Au Revoir, Cherie

I found the diary on the thirteenth of May, on an iron bench perched along the Seine, shaded by the pale green leaves of a willow tree. It lay open, face down on the bench, as if someone had left it that way to mark their place. At first, I didn’t notice it; my feet were hurting after a long morning of shopping for white truffle oil. I was expecting friends for an early dinner, and planned to serve angel hair pasta with sautéed crimini mushrooms and white truffle oil, topped with shaved parmesan cheese and freshly cracked black pepper. So far, I’d been to the Marché de la Rue Mouffetard, the Marché des Enfants Rouges, and the Marché de la Rue Montorgueil with zero luck. Since when had white truffle oil become such a rarity? I had one more market to hit in the 6th arrondissement, before I called it quits and changed the menu. But first, I needed a break. A blister had formed on my left heel, and I was rummaging in my bag for a band-aid when a flash of red and yellow caught my eye. The diary. On the cover was a red lily, with bright yellow dots on the leaves.

I scanned the area, looking for the person to whom it might belong. Nobody. The little park where I was sitting was deserted. What would you have done if you had been me?

I’m an inquisitive person, the sort who likes to walk after dark, because then I can peek into the windows of other people’s homes and lives. There they are, in their cozy living rooms, lit by the golden glow of a chandelier. I can see their children, their furniture, see the books on shelves, the cat in the window. I see people sitting alone, staring into space. It never ceases to amaze me, the infinitely different lives that humans lead. So, of course, if I see a written record of someone’s life, the intimate details, how could I resist? And in my defense, I didn’t actually know it was a diary until I picked it up. I suspected, but I didn’t know for sure. Inside, written in elegant cursive, was a rather bad poem.

‘At the end of the day when your life is through, and nothing is left for the likes of you

Will you wait in the dark for the end to begin, or reach for a bottle, a gun, or sin?

Will redemption be yours or the furnace flame? Do you think that life is only a game?

You fret over truffles, your shoes and wine, instead of your soul which is less than fine

Nothing more was written. I’m positive. I flipped through the entire thing and it contained only blank, unlined pages. I looked for one of those little stickers that said “This diary is the property of ______”. But there was no sticker. No identifying information, whatsoever. It seemed vaguely religious with the bits about redemption and sin, possibly the work of a priest or nun with poetic inclinations. But that reference to shoes and truffles — kind of a spooky coincidence, no? But half the people in Paris probably had blisters from their shoes. Especially if they were tourists. And it wasn’t truffles that I was searching for, but truffle oil. A minor distinction, to be sure. But still, what were the odds? And I had been wondering what wine to serve tonight. The right wine is important, it can make or break the success of a meal.

I looked around once more for the owner of the diary. Still, nobody. I can’t explain why I felt so compelled to take it. It contained nothing of interest. Surely the owner would return when he or she realized it was missing. I should never have taken it. In retrospect, that was the second worst decision of my life. But take it, I did. I stuffed it into my green canvas market bag and continued on my way. My final stop was going to be at a strip of shops on Saint-Germain-des-Prés. I was certain that last week I had seen truffle oil in the cheese shop. If not, I would make garlic and parsley butter for the pasta and forget about the truffle oil. It was my friend Angelina’s fortieth birthday, and she loved pasta with truffle oil, so I wasn’t giving up until I checked inside this last shop.

By the time I reached St. Germain des Prés, the band aid had fallen off my heel. I limped into the tiny shop which had a long line of customers waiting. There! High on a shelf above the goat cheese, I saw a row of truffle oils — black and white. I’d get one of each. I went back outside to sit down and apply a new band-aid. My heel was bleeding now and hurt like hell. I tried to remember if I had any neosporin ointment in the bathroom cabinet. Why I had decided that wearing these new ballet flats to traipse all over Paris was a good idea, I can’t tell you. Actually, I can — it’s because they look adorable with the skirt I was wearing (I bought the skirt last week in a little boutique in the Marais).

I flipped open the diary again and waited for the line into the cheese shop to get shorter.

