The Stairs of Montmartre

Off To School

The number six train arrived at Corvisart with a loud screech. Aiden got off the train and headed down the stairs with the crowd that spilled onto Boulvard Auguste Blanqui, a one-way street whose speed limit and curving design always made the journey to French class a challenge. Then there were the stairs. Five stairs in granite then a landing and three groups of nine stairs.

At the top was a beautiful park with laughing children on swings, nannies, and young boys demonstrating their prowess at ping pong. Aiden was comforted by the explosion of life in the park. He stopped every day. The green and bright yellow foliage against the beige of the buildings always gave him a sense of relief. But, not today. There was an uneasiness as the broken sunlight reflected off the wispy clouds and stark Gothic buildings in the distance.

Soon the path with its square gray paving stones was carrying him to class, past the red and black ornamented buildings so common near the Place d’Italie, and to the Wallace fountain, a symbol of relief for Parisians 150 years ago.

Aiden stopped and looked intently through a glass window into an old French café. He could see two chess players, animated in their discussion about the last fierce battle on the board. Cigarette smoke hung in the air and glasses of rosé complemented other players lost in thought. At the square, the open-air market was filled with bananas, strawberries, and figs. He could hear children laughing and running. Normal sounds for a midweek afternoon.

But, he felt concern. There, in the middle of village life in Butte-aux-Cailles, he lingered for a moment, then headed to class through the medieval maze of narrow alleyways in south Paris.

Paul Verlaine Academy

French school had been an intellectual challenge for Aiden. Sitting among a young Italian woman who was escaping her past in Northern Italy, a German couple with a sprightly air wanting to experience all that was Paris, and an American woman who was working in Paris as a Human Resources manager, possessing what Aiden considered to be the worst American-French accent Aiden had ever heard. Then there was the diminutive Japanese woman, perhaps 20 years old, and a 40 something black woman from Alabama.

And, then there was Aiden, early thirties, a businessman who felt strongly that Paris was an experience he wanted to have.

The teacher was a graduate of the Sorbonne . . that is to say strict and precise; but there were a lot of days they all laughed at their monumental incompetence. Such was learning a new language! She would start the conversation by reading an article from LeMonde and each student was responsible for making a cogent comment and, perhaps, adding some idea using the daily vocabulary list. This was almost always an awkward comment that brought on laughter.

Aiden was always prepared, serious and focused, so the class was always a welcome relief from the chaos that had recently invaded his usual, studious routine.

The feeling. It only came in the still of the night or when he was alone. And, it was exacerbated by the isolation that he felt sometimes even in the middle of the day among the villagers at the Wallace fountain.

The Old Furniture Store

But, today, heading to school was different. His unease was all consuming. Soon, he was headed down a street he had never seen before.

The street was narrow and curved to the right into the darkness. There were sidewalks on both sides adorned with old metal hitching posts which now served as protection for the traveler from the occasional car. The old street was composed of a mixture of round granite paving stones, brick and old flat stones. Half-way down the street was a window box and a spray of red flowers which brightened up the otherwise dank passageway. There were occasional door knobs which protruded . . some larger than others in the traditional French fashion.

Aiden headed down the street in the direction of the school. A small furniture store caught his eye. He was drawn to the classic French designs. He was, after all, an importer to the United States of 15th and 16th century French furniture. An occasional stop for business was not against the rules.

He turned the handle to the shop and the door opened quietly to ages past. He could smell the linseed oil and woody aromas of the old French furniture. An end piece was of special note. The metal was original and the wood block carving was fine and representative of the excellent craft work of the period.

An excited voice came from the back of the store, ‘Henri! I knew you would return’.

Francois and Elise

Francois hugged Aiden.

‘Elise, Elise . . Henri, Henri is here.’

Elise had fine features. Her eyes were sharply drawn and her lips were soft and full Her striking good looks were familiar. Elise seemed to glide over to Aiden, and kissed, one, two, three cheeks as was the custom. She held Aiden for a moment and with kind eyes, said,’We’ve missed you Henri. Eleanor has missed you. She goes every week to the stairs of Montmartre . . in hopes that you would come.’’

Across the room was a familier face, a beautiful face. A photo on the wall.

‘She is beautiful, non?’ said Elise.

Eleanor’s picture was a bit faded, but you could see her beauty through the lens of the old Brownie. Her hair was beautiful, long and dark with curls. She had dark brown eyes and a thin nose. Her face radiated with penetrating, focused eyes and with lips that were full but pulled tight with a little upward turn at the edges, leaving a prominent chin. Her skin was smooth and had the look of a sculpture with a delicate white finish.

