know how tortuous the route into British translation can be, and I can never thank them enough.
I am so grateful to the whole Faber team, who have been relentlessly supportive and passionate about the book from the very first Skype call to the first bound proofs. Emma Cheshire and Lizzie Bishop went well beyond the call of duty promoting it to foreign publishers – thank you so, so much; thank you especially also to Hannah Love – like Eugene and Tatiana, we meet again! – and to Natasha Brown, whose wonderful calm, humour and attention to detail made such a difference to the whole process. Very many thanks, too, to the Wednesday Books team, who are so enthusiastically taking care of the American version.
I am extremely grateful and honoured that James Fenton let us use the title of his poem as the title of this book and the lines for the epigraph. I must admit that Baudelaire didn’t get asked about the French version.
Tibo Bérard, my French editor, was the original midwife; Alice Swan and Sara Goodman’s editorial work gave birth to this English version. Thank you, thank you, thank you to the three of you for believing in this text so much, and for your wise, patient and creative work on it.
About the Author and Translator
Clémentine Beauvais was born in Paris and has been living in the UK since 2006. Writing in both French and English, she is the author of the critically-acclaimed, award-nominated Piglettes, as well as the Sesame Seade series and the Royal Babysitters series. In Paris With You is a runaway bestseller in France (published as Songe à la Douceur). Clémentine is a lecturer at the University of York. clementinebeauvais.com
Sam Taylor is the author of four novels, including The Republic of Trees and The Island at the End of the World, and the award-winning translator of more than twenty French books, including Laurent Binet’s Booker-longlisted The 7th Function of Language, Joel Dicker’s The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair, and Leila Slimani’s Lullaby.
Copyright
First published in 2018
&n
bsp; by Faber & Faber Limited
Bloomsbury House,
74–77 Great Russell Street,
London WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2018
All rights reserved
Text © Clémentine Beauvais, 2016
English translation © Sam Taylor, 2018
‘In Paris With You’ on p.v from Yellow Tulips © James Fenton
Published and reprinted by permission of Faber & Faber
Cover title and author lettering © Lizzy Stewart, 2018
The right of Clémentine Beauvais and Sam Taylor to be identified as author and translator of this work respectively has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–33973–0
In Paris With You Page 20
