On a bookshop where time stood still

There was a bookshop on the corner of Rue Saint Jacques and Rue Soufflot in the 5th arrondissement of the capital. That’s somewhere between the Panthéon and the Jardin du Luxembourg for those who have yet to visit the city of light.

It was one of those places where time seemed to have stopped. Or more like a place where time would sit back and share a glass of Porto with the owner. Yes, Porto, because that’s what the owner would be having. The man was somewhat old, but time had a tendency to relax itself in the bookshop, so I could never really tell. He seemed to be of Levantine origins, but again, I could not say for sure. His bookshop was open seven days a week. He had all the time in the world.

We would pay a visit from time to time, usually on Sundays, spending some time looking for books, or records more often than not, before hitting the Soufflot street down to the Luxembourg garden. Part of the tradition, informally agreed but strongly enforced, was to share a glass of Porto with the owner as time stood still. The ritual came to be when he realized we were Levantines too, although the subject was never brought up and our country of origin never had any place in the conversation. Very few words were ever spoken actually. Out of concern for Time taking a nap in the background maybe, who knows…

And one day, a Sunday as usual, we found the bookshop closed. It would never open again. We did not see it coming…

As it happens to be, I come from a country which, like the bookshop, seemed to have struck a deal with Time. Living there was kind of easy despite all the problems rooted in the after-war Lebanese way of being. Kind of, because we knew deep down inside that we were living on borrowed time but still, it seemed as if the passage of time would never bring forward the mayhem one would normally expect for a country eaten by corruption to an extent you could only try to imagine. Talking of a deal…

And so, things kept on rolling just fine in this sunny Levantine country and every day came with its glass of Porto to enjoy. We ended up believing that judgment day would never come. And indeed, we did not see it coming.

Hell broke loose on a Tuesday evening.

Time was up.

Let the board sound

Rabih

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Rabih

Lebanese, French, writing mostly in Frenglish and hoping to make a difference.

2 thoughts on “On a bookshop where time stood still”

  1. Was it in an inertial frame of reference?
    More seriously, it’s always sad when a bookshop closes. It feels that culture has taken a little setback… But then maybe the owner just decided to retire in the French Riviera and the books are enjoying some well deserved time in a fabulous home. Sometimes, time is not up, it’s simply time for a change… Let’s hope 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Masterful, like Heraclitus and his river. And I know that bookshop. I am so happy I discovered your writing.

    *- Yara Zgheib*

    “I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.” * – Wislawa Szymborska*

    Website The Girls at 17 Swann Street the non-Utilitarian

    On Wed, 29 Sept 2021 at 15:18, The Idea Sounding Board wrote:

    > Rabih posted: ” Photo by Anastasia Pavlova There was a bookshop on the > corner of Rue Saint Jacques and Rue Soufflot in the 5th arrondissement of > the capital. That’s somewhere between the Panthéon and the Jardin du > Luxembourg for those who have yet to visit the city o” >

    Liked by 1 person

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