The Flip Side

by James Bailey

  “I have to say, whoever was working this morning wasn’t very friendly.”

  “Oh, really? What did they look like?”

  “He had kind of dark scruffy hair, quite short.” I indicate his height with my hand. “He definitely didn’t want to pass on my details to you.”

  “OK, yeah, Tom. He’s quite overprotective, but he’s a really nice guy. He’s leaving soon to carry on traveling. He’s writing his profile for the Tumbleweed book at the moment so probably was annoyed you disturbed him. There are some amazing biographies and stories in there of people who came to Paris to find themselves, of romances played out in the shop.”

  “What did you write for your page?”

  “I’ll show you sometime, if you’d like?”

  “Yes, I’d love that.”

  This is going well.

  “So are you planning on carrying on working there for a while?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really have any concrete plans. I studied English at uni, so what does that lead to? I’d like to get a job at a publishing house one day but would love to travel first. What do I sound like?”

  She undoes a metallic gate leading into an oasis of greenery with well-kept flowers. The cathedral of Notre-Dame looms in front of us from across the river, and the birds chirp loudly to compete with the car horns and sirens. As I look around I realize this park neighbors the bookshop.

  “Well, this is the end of the tour for now, I’m afraid. Although I can tell you that this is the oldest tree in Paris.” She points to a large locust tree, which is cordoned off and propped up by two concrete crutches.

  “How do you know that?”

  “There’s a sign on the other side that says this is the oldest tree in Paris.” She laughs. “Sorry our reunion has been a bit rushed, but I have about ten minutes before I start work, if you don’t mind sitting with me?”

  “Of course not.” We take a seat together on one of the benches, sand and gravel beneath our feet.

  “Tell me more about yourself, anyway. I barely know anything about you apart from you being a stalker.” She’s not going to drop this in a hurry.

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Do you know that game, where you have to say two truths and a lie?”

  “OK, yes. Give me a second to think of something interesting.”

  “Yes, I will be judging you,” she says as she sips her hot chocolate. Mine is long finished.

  Three interesting statements about myself?

  I flip a coin . . .

  I can hear Jake’s voice shouting at me to not mention that.

  What interesting things have I done?

  Nothing.

  “OK, so I can play the piano, I came in the top ten students in the country at GCSE History, and I have a rabbit called Jeremy.”

  “Oh, this is tough. I’m not sure you’re a rabbit kind of person. But then I’m not sure you’re capable of coming in the top ten at GCSE,” she teases.

  “Cheers!”

  “I’m going to say that the rabbit is a lie, and if you can play the piano, I’m taking you into the shop right now so you can play for me. I’ve always thought it would be so romantic if someone could serenade you on the piano. I tried learning on the one in the shop but I only got as far as ‘Chopsticks.’”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but the lie was actually playing the piano. My grandad can play the piano really well, and it’s always something I’ve wanted to learn. Even if it was just one impressive song, I don’t know, ‘Hey Jude’ maybe, or something by Beethoven, and I’d make sure I’d never play for the same person twice, or ever do encores.”

  “Why don’t you learn, then?”

  “Maybe I will, just to keep you happy. Now it’s your turn to give me three statements.”

  The bells of Notre-Dame start chiming.

  “Looks like I’ve been saved by the bell. Sorry, I’ve got to go.” I glance down at my watch. How can ten minutes have gone so quickly? “But I will think of something for next time, and I want to hear about Jeremy the Rabbit too.”

  Next time. Yes.

  “When is next time?”

  “I’ve got the day off tomorrow, if you want to hang out? Don’t worry if you have other plans, though, or want to see the sights, or just want to do something else now you’ve seen me again.”

  “No, I’d love to see you tomorrow.”

  “OK, Sundays are the best day. I’ll give you a proper tour around my favorite places. I’ve got a few things to do in the morning, but shall I meet you at 1 p.m.? And here’s my number so we don’t get separated again.” She scrawls it on a piece of paper torn from her diary as she speaks.

