Her next stop will be Magasin Sennelier, the shop where she and Julien bought paper and charcoals. An artist will give up food before they go without the means to draw, so it is likely Julien still goes there. She is warmed by thoughts of Celeste, a woman with a plump grandmotherly bosom and a laugh bigger than that bosom. Celeste was always fond of Julien; she is sure to know where he is.
At the corner of Saint Germain Max hurries down the steps to the metro. It is good to be out of the chilly air and away from the wind whipping her back. She slides her credit card and buys a ten pack of metro tickets.
The Magasin Sennelier Shop is only two stops away on the metro. Three years earlier she would have braced herself and walked the fifteen blocks, but everything is different now; she no longer has the luxury of time. She no longer has Julien walking beside her, tucking her icy cold hand into his pocket.
When the train pulls into the station she climbs on. The car is crowded, but there is music. It comes from a young man with an accordion. Max does not recognize the song, but she does recognize the look of hunger in his eyes. No doubt a music student, as was Peter. The train rattles past Tulleries and screeches to a stop at Concorde. Max drops a two-euro coin in the lad’s cup then pushes through the crowd to exit the train.
She hurries up the stairs and along the street. Before she is fully into the shop she has already caught the familiar scents of paper, pastels and charcoals. These odors are far sweeter than perfume; they are reminders of something she loves. At the end of an aisle lined with jars of paint and racks of canvas she spots a woman at the counter—not Celeste, but a young girl with a twist of hair pinned to the top of her head. She is talking with a customer. Max leisurely meanders down the aisle of pastels and waits.
Time does not exist in this shop, so it is easy to recall the feel of a charcoal stick in her hand. Back then she used charcoals and drew on paper with a pebbly grain; now it is mostly pen and ink or computer-generated renderings. Max gives a nostalgic sigh then reaches up and touches her hand to a stick of ochre #4; it is like a smear of mustard on her fingers and she smiles.
“Bonjour.”
Startled from her thoughts, Max turns. It is the young clerk.
“May I help you?” she asks.
“I am looking for Madame Celeste,” Max says. “Does she still own the shop?”
“Oui, but she is not here today,” the girl says. “Tomorrow, she will be here. If you need pastels I can help you.”
Max answers the girl with a smile that is soft and easy. “No need. I’m an old friend of Celeste. It’s been years since I last saw her, so I wanted to stop by and say hello.”
The girl gives an understanding nod. “Oui. Tomorrow then?”
“Yes, tomorrow,” Max replies.
Max leaves the shop cheered by the thought that tomorrow she will see Celeste. Despite a wind that is too cold for April, she walks back to Rue du Bonne and strolls through the neighborhood.
Once again she searches for a familiar face, but there is none. The bookstall is now a shop of shoes and women’s dresses. The wine store is there, but the owners are new. At the flower market Max stops in and finds Suzanne. The old woman remembers her and gives her a hug.
“You are again in Paris?” Suzanne says.
Max shakes her head ruefully. “Only for two weeks.”
They talk for a while and Max asks if she has seen or heard from Julien. Suzanne tilts her head back and laughs.
“Julien is not one to visit a shop of flowers,” she says.
When dusk settles in the sky, Max remembers that she has not eaten since early this morning. She stops in the small brasserie that three years ago was a charcuterie with featherless ducks and sausages hanging in the window. Outside there are a few patrons sitting at tables. They wear scarves with their collars tugged up around their neck, but they are Parisians and accustomed to the chill.
She goes inside and sits at a small table beside the window. Her stomach is empty, but she is not yet ready for food. She orders a glass of wine and watches the street.
She wants to believe this is the same Paris she left three years earlier. A city crowded with people and yet filled with intimate relationships. Lovers embracing at the metro station, friends gathering for coffee, waiters who sensed what you were going to order before you spoke. These things are the same now as they were three years ago, possibly even a decade ago. Yet so much has changed, in ways that cannot be seen. Only felt.
Max gives a heartfelt sigh and downs the remainder of her wine. Tomorrow is another day, she tells herself. Tomorrow she will visit Celeste and hopefully find Julien.
The Third Day
On Saturday morning Max arrives at the Magasin Sennelier Shop before it is open. The rolling gate is still padlocked in place. She peers through the metal bars but sees no lights. It is not yet nine, too early for the shops to open. She will go for coffee and return later.
Max turns away and tugs her scarf close around her neck. Many things have changed, but the sharp morning wind is a constant. It pinches her skin now just as it did years earlier. As she hurries off, she glances toward the far end of Quai Voltaire and sees a familiar figure rounding the corner.
“Celeste?” she calls out.
The woman stops and looks up. “Oui?”
With long quick strides she starts toward the woman. “It’s me, Max!”
“Max?” The woman fishes in her pocket, pulls out a pair of glasses and slides them onto her nose. “Ah, Maxine!” she laughs. “An old woman’s eyes and ears are not so good.”
“It’s been over three years,” Max says with a grin. “I’m delighted that you remembered me at all.”
Celeste laughs. It is the same fat round laugh Max remembers. “And why would I not remember? My eyes and ears are not so good, but my memory is sharp like a young goat.”
