Читать книгу The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower - Rebecca Raisin, Rebecca Raisin - Страница 17

Chapter Seven

The four seasons in Paris each had their own charm – I was hard pressed to choose a favorite. The elemental cycles seemed to change at a time I most needed them, as if the planet regenerated itself, which was cue for me to do the same. Layers were peeled back – literally, and figuratively – coats were vanquished, flowers bloomed, fashion became bolder, smiles wider, strides sashayed into saunters, as spring cast its magnificence over the city. A rejuvenation for earth, body, and soul.

The gentle warmth and smudged blue skies were so provocative, they urged even the most sedate to wander the uneven boulevards of Paris with a basket loose over an arm, freeing a person to sniff and select plump, fat tomatoes, ripe fragrant peaches, rounds of creamy camembert, and baguettes so fresh and wholesome you wanted to hug them to your chest like a baby as you dawdled home, stopping only to add a bouquet of lively carnations with egg-yolk yellow buds that screamed sunshine, and the promise of warmer months to come.

I made a mental note to go the markets later and find some fresh ingredients for dinner. I wandered to my balcony to see what was on offer in my own pots. My herbs seemed to double in size overnight, their stems reaching upward in supplication for the sun. It was the season for simple dishes: poached salmon with beurre blanc sauce and a handful of fresh parsley. Newly plucked asparagus with a buttery tarragon topping. Today, in an ode to my maman, who was an incredible cook and had taken many years to teach me the French basics, I made vichyssoise for lunch, which sat cooling on the stove. I snipped a handful of chives to add to the pot of potato and leek soup, her favorite spring recipe, best served cold.

Time in the kitchen was one of life’s greatest pleasures, and aside from when Lilou graced me with her presence, I cooked for one, which did cast a gray cloud over the meal. You could only chat to a soup bowl for so long before your voice echoed dismally back reminding you of your extremely solitary life. Still, I enjoyed the comfort of cooking, and making delicious French meals, slowly, carefully following my maman’s old recipes. And work always called, so really I was lucky to have no ties to pull me every which way.

After rinsing the chives and roughly chopping them I garnished the vichyssoise, and the peppery scent of the herb added a little élégance to the meal.

Even though it was just me and the bowl of soup, I still set the table with the silver vintage cutlery, a crystal wineglass, and a sharply ironed napkin, which I set on my lap. After dusting my hands on the tea towel, I poured myself a glass of crisp sauvignon blanc.

I ate my soup slowly, and tried very hard not to mumble to inanimate objects just to make conversation. Silence was golden, and I had the birds outside chirping away for company so it wasn’t like I was completely and utterly alone. Chirp, chirp, chirp.

Really, if I wanted someone to dine with, I could invite any of my neighbors over, and that would prove less problematic than a relationship with a man. Though, I shied away from getting to know my neighbors, as they rotated so often, what would be the point? Lilou knew them all though and they often asked about her in passing. Then a new group would move in, and they’d ask after her too, even though up until now, she wasn’t actually living here. She had an ease with people, and made friendships quickly.

Lunch consumed, I moved to the balcony with my wine and the newspaper. Once again the front-page headline screamed for attention.

The Postcard Bandit hits Paris again!

A brazen robbery was committed overnight at the exclusive Arles Auction House on the Boulevard Pereire in Paris. The suspect has been dubbed the Postcard Bandit by the press because of his trademark calling card: vintage postcards with famous love poems typed on the back, with the original verses changed to taunt police.

Gendarmes were quick to snuff out the press romanticizing such a criminal act, and warned people about aggrandizing the person responsible. The gendarmes released a photograph of the Audrey Étoile collection stolen in the hopes it will be recognized by collectors around Europe. If you have any information regarding the robbery please contact your local gendarmerie.

My stomach sank. The collection of jewelry pictured was exquisite. We’d been ogling photos online of the upcoming Parisian auction so I recognized them, including a diamond-encrusted timepiece Madame Dupont had her heart set on. The collection was elegant, and timeless, subtly simple, the diamonds set in each the pièce de résistance.

Madame Dupont had joked she’d get that fob watch no matter what she had to do! When I laughed, she’d fallen silent, and reiterated her point. I groped for the memory of exactly what she’d uttered…

Anouk, that watch was once Zelda’s. I must have it for myself…

Madame Dupont was obsessed with the roaring twenties of Paris – the jazz age – and adored Zelda Fitzgerald, heralding her as an icon and a woman who was gifted and creative, but often cast as just a flapper and wife, rather than the talented artist she was in her own right. Madame Dupont had been downright fervent about that fob watch.

