A Week in Paris

by Hore, Rachel

  ‘It’s nice of you to ask,’ she replied, trying her best to look regretful, ‘but I’m going sightseeing. I hardly know Paris, you see, and I don’t want to waste a moment.’ This was half the truth. The other half was that she only had a little money, her fee as a stand-in and the allowance for daily expenses being very small, and she didn’t want to find herself in a situation where Frank insisted on paying for what was likely to be an expensive meal. He’d brushed against her on the stairs of the hotel the night before in a not-quite accidental way that made her wary of him.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Frank said bluntly and turned away.

  Anyway, it’s not quite a lie, Fay told herself as she stowed her instrument in one of the Green Room cupboards. Her still-surprising new reflection looked back at her from a wall mirror and she wrinkled her nose at it. She was only in Paris a short time, and planned to make the most of it. It was with a sense of freedom that she pushed open a door at the back of the theatre and found herself outside on a busy street.

  She’d felt an excitement as soon as she arrived at the Gare du Nord late the previous afternoon, clutching her violin and a suitcase, while the others in the party were tired and tetchy from a choppy Channel crossing. So much was instantly familiar from her school trip five years before. Even in the Métro, the oil-and-rubber smell, the hot blasts of air from the tunnels, the squeal of brakes from the approaching train were somehow different from the London Underground, and peculiar to itself. She recognized the kiosks selling newspapers and magazines, the advertising columns covered with bright posters of Miles Davis playing the Olympia music hall and a film by François Truffaut, the precise Parisian French in her ears, spoken too quickly to follow.

  It wasn’t simply sightseeing, there was something else she had to do this afternoon, something important. She must begin her search for the convent whose name she’d found on the label in the little rucksack. She’d no idea where to start. The hotel might tell her, perhaps.

  L’Hôtel Marguerite, a modest establishment with no restaurant, only a bar where they served tartines and coffee for breakfast, was situated nearby in one of the side streets behind the Madeleine. Fay was sharing a room with a flautist, Sandra, a willowy blonde who was one of the few other female members of the orchestra. She consulted the tourist map they’d each been given and found her way easily. However, there was nobody in reception when she arrived, and although a notice invited her to ring a miniature hand-bell for service, no one responded to the high tinkling.

  Where now? she wondered, going back out into the sunshine. A post office, she supposed – they would have some kind of directory. She walked over to the Place de la Madeleine, past the great Roman columns of the church and down a road beyond on the other side of the square lined with market stalls. The post office she came to had its blinds drawn down, closed no doubt for the long lunch-hour.

  She was quite hungry herself by now, so she bought a length of crusty baguette with ham and sat on a bench in the Tuileries Gardens to eat, throwing the crumbs to some scruffy-looking pigeons. A solemn-faced boy of three or four trotted by, one hand pulled by a woman wearing an elegant short white boxy coat, the other clutching a toy windmill. Fay smiled at him, but he merely stared back incuriously and this made her feel unwanted.

  To throw off the mood she consulted the map again. The Louvre was nearby, but she’d visited it last time and didn’t feel a pressing need to go again. Instead, she set off along the Rue de Rivoli, looking at the fashions in the shop windows. She stopped at a kiosk to buy a copy of Mademoiselle with the latest hairstyles for Derek, before deciding to turn down a road that led to the river. On the Pont Neuf she loitered to watch the motor launches pass underneath, enjoying the breeze and the clear spring light, before crossing onto the Île de la Cité and following a narrow street that wound its way to Notre Dame. She caught her breath at the sight of the great west face of the cathedral, and remembered what had happened to her the last time she was there. This momentarily brought Adam to mind. Adam. It was odd that she sometimes thought of him. She considered going inside, but the memory of her fear put her off. Instead she bought a postcard of a gargoyle, which she wrote to Lois.

