A missing person, a grieving family, a curious clue: a half-finished manuscript set in Paris
Once a week, I chase men who are not my husband. . . .
When eccentric novelist Robert Eady abruptly vanishes, he leaves behind his wife, Leah, their daughters, and, hidden in an unexpected spot, plane tickets to Paris.
Hoping to uncover clues--and her husband--Leah sets off for France with her girls. Upon their arrival, she discovers an unfinished manuscript, one Robert had been writing without her knowledge . . . and that he had set in Paris. The Eady girls follow the path of the manuscript to a small, floundering English-language bookstore whose weary proprietor is eager to sell. Leah finds herself accepting the offer on the spot.
As the family settles into their new Parisian life, they trace the literary paths of some beloved Parisian classics, including Madeline and The Red Balloon, hoping more clues arise. But a series of startling discoveries forces Leah to consider that she may not be ready for what solving this mystery might do to her family--and the Paris she thought she knew.
Charming, haunting, and triumphant, Paris by the Book follows one woman's journey as she writes her own story, exploring the power of family and the magic that hides within the pages of a book.
|Publisher:||Penguin Publishing Group|
|Product dimensions:||5.90(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.40(d)|
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I've long considered the front of our bookstore a trap, one carefully set.
This is as it must be. Although we are in the wearyingly popular Marais district, we are in the lower Marais, closer to the Seine but farther from the falafel stands and crperies, the pedestrian streets, and thus the crowds, and thus, customers. One side of our block is almost entirely taken up with the blank back wall of a monastery, which may or may not be occupied. Despite all the bells, I've never seen a monk on the sidewalk. Opposite the monastery, a succession of shops like ours, peering out from the ground floors of anonymous, flat-front buildings in various shades of cream forever wizening yellow. High above, zinc roofs slowly bruise black, windows shrug away shutters. Here and there appear flowers, or their remains. So, too, wrought iron railings, or their remains.
And our store, bright red, like an apple, a wound.
The store has always been red, but it was deeper, bluer, more toward the color of cabernet when I first saw it. It was my choice to update it to cherry, almost fire truck, red. This caused a mild scandal even though I'd cleared it with our landlord, the store's original proprietor, Madame Brouillard; one painter quit on me before he got started and another quit after scraping and priming. Upon the recommendation of my UPS driver (and unofficial street concierge), Laurent, I finally hired a Polish man who spoke almost as little French as I did and thus didn't care what anyone thought. I asked Laurent what he thought when the job was done. Laurent looked up and down the street. The painter had not only gotten exactly right the clarion red I wanted, he'd layered what looked to be thirty-six coats of clear lacquer on top. The place shone as if it had been enameled in molten lollipop.
Laurent said I should sell them, lollipops.
I shook my head.
He shook his.
We sell books. Gold letters say this on the window. bookshop to one side, librairie anglophone to the other. In the middle, our name, a debate. It had been named for the street, which is named for Saint Lucy. This confuses people; across town, there is another street named for her. More confusion: Lucy is the patron saint of writers, but Madame Brouillard said the name sometimes brought in religious shoppers, and most times, no one at all. Once upon a time, she insisted to me, the street had been crowded, not just with book buyers but booksellers. One by one, the stores departed, and many left their stock behind with Madame. The English-language volumes, not the French. The dross, not the treasures. And needless to say, the dead, not the living. She had hardly anything by living authors.
I suggested rechristening the store The Late Edition. Late as in we would henceforth specialize in authors who, unlike their books, were dead.
She didn't like it, but she let me proceed, as one of her keenest pleasures is bearing a grudge. I sometimes think it's why she let me, who knew little about bookstores (and even less about French), assume control of a bookshop she'd owned for decades. And it's likely why she watched with interest as the dead-authors angle turned out to be just the sort of Paris quirk travel writers craved (who are quick to note that I make living-authors exceptions for children's books and books of any sort by women).
