Paris Is Always a Good Idea (11 page)

“What occasion?” she asked in some confusion.

“Bollinger,” he answered drily. “There is something to celebrate!”

“But it's not your birthday yet!” Rosalie had said in surprise, quickly glancing at the calendar to make sure. Marchais's birthday was the last day in August, and that was two weeks away.

“What … my birthday?” he'd said in the indignant way she had come to know so well. “Childish nonsense! Now … are you free?”

“But why—”

“It's a surprise,” he said in a voice that allowed no contradiction. “And wear something pretty: we're going somewhere really high class. I'll pick you up in a taxi.”

*   *   *

HE'D INVITED HER TO
Le Jules Verne. Le Jules Verne of all places! Rosalie had been too awestruck to react appropriately.

“I hope you don't find this hopelessly old-fashioned,” Max Marchais had said somewhat apologetically, as she entered the restaurant at his side, dressed in a plum-blue wild-silk dress. “I don't know what's in in Paris these days.”

“Old-fashioned? Are you crazy? Did you know I've always wanted to eat up here?” Her eyes shining, Rosalie had walked over to the table with its white cloth that had been reserved for them in the window and looked out over the lights of the city. The view was breathtaking. She hadn't known that it was so beautiful.

Behind her a soft tinkling sound rang out. A black-coated waiter was carrying a silver champagne bucket over to their table; it contained a dark-green bottle of Bollinger with its gold label, in a bed of thousands of fragments of crushed ice. The waiter dealt skillfully with the bottle, releasing the cork from its neck with a gentle
plop
. After they had sat down and the waiter had poured the champagne into their cut-glass flutes, Max pulled something out of his briefcase: it was wrapped in a paper bag and looked suspiciously like a book.

He put the package down on the table, and Rosalie felt her heart begin to pound. “No!” she exclaimed. “Could that be … already? Could it be?”

Max nodded. “The book,” he said. “I was sent a prepublication copy yesterday, and thought this would be the perfect occasion to drink a toast with you, my dear Rosalie. In Bollinger, as you wished. Excuse all the cloak-and-dagger stuff. But I thought it would only be right to celebrate this occasion alone with you.”

They raised their glasses and clinked them. The clear ringing tone resounded for a moment above the murmured conversations of the guests at the other tables. Max Marchais smiled at her. “To
The Blue Tiger
! And to the wonderful way that he brought us together!”

Then Rosalie had carefully unwrapped the book, stroked the shining cover, which showed an indigo-blue tiger with silver stripes and a friendly catlike grin, and leafed through the pages with appropriate reverence. It had turned out exceptionally beautifully, she thought. Her first book! So that's what it felt like. Rosalie could have sung for joy.

“Are you satisfied?”

“Yes, very,” she replied happily. “Very, very satisfied.” She leafed back to the title page once more.

“I'd like you to write something in it for me,” she said—and that was when she first saw the dedication:
FOR R
.

“Oh, my goodness!” she said, turning pink with joy. “That's incredibly nice of you. Thank you. Gosh—I just don't know what to say.…”

“Don't say anything.”

Rosalie was so overjoyed at this proof that she was appreciated that she almost didn't notice the old man's embarrassment as he looked at her with a peculiar smile.

*   *   *

THE EVENING WAS A
long one, with delicious food, and when the bottle of Bollinger was empty, Rosalie heard herself saying—to her own astonishment—“Did you know that I actually come here on my birthday every year?”

Max had raised his eyebrows. “What, here? To Le Jules Verne?”

“No, of course not here. I mean to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I had already decided to give it up, and then you walked—or rather fell—into my life.” She giggled, already a little tipsy, pushed her hair, which she was wearing loose that evening, from her forehead, and lowered her voice. “I'd like to tell you a secret, Max, but you must promise not to tell anyone. And you mustn't laugh at me even if it sounds a bit childish.”

“I'll be as silent as the grave,” he assured her. “And I'd never laugh at you. I write children's books, as you are well aware.”

