‘I’m sorry, that really is disappointing.’
‘I’ll make gingerbread coffee if anyone wants some?’ Manon says, standing to arch the crick in her back. ‘Let me quickly clean up first. Give me your brushes, Anais. I’ll wash them.’
Manon wanders off with Kiki, both talking over the top of each other without any concern for who’s saying what. In the short time we’ve been here, they’ve become firm friends, often staying up late watching true crime documentaries on Netflix together on Manon’s laptop.
‘Where are Timothee and Zac?’ I ask as Juliette falls into step next to me. In the laundry, I soap my paint-splattered hands while she rubs her palms together to stave off the cold. There’s a real chill in the air – I’ll light the fire in the library room when we return so we’ll have a warm place to congregate. I’m not a Grinch by nature, but I don’t want to turn on the central heating in the hotel until absolutely necessary, although we each have a little electrical radiator in our suites that we turn on at night.
‘Tim and Zac have an interview for a job at the Marché de Noël Notre Dame.’
‘Ooh, the one on the Left Bank?’
‘That’s the one. I hadn’t heard of it. You know it?’
I dry my hands on a towel. ‘It’s one of the most popular Christmas markets in Paris. In late November they set up tiny Swiss-style chalets around the square and they offer all sorts:vin chaud, gourmet food like foie gras, thick German-style sausages, roasted chestnuts and every cheese you can imagine. There are gift stalls; last year I bought the most beautiful mohair scarf there. There’s handmade jewellery, toys, ceramics. Musicians play as you wander around. Even Père Noël makes an appearance!’
She breaks into giggles, but I’m not sure what’s provoked such a reaction. ‘That’s what they’re interviewing for. The part of Père Noël! They want two Santas – one for the crowd and one for a photo booth.’
I laugh, imagining the two of them dressed up in padded Santa suits. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fun. Hectic but fun.’
‘Let’s hope they get the job then. I’m going to freshen up and then we’ll head out?’
‘Sure.’
13
10 NOVEMBER
Christmas lights are twinkling up and down the avenues as the afternoon darkens. Each year, Parisians seem to decorate earlier, and I get swept away by the sight of so many festive window displays. I itch to do more Christmas decorating in the hotel but can’t until the messy work has been completed.
We chatter as we walk, sidestepping around people who walk at a slower pace.
‘Where are we headed?’
Juliette throws me a wide smile. ‘To the wall of The Drunken Boat. Have you heard of the poet Rimbaud?’
‘Non,I don’t think so.’
Juliette’s eyes twinkle with excitement. ‘You’re in for a treat. Rimbaud was a genius who was way ahead of his time, although he’s sometimes calledl’enfant terribleof poetry, probably because of his age and precociousness. He was a libertine who had a rather disreputable private life. It’s rumoured that he had an affair with the married poet Paul Verlaine, who later shot him! It was all very scandalous for the nineteenth century.’
‘He shot him?’ I gape at her, as this true story has taken an unexpected twist.
‘Oui, in the wrist. But that all came later. Rimbaud was a literary prodigy. Well educated and widely read. He wrote ‘The Drunken Boat’ in 1871 when he was still a teenager. Here we are.’
We stop at Rue Ferou. A poem is inscribed in French along the length of wall down the block. I read as we slowly walk. It’s beautiful. It’s about a sea voyage and a sinking boat, a metaphor for torment perhaps? It’s dark, haunting.
‘It’s believed he first recited the poem near this location, which is why they chose to display it here.’
We shuffle slowly as I continue to absorb the words written on the wall. ‘At seventeen, Rimbaud had what he described as a “visionary experience” that inspired him to write mystical, almost hallucinatory poems that broke the traditional rules of rhyme and meter. He was known for his experimental way of writing, which I’m sure ruffled a few feathers.’
Juliette goes on ahead as I take my time to finish reading. ‘After much success and at the young age of twenty, he abandoned his gift and never wrote another word.’
‘Never? Not one more poem?’
‘Never. He never wrote another poem. He left France and travelled the world. At one point he enlisted in the Dutch army, but later went MIA in Sumatra. On his many travels he landed in Ethiopia where he became a trader and an explorer. Sadly, in 1891 he discovered a tumour on his knee, so he returned to France where his leg was amputated. He died the same year from bone cancer. He was thirty-seven. And, sadder still, his work went on to become much lauded, studied by other greats, gaining him much recognition… after his death. Not only were poets influenced by his style, but singers were too, like Jim Morrison and Bob Dylan.’
My eyes are wide as I try and process these fascinating snippets of the poet’s life. ‘It sounds so fanciful, as if it couldn’t all be true.’
‘There’s so much more to it. Arthur Rimbaud led an interesting life even though he died so young.’
