Paris Is Always a Good Idea (5 page)

“Yes, hello, who's there?” he said irritably.

“Aaaah, Marchais, it's great that I've gotten through to you at last. The bird had flown the coop, huh, ha ha. I've been trying all day.”

“I know.” Max rolled his eyes. Of course—Montsignac, he should have guessed. The publisher's voice oozed friendliness.

“My dear Marchais, how are you? Everything in the garden blooming? Has our enchanting Mademoiselle Mirabeau told you about the little proposition we have for you?”

“Yes, she has,” he growled. “But I'm afraid we're not going to agree on that.”

“But, but Marchais, don't be so pessimistic, there's always a way. Why don't we meet in Les Editeurs next week and discuss everything at leisure, just you and I?”

“You can save yourself the bother, Montsignac. My answer is still no. I'm almost seventy—things have to come to an end sometime.”

“Poppycock. I beg you, Marchais, don't be childish. Seventy? What sort of argument is that? You're not old. Seventy is the new fifty. I know a lot of authors who only start writing at your age.”

“Good for them. Why don't you ask them?”

Montsignac obviously felt there was no need to respond to this and simply carried on talking.

“It's precisely
because
you're turning seventy that you should write another book, my dear Marchais. Think of all your fans; think of all the children you've made happy with your books. Do you know how many copies of
Plum-Nose the Hare
are still sold over the counter every month? You're still the greatest children's writer in this country: France's Roald Dahl, so to speak.” Max heard him laughing. “Except that you have the unbeatable advantage of being only just seventy and can still write books.” He began to wax lyrical.

“A new children's book that we can bring out on your round-numbered birthday.
Et voilà
: that should hit the spot. I tell you, it'll be a sensation. I can see it now: all the papers will be in a feeding frenzy. I can see thirty foreign licenses. And then we'll promote your entire backlist. It'll be a real celebration.”

Max Marchais could almost hear old Montsignac rubbing his hands. “Old Montsignac”—he had to laugh, almost against his will, as the euphoric publisher's prophesies whizzed past him.

In reality Montsignac wasn't actually that old. Only in his midsixties, younger than he was himself, but the tall, well-built man with his early-graying hair and the shirts—always so pristine white—that stretched so perilously over his belly when he was seized by one of his terrifying fits of rage had always seemed older to him.

He'd known the publisher of Éditions Opale for almost thirty years now. And although they had had serious arguments, he appreciated this lively, impatient, bubbling, obstinate, often unjust but ultimately always good-hearted man who had been his publisher for so many years. Montsignac had given Max Marchais the contract for his first book when the author himself was still an unwritten page. He had even engaged one of the best children's book illustrators for the work of an author who, completely unknown at the time, had already been turned down by several publishing houses.

His courage as a publisher, for which Max had always admired him, had more than been repaid. The adventures of the hare with the plum-nose were a great success and were sold in many countries. All his other books had also appeared under the Opale Jeunesse imprint, and some of them were by now regarded as children's classics.

When Marguerite died, Montsignac had canceled all his appointments at the book fair and driven out to Le Vésinet to shake his hand at the graveside. “Life will go on, Marchais, believe me, life will go on,” he had whispered in his ear, laying a friendly arm around his heaving shoulders.

Max Marchais had never forgotten that.

“Tell me, Marchais…” All of a sudden the publisher's voice took on a suspicious tone. “You're not going to leave us, are you? Is there another publisher in question? Is that it? You wouldn't do that after all that we've done for you, would you?”

He gasped in amazement. “Please, Montsignac, what do you take me for?”

“Well, then I can't see any reason why we can't embark on this great project together,” said Montsignac with relief.

“What project?” countered Max. “I can't remember any project.”

“Oh, come on now, Marchais, don't play so hard to get. There's still something there, I can sense it. A little story that's just a piece of cake for you.”

