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To pull myself back together, I take deep breaths of the magnolia and rose-scented air. In response, Cress sneezes, saving me from having to answer. She grabs a bunch of tissues out of her tiny bag, blows her nose, then mops her face.
“We can’t stay here. Let’s go to the museum, and then we can discuss your plan of action over pastries and coffee.”
The Carnavalet comprises two seventeenth-century houses, the Hôtels Carnavalet and Le Peletier de Saint Fargeau, on the rue de Sevigné, a four-minute walk from the square. René continues to trail behind us, far enough back that anyone watching would think he was just another stroller, out to enjoy the fresh April afternoon.
When we reach the entrance of the museum, he hangs back on the street while we go through the courtyard to the ticket office, following on a bit later, so he doesn’t seem like a stalker. Discreet surveillance must be an art and he is well trained.
As we wander through the lower rooms of the old-fashioned, musty space, I can see why Cress likes to come here. True to form, she gives me mini lectures along the way.
“The original part of the museum was built as a private house in the sixteenth century but not finished until 1660. The famous diarist, Madame de Sévigné lived here from 1677 to 1694.”
She roots around in her bag, muttering. “Where the eff is it?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not going to read me excerpts of her diary, are you?”
Brandishing more tissues, she sneezes again. “No,” she manages between the attacks and the congestion. “But I can lend you a volume when we’re back in Chicago. Max has the full set in his library. Of course, it’s in French.”
“Aren’t all his books about car racing or spy novels?”
Her laugh resounds through the massive, high-ceilinged, fortunately empty room. “Well, he has those, but his degrees were in languages and literature, so he has an extensive collection of books in French, German, Italian, Turkish, Arabic, Russian, and a smattering of other things. He may not know much about pop culture outside of James Bond, but he’s readCrime and Punishmentseveral times—in Russian.”
As weflânonthrough the museum, a verb I learned from JL, René, fades out of my consciousness and into the woodwork. I wonder if I stayed here for a few months if I’d feel Parisian. Morning coffee and croissants at my neighborhood café. Shopping at the boulangerie for baguettes and the fromagerie for cheese. Late afternoon wine, sitting outside a bar. The idea of being a lounger, a stroller, in Paris, is oddly appealing.
Cress must have a similar thought. “When I was younger,” she says, “I read several books of Janet Flanner’sLetters from Paristhat had been originally published inThe New Yorker. I thought being that kind of writer, an eyewitness to both history and everyday life, was the best career you could have.”
“I think I’d rather just have the experiences and not have to publish them,” I reply.
“And I’d rather not stand up in a courtroom grilling people and trying to make the opposition into the personification of evil.”
After we cover the history of Paris and the artifacts from various archaeological digs, we gawk at the campaign kit belonging to Napoleon I, mementos of the French royal family and the revolutionaries, Emile Zola’s watch, and the bedroom and personal effects of Marcel Proust. I imagine him dipping a madeleine into his tea, setting off the memories of the past that became his magnum opus.
Cress, examining the recreation of his room, says, “I remember readingWaiting for Gertrudeby Bill Richardson. It takes place at Père Lachaise cemetery. All the characters are cats.”
Cress and her cats…
“Anyway, the souls of famous ‘residents’ of the cemetery are reborn into the cats and Marcel Proust has a leading role as the postmaster.”
“Who’s Gertrude? And why are they waiting? Is she Godot and never comes?”
“She’s Gertrude Stein and the main character, Alice B. Toklas, is waiting for her.”
“Why? Where is she?”
“She’s going to be reborn as a kitten.”
“How could I not have guessed that?” But that leads me to wonder if we have time to visit Père Lachaise. JL told me his mother’s favorite singer, Edith Piaf, is buried there. I could take a picture for her. One step toward smoothing the way.
Cress looks at her watch. “Let’s go to Mariage Frères for some tea.”
“I thought you wanted coffee.”
“That was before. Now I want tea. Mariage Frères is one of my favorite stops in Paris. The salon du thé has wonderful treats and there is a tea museum upstairs.” She raises her voice so our lurker, who is studying prints of the siege of Paris in 1870, can hear her. “Onward to Mariage Frères. It’s just a short walk from here.”
We pick up our pace as we move back toward the courtyard and exit the building. Out of the corner of my eye, I see René following at a distance.
I’m not a huge fan of tea, but the shop is entrancing. Mariage Frères is a tea lovers’ delight. Seductive scents waft through the shop space—black, oolong, green, and white leaves with their own herby, medicinal scents. Spices, flowers like lavender and bergamot, and dried fruits perfume the air. Scents of orange peel and candied ginger echo Cress’ ginger-orange cologne.
We spend time in the shop, inhaling the aromas of some of the over six hundred teas in their signature black canisters. Every time someone asks for a blend, the employees scoop it into old-fashioned scales. We watch as the teas, marbled with dried fruit, spices, and herbs entice the eye, as the mixture spills out into the pan until the level reaches the correct weight.
