The Little Bookshop On The Seine. Rebecca Raisin

for it. Sophie’s pretty lax about the whole process. There’s index cards, and stamps, it’s very old school. The lending library is hallowed – it’s been available for locals since the doors opened here back in the twenties. During the Great Depression, no one could afford much of anything, especially books, so strangers found their way here, and knew they could take whatever they wished. They became members, friends, and weren’t faceless or nameless any more.”

      “This history practically seeps through the walls.” I was in awe of the shop, it had presence, almost like it was a character unto itself. “Do you ever wonder who sat here a century ago, and rummaged through these boxes of books?”

      Her eyes grew bright. “Of course. I imagine people back then stopped past with rumbling bellies, their lives grim because of the depression, until they found their way here, and they could forget their troubles, escaping into the pages of a good book, a warm drink in hand. What could be better than that? Sophie’s grandfather opened the store. When he first started, he only used the front parlor, but as time went by his reputation spread, he grew more successful and expanded into the other rooms, eventually buying the apartments above. He never changed his principles…everyone was welcome here whether they had money or not. It was popular among American writers back then, a meeting place for literary transients.”

      “I get goosebumps, thinking about the stories they could’ve told. Do you think when they finally settled, back on home soil, they remembered their time here fondly?”

      “Oui,” she said, crossing her arms against the chill in the room. “A lot of them were young. Traveling after the war or just because they were free, who knows? And when it was time to move, or go back to reality, they always had this place in their heart. Sophie has a thick folder of correspondence, letters sent over decades, people thanking them for their hospitality, some dedicating the books they wrote here to Sophie’s grandfather. Others saying they searched their whole lives for the simple happiness Paris provided, but never found it again. Over a bottle or two of vin rouge, I read each and every one of them. I’ve told her she should publish them…an epic love story of people and place.”

      “That would be an amazing book…” Taking in the room, I thought of the people who once inhabited this space; I pictured the scene in black and white, like an old photograph. “The room has a sense of timelessness to it.” As if time had truly stopped, just like the grandfather clock. And those people long since gone from this world had found the place just as it was now, a sanctuary for word lovers.

      “The store has a rich and famous history. It’s why people come here and don’t want to leave.” Oceane spoke in reverent tones, gazing wistfully around. The rooms were weathered, the furniture battered, the shop’s once former glory dimmed, faded like late afternoon sunlight through a dusty window, which made it one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen.

      “Why would you want to leave?” I said. It was like a grand old dame, this shop. Once haughty, now a reflection of its past, and all that happened here.

      She laughed and surveyed me. “Your face is flushed like you’ve fallen in love too.”