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Authors: Nicolas Barreau

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BOOK: Paris Is Always a Good Idea
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“You don't have to shout,” the gentleman replied with annoyance. “I can still hear very well.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” she replied. “Well then,
au revoir
.” She shut the door and was turning to go when the knocking on the glass resumed. She took a deep breath and turned round again.

“Yes?” she said, after opening the door once more.

He looked at her searchingly. “Well, is it you or not?” he asked.

“It is,” she said. This was beginning to get interesting.

“Oh, that's good,” he said. “At least it's the right store. May I come in?” He took a step into the store.

Puzzled, Rosalie stepped backward. “We're actually closed today,” she repeated.

“Yes, yes. You've already said that, but, you know”—he began to walk about and look around the store—“I've come to Paris specially, in order to see if your drawings really are suitable.” He moved on, and banged into the corner of the big wooden table in the middle of the store; one of the ceramic mugs of pens began to wobble perilously.

“There's not much room here,” he remarked reproachfully.

Rosalie straightened the mug as he reached for a flowery card that lay on the table with his big hand.

“Did you paint this?” he asked sternly.

“No.” She shook her head in wonderment.

He narrowed his eyes. “Just as well.” He put the card back. “That wouldn't do at all.”

“Aha.” Rosalie had no idea what he meant. This well-dressed elderly gentleman was obviously not quite right in the head.

“My cards are in the stand by the door. Did you want to order a wishing card?” she tried once again.

He looked at her once more in amusement with his gleaming blue eyes.

“A wishing card? What on earth is that? Something to do with Santa Claus?”

Rosalie was offended and said nothing. She folded her arms and watched as he approached the postcard stand and took one card after another from the stand, holding each of them close to his eyes with wrinkled brow and then carefully putting them back.

“Not bad at all,” she heard him murmur absently. “Hm … yes … that might do … it really might.”

She coughed impatiently. “Monsieur,” she said, “I don't have all day. If you want to buy a card, then do it now. Or come back another day.”

“But, mademoiselle, I don't want to buy a card.” He looked at her in surprise, pushed his brown leather shoulder bag behind him, and retreated a step. “Actually, I wanted to ask you—”

He got no further. As he stepped back, he had, without noticing, thrust his stick into William Morris's basket. To be more precise, he hadn't noticed William Morris either. The dog, who a second before had been lying there as peaceful and motionless as a ball of wool, yelped with pain and began to bark like mad—which set a fatal chain reaction in motion.

William Morris barked, the old gentleman was shocked, tumbled against the postcard stand, which entangled the strap of his bag, lost his stick—and then everything moved so fast that Rosalie had no chance to prevent the work of destruction that flooded over her with an earsplitting racket like a domino effect and ended with the gentleman in the Paisley scarf stretched out his full length on the stone floor as he grabbed at the—by now empty—postcard stand, which brought the second stand down, so that the cards exploded through the air and then fluttered gently down to earth.

There was a moment of deathly silence. The shock had even stopped William Morris from barking.

“Oh, my God!” Rosalie clapped her hands to her mouth. A second later she was kneeling beside the man—a sky-blue card had landed on his forehead. “Every kiss is like an earthquake,” it said.

“Are you hurt?” Rosalie carefully picked up the card and gazed into the stranger's pain-racked face. He opened his eyes and groaned.

“Oooh … dammit … my back,” he said, trying to get up. “What happened?” Confused, he looked at the twisted wire rack that lay on his chest and all the cards that were scattered on the floor around him.

Rosalie looked at him with concern and freed him from the empty stand. “Don't you know?” Good grief, hopefully the old guy didn't have a concussion. “My dog barked and you knocked over the postcard stands.”

“Yes … that's right.” He seemed to be thinking it out. “The dog. Where did he suddenly spring from? The stupid mutt really gave me a fright!”

“And you gave him a fright—because you put your stick down on his paw.”

“Did I?” He sat up with a groan, rubbing the back of his head.

