‘It seems fitting you should have the book and the letter since they were found together. But please, Lilou, don’t open it in this breeze. The parchment is so delicate I fear it’ll become confetti and then the words will be lost forever.’
I run my hand over the cover ofMadame Bovary. Will this secreted letter explain why the people in the penthouse in the 4th left so abruptly and never returned? Like most letters, it will probably leave me with more questions than answers, but it’s another thread to the past that will be cherished, instead of hidden away, lost and forgotten.
‘What is it worth?’ I brace myself. Pierre is always reasonable with pricing, but he’s also usually more casual about his finds. This level of enthusiasm may be costly.
He waves me away. ‘Nothing. It might not last long enough for you to sell it and the book is, shall we say,verywell loved.’
‘Merci,Pierre.’ There’s a sense of anticipation about it but I have other suppliers to see before the return journey home. I don’t dare open the book and find the letter until I’m safely ensconced in my apartment where nothing can damage the fragile paper. I wrap my silk scarf around the book and place it in my handbag. I fight the urge to cancel my other appointments and dash home, but I can’t let my suppliers down. Competition for collectibles is rife in Paris and while I may be a touch delayed from time to time, I always keep my word.
It’s strange; it’s almost like I can feel the letter beating from inside my bag, as if the words themselves have a pulse.
Once I’ve met with the rest of my suppliers, I turn in the direction of home. I dodge tourists holding phones aloft snapping pictures, their faces full of wonderment. Ah, Paris, the city of lights. Once you’ve been to Paris, you’re never quite the same. It gets under your skin, like a long-lost love. It’s in your heart forevermore.
With aching feet from so much walking, I arrive home, throw my keys on the kitchen bench and flick my flats off all in one movement. I say ‘bonjour’ to my alfalfa plant that sullenly ignores me as usual. The letter thrums in my handbag. I gently unwrap the silk scarf fromMadame Bovaryand place the book on the table, as gently as if it were a newborn baby. On closer inspection, the book itself is weathered, its cover wrinkled, pages rumpled, as if it’s been well read and had a long illustrious life. I find the letter snug between two middle pages. Careful with the delicate parchment, I gently unfold it. My heart drops. The ink has almost faded beyond recognition. It’s hard to decipher the curl of the calligraphy in the stippled afternoon sunlight. I slip the letter back into the book and take it to the bathroom, hoping the bright lighting will help.
I switch on the light and the words appear as if by magic. It’s a short passage written in formal calligraphy.
Late at night when I wander the streets of Paris, my thoughts turn to her. The woman who sees beauty where others do not. I walk alone. The only accompaniment is the echo of my footsteps while I conjure her in my mind. I see her pretty face, always adorned with a smile, her laughter that draws my attention. Everyone wants to be in her spotlight, yet she hasno idea how special she is. It’s a marvel. How do I tell her how I feel? Perhaps I need to show her…
I’d been expecting more of a clue as to why the penthouse in the 4th had been abandoned back in the seventies. Really, who leaves a grand apartment such as that, never to return? But this is all about love!Unrequited love?Oroblivious to love?
So many questions flutter in my mind. So many possibilities. Did he indeed confess his love to the woman and she didn’t reciprocate his feelings? Ordid he wait in the shadows and was left despondent when she chose another because he never spoke up? Maybe he never confessed his love as he waited for a sign to act. Why didn’t he scream his love from the rooftops? Isn’t love always worth it, even if there’s a chance of rejection?
There’s another possibility.
This mystery man confessed his love and romanced her in such a way that every other suitor paled in comparison. They were swept up in each other, and one day they spontaneously decided to leave Paris behind and go on a grand adventure to discover the world! They enjoyed a nomadic existence and, in their haze, forgot all about their fabulouspied-à-terrein Paris, because their love wastangible and the only thing that mattered.
At least, that’s what I hope happened. Why shouldn’t love win?
