‘Oh?’
He gives me a quick smile. ‘Customers give me messages, poems, birthday greetings and the like and I write them out in calligraphy on luxe stationery for them.’
His job is really rather romantic. Benoit seems like a sweet, shy, old soul.
‘I love that idea.’
‘It helps to offer a few things. Philately is my passion. Each stamp tells a story, not just with its design or provenance but imagining its journey around the globe, affixed to an envelope – that very stamp the reason correspondence can travel far and wide and end up in someone’s grateful hands. Did that stamp ferry a love letter, a breakup note, support for a grieving widow, a postcard from sunnier climes?’ His cheeks pink as if he’s embarrassed he shared too much.
His love of stamps and their path around the world are just like my diaries and love letters. We’ll never know exactly where they’ve been or who once held them, but it’s fascinating to imagine just where these oft discarded bits of ephemera have been.
Our jobs are similar in that respect; we’re treading water between the past and the present. The now and the then. We share that same sort of whimsy with our collectables. Most of the time, we’ll never have all the answers about our treasures so we must fill in the gaps with speculation, wonder. There’s a real gentle charm to Benoit; he’s so markedly different from Pascale. In the past I’ve always chosen the happy-go-lucky kind, the cheeky, funny flirty type, like Felix. Perhaps I should go for a man just like Benoit. Quiet, contemplative and intelligent with the heart and soul of a poet. We lapse into silence and I find him hard to read. Perhaps it’s his inherent shyness that stops him from saying more. I struggle to think of conversation myself, so lost in the idea of romance. Finally, I say, ‘You should contactGuillaume. He might be able to source stamp collections for you. I can give you his number.’
6
A few days later, I cycle along Pont Caulaincourt, the only bridge in Paris that crosses over a cemetery. As usual, I’m running late. Guillaume will not be pleased. Summer is in full swing, and the heat is already slightly oppressive. I come to a stop and take a moment to catch my breath, leaning over the railing to wave at the tombs below. It’s become a habit and I’d hate to disappoint any ghosts who await these impromptu visits. I may not be able to see any spectres, but I firmly believe they see me, thus, I say mybonjoursand continue on my bike. Guillaume is an antiquarian dealer who scours the French countryside for rare and unusual collectibles for clients. When he returns from a jaunt, we hold our business meetings inside these Montmartre cemetery walls. It might seem a macabre location for some, but Guillaume suggested it one sunny day a few years back because it’s close to where we both live and we’ve met here ever since.
It seems as fitting a place as any because to me, the dead are still very much alive. Not in a physical way, but in the essence of what they leave behind, the memories we hold fast to, mementoes that remind us of our loved ones. At the start, I only procured antique prayer books from Guillaume for my stallin the Marché Dauphine. They ranged from luxe editions with golden scrolled padlocks and monogrammed covers to delicate, jewel-like, illustrated pages fromThe Book of Hours.
There’s a huge call for these rare books, but my favourites are those unpretentious beauties with plain covers and no adornment. Those with passages underlined and swollen leaves that have thickened over time as if their owner’s love and very faith poured from their soul right into the parchment. They fire up my imagination. Who owned this prayer book? Why did that passage resonate so? How did this prayer book make its way to me?
Interestingly, at estate sales, personal effects are often sold in bundles though. So with the prayer books also come accoutrements like diaries and handwritten letters. The ephemera of those who came before, discovered when the next generation inherit amaisonand empty the attic space, treating such paraphernalia as detritus of the past. Originally, only I would read these private diaries and correspondences, absolutely captivated, swept away, as if reading a historical novel. Afterwards I’d put them to one side, not quite sure what to do with them.
Then one day when a customer enquired why my nose was so firmly pressed inside a diary that wasn’t my own, and begged to read it next, I realised the value of such things. There’s a select group of collectors who covet these relics from bygone times, and my little flea market stall has become famous for them. Competition is fierce with my buyers, so I send out a newsletter when I get new stock so it’s fair to one and all.
