There was, of course, only one hotel they could stay in once they arrived in Paris; the Hotel Esmeralda where Linnea and Mr Bloom had stayed in the book, which proved to be every bit as quaint and charming as ‘Linnea’s’ description. Seeing the cornucopia of knick-knacks on display downstairs Hamish was pleased to have a room with unadorned stone walls and a plain red and cream décor while Liana had been given pretty sprigged wallpaper and a view over the leafy trees of the adjacent park and the church of Saint Julien le Pauvre.
Paris was stiflingly hot, baking under a heat-wave that made being outdoors quite uncomfortable during daylight hours. The two ventured out to visit a few local focal points; given that Notre Dame’s souring bulk was practically across the road from the hotel it was impossible not to visit there and take in the sights of the Ile de la Cité, including an evening organ recital at the cathedral but they mostly opted for museums and galleries that offered air conditioning to combat the daytime’s elevated temperature and humidity, dining al fresco in the evenings once the temperature dropped a few degrees to a more acceptable level. After a day of this Liana was tiring of being indoors, so much so that after a visit to see the vast circular canvases of Monet’s water lily paintings at the Musée de L’Orangerie they had decided to brave the elements and wander back to the hotel through the Tuileries Gardens and the Louvre. They walked slowly along the finely gravelled pathways, not wanting to hurry in the sweltering heat –Liana hiding under her parasol and still maintaining her distance from Hamish.
As they sauntered along the allées of the manicured gardens within the Tuileries the skies grew darker and there was ominous rumbling overhead. They had just reached the Arc de triomphe du Carrousel, where the gardens terminated when the first spits of rain started to fall, and were hurrying to cross the Place du Carrousel, with its inverted pyramid; made infamous by Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code, when the heavens opened. Spits rapidly turned into the driving torrents of a full-force Parisian thunderstorm and Hamish, ignoring Liana’s unspoken wish for him not to touch, reached out to grab her free hand as they ran across the cobbled pavement of the road with the other pedestrians. Clasping her hand tightly they bounded together up the few steps to the solid shelter of the porticos surrounding the Louvre’s central glass-pyramid entrance courtyard. The long line of the tourists who had been queuing patiently for entry into the museum outside the largest of Pei’s pyramids deserted their posts to run helter-skelter in all directions, seeking refuge wherever they could find it and soon Hamish and Liana were surrounded by damp, loudly exclaiming Asians, Americans and Europeans speaking in a multitude of tongues like some modern-day Babylon, shaking themselves off like so many dogs after a drenching.
The downpour and accompanying lightening display was spectacular in its intensity. Sharp shards of bright light were followed hard on their heels by booming peals of thunder as the storm passed almost directly overhead. Hamish had seen this before and marvelled at the way the Parisian locals seemed unfazed, sheltering in doorways, under awnings and porticos wherever they could with the odd crazy fool making a mad dash through the pelting rain…storms like this in Paris tended to be great social levellers, bringing people together for brief periods to laugh and bemoan the weather before venturing back out into their everyday existence. He looked down at Liana; she didn’t appear too happy, standing frowning by his side in her thin cotton dress and strappy sandals. Could it be, he wondered, that she was shaken by the display and possibly not so fond of thunder and lightning in her new mortal state? He put an arm around her and pulled her, unprotesting to his side, holding her there until the storm abated.
Within minutes the tempest had moved on and the rain eased to light droplets. People dispersed, back to their queues or wherever they had been heading before the squall. Hamish and Liana carried on their way, splashing through puddles on the pavement and stepping around and over road drains still struggling to accommodate the inundation, as they traversed the streets and bridges back to their hotel. Walking along the river banks of the Seine Hamish noticed that the booksellers had closed up their booths for the day. By the time they made it back across the Ile de la Cité, the cafés around the corner from the hotel had pushed excess run-off from their awnings, mopped up or swept puddles left on pavements after the rain, dried seats and tables and were open for business as usual. At the height of tourist season it would take more than an afternoon cloudburst to halt trading in this Paris arrondissement. Thirsty, he and Liana opted to stop for a cool drink at Café le Petit Pont, where at least they were protected from the weather and the busy road running alongside the river’s left bank by a wide pavement, railings and a planted corner of trees and shrubs between themselves and the traffic.
Finishing their drinks, they popped into Shakespeare and Co., the bookstore tucked back slightly from the road next to the adjacent cafés, joining other patrons who were fossicking among the closely packed shelves of mainly English-language books. Passing under an arch with ‘BE NOT INHOSPITABLE TO STRANGERS LEST THEY BE ANGELS IN DISGUISE’ inscribed overhead, Liana was instantly charmed by the wonderfully cluttered and eccentric space, with its battered shoe-worn and book-lined wooden stairs leading to the upper floors and eclectic mix of seats for readers to make use of. Hamish read the sign and silently wondered what the bookstore’s staff would think if they knew the kind of being they had in their store at this moment.
