The Little Bookshop On the Seine (8 page)

“Thanks for the offer, but it’s OK. I had some money in my jacket which was thankfully left on the floor, and I’ll make do with these clothes, or maybe borrow some of Sophie’s until the insurance is paid.” What if I spilled coffee down the front of one of her elegant outfits? Sophie’s were just as elegant too. I cringed a little, picturing myself wearing something so form-fitting, and French, worried it would look like I was trying too hard to fit in. Oceane even walked differently, with an upright posture, poised as if she inhabited the space around her better than most.

She crossed her arms, and pulled a face as though she was annoyed at herself. “I feel responsible, I told Sophie I’d meet you and show you around. Why don’t I treat you to a shopping trip later? Then I can show you where to do the banking, and where the post office is, so we can tie that in with a wander down the Champs-Elysees?”

After the disaster that was day one, Oceane’s warmth was a godsend. “There’s no need to do that,” I protested. From my research I knew the boutiques along the Champs-Elysees were expensive, and I wouldn’t let Oceane treat me because she felt guilty. The blame lay squarely at my feet.

She smiled. “Well perhaps we’ll window shop until you’re ready.”

“Maybe,” I said, laughing, relieved that she was open and friendly.

Outside the sun was splintering the sky, the river lapped swiftly in the distance. After my shift I’d wander by the Seine and hunt out a patisserie or two. Or maybe take a book, and people-watch from one of the cafés along the avenue.

“Aside from the stolen bags, how was your first day in Paris?”

“Busy,” I said, remembering the chaos of the previous day.

“It’s always like that,” she said, with a small laugh. “It takes a while to get used to the noise, and the tourists. I’m supposed to show you the office. It’s where you’ll do the paperwork, the wages, and all of those complex things that make my head throb.”

My stomach knotted. Sophie had bombarded me with emails about the paperwork side of things
after
I’d agreed to the bookshop exchange. She wanted weekly updates about the sales, and monthly profit and loss statements done. Besides all of that, there was the book ordering, the staff wages to do, and a stock take of the store at the end of December. Plus, I was responsible for her online shop and posting whatever orders came from that. How on earth I could do all of it, and work in the shop during the day still concerned me.

I wasn’t as mathematically inclined as her, but Sophie was very clear about increasing the sales, and keeping a close eye on the figures. From what I gathered from our flurry of emails, the cost of the building maintenance was frightfully expensive. Being such an old place, and the inevitable barrage of foot traffic, there was always something that needed to be fixed. Competition with other bookshops was fierce and her novels were priced lower to sell, leaving a dent on profits.

Budgets and sales projections made my brain hurt, but I’d have to learn how to do it, and make sure I didn’t let my friend down.

“We’re glad you’re here,” Oceane said. “I thought perhaps Beatrice would take the management position when Sophie announced she was leaving.”

“Oh?” I asked, an uncomfortable coolness running through me. Had I stepped on her toes, by taking the job she wanted?

Oceane nodded. “Sophie had mentioned a few times she wanted to slow down, let someone else take over. But, at the last minute she couldn’t trust her baby to anyone. Except you.”

My heart dropped, wondering how Sophie could have dangled it in front of Beatrice, and then given it to me. Is that why I detected a sharper undercurrent when Beatrice spoke? I’d have to see how she acted today, because I was here for the long haul. Sophie had even said if I wanted to stay indefinitely, I could. I had a lot to learn, and not much time to do it. Already, I adored the labyrinth-like rooms, the promise of adventures to be had.

“So is Beatrice OK with me being here?” I didn’t mention her abruptness the day before. There was obviously a system of doing things here, I just had to work it out.

“I’m sure she is. Just note that the staff will walk all over you, unless you’re upfront. They can be merciless with new people, but we’ve never had a different boss before, so I really can’t say how they’ll act.”

I had no staff, and never had, and hoped they’d be amenable to any changes my appearance made without making a fuss. The closest I’d come to confrontation was when the local book club dissolved into a heated argument, their opinions divided, and someone had to stand in and mediate. But I’d known those ladies my whole life, and all I had to do to calm them down was threaten to take the wine away.

