“Tour guide?” he said huskily. “You’re not going to see much except the inside of the bedroom, for the first few days at least.”
My lips parted in anticipation. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
“Fly safe, and call me when you arrive?” he said.
“You too. Be careful in Indonesia.”
“I love you, Sarah Smith.”
“And I you, Ridge Warner.”
***
Before dawn draped its golden orange ribbons across the sky, I was at my bookshop, enjoying the quiet, relishing the long goodbye. The lull before the town awoke. Soft yellow lamp light spilled through the shop, the novels basked sleepily in the warm glow.
Leaving my books would be like leaving a piece of me behind, just the thought made me catch my breath, as though I’d done something audacious even considering it. I ran my fingers over their covers, murmuring farewells. How many would be missing when I returned? Their voyage into someone’s home, someone’s life, completed without me. There’d be no time to wish them well.
There was a slight rustle, a whisper-quiet mewling. I pivoted, hoping to catch a book moving, but I was too late. The stacks stood solemnly, fat with pride and perhaps a touch of melancholy. Did they sense I was leaving? I wanted to lock the front door, and let them all languish until I returned…
Would Sophie’s shop be this alive? With stacks of leather bound books peeking from a wooden shelf so high, I’d need a ladder to investigate? Or hidden hutches piled with old letters and diaries, penned by some of the writers who’d escaped from their lives and scribbled away there, their words flowing in such a famous place. Would I arrive and hear whispers from the past? The murmur of authors long since gone from this world? Their ghostlike presence hovering in the place they wrote their very last masterpiece. The place they were happiest – a haven for word lovers.
I wanted that…that feeling of being wholly alive, surrounded by likeminded souls. Bibliophiles who re-read a book because it was so damn good – it had become a friend, one you turned to for comfort. The intimacy, the quiet, where words washed over you and made you smile again.
And to befriend other bookworms whose lives were left in tatters after falling in love with a fictional character. Unable to eat or sleep, and sad that you’d never met him, because he wasn’t real, except in your mind. But you still looked for him in faces of people on the street anyway, you’d recognize him anywhere. It would take weeks, sometimes years to stop yearning for that character who’d virtually jumped from the page and smothered you with kisses. Would I find people like that in the bookshop on the Left Bank where the cherry trees stood?
With a nervous flutter in my belly, I said goodbye to my books, and silently wished them well, hoping that if a customer stumbled upon them while I was absent they’d be cherished.
Chapter Three
The sun bobbed in the blue sky, making me squint. For October, it was warmer than I’d expected, more so than Ashford. It was as though the city of love had pulled out all the stops on my first morning here. The air was fragrant with promise. I rifled through my backpack, searching for sunglasses. My face was split with a cheesy grin.
I was really here! Paris!
And so far, I’d hadn’t been snatched, mugged, or even scammed, as Mom had warned me about four million times before she kissed me goodbye. Rolling my suitcase along, stifling a yawn, I made my way to a ticket booth to ask where the train station was.
I had to catch the RER train to central Paris, but I’d been swept along in a throng of people, and unsure of which way I was meant to go. Somehow I’d ended up outside, and couldn’t contain my joy. I wanted to jump in the air, kick my heels together, and screech Bonjour, France! Instead, I smiled and trundled forward. Fatigue tried to catch me, I’d stayed awake for most of the flight, as excitement pulsed through my veins making sleep impossible. I shook the lethargy away, promising myself a nap before starting at the bookshop. The time difference made my head spin – but I was here, and that was the only thing that mattered.
A raven haired woman, chewing gum in the same repetitive pattern, click, blow, pop, eyed me with feigned disinterest as I approached the counter. “Oui?” she said.
I dropped my backpack to the floor, and leaned close to the glass.
I hastily found the train timetable, and pointed. “Où est…” Where is – how did you say train station? I flipped through my French phrase book.
Before I could find it, she popped her gum and said in English, “The train station is that way.” She looked over my shoulder to the next person, signaling she was finished with me. I wanted to laugh, she was so French!
“Merci beaucoup,” I thanked her, feeling foolish that my accent was so jarring compared to the words that fell from her tongue in a silky cadence.
