The only establishment that could rival a bookshop or a library, in my opinion, was a good stationery shop. The Pen Corner, however, was something of a hallowed ground when it came to the humble writing instrument. In full prominence on the corner of the street, the Edwardian building had a tower with a clock at the top which told me I was unfashionably early. The black and gold lettering of the shop sign, along with the mosaic-style glass panels above the windows, held all the promise of a hushed library. I had intended to wait for Martha outside, but my willpower lasted all of two minutes. I spotted a Mont Blanc pen in the window that begged closer inspection.
Once inside, I felt my shoulders relax and my nose picked up that distinctive scent of paper, leather and ink. Glass cases discreetly displayed rows of Parker and Cross pens along with calligraphy nibs, like expensive jewels. Behind the counter were leather satchels that brought to mind Hemingway’s lost novel. Would it have been kept inside a leather satchel just like this? That’s what every MA Lit student assumed as they strolled around campus with an exact replica slung over their shoulder.
Two or three other customers milled around and as I turned to see if I could find my pen, I saw her, standing in the doorway, unsure of herself.
‘Martha, you made it.’ Well, no one could say I ever missed an opportunity to point out the obvious.
She just smiled in response and slowly let the door close behind her. ‘What are we doing here?’
‘An existentialist. I knew it.’
She looked at me askance.
‘Just a little humour, no need to be alarmed.’ God, why did I sound like such a fucking weirdo? It seemed I had lost all ability to speak like a normal human.
‘Can I help, sir?’ came a voice from behind the counter.
‘Yes! I mean, yes please. I was looking at the Mont Blanc in the window.’
‘Ah, Le Petit Prince,’ he said, anticipating my taste. The sign of an excellent salesman.
‘Why did you bring me here?’ Martha asked, when he was out of earshot.
‘It’s magnificent, isn’t it? Although this isn’t the place – I mean, we’ll be going someplace else after this.’
‘Okay.’
She sounded anything but okay.
‘Here we are, sir. The Meisterstück Le Petit Prince edition.’
It was beautiful. A burgundy-coloured case with a tiny gold star on the clip.
‘As you can see, it’s engraved with a quote from the book.’
I read it aloud. ‘“On ne voit bien qu’avec le c?ur.”’
‘You speak French?’ she asked.
‘Just a smattering. I spent a summer working in a gite in the South of France.’
‘Okay,’ she repeated, her eyes widening before she stared at her feet.
‘It means that one sees clearly only with the heart.’
I could see that the words struck her in a way that I hadn’t predicted. Just like in the park, when I told her the story of the lost manuscripts, she became truly moved by it. I had grown used to the indulgent smiles and nods from ‘lay people’ when I talked about my passion, but she seemed genuinely interested. I struggled with the instinct to puff out my chest with pride. I don’t care what anyone said, quoting Antoine de Saint-Exupéry was impressive in any man’s language.
‘Shall I wrap it up for you?’ said the shopkeeper, interrupting the moment.
‘Erm, yes. How much is it?’
‘€799 inclusive of VAT.’
I gulped. I had wanted to impress her and now I had backed myself into a financially constrained corner. I didn’t know how to get out of it and in the end told him that it was a gift I would buy as a reward once I’d completed my paper. He simply stared at me with the dead eyes of a shopkeeper who knew I would never return.
‘But you know what, I will have one of those Moleskine notebooks!’ I said, assuming this would erase the entire episode from everyone’s memory. Except mine.
Chapter Thirteen
OPALINE
Paris, 1921
I immediately got up, packed all of my books and other belongings into my bag and fled down the stairs. I thought if I could just make it to the shop, Sylvia would know what to do, how to help. I waved away Madame Rousseau’s offer of breakfast and pushed the outer door open only to find myself coming face to face with my brother, who was waiting for me. He was not alone.
‘Here she is,’ he said, a new black walking cane in his grasp. ‘You see, Bingley, she is overcome with emotion.’
I stood there, open-mouthed, like an idiot, trying to take it all in. There was my brother, triumphant and relaxed, and this Bingley character looking eager and holding a large bouquet of flowers.
‘Well, don’t just stand there, man, give her the blasted things before they wilt!’
‘Miss Carlisle, I am delighted to finally make your acquaintance,’ he said, handing me the blooms.
Still, I said nothing, but gripped tightly the handle of my bag and wondered if I could outrun them.
‘Now don’t worry, Sister, good old Bingley here bears you no grudge for standing him up on the last occasion you two lovebirds were to meet.’
I couldn’t fathom his tone of voice. It was not my brother speaking but some imposter. With endless charm.
‘How did you find me?’ I asked, finally.
‘How do you think? Your dear friend Jane found a picture of you in a magazine and her husband was only too delighted to share it with your proud family.’
He must have seen the look on my face, how foolish I had been.
‘Oh, come now,’ he said, taking my arm firmly in his grasp. ‘We are men of the world, after all. We understand that you needed to spread your wings before marriage. Have one last hurrah. Isn’t that so, Bingley?’
‘Indeed, indeed,’ he agreed, eyeing me up and down as though I were his next meal. He was tall and ruddy with a hooked nose and a receding hairline. They both smelled of brandy, which explained their exaggerated behaviour. Everything seemed outrageously strange – the juxtaposition of my brother and his associate in my Paris. I hardly noticed them guiding me towards a hotel.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked. ‘I have to go to work.’
‘Work! We have a socialist in our midst, Bingley!’ my brother continued in this strange jovial voice that didn’t suit him. It was like the wolf talking to Red Riding Hood. ‘Of course, I should call you Lord Bingley,’ he said, ushering us both ahead of him and into a grand-looking foyer.
‘This is all very well—’ I began, but Lyndon once again hushed me with his effervescent monologue.
‘Champagne, we must celebrate!’
He gestured to a waiter who was serving an elderly couple their coffees in the foyer. I could tell he was insulted by my brother’s arrogance, but he simply nodded his head and arranged some chairs at a table for us.