  She gives me a kiss on the cheek before she leaves the park and heads toward the shop.

  “Hang on,” I call out to her as she undoes the metal gate. “I still don’t know your name?”

  She turns around and smiles.

  “It’s Lucy.”

  32

  So it’s not the nicest area, I’ll admit, but it’s cool, I promise,” Lucy tells me as we meet at the exit of the Porte de Clignancourt Métro station. She looks beautiful, dressed in a white T-shirt and denim dungarees, and I catch a subtle scent of her floral perfume as we hug.

  Around us are branches of McDonald’s and KFC, houses graffitied with tags, and construction workers digging up the main road. It’s busy, smelly, and loud, and far from the postcard image of Paris that I’d been expecting. Still, I’m happy to be exploring it with her.

  We walk along the busy road, past a petrol station, toward masses of makeshift stalls covered with tarpaulins. The stalls are selling clothes of every description. Scarves, hats, hoodies, shoes. In the space of thirty seconds I am offered an iPhone, a bottle of Dior perfume, and a pair of Adidas trainers.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask.

  We walk on past a game of the three-cup scam played on a cardboard box. I can’t believe tourists still fall for this trick, but there are about half a dozen crowded around.

  “You’ll see in a minute.”

  She flicks a strand of hair out of her eyes as she replies. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail with a couple of loose wavy strands dancing in front of her eyes. Her multiple ear piercings glint in the sunlight.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll like it,” she reassures me.

  Just as she finishes her sentence, a group of men sprint past us, carrying large holdalls. Four police officers follow on foot, causing cars to screech to a halt as they run across the road trying to catch up. Presumably the men were selling more than fake Gucci handbags.

  Couldn’t we have just gone to the Louvre?

  “OK, it’s just down here. We’re nearly there.”

  We veer off the main road, away from the police sirens, and head down a narrow passageway. The path quickly opens up into the most wonderful flea market.

  In front of us there are hundreds of open garages decorated with red moss and offering an array of goods—from toy cars, to jewelry, to matchboxes, to records, to arcade games.

  “I feel like most flea markets now either just sell really touristy items or are always overpriced, but this one is a proper scavenger’s paradise. There’s always something cool to find. Literally everything in my flat is from here.”

  She’s right. There are no “I love Paris” hoodies stocked here. Instead, many sellers seem to have simply emptied the contents of their pockets and bundled them onto a table—earphones entangled around ticket stubs, ripped magazines, single shoes in case you’ve lost one of your pair. I am not sure of the going price, or the use, for an empty printer cartridge, a broken water gun, or an amputee Barbie doll, but amid the rubble of Christmas cracker gifts there are some treasures.

  I decide to buy a couple of handcrafted Paris souvenirs to thank Jake and Jessie for their support. I haggle the seller down from ten euros to five, walking away as if I have just negotiated a multibillion-pound company takeover.

  Lucy browses a vast selection of c
hina and cutlery, while at the adjoining stall I flick through a dozen or so loose scrapbook pages documenting a woman’s travels to Madrid. Black-and-white photographs of her smiling in front of the landmarks, accompanied by travel stubs, hotel tags, and handwritten notes. Why is someone selling this?

  “These are really cool.” Lucy joins me in browsing the collection of old photos. “I love things like this. I always want to know more about their lives.”

  “Exactly who was she? What was she doing? Who was she visiting?”

  “Who was taking the photos? Was it a romantic interest? Did it work out? We should track her down.”

  “I think I’ve done my share of tracking random women down for this year.” We both laugh.

  We meander around the maze of garages, stopping to point out items we both like, that we’d have in our imaginary houses, or maybe house, of the future, I think to myself. The antique furniture is an interior designer’s dream.

  “Bonjour, chérie, comment vas-tu?”

