The Little Bookshop On the Seine

by Rebecca Raisin

  We came to yet another doorway – plain and indistinct. TJ rapped on it, and told me to wait as he stepped over the threshold. It was all very mysterious, and provoked a giggle as I stood, trying to keep the umbrella from blowing away.

  A few minutes later, TJ brandished the fancy sandwich in front of me. “We’re not eating in?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “It costs more. Paris on a budget, that’s me.”

  With buttery fingers, we chomped on our lunch and ambled through the streets, stopping each time we came to one of the Bouquinistes. They were booksellers, who sold antiquarian novels and vintage posters from little green boxes on the bank of the Seine. Awnings hung over head, protecting their wares. They’d been selling old books this way since the mid sixteen hundreds and it fascinated me.

  How many thousands of books had been sold over the years, and who’d taken the sellers’ places once they left this world? Did they keep them in the family? It was a romantic idea to own a tiny lockable bookshop by the river. The keepers were bundled up with scarves and gloves against the cold. They were the only thing that didn’t change along the busy path – as hordes of tourists flashed by, they’d sit there some smoking pipes, others reading as they waited. What kind of special place was this that the River Seine was flanked by little bookshops? Perfection.

  I rifled through the vintage posters, looking for gifts for the girls back home – conscious of the fact that Christmas wasn’t far away. There were sketched couples kissing with the Eiffel Tower in the background, one of black cats perched atop a pile of books, and one full of petit fours and macarons in pastel colors. I selected a bunch, and then went through the books. With their red leather hardcovers, and golden French text, they seemed as priceless as a first edition, with a distinct book scent, earthy, timeless, like the Seine had jumped into the pages. When I was back home, I knew I’d pull these books from the shelf and inhale, with my eyes closed, to be transported back to this gray Parisian day, and I’d pine for it. And I knew that Paris – with its intensity, brooding clouds, and beauty – would be in my heart forever.

  I paid the man, who nodded, pipe smoke swirling around his head, and we continued on. Our stroll had put a much needed smile on my face and I felt that I had truly found another friend.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The shop had been madly busy for hours and the mid-morning rush was almost over as crowds dispersed. Gulping down some water I checked the heating was still working and rewound my scarf tighter. The old building was drafty, and not even the roaring fires in each room could take the chill completely away. Beatrice hadn’t turned up and I was relieved not to be faced with her, she always seemed to push me off balance. Instead of worrying about her I processed some online orders whilst keeping an eye on the door, only to find my humdrum day completely thrown off whack when a blur of familiar long blonde hair whirled into the shop.

  “There you are! I’ve been waiting for you to call me back!” Lucy, my artist friend from Ashford, bounded over, her curls bouncing as a gust of wind blew in behind.

  I ran around the counter to hug her. “Oh my god, it’s so good to see you!” She’d spent the last six months in my home town, before being accepted to a prestigious art school and making a mad dash to Paris with her boyfriend, Clay, in tow.

  She held me at arm’s length and surveyed my face. “Why haven’t you called? What is it?”

  That was the thing about my friends, we knew each other intimately, and Lucy sensed on sight there was something up. She darted a glance around. “Look, can you leave for a while? Let’s talk in private, yeah?”

  “I’m just finishing up for today.” I said, and went for my handbag. “TJ, can you cover the front?”

  He dusted his hands along his suit pants. “Sure.” He gave Lucy a lopsided smile.

  She grabbed my elbow and we dashed outside. “Want to go to my apartment?” she asked, her blue eyes shining. She was a whirlwind of excitement and I was lighter just being near her. She seemed to glow from within and it was so wonderful to see.

  “Sure. Are you staying with Adele in Montmartre still?”

  Lucy laughed, and hooked her arm into mine. “No, it was a bit squashy being in a one bedroom apartment with Adele, and then me and Clay. We rented a dodgy little place in the Marais. Dirt cheap by Paris standards. It’s a little rougher than the 5th arrondissement, but we like it.”

