Bibliothèque du Champs de Mars

[Deleted]

Andi Foster


"'Le Rouge et le Noir."

Andi blinked at the computer screen. The French tapes and books she had ordered to help her out with the language couldn't come any sooner, and she was anxious to get her hands on them. She really wanted to get to know the beautiful language, but also so she could understand the people she met sometimes, and in this case, could not be as much of a help as she would like to be. How did one go about spelling that title?

“It’s by Stendhal, though I have no clue what genre it is. It was written around the time of the Revolution, if that helps at all."

Twisting her lips to one side, she squinted at the screen thinking hard of what to do. Andi scooted her booty closer to the computer. Sometimes computers at libraries had access to the internet. Luckily, this particular computer had just that, and she began typing in the name 'Stendhal' into the search bar, the bottom box that appeared correcting her double 'L' that she had put in. She knew she could have probably asked him, but she liked to do things herself and it only took a couple seconds. Going back into the library's page, she typed it in and pressed enter. A list popped up, the first title being, Armance. Andi began scrolling, searching for the title. He was obviously a popular author when it came to stocking the shelves.

"I feel so uncultured around here, I need to start getting some French in me." She admitted. "Maybe I'll get one of his book's too." Andi smirked, tossing up a shoulder in a pose, "You've inspired me."

Of course, she would have to wait for her tapes and books to translate it.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Olive Degarmo

When Jose Cura begged Olive to show him how to love her this morning, Olive had to shut him up. It was the crack of dawn and she had no time for pushy tenors, even if they came from her alarm clock. She had errands to run before school started and her first class of eager nine year olds began trickling in. She had to get there early before they migrated to the piano to clunk out ‘Heart and Soul’ for the fiftieth time that week. But first, she had to get to the library. They were starting their section on Beethoven and she’d be damned if they didn’t learn about the difference between the majesty of his nine symphonies and the mediocrity of his one opera. But she needed sheet music and her go-to music store was closed on Mondays. So the library called her as she swallowed a small fistful of pills without water and boarded the subway.

The library was cold and crisp and smelt of musty, aged paper. It was a nice smell. Not nice enough to, say, bottle up and make into a perfume, but far better than the smell of the subway.

She ran her finger along the thick bindings of the books in the reference section, finding Bach and Brahms, but no Beethoven. Where was that damned deaf man hiding?

[The Exodus]

Gabriel Fontaine

Apparently, Sophie was into classical music now. Gabriel had been notified of this fact only last night when Cristina called to tell him that she would be bringing their daughter into the city. Gabriel had scrambled to order tickets online to the symphony to appease Sophie’s latest interest. Apparently, she’d been taking music theory and violin lessons for the last three weeks. Cristina acted as though she was doing Gabriel some big favor by telling him, but Gabriel couldn’t help but be shocked that no one thought to mention it, least of all Sophie.

“Well, you do know Sophie,” Cristina said on the phone. “Her passions… They come and go. This is a new thing.”

I’ll say, thought Gabriel darkly as he purchased box seats at the opera house.

The symphony would be playing a slew—Gabriel knew that couldn’t be the right word—of Beethoven pieces. Besides “Fur Elise”, Gabriel didn’t know any Beethoven. So he was determined to learn all he could about Beethoven before Sophie got in at noon. He now had three biographies of Beethoven and all of the sheet music from the libraries archives written by Beethoven. Gabriel also had one, small problem.

He couldn’t read music.

Oh, sure, he loved music as much as the next guy. But he’d always been more into visual arts and cooking than music. It looked like a foreign language, spread out in front of him. Except it was less like Italian or German than it was Korean or ancient Aztec, since the symbols used didn’t have roman equivalents. Gabriel was up a creek without a Rosetta Stone. And even staring at the familiar “Fur Elise” was hopeless. What did all these black marks and lines mean?

Frustrated though he was, Gabriel couldn’t help but be proud of his genius daughter for deciphering this code. He also couldn’t help but be a little thrilled under his panic because this was a puzzle. And Gabriel loved puzzles quite a lot.

He started to hum “Fur Elise” to himself and—much like he had during language lessons as a child—he pretended that he understood the noises he was making, all the while only parroting the correct answers.

Sophie would, no doubt, be humiliated by her dorky and hopeless father tonight. Well, there was a first time for everything.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Olive Degarmo

Though Beethoven was deaf, Olive, thankfully was not. The familiar and iconic tune of Fur Elise was hummed from somewhere nearby. She paced the isle until it crescendoed to a final forte. She stopped and her eyes fell on a man, book on lap, who was humming the part of the piece his eyes hadn’t seemed to reach in the music. She crouched down beside him, turning the page. “Bar 82, sir,” she said. “The theme repeats. Just here.”