‘You crossed the line and committed a crime

You’ll soon regret I’m willing to bet

But now you’re stuck and out of luck

No turning back, no second try

I’m yours to keep until you die’

This was crazy. I stared at the words which made no sense. Except the part about the crime. Was stealing someone’s diary — not even really stealing it, more like I’d rescued it — a crime? Maybe I was planning to take it to the lost and found at the local commissariat. How could the diary know what my intentions were? I didn’t know what my intentions were! Why had I taken this stupid diary in the first place? I don’t know how I missed seeing this page, but I must have. There simply was no other explanation. The line was down to one person now. I stood up, slipping the diary into my green bag, and gingerly took a step to see if this band-aid was going to stay in place. So far, so good. I took another step and then stopped. Why take any chances with this weird diary? Why not leave it here, on the bench? I felt relief as soon as the idea crossed my mind. I reached into my bag, took the diary out, and placed it carefully at the end of the bench, face down, just like I’d found it. Then I entered the cheese shop and bought my truffle oil as well as a selection of cheeses (I can never resist cheese).

When I exited the shop, I looked at the bench to see the diary one last time. It was gone. Someone else must have also felt the urge to take it. Good riddance. Maybe it was some sort of demonic book. I laughed at myself because I don’t believe in supernatural nonsense; I never have. It was only a short walk to my apartment near the Luxembourg Gardens, and I grabbed two more bottles of wine on the way, even though I already had three bottles at the apartment. Angelina’s boyfriend, Serge, was a wine snob, and I wanted to make sure I had a proper selection. A Sauvignon Blanc or a Chablis with the main course — I hadn’t decided. Maybe I’d ask Serge to choose.

It was a gorgeous Saturday afternoon. The spring sunlight dappled through the lime trees along the boulevards, almost as if a cold, gray winter hadn’t dragged on endlessly, and stretched into late spring. But now, winter was behind us, and summer was on the way. Summer is my favourite season in Paris; there’s something decadent about lazing in the grass with a bottle of wine, a fresh baguette, and cheese, a pastime I often enjoyed in during warm weather.

I climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment and dumped my bag on the kitchen counter. My place was tiny, but it had everything I needed. A cute little kitchenette, a living room with a foldout sofa for guests, one bedroom and one bath. I took a quick shower and found some neosporin for my heel. Time to start sautéing the mushrooms and putting the cheeses out — guests would be here in less than an hour. Angelina, Serge, two of Angelina’s friends from work, and Michelle, an old amie d’enfance of ours. Six, the perfect number for a dinner party. Everything was made from scratch except the chocolate birthday cake, which was from my favorite pâtisserie.

I reached in the bag to get the truffle oil out — it tastes best if it’s warmed gently on low heat before using. I nearly screamed when I saw the diary. In fact, I think I did. My first thought was that this entire day has really been a dream — that I wasn’t awake at all. I know I left the diary on the bench outside the cheese shop. I pinched myself. I could feel it. Did that prove that this wasn’t a dream? Could there be some perverse freak playing a practical joke on me? Could someone have picked it up from the bench and slipped it back into my bag?

Was something else going to be written in the diary? I knew the answer to that question even before I sat down to open it. I collapsed more than sat–my legs gave way and I slid to the kitchen floor, diary in hand.

‘I know what you did way back when

and even though you were only ten

it wasn’t nice and you did it twice

now you’ll pay, in an unpleasant way…’

I could not stand, my legs were that weak. I managed to crawl to the refrigerator and take out the half bottle of Chardonnay left over from last night. If there had been anything stronger in the apartment I would have grabbed it. I took a slug of the Chardonnay straight from the bottle. Nobody knew what had happened when I was ten. Nobody. And yet, somehow, somebody — or something– did. I was only ten! I can’t be blamed. I didn’t know that both my parents were going to die in the fire. True, I was angry with them, and the funny thing is that I can’t even remember why I was so angry. I thought I would punish them by setting the house on fire. By damaging the things they valued so much — the Aubusson rugs, the tiny Picasso print, the heirloom furniture. Things they cared about more than they cared about me. It was actually their fault, not mine! But things got out of control and, well, it was bad. Everyone made a big fuss over me and said it was a miracle I had survived. They thought my parents had forgotten a cigarette, and that’s what had caused the fire. And a cigarette had caused the fire, but it wasn’t one my parents forgot. But nobody knew!

Sirens outside. Oh, my god, Angelina and the other guests are going to be arriving any minute. What are those sirens? The Chardonnay has returned some strength to my legs. I stagger over to the window and see the pompiers’ trucks outside the building. I can smell smoke and hear the alarm start to clang in the hallway. Good god, what else can go wrong with this insane day? I grab my bag and the bottle of Chardonnay and rush to the door. But I can’t open it! It’s stuck and smoke is seeping underneath the door now! I throw down my bag and the bottle of wine where it shatters on the tile floor. I rush to the window so that I can climb out onto the balcony. But the window won’t open either!

My heart is pounding. I realize that I am about to die. I pick up the diary.

‘Au revoir, cherie…’