Le Chat Curieux
aeroplane window and traced my fingers along the cool glass tracing patterns. It was 11 PM, and midnight enchanted Paris, unlike anything I’d ever seen before. The city was pure light, and I was fascinated by it. The plane began its descent. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I was on my own for the first time in my life. No parents, no rules and for the first time in forever, I could let my heart be my compass. I would be lying through my teeth if I said that I knew nothing about where I was going because Paris before had always been my blue moon– something that I longed for but never actually thought I’d be able to catch a glimpse of. For as long as I could possibly remember, Paris had been a film, be it Amelie or the dreamers. It had been delicacies, bœuf bourguignon, cabernet sauvignon and ratatouille– not the Disney film about the rat. It was posters of la tour Eiffel on my bedroom wall, dusty Edith Piaf records I’d danced to when I thought no one was watching.
Perhaps someone always was, watching and listening.
It wasn’t easy to get my parents to send me halfway across the Atlantic for school. It took a lot of convincing and reminding them that I was an adult. Barely anyone back home approved of their discussion; my aunties and uncles thought my parents had run mad for allowing their only daughter to pursue the arts. They felt that I could be great as a doctor or a lawyer, but all I thought was that they should keep their opinions to themselves. My parents knew it was my dream, and they understood that—for the most part.
However, their decision didn’t come without significant consequences. That was the thing about my parents. It was that every gift came with strings attached. I often feel like a little marionette doll with them; I smiled when they smiled, only spoke when spoken to, and I could always feel my mother’s influence in every choice I made. My father’s judgment haunted me like my own wicked shadow.
They made me promise them three things before I got into the plane:
1. To focus only on my artwork and not let myself get distracted by pretty boys who spoke pretty words.
2. To call them every day before bed so they knew that I was safe.
3. To maintain my grades, and under no circumstances were they to slip.
They made it clear that if any of these rules were to be broken, it’d be back to Jacksonville for me. And I couldn’t let that happen, I couldn’t go back to Florida, and I’d do my best to follow those three simple rules. Once the plane landed and I exited the aircraft, the cool Parisian air caressed my face, the weather was chilly and different, but I loved it.
The Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport was massive, and went onward for what felt like miles. I made sure to grab a cup of coffee from one of the little cafés. Everything about the coffee tasted different— it was nothing like my usual caramel frappuccino that I picked up from Starbucks on my way home from school. It was an Americano, my usual, except that this cup was rich, creamy and flavorful. It tasted like new beginnings.
My parents didn’t want me to have to use public transport during my stay here, so they had papa’s friend Sal deliver a mustard yellow Renault Clio to me at the airport. Sal was a sweet 50-something-year-old man who greeted me alongside his youngest daughter Emile. She had flushed cheeks from the bitter cold and this subtle beauty about her.
‘Bonjour Madame Armani!’ She chirped, handing me the keys to my new car, which had the Kenyan flag attached to it.
‘To remind you of home.’ She smiled, and it warmed my heart.
‘Thank you so much, Emile. I’ll keep it safe, okay?’ I responded, humouring her.
‘Pinkie promise?’ She asked with a pouty lip, I let out a slight laugh.
‘Pinkie, promise.’ I agreed, locking our pinkies together.
‘Uncle Sal, thank you so much for helping me out.’ I smiled, bringing the old man in for a hug.
‘No problem ma petite minette. I hope you enjoy your stay in the city of lights.’ Sal beamed, gesturing to the space around him. “Magical things tend to happen here when you’re not paying attention.”
“Yeah, sure.” I mused with slight sarcasm.
Once I dropped Sal and his daughter off at their small apartment on Montmartre (18th), which was a really nice neighbourhood with small colourful apartments just like Sal’s lined up next to each other. I began to wonder who lived there, what their story was and what they looked like. Perhaps that was what it means to be an artist, to see beauty in absolutely everything around you. It was rather inconvenient, actually.
