Paris Is Always a Good Idea Read online

  “No, I’m from New York,” he explained.

  “Aaaah,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “An American! Well, monsieur, perhaps you should know that in Paris it’s quite normal to have your dog in your store. C’est tout à fait normal. We have a more relaxed view of things here. Come to think of it, all the shops I know have dogs in them,” she lied.

  “Oh, really?” said the man from New York. “I suppose that explains the lamentable state of your streets. I hope it wasn’t your sweet little dog who produced the sweet little mess that I just trod in.”

  Rosalie looked at his brown suede shoes and suddenly became aware of the acrid smell of dog poop.

  “You’re right, it’s still a bit smelly,” she said, smiling even more broadly. “But I can assure you that my dog had nothing to do with it. He’s already done his business in the park.”

  “That’s reassuring. Then I’d better not go for a walk in the park today.”

  “As you wish. But here we say that it’s lucky to step in dog mess.”

  “Nobody needs that much luck,” he retorted, the corners of his mouth twisting sardonically. “Anyway…” He looked around the shop as if searching for something, and Rosalie decided to change the subject.

  “How can I help you, monsieur?”

  “You have a book there in your window display,” he said, taking a random paperweight from the table and weighing it in his hand. “The Blue Tiger. I’d like to take a look at it.”

  “Of course, monsieur,” fluted Rosalie, and then she went to the counter and took one of the books from the pile. “Here you are.” She handed him the book and pointed to the only chair in the store—in the corner near the counter. “You can sit down if you like.”

  He took the book, flopped into the chair, and crossed his legs. Rosalie saw that his eye was momentarily caught by the big poster behind the counter.

  He looked over at her and raised his eyebrows in some surprise.

  “Is that your book?”

  She nodded proudly. “You could say so. I made it together with Max Marchais. He’s a very well-known children’s author in France; I’m the illustrator.” All at once she felt it would be right and proper to introduce herself. “Rosalie Laurent,” she said.

  He nodded briefly in her direction, and then obviously felt obliged to give her his name.

  “Robert Sherman,” he replied curtly and opened the book.

  “We had a reading here in the store two days ago. Do you know Max Marchais?” asked Rosalie with interest.

  The American shook his head and immersed himself in the pages.

  Rosalie leaned on the counter, observing him unobtrusively. Robert Sherman seemed both nonplussed and keyed up at the same time, as he ran his fingers through his curly, dark-blond hair. He had shapely, sinewy hands with long fingers. She saw his eyes flickering back and forth, she noticed the vertical crease between his eyebrows, his straight, somewhat fleshy nose, the mouth that was pursed in concentration as he read, and the little dimple in his chin. The way he read and leafed through the pages led her to believe that he often had a book in his hands. Perhaps he worked at the university. Or in publishing, she suddenly thought. Perhaps he was a publisher like Montsignac, on the lookout for a good children’s book? She thought for a moment and then rejected the idea. Too unlikely. He was probably just an American tourist spending his summer vacation in Paris who was looking for a present for his child.

  “Are you looking for a present for your child?” she blurted out, hurriedly adding: “The book is admirably suited for children from five upwards. And you also learn a bit about Paris”—she tried to see it from a tourist’s point of view—“the Eiffel Tower, the bois de Boulogne—”

  “No, no, I don’t have any children,” he interrupted irritably. He shook his head again, and she could see his expression darkening.

  Didn’t he like the story? But if so, why was he reading every page almost compulsively? Peculiar. That was what her gut feeling told her. Peculiar. This Monsieur Sherman from New York was a little strange, she decided as the door opened again and a new customer came in. It was Madame de Rougemont, an elderly lady from the 7th arrondissement who never left her house without gloves and always wore her chin-length, ash-blond, dyed hair in carefully arranged waves. If Grace Kelly hadn’t been killed so early on she would definitely have looked like Madame de Rougemont when she got older. Almost every week the old lady came to the rue du Dragon and bought something in Luna Luna; Rosalie wished her a friendly good day.

