A s the gangplanks were lifted and handkerchiefs fluttered in the air, my heart was a mix of excitement and trepidation. Having spent a cold and sleepless night on a mail train to Dover, I had countless hours to question the wisdom of my decision to escape to France. There was just enough time to send a telegram to Jane and I bitterly regretted not having the chance to say a proper goodbye to the one person I would miss. I knew not what lay ahead of me, but was keenly aware of what I was leaving behind. My mother would doubtless be distressed at my departure, if not for the loss of a daughter, then surely for the gossip and notoriety that would befall our family name. I was bringing shame to them both, but I had no choice. It was their pride or my future and I could not, would not, sacrifice myself on the altar of their expectations. I had enough schooling to get by, or so I thought, and would soon realise that the university of life was an altogether harsher education.
As I stood on the deck, I put my case by my feet and looked out at the
horizon. Many of my fellow passengers had already installed themselves on reclining chairs to avert seasickness, but not I. I held on to the railings and began imagining all of the adventures that lay ahead, without a practical thought as to how I would survive alone in a foreign country. A blur of activity caught the corner of my eye and before I knew it, someone was
making off with my case. I cried out but my voice was lost on the wind and while he ran, I stumbled along the smooth wood of the deck. Quick as lightning, another man brushed past me and chased down the gangway and apprehended the thief – a young boy of twelve if he was a day. He brought him back by the scruff of the neck, the case in his other hand, and in a heavily accented voice, asked me what I would like to be done?
‘I, um, well …’ I mumbled, embarrassingly. The whole event had left me in shock.
‘I shall report him to the ship’s captain, if mademoiselle so desires,’ he said, with a touch of dramatic licence. I was immediately conscious of his height; he was well over six feet tall, and his dark features were very striking. Black hair, dark eyes and brown skin. He was unspeakably attractive.
‘Mademoiselle?’ he repeated, with a slight smile sparkling in his eyes. ‘Um, yes, yes, of course.’ I turned to see the boy, whose features had
suddenly taken on those of a persecuted lamb. ‘And what shall happen to him?’ I enquired, taking my case back.
‘He will be removed from the ship and taken straight to the prison, I assume,’ the man said, rather dispassionately.
‘Oh.’
‘It is entirely your decision, Mademoiselle.’
‘Well. I have my possessions back now, so I suppose there’s no harm done. And you won’t do anything like this again, will you?’ I asked, looking at the youngster, who I now noticed was not wearing any shoes and his clothes seemed two sizes too small for him. He shook his head vehemently and like a wild creature, disappeared into the crowd as soon as the man loosened his grip.
‘Mademoiselle is too generous,’ he said, watching the boy escape. ‘Allow me to present myself; my name is Armand Hassan,’ he said, bowing slightly.
His name sounded so exotic and intriguing, giving him an instant allure. He was dressed well, but with an air of casual elegance, as though he couldn’t help but look well, no matter what he wore. Yet there was something dangerous or secretive in his eyes that stirred a feeling of mistrust in me.
‘Miss Carlisle,’ I replied, offering my hand and realising too late that I had already given a complete stranger my real name. I had to sharpen my wits and fast.
‘Enchanté, Mademoiselle Carlisle, and may I say what a beautiful name you possess. I hope I will have occasion to speak it. And often.’ He brought my gloved hands to his lips and I swore I could feel the warmth of his breath through the fabric. I quickly averted my eyes and hoped that my cheeks had not flushed. I had hardly left England’s shores and already I was succumbing to the charms of a foreign accent like some ingénue. I had to get a hold of myself.
‘Yes, well, thank you very much, Mr Hassan, but I must get on,’ I said, realising too late that I was on board a ship and had no pressing engagements to speak of.
His eyes twinkled, imagining the warnings I had received about entering into conversations with strange men.
‘If I may, Mademoiselle, some parting words of advice; a charming young woman like yourself must be more careful in future. Travelling alone on the continent, the fairer sex will always be at risk from unscrupulous types.’
That was when I regained my composure, shrugged back my shoulders and raised my chin.
‘Mr Hassan, while you are obviously very well accomplished in the fluency of the English language, you are sorely lacking in your knowledge of English women. We are quite capable of looking after ourselves, thank you very much.’
With that, I swung my coat and walked purposefully into the headwind, almost losing my hat but trapping it with my hand at the last minute. ‘The arrogance,’ I mumbled to myself, determined not to let myself be lured in – no matter the circumstance.
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The Hotel Petit Lafayette appeared quite smart on the facade, but as with books, one can never judge by appearance alone. I was led to a stairwell that swirled around an inner courtyard, giving every room a balcony of sorts, which overlooked the dull grey innards of the building. My spirits were lowered still further when the man opened the door to my ‘chambre’. I never had occasion to enter a convent, but I imagined it to be the equivalent of what stood before me: a narrow room with a narrow, uncomfortable- looking bed and no window.
