auroredum-blog

[auroredum-blog]

July 25, 10 am: We met every other day at the Père Lachaise. Always on that same bench. She always started the conversation by her asking me something about my writing. I answered vaguely and immediately ask about her life. Smiling she would resume her story. Very soon, I knew  a lot about her. But it was never enough. Her mother got her when she was seventeen and fearing her parent’s reaction left for London. She fell in love with a trader and decided to following abroad, always taking Marguerite with her. They lived in Turkey, Brazil, Italy and China. She always talked with great passion about her travels, but every time she mentioned her mom or the trader I could her voice slowly breaking and although she was smiling, her dimples where not showing. We spent hours seated on that bench that summer. She was a great storyteller and I loved listening to her. The first time I finally asked where her mom was she smiled with that same dimple-less smile and avoided the question. A week later, she eventually told me that her mom died a year ago. The trader didn’t want adopt her, so she went into foster care until they finally found her grandparents. She had never met before and they weren’t even aware her existence. Apparently, her mother sent them a few letters over the years but never talked about. She really likes them. Her grandfather often mistakes her for her mother, especially when she wears her mom’s old clothes (and she often did).

August 30, 7pm: I’ve waited for her all day long the other day. And then again the next day. And the day after. I waited for her all day, every day, for about a week. As I waited I started writing. Writing all the stories she had told me over the summer. Writing about her travels. Writing about her. I spent my days on that bench, our bench. Writing nonstop. I eventually sent the first pages to my publisher and less than an hour later I got an email back telling me my contract was renewed and that he wanted more as soon as possible. But I had nothing more. I tried to invent, to build upon what she had told me but I couldn’t. So I started to avoid my publisher’s calls again instead of going to the cemetery I spent my days at Louis’.

October 2, 8pm: On my way back from the café I decided to stop by the cemetery since the weather was mild. I sat on the bench, with my pen and my notepad staring at the blank pages. I didn’t even hear when she sats besides me. “What are you writing about ?” she asked. I lifted my head up and looked at her with my eyes wide open. She’s here, smiling with her dimples. This time her hair is loosened and she’s wearing a big wool coat that certainly belonged to her mother. I smiled back and answered, “I’m writing about you”.

That was the last time I saw Marguerite.

[auroredum-blog]

June 14, 9 am: I bumped into her again this morning at the Boulangerie downstairs. She still had her braids but she was now wearing high waisted jeans and a t-shirt with The Beatles on it. She smiled and slightly waved at me, her hands full with three croissants and a baguette. This time I was able to articulate a very soft ‘hi’ while still staring at her. I couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer so I asked the baker who she was. “Marguerite? She’s the Noyer’s granddaughter. You know the old couple that lives on the fourth floor. She arrived three days ago.” he answered, handing me my daily pain au chocolat. You might think I am that there’s something wrong with me for staring at someone like this but the truth is that I really didn’t expect to see a young girl in this building. You see, I live in a particularly old neighborhood and in even more old building. When I say old I don’t only mean that it is historically ancient but also that there are only old people living here. I am the only person under the age of 55 in this building. It has its perks, of course, it’s really quiet and quite cheap. The downside though it’s pretty lonely. After a year and a half here the only person I call my friend is Louis and I don’t even know his last name. So now, you understand my surprise when I saw a teenager, whom I had never seen before but who knew who I was, in my elevator. Also, besides nurses, I have never seen any visitors. No children nor grandchildren. Not even for the holidays.

June 14, 11 am: My publisher called. Again. This time I just hung up and immediately regretted it. The second time he called I knew I had to answer. He wasn’t happy. He asked me if I have been writing. Obviously, I lied. Again. I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe it but I didn’t hear my contract being shred into small pieces so I guess I bought myself an extra day. I needed some fresh after that so I decided to have my breakfast on my bench in the cemetery. Some might think that this is a peculiar place to spend one’s time but the peacefulness of the grey stones always cheers me up somehow. I was there for about an hour when she came and sat beside me. “I like it here. It’s very peacefully don’t you think ?” she said with a very British accent, “my name is Marguerite, you’re Thomas Thompson right?” I must have made the weirdest face because she laughed loudly before telling that she saw my name on the mailboxes in the lobby and that because it was the only English name it must be mine. After a long silence, I finally asked her where she was from. She smiled, revealing her pretty dimples and said: “From here and there”.

That’s when I got to know Marguerite

[auroredum-blog]

Monday 13 June, 3pm: ’Le syndrome de la page blanche’, the blank page syndrome. That’s what I have, according to Louis, the old bartender from the café around the corner. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but the more I think about it, the more I think he might be right. I mean I haven’t written anything for about a year and a half (besides TUMBLR posts). And that’s not good. That’s really not good. Especially for a writer, for a young and novice writer. I really thought that leaving Pittsburgh and my shitty life for Paris and its infamous Quartier Latin would make me the next international best seller in no time. Or at least that’s what I told my publisher so he’ll give an advance and a plane ticket. How foolish I was. Now the only I have is a stupid nickname given to me by Louis (he really loves calling me ‘Le Ricain’). I did everything right, though. I spend endless hours seated at terraces watching people rushing from home to work and from work to home. I wandered in the streets of Montmartre. Got robbed more times than I can’t count. Visited every monument. Twice. Crossed every bridge. More than twice. I even took a creative writing class at La Sorbonne. But here I am, a year and a half later, sitting on a bench of the Père Lachaise cemetery (writing yet another TUMBLR post), with no manuscript or idea whatsoever and a fridge as empty as my bank account. My phone rang. It was my publisher. He’s been calling almost three times a day now. I let it rang. I don’t have any lie ready for him.

Monday 13 June, 6pm: The weirdest just happened. As I entered my building, I heard the elevator’s doors closing down the hall, shouted « Hold the doors, please! » and ran. When got to the elevator the doors were already closed and I swore, thinking about the 8 floors I’ll have to climb up now. I didn’t even have the time to finish my sentence that the doors opened up again on a young girl of about 18 years old. “Ce n’est pas bien de dire des gros mots,” she suddenly said. Seeing my surprise look she repeated in English this time: “It’s not polite to swear”. I stared at her not knowing what to answer. She stared back for a second and revealing too deep dimples on her round cheeks. Her hair was braided around her head, making her look like one of those German waitresses at Oktoberfest. Her red Vichy dress was obviously too big for her and she had to make knots on both straps. “You must be the American writer,” she added still smiling. For some reason still unknown to me I remained completely speechless and just kept staring at her. The doors opened on the fourth floor, she went out of the elevator and said “Maybe next time you’ll tell me your name”

That’s how I met Marguerite.