Rosalie nodded. “Come along, I'll help you. Do you think you can stand up?”

She took his arm and he struggled up with her help.

“Ouch! Dammit!” He reached for the small of his back. “Give me my stick. Goddamn back!”

“Here!”

He took a couple of wary steps, and Rosalie took him over to the old leather armchair that stood in the corner next to the counter. “Sit down for a moment. Would you like a glass of water?”

The man sat down gingerly, stretched out his long legs, and attempted a wry smile as she handed him the glass.

“Such bad luck,” he said, shaking his head. “But at least—Montsignac was right. You're just right for
The Blue Tiger
.”

“Eh … what?” Rosalie opened her eyes wide and chewed her lower lip. It was obviously worse than she'd thought. The man seemed to have been seriously injured. That was all she needed. She felt panic rising within her. She had no indemnity insurance for her dog. What if the man was permanently damaged?

Rosalie was a grand master of the art of anticipation. In any situation she was able to think through every terrible thing that could possibly happen to the bitter end in a matter of seconds. It was just like a movie, only quicker.

In her mind's eye she could already see a horde of enraged relatives arriving in the shop, pointing accusatory fingers at the basket where little William Morris was sitting with a guilty look. She heard the nasal voice of Monsieur Picard, who “had always said that the dog shouldn't be in the store.” But William Morris was as gentle as a lamb. And he hadn't done anything bad. He sat quivering under the table in the store, staring at her wide-eyed.

“It's strange, but you remind me of someone,” said the stranger with the Paisley scarf. “Do you like children's books at all?” He leaned forward a little and groaned.

Rosalie swallowed. The man was completely out of it, that much was clear.

“Listen, monsieur, you just sit quiet for a while, okay? Don't move. I think it would be better if we called a doctor.”

“No, no, it's all right.” He waved her away. “I don't need a doctor.” He loosened his Paisley scarf and breathed deeply.

She looked at him more closely. At the moment he seemed to be perfectly normal again. But appearances could be deceptive.

“Should I … should I call someone to come and pick you up?”

He shook his head again. “Not necessary. I'll just take one of my dumb tablets, and then everything will be all right.”

She thought for a moment.
One of his dumb tablets?
What did he mean by that? Psychotropic drugs? Perhaps it would be better to let someone know.

“Do you live near here?”

“No, no. I used to live in Paris … but that was a long time ago. I came by train.”

Rosalie began to feel even more uneasy. This man had been strange from the very first second. She looked at him dubiously. You were always hearing about people with dementia who escaped and then wandered around the streets looking for their former homes.

“Tell me, monsieur—what's your name? I mean … can you remember your name?” she asked cautiously.

He looked at her, somewhat surprised. And then he began to laugh.

“Listen, mademoiselle, it's not my head that's giving me problems, but my back,” he explained with a grin, and Rosalie could feel herself blushing.

“Forgive me for not introducing myself to you before.” He stretched out a hand, which she took with some hesitation. “Max Marchais.”

Rosalie stared at him in amazement, becoming—if that were possible—even redder. “I don't believe it,” she stammered. “
You're
Max Marchais? I mean,
the
Max Marchais? The children's writer? Who wrote
Plum-Nose the Hare
and
The Little Ice Fairy
?”

“That's exactly the one,” he said, smiling. “Would you by any chance like to illustrate my new children's book, Mademoiselle Laurent?”

Max Marchais had been the hero of her childhood. As a little girl Rosalie had read all his books avidly. She had loved the story of the little Ice Fairy and she knew the adventures of Plum-Nose the Hare almost by heart. The books, which she had so happily taken on holiday and taken to bed in the evenings, showed serious evidence of use: dog-ears, creases, and, yes, even some chocolate stains—and they were still there in the bookshelf in Rosalie's old bedroom. But that she would one day meet Max Marchais in the flesh—that was beyond Rosalie's wildest dream. And that she would one day be asked to illustrate one of his books—that, well, that bordered on the miraculous.

