by James Bailey
“I will find it, don’t worry. What’s your plan for today?”
“I’m sorry for being short. I’m just tired. I’ve got a few shops to check out this morning, so keep your fingers crossed for me.”
“I’ve got my fingers and toes crossed. I really think this could be it. Let me know as soon as you have any news.”
I stroll through the beautiful Jardin des Tuileries, past people resting in green deck chairs mimicking the carved statues lounging on their plinths, before crossing the bridge over the Seine. An entrepreneurial street seller optimistically offers me a love lock.
“I wish I had someone to give it to,” I say to him, apologetically.
He must have a good business model, as the railings of the bridge are adorned with hundreds of padlocks of all different shapes, sizes, and colors. Initials are scribbled on in permanent marker, alongside declarations of love and heart symbols. I read that they had to remove the locks from the Pont des Arts farther down the river due to the weight, but it doesn’t seem to have stopped lovebirds from finding a new location to cement their feelings. Rather than throwing the key into the river, maybe they should stick to using a combination lock in case their relationship ends badly.
In front of me I’m greeted by the Musée d’Orsay and a large poster adorned with Sunflowers, advertising the Van Gogh exhibition.
You again.
Is this painting the one?
I stop and read the poster. Sponsored by global banks and auditors, I notice the exhibition is only on for another two weeks before the painting will be returned to Philadelphia. Eager tourists, hoping to beat the queues later on, scurry inside. I walk on past the museum, alongside the river, browsing the postcards, pictures, and books sold by the bouquinistes.
I head away from the river, planning to do a loop around the three bookshops I’ve earmarked, starting with San Francisco Book Company. I don’t spend more than two minutes inside the tiny store marshaled by one grumpy Frenchman, and all of the other stores in this antique book quarter seem to be closed. The Abbey Bookshop is more welcoming, with a friendly man selling coffee outside from a flask. But it’s clear why he’s outside as, inside, the books are piled so high and wide that there is no way to squeeze through. She is definitely not hiding anywhere in there.
By the time I reach the yellow façade of the Shakespeare and Company bookstore opposite Notre-Dame, my feet are exhausted from all the walking. There is a hive of activity outside, with people sitting out, eating slices of quiche and cake at the adjoining café. Inside, the shop is packed, with tourists flowing in and out, many flouting the request for no photographs as they upload an artsy picture to Instagram. The shop is indeed extremely photogenic. It’s beautiful. From the mosaic floor to the rustic chandelier swinging overhead to the quotes painted on the walls and stairs, the books look happy to be here. There is a warren of narrow passageways for customers to navigate, and a traffic jam is forming between the Blue Oyster Tearoom and the Old Smoky Reading Room. I squeeze through, taking the creaky red staircase leading to the first floor, and that’s when I see it, painted in black type above the door frame.
“Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise.”
I have a sudden flashback. Sunflower Girl had a pink badge on her bag with this very quote. Why didn’t I remember this before?
This must be the place.
Surely.
With renewed hope, I bound around the first floor, desperately hoping to turn a corner and see her. I walk past someone typing away on a vintage typewriter and listen in to what appears to be a book club with a collection of people, all wearing cardigans, pretentiously debating the meaning of Tristram Shandy. I step into the dimly lit Piano Room, where a small chandelier with only two of the three bulbs working illuminates the old-fashioned piano in the alcove. A hastily handwritten sign in red felt-tip asks customers not to play after 7 p.m., as it wakes the cat. As I go to make my way back down the stairs, I catch sight of a mirror adorned with notes. People from all around the world have left messages written on scraps of paper, ticket stubs, and postcards. I read one that says: “Icarus didn’t think things through, maybe you shouldn’t either.”
I make my way through all the customers back to the front desk.
“Hi there.”
The man doesn’t look up, engrossed in writing on a piece of A4 lined paper.
“Bonjour, hello?” I repeat.
“Yes, how can I help?”
He continues jotting away. I notice a box of identical pin badges to Sunflower Girl’s for sale on the counter.
“Is there an English girl who works here? She’s in her twenties, dark hair, pretty . . .”
He finally looks up.
“Can I ask who you are?”
I don’t want to give this guy my whole story.
“Just a friend.”
“A friend of a mystery girl who may or may not work here, and whose name you don’t know?” he says cynically.
“OK, yes, it sounds strange, but is there someone matching that description who works here? Is she here now somewhere?”
“No, she’s not here now,” he continues unhelpfully.
“But she does work here, though? Can you please give her this and ask her to contact me?”
I hand him a note I prepared earlier with my number, a message, and a quote taken from Van Gogh’s letters: “What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?”
He looks suspiciously back at me as he takes the note from my hand. I expect him to put it straight into the bin.
“I’ll pass it on to her,” he says begrudgingly.
I thank him for his help and step out of the shop, back into the brightness and bustle. I start to stroll aimlessly across the bridge toward Notre-Dame, when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
“Meet in front of Sunflowers at 3 p.m.”
31
That was quick.
Butterflies swarm violently around my stomach as I read the message.
It’s Jessie.
