Previous episode : https://nathjy.travel.blog/2020/09/30/the-purple-rose-bouquet-episode-ii-julien/

Julien had barely stammered a few words when an old aunt of the bride, who had known us when we were students, infiltrated our conversation.

Ah, » she says, « Julien and Lucie, how nice to see you again. And to think that I thought you were separated. It’s incredible how we sometimes have strange ideas at my age. Every time I thought of you, I thought how sad it is that these two are no longer together, they were such a good match. »

Before she went on about the children we hadn’t had and the place of our little love nest…we were called for the entrance to the XIVth century town hall. That’s called being saved by the gong, isn’t it?

Inside the prestigious building we were separated and the ceremony took place according to tradition. Dinner then took place at the Zeyer, a restaurant at 62, rue d’Alesia overlooking Place Hélène et Victor Basch. Julien was seated at the cousins’ table, while I was seated at the table of my childhood friends. Julien looked bored and when he was bored no one could ignore him. I must admit that once I had exchanged a few banalities with the other guests at my table, I found the evening desperately long. To think that we hadn’t even been able to exchange more than 3 or 4 words. To think that Julien was there, so close and that we couldn’t even resume the conversation we had started. All this because Domitille, the bride had taken care not to put us at the same table so as not to embarrass us.
As soon as the cheese was served, I met Julien at the dessert buffet. I remembered his weakness for tiramisus. I won! Ah, I see, » I said detachedly, « that you still like tiramisu. « Here, you remember this, » he asked in amazement. « Well, yes, » I replied, while thinking « and many other things ».
When we were students, he often refused to take them in restaurants (except in Italy) because he said they were always worse than mine. So I felt obliged to make him one the following weekend and just by looking at his face those days I knew we wouldn’t be bored. He sketched one: « Do you still make tiramisus as well? »
« Oh you know, in India I didn’t really have the opportunity to do that. « I wanted to tell him that my recipe was reserved for him and that I had never made any more. I wanted to tell him that every time I saw some (fortunately quite rare), I felt like I was feeling a big bout of blues or nostalgia. I wanted to crush his tiramisu on his nose, just to settle our scores once and for all. Domitille approached and her wide-eyed eyes, seeing us together, said a lot about her astonishment. Luckily, before she made any remarks, her husband called her at the other end of the room and she immediately left to join him, giving me a discreet wink that annoyed me somewhat.
This place was definitely not conducive to exchanges lasting more than 3 minutes. So, I don’t know what got into me but I suggested to Julien to go and have a drink at the « Grands Voisins » a few steps from here. I was staying for a while, at an old uncle’s house, a few steps away from the « Grands Voisins », at the corner of rue Campagne Première and Boulevard Raspail, in a magnificent art deco building just opposite the small square Yves Klein. Julien had not hesitated more than a quarter of a second before accepting my proposal. He had swallowed his tiramisu and we had discreetly slipped away one after the other so as not to arouse false suspicions about us.
We went up the Avenue du Général Leclerc. We had been astonished by the transformations around the Catacombs, Place Denfert Rochereau. We had bypassed the square by the right side and almost got pushed by an electric scooter which came out of the Boulevard St Jacques without any light. At the corner of Boulevard Arago, a couple was waiting in front of the pharmacy. In Denfert Rochereau Avenue, a few homeless people were recharging the batteries of their mobile phones, while dozing off with one eye, one in a bus shelter, another one a little further away at a socket on the terrace of the « Contre-allée », a famous restaurant.

A few minutes later, we were in front of the porch of 71 avenue Denfert Rochereau, the former St Vincent de Paul hospital. As we entered the first courtyard, the Cour Robin, we were seized by the magic of the place. The old hospital had been transformed in recent years into a place of life and exchange. All sorts of events were happening here and it was immediately striking to anyone who dared to cross the threshold. There was a summer ginguette atmosphere that immediately put us at ease. Garlands of light decorated a wooden patio made from recycled pallets. A trellis ran along the slats and gave a wild air to this little corner of the courtyard. Plantations here and there, flowers, artistic and ephemeral creations, brightened up the place with a very pleasant musical background. I did not regret my choice. After crossing the second porch, we discovered where the music came from. It came from the lingerie or rather from the bar where it is good to take one’s time over a drink. Here, we served local beers, organic and artisanal fruit juices, ginger or lemon lemonade. In short, there was something to have a good time. It was just the kind of unusual place we liked to go to when we were students. It made me realize that my life had taken a whole new turn in the last ten years. Julien and I both had a lot to tell each other but we didn’t know where to start. Talking about our last meeting might put an end to the charm of that evening. Not mentioning it could lead us to false pretences that we both hated. We both knew that all the false hypocrisies that most people had were leading to nothing but false relationships that would sooner or later fade away. I threw myself into the water and tried to express in words (this time) the deep wound I felt when Julien announced his departure for the United States ten years ago. Throughout the evening, we had managed to exchange on our respective feelings on this subject and had laughed a lot about our misunderstandings and misinterpretations. The brain often tells us stories that we should be wary of. I had also laughed a lot at Julien’s jokes. I thought it was good to rediscover his humour, which had become more refined over time. Time had gone by very quickly and we had been surprised when the music and lights had gradually faded away. We were now in the dark and a smiling waiter had pointed out that we were the last customers of the lingerie. Taking a quick look around, I realised that this was true.
Julien had then offered to walk me to the Raspail metro station, which was a stone’s throw from my uncle’s house. We had walked on the Boulevard Raspail, thus regaining one of our old habits of yesteryear. On the right side of the Boulevard, I discovered the CNC – Centre national du cinéma et de l’image-. On the façade walls, there were large posters of « l’Une chante, l’autre pas » in homage to Agnès Varda, who had died recently. The air was fresher and the tall trees gave off a pleasant smell of spring. Arriving at the Raspail station, a middle-aged man pulled the iron curtains at the bottom of the big stairs. The station had just closed. Julien had just missed the last metro.

Par Nathalie

Next episode : https://nathjy.travel.blog/2020/10/14/the-purple-rose-bouquet-episode-iv-julien/

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