In reality Montsignac wasn’t actually that old. Only in his midsixties, younger than he was himself, but the tall, well-built man with his early-graying hair and the shirts—always so pristine white—that stretched so perilously over his belly when he was seized by one of his terrifying fits of rage had always seemed older to him.
He’d known the publisher of Éditions Opale for almost thirty years now. And although they had had serious arguments, he appreciated this lively, impatient, bubbling, obstinate, often unjust but ultimately always good-hearted man who had been his publisher for so many years. Montsignac had given Max Marchais the contract for his first book when the author himself was still an unwritten page. He had even engaged one of the best children’s book illustrators for the work of an author who, completely unknown at the time, had already been turned down by several publishing houses.
His courage as a publisher, for which Max had always admired him, had more than been repaid. The adventures of the hare with the plum-nose were a great success and were sold in many countries. All his other books had also appeared under the Opale Jeunesse imprint, and some of them were by now regarded as children’s classics.
When Marguerite died, Montsignac had canceled all his appointments at the book fair and driven out to Le Vésinet to shake his hand at the graveside. “Life will go on, Marchais, believe me, life will go on,” he had whispered in his ear, laying a friendly arm around his heaving shoulders.
Max Marchais had never forgotten that.
“Tell me, Marchais…” All of a sudden the publisher’s voice took on a suspicious tone. “You’re not going to leave us, are you? Is there another publisher in question? Is that it? You wouldn’t do that after all that we’ve done for you, would you?”
He gasped in amazement. “Please, Montsignac, what do you take me for?”
“Well, then I can’t see any reason why we can’t embark on this great project together,” said Montsignac with relief.
“What project?” countered Max. “I can’t remember any project.”
“Oh, come on now, Marchais, don’t play so hard to get. There’s still something there, I can sense it. A little story that’s just a piece of cake for you.”
“Listen, Montsignac. Just leave me in peace, will you? I’m a bad-tempered old man who no longer has any desire to eat cake.”
“That was very well expressed. Bravo! Do you know what, Marchais? I really like you, but your self-pity is unbearable. It’s high time you came out of your lair. Get out and about, my friend. Write. Allow something new to happen. Allow a little bit of light to enter your life. You’ve buried yourself behind your boxwood hedges for far too long.”
“Stone walls,” objected Max, staring at the hydrangea bushes that nestled against the stone walls at the back of the garden. It was the second scolding he’d had in a single week. The publisher was obviously in cahoots with his housekeeper.
“But I haven’t written a children’s book for ages,” objected Max after a pause.
“Believe me, it’s just like riding a bike: it’s not something you forget. Is there any other reason?” As always, Montsignac wouldn’t take no for an answer. Max sighed.
“I just don’t have any ideas anymore, that’s the reason.”
The publisher burst out laughing. “That was good,” he said when he’d calmed down.
“Honestly, Montsignac, I just don’t have any good stories left.”
“Go on, just look, Marchais, just look! I’m absolutely certain that you’ll find a really good story in the end.” He said that as if you simply had to go to the closet to rummage for a story like a pair of old socks. “So, next Friday at one o’clock in Les Editeurs, no argument!”
* * *
TOURISTS SELDOM WANDERED INTO Les Editeurs. It was a little restaurant off the beaten track behind the Odéon Métro station. It was where publishers met their authors and license people negotiated with foreign editors who were visiting the Salon du Livre. You sat in comfortable red leather armchairs under a gigantic station clock, surrounded by books, and ate a tasty little snack from the menu or just drank a coffee or a jus d’orange pressé.
Monsieur Montsignac, who usually was uncomfortable on the hard wooden chairs in other cafés, really appreciated the comfort of these soft armchairs. And this was one of the main reasons why he always returned to the little restaurant when he had a business meeting.
