The Little Bookshop On the Seine (5 page)

“You too. Be careful in Indonesia.”

“I love you, Sarah Smith.”

“And I you, Ridge Warner.”

***

Before dawn draped its golden orange ribbons across the sky, I was at my bookshop, enjoying the quiet, relishing the long goodbye. The lull before the town awoke. Soft yellow lamp light spilled through the shop, the novels basked sleepily in the warm glow.

Leaving my books would be like leaving a piece of me behind, just the thought made me catch my breath, as though I’d done something audacious even considering it. I ran my fingers over their covers, murmuring farewells. How many would be missing when I returned? Their voyage into someone’s home, someone’s life, completed without me. There’d be no time to wish them well.

There was a slight rustle, a whisper-quiet mewling. I pivoted, hoping to catch a book moving, but I was too late. The stacks stood solemnly, fat with pride and perhaps a touch of melancholy. Did they sense I was leaving? I wanted to lock the front door, and let them all languish until I returned…

Would Sophie’s shop be this alive? With stacks of leather bound books peeking from a wooden shelf so high, I’d need a ladder to investigate? Or hidden hutches piled with old letters and diaries, penned by some of the writers who’d escaped from their lives and scribbled away there, their words flowing in such a famous place. Would I arrive and hear whispers from the past? The murmur of authors long since gone from this world? Their ghostlike presence hovering in the place they wrote their very last masterpiece. The place they were happiest – a haven for word lovers.

I wanted that…that feeling of being wholly alive, surrounded by likeminded souls. Bibliophiles who re-read a book because it was so damn good – it had become a friend, one you turned to for comfort. The intimacy, the quiet, where words washed over you and made you smile again.

And to befriend other bookworms whose lives were left in tatters after falling in love with a fictional character. Unable to eat or sleep, and sad that you’d never met
him
, because he wasn’t real, except in your mind. But you still looked for him in faces of people on the street anyway, you’d recognize him anywhere. It would take weeks, sometimes years to stop yearning for that character who’d virtually jumped from the page and smothered you with kisses. Would I find people like that in the bookshop on the Left Bank where the cherry trees stood?

With a nervous flutter in my belly, I said goodbye to my books, and silently wished them well, hoping that if a customer stumbled upon them while I was absent they’d be cherished.

Chapter Three

The sun bobbed in the blue sky, making me squint. For October, it was warmer than I’d expected, more so than Ashford. It was as though the city of love had pulled out all the stops on my first morning here. The air was fragrant with promise. I rifled through my backpack, searching for sunglasses. My face was split with a cheesy grin.

I was really here! Paris!

And so far, I’d hadn’t been snatched, mugged, or even scammed, as Mom had warned me about four million times before she kissed me goodbye. Rolling my suitcase along, stifling a yawn, I made my way to a ticket booth to ask where the train station was.

I had to catch the RER train to central Paris, but I’d been swept along in a throng of people, and unsure of which way I was meant to go. Somehow I’d ended up outside, and couldn’t contain my joy. I wanted to jump in the air, kick my heels together, and screech
Bonjour, France!
Instead, I smiled and trundled forward. Fatigue tried to catch me, I’d stayed awake for most of the flight, as excitement pulsed through my veins making sleep impossible. I shook the lethargy away, promising myself a nap before starting at the bookshop. The time difference made my head spin – but I was here, and that was the only thing that mattered.

A raven haired woman, chewing gum in the same repetitive pattern,
click, blow, pop
, eyed me with feigned disinterest as I approached the counter. “
Oui
?” she said.

I dropped my backpack to the floor, and leaned close to the glass.

I hastily found the train timetable, and pointed. “
Où est
…” Where is – how did you say train station? I flipped through my French phrase book.

Before I could find it, she popped her gum and said in English, “The train station is that way.” She looked over my shoulder to the next person, signaling she was finished with me. I wanted to laugh, she was so French!

“
Merci beaucoup
,” I thanked her, feeling foolish that my accent was so jarring compared to the words that fell from her tongue in a silky cadence.