The browning page made her hands feel dirty and she rubbed them together for some sort of relief. “Do you mind?” she asked, motioning to the thick book. Every symphony he ever written was in here, touched by those that had been touched by his music. It was a remarkable idea, a beautiful and poetic idea. A smile spread onto Olive’s face.

“Are you a fan of Mr. Ludwig?”

[The Exodus]

Gabriel Fontaine

Gabriel hit a point in the song where he couldn’t remember the melody. So he did what seemed logical to him, which was to skip to the next part he knew of the song. “Fur Elise” always seemed to him like one of those songs that never ended. You could hum it and hum it for hours, the same, repeating part, and you would never reach the end. Although there had to be an end somewhere, since there was only so much sheet music in the library.

Start at the beginning. Keep going until you reach the end. Then stop.

Gabriel kept going. Eventually, he’d reach the end. Somehow.

A hand fell onto the paper; Gabriel looked over to see a woman had joined him. He cocked his head, surprised, but not disappointed. Life was full of random meetings; strangers who were just new friends waiting to be made. The woman turned the pages of Gabriel’s sheet music.

“Bar 82, sir,” she said. Gabriel didn’t know what she meant by “bar”, since bars had nothing to do with music as far as he knew. “The theme repeats. Just here.”

Theme. Another word applied here in a way Gabriel couldn’t make heads or tails of. He nodded, still flummoxed. Hopefully he looked wiser than he felt.

“Do you mind?” the woman asked. For a moment, Gabriel thought she was telling him not to hum. Which was absurd, really. He understood being respectful of others’ reading, but the silence-in-libraries rule or, really, the idea of “indoor voices” was lost on Gabriel beyond the common courtesy level. And then he noticed she was pointing to a book. He shook his head. It was hers for the taking.

“Are you a fan of Mr. Ludwig?” the woman asked.

“I’d like to be,” Gabriel confessed. “But I’m sort of new to this whole music thing. What about you? It seems you two are on a first-name basis.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Olive Degarmo

The man handed Olive the book, and she thumbed through it, hoping it would suit her needs. All this looking… t’would be a shame for it to all of been in vain.

“I’d like to be,” the man said when asked if he liked Beethoven. “But I’m sort of new to this whole music thing.” Ah. That explained the humming. “What about you? It seems you two are on a first-name basis.”

“Ah, well,” Olive pondered. “We’re acquainted.” Acquainted was an understatement. At 11, she was singing ‘Ode to Joy’ with the adult choir. At 22, she played Marzelline in that mess known as Fidelio. Her ringtone was Beethoven’s sixth. They were on good terms, her and Old Ludwig.

“So. New to music? That’s interesting. Why now? What prompted this?” She asked, tucking the book under her arm. There was enough material in here to come up with project ideas entertaining enough for nine year olds. How fortuitous that this man had yet to take it.

[The Exodus]

Gabriel Fontaine

Ludwig von Beethoven and Gabriel Fontaine were not on a first name basis. Far from it, in fact. Gabriel should probably be calling the late great composer “sir” or something, but he’d never been a big fan of formalities. The woman seemed to think about Gabriel’s question.

“Ah, well, we’re acquainted,” she said. “So. New to music? That’s interesting. Why now? What prompted this?”

“My daughter,” Gabriel said with a sigh. “I’m taking her to the symphony tonight. She’s apparently a big fan of Mr. Beethoven.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Olive Degarmo

"My daughter," the man replied and Olive suddenly. Felt guilty for finding him even the slightest bit attractive. He had a daughter and therefore must be taken. But Olive found the thin ray of light that shown on this news: his daughter was interested in classical music. It took poking and proding to get her students to listen to the majestic pieces of Vivaldi and Dvorak, and here was this young girl who willingly enjoyed the sounds of culture instead of the whiny works of popular artists. Olive could remember when she soared to the top of the pop charts... but that was a different story for a different time. Now was time for Beethoven.

"I'm taking her to the symphony tonight." he continued. "She's apparently a big fan of mr. Beethoven."

Olive smiled. She couldn't blame the girl, really. There was something remarkable about a deaf composing immortal masterpieces.

"That's funny. I'm teaching a class about Beethoven. You're welcome to sit in and watch. It's for preteen music students, but you're sure to learn more there than you will in any book here if you don't read music..." she offered. It wasn't technically allowed, but neither was taking narcotics on the job and they hadn't fired her yet.

