The Sweetness of Forgetting (44)

“Well then,” Monsieur Berr says. “You should go now. The past waits on no one.”





Chapter Twelve



I’m in stunned disbelief as I bid Monsieur Berr adieu and hurry downstairs. My feet carry me back toward the Seine, where I hail a cab on the main street and hand the driver the slip of paper Monsieur Berr has just given me. The driver grunts in reply and pulls away from the curb. He veers across lanes of traffic, takes a bridge over the Seine, and cuts back to the east, where he parallels the river as I watch the twin towers of Notre-Dame grow closer and closer out the right window. Finally, he turns left and, after a series of twists and turns, screeches to a halt in front of a gray stone building with a pair of massive, dark wooden doors. I pay the driver, and as he pulls away, I approach the call box.

There, in black and white, is the name Picard, A. I take a deep breath and push the buzzer next to the now familiar last name. Only then do I realize my hands are shaking.

My heart pounds wildly as I wait. There’s no reply. I push the buzzer again, but there’s still no response. My heart sinks. What if it’s too late; what if he’s dead? I remind myself that it’s equally possible he’s merely out; it’s midafternoon on a lovely fall day. Perhaps he’s gone for a walk, or to the store. I linger outside the building for a few minutes, in hopes that someone will come in or out and I’ll be able to ask about him, but the street is quiet, and there’s no one coming or going.

I check my watch. Perhaps he’s in the Place des Vosges, playing chess, like Monsieur Berr said. I pull out my map, flip to the correct page, and realize the park is less than a block away. I turn and walk in that direction.

On the way, I stop at a pay phone, and after spending a few minutes trying to get an English-speaking operator, I use my Visa to make a call to Annie’s cell. I realize she’s probably asleep and won’t answer, but I’m suddenly dying to tell her what I’ve found. The call goes to voice mail, and although I’d expected that, my heart still sinks. I consider telling her about Alain, but instead, I say, “I was just thinking about you, honey, and I wanted to say hi. It’s beautiful here in Paris. I think I might have found something, but I’m trying not to get my hopes up. I’ll call you later. I love you.”

Five minutes later, I enter the Place des Vosges through the middle of three stone arches beneath a building. The whole square is surrounded by uniform brick and stone buildings, with graying roofs, french doors, and narrow balconies. Nearly twenty soaring trees with kelly-green leaves surround a statue on horseback in the middle of the rectangular park, while four two-level fountains hold up the four grassy corners, inside the frame of the sandy footpaths.

I look around for anyone who matches Alain’s general description, but so far the oldest man I’ve seen—a man walking a little black dog—couldn’t be much older than sixty. I quickly walk the length of the park, staring into the faces of those who pass by, but there is no one here who might be Alain. My heart heavy in my chest, I sigh and walk out the way I came. It is beginning to dawn on me that I might not encounter him, here or anywhere. I fight off a feeling of crushing disappointment—I can’t admit defeat yet.

I wander east to kill a little time before I return to the address Monsieur Berr gave me. I turn a few corners, passing apartment buildings and storefronts, until I find myself on a narrow street filled with people ducking in and out of designer stores. Rue des Rosiers, I read from a street sign. I wander down the street, staring up at a disconcerting mix of ancient-looking butcher shops, bookstores, and synagogues, blended with modern clothing stores.

I come to a stop outside a small storefront marked with the Star of David and the word synagogue, which is apparently the same in French as it is in English. My heart is thudding, and I reach out a shaking hand to touch the outer wall. I wonder how long it’s been here, and whether my grandmother might have worshipped here at some point.

As I stand there, lost in thought about the past, a familiar scent tugs me back to the present. The air smells ever so faintly like the buttery, cinnamon-scented, fig-and-prune-filled Star Pies I bake every day in my own bakery.

I turn, slowly, and find myself facing a deep red storefront with big picture windows overflowing with breads and pastries. A bakery. I blink a few times and, as if drawn forward by an invisible magnet, float across the street and through the doors.

Inside, the store is packed with people. To the right is a long deli case with meats and prepared salads; to the left is a seemingly endless display of bagels, cheesecakes, pies, tarts, and pastries, all with little signs announcing their names in French and their prices in euros.

I’m frozen in place as my eyes roam over the familiar selection. I see the lemon-grape cheesecake that’s one of the North Star’s specialties. There’s a delicate-looking strudel that looks just like the one that always sells out at my bakery; I take a step closer and realize it’s practically identical: it has apples, almonds, raisins, candied orange peel, and cinnamon, just like I use. There’s even a sourdough rye bread like the one I earned top honors with two years ago in the Cape Cod Times’s “Best Breads of the Cape” poll.

And there, in the window, are slices of something they call Ronde des Pavés. I’m accustomed to seeing them baked into little individual pies with star-shaped lattice crusts, but as I bend to look at the slices, the filling is unmistakable. Poppy seeds, almonds, grapes, figs, prunes, and cinnamon sugar. Just like Mamie’s beloved Star Pies.