He stirred his café express, his eyes resting benevolently on his author who, two hours before, had walked into the restaurant in a blue suit, his silver-gray hair carefully combed back. He had recently adopted a walking stick (an elegant one, of course, with a silver lion’s head as the knob, which he claimed to need because of his bad back), but Montsignac couldn’t help feeling that good old Marchais sometimes used his age as an excuse, which meant that he needed to be cajoled into action.
At the same time he was—still—a man who was pleasing to the eye, thought Montsignac. His lively bright blue eyes revealed an alert mind, even though he had become somewhat uncommunicative after the death of his wife.
Anyway, Montsignac had realized immediately that there was good news when Marchais dropped into the armchair with a strangely embarrassed smile. “Well then, you old tormentor,” he’d said without beating around the bush. “I do have one story left.”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” Montsignac gave a satisfied laugh.
The publisher had not been surprised—not even when Marchais sent him the new story a week later, almost before the ink had dried on the contract. Some authors just needed a little push, and then they would run by themselves.
“A wonderful story. Very good!” he had shouted down the line after reading the manuscript and calling his author straight away—he had picked up so quickly this time that he must have been sitting beside the telephone. “You’ve surpassed yourself this time, my old friend.”
But then Montsignac had had to apply all his powers of persuasion to convince Marchais that they should change the illustrator for the new book.
“Why on earth do you want to do that?” Max objected stubbornly. “Why can’t we use Éduard again? I really appreciate his work, and I’ve always enjoyed collaborating with him.”
Montsignac had groaned inwardly. Éduard Griseau’s labored drawings—the man was approaching eighty and was now devoting himself to his woodcuts—just weren’t what people expected in children’s books these days. They had to move with the times. That’s the way it was.
“No, no, Marchais, it must be livelier. I have a particular illustrator in mind—she has a very personal style that I really like. She’s not very well known yet, but she’s full of ideas. Unspoiled. Hungry. Original. She’d be exactly right for your story about the blue tiger. She paints postcards.”
“Postcards?” repeated Marchais suspiciously. “Griseau is an artist—and you want to involve a dilettante in the work?”
“Don’t be so judgmental, Marchais. Always keep an open mind—her name is Rosalie Laurent and she has a little postcard store in the rue du Dragon. Why don’t you just call in and then tell me what you think of her?”
And that is how it came about that Max Marchais was standing outside Rosalie’s postcard store a few days later, impatiently banging his walking stick on the locked door with the blue frame.
Four
At first Rosalie hadn’t heard the knocking at all. With tousled hair, she was sitting drawing at her table in jeans and a pullover, and in the background Vladimir Vysotsky was singing the song about Odessa—the only words she understood were Odessa and Princessa. Her foot was tapping to the lively beat of the music.
Monday was the only day that Luna Luna, like so many other small businesses in Paris, was closed.
Unfortunately the day hadn’t begun well. Her attempt to amicably dissuade Monsieur Picard from the planned rent raise had ended in a loud argument. She’d been unable to just keep her mouth shut and had finally called her landlord a capitalist cutthroat.
“I don’t have to take that, Mademoiselle Laurent, I don’t have to take that,” Monsieur Picard had shouted, his little button eyes flashing angrily. “Those are the prices in Saint-Germain nowadays. If you don’t like it, you can move out. I can rent the store to Orange in a flash, for your information they’ll be ready to pay double what you do.”
“Orange? What on earth is that? Oh, you mean that cell phone provider? I just don’t get it. You want to turn my lovely store into a cell phone outlet? Is there nothing you won’t sink to?” Rosalie had shouted, and her heart had begun to beat alarmingly quickly as she ran down the worn stone stairs in a rage (Monsieur Picard lived on the third floor) and slammed her door behind her with a bang that resounded through the whole building. Then for the first time in ages she lit a cigarette with trembling hands. She stood at the window and blew the smoke out into the Paris morning sky. It was more serious than she’d thought. It looked as if there was no way she could avoid pouring her hard-earned money into Monsieur Picard’s capacious maw. She only hoped she would always have enough money to do it. A pity the shop didn’t belong to her. She’d have to think about it. Something was sure to occur to her.
