From Paris With Love (12 page)

Paris, le 7 mai 1986

Ma chere Isabelle

This is a difficult letter for me to write as I know you will be disappointed and I hope that you will receive it in time.  I had promised to come to your wedding with Ghislaine.  We have the ferry and hotel booked, but now I find I cannot come.

You see, Isabelle, although we cannot be together, I cannot watch you marry another man.  I have loved you for so long and although we have both moved on in life and we have new partners now, a part of me will always love you.  Just as I hope a part of you will always love me.

I hope we will always be friends, but I cannot be at your wedding.  I also hope now that you realise that not all Frenchmen forget quickly.  This Frenchman has not forgotten you!

Be happy, ma Belle.  Smile for me, or for another, always.

A toujours,

Etienne

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

June 2015

Isabelle carefully folded the final letter, slotted it into its envelope and put it back into the box.  It had been dated June 1986, a few days before her wedding.  The letters spanned six years, although most had been written in the first couple of years.  They were special, something to keep, to cherish and to remember.  She put the lid back on the box, dusted it reverently and wiped the tears that were sliding down her cheeks, once again feeling like the 17-year old Isabelle leaving Paris and leaving Etienne behind.  So many letters, so many memories.

She rinsed her mug in the kitchen sink and decided she ought to start thinking about cooking dinner for the family.  She decided on lasagne with salad and garlic bread – easy and popular with the family.  And whilst she prepared the dinner, she would continue to remember.  Just a little while longer until the memories would be put away for a while and her normal life as wife and mother would resume again.

She glanced at the clock.  The day had flown by.  Her daughters would be back from college soon.  And her husband would be back from work.  The routine would begin again. A routine established over nearly thirty years of marriage.  A comfortable routine which varied little from one day to the next, from one year to another.

In half an hour the girls would barrel in, bags dumped on the kitchen floor (they never learned!), one would swoop into the fridge to grab the juice and the other would snatch the biscuit tin.  With phones in hand, they’d head into the den supposedly to do homework, most likely to chat to friends by text or to catch up on the latest news on Facebook.

Next would be her husband.  He would come in at the same time as every other day.  Around 6pm, depending on the traffic. He would kiss her cheek and she would feel the stubble of the day on his chin.  He would take off his coat and wash his hands whilst she made a cup of tea for him and another for herself.  She would ask him how his day was.  He would reply ‘fine’.  The same as he always did and perfunctorily ask her about her day, although she knew he wouldn’t really listen. 

Today she would tell him that she had made a start on the loft.  Well, she had.  She hadn’t got very far, but she had at least made a start.  She would tell him that there wasn’t much worth taking to a boot fair, although she would be making several trips to the charity shop and the local dump when she had finally sorted everything out.  There certainly wasn’t anything worthy of Antiques Roadshow. And the evening would flow as every evening did – smoothly, routinely and mundanely.  Dinner would be at 7pm.  They always ate together.  Then they would watch television for a little while, depending what was on, whilst the girls did their homework.  Around 9pm he would go to the study and work on the computer.  And she would play the piano.  At 10pm she would go to bed and he would follow shortly afterwards, as soon as he had seen the news headlines on the BBC.  The days varied very little.

She carried the chocolate box upstairs.  Deciding it was too precious to live in the attic, she placed it on the top shelf of her wardrobe.  One day she would take the letters out again and read them.  Or gaze at the photograph and remember.  Or listen to the cassette of music and think back to her first love.  She put the cassette player back in the loft, but on the pile to keep.

She didn’t regret the decisions she had made in life.  She knew they had been the right ones for her.  She didn’t even regret the decision to leave Paris, although it had been so very hard at the time and for a long while afterward she had thought she had made the wrong choice.

After living in Paris for eight months, living her dream in the garret near Montmartre, she had been forced to face some harsh realities.  Her dream of marrying Etienne was just that – a dream.  They had both changed.  Both moved on with their lives in the intervening years.  They both loved each other, but they were travelling in different directions now and somehow love was no longer enough.  It should have been, but it wasn’t.  Reluctantly they agreed that what they had was special, always had been and always would be. And although they still loved each other, it had changed.  Although she had loved living in Paris, she often felt lonely. She missed her family and friends.  What they wanted now was different. 

The decision was made; Isabelle had left Paris and returned to London.  She took a job working for another solicitor in the city and met her husband a few weeks later.

Part of her would always wonder what would have happened had she stayed.  But deep down she knew she had made the right decision.  She was happy with her life as it was.  She had known the passion of true love and she knew that she would never forget her first love or Paris. 

And if memories grew dim with age, she had her chocolate box full of letters, a cassette of special music and a couple of photographs that would always be there to remind her of when she was young and in love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The words to the song that Isabelle and Etienne considered theirs, “Comme un arbre dans la ville”, Maxime le Forestier, 1972:

Je suis né dans le béton
Coincé entre deux maisons
Sans abri sans domicile
Comme un arbre dans la ville
Comme un arbre dans la ville
J'ai grandi loin des futaies
Où mes frères des forêts
Ont fondé une famille
Comme un arbre dans la ville
Entre béton et bitume
Pour pousser je me débats
Mais mes branches volent bas
Si près des autos qui fument
Entre béton et bitume
Comme un arbre dans la ville
J'ai la fumée des usines
Pour prison, et mes racines
On les recouvre de grilles
Comme un arbre dans la ville
Comme un arbre dans la ville
J'ai des chansons sur mes feuilles
Qui s'envoleront sous l'il
De vos fenêtres serviles
Comme un arbre dans la ville
Entre béton et bitume
On m'arrachera des rues
Pour bâtir où j'ai vécu
Des parkings d'honneur posthume
Entre béton et bitume
Comme un arbre dans la ville
Ami, fais après ma mort
Barricades de mon corps
Et du feu de mes brindilles
Comme un arbre dans la ville

With thanks to : http://musique.ados.fr/Maxime-Le-Forestier/Comme-Un-Arbre-t4357.html

The End