Free Us by Nicholls David Page B

Cheddar, and nuts in the salad. Look at the chairs in the Jardin du Luxembourg! So much more poised and elegant than the sag and slump of a deckchair. Baguettes! Or ‘French sticks’ as I called them then, to Connie’s amusement. We carried great armfuls of baguettes home on the plane, laughing as we crammed them into the overhead lockers.
    But a branch of The Body Shop is much the same worldwide, and sometimes the Boulevard St Germain seems not that far from Oxford Street. Familiarity, globalisation, cheap travel, mere weariness had diluted our sense of foreign-ness. The city was more familiar than we wanted it to be and, as we walked in silence, it seemed some effort would be required to remind her of the fun we used to have, and could have in the future.
    â€˜Pharmacies! What’s with all the pharmacies?’ I said, in my wry, observational tone. ‘How do they all survive? You’d think, from all the pharmacies, they’d be in a constant state of flu. We have phone shops, the French have pharmacies!’
    Still she said nothing. Crossing a side street, I noted the gutters were flowing with fast-moving water, sandbags blocking strategic drains. I had always been impressed by this particular innovation in urban hygiene, seemingly unique to Paris. ‘It’s like they’re rinsing out this immense bath,’ I said.
    â€˜Yes, you say that every time we come here. That thing about pharmacies too.’
    Did I? I wasn’t aware of having said it before. ‘How many times have we been here now, d’you think?’
    â€˜I don’t know. Five, six.’
    â€˜D’you think you could name them all?’
    Connie frowned at the thought. Both of our memories were deteriorating, and in recent years the effort required to recall a name or incident felt almost wearyingly physical, like clearing out an attic. Proper nouns were particularly elusive. Adverbs and adjectives would go next, until we were left with pronouns and imperative verbs. Eat! Walk! Sleep now! Eat! We passed a
boulangerie
.
    â€˜Look – French sticks!’ I said, and nudged her. Connie looked blank. ‘When we first came to Paris I said, “let’s buy some French sticks” and you laughed and called me provincial. I said that’s what my mother used to call them. My dad thought they were barbaric. “It’s all crust!”’
    â€˜That sounds like your father.’
    â€˜The first time you and I came to Paris, we bought about twenty and carried them back on the plane.’
    â€˜I remember. You told me off for nibbling at the ends.’
    â€˜I’m sure I didn’t “tell you off”.’
    â€˜You said that’s what makes them go stale.’
    And we were silent again, turning north towards the Seine.
    â€˜I wonder what Albie’s up to,’ said Connie.
    â€˜He’s asleep, probably.’
    â€˜Well that’s all right. He’s allowed.’
    â€˜Either that or he’s trying to work out why there are no mouldy mugs on the windowsill. He’s probably there now, burning cigarette holes in the curtains. Room service! Bring me three banana skins and an overflowing ashtray …’
    â€˜Douglas – this is precisely what we came here to avoid.’
    â€˜I know. I know.’
    And then she slowed and stopped. We were on rue Jacob, standing near a small, somewhat ramshackle hotel.
    â€˜Look. It’s our hotel,’ she said, taking my arm.
    â€˜You remember that.’
    â€˜That trip, I do. Which room was it?’
    â€˜Second floor, on the corner. The yellow curtains. There it is.’
    Connie put her head on my shoulder. ‘Perhaps we should have gone back to that hotel instead.’
    â€˜I thought about it. I thought it would have felt a little strange, with Albie there.’
    â€˜No, he’d have liked it. You could have told him the story, he’s old enough now.’
34. the hotel on rue