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

Fred’s building door, digicode, three more floors and a door and I will finally be able to lie down and sleep, with ten kilometres in my paws and a disappointment at least as long. Click click click, door crossed. No Fred, or else he’s dead, because everything is silent. I’ll be able to get some sleep… well maybe… well, if I can stop thinking about her… well, tomorrow’s going to be a long day and my salads will still think I have a funny head.

And that’s it, Julien is gone, it’s over, without a look back.
« What a noodle, it’s me who let him run away like an idiot, just out of pride, so as not to let him think that I’d have gone back on my decision of 10 years ago now… ». Lucie enters the street Campagne Première.

Le Duc, the famous seafood restaurant is closed. The valet that she has been passing every evening for the past few days in front of the traffic lights around the corner has swapped her work clothes for jeans and a leather jacket.

He gets on his black scooter as she drives past the 2-wheel car park. He gives her a discreet wave with his hand before he starts off and disappears down the Boulevard Raspail.

Lucie takes one last look through the gates of Square Yves Klein, she catches a glimpse, probably for the last time, of Julien’s silhouette, who takes a determined step towards Boulevard Montparnasse. It’s time for her to go home, get warm, rest and take stock of the day. She needs to take stock of her life, isn’t that why she came back to spend a few months in Europe, by the way?
She rummages in her big black and white striped handbag, the bag she bought just 10 years ago during a trip to Florence with… well yes it was with Julien.

She takes out the set of keys given to her by her uncle and opens the large wrought iron door to enter the magnificent building with its famous facade made at the beginning of the 20th century by a famous ceramist whose name she has forgotten. She could not say whether she found this facade, covered with flamed stoneware tiles in beige tones, pretty or not. She just knows that she feels a great emotion because it brings back good memories of her childhood.

She likes the assembling of flowers on the tile background in pink tones.

She is sensitive to the charm that emanates from the inlaid face above the oculus that dominates the front door. This oculus is encircled by a superb crown of tastefully shaped roses. Lucie climbs the steps up to the second floor.

She opens the heavy oak door and enters the duplex which dominates the town. The smell of wax immediately gives her a feeling of peace and she regains her calm.

Before drawing the heavy red velvet curtains, she admires the last jolts of the city stretching out at her feet. A few traffic lights or traffic lights are still flickering here and there. There are no more pedestrians either on Boulevard Raspail or in Rue Froidevaux.

At the entrance to Boulevard Edgar Quinet, she can see a couple of homeless people lying on the benches. Her uncle told her that many homeless people are now settled on the side alley of Boulevard Edgar Quinet.

Just a short walk from Montparnasse train station, they can take advantage of the amenities offered in the Montparnasse cemetery. It also seems that the inhabitants of the neighbourhood are generous towards them, no doubt to soothe the voice of the bad conscience that creeps into them on certain evenings.

The superb double-decker bus, well-decorated and fitted out as a daytime reception area, is now stationed along the Montparnasse cemetery.

Lucie slips into the kitchen to make herself an herbal tea before going to sleep. She sits on the blue sofa from the 1950s, the one her parents used to sit on when they came to dinner at Uncle Theodore’s house. She finally dozes off for a few moments and decides to go upstairs to sleep in the bed in the left bedroom on the mezzanine.

Once on the bed, she turns and turns around to the rhythm of the thoughts that turn in her head. It is only around 5 o’clock in the morning that she finally manages, overcome by fatigue, to slip into a deep sleep. At the stroke of half past nine, she is woken up with a start by the doorbell in the corridor. By the time she emerges and pulls herself out of bed, there is no one left when she looks through the little eye that she inserts in the door. She opens the door even though she is in her undress.

She discovers a magnificent bouquet of purple, white and burgundy roses delicately placed on the mat. She runs through the flat and arrives just in time to see a florist’s car driving down Rue Froidevaux towards Avenue du Maine.

As she slips the bouquet into a large vase, she notices that it has no words or signs. She’s not even sure if it’s meant for her. She admires it, smells it and imagines a thousand and one things. Suddenly, she remembers hearing Julien tell Domitille last night that he was taking his train back to the Gare de Lyon at 10.30 am. She puts on jeans, slips into her little black jumper, puts on her navy blue trainers to walk fast.

She goes down the stairs of the building four by four, rushes into the metro station around the corner. « Ouch, ouch, ouch, it’s Sunday and the metro only runs on this line every ten minutes, as long as it hasn’t passed yet, » Lucie says to herself. Luckily, she hears the breath of the train entering Raspail station. Nine stations further on, she exits the metro and decides to walk when she hears that there is a passenger incident on line 14. She passes under the great arch of the austere Ministry of Finance and takes the rue de Bercy at a brisk pace. It leads out of breath into the allée de Bercy, a slalom between the homeless who are still lying down on this Sunday morning. For once they are not invaded by the Parisians who leave at dawn, on the move, towards the South East of France. As she crosses the road to enter through the underground entrance, she gets honked at by a taxi which has just cut the road. She raises her head towards the screens. The train for Mâcon is indicated at the departure of platform 21 in Hall number 2. She plagues herself internally against this cursed station in which the trains are spread out on several levels in all directions. Fortunately, it is not the jostling, the station is practically empty. He has only 4 unfortunate minutes left to arrive on the platform. Breathless, she draws her last strength from within herself to succeed in covering the last few metres that separate her from platform 21. One more last effort, only a few steps left. Exhausted, she arrives at the end of platform 21 to see the two round and red lights of the last wagon of the train already leaving in the distance.

Par Nathalie

Next episode : https://nathjy.travel.blog/2020/10/25/the-purple-rose-bouquet-episode-vi-julien/

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