  On her way to the hotel, she saw that the post office by the Place de la Madeleine was open so she joined the short queue inside. When it was her turn at the counter, she stumbled out her request to a stern woman in black-framed spectacles who sat behind a grille. The woman fetched a crisp new directory and thumbed the pages till she came to the one she wanted, running a practised finger down the columns. Eventually she looked up at Fay and shook her head. ‘Non,’ she said, closing the book. ‘Cela n’existe pas,’ in a tone that brooked no argument. Fay thanked her and retreated in embarrassment. The implication was clearly that not only did St Cecilia’s not exist, it never had existed – and Fay was a fool for asking. It felt a significant defeat. She bought a stamp for Lois’s postcard and hurried out.

  Her spirits had recovered by the evening performance. Her attention was firmly on the music, on making her instrument sing, her eyes partly on the score, partly on the conductor, so that the song of her violin became subsumed in the great swell of sound that filled the concert hall. It felt better with an audience. Not only were the acoustics different in a room full of people, richer and warmer, but the air was vibrant with their expectation. The applause when it came made Fay feel part of something huge and important.

  ‘They seem very appreciative,’ said James Davenport, the second violin who sat to her right and with whom she shared a music stand. He gave her a thin smile that somehow went with his sparse white hair and greyish complexion. She knew he’d played in the orchestra for many years, but had hardly said anything to her until now. She’d thought him rude, but now she wondered if it was a natural reserve rather than dislike that kept him aloof.

  Afterwards, she walked with Sandra to a dinner given by the orchestra’s generous sponsor in a grand hotel on the nearby Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré. First, though, there was a drinks reception and they were shown into a room furnished with antiques where chandeliers glittered overhead and there was champagne. The bubbles slipped down easily, making her feel light and happy.

  ‘Where’s Colin, do you think?’ she asked Sandra, looking round at the crowds. She hadn’t seen their conductor since the performance.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Who are all these people anyway?’

  ‘Friends of the Foundation, I suppose. Hello,’ Sandra murmured, ‘here comes our Frank.’

  Frank was full of the news that the colourful, womanizing Minister for Culture was there. Fay drifted off to speak to some of the other musicians, then found herself being introduced to the Head of the cultural foundation that supported them – an austere older man who was extremely complimentary about the performance that evening. This made Fay’s heart glow with pride to be a part of it all.

  When she bumped into her again a few minutes later, Sandra whispered, ‘Frank thinks that blonde in the Dior dress over by the window is the Minister’s mistress.’ Her blue eyes sparkled with intrigue. ‘I think that can’t be true because I was introduced to the woman she’s talking to as his wife.’

  ‘No, surely not!’ Fay replied, staring in fascination at the two expensively dressed women in apparent intimate conversation. She was about to say how Parisian this was but when she turned back, Sandra had vanished again.

  ‘Encore du champagne, mademoiselle?’ A waiter hovered at her elbow.

  ‘Non, merci.’ She’d already had her glass topped up at least twice and without anything to eat was beginning to feel hot and dizzy. She made her way over to some French windows spread open to the night air and stepped out onto a narrow balcony. There she delved into her gold evening bag for cologne which she dabbed on her temples and leaned over the balustrade to look down the street.

  Now that the shops were shut the traffic had died down. Several doors along on the opposite side of the street was a café, its tables spilling out onto the str
eet. Fay listened to the ring of plates and cutlery, the quick French voices and sudden bursts of laughter. From somewhere inside wafted the notes of an accordion and a woman singing. It was a tune she knew, she realized with surprise, a tune that she’d been humming – when was it? Only the other day. She closed her eyes, and as she listened to the music a scene came to mind unbidden. A girl in a dress the colour of cornflowers singing this same song. ‘Il ne m’aime plus, ni moi non plus.’ Where had that come from?

  ‘Fay? Hello, are you all right?’ A man’s voice spoke beside her.

  She opened her eyes and straightened. ‘Yes, yes – of course.’ His voice was familiar, but she couldn’t see him clearly at first, then he came into focus. He was about her age with smooth fair hair in a side parting, and kind blue eyes. He was holding a reporter’s notebook with a Biro clipped to the coiled wire binding. She gazed at him in amazement. It couldn’t be, it really couldn’t. She must still be in her daydream. But it was him.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you since the concert. Do you remember me, Fay?’