[The Exodus]

Gabriel Fontaine

When Sophie was still in the womb, Cristina played all sorts of classical music for her. Back when they’d been young and in love, before she’d turned into the wicked health inspector to his charming chef. It had all been so very pretty, so it made sense that the music made an impression on fetal-Sophie. But Gabriel was horrid without words or pictures. He couldn’t remember composer names or song titles; it never seemed important, as long as the work left its emotional imprint. Apparently, to Sophie, composer names mattered. And if it mattered to Sophie, Gabriel was determined to make it important.

"That's funny,” said the woman. “I'm teaching a class about Beethoven. You're welcome to sit in and watch. It's for preteen music students, but you're sure to learn more there than you will in any book here if you don't read music..."

Gabriel’s face split into a grin.

“You are an angel!” he told her seizing her hand excitedly for something between a handshake and an affectionate squeeze. He didn’t care about the dirty looks he received from other library-goers. A silly grin took hold of Gabriel’s features. “Truly, my savior, I am in your debt. Gabriel Fontaine, at your service.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Olive Degarmo

Really, Olive was happy to help. Since she could no longer bring enjoyment to millions with her voice, she had to bring happiness into the world somehow. Besides, having a strange visitor participate in her lesson might just make the kids a little more interested.

But in truth, she expected the man to decline her offer. What grown man wanted to spend his morning with young kids learning about a dead, deaf composer? None that Olive could think of. Not off the top of her head, anyway. So when the man grabbed her hand with such force that Olive’s whole body shook, she was beyond bewildered.

“You are an angel!” he said, reminding Olive of the reviews she once got after tours and CD releases. Those days were behind her now, and she never thought she’d here those words describing her again. “Truly, my savior, I am in your debt. Gabriel Fontaine, at your service.”

“Olive Degarmo,” she said, half hoping he would google her, half praying he wouldn’t. “It’s nice to meet you, Gabriel Fontaine. Welcome to my fourth year class.”

[The Exodus]

OOC: Tom and Rachel! BIC:

Tom Flannery

Tom was an addict. He was absolutely hooked on books. He spent his mornings working in a cozy bookshop, his evenings furiously pounding away at his own novel, and weekends – rainy Sunday mornings like this one – curled up at the library. He was a story junkie, a total sucker for the perfect turn of phrase and characters he could fall in love with. He loved the feel of paper and ink under his fingers, the smell of leather-bound tomes. Some people got high off of drugs; Tom just needed a book or two to get his fix.

But today the library was more crowded than usual. Tom suspected it was the weather, driving people indoors. A little rain had never killed anyone. Not this kind of rain, anyways, the light, drizzly grey that blanketed over the city, more like a fog than anything else. Some people – people like Tom – were at the library for very important business.

Okay. Maybe picking up a copy of Raymond Chandler’s “The Long Goodbye” wasn’t exactly the most important business a man could attend to. But Tom had been suffering withdrawals from good literature. He’d only realized how acute those pangs of need were last night at Paris Descartes University’s Literacy Awareness Benefit. Local authors, journalists, and college professors had all been invited to mingle with students, to discuss their reading and their writing. And while Tom had a few notches in his belt – some short stories, a moderately successful career as a genre fiction author under several pseudonyms – he was at heart a reader and could not hold a candle to some of the brilliant minds he’d met at the mixer.

And someone had recommended Tom check out Chandler and Hammett: the Golden Age of American detective fiction. Tom didn’t need to be told twice what he ought to read. He scoured the room for a table at which to sit with his prize. And then he saw it: a solitary, vacant chair across a small table from a pretty brunette woman. A pretty brunette woman Tom would have sworn he recognized.

One of those faces, maybe, he thought, approaching the table.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked, gesturing to the empty chair. “Everywhere else is full.”

[RaeRae]

Rachel Scott

Would it be sad if Rachel admitted that even after living in Paris for so long she still didn’t know French as well as she should? It was a good thing that most Parisians spoke English, so it really didn’t become too much of an issue. That didn’t stop the young woman from wanting to bang her head against a wall multiple times when it did become an issue though. It killed her not to know every little thing going on around her, curiosity killed that cat but not being able to understand some of the conversations around her might be killing a chance to break a story! That’s what Rachel really didn’t like, missing a story.