Madame pays Laurent off the books to bring more stock from storage units outside Paris, where she's piled the leavings of her predecessors. Laurent says there aren't enough customers in the world for all the books waiting there.
And Madame had a very small share of the world's customers. When we took over the store, the running joke was that we were down to three. Two Americans and one New Zealander, who also formed the sum total of my friends in Paris: another joke. And whenever my daughters made it, I would smile to hide the hurt. Not only was it a stretch to call the three customers, but even more so to call them friends. Still, I was grateful they occasionally bought books.
The truth is, in modern France as in modern elsewhere, Amazon sells books (and snow tires); bookstores sell coffee. Or the profitable ones do. Those with bookstores that only sell books have a tougher time. It is slightly easier in France, although Amazon's smirk is almost as ubiquitous here as it likely still is in Milwaukee, where my girls and I lived until recently. (Unless two years is not recent? Some days it feels like twenty years. Other days, twenty minutes.) Enlightened France, however, regulates discounting books (or attempts to) and, even more cheering, occasionally provides independent bookstores financial support. Such aid favors the selling of new books, but Madame Brouillard had long ago figured out a way to benefit, by running a second, smaller bookstore that sold new titles in French. It just happened to coexist inside a bookstore that sold used books in English. The French store specialized in children's titles and was on the front half of what looks like the building's second floor but is actually a cramped mezzanine.
The back half of the mezzanine, flimsily walled off, became my daughters' bedroom, which, if they left the door open upon leaving, sometimes became an ersatz English-language children's bookstore: Daphne once complained someone was stealing her old Beverly Cleary books; I'd been selling them without asking buyers just where they'd picked them up.
The kitchen, living area, and my bedroom are on the floor above the girls. With higher ceilings and more elaborate architectural detail, this is the tage noble. But in our building, the resident noble, Madame Brouillard, commands the top two floors, which have much better light. She lives on one and her own private collection of books lives just above, or so she once told me. For the longest time, I'd never ventured farther into her apartment than the small sitting room just inside the door (which, like the building, like so much of Paris, looks just like authors and artists have long led you to think: late-sun yellow, delicate furniture, lace, an old crystal lamp atop a tiny table).
Paris, in other words, like Madame's promises to show me the top floor, is a challenge, an invitation, a city that doesn't distinguish between the two. It may be why my conversations with Madame often ended abruptly. Or it was because she knew, long before I did, that the trap I'd set was not for customers but for my vanished husband-and that it had ensnared me instead.
It is faintly ironic I find myself running a bookstore, because almost twenty years ago I was caught running from one, a stolen item in hand. And ironic that IÕve ever chased any man anywhere in Paris, because on that long-ago night, my husband was chasing me.
Please change the set. Unroll a new sidewalk, erect a different storefront, lower a fresh backdrop. Gone is the Eiffel Tower, and arriving in its place is-nothing, really. Blue skies, clouds if you like. A simple city skyline. Steeples here and there, some smokestacks, but otherwise, clip-art buildings. After all, we're no longer in Paris, but Milwaukee.
And there, on my left hand, no ring. We're not married yet, my husband and I. Two moon-pale Midwesterners, we don't even know each other, which makes it awkward that he's just accosted me on the street-a series of heys! dopplering ever closer until I had to turn-about something I have clutched in my right hand. A book. I'm not hiding it, mind you. (I'm not hiding it because I couldn't-it was about ten by twelve inches, a children's book, with a bright red balloon on the cover.)
"Hi," he said with half a smile. "I think you forgot to pay?" He now crinkled half his face to go with his half smile, which was good. It gave him some creases, which gave him some years. He was short, fair, slender but athletic. I'd taken him for seventeen. On his high school's cross-country team. Now I added four years. Later he would add four more: twenty-five. Incredible.
"Oh, I pay," I said. "I pay every day." I got ready to rant about men accosting me on the sidewalk, about men everywhere accosting women everywhere on all the sidewalks of the world-but it wasn't true, not for me, not there, not then.