  “How’s Clay?” I asked about her boyfriend. He owned a maple syrup farm back in Ashford, and was staying with Lucy for the off season.

  She tried to hold in her smile, but it threatened to swallow her up. “God, he’s amazing. You know, I thought he’d be bored here while I was studying all day at the institute, but he goes off, wanders around. He’s made friends with all sorts of people. He’s a different man to the one who left Ashford.”

  “Wow, that’s one for the books.” It was hard not to smile as widely as Lucy did. I’d never seen her so animated – her cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright, she was blooming like those newly in love, and I was happy for her. Her life hadn’t been easy, and neither had Clay’s. They deserved everything Cupid threw at them. I just couldn’t keep out the little voice in my head that thought maybe I deserved a little bit of Cupid’s attention too.

  We took the Metro to the Bastille, Lucy an expert on navigating the crazy maze of train lines and platforms. She strode up and down stairwells with a confidence she hadn’t had in Ashford, as if she’d been in Paris for years, when really it was only a short while before I arrived.

  Holding my hand, Lucy led me through the streets, waving to people she knew, and pointing out places they’d eaten, and galleries that displayed her work. It was more labyrinth like here than the other quarters, and even though it had been renovated in the fifties, it still had a medieval feel to it, and a comforting bohemian vibe.

  “Have you been to Village Saint-Paul yet?” Lucy asked.

  “No, not yet.” I took my well-thumbed travel guide from my bag. “I haven’t quite made it this far.”

  She frowned, a small crease making her nose wrinkle, “I heard the bookshop is a bit like a ball and chain for you.”

  Flicking through my book, I was glad for the distraction, so she couldn’t see my face. Lucy was thriving here, and I had floundered a bit. Trying to keep my voice measured, I thought up the best answer I could, “It’s busy, so I haven’t quite done as much as I thought I would. Including read.”

  She tutted. “I knew something was wrong. I should have dropped in sooner. I thought maybe Ridge was here, and you were caught up with him, and bookshop life, but I spoke to Sophie and she said things weren’t going great.”

  “You spoke to Sophie?” I didn’t even know Lucy and Sophie had met. I couldn’t help feel betrayed by Sophie. After all, I’d done this as a favor to her, and there she was, enjoying my life with my friends, and then talking about me behind my back. I couldn’t find any reference for the village in my guide book and had to give up the distraction of searching for it.

  “The girls Skyped me, and she was with them. She didn’t mean it badly, she just seemed to think you weren’t as happy as she’d imagined you’d be here. It’s a big change from Ashford.”

  I gave her a watery smile. “It’s a huge change, but I do love it here. The scent of the Seine from my window when I wake. The Eiffel Tower flashing at night, like it’s exclusively mine. When I press my head against the glass of my window, I can see Paris as it sleeps. Maybe this trip is a great learning curve, that’s all.”

  “Learning curves are good. Scary but good.” Lucy draped an arm over my shoulder as we continued to weave down tiny lanes and I knew if I had to make my own way back to the train I would get horribly lost.

  “I’m a tiny blot in a sea of people, and there’s always something new to see. I’ve never felt so connected to any one place. It’s almost like I’ve lived here before, and I’m visiting again, in another life.”

  “The magic of travel,” Lucy grinned. In her old life, Lucy
and her mom were wanderers, nomads who hotfooted it around the world. That was, until her mom got sick, and they had to stay in one place, the medical bills mounting up. Now, she was free again, able to follow the wanderlust in her veins.

  “And Ridge?” she broached gently.

  “He’s been here all of one night.” I said. “Work’s hectic for him, but still, a twenty-four hour visit? Do you think he’s trying to let me down gently?”

  Lucy scoffed. “He’s not like that, is he? Did you argue when he was here?”

  We turned into another cobbled laneway, it was like going down a rabbit hole. Some of the stones were green with moss, and slippery. “He showered me with compliments, and planned a whole surprise day – a river cruise, and a walk through Montmartre. Dinner at a fancy restaurant at the top of Eiffel Tower. A candlelit bath together when we got home…” I blushed, remembering the way in which we loved each other that night.