  “Oh,” said Madame de Rougemont. “Your doorbell’s not working.” She looked up with interest to where the remains of the broken cord were hanging.

  “No.” Rosalie looked a little embarrassedly toward the man in the chair. “The bell … well the bell unfortunately gave up the ghost and made a break for it, you might say.” No reaction from the chair. “What can I do for you, Madame de Rougemont?”

  The old lady smiled and spread her delicate hands in their openwork, cream leather gloves. “Oh, my dear, I’m just browsing. I need a present for a friend and some pretty cards. You always have such lovely things it’s really difficult to decide.” She swept the table with the writing materials, postcard boxes, and accessories with a glance, and looked curiously at the frowning gentleman in the suede jacket who was still reading The Blue Tiger and had paid not the slightest attention to her arrival.

  “The reading on Wednesday was really charming,” she said, a little louder than necessary. “A wonderful book. So … magical, isn’t it? I bought it straight away for my little niece. She has a lively imagination, just like little Héloïse in your story.”

  While Madame de Rougemont tripped over to the card stands and absent-mindedly pulled out a couple of cards, Rosalie sat down on her revolving chair behind the counter and looked over expectantly at her other customer, who was still reading. Suddenly the man in the chair clapped the book shut with a bang and stood up abruptly.

  “And … do you like the story?” asked Rosalie. For some reason she would have found it nice if the taciturn American had been enthusiastic about the story—and above all the illustrations, of course.

  Robert Sherman fixed his eyes on her, and Rosalie was almost a little scared when she saw the restrained anger flashing in them.

  “Well, Mademoiselle … Laurent,” he replied slowly. “I like the story very much. I might even say extraordinarily much. You know, I love the story of the blue tiger. For reasons I do not have the slightest inclination to explain here, it is a very important story for me. The funny thing is that I already know it.”

  “What … what do you mean?” asked Rosalie, who didn’t have the first idea what he was getting at.

  “Just what I say. I’ve known this story for many years. Since I was five, to be exact. It is, if you will, my story.” He slammed the book down on the counter making Rosalie start with shock. “And I wonder how shameless someone has to be to copy a story word for word and then publish it as their own?!”

  “But … Monsieur Sherman! That cannot be. What are you talking about?” Rosalie responded in disbelief. “Max Marchais wrote that story and the book has only just appeared. So there’s no way you can already know it. I’m sure you’re making some kind of a mistake.”

  “I’m making a mistake?” he repeated furiously, turning pale with anger. “Don’t try that with me. Do you know what this is called? Theft of intellectual property, Mademoiselle Laurent!”

  Rosalie slipped down from her revolving chair and supported herself on the counter with both hands. “Attends! Just stop right there, monsieur. You just waltz in here and claim that Max Marchais is a thief? Who are you, anyway? Are you trying to claim that one of the best-known children’s authors in France needs to steal anyone’s ideas? Why should he?”

  “Well, it probably wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened. Perhaps the good Monsieur Marchais has just run out of ideas.”

  Rosalie felt herself going red. She was not going to all
ow this jumped-up American to insult the author she admired so much.

  “Monsieur Sherman, that will do! I know Max Marchais personally, and I can assure you that he’s an absolutely honest and honorable person. Your accusations are totally fanciful.”

  “Oh yes? Is that so? Well, you’re probably both in this together.”

  “You cannot be serious!” Rosalie gasped for air. “Do you know what, Monsieur Sherman? You’re probably suffering from paranoia,” she spat crossly. “Americans are well known for their tendency to believe the most far-fetched conspiracy theories.”

  “A little less prejudice if you please, mademoiselle! Why don’t you ask your honorable Monsieur Marchais where he got his story?” His tone was poisonous.

  Rosalie stared at Robert Sherman with as much distaste as if he had just transformed himself from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde. How could she have imagined even for a second that this obnoxious jerk was attractive?