I drove around for a bit, the streets were almost bare, and it felt dreamlike. I’d waited for this moment for what seemed like the duration of my entire life; the moment I could escape, and now that I had, it felt so unreal. I drove by the River Seine. It was gorgeous and confident and stretched through the city in all its navy glory. As I drove downtown, I took notice of the oddest-looking bookstore I’d ever seen; it had pages ripped from books taped on the windows and a large wooden door with an engraving of the Eiffel Tower on it. LE CHAT CURIEUX (the curious cat) was its name, and it had a 24hrs sign perched outside.
There are moments in time when the universe tries its best to communicate with you— believe it or not. When something triggers your mind to do the most spontaneous and irrational things you could ever imagine, that was why that moment. On Saturday, September 2nd at 01:35 I made my first irresponsible decision. I parked my car on the street and made my way inside the quaint little bookstore.
I opened the door and the bell above it chimed signalling the keeper that someone had arrived. Books towered to the ceilings and were piled in every corner of the store, they had no particular order, which triggered me. I hated when things were out of control or disorganized. It set my mind off balance.
‘Bonsoir mademoiselle, est-ce que je peux jvous aider?’ Evening miss, how may I help you? A petite brunette girl with two red bows in her hair asked, looking up from her novel.
‘Bonsoir, non merci je regarde juste ce que vous avez.’ Good evening, I’m fine. I just wanted to look around. I replied, and she scoffed, looking back at her novel.
‘D’accord!’ She chirped. ‘quelles idiotes américaines…’ Stupid American girls, she mumbled to herself. I immediately felt like stars and white stripes were painted on my forehead.
I narrowed my eyes at her, clinging to my coat for dignity. If I ever got called an American again, I might’ve just had to start singing Ee Mungu Nguvu Yetu at the top of my lungs in Kenyan patriotism.
I wandered further into the store, running my fingers over the dusty novels that looked like they hadn’t been read in years. The life of a book must be incredibly miserable. Whenever I saw a book with cracked spines, folded pages and writing in the margins, my heart filled with joy. Because only then did I know that that book was truly loved. I found a few first-edition classics on the top shelf, namely; Oliver Twist, Alice au pays des merveilles, and Les quatre filles du Docteur Marsch.
It amazed me— I’d never seen a first edition of little women before. Mama would read it to me every night before bed as a little girl, and the tales of Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy reappeared in my memory as I admired the velvety red cover of the novel. I read the price tag, €8,000 and I immediately put it down because I couldn’t possibly afford it.
Just as I was about to pick out a copy of Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson I felt a tug on the book on the other side and figured it was stuck. I pulled harder but it wouldn’t budge, I pulled even harder and took it out of its socket. But oh, what was that? Through the parting in the shelves, I was surprised to be met with a fierce pair of angel-like blue eyes on the other side.
They stared at me, and I stared back.
The pair of eyes blinked, and I took notice of a generous pair of eyelashes that shielded the icy blue. A shiver ran down my spine at how cold they appeared to be.
‘Dead men don’t bite.’ I quoted, remembering a line from Treasure Island.
The pair of eyes smiled ever so slightly, a hint of amusement contorting their nonchalant persona into something more deceitful— something that could’ve almost been mistaken for gentle, something so very sinister. I tilted my head to the side in scepticism, but they stalked away before I could even gather my thoughts. It took a moment for me to come out of that dreamlike trance. I shoved the book back on the shelf just as I heard the chime above the door ring again.
Whoever that was, was gone just as suddenly as they’d appeared.
‘Did you see anyone leave just now?’ I asked the cashier almost breathlessly.
‘Oui.’ The lady smirked, not bothering to look up from her novel.
‘What were they like?’ I asked softly yet ever so curiously.
‘Froid.’ She sighed flipping a page, ‘Vous allez acheter quelque chose?’ She asked impatiently.
‘Non, merci et— bonne nuit!’ I muttered slightly disoriented, dropping five euros into her tip jar, despite the terrible service and bad attitude.
I went outside and rubbed my palms together to warm myself up. I looked up at the night sky as the description of the blue-eyed angel from the bookkeeper replayed in my mind; froid. cold.
