Shakespeare escaped the fire

by Zoila María Checa Molina (Spain)

I didn't expect to find France

- “Would you like it stamped?” He looked up at me gently, peeking behind his rounded pair of crystal-clear glasses. They looked vintage but were so squeaky clean that they made for a bold contrast in such a historical, bookish environment. ‘So English yet so Parisian, so old yet so fresh nowadays’, I thought of the warm, wood-covered bookshop after spending there no less than two hours. Not that I even noticed the minutes go by, for after two days in Paris munching on buckwheat crepes, being blinded by Christmas lights and, of course, admiring the iron lady from every angle, this was the best experience yet. ‘Shakespeare and Company, Kilometer Zero Paris’, read the rounded stamp’s imprint, in which Shakespeare’s bearded portrait was framed. - “Kilometer Zero?” I asked. - “Yes, well, we’re located at the point in which all French roads begin!” The sales attendant replied. My eyes widened in response, struggling to find a reason why someone wouldn’t want their book stamped. I’d picked up a collection of stories from Charles Dickens, ‘A Christmas Carol and other Christmas Books’, very fitting for the season. - “Yes, absolutely, stamp away!” I confirmed, and shifted my eyes towards Carlos –my partner, who was buying the book for me as a gift- in excitement, a colossal smile coiling up inevitably, while he stood by me as if proudly witnessing the end of a war. There was, in fact, some truth to that, for I’d been at war with myself for a while. At only 24 years old, being Spanish and having studied in a British school and university, I often found myself divided between the two languages, two countries and two distinct me’s. I felt lost, especially when it came to where I was headed in life. Am I good enough writer? What should I write about now? Where do I feel more 'me'? I’d lost sight of my true passion, inspiration and myself. Never would I have expected to stumble upon such a Shakespearian-fantasy bookshop in the middle of Paris’ 5th arrondissement – I hadn’t heard of it, ever. It wasn’t your typical must-see, and tourists were normally around that artsy district to visit the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, now closed to visitors since the unforgiving flames destroyed its roof, spire, windows and vaulted ceilings during the historic fire on April 15th 2019. “It’s so sad that we can’t go any closer”, I heard a droopy voice say while I admired the cathedral from afar just 5 minutes before gloomily walking away along the banks of the Seine and coming face to face with the independent English-language bookstore (which I later found out was founded in 1951 by George Whitman and had since become a Left Bank literary institution). Being in Paris, I was expecting to be thrilled by Christmas markets and the aroma of fresh-baked croissants, hot apple juice and roasted chestnuts. Instead, though I did relish in those, I was marvelled at the sight of the bookshop’s forest-green outdoor carpentry and the piles of books that served as a prelude for what awaited inside. ‘Flick, flick.’ I could hear the brushing of every page in every book inside the store. Over 42k books. They climbed up and down the walls and filled every room and space available: this bookshop was literature’s kingdom, its safe keep. The words of Virginia Woolf and about 40k Tumbleweeds –novel writers allowed to stay at the bookstore for free- spilled from the pages and filled the air. I could hear them talk, shout and whisper. ‘Meow’, I heard Aggie the cat as she passed by, followed by the sweet melody of a piano travelling from the second floor to the ground floor where I stood by the checkout counter. I finally felt at home. I finally knew that my soul was that of a writer, and I would embrace it until my last breath. ‘STAMP!’ The sound of the stamp being smacked on my book brought me back from the memories of those dreamy two hours. ‘Thank God the fire didn’t get to you’, I smiled to myself. Shakespeare escaped the fire, and so did I.