  ‘Of course I do, but I’m not sure I believe it.’ She took his outstretched hand and he bent and kissed her cheek. It really was him. It was Adam.

  ‘This might seem the most extraordinary coincidence, but it isn’t, not really,’ Adam said, tucking his notebook into his jacket pocket. ‘A prestigious English orchestra comes to Paris, it’s the most natural thing in the world for the Chronicle to send their local stringer to cover it. It’ll only be a paragraph at the bottom of page sixteen, mind you, they’re mean that way.’

  ‘The Chronicle? You’re a journalist?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘Of course, I didn’t know that you’d be playing. Though I do remember your passion for music. Seeing you there at the concert, well, it was a shock, I’ll admit that much – but a pleasant one,’ he added hurriedly. ‘You looked so intent during the Schubert, almost rapturous. I recognized you at once, you know.’

  ‘Did you really?’ A few days on a school trip and they could hardly be said to have got to know one another. A couple of dances and a glass of lemonade; that had been the sum of it. But then she had recognized him instantly, as though a part of her had been looking for him.

  ‘I hope I look a little different. The last time we met I was in that awful school uniform at the Gare du Nord with my hair in bunches.’ She grimaced at the thought of how she must have looked. ‘Well, maybe not the bunches, but still, it was . . . how many years ago?’

  ‘Four or five? Ages, anyway. And of course you look different. So . . . grown up.’ His eyes showed his appreciation. ‘And yet the same.’

  As they talked of what they’d been doing since then, she was struck by how easily they conversed. There was none of the teenage tongue-tied awkwardness of that evening at the Hôtel de Ville. After leaving school, Adam told her, he had studied French and German at Manchester University, then landed a position as a cub reporter. When he’d heard about the job in Paris he’d applied like a shot. She remembered how he claimed to have fallen in love with the city.

  ‘You must speak French very well by now,’ she sighed. ‘I’m afraid I’m still hopeless.’

  ‘Je me débrouille assez bien,’ he said, in what sounded like a perfect accent.

  ‘Un jolly sight plus que moi,’ was her quick reply and he laughed. He offered her a cigarette, a Gitane, but she declined, watching as he lit it for himself and finding she liked the sweet aroma. She studied him covertly as he talked, thinking how he’d grown into himself, filled out from the gangly boyishness. The way he rested one hand on the railing of the balcony, holding his cigarette in the other as he regarded her, was graceful and confident.

  ‘What were you smiling at?’ he said, his forehead crinkling in that endearing way she remembered.

  ‘Was I smiling? I’m sorry, I was thinking, despite everything, how very English you look. Does that sound awfully rude?’

  ‘Not at all. In fact, I’ll take it as a compliment, though that might offend our hosts.’ He pretended to glance back into the room as if checking whether anyone had overheard, and they both laughed, two conspiratorial English people abroad.

  ‘I was worried when I first glimpsed you out here,’ he said, his face suddenly serious, ‘half-hanging over the balcony like that. I thought you were going to pass out. I’m not used to dealing with swooning damsels, you know. What should I have done if you’d fainted? Thrown champagne over you?’

  ‘I wasn’t swooning,’ Fay said, indignant. ‘I was listening to some music down in the street. But I did feel odd a moment ago,’ she admitted. ‘That’s why I came out for some air.’ She wasn’t sure enough of him to describe her fancies about what she’d heard, how she’d had another of those unexpected déjà vu memories. After what had happened the last time they’d met, he’d think her really peculiar.

  They idled against the balustrade for a while, looking down at the people passing in the silvery evening, young men riding noisy scooters, a sleek car disgorging two women in gorgeous evening dresses and fur stoles, some brightly dressed teenagers, the girls with fringed hair and false eyelashes. Their infectious laughter rose from the street.

  ‘I can still hear music,’ she said. The tune had changed now, to something lighter and lilting. Another song that Edith Piaf liked to sing.

  He heard it too, a distant smile passing across his mobile features. ‘Sous le ciel de Paris, dum de dum,’ he sang.

