‘Where do you get them from?’ a woman named Janet asks.
‘All over! Estate sales, auctions, other flea markets. Friends in the trade keep an eye out for me.’
‘I want to read them all!’ Janet’s friend says. ‘And the love letters. I wish I could read French.’
‘I have some English love letters. My father is British and spends a lot of time attending car boot sales and the like in England hunting for me.’
‘This has to be one of the best jobs going,’ Janet says.
I laugh as I show the women around Ephemera and point out diaries, prayer books and love letters that are written in their native tongue. Tourists like these always brighten my day.Not everyone understands the importance of what I do, so when people like this step inside and are so invested in learning about my more niche antique trade, it’s makes it feel so worthwhile.
‘Letter writing is becoming a lost art form, so it’s my mission to bring that back. Remind people that emails aren’t going to cut it when the time comes to looking to the past.’
Janet shakes her head as if she’s annoyed with herself. ‘It never even crossed my mind, and now I can’t think of anything else. I’m going to start writing letters again. Who knows, it might rekindle that stagnant part of my marriage. I love my husband, of course I do, but after thirty-two years together, there’s a certain complacency there…’
‘I understand. Is he here in Paris?’
The trio of women laugh and Janet says, ‘No, we left the husbands at home.’
‘Why don’t you write to himfromParis?’ I’m off in fairyland, dreaming about Janet writing to her husband, pouring out rich descriptions of our wondrous city, the sounds, the sights, the colour that’s all around. ‘I have some beautiful letter-writing paper. Or…’ I look across at my neighbours. ‘Another option, my neighbour Benoit writes letters in the most beautiful calligraphy.’ I point to his shop. ‘And next to him is Felix, who makes hand-pressed cards on a vintage press. You could get a card from Felix and have Benoit write your message in calligraphy for you – it could be a lasting memento of your visit here.’
Janet’s eyes light up. ‘That would be lovely. Can I also take a look at your letter-writing paper?’
‘Oui.’ I show Janet and her friends the range of thick, lush papers I have. She chooses one with that has an embossed Eiffel Tower in the corner. I’m not surprised; every tourist chooses this one. La tour Eiffelis always fascinating to our overseas guests. The Australians choose some love letters, a diary written by awoman who felt trapped in a marriage of convenience, and pads of letter-writing paper. ‘Would you like me to introduce you to Benoit and Felix?’
‘Sure, and – ooh – what doesthatguy sell?’ Janet points to Pascale.
Pascowl, more like.
‘How do you get any work done with him around? I’d spend all day staring at him!’
‘Ha! He’s OK I guess, if you’re into the sullen broody kind of guy. He sells vintage typewriters. Or, they sell themselves. He doesn’t seem to put a lot of effort into his sales. He mostly ignores his customers.’
‘Does he type out love letters too?’ Janet is not listening to a word I say. She’s got her gaze locked on Pascale, and there it’s stayed.
‘He doesn’t seem to be the romantic sort. He’s more likely to type break-up letters.’ I might be a little more bitter because of his abrupt departure after the visit to the national archives.
Her eyebrows shoot up. ‘Is that a thing?’
I usher them to the counter to break the spell. ‘I hope not!’ I ring up their purchases and place them in an Ephemera tote.
‘Well, let’s meet the neighbours, eh? My husband’s going to love getting letters in the mail, rather than only electricity bills.’
I smile, knowing I’ve converted one more soul, keeping the lost art of letter-writing alive. Once I’ve introduced Janet and her friends to Felix, I dash back to my stall to unpack my delivery from Guillaume. Sitting atop the unopened box is an unfamiliar prayer book. I frown. Where did it come from? Did Guillaume forget one? Again? He has been rather distracted lately. I open the box and check the stock against his invoice, but it’s not there and I haven’t seen this one before in his photocopies. I take a picture and text him. His reply is instant:
Not one of mine. Should I be worried about how forgetful you’re becoming?
How forgetfulI’mbecoming? He really is the limit. I shake my head as I gently prise the prayer book open. It’s a simple sort, leather bound, yellowed paper. My favourite kind. On each page, a French word has been underlined. Only one word per page. Why?Keeper. Of. My. Heart.It’s a message written in code. Did two star-crossed lovers swap prayer books to communicate in secret?Will. She. Ever. Understand. The. Weight. Of. My. Feelings. For. Her? Shall. I. Confide. In. Her. Or. Keep. This. Ache. Of. Longing. To. Myself?I want to rush across the hall to show one of them how romantic this is, but Felix is chatting away with Janet, and Janet’s two friends are with Benoit. Pascale is the only one alone, as he sits scowling behind his desk, not paying an iota of attention to his surroundings. I don’t want to show him; he’ll probably make light of it. We haven’t spoken since he left me at the fountain. He hasn’t even complained about me lighting my candles today. I’ll have to show Geneviève.
It’s after lunch and still her shop remains shuttered. Our Paris Cupid work has kept her late at my apartment most nights, and I’m worried it’s affecting her business, even though she insists it isn’t. Like I’ve summoned her from sheer will alone, she strides into the hall, a riot of colour in a fifties-style swing dress with a thick white belt. How does she effortlessly pull off such looks? She gives our neighbours a fluttery wave and blows a kiss to Pascale. Honestly, she has no shame. Not even a little bit.
When she turns to face me, I wave her in. ‘Geneviève, you’re so late!’
‘Oui, oui.I had the most amazing idea!’ Outwardly, Geneviève is well put together, but on close inspection, it appears as though she’s put her make-up on in a rush. Herlipstick is slightly skewed and the sweeps of taupe eyeshadow uneven.
‘Do tell.’
She ushers me further inside and lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘The Coraline predicament. I’ve solved it!’
