Ex-Libris

Some cities are book cities. Now, for instance, New York is most definitely a book city; San Francisco used to be, but sadly, not so much these days. London is obviously high on the list, at least that’s what Londoners would tell you, but one city stands alone, elegantly high above all others. Paris has been a book city since before the arrival of the printing press, and in this digital-dominated world, it’s still awash with books. It’s just another reason for Alice to love it.

She could not think of another city where a bookshop draws tourists from around the world, many of whom couldn’t tell you the last time they turned a page. What other city has a river lined with ancient little book stalls, their quality might be disputed, but no one would argue their pedigree. She would often argue with friends that there wasn’t another city where English sat so comfortably with the local language on the printed page.

Alice was not a tourist; she was not just passing through. Paris may not have been the city of her birth, but it was her home. She embraced it in the way that only a Franco-Mad Anglo-Saxon can. It always amused her native-born friends; some would even admit that it actually annoyed them. No one likes a mirror being held up to their cynicism, especially by someone with such enthusiasm.

Alice loved books, especially old books. She had a theory: if you didn’t like books and dogs, then you were probably unlikely to be her friend, let alone her lover. At a stretch, she’d give you consideration if you liked cats, but the rest of your package had better be more than just okay.

She liked nothing better than spending a Saturday walking her dog, stopping to sip a coffee, and browsing the bookshops. If she had time, she’d even glance at the bouquinistes along the river. She rarely found a treasure in the dark green boxes, but she always lived in hope.

She was far more likely to find something of interest at one of the endless flea markets that pop up in the streets of Paris; a stall of musty nineteenth-century leather-bound volumes might just hold an overlooked first edition or a collection of long-forgotten poems. It was always worth a look.

Among the shops, she had her favourites. Not for her that famous one with the famous name that sat across from the river. Her preferred haunts were in back streets, overlooked by selfie-taking tourists. And there was one in particular that was always on her Saturday morning routine.

It might seem like a cliché, but it was tucked into a little street behind a church on the Left Bank. The owner was Canadian, and he was no fool; nothing got past his well-focused eyes, but if you were a favourite, he would always slice the premium off the marked price. Alice was a favourite.

She entered the shop, squeezing past stacks of books that made the doorway almost impossible to navigate. Dave liked it that way; it kept all but the dedicated away.

“Morning, Dave,” she said with a smile.

“Morning, Alice,” Dave said, looking up from a book he was pricing.

“How’s little Gertie this morning?” He stepped out from behind the counter to pat the little terrier.

“She’s as happy a pampered pooch can be,” she laughed. “Any treasures come in?”

Dave thought for a moment. The week had been rather quiet.

“Nothing that you’d fancy,” he replied, then stopped and went over to some half-collapsed boxes. “This box came in. I’ve given it the once-over, but you’re welcome to have a dig through. No treasure, though.”

“Thanks,” she said with little enthusiasm. “Can Gertie sit with you?”

Gertie took the hint and trotted after the bookshop owner. Dave always had a treat or two hidden behind the counter.

Alice squatted down, taking up most of the walkway. The shop was close to empty, so she didn’t feel rushed. Pulling the books out, she noted with boredom that they were mostly old romance novels and long-outdated cookbooks. She made little stacks on the floor, each a tiny memorial to unrequited love and over-complicated 1970s dinner parties.

She pulled another handful from the box; these were neither of love nor food. They were novels — classic novels, the sort you find everywhere. She flicked through them; most she knew and already owned in one form or another. She picked up a copy of Nana by Zola. It was almost as old as the story itself. She had read it long ago; it had been one of her Paris sparks, and she ran her hand over the leather-bound cover. Maybe it was time to make a return visit to the novel; she no longer owned a copy.

Flicking the pages, she stopped. The book had opened on a boldly printed ex-libris. This would not have been unusual, except that the owner’s name was her own, and the address, written in a fluid hand, was her Parisian apartment.

She sat for a moment, the little stacks around her, customers gently stepping over her. The world had gone silent.

“Find something?” Dave called out from behind the counter.

“I don’t know,” was all she said.

Dave went back to serving a customer.

She put the book aside, flicked through the other novels, but all were without a bookplate; Nana was unique. She returned the little stacks to the box and picked up the Zola novel. The leather felt warm and familiar in her hand.

“How much, Dave?”

“Hmmm, how about a couple of euros?” he suggested.

She dug into her bag and slid a two-euro coin across the counter.

“Where did the box come from?” she asked quietly.

“Deceased estate from down south,” he replied. “I bought it and a few others, sight unseen. Pretty much all junk. Glad you found something. Nice old copy by the look of it, but not much call anymore for Zola.”

“Pity,” was all she said as she took Gertie’s lead and stepped out into the sunlight.

The morning had drifted away, as they tend to in this city. It was time for lunch, she said out loud to Gertie, who quickened her pace in anticipation.

Alice chose a nondescript café. She liked to pick a random place; habits were useful, but not essential. She and Gertie sat inside, away from the inevitable tourists. The dog waited patiently, knowing her share would come soon enough.

Lunch was ordered, and wine, of course. There was no point living in Paris if you didn’t actually live. It was more than a motto for her; it was a statement.

While she waited, she opened the book and stared at her name, half expecting she had misread it in the bookshop. It was her name, and it was her address; there was no denying it. She read the opening chapter. It all came back to her, and its honesty was refreshing, though now that she was older she could see its faults. She closed the book as lunch was set in front of her.

Glancing at the closed cover, she smiled to herself. When you are over one hundred and forty years old, a few cracks can be forgiven.

With both she and Gertie satisfied, they left the café. She didn’t bury the book in her bag, but held it in her hand, the leather warming in her grasp as she made her way home. At her apartment building, she glanced at the name, silently confirming it was spelled exactly as it was on the ex-libris. Maison des Masques was written in gold Belle Époque letters.

It was something she had never really given much thought to.

She climbed the stairs to her apartment, and Gertie ran to her water bowl, glad to be home. Alice sat in the window, opened the book again, and read through the afternoon.

As the afternoon slipped by, the sun became cloaked in clouds; the clouds turned to rain — the sort that adds something to a Paris window. Alice stretched out on her seat, closed the book, stood, scanned the bookcase, and slid it into its space.