  “Doesn’t sound like he’s letting you down at all. He’s just that kind of guy, driven, and focused on his career. But then so are you, Sarah.”

  I frowned. “I wouldn’t say I was driven.” It was laughable. Unless you counted driven to read books all day.

  “No?” she asked. “Your books are your life. Just because it hasn’t taken you around the world until now, doesn’t mean it’s not as important. Your bookshop is a haven for people in Ashford. I think you’re forgetting how important that is. And it’s tough because you both love what you do, so I guess you have to find middle ground.”

  “I thought as our relationship progressed we’d get even closer, not further apart, that’s all.”

  “It’s only distance separating you. Not a fractured relationship. And that can surely be fixed.” But I wasn’t so sure, Ridge and I had barely spoken in the last few weeks and when we did it was strained and awkward. I hoped Lucy was right, but at the moment it all seemed a bit precarious to me.

  We came to a stop. Under a window box was a wooden chair, its seat piled antique biscuit and tea tins. “That’s a sign.” Lucy pointed to the chair.

  “For what?” I asked laughing.

  “For the secret entrance to the Village Saint-Paul. A marker, so you know it’s this archway to go through.” She put a finger to her lips. “They don’t like anyone to know.”

  “Whose they?”

  “The antique dealers…”

  “Another hidden gem?”

  She nodded, her face solemn. “Let’s go. We can find some Christmas presents for the girls.”

  We walked through, my breath hitching. It was like another world. Medieval stone walls, courtyards and cobbled lanes. Fuchsia pink azaleas were blooming trellised above. The square was filled with tables of various collectibles, things salvaged from another era. Lace tablecloths, creamy with age. Bowls of bangles, in gold, silver and brass. Shoes, clothing, old telephones, the type you had to dip a finger in to dial. Vendors gave Lucy waves, as if she came here a lot. “Why do they like keeping it secret?” I asked, still amused by the way Anouk from the Little Antique Shop under the Eiffel Tower would only sell to people on an introduction from a trusted customer.

  “I don’t know for sure, but I like to think because it’s even sweeter when you stumble upon a different sort of utopia that no one else knows about.”

  Storm clouds brewed overhead, but in the square, one ray of lonely sunlight shone down, highlighting the stall holders, their wrinkled faces, like markers of time. How long had they stood behind these rickety tables, selling odd and sods, and sharing flasks of coffee, the scent of freshly baked crepes an accompaniment to the day?

  We meandered around the square, finding things that reminded us of our friends. I found a vintage teapot for Lil, with tiny gingerbread men along the bottom. And for Missy, an antique perfume bottle with an atomizer. Lucy chose an old French cookbook for CeeCee – instead of color photos, it had sketches, and was one of the most beautiful books I’d ever seen, its pages yellowed from age, and old oil splodges marking the passages of its previous owner.

  We went back to Lucy’s tiny but utterly Parisian apartment, and opened up a cheap bottle of rose, clinking glasses to our success in navigating the French and their foibles, and admiring them for their determination in keeping their heritage alive. It was one of the first evenings I really and truly relaxed, letting the stress of the day ebb away as I enjoyed the company of a friend, someone who I could really be myself with.

  December

  The winter chill had hit Paris, the wind was whipping down the avenues and boulevards, it was a never-ending symphony of squalls, with snow drifting down and blanketing the city in white. Our customers were arriving windswept and looking for longer, complex novels that pulled them into different worlds, with their luscious descriptions and metaphorical prose.

  Another week had crept up and I sat in the front window of the bookshop, trying to make sense of the sales figures, and get the end of month accounts up to date. I’d doubled-checked, and triple-checked, and still the numbers stared at me from the page, like they were disappointed in me. The sales were down. And not just by a small margin. What was I doing wrong? It seemed like the outgoing expenses were more than the incoming. How could that possibly be? Over the last week the nights had slipped into mornings, as I sat head bent over the computer trying to work it all out. My eyes hung out of my head most days; I was a walking corpse. Bookshop life had never been so mind-numbing. I hadn’t read a novel in weeks, and I felt jittery without that down time. Mostly though, I was worried about letting Sophie down. We’d spoken a few times since our last Skype call and she was almost puce with anger. This store was her baby, and I was starving it, no matter how much of myself I put into it.