Here they didn’t know me though, and I was ready to inject some good old-fashioned fun into the workplace. My answer: team building sessions! Sunday night baseball at the gardens or something. I’d yet to nut out the finer details. Apparently big corporations did that to inspire their employees, make them collaborate as a team. It would be a great way for us to get to know each other, and I was sure it’d lead to a more harmonious working environment. We’d have staff meetings, and sit around a table so they could air their grievances. I felt like I had a secret up my sleeve and was well prepared for them. Perhaps trying new things would spark their enthusiasm once more.

Oceane surveyed the perfect shine of her nail polish. “The staff are young, determined in a way those generation X kids are without actually putting in the effort. It’s just that sort of place. People come and go, Sophie only has one stipulation – that they love reading above all else. She can forgive them anything, as long as they read.”

“OK,” I said, confidently. Sophie mentioned a range of issues, but after reading How To Be The Boss 101, I was sure I could knock any drama on the head before it burst into trouble. Sophie was burnt out, and tired of refereeing. This exchange would help us both grow into different people, and I couldn’t wait to get started.

Oceane took her jacket off and hung it on the coat rack behind the counter.

By the front door, a small queue was forming. I glanced at my watch, quarter to nine, almost time to open up and be caught in the rush of another day. “Where is Beatrice, I thought she was working today?” It was
at least
a three-person business. Just to keep an eye on the crowds, and replenish, and restack books would take a couple of people. Sometimes the line was four deep, even though a majority of those customers only had queries about Paris itself, the gaggle of people didn’t seem to shrink no matter how fast we worked.

The casual staff had fluttered in yesterday afternoon and it took some of the pressure off, but not enough that I could catch my breath. Forget assisting people, there was virtually no time to step from behind the counter. The way we served people was almost robotic, and it took a little of the shine away.

Oceane played with the diamond on her finger. “No one ever works when they should. The roster is more like a suggestion. I work every week day, and Beatrice does most days too. TJ is supposed to work days, but usually does nights. The casual staff come and go. When they come in, we escape for lunch. There’s always someone here to help, you just never know who.”

My mind boggled. How could Sophie run a business like that? For someone so thorough with spreadsheets – it was strange to allow the staff to flit in when they wanted, considering they’re the ones who were most needed in order to achieve the projected targets and keep the sales ticking over at the rate Sophie expected. It was madness. Yesterday had been mayhem with only me and Beatrice on hand through the peak times.

The roster would have to be ironed out. Hopefully I wouldn’t ruffle too many feathers – maybe it would actually improve things if everyone knew when they were supposed to work. They’d probably praise me for it – they could then plan their social lives, knowing exactly when they had to work, and it would stop us being short staffed.

Oceane patted my arm. “Before the hordes descend, let me show you around the shop properly. I bet you didn’t get a chance to check it out yesterday.”

“What about the customers outside?”

“They can wait.” She gave me a flippant shrug. “It’s not nine yet.” She grabbed my hand and walked briskly to the back of the shop. “So the rooms all run into one another, like a sentence. Once you start, you just keep going…and you’ll eventually end up in the courtyard outside, unless you take the staircase to the left, and then you’ll end up lost. It’s a rabbit warren.”

The main open floor of the bookstore led into the first room up by one step. It was stacked floor to ceiling with books, some shelves leaned so far forward they were almost curved overhead like the crest of a wave. A huge mirror hung from the ceiling, reflecting everything in a warped Alice in Wonderland kind of way.

On the floor, a once ruby red rug lay almost threadbare, its colors dulled to a faded rose, indelibly changed by foot traffic, but at the edges, you could make out how truly vibrant it had once been. Old armchairs, their leather like wrinkled faces, sat solemnly. How many readers had wandered into this room, pulled a musty book from the shelves, and spent the day absorbed in a tale, every now and then glancing up, the scent of the Seine blowing in like a whisper as it had done for generations?