Eleanor was unmistakable. Aiden recognized her immediately.

The Laundry

Aiden fumbled with the Metro pass. How hard is it to get from his flat to Buttes-aux-Cailles? It seemed like forever.

Something had stirred him. The meeting with Francois and Elise yesterday. . . and the photo of Eleanor. He knew them. He knew Eleanor.

He bounded across Boulevard Auguste Blanqui, bounded up the stairs, and ran through the village square. Down the dark streets. . . he burst into the old furniture store!

Aiden looked around. No French furniture nor Francois nor Elise.

He stood there for a moment, shocked.

‘Can I help you,’ a balding man in his 70’s shouted from across the room.

He bolted from the store in disbelief. He retraced his steps. He was sure this was the place. The furniture store had been here yesterday. Francois and Elise . . and the photo of Eleanor.

When he returned, the cordial gentleman explained that this had been a furniture store, but a long time ago, when he bought it. A kindly smile came slowly to his creased face. He said Aiden was welcome to look around.

There, against an old lathe and plaster wall across the room, was an old disintegrating photo of a beautiful woman. Eleanor.

The Lovers

The stairs of Montmartre start at the top of the hill, near the access to the Funiculaire. A short distance is the cathedral, Sacre Coeur. The famous plaza with its artists, faux artists, trinket vendors and touristy restaurants is bounded by stores of every kind.

There is access from the West, Rue Norvins which has the easiest walk to the top of the hill, and North, where you can see the temple at the top of Butte Chaumont, and, of course, from the South with the Funiculaire and the expanse of zigzag walk ways for the young and fit. The adventurous take the Funiculaire.

During weekends and special events, the area is overrun with tourists from every corner of the world. Lovers of history, lovers of the southern Parisian skyline and the Eiffel Tower, lovers of Amelie, and, of course, lovers. It is famous.

The stairs of Montmartre are most often seen in tourist posters. It was at one of these, the stairs on Rue Chappe, halfway down, on a landing, against the dual hand rails, and among the occasional mark of graffiti, they met.

Love has a way of making you forget, and remember, and hope and dream. It is the powerful elixir which drives people, gives them hope, and gives them the strength to be more than themselves. And, this was the kind of love that Eleanor and Henri had found on the stairs of Montmartre.

The Brown School Bag

At school, Aiden situated his brown bag over the chair giving him easy access during the lessons. It had two compartments. One for his homework and French notes and the other to keep his prized possessions, his passport, Iowa driver’s license, extra money and some unused passport photos.

It was made of soft Italian leather, and the strap fit comfortably over his shoulder during his daily travels. It was covered by a large soft piece of leather with a small engraving of ‘Aiden’ on the lower bout of the bag. There was no fastener to prevent easy access for pickpockets, but it was never far from Aiden, and it was comfortable and safe for his purposes. It was his lifeline. He was never without it.

Aiden studied the faded picture of Eleanor that the proprietor of the laundry had given to him. At the park on the way back from school, he settled on the bench, listened to the children, listened to the the nannies, and listened to the disquiet that had filled so much of his life in recent days.

He turned the photo over. And, there it was.

The Note

Madame Fleury went up the stairs quickly. She had a note for Aiden. The first two flights were easy. Flights three and four, harder but doable. Flights five and six, not so much. She arrived at the top of the stair, sat on the top step, and stopped for a few moments to catch her breath. She could see a note on Aiden’s door.

The note:

Madame Fleury,

Thank you so much. I have had to leave unexpectedly and immediately. I have left the remaining months’ rent in an envelope on the bureau with the keys. There is money to clean the apartment and to cover any additional costs. Please keep the remainder including the US dollars. I apologize for not being able to talk with you about this. Please take care.

If anyone comes for me, please tell them that I have gone home. Thanks — Aiden –

The Stairs on Rue Chappe

One never knows where life will lead. It goes where it wants, and you can enjoy the journey or not.

The autumn leaves in Montmartre are beautiful. You can see among the trees and the hills the memories of the past, the statues of Dalida and Jean Cocteau, the red and black images of Dali and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

It is a magical place, especially on Rue Chappe. Especially halfway down, on a landing, against the dual hand rails, and among the occasional mark of graffiti, where rests an abandoned brown Italian leather bag with the name Aiden engraved on the lower bout.

The End