Page 8 of Daughters of Paris

She was greeted by a fog of sweet cigarette smoke and a spicy, exotic fragrance that made her eyes water but her heart race. There was something old and shabby about theCafé Morlaix. The clientele was mainly young and male, with a handful of women seated at circular tables close to the corner where the source of the cacophony was coming from. Three young men were playing; a saxophonist with dark brown skin and tightly curled black hair, a clarinettist (was that the word, Fleur wondered) with pale skin and light ginger hair that stuck up in spikes, and a drummer who looked more like a bank clerk with neatly combed black hair and a Mediterranean complexion. Fleur wondered whether they had deliberately chosen each other for their contrasting appearances as they barely seemed to be playing the same tune.

‘Mademoiselle?’ A waiter dressed in black with a ruby-coloured apron around his waist approached her. He stared at her through a pair of very thick, round glasses. His light brown hair made Fleur think of an owl.

‘A table for one, or are you meeting somebody?’

‘For one, please,’ she replied. ‘But not too near the band.’

The waiter grinned. ‘Of course. This way, please.’

He escorted Fleur to a small table with two chairs set against the back wall and handed her a menu. He returned a few moments later with a carafe of water and Fleur ordered acafé crème, thinking how disapproving Monsieur Ramper would be. One or two of the other patrons looked at Fleur and she smiled back self-consciously. She took a book out of her bag and began reading it, referring occasionally to her English dictionary.

‘What are you reading?’ the waiter asked when he brought the coffee. She showed him the front cover.

‘Jane Eyerer?’

‘Eyre,’ she corrected. ‘It’s an English book.’

The waiter pulled up a chair and sat without asking. ‘You speak English?’

‘A little,’ she admitted with pride. ‘Not enough to read this without a dictionary.’

‘You’re a student?’

Fleur took a sip of coffee to delay answering and give herself a chance to observe him. He had a searching face and was probably not much older than she was, though his glasses and a line between his eyebrows – which Fleur was later to discover was the result of a childhood spent squinting at the world without glasses – made him appear older.

‘No, but I enjoy reading and I’m trying to teach myself. I work in the bookshop a few streets away.’

This obviously met with his approval because the waiter held out his hand. ‘I am Sébastien.’

Fleur shook it and told him her name.

‘I am very pleased to meet you, Fleur. Iama student,’ he said proudly. ‘Of art and literature.’

‘And a waiter?’ Fleur asked.

Sébastien’s jaw tightened. ‘I need to eat. The café is owned by my second cousin, Bernard, and he gives me as many shifts as I can manage. I don’t have rich parents like some of them.’

He waved a hand around the room. Fleur looked around. Thanks to living with Delphine, she could tell many of the patrons were wearing quality garments.

‘Forgive me for saying so, but this doesn’t seem like the sort of place where wealthy Parisians would gather.’

His eyes grew hard, and she thought she’d offended him but the corner of his mouth jerked into a quick smile. ‘Very perceptive. Some of them like to pretend they are not rich. Some have rejected families but kept the trappings before they slammed out of the house.’ He leaned in close to Fleur and spoke in a low, drawling voice that made the skin on the back of her neck shiver. ‘See Sabrina over there with the black hair? She had a fight with her father and walked out of an apartment just off the Champs-Élysées but went back the next day to pack three suitcases of shoes, hats and bags.’

‘Naturally. How could anyone survive otherwise?’ Fleur laughed. ‘I should bring my friend Colette here. She would find it remarkable.’

She grew sober at the mention of Colette’s name. She had never replied to Fleur’s letters so she couldn’t really describe Colette as a friend any longer and on consideration, she liked the idea of having something of her own.

Sébastien frowned. ‘If she would view us as a circus or zoo exhibit, don’t bother. I’m afraid I had better get on with work now.’ Sébastien picked up her empty cup and gave the table a quick wipe. ‘I hope we will meet again, Fleur.’

She looked at his smile and her stomach did a slow flip. ‘So do I.’

‘If you come on a Wednesday evening, a few of us gather to discuss … the world. You’d be welcome to join us.’ He’d paused before completing the sentence, leaving Fleur to wonder what aspects of the world they discussed. Somehow, she could not imagine this young man or his friends listening to this discordant noise while they sat and nodded in agreement at government policies. Her scalp prickled with excitement.

‘Yes, I would like that, thank you.’

Fleur walked back to the Metro station pleased that she finally had something she could tell Monsieur Ramper about. His advice had been good and she was glad to have taken it.

It was three weeks before Fleur was able to find the time to visit the café again. She dressed in her blue-striped skirt that matched last year’s grey cardigan, conscious that her clothes were nothing like some of the elegant but slightly bohemian ensembles she had seen in the café. To think she had been invited to join them made her insides wriggle with trepidation but Sébastien had clearly seen something inside her worth inviting. She added a peach silk scarf that had been a present from Delphine and Louis on her nineteenth birthday, and a touch more mascara than she usually wore, and felt almost bohemian herself as she walked through the door.

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