“Listen, Montsignac. Just leave me in peace, will you? I'm a bad-tempered old man who no longer has any desire to eat cake.”

“That was very well expressed. Bravo! Do you know what, Marchais? I really like you, but your self-pity is unbearable. It's high time you came out of your lair. Get out and about, my friend. Write. Allow something new to happen. Allow a little bit of light to enter your life. You've buried yourself behind your boxwood hedges for far too long.”

“Stone walls,” objected Max, staring at the hydrangea bushes that nestled against the stone walls at the back of the garden. It was the second scolding he'd had in a single week. The publisher was obviously in cahoots with his housekeeper.

“But I haven't written a children's book for ages,” objected Max after a pause.

“Believe me, it's just like riding a bike: it's not something you forget. Is there any other reason?” As always, Montsignac wouldn't take no for an answer. Max sighed.

“I just don't have any ideas anymore, that's the reason.”

The publisher burst out laughing. “That was good,” he said when he'd calmed down.

“Honestly, Montsignac, I just don't have any good stories left.”

“Go on, just look, Marchais, just look! I'm absolutely certain that you'll find a really good story in the end.” He said that as if you simply had to go to the closet to rummage for a story like a pair of old socks. “So, next Friday at one o'clock in Les Editeurs, no argument!”

*   *   *

TOURISTS SELDOM WANDERED INTO
Les Editeurs. It was a little restaurant off the beaten track behind the Odéon Métro station. It was where publishers met their authors and license people negotiated with foreign editors who were visiting the Salon du Livre. You sat in comfortable red leather armchairs under a gigantic station clock, surrounded by books, and ate a tasty little snack from the menu or just drank a coffee or a
jus d'orange pressé
.

Monsieur Montsignac, who usually was uncomfortable on the hard wooden chairs in other cafés, really appreciated the comfort of these soft armchairs. And this was one of the main reasons why he always returned to the little restaurant when he had a business meeting.

He stirred his
café
express,
his eyes resting benevolently on his author who, two hours before, had walked into the restaurant in a blue suit, his silver-gray hair carefully combed back. He had recently adopted a walking stick (an elegant one, of course, with a silver lion's head as the knob, which he claimed to need because of his bad back), but Montsignac couldn't help feeling that good old Marchais sometimes used his age as an excuse, which meant that he needed to be cajoled into action.

At the same time he was—still—a man who was pleasing to the eye, thought Montsignac. His lively bright blue eyes revealed an alert mind, even though he had become somewhat uncommunicative after the death of his wife.

Anyway, Montsignac had realized immediately that there was good news when Marchais dropped into the armchair with a strangely embarrassed smile. “Well then, you old tormentor,” he'd said without beating around the bush. “I do have one story left.”

“Now why doesn't that surprise me?” Montsignac gave a satisfied laugh.

The publisher had not been surprised—not even when Marchais sent him the new story a week later, almost before the ink had dried on the contract. Some authors just needed a little push, and then they would run by themselves.

“A wonderful story. Very good!” he had shouted down the line after reading the manuscript and calling his author straight away—he had picked up so quickly this time that he must have been sitting beside the telephone. “You've surpassed yourself this time, my old friend.”

But then Montsignac had had to apply all his powers of persuasion to convince Marchais that they should change the illustrator for the new book.

“Why on earth do you want to do that?” Max objected stubbornly. “Why can't we use Éduard again? I really appreciate his work, and I've always enjoyed collaborating with him.”

Montsignac had groaned inwardly. Éduard Griseau's labored drawings—the man was approaching eighty and was now devoting himself to his woodcuts—just weren't what people expected in children's books these days. They had to move with the times. That's the way it was.

“No, no, Marchais, it must be livelier. I have a particular illustrator in mind—she has a very personal style that I really like. She's not very well known yet, but she's full of ideas. Unspoiled. Hungry. Original. She'd be exactly right for your story about the blue tiger. She paints postcards.”