“It’s so good to see you.” Max hooks her arm through Celeste’s and they walk together.
Celeste fondly tugs Max’s arm in closer. “So in New York you are now famous artist?”
Max chuckles. “Hardly. I’m a struggling architect in Virginia.”
“Ah yes, architect,” Celeste murmurs. “A designer of buildings.”
“So far it’s been mostly showrooms and home additions,” Max replies, “but I’m still hopeful.”
Celeste gives Max’s arm a squeeze. “In time,” she says. “All things come in their right time; for now you are here and it is enough.”
“Actually I’m here because I’m looking for someone.”
“The blonde girl, Babeth?”
“No, Julien Marceau. I thought maybe you’d know where—”
Before Max can finish the question, Celeste comes to an abrupt stop and turns to her.
“Why you bother with him?” she asks. Her face appears less round; her chin is squared, and her brows lowered in a way that shades her eyes.
The question rattles Max. Maybe it’s not the question but the tone in which it is asked.
“He’s a friend,” she says hesitantly. “But I haven’t seen him for over three years—”
“Better you leave the past to the past,” Celeste snaps. She again starts toward the shop, her steps now quicker and more purposeful.
“You liked Julien, why would you say—”
“I say only the past is the past.”
“Did he say something or do something?”
Celeste narrows her eyes, and when she speaks Max sees little of the woman she knew.
“It is true I am an old woman,” she says, “but not so old that I cannot see when a man slides brushes and charcoals into his pocket.”
Max cringes when she hears this. Her thoughts jump to the red scarf and she fears there is some truth to Celeste’s words, but still she defends Julien.
“He can be forgetful,” she says. “I’m sure he meant to pay, but got distracted—”
Celeste’s expression is one of disdain. “I doubt that.”
“When I find Julien, I’ll tell h
im about this. I’m sure he will—”
“You won’t find him unless he wants you to find him.”
Max’s voice grows thin, like a sound carried off by the wind. The certainty in Celeste’s words is unnerving. “Why? Why will I not find him?”
“He is a shadow that comes in sunlight and disappears in darkness.”
“Julien?”
Celeste gives a thunderous sigh and nods.
Max is relentless. She has come all this way and is not ready to give up. “How can you say that? When was the last time you saw him?”
The softness is now gone from Celeste’s face. “Two years,” she says sourly, “or more.”
“And where did he live then?”
“In the building burned out a year earlier.” Celeste gives a bitter laugh. “Or at least that was the address he wrote on his charge account.”
Max gasps. “We lived there together.” Her hand flies to her heart. “Dear God,” she murmurs. “After the fire he had nowhere else to go…”
Celeste gives her head a doubtful shake then bends down and slides a key into the padlock at the bottom of the drawn gate. She lifts it enough to scoot under then pulls it back down again, leaving Max outside.
“Wait—”
Celeste turns back one last time.
“You’re a good girl, Maxine,” she says. “Go home and design buildings; don’t get mixed up in this.” With those words she disappears inside the store.
“Get mixed up in what?” Max asks, but it is a pitiful cry that goes unheard.
Max steps to the side and waits. When the store opens she will ask Celeste what the words meant. Nine o’clock comes and goes, but the gate remains closed. It is almost ten when the young girl comes, unlocks the gate and goes in. A few minutes later the lights go on and the gate is rolled up. Max goes inside. The girl is again behind the counter.
Max walks over and says, “I’d like to speak to Madame Celeste.”
“Sorry,” the girl replies. “She’s not here.”
“But…”
It is too late; the girl turns her back and walks away.
When Max leaves the shop her heart is thundering in her chest. Try as she may she cannot shut out the sound of Celeste’s words. The best she can do is not believe them. She walks along the Quai to Rue du Bac then turns right toward Boulevard Saint Germain. It feels as though her feet are made of lead; they are weights that cause her knees to tremble when she steps down from a curb. Still, she continues to move forward because right now she needs to be in the area she knows. She needs to be close to Rue du Bonne.
It is unthinkable that all the residents of the building have moved away. People don’t leave a neighborhood they’ve known forever. They’re still there, she tells herself. In a different building, perhaps a block to the east or five doors to the west, but somewhere close by. They are still a community; only she is missing. It is simply a matter of time until she spots a familiar face: Peter, Marianne or the Widow DuBois. The chubby old woman from the second floor. The pregnant girl from 5B, who by now would have a toddler.
As she walks Max brings to mind the faces of the people from the other floors: Alfonse, the building manager, Claire and her younger sister. She counts them as she remembers—twenty-five, and then thirty. Thirty people, but she only needs to find one of them. Where she finds one, she will find them all.
The hours drag by as Max zigzags in and out of the twisting streets surrounding Rue du Bonne. She looks at every face, tries to imagine if this man had a beard, if that woman were blonde, if a toddler resembles the brunette from 5B. It is like putting a jigsaw puzzle together when you know nothing of what the picture should look like.
It is after five when she feels the rumbling of her empty stomach and stops in at the Café Rouge. All day she has rattled her brain but cannot remember the name of the young waiter from 3D. She can picture his face: narrow with close-set eyes and a sharp nose. A pleasant enough face but one that can only be described as ordinary.