‘No, no,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Non?’ he repeated, unmoved.
‘No, I’m afraid this is quite out of the question.’
As no response was forthcoming, I elaborated on my theme.
‘Your room,’ I said, raising my voice and speaking slower, for how else should he come to understand my plight, ‘is something akin to a monastic cell! I would like – je voudrais une chambre plus grande. Avec une fenêtre!’ Ten minutes later and at double the cost, I found myself in a modest- sized room with a slightly bigger bed. Clearly, my bargaining skills would need refining, but once I opened the long window and saw my view, I put all of my grumblings aside … There, the rooftops of Paris spread out before me, golden in the evening light. I was, quite simply, terrified of what I’d done. Desire and its attainment can provoke strikingly opposing thoughts in a person. Yet I was determined to make a go of it. And there would be
absolutely no tears.
|
My first day in Paris was blustery but bright and I held tight to the little map that I had purchased from a street vendor. Paris was as beautiful and inspiring as I’d hoped; every street was more beautiful than the last. The buttery-stone buildings with elegantly tall windows and grey tin roofs looked immaculately chic in the soft sunshine. Walking back along the Quai de la Tournelle, I came across a row of booksellers, or bouquinistes as I would later learn, selling all sorts of books, in French and English, magazines, journals and even old posters and postcards. I stopped to browse, wondering at the green metal boxes that held their treasures, hanging on the parapets on the banks of the Seine. They looked like train carriages that had just pulled up overnight, opening their doors to the reading public until nightfall.
I was in heaven, on the banks of the river in bright sunshine, lost in a world of books and foreign accents. That was when I spotted it, Histoires Extraordinaires. Bound in cerulean blue, it was a two-volume translation of Edgar Allen Poe’s short stories by Charles Baudelaire. I opened the cover to find that it was a first edition, published by Michel Lévy Frères, Paris, 1856–1857. My father was a fanatic when it came to Mr Poe and I too enjoyed ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ and ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ and so I saw it as a sign. I enquired as to the price of the book, my broken French immediately betraying me as a foreigner. It sounded like one hundred francs too many and after much gesturing (him turning out his pockets to indicate that I was robbing him blind) we agreed a price. I felt drunk with recklessness, spending the little money I had on another book. As he began wrapping the volumes in brown paper and string, I heard a voice I recognised calling my name.
‘Monsieur Hassan,’ I said, surprised when he, yet again, took my hand and kissed it. I flushed immediately and the bookseller smirked. They then
began a conversation in French that I could not follow, but the subject matter soon became clear.
‘I see you have purchased my Baudelaire,’ he said, with a devilish smile.
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘I told my friend here to keep this translation for me, but I see he has sold it to you … for a much higher price.’
The implication was not lost on me, that I was a silly woman who’d be taken for a fool. I chose to ignore it. ‘Well then, it is not your Baudelaire but mine,’ I said, taking the package and heading back towards my hotel.
‘At least allow me to offer you dinner tonight, as a felicitation for your excellent bargain,’ he said, his long strides easily catching up with me.
‘No thank you, I cannot accept such an unsuitable invitation. We are strangers.’
‘Oof,’ he said, mockingly taking a dagger to the heart. ‘But we are not strangers and it would seem that you are alone in Paris …’
‘I’m not alone,’ I said, defensively. ‘I’m staying with my … aunt.’
‘Ah, I see,’ he said, nodding and almost admitting defeat. ‘Alors, if you change your mind, Mademoiselle Opaline,’ he added, handing me his card. ‘I will not forget this slight easily but, fortunately for you, I have a forgiving nature.’
With a tip of his hat, he disappeared down a side street and I was left standing there, feeling furious. He was an infuriating, pompous, arrogant man. And I loathed him. And yet I put his card in my pocket rather than throwing it in the Seine.
That evening, I wrote one of the postcards I had bought at the bookstall to my Jane. I knew I could trust her to keep my whereabouts a secret. The thing about Jane was, you could hear her laugh before you ever saw her. She adored the outdoors, which Mother declared ‘unladylike’. I missed her terribly, but writing to her closed the distance between us, if only for a short
while. I tried to keep my tone cheery as I filled the postcard with statements that ended in exclamation marks. Paris is glorious! Not very original, but still. I fancied that perhaps one day she might come and visit if I were to remain. When I looked at the money I had left, I wasn’t so sure. I had to find a position doing something. I resolved to visit the library the next day and see what I could find out there.
As I undressed for bed, I pulled the card that Monsieur Hassan had given me from my pocket.
Armand Hassan ANTIQUAIRE
14 Rue Molière Casablanca
Maroc
So, Monsieur Hassan was a book dealer from Morocco. That explained his exotic good looks, if you liked that sort of thing, which I was determined I would not. The romance books I read were littered with stories of young women falling for fast men like him. I put the card away, in my case this time. When I should have ripped it up and thrown it in the bin.