What was true was that I was embarrassed. Embarrassed I'd stolen something-I'd never stolen anything before-and embarrassed that I'd stolen a children's book. And I was embarrassed I was so poor. I was almost twenty-four, and I had exactly that many dollars in my checking account. I would have more on Monday when I received my grad student stipend, but until then, I had twenty-four dollars, two suspended credit cards, and a surplus of anger. The university library had inexplicably closed early and I'd decided that I needed the book version of Albert Lamorisse's 1956 movie, The Red Balloon, at that very moment to finish my master's thesis on the great (and quite curious) man. Never mind that I knew by heart every frame of this classic Paris film and every page of the companion book-indeed, its every cobblestone and cat (one living, black, another on a building's poster, white).
Many people my age briefly shared my obsession as kids, thanks to rainy-day recess copies of the film that saturated American elementary schools in the 1970s and '80s. I noticed that, as years passed, those children moved on. I knew I had not, and would not. That book was my first love. Like a crush, a companion, a boyfriend of the type I wouldn't really have, ever. That book, that film, understood me. Or so I felt. I knew that I understood it. And moreover, I understood its Paris. For other girls (and the odd boy), Paris meant flowers and romance and accordions wheezing. The Red Balloon has none of this. It's beautiful, but bracing. Some find it sweet, but I didn't like sweet things as a child and I don't much now. I'm surprised more people-like the staff of the Milwaukee bookstore I was stealing from-don't realize the obvious. Red is the color of warning.
I wish I myself had paid more attention to that warning. I was in grad school then for film studies-film criticism-but had started in filmmaking, because I did want to make something, and Lamorisse made it look so easy. It wasn't, especially when I discovered my filmmaking program disdained narrative. How much better The Red Balloon would have been, they said, had it been solely that: a close-up of a balloon for thirty minutes-or thirty hours! No dialogue. No actors. Just balloon. What do you think, Leah? I thought I'd transfer to film studies, and did. There they told me I needed to be interested in films other than The Red Balloon and cityscapes other than Paris. For a while, I let them think I was. But I couldn't sustain the fiction; in a very short time, I would burn out, give up. Or as I liked to think of it, give in, and to a private truth: I was mostly still interested in making my own film. I didn't know how, when, or what it would be. I did know where it would take place: far from Wisconsin.
And far away from this boy accosting me on the street outside a bookstore.
Doc Martens do not make for good running shoes, especially when purchased at Goodwill, a size and a half too big. I worried my pursuer might think I'd stolen them, too. I worried that I was worried what he would think.
When he finally caught up to me, the first words out of his mouth were two I myself was about to say.
He was beautiful. I know there's a delicacy about the word. There was a delicacy about him.
"It's okay," I said, neatly absolving him for something that I had done.
He'd been in line at the cashier when he'd seen me slip the book out of the store. He'd told them to add it to his bill, impulse-bought still another book, and then he'd chased me. "Take it," he said now, though I already had.
"I'm not sure I want it anymore," I said, looking at it, lying.
"Can I-can I buy you a coffee?"
"How about a beer," I said, "unless you're worried I'd steal that, too."
He wasn't, or maybe he was, because he kept a grip on his glass at the bar when we met later that night. He was nervous or thirsty or knew this about himself: his hands, if left unoccupied, would flutter, rise, fall, paint shapes familiar and not. He'd run a hand through his hair and nod, or rub his face and frown, or draw a letter on the table, another in the air. It was how he spoke. It was how he smiled. It was nerves, yes, but of a generalized sort, at least at that point, and my goal soon became to have him be nervous about me. I wanted to see, and feel, what those hands could do.
And he had these eyes. Gray, but the right iris was stained with a tiny burnt-orange splotch I felt compelled to comment on.
He briefly closed his eyes in reply. "It's meaningless," he said, "in humans. But in pigeons? Eyes? A big deal, especially if you race them, which I don't, but it's how you tell them apart, how you know which one's yours."
