A Parisian Bookshop
The Parisian streets opened up to him. Up above the sun beated down upon the cobblestones of the streets and on the heads of the French. Many cafés lined the streets and many more people sat outside them; Some drank from their small ivory cups observing the day and others chatted with their friends and with their lovers. Light jazz music danced with the people out on the streets. Further on, the sounds of Paris were gradually replaced by the smells of Paris; the scent of sugar came from a crêperie and coca bean from a pâtisserie. Children were pressed up against the window of the bakery with large smiles on their faces at the rows of multi-coloured macaroons stacked high, at eclairs lined by tarts and other pasteries, and the children tugged at their parents coats desperate to eat them. He came to the church of Saint-Séverin.It was light grey and he walked around it, running his hand along it’s noir railings with flecks of rust. He turned his eyes away from it and looked forward. Up ahead he saw a bookstore tucked away from the fervour of the city.
Two women sat at a bench outside it and around the entrance were mismatched boxes filled with books stacked upon eachother. He entered the store and the musty smell of books filled his mind. Bookshelves lined every wall he could see; the books weren’t in any particualr order of size or even colour really and when room upon the shelf came to an end, more books were placed horizontally on top of the vertical ones. Even that wasn’t enough. On the top of smaller shelves there were more stacked high and there were bags in the corners filled too. He inched his way further and ran his finger across the spines of authors he knew and loved and authors he despised.
“Hello.” A voice said.
He turned his head and faced a woman that was probably only a few years older than him. She was pretty. Her hair matched the colour of the shelves and her eyes were of the Seine itself.
“Okay,” he said smiling,”Thank you.”
She looked at him for a moment and left him. His smile faded and he perused a shelf labelled drama.
*
He was reading through ‘Les Fleurs du Mal’ when he heard the Woman’s voice say: “Yes we have that. Come, I’ll get it for you.”
He heard the tip tap of her feet against the tiles.
“Really sorry,” she apologised,”I just need to get a book.”
“It’s fine.” He smiled stepping back for her to get past.
He closed the book. He put it back beside a collection of Rimbaud and he looked at the people she gave the book to; they were an American couple. The man was much taller than he was but the man was overweight. He wore an orange t-shirt and he could see sweat marks at the armpits. His girlfriend or wife was much better looking and she wore a backpack that had a small American flag tied around the loop handle and she was the one who asked for Hemmingway. She spoke in a drawl that reminded him of the westerns he watched when he was younger.
“I’m very sorry,” the Woman said,”We don’t really have any but you could try Shakespeare and Company. It’s really near.”
“Oh what a coincendence. We’re going there next.” She exclaimed handing the Woman the book.
The man shook his head and smiled. The three went to the register and he went back to looking around.
*
He bit his lip staring at rows of philosophy. Not much here he thought. He heard her come upstairs from an underground section he presumed was a storage room.
“Sorry again.” She said faintly behind him carrying a bag of books.
He smiled in acknowledgment and his eyes widened at the amount of books she was carrying with ease. She went deep into the shop and he went to the stairs to see if he was allowed down it. There were no signs forbidding such an act and thus he ventured down.
The stairs were stone and were much smaller than his feet. He turned his feet sideways and bent his head low to prevent knocking it. The underground was both similar and vastly different to upstairs. It was illuminated by a single lamp that hung from the stone ceiling. It was cold and he coughed from the dust that floated around the old books and the ancient books. There was more room to move about downstairs. The only difference he found from the two floors was the abundance of philosophy. His eyes gleamed over volumes of Kant, Hegel, Hume, and Aquinas and over philosophers he didn’t know at the time like Foucault and Derrida.
“I feel like I’m following you around.” The Woman laughed.
He turned around and saw her. He smiled.
“It’s okay.”
She took a book of a shelf. She held it between her arms. He noticed her black cardigan and the dust that rested gingerly upon her shoulder. She looked at him and he looked at her and they both smiled at eachother and she turned and he watched her leave. He went back to philosophy and found a copy of something he thought he would enjoy: Rousseau’s ‘The Social Contract.’ He went back upstairs thinking of the Woman. He emerged from below and discovered she was nowhere to be found however he heard her laughing outside. He heard a second womans voice laugh and the sound of their laughter filled the shop. He decided to look around the shop some more to take in the wealth of knowledge and heard a chair scratch against concrete and he heard her rush into the shop.
“You should have just told me you were ready to pay for your book.” She exclaimed playfully.
He inhaled audibly and gave a meek smile not knowing what to say.
“So um … what did you find?”
He handed her the book.
“Rousseau.” He declared now finding words.
She held the book in her slender fingers and looked at the cover.
“Good find,” she said,”That will be ah eleven euros fifty cents.”
He handed her the money. He watched her stretch and retrieve a book mark.
“Here,” she said,”I’ll put this in for you. Here you go.”
“Thank you.” he said.
“Enjoy.” She smiled.
And he turned and he left and he felt her eyes follow.