  Lucy is greeted by a charismatic gray-haired Frenchman, whom she presumably knows, with a hug and kiss. His stall contains everything from buttons, to street numbers, to door handles. I feel slightly jealous as I watch them laughing and joking in French, wishing I could recall my GCSE vocabulary. They point at me, and I smile back, unaware of what is going on. She hands over some money and in exchange he gives her a book, which she swiftly puts in her bag.

  “What did you buy?” I ask as Lucy rejoins me.

  “I’ll show you later. If you’ve finished looking around here, shall I take you to my other favorite place?”

  I follow her as we catch the Métro across the city, laughing and joking as we go. I tell her about my family and friends, she tells me about hers: her parents, who work for the Foreign Office, her best friend, who has just moved to South Africa for six months. The interference of Jake and Jessie. We talk about our childhoods. How she would borrow mannerisms and phrases from obscure books to seem more interesting. We share anecdotes about university, comparing experiences in Cambridge and London. Caesarian Sunday and chunder charts. Her dissertation on “Jack Kerouac and the Beat Generation,” mine on “The Impact of the Nine Years’ War.” We discuss our favorite films, food, and music. Whether red sauce or brown sauce. Which Toy Story film is the best. Her Kate Bush phase and her newfound love of Ed Sheeran. With every station we pass, I fall for her a bit more.

  As we get off at Philippe Auguste station, I spot the Père Lachaise Cemetery ahead of us.

  “So, first you nearly get me caught up in a major police raid, and now you’re taking me to a cemetery. You really know how to impress, don’t you?” I laugh. “Isn’t there quite a famous tower somewhere around here we should be seeing?”

  “It was hardly a major police raid! You liked the market in the end, so don’t give me that. And I think you’ll like it here too. Is it weird that my favorite place to come is a cemetery?”

  “I don’t think so. OK, maybe it is just a little bit weird,” I say, smiling, echoing her own words to me from yesterday.

  We enter the cemetery through a large stone gate, which is bordered by a very well-positioned shop selling headstones. We are joined by a dozen or so tourists all looking at their maps, and I’m surprised by how many other people are choosing to spend their Sunday afternoon browsing graves.

  “They’re all going to see Jim Morrison, which is ironic, as he may not even be dead.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re into all those conspiracy theories.” I laugh.

  “You know there was never an autopsy performed, so who knows? Maybe he is still out there somewhere.”

  “Next you’ll be saying Elvis is still alive.”

  “He is.” She struggles to hold a straight face.

  “Very funny. Are there many other famous people buried here?”

  “There are loads: Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, Chopin, Molière, Proust, Gertrude Stein. I feel sorry for the normal people buried next to them who get trampled on all day. Let’s go this way.” Lucy points to her right, as I’m about to follow a British couple. We go in the opposite direction to everyone else as we head off the concrete path. “Be careful,” she says as I almost trip over a protruding tree root, hidden beneath a layer of leaves.

  “It’s a bit of a maze here, but I really enjoy just walking around, reading all the epitaphs, imagining what lives these people led. I know it’s probably a little morbid, but coming here really does remind me just how short life is and that you have to make the most of it.”

  “So you come here every week?”

  “Yes, I try to. It’s just such a nice escape from the city. There’s meant to be over a million people buried here, so I’ve still got a lot of epitaphs to read. You get some that are really poignant, while others are quite funny. Look at this one, for example.” She points to one written in French, which she translates for me. “I’m probably just a sucker for love, but I do like the romantic ones.”

  I browse the different-shaped tombs, thinking about her words.

  “Have you ever been in love?” I ask her, almost hesitantly.

  “I was once, but it didn’t work out.” She pauses, and I wonder if that is all she’s going to say. “I fell hard for this guy. We were going out for ages, almost two years, but he never wanted to put a label on it. He didn’t seem sure he wanted to be with me, or really what he wanted for that matter. In the end, I decided I deserved someone who knew.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say as we continue winding our way through the grounds.