“
Postcards?
” repeated Marchais suspiciously. “Griseau is an
artist
—and you want to involve a dilettante in the work?”

“Don't be so judgmental, Marchais. Always keep an open mind—her name is Rosalie Laurent and she has a little postcard store in the rue du Dragon. Why don't you just call in and then tell me what you think of her?”

And that is how it came about that Max Marchais was standing outside Rosalie's postcard store a few days later, impatiently banging his walking stick on the locked door with the blue frame.

 

Four

At first Rosalie hadn't heard the knocking at all. With tousled hair, she was sitting drawing at her table in jeans and a pullover, and in the background Vladimir Vysotsky was singing the song about Odessa—the only words she understood were
Odessa
and
Princessa.
Her foot was tapping to the lively beat of the music.

Monday was the only day that Luna Luna, like so many other small businesses in Paris, was closed.

Unfortunately the day hadn't begun well. Her attempt to amicably dissuade Monsieur Picard from the planned rent raise had ended in a loud argument. She'd been unable to just keep her mouth shut and had finally called her landlord a capitalist cutthroat.

“I don't have to take that, Mademoiselle Laurent, I don't have to take that,” Monsieur Picard had shouted, his little button eyes flashing angrily. “Those are the prices in Saint-Germain nowadays. If you don't like it, you can move out. I can rent the store to Orange in a flash, for your information they'll be ready to pay double what you do.”

“Orange? What on earth is that? Oh, you mean that cell phone provider? I just don't get it. You want to turn my lovely store into a
cell phone outlet
? Is there nothing you won't sink to?” Rosalie had shouted, and her heart had begun to beat alarmingly quickly as she ran down the worn stone stairs in a rage (Monsieur Picard lived on the third floor) and slammed her door behind her with a bang that resounded through the whole building. Then for the first time in ages she lit a cigarette with trembling hands. She stood at the window and blew the smoke out into the Paris morning sky. It was more serious than she'd thought. It looked as if there was no way she could avoid pouring her hard-earned money into Monsieur Picard's capacious maw. She only hoped she would always have enough money to do it. A pity the shop didn't belong to her. She'd have to think about it. Something was sure to occur to her.

She'd made herself a coffee and returned to her drawing table. The music and the work on the drawing helped her to calm down.
We'll see about that, Monsieur Picard,
she thought as she wrote the message on the new card with an energetic flourish.
You won't get rid of me that quickly
. There was a knock at the door, but she didn't hear it. She regarded her work with satisfaction.

“The spring sometimes fulfills the promise that winter has failed to.”

“Let's hope so,” she said, more to herself. Downstairs there was more knocking—loud, and this time audible—at the door of the store. Rosalie finally heard it. She stopped in surprise and put her pen down. She wasn't expecting anyone. The store was closed, the mail had already arrived, and René had appointments with his clients all day.

“Okay, I'm coming,” she called, twisting her hair up and fastening it with a barrette as she hastily climbed down the narrow wooden steps of the spiral staircase that led to the store.

William Morris, who was lying down there in his basket, raised his head briefly, and then let it sink back on to his white paws.

Outside the door there was an elderly gentleman in a dark-blue raincoat and a matching Paisley scarf knocking impatiently on the glass pane of the door with his stick.

She turned the key, which she'd left in the door, and opened it. “Hey, hey, monsieur, what's all this about? You don't have to break my door down,” she said crossly. “Can't you read? We're closed today.” She pointed to the sign that was hanging on the door. The old gentleman didn't think it necessary to apologize. He raised his bushy white eyebrows and examined her critically.

“Are you Rosalie Laurent?” he then asked.

“Not today,” she replied sharply, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. What was going on here? Some kind of interrogation?

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Just forget it.”

The gentleman with the Paisley scarf seemed confused. Perhaps he was hard of hearing.

“The best thing would be to come back tomorrow, monsieur,” she said, louder this time. “We're closed here today.”