The day has grown warmer, so Max sits at an outdoor table. The weather is one of the few things that hasn’t changed. Although it is springtime, Paris is still cold in the morning with a sharp wind that whistles along the narrow streets. By early afternoon spots of sun dapple the sidewalks, and the outdoor cafés come alive.
When the waiter arrives she orders coffee, then changes it to wine.
“There used to be a young man who worked here,” she says, “tall, thin face, brown hair. Sound familiar?”
The waiter shrugs. “Georges maybe, or Henri?”
Neither name sounds familiar. Max shakes her head. “It was about three years ago.”
“Before me,” the waiter says. “Henri is in the back. Wait, I will ask.”
Max nods and gives him a smile. “Merci.”
Moments later Henri comes out. He recognizes Max, bends down, kisses her on both cheeks then lowers himself, into the chair beside her. “So I understand you are looking for someone.”
“About three years ago, a young man who lived in the same building as me—number four, Rue du Bonne—worked here. I can’t recall his name but—”
“Gilles Lemonde,” Henri says. There is a note of sadness attached to his words.
Max smiles. “Yes, that’s it. Gilles. Is he still here or do you know where—” Noticing the look on Henri’s face she stops. “What? Is something wrong?”
“Gilles is dead. Killed. December before last in a motorbike accident. I am sorry to be the one to—”
Max lets go of a heartfelt sigh. “Oh, how terribly sad. We were only casual friends, but I am sorry to hear of his death. He was a nice young man.”
They spend a few moments longer speaking of Gilles, but death is an unpleasant subject so as soon as he can Henri squirms away.
“I am needed in the kitchen,” he says, but the truth is he simply does not want to be here talking of this.
Although Max seldom saw Gilles more than once a week and even then it was simply a passing hello, she still mourns his loss. Whether it is because a young life was squashed out far too soon or because his absence is another brick wall in her search, she cannot say. It is impossible to sort through the reasons; she knows only that a weight of sadness has settled on her shoulders.
She orders a plate of asparagus crepes but barely picks at it. She remembers the small Honda Julien rode. It was much smaller than Gilles’s bike. And, she thinks, far more dangerous.
Max
Before I left Wyattsville Annie told me that after her mother died she kept going back to the places they’d gone together. The same restaurant, the same beauty parlor. She even went crosstown to the same library. She claims doing that was a big mistake.
It was never the same, according to Annie, and going back spoiled her good memories. She said when you’re happy and having a good time you can’t see the imperfections of a place, but if you go back and look at it with a critical eye trying to figure out what it was that you enjoyed so much you’ll discover it’s nothing like you remembered. I’m beginning to wonder if maybe she isn’t right.
I had such good memories of that year—of Julien and the people in the building. Now it seems like those memories are being pushed aside. The building is different, the people are gone and poor Gilles is dead. We weren’t close friends, but he made me feel good with his big smile and a happy “Bonjour!” I wish I could go on thinking of him that way, but now that’s impossible.
And to hear Celeste speak of Julien as she did was like a knife in my heart. After the incident with the scarf I suspected he stole other things, but I was happy believing it was just that one time and only because he loved me. If he did take the brushes, it was only because he needed them desperately and had no money. He’s an artist, and for an artist being without brushes is like losing an arm. Besides, there’s always the possibility Celeste was wrong. Even she admits she’s getting old and has poor eyesight.
Julien may have his faults, but he’s a loving man. He cares about pe
ople and would never do anything to intentionally hurt someone.
Once when we were walking through the Tulleries he found a small bird with a broken wing on the side of the pathway. It was an icy cold January day and the bird would have frozen to death if it remained there, but Julien picked it up, carried it back to the apartment and nursed it back to health. He used two toothpicks and made this teeny, tiny splint. If you could have seen the tender way he handled that bird, you’d know he’s not a bad person. A bad person would never have the patience to care for a living thing the way he cared for that bird. Okay, I’ll admit Julien may have his faults, but it’s only because he’s had a hard life.
I hope to God I find him. If I do, I’m going to ask him to come back to America with me. I’ll say whenever he needs brushes I’ll buy them. An artist shouldn’t have to steal the brushes he needs to paint.
The Skateboard Incident
Sunday morning dawns with a thick curtain of rain covering the city. Before she is fully awake Max sees the gray sky. She climbs from the bed and pushes open the window. A gust of cold damp air pushes back. She slams the window shut and twists the lock. This is the kind of day meant for crawling back into bed and snuggling under the comforter.
Three years ago that’s exactly what she would have done, but not today. With only seven days left she wants to make every minute count. She had hoped to have already located Julien and by now be spending these precious hours with him; instead she is still searching.
She trudges to the bathroom, turns the shower on and waits for it to grow warm. When a cloud of steam fills the room she steps in and lets the water cascade across her shoulders.
Today Max is uncertain where this search will lead her. She has no starting point, and the rain will surely keep people inside. As she towels herself, she tries to remember what Julien did on days such as this. More often than not he climbed back into bed and tugged her down beside him; but there were other times, times when he went out to sell his sketches.
What the Heart Remembers Page 6