Working their way towards the stairs at the rear, Hamish and Liana carefully stepped over the feet of a long-legged couple stretched out in a pair of old red chairs that looked as if they’d once been part of theatre furnishings. Suitable books found, they plopped themselves down on one of the shop’s beds, tucked away in a quiet backwater where they stayed reading for some time amid the laid-back atmosphere of the bookshop. Hamish knew, from previous visits, that the bedding shoved amongst the shelves was for the largely American ex-pats, affectionately called tumbleweeds, who dossed down amongst the books at night in return for a few hours of employment in the shop during the day.
As they read, a blond-haired Dutch girl sat at the piano stool of a rickety old piano and started playing Yann Tiersen, the Breton composer and musician; the music seemed perfectly chosen for the location, with the tinkling notes of the piano wafting gently among the stacks, although the instrument could have done with some work. Engrossed in her book and tired from the day’s excursions, Liana relaxed enough to flick her sandals off, tuck her feet up on the bed and prop her back against Hamish’s shoulder as she read. Having her in such close proximity once more, his concentration on his own text suffered, but he wasn’t about to complain. He pulled his thoughts back to the novel in his hand and when next he glanced at his watch, he was surprised to find that an hour had passed and they needed to leave if they wanted time to shower and dress for the dinner reservation he’d made for that evening. Reluctantly, they gathered their things and made their way downstairs again to purchase the books before heading round the corner to the hotel.
An hour and a half later, they ventured out again to a city cooled a little by the rain. Steam rose from still-warm asphalt as they made their way back across the Ile to Au Chien Qui Fume, a restaurant known for its quirky artworks featuring dogs where human heads had been in the originals and an abundance of dog ceramics scattered around the interior. They chose to sit outdoors and Hamish was amused to spy a large elegant greyhound stretched out beside a table alongside two diners. Knowing the French attitude to pets, which was generally more tolerant than that of the English, it seemed in keeping with the décor. After aperitifs, at the recommendation of their waiter, he and Liana ordered a platter of fresh seafood to share, which arrived on ice with an array of utensils designed to either coax or batter the meat from carapaces and shells. What followed was a fun half hour of deciding which tools to use for what delicacy. Dessert and coffee were, fortunately, less strenuous pursuits than the main course.
“I’d like to get a dog,” Hamish had been watching the animal, lying for the
most part quietly prone at his master’s feet while they dined but raising its head every so often to partake of some morsel offered under the table by the equally elegant woman seated across from the gentleman. “I think I’ll look into it when we get home.”
“Hmm,” Liana’s response was non-committal. He could hear her humming a tune under her breath but couldn’t make out the song.
“Might get a cat as well.”
“Hmmm,” She continued humming.
“Might cut down the woods and turn the place into an animal sanctuary,” he watched to see how long his words would take to sink, if at all. It took a full minute or more.
“What?!” She stared across the table at him, shocked, then noticing his broad grin calmed her expression of horror. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“Just wanted to see how long it took to get your attention.”
“I’m sorry, I was thinking of something else.”
“Anything you want to share with the class?”
“No,” but her expression told him everything. The sadness that was never more than a finger-snap away was back in her eyes.
He signalled the waiter. “I’ll get the check and we’ll go.”
She nodded, already drifting back to her thoughts of how little she wanted to return to England’s shores and White Briars’ memories. While they walked the lamp-lit streets with other revellers, out and about enjoying the Parisian nightlife, he could hear the low humming once more but still wasn’t able to discern the melody. Passing by the open door of Shakespeare and Company once more, music beckoned and they stopped to listen to some of a performance by Lail Arad, who was sharing songs from her current album, as well as one or two previous numbers with old friends in Paris. Hamish particularly liked the self-deprecatingly witty lyrics to Winter, a song about the inconvenience of taking a break from a relationship once the colder weather set in. For a brief moment, Liana forgot herself again, leaning back against him as they stood in the press of the audience enjoying the music. His arms linked loosely around her slim waist, Hamish couldn’t help but wish that this was the way it was all the time, and not just for occasional intervals. He strengthened his resolve to speak to her about his growing feelings for her come the ‘morrow.
***
His sleep that night was broken and ragged, with thoughts of what he might say in the morning dominating his dreams and he woke to the sounds of early morning bird calls through his open windows, feeling as if he had fallen asleep mere moments before.
Or when the lawn
Is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return
Gently at twilight, gently go at dawn,
The sad intangible who grieve and yearn...
T.S. Eliot, To Walter de la Mare
Chapter Twenty-One
Liana surveyed Hamish’s tired face over a pot of Darjeeling they were sharing at The Tea Caddy later that morning; it was a perfect little English-French hybrid tea shop that they had discovered just half a dozen doors down from the hotel . Having a proper tea shop so close was a rare find as tea wasn’t exactly the beverage of choice for most Parisian inhabitants. She might have wondered what it was that had made him look so weary if she hadn’t been so deeply involved in her own thoughts. Sipping sweet hot liquid from her blue and white cup, she watched silently as Hamish picked at a thick slice of raisin toast on the opposite side of the table. Sitting on the banquette-seat at one of three tables-for-two set in a wide booth at the front of the store, his back was to the open casement windows and she could see over his broad shoulders to the leafy-green trees of the Square René Viviani across the lane. Although it was pleasant to see these city trees, they had little in common with their English country counterparts and made her feel that it was high time she quit the city.
