The Little Paris Bookshop นิยาย & เรื่องราว

He was the same person in a different context, which was its own kind of interesting to witness. He knew the city the way you know a place you have moved through for years with full attention. He knew which streets to take and which to avoid and where the good coffee was and the bookshop with the cat on the philosophy shelf, which turned out to be real and to have a ginger cat named something untranslatable that the staff called something else entirely and which was asleep on a collection of essays when we arrived on the second morning. I spent twenty minutes in that bookshop. I spent twenty minutes in that bookshop and came out with four books and a feeling that I had been given access to s

"Noted. Might take you up on that." "You'd better." She squeezed my arm. "Come on. Pastries. I need you distracted by butter immediately." The shop she dragged me into was tucked between a dry cleaner and a shuttered storefront, a place called Le Petit Four with a hand-painted sign and a line out the door that Jane elbowed us through with the practiced ruthlessness of a regular. Inside it smelled like caramelized sugar and strong coffee, warm enough that my glasses fogged for a second, and the noise of the street fell away behind the door like someone had turned a dial.

The vibe towards magic with every minute walked within the city shook me, and I fell in love with Paris. We walked into a small bookshop, the walls of which were completely clad with old books and prints from other centuries. Luc took me to meet the friend who owned it. She was a sweet old lady, with the name of Colette. She spoke no other language than French, so Luc had to do an interpreter's job in our conversation. Must be here, there, around the shelves of the lit. section for almost an hour, doing little but changing pleasantries back and forth ad nauseam.

The next day, Jean-Baptiste picked me up in a vintage car, looking even more handsome in casual clothes. "Ready for real Paris?" he asked. "As ready as I'll ever be." He took me to a bookshop that was part library, part café, part time capsule. Books in French and English covered every surface. Readers sprawled in chairs, sipping coffee and completely absorbed. "This place is magical," I breathed. "Yes. I come here when I need to remember why I love this city." He ordered us coffees. "So, American girl. What brings you to Paris looking so sad?"

"Come on, now." They continued walking down the street until they got to an old bookstore. It was small and rustic, and old place that was hardly standing on its own now but it was Rosie's favourite in Paris. She could spend all day scanning the shelves or sitting outside on the little outdoor dining tables with a book in hand. Rosie sat down at one of the tables while Anthony walked across the street to get them some coffee. She opened a new book that had been propped underneath her arm, falling into whatever new universe this book would consume her into.

As I passed by a small bookstore, the title of a book in the window caught my eye. I stepped inside, the cool air a welcome reprieve from the heat outside. The scent of old books and incense wrapped around me like a comforting blanket. The owner, a friendly woman with a knowing smile, asked if I needed help. I pointed to the book in the window. "Ah, the magik calls to you?" she said, her accent thick and comforting. "Come, let me show you where that one is." The book was about the history of the French Quarter, filled with tales of love, loss, and the supernatural.

The world had returned to small humiliations and silly victories, and it was intoxicating. By mid-afternoon we drifted toward the quieter side of the shopping street, where smaller shops clustered — a bookshop with a bell that sang when the door opened, a tiny florist, and then the one that made my steps slow without my permission: a baby boutique. It sat between a bakery and a tailor, its window dressed in soft pastels and tiny hangers holding impossibly small clothes. A knitted blanket draped like a secret across the display, and mobile animals swayed slowly as if asleep.

"Traffic near the campus was brutal because of the graduation rehearsals. Besides, I brought gifts." "Gifts? Maverick, I'm trying to empty the apartment, not add more things to it," I said, though I couldn't stop the smile from spreading across my face. "Relax, it's not heavy," he said, reaching into the pocket of his hoodie which he had dropped onto a chair. He pulled out a small, rectangular object wrapped in simple brown paper and handed it to me. I took it from him, tearing the paper open carefully. It was a book. Specifically, a highly technical manual on advanced software architecture and data structures. There were neat, small sticky notes poking out from almost every single chapter.

Turning, I don't see what attracted my attention, but something in my head is shouting, jumping in the air and waving arms at me. What was it...? Ahhh.... Across the street is a small second-hand bookshop; the kind with tiny windows and a narrow entrance which only opens on the second Sunday of the month. The door stands open, seeming to lead no-where except dark shelf-stacks that a Victorian explorer would lose himself in. And through the entrance, just visible, a head of copper-red hair. I find myself smiling. Tossing the dregs of the soup into a bin, I follow my feet across the road and into the store.