Almost Mine

Apartment buildings are shadow lands. To the uninitiated, they are just little houses stacked on top of each other, but to those of us who dwell within, each one is a tiny town. Doors slam, people arrive and depart unseen, conversations are almost heard.

Here in Paris, we like to think of them as little villages. Each one has a village gossip, a self-appointed mayor, a jack-of-all-trades who’ll fix a dripping tap and a door that won’t lock.

Of course, most little communities have a few odd-bods and loners who keep to themselves, who don’t know their co-inhabitants beyond a nod and a polite “bonjour.” It’s not that I’m shy or secretive; it’s just that in the six months I’ve been living on the Rue du Poteau, I haven’t actually had the opportunity to stand on the landing and have a chat about the weather or the price of a decent coffee.

I’m not the most observant person in the world, so I can’t tell you when it appeared. It definitely wasn’t there when I popped out for a morning coffee and a croissant, and it wasn’t there when I returned an hour later. But when I decided to run some errands and treat myself to a café lunch, it was there.

A square of white, folded paper, almost floating on my polished floorboards. I stood mid-step, hesitant. My first thought was that I’d been playing my music too loud and a neighbour was complaining. I bent down and picked it up; there was no clue on the outside. I unfolded the paper. The writing was handwritten, and if I had to guess, it was feminine.

It was in French, and although my French is average, the message was simple: Meet me tonight at eight o’clock at Le Café de la Poste.

So, it might have been simple, but I had no idea who it was from. The “i” in “moi” had a little heart instead of a dot.

I stood for a moment trying to guess at its author, but since moving to Paris, I hadn’t actually met anyone, despite my best efforts. It was sure to sort itself out at eight o’clock tonight. Note tucked in pocket, I headed out to complete my morning, but with this little riddle sitting quietly in my pocket, I didn’t have the patience for lunch.

The afternoon was full of distractions; work has an annoying habit of getting in the way of life, even in Paris. It was late winter, and the evening darkness came early. I noted the time, and then I noted the time again.

The café was only a ten-minute walk, and no rain was predicted. How does one dress for a rendezvous? Was it a meeting or was it a date? I’d managed to put off thinking about eight o’clock all afternoon, but now, with the clock tipping past seven, it had become unavoidable. If the note had been an animal, it would have been an elephant, and it was sitting patiently in the corner.

A man in Paris wears a uniform, a winter uniform. It was time to put on this uniform: dark grey wool trousers, a black wool turtleneck, a grey wool overcoat and, of course, a scarf. I always choose bottle green; it’s my one stand against dark shadows. I can pass anywhere in the city and be truly anonymous.

I picked up the note. It had been sitting in the corner on a side table. I glanced again at the message, shrugged my shoulders and headed out.

I turned from the Rue du Poteau onto the Rue Montcalm. It’s a quiet street, as the name would suggest, but rather flat. It always makes me smile. The Café de la Poste sits around the corner on a much busier street, and by the time I approached, it was a beacon of light in the evening gloom.

Inside was warm and inviting. As a waiter approached, I scanned the room looking for a face I knew. Although there was a scattering of women and men sitting on their own, I didn’t recognise a familiar face among them. I explained that I was expecting someone and that a table for two would be perfect. He sat me beside the window. It would be perfect to spot the writer of the message as they approached. I ordered wine.

The French are almost unique in their relaxed attitude to solo drinking and dining. No one thinks it odd for a person to sit in a bistro at eight o’clock and enjoy a meal with only themselves for company. I gave the room another, more detailed inspection. There were two other men on their own, both partway through their meals and deep in their own thoughts. Obviously, neither was waiting for company.

The solo women — there were three of them — were a mixed assortment. One was elderly and deep into her glass of red wine, and she was not actually on her own; a shaggy hound was asleep at her feet. Another was a young woman, possibly a student, her head down in a book. The third was close to my age, an untouched white wine in front of her and her eyes on the door. She was not someone I recognised, and although I tried to make eye contact, she kept focused on the entrance.

An hour passed; one wine turned into two. People came and went. No more lone customers entered, and only the elderly woman and the woman with her white wine remained. She had become increasingly restless but never looked in my direction. I decided my anonymous message composer was a no-show. I paid my bill and, with a backward glance at the woman, left the café.

As I retraced my steps along Rue Montcalm, I felt anything but calm. I was surprised at my disappointment. I resisted the urge to return to the café and wait the night out. For now, I was caught between the café and my apartment. I stood on the street in hesitation for a moment, uncertain for the first time since arriving in Paris. The French have a name for it — entre-deux. It means “between-ness,” and right now that’s how I felt. The wine had done its job, and I decided action needed to be taken. When in doubt, visit a local bar. Le Nant, around the corner from my apartment, does the job every time, and I know all the faces.

Feeling a little more grounded, it was time to go home. Thoughts of the note were filed in the Who knows? Who cares? drawer of my mind. The reassuring, solid face of my apartment building loomed large. The front door lock, long broken, was, as usual, ajar.

I climbed the stairs to my third-floor apartment. Turning the staircase corner, a figure was crouched at my front door, slipping a note under the gap. She looked over her shoulder at the sound of my footsteps. It was the woman from the bar.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Who are you?” was her reply.

“I live here.”

She looked confused as she stood up, glancing around at the four doors on the landing.

“I thought Philippe lived here.”

I pointed to the door opposite mine. She rolled her eyes.

“Sorry,” she said, then added, looking at the door, “If you don’t mind, can I have the note back?”

“Sure.” I opened the door, picked up the note and handed it to her. She studied me for a moment.

“Do I know you? You look familiar.”

“Unfortunately, no.” I laughed. “I just look like the sort of guy you’d meet in a café.”

She frowned, still puzzled, slipped the note under Philippe’s door and descended the stairs. For a moment, she looked back, trying to place me. She shook her head and was gone.