And at that moment, I did.
"So, Paris?" he said, now tapping The Red Balloon, which lay on the table between us. I winced, I think invisibly. Tap, tap: it felt like a little thump to my chest.
Robert explained that his own favorite children's stories were by Ludwig Bemelmans. The Madeline series.
In an old house in Paris
That was covered with vines
Lived twelve little girls
In two straight lines. . . .
I shook my head. Once upon a time-first or second grade-those would have been, had been, fighting words. The hats, the bows, the uniforms? The two straight lines?
But on my future husband plowed. He thought I should be, had to be, a Bemelmans fan, given my interest in Lamorisse: "both artists, before-and after anything else!" In his hands appeared a copy of the first Madeline book. Which he had purchased for me. To go with the book I'd stolen.
He slid Madeline alongside The Red Balloon, both books flat on the tiny table between us. I looked down at the covers, and then around at the bar.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Far from being a quiet story about the life of a Paris bookstore, this story is about the disappearance of a father and husband, and the family’s search to find him, or clues about why he left. Months after the eccentric Robert disappeared, his wife Leah and her daughthers are still finding clues – the most important being airline tickets to Paris. Armed with questions and curiosity, the women head off to Paris to start their search. When an unfinished manuscript leads them to a failing English-language bookstore with an owner desperate to sell, they dive into life in Paris, purchase the store and plan to follow trails to find Robert. Laden with literary references and much insider knowledge of the publishing industry, Callanan manages to incorporate some lovely vignettes of Paris, giving the story a sense of place that is unlike any I’ve ever read. These passages read much like a love letter to the city – well and lesser known places, often off the beaten track and frequently harkening back to beloved classic Parisian books. And while I loved the references and passages, their inclusion served to overwhelm the forward progress of the novel, as the Eadys search for Robert. I also thought that readers not familiar with Madeline and the Red Balloon, or the others, would miss many of the connections made between the books and the women’s search. With all of the inclusions, the pacing and the underlying mystery thread tended to get lost in what felt like a puzzle without clear borders: issues from family loyalty to the power of love, the unfinished manuscript seeming to mirror their movements and lives, and even a serious frustration with Leah as she seemed to be caught in an 18 year web of dysfunction and seriously unwilling and lacking in the courage to just say – enough. This opportunity for a new life, new places and happiness were all too easily accepted without actually making the moves to embrace them…. Far from what I expected and less offered in terms of the mystery presented, the story was atmospheric if a bit cluttered with information and passages that felt unnecessary and perhaps a bit contrived. I received an eArc copy of the title from the publisher via Edelweiss for purpose of honest review. I was not compensated for this review: all conclusions are my own responsibility.
