I wobble off down the stairs to the Metro, my thoughts fuzzy from wine, from Pascale. Is she right about me having only dated safe boring types? Or is it that I go for men with more under the hood? That’s probably it. My head might get turned occasionally by men like Pascale with that fiery-eyed overt hotness but I stop myself from feeling anything else because that sort of sex appeal might be good in theory, but it doesn’t last and there’s nothing else to build on. No, I need a man who can have intelligent conversation. A man who is considerate and thoughtful. A romantic at heart. And my lunch companion is none of those things.
11
On non-market days, I crisscross Paris buying stock for Ephemera. Today I zigzag along the left bank of the Seine, darting around clusters of tourists admiring the view. It’s easy to spot a foreigner in Paris, not only because of phones and cameras held high but more so that they meander, whereas a typical Parisian walks at a brisk pace. Summer is peak tourist season and as July creeps closer to August, the crowds thicken.
I’m running fashionably late to meet Pierre, abouquiniste,who sells second-hand antiquarian books and vintage posters from the ubiquitous tiny green boxes on the bank of the Seine. The Seine is the only river in the world with over two hundred and forty booksellerson its banks. Literature is hallowed in Paris and no book is ever left behind. Second-third-fourth-hand books will always find a home here or in vintage market and second-hand shops.
Pierre has a plethora of contacts in the book trade and calls me when he’s found something that suits my line of work. We’ve been friends for years and he’s just what you expect a booksellerto look like: windswept hair, obligatory cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, faded knitted jumper and distressed denim jeans;the whole ensemble screams bookworm. ‘Bonjour, Pierre. Sorry I’m late. But I have coffee and madeleines!’
‘Bonjour, Lilou.Mieux vaut trad que jamais.’ ‘Late is worth more than never’ should be my middle name. Pierre takes the proffered coffee and paper bag full of small shell-like cakes dusted with icing sugar. ‘Merci bien.’ His life is what bibliophiles’ dreams are made of. Most days, you’ll find him nose-deep in a book, enraptured by other worlds that propel him far from here. The wiry bookseller has his regular visitors so well-trained that they bring him sustenance, so he doesn’t have to move a muscle. While I’m deeply envious of his job, he does suffer come winter when the rain falls and the wind whips off the Seine.
We make pleasantries as I sit on a deckchair beside him and sip coffee. The wind from the Seine flutters the pages of the books as if they’re waving a welcome.
‘How did the market reshuffle go?’
I sigh. ‘A little… rockier than I’d like. Do you know Pascale?’ While there may be eleven million souls – not including the ghosts – in Paris, everyone knows everyone in the antiquity trade.
With eyes scrunched up, Pierre takes a deep draw of a thin hand-rolled cigarette as he contemplates my question. ‘Sells vintage typewriters?’
‘That’s him. Inexplicably, he’s taken a disliking to me. Yesterday, my music bothered him. Too loud and too tinny, apparently. And that’s just one of many issues he’d found with me.’
Pierre frowns. ‘Like what?’
I wave it away as if it’s nothing. ‘A few complaints about this and that. He’s put my nose out of joint.’Literally.‘Geneviève arranged a surprise lunch for us to air out our differences and of course it didn’t go well. By the eighth course I was ready tostab him with my fork. I’ve never met a man so disagreeable in all my life. But no point crying over spilt milk.’ Or extra-hot café crème. ‘I’m sure it’ll settle down. The other two neighbours, Felix and Benoit, are lovely.’ I don’t go into more detail. I’ve already said too much probably, because Pierre isn’t one to get involved in the minutiae of others’ lives, not only because he doesn’t like gossip, but mainly because he finds it not the least bit interesting. He’d rather find his drama inside a book.
Pierre smiles as if the situation is amusing and not annoying, which is something at least. ‘I’m sure it will. He’s probably put out having to move.’ Pierre drops the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray.
‘Oui.He wasn’t happy being moved upstairs.’ I glance at my watch. ‘So what have you got for me?’
Pierre doesn’t call me often but when he does it’s always a sensational find. Love letters and cards, usually, the merest whispers of a stranger’s life dashed across paper and secreted away in books, hidden for a passage of time until they reveal themselves once more.
‘A letter. It’s brittle like rice paper and has the most wonderful calligraphy that you can onlyjustdiscern. Whoever buys it from you will possibly be the very last person to read it.’
Even Pierre seems excited about the find, which is unusual. He’s always happy to save these trinkets for me but is usually more ambivalent about their charm and worth.
‘May I see it?’ He hands me a battered copy ofMadame Bovarywhich I can’t help but sniff. The perfume of old books: earthy, musty nuttiness with hints of vanilla and sweet almond is like a drug.
‘It’s inside the book, which was found in a bedside cabinet in an abandoned penthouse in the 4th arrondissement. You should have seen the apartment, Lilou.’ He shakes his head atthe memory. ‘Stuck in a seventies time warp. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Abandoned? Who’d do that?’ A penthouse in the 4th arrondissement is prime real estate. I can’t imagine anyone who’d give a place like that up.
Pierre nods. ‘It was eerie, as though they picked up one day and left in a hurry. There were coffee cups on the table, dishes in the sink and ashtray with the corpse of a cigarette that must have been left burning. The dusty cobwebby library room had books in many languages.’
I picture Pierre visiting the apartment to assess the library for its worth and finding the penthouse, stuck in the seventies like a living, breathing time capsule.
‘What? Where did they go?’
He shrugs. ‘No idea. The apartment sold recently, all done through some sort of trust. The new owners are gutting the place and want everything gone. A shame. You don’t see places preserved like that.’
‘Doesn’t it bother you, the not knowing?’
‘Nothing to do with me, but if I were a gambling man, I’d bet it was one of their many houses around the world and they left one day and forgot about their Parisianpied-à-terre.’
‘Are there really peoplethatwealthy they forget about Parisian penthouses?’
His weathered face dissolves into a grin. ‘Hah – not us, Lilou.’ For a moment he stares off into the distance, his eyes reflecting the sun off the Seine. ‘We’re the ones who preserve what’s left behind.’
‘The keepers of forsaken treasures.’ Would they care, these invisible people whose mementoes we pore over then sell on? What might be rubbish to the new homeowners, another chore on their list, is our bright spot. Every person’s history matters, not just those more notable among us. Why does a bundle ofletters from a historical figure like Napoleon matter more than, say, a domestic worker who had big dreams and aspirations? Both are of equal importance and both ought to be preserved for history’s sake.