Why does Jessie want to meet in front of Sunflowers? Why is she coming to Paris? Why didn’t she mention that on the phone earlier?
I reply, asking her what she means, but whether she’s on the plane or she’s ignoring me, I don’t get any more information. I kill time sitting in a café, staring at my phone, waiting for a reply from Jessie and hoping for a message from Sunflower Girl. I wonder if the guy in the shop has passed on the note yet. I feel sick with nerves. I’m tempted to return to the shop, but as I look at my watch I realize I should probably head to the gallery. As soon as I approach the Musée d’Orsay, I realize Jessie’s idea of meeting in front of Sunflowers is a bad one. Especially at 3 p.m. on a Saturday.
She might as well have said let’s meet in the middle of Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Even outside the peak tourist season, the queue to enter the gallery still stretches, snakes, and bends around the building. Those eager tourists this morning were the sensible ones.
When I eventually make my way inside, I am immediately in awe of the impressive building. It is a converted train station with marble flooring and an ornate ceiling, but it is hard to believe that trains used to arrive and depart from here. Signs point me in the direction of the exhibition—Sunflowers is everywhere—and the ginormous gold clock above my head ticks down to our meeting time. Twenty minutes to go.
I head into the exhibition, browsing the works and reading the text. I’m soon surrounded by a group of visitors—red lanyards drape from their necks, and audio guides are glued to their ears like mobile phones. They stop and huddle around the same painting, until the voice in their ear instructs them to move on, and, like a herd, they hunt the next painting.
I walk on past the beautiful Starry Night and take a seat on the wooden bench parallel to Sunflowers, feeling like something of an expert on Van Gogh’s works now. After staring at the shades of yellow for almost fifteen minutes, I sense the guard patrolling the room is starting to suspect
me of something. I wonder whether I look more like someone who is planning an intricate art heist, or a nutter who is about to destroy an invaluable piece of art history. Probably the latter.
It is 3 p.m.
Where is she? Why is she not picking up her phone or replying to messages?
I tap my foot and fidget with my fingers. I turn around and, instead of her, I see a scrum of tourists forcing their way in, all fighting to get a photo. The exasperated guard’s attempts to stop their photography doesn’t put them off. It’s like being at a concert at Wembley Stadium with all the flashing lights. They should give out an epilepsy warning.
An American man, who has managed to bypass the no-bags rule, shoves into me as he pushes past to take a close-up photo of the artwork on his DSLR camera. He doesn’t stop to look, let alone appreciate, the painting for a second before he barges someone else out of the way to get a photo of the next one. Surely he could just download the images from Google? Next, a Scandinavian woman walks past, wearing a red beret, red lipstick, and a Breton-striped T-shirt as if that is the official dress code for France. She stops to read the text beside the painting, nodding in agreement with whatever is written. Behind her, there is a large school group of French teenagers who, admittedly like me, appear not to be interested in any of Van Gogh’s paintings apart from Sunflowers. A couple of the girls decide to pose for a selfie with the painting, sticking their tongues out as they do so. I look around, hoping that Jessie is going to spring out of nowhere and appear on the bench next to me.
Hurry up.
I try calling her again but get no response.
How long should I wait for?
As I stare at the painting of Van Gogh’s bedroom, hanging next to Sunflowers, I notice that he painted two pillows side by side on his single bed. I wonder if he was still hoping to find someone to share his bed with. I start to feel sorry for him that he never found love and hope that will not be the case for me.
“Bonjour!”
A hand pats me on my back. Finally.
I turn around.
It’s her.
It’s actually her.
At last.
Not Jessie.
But Sunflower Girl.
“Bonjour,” I say, unsure why we’re speaking in French and completely shocked to see her.
I notice that in her hand she’s holding the postcard of Sunflowers from the National Gallery.
“I’ve finally found it!”
And I’ve found you.
She leans in and gives me a hug.
“Sorry I’m late, the queue to get in was massive. I must say I am very disappointed you are not wearing your unicorn headband today.”
I just laugh. She’s wearing the same yellow jacket she had on in London, the one I’ve hunted across Europe for.
“How? Who? Why?” I hope she can read my mind as I seem to have lost the capacity to speak.
“Your friend Jessie. I emailed her about a week ago after I saw you were looking for me on Instagram, and when I didn’t hear back I thought that was it, you know. But she finally replied today and told me to meet you here. The power of the internet, right?”
Of course.
“So you saw the Instagram page?”
“Yes, well, one of my friends back home saw it, actually. I don’t have Instagram or Facebook. Do you normally chase women around Europe?” She grins.
“Only from time to time,” I joke, somewhat embarrassed. I’m finally able to speak, although I’m still shaking.
“Van Gogh would be proud, but you do know it would have been a lot easier if you’d just asked for my number in London?”
“I was going to, but you vanished before I could ask!”
“I vanished? You disappeared when we were crossing the road! I thought you’d just had enough of me and run off.”
“No, not at all. I spent ages trying to find you again after we got separated. I walked to the finish line, I went back to Embankment, I went to the gallery, but I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“Same here. We must have just missed each other. I didn’t think it would be that hard to find someone with a unicorn horn on their head, but you were nowhere to be seen. There were just so many people.”