She’d made herself a coffee and returned to her drawing table. The music and the work on the drawing helped her to calm down. We’ll see about that, Monsieur Picard, she thought as she wrote the message on the new card with an energetic flourish. You won’t get rid of me that quickly. There was a knock at the door, but she didn’t hear it. She regarded her work with satisfaction.
“The spring sometimes fulfills the promise that winter has failed to.”
“Let’s hope so,” she said, more to herself. Downstairs there was more knocking—loud, and this time audible—at the door of the store. Rosalie finally heard it. She stopped in surprise and put her pen down. She wasn’t expecting anyone. The store was closed, the mail had already arrived, and René had appointments with his clients all day.
“Okay, I’m coming,” she called, twisting her hair up and fastening it with a barrette as she hastily climbed down the narrow wooden steps of the spiral staircase that led to the store.
William Morris, who was lying down there in his basket, raised his head briefly, and then let it sink back on to his white paws.
Outside the door there was an elderly gentleman in a dark-blue raincoat and a matching Paisley scarf knocking impatiently on the glass pane of the door with his stick.
She turned the key, which she’d left in the door, and opened it. “Hey, hey, monsieur, what’s all this about? You don’t have to break my door down,” she said crossly. “Can’t you read? We’re closed today.” She pointed to the sign that was hanging on the door. The old gentleman didn’t think it necessary to apologize. He raised his bushy white eyebrows and examined her critically.
“Are you Rosalie Laurent?” he then asked.
“Not today,” she replied sharply, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. What was going on here? Some kind of interrogation?
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. Just forget it.”
The gentleman with the Paisley scarf seemed confused. Perhaps he was hard of hearing.
“The best thing would be to come back tomorrow, monsieur,” she said, louder this time. “We’re closed here today.”
“You don’t have to shout,” the gentleman replied with annoyance. “I can still hear very well.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she replied. “Well then, au revoir.” She shut the door and was turning to go when the knocking on the glass resumed. She took a deep breath and turned round again.
“Yes?” she said, after opening the door once more.
He looked at her searchingly. “Well, is it you or not?” he asked.
“It is,” she said. This was beginning to get interesting.
“Oh, that’s good,” he said. “At least it’s the right store. May I come in?” He took a step into the store.
Puzzled, Rosalie stepped backward. “We’re actually closed today,” she repeated.
“Yes, yes. You’ve already said that, but, you know”—he began to walk about and look around the store—“I’ve come to Paris specially, in order to see if your drawings really are suitable.” He moved on, and banged into the corner of the big wooden table in the middle of the store; one of the ceramic mugs of pens began to wobble perilously.
“There’s not much room here,” he remarked reproachfully.
Rosalie straightened the mug as he reached for a flowery card that lay on the table with his big hand.
“Did you paint this?” he asked sternly.
“No.” She shook her head in wonderment.
He narrowed his eyes. “Just as well.” He put the card back. “That wouldn’t do at all.”
“Aha.” Rosalie had no idea what he meant. This well-dressed elderly gentleman was obviously not quite right in the head.
“My cards are in the stand by the door. Did you want to order a wishing card?” she tried once again.
He looked at her once more in amusement with his gleaming blue eyes.
“A wishing card? What on earth is that? Something to do with Santa Claus?”
Rosalie was offended and said nothing. She folded her arms and watched as he approached the postcard stand and took one card after another from the stand, holding each of them close to his eyes with wrinkled brow and then carefully putting them back.
“Not bad at all,” she heard him murmur absently. “Hm … yes … that might do … it really might.”
She coughed impatiently. “Monsieur,” she said, “I don’t have all day. If you want to buy a card, then do it now. Or come back another day.”