  Outside the pre-dawn was navy-blue with swirls of moody gray clouds. Again I stared at the profit and loss statement, the figures had plummeted. I couldn’t understand it. It was always so damn busy. I shoved all the documents back into the file. Flashes of homesickness grabbed me.

  I couldn’t help feeling that I wasn’t cut out for this. Dealing with staff and their politics, trying to get them to turn up. Another attempt at a roster had been laughed at, and squiggled over. At times it was like I was talking to rocks. The habits the revolving staff had here weren’t about to be broken.

  Maybe I should just tell Sophie I was butchering her shop, and she should come back to Paris. I’d tried my damnedest to get everything done here, and it still wasn’t right. The takings didn’t balance, we were down a couple of hundred Euro, and I’d re-counted so many times. The thief seemed to still be feeling bold enough to steal even though they knew I had noticed a couple of months ago.

  I shook the maudlin thoughts away. Ridge would know what to do, but our phone calls had been infrequent – I spent more time talking to the robotic voice on his message bank. Sometimes it all got too much for me, and despite being in this big, beautiful city, I’d feel very alone. Oceane and TJ had offered a casual sort of friendship but they were social butterflies, always fluttering from one party to the next, living so zealously that I struggled to keep up, and often refused their invitations because work called.

  The doorbell chimed and TJ strode in, wearing the same crinkled suit, though somehow making it look dapper, with his impish grin and his wind-blown black hair.

  “You’re early,” I said.

  “Are you OK?” he cocked his head, twisting his mouth in concern.

  I shrugged. “I think the dark skies have got to me. Everything is gloomier when the weather’s broody. I miss my friends.”

  “You must do.” His voice softened, “You’re doing a great job here, Sarah. It’s not an easy place to work.”

  “Thanks, TJ.” It was just like him to see through the veneer of my faux smile and into the real me, in the way I supposed writers or creative types could. He was an observant and a compassionate soul, one of the people I could rely on here, without worrying he’d ditch a shift for a party and leave me in the lurch – like the rest of the staff did without any co
mpunction.

  Taking off his gloves he sat in the window with me. “I sneak in to write in the quiet,” he said. “Hoping that the ghosts who haunt this place will inspire me.”

  “This place is haunted?” I love these little conspiracy theories the staff had of the shop. Everyone believed in something different, and took something unique away from their time here. Already we’d said goodbye to some casual staff, whose time as an exchange student had come to an end, and to travelers who had itchy feet and were off to the next place, waving farewell with tears in their eyes.

  “I hope so,” he said. “Sometimes I picture Hemingway wandering around with a glass of scotch, waiting for someone to talk to. Or Gertrude Stein leaning over me while I write, telling me off in that stern way of hers. They never really leave, those greats.”

  It was a fanciful notion, and one I’d thought of too, but it was the readers I envisaged. “Why don’t they leave?” I asked.

  “Because this is paradise, Sarah. Don’t you know?” his face looked incredulous that I had even asked the question and I laughed.

  “Not from where I’m sitting.” I indicated the files I’d been poring over.

  He scraped a hand through his hair. “Ah. The paperwork. A never-ending reel of hopelessness. The figures are down.”

  I sucked in a breath. “Yes. How did you–”

  “The crowds haven’t been as thick as you might imagine. There are new stores popping up all the time – they don’t have the heritage this place does, but they decorate them to look like they’ve been there forever, and how’s a hapless tourist to know the difference?”

  A groan escaped me. “But I’m responsible, right? At the end of the day, sales are dropping while I’m here. What can I do to fix it?” I wanted things to go back to how they were with Sophie, our relaxed chats about bookshop life, and gossip about the latest novels we’d loved. Not the curt, abrupt, crushing anxiety-riddled calls of late.