There was the old lady, the math student, the amateur ornithologist, the gardener, and the woman in love—at least Juliette assumed she was in love from her slight breathlessness and the tiny tears that formed on her eyelashes when she was three-quarters of the way through whichever romantic novel she was devouring. They were fat books, dog-eared from being read over and over again. Sometimes on the cover there was an illustration of a couple locked in an embrace on a bloodred background, or lace suggestive of a bra. The torso of a naked man, the small of a back, a crumpled bedsheet or a pair of cuff links, sober punctuation of the title underlined by a horizontal leather-sheathed riding crop … and the tears that welled up in the young woman’s eyes, always around page 247 (Juliette had checked by glancing covertly at her neighbor), then rolled slowly down toward her jawline, while her eyelids closed, and an involuntary sigh made her plump breasts swell in their overly modest little top. Why page 247? wondered Juliette as she stared after an unfurled umbrella making its way down the platform at Dupleix, protecting from the downpour an entire family whose legs alone were visible—little legs in brown corduroy, long denim-clad legs, slim legs in striped tights. What was happening at that point, what sudden emotion was sparked, what heartbreak, what anguish, what shudder of pleasure or abandon?
Pensive, she drummed her fingers on the cover of her own book, which she no longer opened very often, so absorbed was she in watching other people. The coffee-stained paperback with a broken spine was transferred from bag to bag, from Tuesday’s big shoulder bag—the day when Juliette did her food shopping after work—to the little handbag she used on Fridays, when she went to the cinema. A postcard slipped between here and here hadn’t shifted for over a week. The landscape it depicted, a mountain village in the distance above a patchwork of fields in various hues of brown, she now associated with the old lady, the one who always flicked through the same collection of recipes and occasionally smiled as if the description of a dish reminded her of a moment of youthful madness, and who sometimes shut the book, placed her ringless hand on top of it, and stared out the window at the barges on the Seine or the roofs glistening in the rain. The back-cover blurb was in Italian, centered above a photo of two plump bell peppers, a fat fennel bulb, and a mozzarella ball in which a horn-handled knife had made a straight incision.
Bees, silkworms, mealybugs, crayfish, wood lice, blister beetles, leeches … Carciofi, arancie, pomodori, fagiolini, zucchini … Crostate, lombatine di cervo, gamberi al gratin … Butterfly words that fluttered around the packed compartment before settling on Juliette’s fingertips. She found the image cheesy, but it was the only one that came to mind. Why butterflies, anyway? Why not fireflies, winking for a few seconds before dying? But when had she seen fireflies? Never, as a matter of fact. There weren’t any fireflies left, she feared. Only memories. Memories of her grandmother, the one who’d knitted her scarf. And who looked a bit like the old lady with the recipe book—same pale, serene face, same strong-looking hands, with stubby fingers adorned with just one ring, the thick wedding band which over the years had dug into her flesh and made a permanent mark. Her wrinkled, blotchy skin covered the ring; her body swallowed up the symbol, became deformed by it.
“Fireflies,” she used to say. “Fireflies are fallen stars. I was still so young that I wasn’t allowed to stay up, and the summer evenings were so long! For at least two hours the slits in the shutters let the light in. It crept softly across the rug and climbed up the bars of my bed; and then, suddenly, the brass bed knob began to shine. I knew that I was missing the best bit, that moment when the sun sinks into the sea, when it becomes like wine, or like blood. So, I’d knot my nightdress, like this, around my waist, nice and tight. And I’d climb down, holding on to the trellis. A right little monkey. And I’d run to the end of the field, to the spot from which you could see the sea. Then, when it was properly dark, I’d perch on the gate that was always left open, behind the silkworm farm … that’s where I saw them. They arrived out of nowhere. Or they came out of the ground. I never found out. Silent, suspended in midair, settling on blades of grass … I didn’t move a muscle. I didn’t even dare breathe. I was surrounded by stars.”
The Métro slowed down. Sèvres-Lecourbe. Three more stops, or four, depending on the day and on Juliette’s mood. Squeal of metal, signal. All of a sudden, she leapt up and ran out, just as the doors were about to close, and her jacket got caught as they slammed shut. She yanked it out and was left standing rooted to the platform, slightly breathless, as the train pulled away. In the morning grayness, a few shapes muffled in heavy coats were heading for the exit. On a February morning, who walked for the pleasure of roaming the streets aimlessly, looking up, observing the shapes of the clouds, or out of sheer curiosity? No one. People went from the cozy warmth of their apartments to their overheated offices, drank coffee, yawning as they commented on the day’s tasks, the gossip, the news—always depressing. There was only one street to cross between the station where Juliette alighted each day and the door of the estate agency where she worked. A flight of steps, a stretch of pavement, then, on the left, the windows of a dry cleaner, a tobacconist’s, and a kebab shop. In the tobacconist’s window, a plastic Christmas tree, still decked with tinsel and shiny paper chains, was beginning to gather dust.