  “I’ll do that, monsieur, don’t you worry. And I already know the answer.” Rosalie angrily swished her long braid over her shoulder.

  “Well, I hope you don’t have a nasty experience. Because I can prove that the story belongs to me.”

  Rosalie rolled her eyes and put a hand to her forehead. She was clearly dealing with one of those people who was always right.

  “Okay. I see,” she said ironically. “That’s fine. You can prove it. Is that all, or is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, I’m afraid that’s not all, not by a long shot. You can’t fob me off like that. I’ll take you to court. I’m an attorney with Sherman and Sons, and you’ll be hearing from me!”

  “I can hardly wait!” Goodness, he was a crazy lawyer. She might have realized. She watched him with a cold smile as he took his wallet out of his jacket pocket, pulled out a fifty-euro bill, threw it on the counter, and snatched up the book.

  “Keep the change,” he snarled.

  “Hello?! Who do you think you are? Don’t they teach you any manners where you come from? You’re not in a burger bar here, monsieur. Keep your stupid money and stop your imperialistic posturing. You can have the book for free!” shouted Rosalie and threw the bill at him. It sailed unnoticed to the tiled floor.

  At that moment something clattered. Madame de Rougemont had just dropped a box of postcards in shock.

  “It’s nothing,” said the old lady, frozen like a pillar of salt as two pairs of enraged eyes turned toward her. “Nothing. Please don’t let me interrupt.”

  Robert Sherman turned back to the counter.

  “Imperialistic? Well, well. I don’t know your views on the matter, Mademoiselle Laurent, but I at least pay for things that don’t belong to me,” he responded bitingly. “Have you ever heard of copyright? Or are you a bit more relaxed about that as well in France?”

  “Now you’ve gone too far! Get out, this minute!” cried Rosalie, her voice beginning to crack.

  William Morris was no longer feeling comfortable in his basket. Things had definitely gotten too loud. He gave a jerk and began to bark excitedly as he heard the shrill tones of his mistress.

  It could be that Robert Sherman was taking “this minute” too literally. Could be that the little dog got in his way, yapping and circling round him like the Indians did round the cowboys’ covered wagons in the Old West. Whatever it was, the American, in trying to storm out of the store and at the same time avoid the little yelping beast, managed to pull over one of the postcard stands, which fell to the ground behind him with a thunderous crash.

  “Damned mutt!” cursed Sherman as he, without even turning round, flung open the door and stormed out into the street.

  “Oh great!” said Rosalie. “What a performance!” With a few strides she reached the door. “Idiot!” she screamed after the man in the suede jacket as his long strides took him away into the distance.

  Ten

  Robert Sherman couldn’t remember when he’d last been so angry. The buildup of adrenaline in his body was phenomenal.

  With great strides he stamped down along the rue du Dragon toward the boulevard Saint-Germain, his eyes fixed on the ground—and not just on the lookout for possible dog piles. Perhaps Rachel had not been so unfair in her opinion of Frenchwomen. How uppity and insolent that little salesgirl had been! “We’re not in a burger bar!” “Don’t they teach you manners where you come from?” As if he were some kind of uncouth klutz from the Midwest!

  He shook his head. She had looked at him with her big, dark eyes and made a total mockery of him. “‘We’re a bit more relaxed about things like that here, monsieur!’” he muttered indignantly to himself. Such arrogance! As if he were nothing but an uptight petit bourgeois and she, as a Frenchwoman, had a monopoly on the free spirit. Liberté toujours, was that it? Dog poop and plagiarism—he could well do without that sort of freedom of spirit!

  “Stupid French cow!” he burst out furiously, almost bumping into a woman who was coming toward him along the narrow sidewalk with her shopping, trailing a little boy behind her.

  The woman looked at him disapprovingly and he heard the boy asking, “What’s wrong with the man, Maman?”