At some point in our lives, we have watched a show, attended a concert or read a book and ultimately said, "we'' there's an evening that I won't get back." Expectation was high, but the reality of the experience was not even close. Disappointment, some feeling of disbelief, and a little anger of time wasted are the initial feelings. I will usually try and rationalize and reason it out and think about what maybe I missed or what the creators goal was but sometimes you have to accept reality that it wasn't that good. I wish I could've walked away from Liam Callanan's book, Paris by the Book, but no matter how long, slow and boring the might be, I will prevail to the end. Part is a hope that the tide will turn as I flip the next page and suddenly the book will be the one that I lose sleep over staying up late to finish with that "Oh or Aha" moment. Unfortunately Callanan's book never gained momentum and was a long hard journey to the finish line. The fictional story of writer, husband, father, Robert Eady, whose disappearance leads his wife, Leah, and their children, Ellie and Daphne, on a search to find him. Sounds like the makings of a good book as the family uproots their lives in Wisconsin to the city of lights, Paris, France in hopes of finding him. Unfortunately, Paris, a mystery and even a beautiful red bookstore couldn't bring this story to life. There is a lack of continuity in regards to the overall plot along with weak and unlikable characters. Ultimately I found myself disinterested in the characters and the story. I loved the cover of this book with its bright red cover but as the saying goes, "don't judge a book by it's cover." I received an advance copy of this book from Netgalley. #netgalley #ParisbytheBook
The sudden disappearance of her husband is nothing new to Leah Eady, he has done it again and again in the almost two decades they have spent together. He needs some time-out for his writing, to gather his ideas. But this time, things are different. She cannot find his “away-note”. He never leaves without a short letting them know that he’d be back again soon. When Robert does not show up again after weeks, Leah and her two daughters are devastated. Some clues lead her to believe that he could be in Paris and thus the three of them head for the French capital. Sometimes things just happen and later you cannot recollect what exactly was the decisive moment, so Leah finally finds herself in Europe owning a lovely bookshop. The longer they stay there, the more they adapt to their new life, a life without Robert. But every now and then, he shows up again. They see him in a picture, they imagine having crossed him in the streets. But: is he even still alive? The book sounded so lovely that I had to read it. A bookstore in Paris, a kind of extraordinary love story, the frequent allusion to Albert Lampoisse’s short film “The Red Balloon” – these are the perfect ingredients for a great feel-good bitter-sweet story. Yet, it did not completely catch me. Somehow there were too many breaks in the story, I never knew exactly where it was going too and thus it turned a bit lengthy at times. The characters unfortunately lived too much in the books they read and films they watched to ever find themselves really in Paris and therefore the charm of the town got completely lost. I liked the way the protagonist and her struggle with the situation are portrayed. Even though I think the construction of their relationship is too awkward to be authentic, the moment of not knowing what happened to her husband and being responsible for two teenagers while coping with your own emotions – that’s all but easy. Figuring out how to survive might lead to extreme decision like going to Paris and starting anew. All in all, there were lovely passages, but to sum it up: it is too long for the story that’s been told.
I really wanted to love this book, this writer is from my hometown and the Milwaukee bookshop he references is also close to me. I would classify this more as women’s fiction than anything else as the mystery is slow moving and is only part of the story. Leah and Robert Eady had what started out as a good marriage with bright prospects for the future. They have two daughters, Daphne and Ellie, now young teens, and both parents are quite involved with the girls. Robert is a writer who had one bestseller but has been struggling for years to produce another. He goes on what he calls “write aways” which start to become longer and longer periods of time away from home. Leah is starting to have less and less patience with him and his habit of leaving short notes or clues as to where he is going. It soon becomes apparent that the marriage is headed for trouble and finally Robert disappears for what seems like forever. After the police and others have searched and searched for Robert, Leah finally finds a clue in a cereal box which leads to finding tickets for them all to go to Paris. With the family somewhat in shambles Leah decides to uproot the family, go to Paris and eventually stay. She becomes the owner of a bookstore, not unlike the one described in an unfinished manuscript of Robert’s which comes to surface. We are witness to the struggles that Leah and the girls have in Paris. At first it is difficult but the girls in particular seem to take to the city, the language, the whole different feeling that they are experiencing from their life in Milwaukee, youth usually acclimate quicker than adults in my experience. Both Leah and Robert are obsessed with the “Madeline” series of children’s books as well as a film called “The Red Balloon”. I am familiar with the books but not the film. Problems I had with the book. I found the plot very slow moving and somewhat choppy with references back and force from past to present that did not flow well. The continued references to the Madeline books and The Red Balloon became tiresome and felt overdone. I didn’t really feel a close connection to Leah, I enjoyed the point of views from the girls more interesting and caring. This is a good story, particularly if you love Paris, which unfortunately I’ve never visited. The writing is good but as I mentioned slow moving, it took me several days to get through it because I kept putting it down. At 70% I started to enjoy the novel more as things finally started happening and the last quarter of the book is probably my favorite. I received an ARC of this book from the publisher through NetGalley, thank you.