“I know, it was crazy. Sorry I lost you.”
“No, don’t be sorry. I was actually really surprised when I saw you were trying to find me. Pleasantly surprised.”
“So, you didn’t think it was a bit weird?”
“Well, it was a little weird. No, I’m joking, it was very cute.”
“Cute?”
“OK, very romantic. Is that better?”
Our eyes meet. She really does have the most beautiful brown eyes.
“Yes, that’s better.”
She looks up at the painting in front of us.
“At least we finally get to see the Sunflowers together. Well, kind of. It looks a bit different to the painting in the National.” She compares it to the postcard.
“This version is more like the Munich one, really, and then the painting in Amsterdam is similar to the one in London.”
“Look at you, a proper expert on Van Gogh now. I still can’t believe you went to Amsterdam and Munich looking for me.”
“Nah, I just fancied a holiday really,” I joke.
“Of course, I’m not sure you can play it cool anymore.” She smiles.
We both stand there, admiring the painting, taking in everything until we are disturbed by another tour group swarming into the dimly lit room.
“Shall we get out of here?” she suggests.
It’s been less than ten minutes, but I’m already glad that I didn’t give up my search. She is even more beautiful, funny, and charismatic than I remember.
We exit the gallery, strolling past the long queue, which still stretches and loops around. I smile, watching an old woman who reminds me of Nan, dressed in a woolly hat and gloves, dancing in the street beside a busker who plays the French horn.
Presumably in France they just call it a horn.
“Do you want the best hot chocolate in the world?”
“That’s some claim.”
“Trust me, you will love it. Chocolate is my one and only vice.”
We wander through the streets of the Left Bank, where people are sitting sipping coffee on the side of the road. You wouldn’t sit next to the M25 enjoying a drink, but in Paris it looks fashionable.
“Their main store is on the other side of the river close to the Louvre, but it’s always really busy, whereas this one you can just walk in. Much easier to get that necessary chocolate fix.”
We step inside Angelina’s, a small but perfectly formed bakery selling an array of sweet delights. She orders and chats with the barista in fluent French and gets us two hot chocolates to take away.
“I’ll get it,” I offer, reaching for my wallet.
“It’s OK. I think you’ve spent enough coming to find me.”
I sip the warm, thick chocolate up through the black straw. It’s delicious.
“Isn’t this literally happiness in a cup?”
“It’s so nice, I can see why you’re addicted. When did you learn French?”
“Well, my mum is French. She was Mademoiselle Auclair before she met my dad in London, and they kind of brought me up as bilingual, although I wasn’t really fluent before I moved here.”
I hold the door open for her as we head back out into the street.
“I’ve just realized I told a stranger my mother’s maiden name. That probably wasn’t very clever, was it? Please tell me you’re not going to steal my fifty pounds of life savings now.”
“It’s OK, just don’t tell me what street you grew up on or the name of your first pet.”
“I will try my best not to. But yes, anyway, I was saying my French has got a lot better since I started working here. I’m working in the Shakespeare and Company bookshop, if you know it.”
“Yeah, I went there this morning, looking for you, actually. It’s a real
ly nice shop.”
“Isn’t it? I love it so much. I was only planning on coming to Paris for a month or so after uni, but I found the shop, and I started as a Tumbleweed before they had a permanent job going, so I’m still here.”
“What is a Tumbleweed?”
“Ah, sorry, so basically you can live in the bookshop for free as long as you read a book a day, help out in the shop, and write a single-page autobiography when you leave. They call them Tumbleweeds, like a person who blows from place to place, and they’ve been doing it for decades.”
“Wow, that’s cool. So do you still live in the shop?”
“No, I moved out. It’s awesome living there, but there’s no privacy, so now they pay me and I rent a flat near the Sorbonne.”
The streets seem to get narrower and narrower, which makes walking and talking more difficult, as we’re separated by oncomers and are forced to walk in single file.
“Do you still have to read a book a day?”
“So I’ve actually got a confession.” She waits until a small woman walking a big dog navigates past us. “You can’t tell anyone this, but I’ve never actually finished a book, not even when I was a Tumbleweed.”
“What do you mean, you’ve never finished a book? How can you work in a bookshop and not have read a whole book?” I say.
“I do read. Lots. Don’t get me wrong. I just don’t finish them. I know it sounds stupid, and that’s why I never tell anyone. I just think, why would I want to know the ending?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Do you not think it’s sad to know what happens? I like staying with the character, in the universe of the book, and having that open-ended possibility of where it could lead.”
“So you don’t know what happens to Romeo and Juliet, or Harry Potter, or Jay Gatsby?”
“Well, they’re quite extreme examples, but generally I don’t know how most books end, so don’t ruin them for me, please.”
“I’m glad I’m no longer the weird one now.”
“You’re still the weird one, Josh, don’t worry.”
I’ve never met someone like her before.
A motorbike flashes around the corner, and we have to wait to be heard over the loud exhaust.