The narrow street gives no hint of where it has come from and where it is going. The buildings that line it loom over the occasional passersby, encouraging them only to hurry on their way and not speculate about what might be behind the doors. This is the land of troubadours and heresy, foie gras and truffles. Nothing in guidebooks is of any use. To get answers, one needs connections.
Behind a cloudy window set into the front of one of these buildings, a cat perches on a shelf, watching for the mice that often run along the window frame. Beside her are five books lined up side by side. Not recent titles, nor even particularly interesting. The dust jackets are faded and their edges curled. I look at my map and the Post-it I have stuck on it with the address — 45 rue Catarine. This has to be it.
A small card beside the door mounted in a brass frame reads:
Cristophe Durand
Scholar, Bookfinder, Bookseller
M,T,W 10-12, 2-4 and by appointment
“He knows more than anyone else,” the man in the café had said. “Runs in the family, you know.”
Well, I didn’t know but I have always wanted to find something wonderful in a flea market — the perfect lamp or an undocumented early Picasso — and an old bookshop is just as good. There is something about this street, though, that makes me think a man in a top hat and walking stick might come round the corner. I feel out of place in my jeans.
I look again at the little card. “Scholar, Bookfinder, Bookseller.” It will have to do. I glance up as though expecting someone to lean out over the wrought iron balcony. There is only the light on the cracked stucco. I turn the heavy knob. The door sticks and I have to put my weight against it. It scrapes open, jangling a little bell that hangs from the frame.
The room is lined with bookshelves on all sides and each shelf is jammed with books, standing up, lying down, and, towards the floor, jumbled willy-nilly. On top of the shelves, below the ceiling are bits of stone carved in strange shapes — grimacing faces, hybrid animals, and fantastic plants curling around twisting birds. The room smells of dust, leather, and tobacco smoke.
Piles of inventories and invoices cover a desk. The cat jumps onto one of the piles and waits for me to explain myself. In a sudden panic I realize that no one in the world knows where I am. Will the man in the café remember he talked to me when someone comes round asking officially concerned questions? Why did I ever think anyone would tell me anything? I have only the one clue to go on and no one on any of the forums ever heard of such a thing. I think of the woman in the hotel who gave me a blank look as though my question was only to be expected from someone “not from here.”
Anyway the cat is freaking me out, so I turn for the door again when a small, wiry man wearing a smock and beret emerges from the back carrying a stack of books. He evidently does not expect to see me, in spite of the jangling bell, and he looks at the cat as though they both think I might be some kind of mutant mouse.
He humphs a greeting through teeth that clench his pipe, crosses the room, and begins moving books about to make inadequate space for the new ones. I stand waiting, my fingers playing with the strap of my backpack. I might be a new and none-too-welcome potted plant for all he pays attention to me.
“No wonder he has no customers,” I think.
No point leaving now, though, so I say, “Sir, excuse me … “
“What is it?” He does not pause in his work.
“I am looking for something and an old man at the café told me …”
“An old man?” he says, rather more sarcastically than strictly necessary.
“Well,” I say. "He was sitting by the fire. I thought ..."
The man shoves books onto the shelf, his back to me. I am getting nowhere but I try one more time.
“He told me about the wine. He said I should talk to you.”
He does look at me then, taking the pipe out of his mouth. I have said something that got his attention.
“I assume,” he says, “you have come about the ghost.”