“But, mademoiselle, I don’t want to buy a card.” He looked at her in surprise, pushed his brown leather shoulder bag behind him, and retreated a step. “Actually, I wanted to ask you—”
He got no further. As he stepped back, he had, without noticing, thrust his stick into William Morris’s basket. To be more precise, he hadn’t noticed William Morris either. The dog, who a second before had been lying there as peaceful and motionless as a ball of wool, yelped with pain and began to bark like mad—which set a fatal chain reaction in motion.
William Morris barked, the old gentleman was shocked, tumbled against the postcard stand, which entangled the strap of his bag, lost his stick—and then everything moved so fast that Rosalie had no chance to prevent the work of destruction that flooded over her with an earsplitting racket like a domino effect and ended with the gentleman in the Paisley scarf stretched out his full length on the stone floor as he grabbed at the—by now empty—postcard stand, which brought the second stand down, so that the cards exploded through the air and then fluttered gently down to earth.
There was a moment of deathly silence. The shock had even stopped William Morris from barking.
“Oh, my God!” Rosalie clapped her hands to her mouth. A second later she was kneeling beside the man—a sky-blue card had landed on his forehead. “Every kiss is like an earthquake,” it said.
“Are you hurt?” Rosalie carefully picked up the card and gazed into the stranger’s pain-racked face. He opened his eyes and groaned.
“Oooh … dammit … my back,” he said, trying to get up. “What happened?” Confused, he looked at the twisted wire rack that lay on his chest and all the cards that were scattered on the floor around him.
Rosalie looked at him with concern and freed him from the empty stand. “Don’t you know?” Good grief, hopefully the old guy didn’t have a concussion. “My dog barked and you knocked over the postcard stands.”
“Yes … that’s right.” He seemed to be thinking it out. “The dog. Where did he suddenly spring from? The stupid mutt really gave me a fright!”
“And you gave him a fright—because you put your stick down on his paw.”
“Did I?” He sat up with a groan, rubbing the back of his head.
Rosalie nodded. “Come along, I’ll help you. Do you think you can stand up?”
She too
k his arm and he struggled up with her help.
“Ouch! Dammit!” He reached for the small of his back. “Give me my stick. Goddamn back!”
“Here!”
He took a couple of wary steps, and Rosalie took him over to the old leather armchair that stood in the corner next to the counter. “Sit down for a moment. Would you like a glass of water?”
The man sat down gingerly, stretched out his long legs, and attempted a wry smile as she handed him the glass.
“Such bad luck,” he said, shaking his head. “But at least—Montsignac was right. You’re just right for The Blue Tiger.”
“Eh … what?” Rosalie opened her eyes wide and chewed her lower lip. It was obviously worse than she’d thought. The man seemed to have been seriously injured. That was all she needed. She felt panic rising within her. She had no indemnity insurance for her dog. What if the man was permanently damaged?
Rosalie was a grand master of the art of anticipation. In any situation she was able to think through every terrible thing that could possibly happen to the bitter end in a matter of seconds. It was just like a movie, only quicker.
In her mind’s eye she could already see a horde of enraged relatives arriving in the shop, pointing accusatory fingers at the basket where little William Morris was sitting with a guilty look. She heard the nasal voice of Monsieur Picard, who “had always said that the dog shouldn’t be in the store.” But William Morris was as gentle as a lamb. And he hadn’t done anything bad. He sat quivering under the table in the store, staring at her wide-eyed.
“It’s strange, but you remind me of someone,” said the stranger with the Paisley scarf. “Do you like children’s books at all?” He leaned forward a little and groaned.
Rosalie swallowed. The man was completely out of it, that much was clear.
“Listen, monsieur, you just sit quiet for a while, okay? Don’t move. I think it would be better if we called a doctor.”
“No, no, it’s all right.” He waved her away. “I don’t need a doctor.” He loosened his Paisley scarf and breathed deeply.
Paris Is Always a Good Idea Page 4
