The Bookshop on the Corner
Page 12
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 makeup 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 toward 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 Bibliothèque 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 sank. 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.
I glanced 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.
He waved me away. Embarrassment made my cheeks flush, and now that I had someone to ask directions, I wasn’t brave enough to. He must think I was some kind of village idiot. His lips turned up, as if he was amused by me. Which no doubt he was in an I’m-laughing-at-you, not with-you, way.
“Are you OK now?” he asked, as if the bump on the head dazed me.
“Oui. I’m fine.”
Super.
Peachy.
Lost.
He tilted his head. “Where are you going?”
I forced a smile, all the while wondering if he was about to snatch me. Why was he so nice, when everyone else wouldn’t give me the time of day? Was he going to try and snaffle me into a taxi? How exactly did someone pinch a person in broad daylight? Would he take my bags too? If I was going to be abducted, I’d still like to read. Scenes from the movie Taken flashed in my mind. I shook my head to dislodge them.
“Don’t look so afraid,” he said, laughing. “I’m not going to kidnap you!”
A kidnapper wouldn’t mention kidnapping, surely? My mother had a lot to answer for, putting this crazy fear into me.
“That’s a relief.” I relaxed my shoulders. “I’m trying to head into central Paris...but the maps, there’s so many different lines.”
Running a hand through the gray shock of his hair, he chuckled, like he encountered this kind of thing every day. “You’ve gone the wrong way. Go back to the platform, but catch the train from the other side.” My face fell. “It’s OK. You’ll get lost many more times. The trick is, to embrace the drama of it all.” And with that he bid me adieu, his wise eyes sparkling, as though he’d been sent to stop me from feeling sorry for myself. Didn’t I say I wanted to ge
t lost? And here I was. Lost in Paris. Check! And not kidnapped! Check!
Feeling adventurous, I dragged my bags and myself to the front of a little bistro, with red cane chairs that faced the busy road. A glass of vin blanc would give me some liquid courage to face the manic train dance again.
A waiter with a flirty smile walked over.
“Bonjour. Oui, madame?”
I smiled. It was the accent, especially pouring from the lips of someone resembling a male model who’d just stepped from the front cover of a magazine. With as much confidence as I could muster I said, “Bonjour, un vin blanc, merci.” The first thing Sophie had taught me was how to order wine. She must have known it’d come in handy.
“One white wine, of course,” he said and winked before walking away. I resisted the urge to giggle. He winked. My friends would be rolling on the floor by now, pointing and gesticulating at his retreating back. I felt very sophisticated sitting alone, in some unidentified quarter of Paris. If only my friends could see me now.
Copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Raisin
ISBN-13: 9781488058707
The Bookshop on the Corner
Copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Raisin
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