Juliette wanted to see something different. She walked over to the map of the neighborhood at the far end of the station: if she took the first street on her right, then turned right again at the second intersection, it wouldn’t take more than ten minutes to get to work. A little walk would warm her up. She wouldn’t be late—well, hardly. In any case, Chloe would open up. That girl was obsessively punctual, and either way, Monsieur Bernard, the manager, never arrived before half past nine.
Juliette set off along the street at a rapid pace, then forced herself to slow down. She must get out of the habit of forging straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the goal. Nothing exciting awaited her, nothing: documents to complete and file away, a long list of tedious formalities, a viewing or two perhaps. On good days. To think she’d chosen this profession for the excitement!
As for dealing with people, the ad she’d replied to had promised that this meant building relationships with them and reading their hopes and dreams in their eyes, then finding them a nest where those dreams could unfurl, where the fearful would regain their confidence, where the depressed would smile once more, where children would grow up sheltered from the strong winds that batter and uproot, where the elderly and the weary could peacefully wait for death.
She clearly remembered her first viewing, a thirtysomething couple in a hurry. She’d suggested a coffee before they went into the apartment building. “I need to get to know you better, clarify your expectations,” she’d stated with a confidence that she was a long way from feeling at that moment. Clarify your expectations, she thought that sounded good—she’d read it in the booklet given to each member of staff by the management—but the man had stared at her, one eyebrow raised, then tapped his watch meaningfully. The woman was checking her messages on her smartphone; she hadn’t looked up, not even as they went up the stairs, while Juliette, frozen, had reeled off the features she had memorized the previous evening: ashlar and the charm of the Haussmann-style architecture, you’ll notice the floor tiles in the lobby, restored to match the original sections, total peace and quiet, there’s an elevator to the fourth floor, and look at the thickness of the stair carpeting. Her voice sounded as if it was coming from very far away, ridiculously high-pitched, the voice of a little girl playing at being a grown-up. She felt sorry for herself and had a sudden, absurd urge to burst into tears. The couple tore through the apartment, a two-bedroom overlooking an interior courtyard, while she tried to keep up with them. The words blew away, tumbled over each other: lovely high ceilings, elegant fireplace moldings, lots of cupboard space, diamond-design parquet floors, which are very rare, the option of creating an additional bedroom or office by putting in a mezzanine … They weren’t listening, didn’t look at each other, didn’t ask anything. Valiantly, she’d tried to question them: Do you play the piano? Do you have any children or…? Receiving no answers, she’d stumbled over a ray of light slanting across a parquet floor tile covered in a fine layer of dust, her voice farther and farther away, so weak that it was impossible for anyone to hear it: a dual-aspect apartment, very light, the sun in the kitchen from nine o’clock in the morning … They had already left, so she ran after them. In the street she’d given her card to the man, who’d put it in his pocket without looking at it.
She already knew she would never see them again.
A seagull’s cry brought Juliette back down to earth. She stopped and looked up. Wings outstretched, the bird was circling above her head. A low cloud passed beneath it, and its beak and body disappeared; all that remained were the tips of its wings and its cry, which bounced off the high walls. A gust of wind whipped Juliette’s face, sending her reeling back. It had a sobering effect and she looked about her. The street was dismal, empty, lined with apartment buildings streaked with long trails of damp, the plaster flaking off. What the hell was she doing here? She shuddered, buried her face in her big scarf, and set off again.
“Zaide!”
The voice seemed to be coming from very high up, but the little girl who was running toward her ignored it; agile and spirited, she ducked between Juliette’s legs and an overturned recycling bin spewing plastic waste, gathered her skinny limbs and started hopping about on the slippery pavement again. Juliette turned to watch her skip off, skirt swirling, little pea-green sweater, two dancing braids … and her gaze fell on a high, rusted metal door, wedged open with a book … a book.
In tall blue letters, on an enameled metal doorplate straight out of a World War II film, were the words: BOOKS UNLIMITED.