She had been surprised when the invitation from Paris Descartes University came to her doorstep, besides being Alumni, what made her so special? Well Rachel wasn’t going to miss that opportunity to mingle, who knew what would come of it. A writer such as herself could always learn a thing or two and man did she learn. She learned that she could afford to step it up a notch. Everyone has been nice that night, cordial and such, but Rachel could detect the handful she spoke with that had the underlying ‘I’m better then you because I’ve gotten this award and that award’ attitude.

So what better opportunity then a gloomy Sunday morning to use for study time? She had gotten here early, when there wasn’t many people around and she was so engrossed by the pile of journalism and ‘better your writing’ books that she hardly noticed how packed it got. ”Mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full.” Rachel’s eyes flicked upward, somewhat startled by the voice. Then she looked around, blinking a bit as she let herself get pulled back to reality and then offered a smile to the man. “Of course you can.”
He looked familiar, Rachel hardly forgot a face. “You were at that benefit for the university last night right?” Her head tilted to the side a bit as she tried to place a name with a face, names were always a little more difficult for her to remember when it came to new people, but she did know his wasn’t a Parisian name. “Forgive me though, I can’t recall your name.”

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

It seemed to take the woman a minute to register that Tom was speaking to her. She was quite pretty, with large, dark eyes lined by long, dark lashes. Tom was a sucker for eyes, truly believing them to be the windows of the soul. But in this instance, it seemed the woman had left her curtains shut or something, because Tom couldn’t get a good read on her. And then the woman smiled.

“Of course you can,” she said, much to Tom’s relief. He took the seat opposite her and began to thumb through the book absently, not ready to read yet. The woman spoke up again, “You were at that benefit for the university last night, right? Forgive me though, I can’t recall your name.”

Tom looked up at her and smiled. He should have known that the woman was familiar. He’d spent so much time talking to so many people, though, few faces and few names actually stuck in his brain.

“’S all right,” he said. “As long as you can forgive me for forgettin’ yours, too. I’m Tom Flannery. And you are?”

[RaeRae]

Rachel Scott

She watched him curiously as he sat down, she definitely remembered him from yesterday now, especially when he spoke up again. Irish, he sounded Irish and she couldn't remember anyone else last night sounding Irish. "As long as you can forgive me for forgettin' yours, too. I'm Tom Flannery. And you are?" Rachel smiled again and brushed a few strands of hair from her eyes. "The name's Rachel Scott. It's a pleasure to meet you, again, Mr. Flannery." She laughed softly.

Her eyes wandered away from one of the many improvement books in front of her and looked to what he was holding. "Which book is that?" Rachel enjoyed a good book or two every now and again, but it was rare these days that she read anything fictional or for pleasure. She still had that copy of Pride and Prejudice sitting on her nightstand, half way done. It had been like that for almost three months now.

Rachel rummaged through her messenger bag a moment, producing her notebook and pencil so she could start making some notes finally. "If I recall correctly, you're an author right?" One thing she had also become good at was multitasking. Now that was aware of other people and talking with Tom, she'd be able to carry on a conversation with him just fine while she scrawled notes from the books in to her notebook.

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

The woman smiled. She had a pleasing voice – American, if Tom had to hazard a guess – and it was lucky for him she spoke English. His French wasn’t bad so much as it was… No, his French was pretty bad. He could write it well, but speaking left him hopeless.

"The name's Rachel Scott,” said the woman. Tom determined to commit her name to memory. “It's a pleasure to meet you, again, Mr. Flannery."

“Ah, please. It’s Tom,” said Tom. Mr. Flannery was his father. Mr. Flannery was any of his brothers. But he’d never been a Mister So-and-So kind of guy. He was a freelance author, a poet, a bookseller. Not a banker or doctor or even a plumber.

"Which book is that?" Rachel said, gesturing to Tom’s book. He looked down at it and smiled.

“Raymond Chandler… ‘The Long Goodbye.’ Brushing up on private-eye fiction,” he said. “Looks like you’re doing some investigation of your own…”

He swept a hand above the table, indicating her many “How to” books. Tom had never seen so many self-help books off the shelf and in front of somebody. They were usually just a cheap alternative to therapy, but Rachel’s books looked interesting. They were about writing, which was in and of itself the cheapest form of therapy Tom could think of. His chosen method for mental wellness.

But Rachel didn’t comment. Instead, she dug through her bag and procured a notepad and a pen, which she set down beside her mountain of books.

"If I recall correctly, you're an author right?" Rachel said.

“More or less.” Tom shrugged. And then something clicked. “You were over at the journalist table, weren’t ya?”