Hefting my backpack on, I wheeled my suitcase in front and made my way to the platform. The sign was a maze of different colored lines crisscrossing all over the place.
Shoot.
It was a complicated web, how on earth would I pick the right one? I’d expected one freaking train! My research hadn’t stretched to public transport, and again the size of the place hit home.

Overhead on the PA a French voice rang out, announcing something, but speaking so quickly I couldn’t untangle the words. I blew out a breath, maybe Sophie’s French lessons wouldn’t be enough here – unless people spoke to me like I was a five-year-old, with laboriously slow enunciation. Behind me people hurried along, bumping into me and jostling me out of the way. A train approached, its motor screeching, and brakes grinding, so loud it was like a drawn out scream. I turned in fright, but no one took any notice. Open mouthed, I watched crowds exit the newly arrived train, and others elbow their way on, in one big gorging mass of bodies, and bulky accoutrements.

As fast as a click of fingers the doors shushed closed, and the train was off again. I double blinked. Why was everyone in such a hurry? Where did they all come from? One minute the station was empty, then full of bustling bodies, then empty again. Somehow I had to pick the right train to head into central Paris, and then squeeze into the damn thing.

Could I push my way forcefully like everyone else including grappling with my heavy suitcase and backpack? Why did I smuggle so many books into my bag? The weight of them slowed me right down, despite the wheels on the bottom of my case. It’s not like I was going to a place bereft of books! I couldn’t face some of my favorites being sold, though, and had taken one, then two, then a stack of them, just in case. They were my talismans, a reminder of my shop.

When the next train arrived, I gave myself a silent pep talk, and mimicked the people ahead of me, lunging myself and suitcase on to the train with a cry of
eee
! When the doors closed, I surveyed my limbs; all intact! I hadn’t been snatched, mugged, scammed, and now I could add hadn’t been squashed to death on the train. I was one step away from potentially booking a trek up the Himalayas…
Settle down, Sarah. You’ve been here all of five minutes.
My bucket list was a little fanciful for a newbie tourist, I must admit.

Eventually the crowd thinned, and I snagged a seat. I pushed my face against the glass, and tried to calm the erratic beat of my heart. Since I was a little girl, I’d dreamed of visiting Paris, and here it was before me – breathtaking, glorious, and everything I imagined. Apartments as far as the eye could see, window boxes with bright red flowers spilling out, like lackadaisical smiles. White shutters were flung open to welcome soft sunshine inside. Cars zoomed up roads. Abbeys were dotted here and there, their gothic facades awe-inspiring. I was goggle-eyed with the beauty surrounding me.

The city sprawled in every direction; even though I’d spent many a night dreaming of Paris, and gawping at photos, I hadn’t expected this. The sheer enormity of what I’d done gave me pause, and I was proud of myself, for the first time in ages, for leaping from the monotony of my life and doing something that scared me.

The train sped on, graffiti scribbles marred brickwork on a row of identical apartments, in front a cluster of elderly women held shopping bags, long skinny baguettes poked their heads out, eavesdropping on their chatter.

Between buildings, I saw snatches of it. The metal gleamed under the sunlight like the fingers of God were pointing to it, showing me the way. It was so much bigger than I’d expected, its middle higher than the tallest buildings, as it stretched for the clouds. The Eiffel Tower, the heart and soul of Paris. A young woman standing near me inclined her head closer to the window; like Sophie, she was coiffed to perfection, her barely there make-up expertly applied. I felt unkempt in comparison, and nervously ran a hand through my hair.

“First time in Paris?”

“
Oui
.” I said, darting a glance back at the Eiffel Tower. It was magnificent, the way it stood proudly in the center of the city. I couldn’t wait to see it up close. It would dwarf me – what an architectural marvel.

She gripped onto the handrail above, as we shimmied along with the rocking of the train. “Go to the Sacre Coeur for a good view of the whole city, and then you’ll see how truly
magnifique
La Tour Eiffel is. Lots of steps to get there, but worth it.” Her voice was almost musical, sensual. I didn’t think I’d ever tire of the way French people spoke, whether it was in their native tongue or heavily accented English.

“
Merci
,” I said, giving her a shy smile, knowing my accent must have sounded brash compared to hers. “There’s so much to see and do. I can’t wait.” I fell back into English, feeling less inhibited with my own language. Though I’d promised myself to try and speak as much French as possible, when it came time to speak, I was embarrassed; I sounded clunky and disjointed compared to the lovely lilt surrounding me. The words that fell from commuters’ lips were almost poetic.