Hefting my backpack on, I wheeled my suitcase in front and made my way to the platform. The sign was a maze of different colored lines crisscrossing all over the place. Shoot. It was a complicated web, how on earth would I pick the right one? I’d expected one freaking train! My research hadn’t stretched to public transport, and again the size of the place hit home.
Overhead on the PA a French voice rang out, announcing something, but speaking so quickly I couldn’t untangle the words. I blew out a breath, maybe Sophie’s French lessons wouldn’t be enough here – unless people spoke to me like I was a five-year-old, with laboriously slow enunciation. Behind me people hurried along, bumping into me and jostling me out of the way. A train approached, its motor screeching, and brakes grinding, so loud it was like a drawn out scream. I turned in fright, but no one took any notice. Open mouthed, I watched crowds exit the newly arrived train, and others elbow their way on, in one big gorging mass of bodies, and bulky accoutrements.
As fast as a click of fingers the doors shushed closed, and the train was off again. I double blinked. Why was everyone in such a hurry? Where did they all come from? One minute the station was empty, then full of bustling bodies, then empty again. Somehow I had to pick the right train to head into central Paris, and then squeeze into the damn thing.
Could I push my way forcefully like everyone else including grappling with my heavy suitcase and backpack? Why did I smuggle so many books into my bag? The weight of them slowed me right down, despite the wheels on the bottom of my case. It’s not like I was going to a place bereft of books! I couldn’t face some of my favorites being sold, though, and had taken one, then two, then a stack of them, just in case. They were my talismans, a reminder of my shop.
When the next train arrived, I gave myself a silent pep talk, and mimicked the people ahead of me, lunging myself and suitcase on to the train with a cry of eee! When the doors closed, I surveyed my limbs; all intact! I hadn’t been snatched, mugged, scammed, and now I could add hadn’t been squashed to death on the train. I was one step away from potentially booking a trek up the Himalayas… Settle down, Sarah. You’ve been here all of five minutes. My bucket list was a little fanciful for a newbie tourist, I must admit.
Eventually the crowd thinned, and I snagged a seat. I pushed my face against the glass, and tried to calm the erratic beat of my heart. Since I was a little girl, I’d dreamed of visiting Paris, and here it was before me – breathtaking, glorious, and everything I imagined. Apartments as far as the eye could see, window boxes with bright red flowers spilling out, like lackadaisical smiles. White shutters were flung open to welcome soft sunshine inside. Cars zoomed up roads. Abbeys were dotted here and there, their gothic facades awe-inspiring. I was goggle-eyed with the beauty surrounding me.
The city sprawled in every direction; even though I’d spent many a night dreaming of Paris, and gawping at photos, I hadn’t expected this. The sheer enormity of what I’d done gave me pause, and I was proud of myself, for the first time in ages, for leaping from the monotony of my life and doing something that scared me.
The train sped on, graffiti scribbles marred brickwork on a row of identical apartments, in front a cluster of eld
erly women held shopping bags, long skinny baguettes poked their heads out, eavesdropping on their chatter.
Between buildings, I saw snatches of it. The metal gleamed under the sunlight like the fingers of God were pointing to it, showing me the way. It was so much bigger than I’d expected, its middle higher than the tallest buildings, as it stretched for the clouds. The Eiffel Tower, the heart and soul of Paris. A young woman standing near me inclined her head closer to the window; like Sophie, she was coiffed to perfection, her barely there make-up expertly applied. I felt unkempt in comparison, and nervously ran a hand through my hair.
“First time in Paris?”
“Oui.” I said, darting a glance back at the Eiffel Tower. It was magnificent, the way it stood proudly in the center of the city. I couldn’t wait to see it up close. It would dwarf me – what an architectural marvel.
She gripped onto the handrail above, as we shimmied along with the rocking of the train. “Go to the Sacre Coeur for a good view of the whole city, and then you’ll see how truly magnifique La Tour Eiffel is. Lots of steps to get there, but worth it.” Her voice was almost musical, sensual. I didn’t think I’d ever tire of the way French people spoke, whether it was in their native tongue or heavily accented English.
