A Parisian Adventure
[cont’d]
A taxi took us to rue Pierre l’Ermite, a single block in the 18th Arrondissement, but where was number 3, the store’s address? I walked up and down the street but couldn’t find it. Finally, in frustration, I went into the only store around and asked for help…in English. The aproned proprietor, who spoke only French, understood “Jacques Desse.” He came outside and pointed across the street and down the block. But I had already looked there. He continued to gesticulate and talk to me in French, slowly working his way down the street abandoning his shop. I appeared to be clueless. I’m sure he was thinking, if not saying, “What a dumb American!” I don’t understand French curse words either. Dieu merci!
At last, he came to a set of iron doors onto which was tacked a small illustrated piece of paper about the Salon. Voila!! Here it was. How would I ever have thought this was a bookshop? He opened the large vault-like door, and, like the black and white Oz turning into color, glass doors revealed a world of books! “Merci! Merci!” I said to the storeowner as he ran back to his forsaken shop. I shouted to Harold to pay the driver who had idled lest we were in the wrong place.
I’ve lived my whole life in New York City, but it’s a rare event for me to meet someone I know on the streets. Here I was on the outskirts of Paris when someone calls, “Hi, Popuplady!” It was Thierry Desnoues, a pop-up book collector and web designer whom I had met in New York when he came to see the Kubašta exhibit at the Grolier Club. We did the French double-cheek-air-kiss thing and cheered that we were meeting again. He introduced me to Pat Lecoq who spoke excellent English and would be invaluable to me as a translator.
Now I was poised to begin the adventure. Just beyond the glass doors was Thibaut, smiling behind two tables spread high with the latest French pop-up books, and behind him, older editions. After enthusiastically greeting him, I glanced around the shop. The walls on the right were floor-to-ceiling books, and beyond Thibaut, on the left, were glass-enclosed shelves with antiquarian books, and, jumping out at me, Kubašta’s counting series.
The aisle of books stretched maybe 40 feet to the back where there were tables disappearing behind the L-shaped room. How far back did that go? Were the paper engineers sitting behind these tables?
Smiling a Cheshire cat-worthy smile, Jacques came barreling down the aisle to greet us with more air-kissing and hugs. Like Thibaut, he too appreciated that we’d crossed the Atlantic for the sole purpose of attending this event. People were piling in. I took a deep breath. “Slow down, Ellen,” I cautioned myself. “Take in one thing at a time so you will remember it.” With my excitement and enthusiasm, I could spin myself into a tizzy and miss out on much of the evening.