“Find the real Paris,” she said, fluttering her hand towards the window. “Away from the tourist spots. Look for the forgotten avenues. They’re full of hidden gems.” And with that she spun on her heel, leaving me with only the citrusy scent of her perfume.

What would I discover in lost laneways, and veiled gardens? So many literary greats had lived and loved here, and stepping where they once did thrilled me in a way I’d never felt before. I wanted to wander until I was lost, find fresh food markets, take a boat cruise, run my fingers along spines in the Bibliotheque national de France – the grand old library of Paris…exactly the kind of place where secrets abound, if only you search hard enough.

The train slowed. Passengers stood pushing forward to the doors, the usual frenzy ensued. With a deep breath, I slung on my backpack and grabbed the handle of my case, ready to jump off. It was like being in the middle of a rugby scrum. When the doors slid open, I jostled and shrieked my way out, onto the dank, dim platform, not caring I was drawing wary glances from other passengers with my yodel-like squeal.

Whoop!
I resisted the urge to fist pump, and instead took a few lungfuls of Parisian air. I was smiling like a loon, but I couldn’t curb it. A meek, shy bookworm from a small town had navigated her way to the heart of Paris without getting lost once! It was worth celebrating, so I promised myself a big glass of sauvignon blanc later that night.

Dragging my suitcase, I followed the lead of the other commuters, shaking my head in awe. It was one thing to dream about Paris and quite another to actually be here. Fatigue was trying its hardest to slow me down, but I shrugged it off, wanting to see everything at once and soak up every single Parisian thing.

Outside I glanced at the view ahead, and then my map. My heart sunk. Wasn’t there supposed to be a bridge? Frowning, and being gently nudged when people rushed past, I swayed and sighed as I took in my surroundings. I’d gone the wrong way, or had I? The Eiffel Tower… Somehow I’d ended up in what looked like an industrial part of Paris.

The sunshine dimmed, as though it was disappointed in me, as I tried to make sense of my map. The train had been an adventure, but I wasn’t too keen to get back on it. It would take some getting used to, all that rushing and the threat of plunging into the gap between platform and carriage.

My feet ached from the shoes Missy insisted I wear. Note to self; travel in comfortable footwear next time. I was a ballet flats kind of girl, and the wedged boots – which Missy had demanded I teeter in – had taken their toll.

No one will guess you’re American!
she’d exclaimed. As though in order to be accepted here, I’d have to first fool them that I was French, and that could only be done by wearing the right shoes. I smiled, remembering the conversation. My heart tugged for my friends who were so far away, not only in miles, but in spirit. Would I find friends here? I couldn’t imagine anyone being as lively and animated as the girls, but I hoped I was wrong. I didn’t want to spend months here pining for them and the only way around that would be to mingle, and pretend I was a chatty, outgoing explorer. It was time to stop hiding, and start participating in real life.

Glancing up, the sky was different here; it was smudged white and baby blue, and somehow brighter, more vivid than Ashford. The air was richer, sweet and pungent, and wholly new.

Right, there was no more time to dither. “
Excusez-moi
?” I said to a woman pushing a stroller. She glared at me and kept going. I tried again with a young man, who shook his head, phone jammed against his ear, and pointed to the train. I tried not to take it personally, everyone was busy. I was due at Once Upon a Time, in fact I was overdue. Mild panic set in, as I pictured myself catching trains back and forth, and never getting anywhere. Gulping, I grabbed the suitcase handle and spun to go back to the station, but instead banged heads with a man passing by. I clutched my forehead, eyes watering with the sting of the collision. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, wanting to dissolve into the pavement.

His eyes were scrunched closed, he blinked a few times, and then gazed at me. “American?” he asked.

The shoes hadn’t fooled him. “Yes, is it so obvious?”

“You spoke English,” he said. “With an American accent.”

Kill me now. “Right. I did. Sorry about the bump.” There was a small red mark where we’d collided. I’d certainly made a mark on Paris, or more specifically, Parisians.