Oceane smiled. “And next, we have the lending library.” She led me through an archway, where someone had scrawled in thick, black permanent marker ‘
This way to paradise
’.

The lending library was ripe with the thick stench of old tomes and the lemony scent of new novels. Their fragrances mingled together in the space, almost like a perfume, a heady combination of past and present.

Sophie’s bookshop was so alive it hummed, dust motes danced, and I had the fight the urge to flop on a chair, and snatch up the nearest book.

An antique grandfather clock stood to one side of the room, its chimes long since stopped, the golden hands paused on the witching hour. “Who runs the lending library?” I asked.

Oceane leaned against the wall. “Bertie, François, and Phillippe. They organize their shifts between them, and keep track of the loans. You don’t need to do anything for it. Sophie’s pretty lax about the whole process. There’s index cards, and stamps, it’s very old school. The lending library is hallowed – it’s been available for locals since the doors opened here back in the twenties. During the Great Depression, no one could afford much of anything, especially books, so strangers found their way here, and knew they could take whatever they wished. They became members, friends, and weren’t faceless or nameless any more.”

“This history practically seeps through the walls.” I was in awe of the shop, it had presence, almost like it was a character unto itself. “Do you ever wonder who sat here a century ago, and rummaged through these boxes of books?”

Her eyes grew bright. “Of course. I imagine people back then stopped past with rumbling bellies, their lives grim because of the depression, until they found their way here, and they could forget their troubles, escaping into the pages of a good book, a warm drink in hand. What could be better than that? Sophie’s grandfather opened the store. When he first started, he only used the front parlor, but as time went by his reputation spread, he grew more successful and expanded into the other rooms, eventually buying the apartments above. He never changed his principles…everyone was welcome here whether they had money or not. It was popular among American writers back then, a meeting place for literary transients.”

“I get goosebumps, thinking about the stories they could’ve told. Do you think when they finally settled, back on home soil, they remembered their time here fondly?”

“
Oui
,” she said, crossing her arms against the chill in the room. “A lot of them were young. Traveling after the war or just because they were free, who knows? And when it was time to move, or go back to reality, they always had this place in their heart. Sophie has a thick folder of correspondence, letters sent over decades, people thanking them for their hospitality, some dedicating the books they wrote here to Sophie’s grandfather. Others saying they searched their whole lives for the simple happiness Paris provided, but never found it again. Over a bottle or two of vin rouge, I read each and every one of them. I’ve told her she should publish them…an epic love story of people and place.”

“That would be an amazing book…” Taking in the room, I thought of the people who once inhabited this space; I pictured the scene in black and white, like an old photograph. “The room has a sense of timelessness to it.” As if time had truly stopped, just like the grandfather clock. And those people long since gone from this world had found the place just as it was now, a sanctuary for word lovers.

“The store has a rich and famous history. It’s why people come here and don’t want to leave.” Oceane spoke in reverent tones, gazing wistfully around. The rooms were weathered, the furniture battered, the shop’s once former glory dimmed, faded like late afternoon sunlight through a dusty window, which made it one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen.

“Why would you want to leave?” I said. It was like a grand old dame, this shop. Once haughty, now a reflection of its past, and all that happened here.

She laughed and surveyed me. “Your face is flushed like you’ve fallen in love too.”

I promptly closed my mouth, and scraped back my hair. “How could you not? It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before…almost like their ghosts are still here, those readers. Maybe that’s why the sign says ‘this way to paradise’?”

Her gaze softened once more. “Like heaven? Well why not?” Soft laughter burbled out of her. “If I died and had to choose a place to spend eternity, it would be here.”

“Yes,” I said. It was different, surveying the shop when it was empty of people, as if the old building had settled in on itself while it waited.

Oceane consulted her watch. “I’ll have to show you the rest later, the crowds are getting thicker. But that,” she pointed to the next doorway, “is the piano room, and where all the music books are kept.” I snuck a peep, a shiny ebony baby grand piano stood earnestly. I couldn’t wait to creep around the bookshop, and discover what else was hidden here, after all these passages of time.