And so it came about that Max Marchais, the creator of a blue cloud-tiger that could fly through the night sky and believed in the magic of wishing, became the first person with whom Rosalie shared her Eiffel Tower secret. And of course all the secret wishes that had fluttered down with the postcards—unexpectedly, three of them had been fulfilled in recent months: She had been discovered as an illustrator. Her mother was satisfied for the first time in her life. And she'd been invited to dine in Le Jules Verne—even if not by the man of her dreams.

“But, well…,” she ended gaily. “I hope you won't get me wrong, dear Max. I should really be sitting here with my boyfriend, but even so this is lovely as it is.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” said Max with a chuckle.

And when they parted on the avenue Gustave-Eiffel later that evening, he said, “So, if I've counted right, the only things still missing are the house by the seaside and a man with a sense of poetry who will give you a silly little padlock for the railing on the bridge.” He had twinkled at her. “I'm afraid that will be a real challenge. But don't give up hope.”

*   *   *

ROSALIE LOOKED OVER AT
the store window, where several copies of
The Blue Tiger
formed part of the display, and had to smile as she thought back to the evening with Max Marchais—now more than three weeks ago. Of course she would never in her life be given a silly little padlock, but that didn't matter. This was one of those days when everything seemed to be going right with the world.

On the street outside she noticed a man who was cursing and wiping something off his shoe—his view of the world at that moment was clearly somewhat more critical. He was tall with dark-blond hair, and he was wearing a light, medium-blue summer pullover under a sand-colored suede jacket as he sauntered past her store. As he did so he cast a fleeting glance at the display, then stopped, and stood in front of the window for a while, staring at it with fascination.

He had the loveliest blue eyes that Rosalie had ever seen—they shone a pure azure blue—and Rosalie stared at the stranger with at least as much fascination as he was staring at the books she had used in her display.

“Not bad,” was the thought that shot through her mind, and she caught herself feeling an extremely pleasant buzz as a result.

The man outside the window then frowned and a vertical crease appeared on his forehead. He looked at the display with indignation—possibly even with shock, and Rosalie wondered if there was something there that was not suitable for the display in a stationery-store window: a big tarantula, for example, or maybe a dead mouse.

At that moment William Morris gave a little snort and she looked over toward the basket where her little dog was lying asleep.

When she looked up again, the good-looking stranger had vanished. Rosalie gazed at the empty street, feeling a stab of disappointment that seemed completely uncalled for.

If anyone had told her that only a quarter of an hour later she'd be quarreling bitterly with that apparently likeable man, she would not have believed them.

 

Nine

For years the little silver bell over the door at Luna Luna had done its job perfectly well. Was it coincidence that made it fall off at precisely the moment when the man with the azure-blue eyes whom Rosalie had seen looking at the window display seconds before entered the store?

The door was pushed open, and the little bell produced a clear tinkle and then hurtled to the ground, but not without an intermediate landing on the back of the stranger's head. He started in shock, raising his hands instinctively and stepping aside—straight into the dog basket beside the door. William Morris howled furiously, and the stranger gave a cry of surprise and tumbled backward, straight for the postcard stand.

Stunned, Rosalie watched it rocking wildly, feeling that she was going through a déjà vu experience, but this time she was quicker: with two strides she reached the stand and held it up firmly, while the man, his arms rowing frantically, managed to regain his balance.

“Are you okay?” asked Rosalie.

“For heaven's sake, what was that?!” said the man, rubbing the back of his head. He had an unmistakable American accent, and he looked at her reproachfully. “Something attacked me.”

Rosalie bit her lower lip to stop herself laughing. The way he was standing there as if he'd just survived an alien attack was just too funny. She coughed and regained her composure.

“That was the doorbell, monsieur. I'm very sorry—it must have fallen off somehow.”

She bent down and picked up the heavy silver bell that had rolled under the table. “Here, you see. That was the fatal missile. The cord has snapped.”

“Aha,” he said. Her barely concealed amusement had obviously not escaped his notice. “And what's so funny about it?”

“Um … nothing,” she said. “I'm so sorry. I hope you haven't been hurt.”