Even if her first encounter with the famous children's author had gone rather turbulently—not to say stormily—the rest of the day went very pleasantly.

Max Marchais had told her about his publisher, a certain Montsignac, who moreover had become aware of Rosalie because his wife, Gabrielle, on an extensive shopping trip through Saint-Germain, had acquired not only a pretty purse from Sequoia in the rue du Vieux-Colombier and three pairs of shoes from Scarpa in the rue du Dragon but also some of Rosalie's wishing cards.

Without causing havoc in the store, however!

After the initial shock had been forgotten and all misunderstandings cleared up, Rosalie had picked up the cards with a laugh and put them in their proper places in the store.

Unfortunately her unexpected guest was unable to give her a hand in doing this, much as he would have liked to. Max Marchais had been unable to get up from his chair. In the end, Rosalie didn't actually call the doctor, but she did telephone René.

“Lumbago” had been René's expert opinion, and he'd contacted Vincent Morat, a chiropractor whose practice was a few streets away. And that was where the groaning children's author was sitting a short while later—or rather, he was lying. On a leather couch. Under the ministrations of Vincent Morat, which were as knowledgeable as they were hearty, the bones of his sacroiliac joint gave several audible cracks—and then Marchais left the practice both amazed and completely free of pain.

He felt ten years younger and stepped out briskly with his stick as he returned to the rue du Dragon to invite the owner of the little postcard store and her boyfriend out for a meal. After all that had happened, that was the least he could do. And he noticed to his surprise that he was genuinely looking forward to it.

He had a good feeling about Rosalie Laurent. And he was free of the pain in his back.

That was what you called killing two birds with one stone.

That night Rosalie could hardly sleep for excitement. Beside her, René was sleeping sweetly—after a jolly liquid evening with two bottles of red wine, an excellent coq au vin and one of the most calorie-rich crème brûlées he'd eaten in a long time, he'd fallen into bed like a stone and begun snoring softly. And behind the kitchen door, William Morris, exhausted by the excitement—he had not come out from under the store table for the rest of the day, eyeing the postcard stand suspiciously—lay asleep, his paws jerking.

Rosalie stared at the ceiling and smiled. Before weariness finally conquered her, she took her blue notebook out from under the bed and made an entry.

The worst moment of the day:

An unfriendly old man comes to the store on my day off and knocks over the postcard stand.

The best moment of the day:

The unfriendly old man is MAX MARCHAIS! And I, Rosalie Laurent, am going to illustrate his new children's book.

 

Five

A few days later, on a springlike day in April, the story of the blue tiger entered Rosalie Laurent's life and changed it forever. Ultimately there is a story in every life that becomes the fulcrum about which it revolves—even if very few people recognize it at first.

In the morning, when Rosalie opened the door of her store and, as usual, looked up, a porcelain sky arched over the rue du Dragon, as delicate and fresh as it can only be after an April shower in Paris. The cobbles in the street were still wet, two little birds were squabbling over a chunk of bread on the sidewalk, blinds were going up on the other side of the street, the odors of the morning wafted over Rosalie's nose, and all at once she had the feeling that today was one of those days when something new was about to begin.

Ever since Max Marchais's extraordinary visit, she had been waiting for the promised mail. She still found it hard to believe that she was the one who was going to illustrate Marchais's new book. She hoped she was not going to disappoint the illustrious author and his publisher. No matter what, she would give it her all. This was her big chance. “Illustrated by Rosalie Laurent.” She felt a boundless surge of pride. This would show her mother. Not to mention Aunt Paulette—oh, poor Aunt Paulette! What a pity she could no longer see anything.

Nobody knew yet that she'd gotten the job. Apart from René, of course. “Cool,” he'd said. “Now you're going to be really famous.” That was something she liked about René. He was happy when she achieved success and had never envied her anything. He wasn't the kind of guy to compare himself to other people and that was—as well as all his sporting activity—the real reason he was so laid-back, even if he definitely never thought about it himself.

BOOK: Paris Is Always a Good Idea
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