Read Online A Week in Paris by Rachel Hore - Free Book Online Page A

recognized the kiosks selling newspapers and magazines, the advertising columns covered with bright posters of Miles Davis playing the Olympia music hall and a film by François Truffaut, the precise Parisian French in her ears, spoken too quickly to follow.
    It wasn’t simply sightseeing, there was something else she had to do this afternoon, something important. She must begin her search for the convent whose name she’d found on the label in the little rucksack. She’d no idea where to start. The hotel might tell her, perhaps.
    L’Hôtel Marguerite, a modest establishment with no restaurant, only a bar where they served tartines and coffee for breakfast, was situated nearby in one of the side streets behind the Madeleine. Fay was sharing a room with a flautist, Sandra, a willowy blonde who was one of the few other female members of the orchestra. She consulted the tourist map they’d each been given and found her way easily. However, there was nobody in reception when she arrived, and although a notice invited her to ring a miniature hand-bell for service, no one responded to the high tinkling.
    Where now? she wondered, going back out into the sunshine. A post office, she supposed – they would have some kind of directory. She walked over to the Place de la Madeleine, past the great Roman columns of the church and down a road beyond on the other side of the square lined with market stalls. The post office she came to had its blinds drawn down, closed no doubt for the long lunch-hour.
    She was quite hungry herself by now, so she bought a length of crusty baguette with ham and sat on a bench in the Tuileries Gardens to eat, throwing the crumbs to some scruffy-looking pigeons. A solemn-faced boy of three or four trotted by, one hand pulled by a woman wearing an elegant short white boxy coat, the other clutching a toy windmill. Fay smiled at him, but he merely stared back incuriously and this made her feel unwanted.
    To throw off the mood she consulted the map again. The Louvre was nearby, but she’d visited it last time and didn’t feel a pressing need to go again. Instead, she set off along the Rue de Rivoli, looking at the fashions in the shop windows. She stopped at a kiosk to buy a copy of
Mademoiselle
with the latest hairstyles for Derek, before deciding to turn down a road that led to the river. On the Pont Neuf she loitered to watch the motor launches pass underneath, enjoying the breeze and the clear spring light, before crossing onto the Île de la Cité and following a narrow street that wound its way to Notre Dame. She caught her breath at the sight of the great west face of the cathedral, and remembered what had happened to her the last time she was there. This momentarily brought Adam to mind. Adam. It was odd that she sometimes thought of him. She considered going inside, but the memory of her fear put her off. Instead she bought a postcard of a gargoyle, which she wrote to Lois.
    On her way to the hotel, she saw that the post office by the Place de la Madeleine was open so she joined the short queue inside. When it was her turn at the counter, she stumbled out her request to a stern woman in black-framed spectacles who sat behind a grille. The woman fetched a crisp new directory and thumbed the pages till she came to the one she wanted, running a practised finger down the columns. Eventually she looked up at Fay and shook her head. ‘
Non
,’ she said, closing the book. ‘
Cela n’existe pas
,’ in a tone that brooked no argument. Fay thanked her and retreated in embarrassment. The implication was clearly that not only did St Cecilia’s not exist, it never
had
existed – and Fay was a fool for asking. It felt a significant defeat. She bought a stamp for Lois’s postcard and hurried out.
    Her spirits had recovered by the evening performance. Her attention was firmly on the music, on making her instrument sing, her eyes partly on the score, partly on the conductor, so that the song of her violin