  ‘You’re out of tune,’ she teased.

  ‘I’ll have you know I was a church choirboy before my voice broke.’

  ‘I believe you.’ She gave him a sideways smile. ‘This might sound corny, but I think Paris tonight is exactly as it should be. This reception, the music, the chandeliers.’

  ‘I know what you mean. The sense of fun and mystery, the allure.’

  ‘I didn’t see you here earlier. Had you just arrived?’

  ‘No. There was a press call with your conductor I had to attend. When it finished I came to look for you. I was terrified you’d gone.’

  ‘I’m glad you spotted me.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not able to stay for the dinner tonight, but you’re here for a few days, aren’t you? You must let me show you around. There’s quite a lot more to Paris than Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower, you know. I might not be as knowledgeable as your teacher was . . .’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you are. We’re here until Sunday afternoon, so thank you, I’d like that.’ She felt herself grow light with happiness. ‘We’re rehearsing most mornings for the concerts, but otherwise . . .’

  ‘Would tomorrow be suitable for you? I’ll see if I can wangle the afternoon off. It shouldn’t be a problem unless some crisis strikes.’

  ‘Tomorrow, why not?’

  ‘Where are you staying? I could telephone and leave a message.’

  She told him about the Hôtel Marguerite, which he didn’t seem to know, then she felt the warm firmness of his hand in hers, and met his smiling eyes, before his graceful figure vanished into the crowd.

  She could hardly believe that they’d come across one another again like this. It felt like a tremendous coincidence, but she also accepted his rational explanation. By luck or logic, the magic of Paris had drawn them both, and once he’d known she was there he’d come to seek her out. The fact that he was living here made her feel less of a stranger herself. It gave her a solid connection that strengthened the fanciful one she felt. She was already looking forward to seeing him again tomorrow.

  Perhaps, her thoughts ran on, he’d be able to help her in her search. Even if she found the convent and this Mère Marie, what would she ask? Whether there was someone who knew her as a child, who could tell her the story of the little rucksack and the label with her name on it. Or even remember her mother.

  She was still puzzling about this when the soft boom of a gong sounded for dinner.

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday

  Before stepping out after breakfast the following morni
ng, Fay asked the matronly hotel receptionist with hair in a perfect pleat if there were any messages, but on being told no, reassured herself that it was too early to have heard from Adam. She then asked in her hesitant French about the other matter on her mind, how she might find the whereabouts of the convent. ‘I have tried the post office,’ she explained.

  The woman arched her painted eyebrows then shrugged. ‘L’église?’ she suggested. ‘Ask at the Madeleine?’ and pointed a manicured finger.

  ‘Merci,’ Fay replied, thinking this as good an idea as any. Surely the priests there would know about convents in the city. There wouldn’t be time before the rehearsal to ask now, but she’d call there later.

  The morning’s rehearsal did not go well. The musicians were all tired from the late night before. Dinner had involved five courses and there had been three kinds of wine with the meal, which some members hadn’t been able to resist enjoying to the full. The conductor was in a bad mood and snapped at a clarinettist for playing too loudly in a quiet passage of Mozart, and at the second violins for bungling an entry. Everyone was relieved when lunchtime arrived and he dismissed them for the day.

  Fay joined a group from the orchestra at a nearby café, choosing a delicious omelette aux fines herbes and sharing the moans about the morning, before presenting her excuses and slipping away on her quest.

  She took a different route back towards the hotel this time, approaching the Church of the Madeleine from the front to appreciate its full glory. From the outside it looked more like a Roman temple than a church, but this impression was dispelled when she entered and saw the high altar, with its stone statue of the church’s saint, Mary Magdalene, being swept up to heaven by two angels. The classical lines gave the church a very different atmosphere from the gothic drama of Notre Dame. Fay studied the ornate marble plaques to long-dead dignitaries and gazed up at the historical scene painted inside the dome. Everything here spoke of Napoleon’s triumphalism and his obsession with the glories of Imperial Rome.