  “Aside from that, I’ve not really been in any long-term relationships, if that even counts. I think I spent too much time in the library at university, and I should probably stop taking guys to cemeteries, right? This is probably where I’m going wrong.”

  “No, not at all. I’m pleased you’ve brought me here. It’s really nice.”

  “What about you? Have you been in love?”

  I pause, deciding whether to tell her the truth about everything.

  “Oh, come on. I’ve opened up to you.”

  I decide to drop the bombshell.

  “So I actually proposed to my girlfriend on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Oh, wow, OK.” She glances at my left hand to see if I’m wearing a ring.

  “She said no and told me she was seeing someone else, and we were on the London Eye at the time. So, yeah, we were stuck together for the next half an hour, which wasn’t ideal.”

  Lucy bursts into laughter. It makes a stark contrast to everyone else’s sympathy.

  “You can’t laugh at that.”

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh, but come on, it would be quite funny, if it wasn’t you.”

  “Unfortunately, it was me, but yes, now I think about it, it is quite amusing.” I smile.

  “Seriously, though, I’m sorry. It sounds crap. Oh gosh, and there I was, within five minutes of meeting you, discussing Van Gogh’s failed proposals. Why didn’t you say anything to me?” she says as she puts her head in her hands.

  “Believe it or not, I didn’t think discussing my failed proposal was the best flirting technique.”

  “But you thought telling me you were going to cut off your ear would work?” She laughs. “Seriously, though, as they say, isn’t it better to have loved and lost than never loved at all?”

  “I don’t know. I think I was just doing what I thought I should be doing rather than what I really wanted to do.”

  Even in four years with Jade, I never felt the way I do right now after a few hours with Lucy.

  We climb up the hill and find a bench to sit on. There is one free, its green paint peeling off, and from it we can see the beautiful cityscape of Paris. I now see why this is her favorite place in the city.

  “So you asked me what I bought earlier,” Lucy says as she reaches into her handbag and pulls out the book she bought from the market seller.

  “Yep. What book is it?”

  “It’s Armance by Stendhal. Have
you heard of it?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Each week I buy a different French novel from the market and come here and read it in the afternoon. It’s good for me to practice my French, and I’m trying to work my way through all the classics right now.”

  “Just not the ending, though, right?”

  “You still think that’s strange, don’t you? The book thing, the cemetery. I should probably just stop telling you all these things.”

  “No, don’t be silly. I’ll admit I’ve never met anyone else quite like you.” She covers her eyes with her hands. “But in a good way. I promise. I like that you’re different. And I’m very honored that you’ve brought me here to your favorite spot.”

  “I suppose it’s a bit like with all the people buried here. Why do you want to rush to the end? Once it’s over, it’s over. It’s the same with a film, or a roller coaster, or sex even. The ending may be great, it may be awful, but with all these things, it’s the buildup, it’s the journey, it’s the ups and downs, it’s the mystery, it’s the unexpected twists, it’s the surprises. Where is the fun in knowing how it’s all going to play out? Why do you want to turn to the last page and ruin the surprise? I don’t know, just ignore me, I’ll stop talking now.”

  She opens her book and starts reading the first page.

  “Maybe you could translate it for me?”

  Lucy sits in the sun, reading her new book out loud. Her dark hair swirls and curls down her back.

  As the sun begins to set, we head back into the city center, and I walk her back to her flat, peeking in from the doorway.

  “Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess. Some people grow plants, or beards. I seem to be growing piles of books. They’re taking over,” she says as she looks over her shoulder. There are stacks of books all around the small studio apartment, as if she’s playing multiple games of Jenga with paperbacks and preparing to open her own bookshop.

  “When was your birthday?” I ask, noticing the lineup of celebratory cards decorating the top of her cupboard in the background.

  “It’s in May.”

  “May? How come you’ve still got all your cards up? I thought it must have been last week.”