“Merci,” I said, giving her a shy smile, knowing my accent must have sounded brash compared to hers. “There’s so much to see and do. I can’t wait.” I fell back into English, feeling less inhibited with my own language. Though I’d promised myself to try and speak as much French as possible, when it came time to speak, I was embarrassed; I sounded clunky and disjointed compared to the lovely lilt surrounding me. The words that fell from commuters’ lips were almost poetic.
“Find the real Paris,” she said, fluttering her hand towards the window. “Away from the tourist spots. Look for the forgotten avenues. They’re full of hidden gems.” And with that she spun on her heel, leaving me with only the citrusy scent of her perfume.
What would I discover in lost laneways, and veiled gardens? So many literary greats had lived and loved here, and stepping where they once did thrilled me in a way I’d never felt before. I wanted to wander until I was lost, find fresh food markets, take a boat cruise, run my fingers along spines in the Bibliotheque national de France – the grand old library of Paris…exactly the kind of place where secrets abound, if only you search hard enough.
The train slowed. Passengers stood pushing forward to the doors, the usual frenzy ensued. With a deep breath, I slung on my backpack and grabbed the handle of my case, ready to jump off. It was like being in the middle of a rugby scrum. When the doors slid open, I jostled and shrieked my way out, onto the dank, dim platform, not caring I was drawing wary glances from other passengers with my yodel-like squeal.
Whoop! I resisted the urge to fist pump, and instead took a few lungfuls of Parisian air. I was smiling like a loon, but I couldn’t curb it. A meek, shy bookworm from a small town had navigated her way to the heart of Paris without getting lost once! It was worth celebrating, so I promised myself a big glass of sauvignon blanc later that night.
Dragging my suitcase, I followed the lead of the other commuters, shaking my head in awe. It was one thing to dream about Paris and quite another to actually be here. Fatigue was trying its hardest to slow me down, but I shrugged it off, wanting to see everything at once and soak up every single Parisian thing.
Outside I glanced at the view ahead, and then my map. My heart sunk. Wasn’t there supposed to be a bridge? Frowning, and being gently nudged when people rushed past, I swayed and sighed as I took in my surroundings. I’d gone the wrong way, or had I? The Eiffel Tower… Somehow I’d ended up in what looked like an industrial part of Paris.
The sunshine dimmed, as though it was disappointed in me, as I tried to make sense of my map. The train had been an adventure, but I wasn’t too keen to get back on it. It would take some getting used to, all that rushing and the threat of plunging into the gap between platform and carriage.
My feet ached from the shoes Missy insisted I wear. Note to self; travel in comfortable footwear next time. I was a ballet flats kind of girl, and the wedged boots – which Missy had demanded I teeter in – had taken their toll.
No one will guess you’re American! she’d exclaimed. As though in order to be accepted here, I’d have to first fool them that I was French, and that could only be done by wearing the right shoes. I smiled, remembering the conversation. My heart tugged for my friends who were so far away, not only in miles, but in spirit. Would I find friends here? I couldn’t imagine anyone being as lively and animated as the girls, but I hoped I was wrong. I didn’t want to spend months here pining for them and the only way around that would be to mingle, and pretend I was a chatty, outgoing explorer. It was time to stop hiding, and start participating in real life.
Glancing up, the sky was different here; it was smudged white and baby blue, and somehow brighter, more vivid than Ashford. The air was richer, sweet and pungent, and wholly new.
Right, there was no more time to dither. “Excusez-moi?” I said to a woman pushing a stroller. She glared at me and kept going. I tried again with a young man, who shook his head, phone jammed against his ear, and pointed to the train. I tried not to take it personally, everyone was busy. I was due at Once Upon a Time, in fact I was overdue. Mild panic set in, as I pictured myself catching trains back and forth, and never getting anywhere. Gulping, I grabbed the suitcase handle and spun to go back to the station, but instead banged heads with a man passing by. I clutched my forehead, eyes watering with the sting of the collision. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, wanting to dissolve into the pavement.
His eyes were scrunched closed, he blinked a few times, and then gazed at me. “American?” he asked.
The shoes hadn’t fooled him. “Yes, is it so obvious?”