This letter, its ink slowly seeping into the atmosphere, is too delicate to sell. Too special. A fluttery sensation hits me and at first, I push it away as frivolous. But it returns.
Is this letter a sign meant for me?
A sign to stop living in the past and trust my heart to love again? I’ve spent too many evenings sitting here alone. Too many weekends cooped up and unsure. Paris Cupid has been my outlet for helping others find love, but it doesn’t stop my own loneliness. That’s always just below the surface.
I want a love story like the ones I find on the pages. Burning with longing and passion and an intensity that disturbs my very routine. And I’m never going to find that standing on the periphery, orchestrating the love lives of strangers while mine remains shuddered to a halt. Perhaps Ishouldbe more like Geneviève. She’s never wary in the pursuit of love; in fact, she’s the opposite and throws herself with wild abandon into it. There’s something beautiful about a woman who doesn’t let the past determine the future. I need to stop treading water.
I snap photographs of the letter before I find a picture frame and place the letter inside. I pop it on my bedside table, hoping that the glass frame will protect it and the words won’t fade away completely. My heart thrums in my chest, as if the energy of the letter writer has transferred to me. The author of the letter said he planned to ‘show her’. Perhaps I need to show myself I’m capable of love and being loved. Just like my Paris Cupid matches.
Who is my Mr Right? Annoyingly, Pascale’s scowling face springs to mind. I shove the thought aside and Felix’s flirty smile appears. Before long, Benoit’s deep unfathomable dark eyes draw me in. It’s a sad state of affairs when the only men I’ve got to dream about are my new neighbours. Unless… it means one of them is right for me.
12
I never expected I’d be the type to settle in one place. I’ve had too much fun roaming, taking work wherever I can and living frugally, with complete freedom. So, it’s come as a bit of shock to find myself gloriously in love with a Greek man who only speaks snippets of French. I’m learning a bit of Greek, but our love doesn’t need translation; it just is. And how can that be? I only know this feels different, like stars have exploded, a galaxy of light above showing me the way to him. And so I’m staying in this little whitewashed home perched on the side of a cliff, with my Greek God, his dog and a few donkeys. Who knows what the future will bring, but I feel like I’ve found my place and the person who I was always meant to meet.
I finish Margot’s diary with a tear in my eye. What an energetic life she lived, for as long as the diary covered. Margot travelled all the way around France before moving on to Italy and then settling down in Greece with a man who worshipped her but gave her plenty of space.
If only I had more volumes of her life story. What came next for Margot? I like to think of her with the salty sea breeze in herhair, still wild and free. Her story has given me hope. Margot had been adamant she’d never stop roaming, but love caught her unawares and there she stayed. Who wouldn’t want to live in a sun-drenched paradise like the Greek isles? I send up a thank you to the love gods for allowing me to be privy to Margot’s diary and be alongside her for those chapters of her life. What a privilege.
When I look up, I’m surprised to note the market is swarming with people. It’s been quiet in Ephemera but I haven’t exactly been paying attention. Time to get to work before the day escapes. I’m expecting another Friday delivery from Guillaume. I check my watch, miffed to find he’s running late. He’s never late. Either I’ll have ammunition for the rest of my days, or something terrible has happened. I peek outside and am relieved to see him chatting enthusiastically with Pascale, of all people.
Both of them are laughing and gesticulating as if they’re long-lost friends reunited at last. What on earth? Guillaume’s default personality is pernickety, and Pascale’s is peeved, so to see them fully relaxed like this is somewhat out of character. What could they be so animated about?
‘Guillaume?’ I yell across the hallway. ‘Didn’t we have an appointment thirty minutes ago?’ I make a show of checking a watch I don’t wear in ode to all the times he’s simpered at me.
A wrinkle mars his brow. ‘Oui, we did. But I’m talking to a potential new client. You won’t begrudge me that, will you?’
Pascale gives me a mocking smile. ‘There’s a lot more value in typewriters than old letters, Lilou.’