“It's all right.” He drew himself up to his full height, looking at her suspiciously. “And what was that infernal row?”

“That was my dog,” she explained, feeling a laugh about to burst out again. She turned away and pointed to the dog basket, where William Morris was now lying asleep like Snow White. “He's normally very peaceful. You scared him.”

“I'd say it was he who scared me,” retorted the American. Nevertheless he allowed himself a brief smile before saying with a frown: “Are you actually allowed to keep a dog in a store? I mean, isn't it dangerous?”

That morning Rosalie had decided that it was a particularly lovely day, and that she was feeling particularly lovely herself. She was wearing her favorite dress—a bright millefiori dress with tiny blue flowers, a round neckline, and a little row of cloth-covered buttons. She was wearing sky-blue ballerina slippers and her only adornment was a pair of turquoise earrings that swung jauntily back and forth. She had no intention of letting her mood be spoiled by anyone—certainly not by a tourist with a dog phobia. She stood in front of the man in the suede jacket, crossed her arms behind her back, and gave him a sweet smile—but one to be enjoyed at his peril. Her eyes sparkled as she asked, “You're not from here, are you, monsieur?”

“No, I'm from New York,” he explained.

“Aaaah,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “An American! Well, monsieur, perhaps you should know that in Paris it's quite normal to have your dog in your store.
C'est tout
à
fait normal.
We have a more relaxed view of things here. Come to think of it, all the shops I know have dogs in them,” she lied.

“Oh, really?” said the man from New York. “I suppose that explains the lamentable state of your streets. I hope it wasn't your sweet little dog who produced the sweet little mess that I just trod in.”

Rosalie looked at his brown suede shoes and suddenly became aware of the acrid smell of dog poop.

“You're right, it's still a bit smelly,” she said, smiling even more broadly. “But I can assure you that my dog had nothing to do with it. He's already done his business in the park.”

“That's reassuring. Then I'd better not go for a walk in the park today.”

“As you wish. But here we say that it's lucky to step in dog mess.”

“Nobody needs that much luck,” he retorted, the corners of his mouth twisting sardonically. “Anyway…” He looked around the shop as if searching for something, and Rosalie decided to change the subject.

“How can I help you, monsieur?”

“You have a book there in your window display,” he said, taking a random paperweight from the table and weighing it in his hand. “
The Blue Tiger.
I'd like to take a look at it.”

“Of course, monsieur,” fluted Rosalie, and then she went to the counter and took one of the books from the pile. “Here you are.” She handed him the book and pointed to the only chair in the store—in the corner near the counter. “You can sit down if you like.”

He took the book, flopped into the chair, and crossed his legs. Rosalie saw that his eye was momentarily caught by the big poster behind the counter.

He looked over at her and raised his eyebrows in some surprise.

“Is that
your
book?”

She nodded proudly. “You could say so. I made it together with Max Marchais. He's a very well-known children's author in France; I'm the illustrator.” All at once she felt it would be right and proper to introduce herself. “Rosalie Laurent,” she said.

He nodded briefly in her direction, and then obviously felt obliged to give her his name.

“Robert Sherman,” he replied curtly and opened the book.

“We had a reading here in the store two days ago. Do you know Max Marchais?” asked Rosalie with interest.

The American shook his head and immersed himself in the pages.

Rosalie leaned on the counter, observing him unobtrusively. Robert Sherman seemed both nonplussed and keyed up at the same time, as he ran his fingers through his curly, dark-blond hair. He had shapely, sinewy hands with long fingers. She saw his eyes flickering back and forth, she noticed the vertical crease between his eyebrows, his straight, somewhat fleshy nose, the mouth that was pursed in concentration as he read, and the little dimple in his chin. The way he read and leafed through the pages led her to believe that he often had a book in his hands. Perhaps he worked at the university. Or in publishing, she suddenly thought. Perhaps he was a publisher like Montsignac, on the lookout for a good children's book? She thought for a moment and then rejected the idea. Too unlikely. He was probably just an American tourist spending his summer vacation in Paris who was looking for a present for his child.