“Let’s get out of here,” Hamish spoke suddenly. He pulled money from his wallet and left it on the table, to cover their food, beverages and a tip.
“As you wish,” not wanting to waste the tea she drained her cup before setting it back on its saucer and arising from the table.
Vacating the timber-panelled and dark solidly-beamed atmosphere of the tea room they exited into the bright sunshine, crossing the cobbled pavement and mounting the kerb and a second low step bordered with squat square stone bollards that protected the walkway outside the park railings from traffic on the lane. As they strolled along to an open park gate set near the end wall of the church of Saint Julien le Pauvre, Liana could hear music coming from inside the church. She recognised the opening strains of a Chopin piece being played on piano; by the sounds emanating from the open church door, a superior model to the one back around the corner in the bookshop. If she was tempted to go inside and listen more closely, she wasn’t to have that opportunity. Hamish indicated the gate to the park so she walked through with him following closely behind.
It was quiet in the garden, too early for the tourists to be out in force and few others had time to stop at this hour. They walked up to one of the square’s landmark occupants, a Robinia pseudoacacia that was purported to be the oldest tree in Paris. This Locust tree, leaning drunkenly and minus its upper branches compliments of a WW1 shell, was now supported by some rather utilitarian concrete buttresses. It had been planted around 1601 by Jean Robin, whose name the tree had immortalised in its Generic title and was blessed with a piece of urban mythology that suggested those who touched its bark gently would have years of good luck. Liana had seen the tree the first day of her arrival but had resisted touching it, mindful of what her caress might do to such an ancient tree, and, since it had been a very long time since she had believed in something as fickle as luck there was little desire in her to lay a hand on the bark. She was glad, for the tree’s sake, that the myth stated a gentle touch was required; the tree was vulnerable enough in this central city location without thousands of tourist’s rough-handling it’s tender bark. At least it was somewhat protected from over-eager hands by the circle of woven timbers and seating that ringed its base.
“Please sit,” She caught more than a hint of nervousness in Hamish’s usually calm tones. “I have something to say that I’m fairly sure you won’t want to hear, but I can’t keep it to myself any longer,” Hamish did not sound happy about whatever it was he was about to announce.
Liana sat, perched on the edge of the slatted benches that circumnavigated the ancient locust tree. She hummed the tune he’d heard her voicing the evening before.
He was distracted by the sound. “What is that song you’re humming?”
“I don’t know,” she frowned and pursed her lips thoughtfully; “it’s just something I heard. On the radio perhaps?”
“Hmm, I know I’ve heard it too but I can’t remember the name.” He expelled a sharp breath, before steeling himself to continue. Sitting next to her, he spoke softly, as if not wanting to frighten her, “anyway, I digress.”, he angled his body to look directly at her, “what I want, no, what I need to tell you is that my feeling for you have grown in these past weeks. That is to say …grown considerably.” The next words were drawn out twice their length, “As in,” he closed his eyelids and took a deep breath, opening them to look candidly into her bemused eyes, “as in I’ve fallen in love with you.”
Her sea-coloured eyes turned instantly stormy, reminding him of yesterday’s tempest. “No! You cannot!” she put her hands over her ears as if to block his declaration out.
Bit late, he thought, he’d already said it. “Excuse me?” He pulled at his earlobe, a habit he found he’d developed over the summer in response to the endless frustration of living near Liana. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll be the judge of whom I can or cannot fall in love with.”
“Well, you can’t. I won’t have it!”
“Then tell me you feel nothing for me.” He saw by her deer-in-the-headlights expression that she felt more than she was letting on. “Why does it have to be such a problem?” he asked. “I’m not asking you to marry me, well, not just yet. Not today anyway.”
“Obviously you still don’t understand. I. Don’t. Want. To. Fall. In. Love.” Each word was enunciated with knife-edge precision.
“We don’t always get what we want.” Hmmm …from her grimly thunderous expression, that little morsel of humour missed its mark by a country mile.
She hunched her shoulders, drawing in on herself. “But I only wanted a friend!”
“I have been a friend for months now. I’d like to be more.” He was attempting to be reasonable.
“No. You can’t feel like this. I do not want anything more. It can’t happen. Not again.” There was pain in her voice.
“Again, you do not get to choose how I feel.” This conversation was going round in ever widening circles. “I asked you how you felt.”
“About what?”
“Don’t be so obtuse. About me, of course.” That came out shorter than he’d intended but he did not want to sit here playing games.
She spoke slowly, as if talking to someone mentally deficient. “Whether I feel any stirrings of love for you or not is not the point. I will not become involved with another mortal.”
“But that’s ridiculous; we’ve pretty much proven you are as mortal as I am now.”
Flowers in the Morning Page 34