My clients don’t care about trivialities such as proving provenance like one would with art; they only care about the story inside. A perk of the job is that I get to read each and every diary, letter or correspondence before I sell them on. Today, I’m hoping Guillaume has found untold treasures on his recenttravels to the south of France. I find him sitting on our usual bench, sunlight making him squint. I lean my bike against a tree and join him.
‘Bonjour, Guillaume.’ We brush cheeks, the French custom known asla bise, before I sit beside him.
‘Late as always, Lilou,’ he says, his voice gruff. ‘You’re yet to make a meeting on time.’ He makes a great show of checking his watch in case I haven’t picked up from his words alone that my tardiness is an issue.
‘Sorry, sorry. I got caught chatting to Luc from thepoissonnier.’ What I can’t say is that Paris Cupid applications have come pouring in since the Emmanuel Roux article, which has only added to the pressure. I’m doing my best to weed out imposters and hook-up merchants. ‘Luc gave me some tuna for the cats.’
Montmartre cemetery is home to around fifty cats. No one knows why they came here or why they stay. They stick to certain graves, sitting like sphinxes, guarding the gates to the afterlife. My theory is these foxy felines know exactly where their bread is buttered and are living the good life being fed by cat lovers. We could learn a lot from cats. A tabby feline we named Minou is the first to break ranks and slink over. He stops a few paces from our feet and sits, lazily licking his paw, as if showing us that, while we may be here to feed him and his feline friends, he will not stoop to grovelling in exchange for fish.
‘They must be the most spoiled cats in Paris,’ mutters Guillaume, who tries his best to hold on to his gruff reserve but fails when Minoubridges the gap and meows up at him. I hide a smile when Guillaume pulls a plastic container from his bag with fresh fish diced into small chunks.
Soon we’re surrounded by a motley crew who stare at us through half-lidded eyes. They eat their fill and slink awaywithout a backward glance. ‘They act superior to us, even when we’re feeding them,’ I muse. ‘There’s a lesson in that, you know.’
‘I don’t have time to ponder it, since you were late.’
I do my best to appear contrite but fail. Guillaume shakes his head as if I’m a lost cause. ‘Now to business.’ He produces a folder and hands it to me. ‘I found a range of prayer books and a few diaries, some love letters and a book of handwritten poetry from the early 1900s.’
‘Magnifique!’My customers will be delighted. ‘The diaries, are they special?’ Some diaries are mundane, featuring shopping lists, a record of guests who visited, day-to-day matters. I’m looking for a needle in a haystack, the type of diary that reads like fiction.
‘Oui. One of them particularly so.’
I flick through the binder, looking for the photocopied example. ‘Ah. This one.’ I point to a page filled with loopy cursive. The inscribed date is 1964.
Much to my parents’ horror, I broke off my engagement with Elliott today. He’s a great man with good prospects; however, he doesn’t ignite my heart or soul. And shouldn’t that be a priority? My maman says love goes from flame to a flicker eventually and that I’m making a terrible choice by abandoning a man who worships the ground I walk upon. She predicts I’ll end up an old lady who lives alone in this crumbling chateau being gossiped about in the village. It does give me pause, only in that I don’t see myself living here forever. I want to travel the world. Escape village life. Escape this prison of my maman’s making. Why shouldn’t I aim for such grand adventures? Why do marriage and children have to come into the equation at all? I’m not ready for such things, and some days I wonder if I ever will be. Love, Margot.
‘Please tell me the diary continues.’ Unlike fiction, sometimes the endings are ripped away, leaving us without answers. Another mystery in itself. Did they misplace the diary? Did ennui creep in and it became a chore to commit those words to paper each day? Why didn’t their words continue? Not knowing how their life panned out is often bittersweet.
‘It does, indeed. You will be pleased.’
‘Where did it come from?’
He shades his eyes with the palm of his hand. ‘A colleague in Carcassonne. She emptied a chateau for the new owners. That diary was found in achambre de bonne.’