I frowned. Was that what her heart-wrenching spiel on the phone had really been about? That she hadn’t given in to love because she wanted her independence and now regretted it? As much as she loved the idea of Zelda, she believed staying single she could accomplish so much more without a man holding her back. But even so, Madame Dupont wouldn’t resort to… I blushed at my treacherous thought – of course she wouldn’t; she couldn’t. She wasn’t a thief!

Once or twice she may have manipulated the truth in the past for reasons known to only her, but she wouldn’t be so shameless or immoral to actually steal! Money mattered little to Madame Dupont because she had plenty of it. She only continued working because she claimed her business kept her young. But committing a brazen robbery? Madame Dupont could easily have bought the entire collection ten times over if she had wanted to!

Shame spread through me. How could I have dreamed up such a thing?

I read the article once more. The Postcard Bandit. Stealing was one thing, mocking the investigators was another. Whoever it was didn’t like authority. Another long afternoon at the shop would give me ample time to think. I thanked the universe I hadn’t been sitting in front of Madame Dupont when I read the newspaper, lest she suspect my mind went straight to her. It was the heady rush of daytime vin blanc, and the angst of missing antiques. That’s all it was. Madame Dupont was as innocent as a newborn baby…

I finished the last of my wine and headed back to the shop, hoping the walk would invigorate me, and clear the detritus in my mind. Madame, the thief! Really.

The late afternoon was quiet. Everyone was soaking up fine weather, and the cloudless sky, so I found my rolodex, oui, I still used a rolodex because I liked the musty smell, and the eggshell-colored cards. I flicked through, scanning the details of my clients, searching for one in particular. I always jotted notes about their purchases, their style, what they desired, so I could help them better. Some cards had only one line, 1920s’ Lalique vases, present for aunt. Others had minuscule scribbles over a handful of cards, my longest and most loyal customers.

I found the card I was looking for. Eva, a woman who collected crystals and other spiritual paraphernalia. She said they had magical powers, and healed any ailment. The different color crystals worked on various emotions: turquoise for balance, amethyst for creativity, and scarlet to conquer fear. The reason I remembered those colors and what they represented was that Eva told me time and again. They were traits I needed to work on.

I dialed her number.

“Anouk, darling! What have you got for me? Yellow, perhaps for enlightenment, because I’ve been seeing the world so clearly lately!”

“Yellow, perhaps… I have some pictures to send you. Next week, there’s an auction, full of crystals from an astrology shop that closed down. All sorts of colors, and sizes being sold in bundles. As far as I can see, there’s been very little interest in it. I thought I might bid for you – what do you think?” A group of women huddled outside, their faces pressed against the window as they pointed to various curios while slurping milkshakes through striped straws.

She shrieked, “You are too good to me, Anouk! Oui, send me the pictures, and I’ll tell you which bundle I need most.”

“I think they’ll each go for perhaps a hundred Euros per lot, maybe less.”

An audible gasp rang out. “It amazes me people just don’t see the value! But it’s great for me. Let me flip your tarot, and see what’s in your future because I know it must only be good things.”

“Merci,” I laughed. There wasn’t a dealer in Paris who’d bother with a sale like this, especially an auction they’d have to attend in person. But for me it was all part of the business. I had customers who spent the equivalent of a small house, and others the cost of a dinner out. They were all important to me. I could see the relevance in everything, from collecting postcards, to candelabras, or pianos. We each desired different things, driven either by budget or simply love.

Eva always read my tarot, and I played along, never really believing but not disbelieving either.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh. Ah.”

“What is it, Eva?” I asked, staring out the window of the shop, watching the peach roses sway in the breeze.

She gasped. “Anouk, you have to tread very carefully. Your life…it’s about to take a strange turn.”

“How so?”

She took a long time to answer. “The cards are showing me some kind of altercation and you’re in the middle of it. All I know is, you’re about to become embroiled in something that you can’t extract yourself from. Be careful, Anouk.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, provoking shivers up my spine.

The door opened suddenly, sending a gust of spring air into the shop, and in he walked. Tristan. I nodded hello, and gripped the phone a touch tighter.

“Anouk,” she said. “Are you there? I haven’t scared you have I?”

Eva’s readings were usually lighthearted. A joke about soup for one, and some lucky guesses about antiques I’d win, and road trips I’d take, but this was new. Perhaps she could see the quarrel from the day before.

“No, you haven’t scared me. I’m sure I’ll be fine, Eva. But thank you for the warning.”