  Yes, what was wrong with the man? Robert clutched the book to himself and tramped on. That Rosalie Laurent hadn’t even felt it necessary to apologize. Not when the bell fell on his head, not when that little yappy beast attacked him. Attacked him twice! Just think of that! He could be glad that he hadn’t been bitten, as he had that time as a child when the Millers’ fox terrier from next door had jumped up at him and bitten his lip, and he’d fainted for the first time in his life. Ever since then he’d been wary of those little yapping creatures: they were particularly devious. A good thing he’d been quick enough, otherwise he’d have had to see about a tetanus injection! He could already see the nurse—who looked strikingly like the owner of the postcard store—tapping on a syringe of dubious quality, her eyebrows raised ironically. “We’re more relaxed about these things here, monsieur.”

  Why did these words get to him so much? Perhaps because it was evidence of a laxity that made a mockery of any kind of discernment and responsibility. The business with the book was really beyond belief!

  He’d seen it in the window display totally by chance, and a strange mixture of curiosity and confusion had made his heart beat faster. When he entered the little store, he had nearly fallen over. And when he left in a hurry as well. He could have seriously injured himself. Not to mention all the rest.

  But that didn’t bother the stationery store’s owner—who obviously had no problem adorning herself with borrowed plumes—in the slightest. Instead, she’d shouted “idiot” after him—he’d heard it quite clearly.

  The safety regulations in this city left a lot to be desired, in Robert’s opinion. And the politeness!

  He turned onto the boulevard Saint-Germain and marched automatically in the direction of the Sorbonne. He’d actually originally intended to take a look around the university campus. In the next few days he wanted to arrange a meeting with the dean. But for some reason he wasn’t particularly interested in the Sorbonne at this moment. The unexpected discovery of the book had stirred him up at least as much as the store owner’s reaction had enraged him.

  The exercise did him good. Gradually his strides slowed down and his heartbeat became calmer. He left the noisy boulevard and turned into the bustle of the little streets of the Latin Quarter.

  When he came to Paris, he’d been expecting anything and everything. It was going to be a time out. He wanted to think about all the things that were worrying him, at leisure and without any outside influence. He’d wanted to look around this city that was no more to him than a childhood memory. He wanted to climb the Eiffel Tower once more in memory of his mother. He wanted—of course!—to go to Shakespeare and Company, to browse among the books and imbibe the atmosphere of that almost vanished time when literature still moved worlds.

  After his difficult departure from Mount Kisco and all the hassle at home he’d
hoped for a few summery, untroubled days far away from everything, maybe even an innocent little flirtation—yes, that too! In the city on the Seine he’d hoped to rediscover all the lightheartedness that had somehow gotten lost from his life. He’d hoped to find answers to his questions, clarity, a positive decision. And behind everything, like a promise, shimmered his mother’s words: “Paris is always a good idea.”

  He’d reckoned on just about everything as he took the taxi from Orly Airport into Paris early in the morning, thought Robert Sherman meditatively, as he sat a little while later outside a small café, with rickety wooden chairs, that would certainly not find a mention in any guidebook.

  But not on finding The Blue Tiger in the window display of a stationer’s in Saint-Germain.

  Since his childhood the story of the blue tiger had been as familiar to him as his old teddy bear, Willie. When he was a little boy his mother had told him the story at bedtime evening after evening. He loved the story and never tired of hearing it, even though he knew in advance what each of the characters was going to say. If his mother occasionally tried to shorten the story a little because she and Dad had been invited out to dinner, Robert immediately noticed. “Mommy, you’ve forgotten to say that they met in the Grotto of the Four Winds,” he would say. Or: “But Mommy, the painting bag was red and not green.” No detail could be left out; he insisted on every little thing. For many years the story of the blue tiger was a fixed part of his bedtime ritual, and even when other books lined his shelves it remained his favorite story. When they came to the part where Héloïse flies over Paris on the tiger and her fluttering golden hair glistens like a falling star, his mother always paused and looked at him meaningfully. “When you see a shooting star, you can make a wish,” she would say. “Come on, let’s make a wish!” And then they would hold hands and each of them would make a silent wish.