“You spoke English,” he said. “With an American accent.”
Kill me now. “Right. I did. Sorry about the bump.” There was a small red mark where we’d collided. I’d certainly made a mark on Paris, or more specifically, Parisians.
He waved me away. Embarrassment made my cheeks flush, and now that I had someone to ask directions, I wasn’t brave enough to. He must think I was some kind of village idiot. His lips turned up, as if he was amused by me. Which no doubt he was in an I’m-laughing-at-you, not with-you, way.
“Are you OK now?” he asked, as if the bump on the head dazed me.
“Oui. I’m fine.”
Super.
Peachy.
Lost.
He tilted his head. “Where are you going?”
I forced a smile, all the while wondering if he was about to snatch me. Why was he so nice, when everyone else wouldn’t give me the time of day? Was he going to try and snaffle me into a taxi? How exactly did someone pinch a person in broad daylight? Would he take my bags too? If I was going to be abducted, I’d still like to read. Scenes from the movie Taken flashed in my mind. I shook my head to dislodge them.
“Don’t look so afraid,” he said, laughing. “I’m not going to kidnap you!”
A kidnapper wouldn’t mention kidnapping, surely? My mother had a lot to answer for, putting this crazy fear into me.
“That’s a relief.” I relaxed my shoulders. “I’m trying to head into central Paris… But the maps, there’s so many different lines.”
Running a hand through the gray shock of his hair, he chuckled, like he encountered this kind of thing every day. “You’ve gone the wrong way. Go back to the platform, but catch the train from the other side.” My face fell. “It’s OK. You’ll get lost many more times. The trick is, to embrace the drama of it all.” And with that he bid me adieu, his wise eyes sparkling, as though he’d been sent to stop me from feeling sorry for myself. Didn’t I say I wanted to get lost? And here I was. Lost in Paris. Tick! And not kidnapped! Tick!
Feeling adventurous, I dragged my bags and myself to the front of a little bistro, with red cane chairs that faced the busy road. A glass
of vin blanc would give me some liquid courage to face the manic train dance again.
A waiter with a flirty smile walked over.
“Bonjour. Oui, madam?”
I smiled, it was the accent, especially pouring from the lips of someone resembling a male model who’d just stepped from the front cover of a magazine. With as much confidence as I could muster I said, “Bonjour, un vin blanc, merci.” The first thing Sophie had taught me was how to order wine, she must have known it’d come in handy.
“One white wine, of course,” he said and winked before walking away. I resisted the urge to giggle. He winked. My friends would be rolling on the floor by now, pointing and gesticulating at his retreating back. I felt very sophisticated sitting alone, in some unidentified quarter of Paris. If only my friends could see me now.
Chapter Four
My mouth hung open when I gazed at the building before me. Once Upon a Time, the sign read which was pinned to the top of the building, weathered and faded. I’d seen countless photos, and Sophie had taken her laptop out the front when we Skyped to show me the façade and the view of the Seine. But seeing it in real-life – its faded sepia brick, with the murky tea-colored river across the road – was something else entirely. The way the building leaned softly, as if time and the elements had warped it.
Time slowed, while I gawped in every direction. A world of accents chattering away only just registered. There was the scent of the Seine; earthy, fathomless. The bustle of waiters at a busy bistro, glasses clinking together, the tink of cutlery on plates. Shielding my eyes from the glare of their white shirts, and silver trays held aloft, I spun, taking in the three-hundred-and-sixty degree view, like a panorama.
Cars honked and parked in spots which looked far too small, their expert drivers negotiating the tight space, without much maneuvering. Along the sidewalk were a cluster of cherry trees; naked without their perfumed blossoms. They stood tall and proud like watchmen out front. Off to the side of the shop was a little wooden house, on stilts like a letterbox, filled with picture books and marked with a hand painted sign that read “Kids’ library.” A line of children waited patiently for their turn to open the tiny glass door and select a pre-loved book. Behind them, parents snapped shots of the Notre Dame looming in the distance, or the Pont Saint-Michel to the right. Others held maps, their faces scrunched in concentration.
The Little Bookshop On the Seine Page 4
