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Monsieur Perdu can prescribe the perfect book for a broken heart. But can he fix his own?
Monsieur Perdu calls himself a literary apothecary. From his floating bookstore in a barge on the Seine, he prescribes novels for the hardships of life. Using his intuitive feel for the exact book a reader needs, Perdu mends broken hearts and souls. The only person he can't seem to heal through literature is himself; he's still haunted by heartbreak after his great love disappeared. She left him with only a letter, which he has never opened.
After Perdu is finally tempted to read the letter, he hauls anchor and departs on a mission to the south of France, hoping to make peace with his loss and discover the end of the story. Joined by a bestselling but blocked author and a lovelorn Italian chef, Perdu travels along the country’s rivers, dispensing his wisdom and his books, showing that the literary world can take the human soul on a journey to heal itself.
Internationally bestselling and filled with warmth and adventure, The Little Paris Bookshop is a love letter to books, meant for anyone who believes in the power of stories to shape people's lives.
From the Hardcover edition.
- Sales Rank: #446 in Books
- Published on: 2016-03-22
- Released on: 2016-03-22
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.00" h x .90" w x 5.20" l, .0 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 416 pages
Review
New York Times Bestseller
A Barnes and Noble Best of 2015 Selection
A LibraryReads Favorite of the Favorites Selection
"If you're looking to be charmed right out of your own life for a few hours, sit down with this wise and winsome novel...Everything happens just as you want it to... from poignant moments to crystalline insights in exactly the right measure."—Oprah.com
“The settings are ideal for a summer-romance read…Who can resist floating on a barge through France surrounded by books, wine, love, and great conversation?”—Christian Science Monitor
“[A] bona fide international hit.”—New York Times Book Review
"Warmhearted...A charming novel that believes in the healing properties of fiction, romance, and a summer in the south of France."—Kirkus
"Engaging... [George's] sumptuous descriptions of both food and literature will leave readers unsure whether to run to the nearest library or the nearest bistro."—Publishers Weekly
"Uplifting... An international best seller, this one will make you happy."—The Independent
"The Little Paris Bookshop is an enchantment. Set in a floating barge along the Seine, this love letter to books - and to the complicated, sometimes broken people who are healed by them - is the next best thing to booking a trip to France."—Sarah Pekkanen, author of Catching Air
“Simultaneously heartbreaking and heartwarming, Nina George’s impressionistic prose takes the reader on a journey not just through the glories of France and the wonders of books, but through the encyclopedic panoply of human emotions. The Little Paris Bookshop is a book whose palette, textures, and aromas will draw you in and cradle you in the redemptive power of love.”—Charlie Lovett, author of The Bookman’s Tale
"Nina George tells us clever things about love, about reading that 'puts a bounce in your step,' about tango in Provence, and about truly good food. . . . One of those books that gets you thinking about whom you need to give it to as a gift even while you're still reading it, because it makes you happy and should be part of any well-stocked apothecary." —Hamburger Morgenpost (Germany)
“Enchanting and moving ... Rarely have I read such a beautiful book!”—Tina magazine (Germany)
From the Hardcover edition.
About the Author
NINA GEORGE works as a journalist, writer, and storytelling teacher. She is the award winning author of 26 books, and also writes feature articles, short stories, and columns. The Little Paris Bookshop spent over a year on bestseller lists in Germany, and was a bestseller in Italy, Poland, and the Netherlands. George is married to the writer Jens J. Kramer and lives in Berlin and in Brittany, France.
www.nina-george.com
@nina_george • @jean_perdu
From the Hardcover edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
How on earth could I have let them talk me into it?
The two generals of number 27 Rue Montagnard—Madame Bernard, the owner, and Madame Rosalette, the concierge—had caught Monsieur in a pincer movement between their ground-floor flats.
“That Le P. has treated his wife shamelessly.”
“Scandalously. Like a moth treats a wedding veil.”
“You can hardly blame some people when you look at their wives. Fridges in Chanel. But men? Monsters, all of them.”
“Ladies, I don’t quite know what . . .”
“Not you of course, Monsieur Perdu. You are cashmere compared with the normal yarn from which men are spun.”
“Anyway, we’re getting a new tenant. On the fourth floor. Yours, Monsieur.”
“But Madame has nothing left. Absolutely nothing, only shattered illusions. She needs just about everything.”
“And that’s where you come in, Monsieur. Give whatever you can. All donations welcome.”
“Of course. Maybe a good book . . .”
“Actually, we were thinking of something more practical. A table, perhaps. You know, Madame has—”
“Nothing. I got that.”
The bookseller could not imagine what might be more practical than a book, but he promised to give the new tenant a table. He still had one.
Monsieur Perdu pushed his tie between the top buttons of his white, vigorously ironed shirt and carefully rolled up his sleeves. Inward, one fold at a time, up to the elbow. He stared at the bookcase in the corridor. Behind the shelves lay a room he hadn’t entered for almost twenty-one years.
Twenty-one years and summers and New Year’s mornings.
But in that room was the table.
He exhaled, groped indiscriminately for a book and pulled Orwell’s 1984 out of the bookcase. It didn’t fall apart. Nor did it bite his hand like an affronted cat.
He took out the next novel, then two more. Now he reached into the shelf with both hands, grabbed whole parcels of books out of it and piled them up beside him.
The stacks grew into trees. Towers. Magic mountains. He looked at the last book in his hand. When the Clock Struck Thirteen. A tale of time travel.
If he’d believed in omens, this would have been a sign.
He banged the bottom of the shelves with his fists to loosen them from their fastenings. Then he stepped back.
There. Layer by layer, it appeared. Behind the wall of words. The door to the room where . . .
I could simply buy a table.
Monsieur Perdu ran his hand over his mouth. Yes. Dust down the books, put them away again, forget about the door. Buy a table and carry on as he had for the last two decades. In twenty years’ time he’d be seventy, and from there he’d make it through the rest. Maybe he’d die prematurely.
Coward.
He tightened his trembling fist on the door handle.
Slowly the tall man opened the door. He pushed it softly inward, screwed up his eyes and . . .
Nothing but moonlight and dry air. He breathed it in through his nose, analyzing it, but found nothing.
——’s smell has gone.
Over the course of twenty-one summers, Monsieur Perdu had become as adept at avoiding thinking of —— as he was at stepping around open manholes.
He mainly thought of her as ——. As a pause amid the hum of his thoughts, as a blank in the pictures of the past, as a dark spot amid his feelings. He was capable of conjuring all kinds of gaps.
Monsieur Perdu looked around. How quiet the room seemed. And pale despite the lavender-blue wallpaper. The passing of the years behind the closed door had squeezed the color from the walls.
The light from the corridor met little that could cast a shadow. A bistro chair. The kitchen table. A vase with the lavender stolen two decades earlier from the Valensole plateau. And a fifty-year-old man who now sat down on the chair and wrapped his arms around himself.
There had once been curtains, and over there, pictures, flowers and books, a cat called Castor that slept on the sofa. There were candlesticks and whispering, full wineglasses and music. Dancing shadows on the wall, one of them tall, the other strikingly beautiful. There had been love in this room.
Now there’s only me.
He clenched his fists and pressed them against his burning eyes.
Monsieur Perdu swallowed and swallowed again to fight back the tears. His throat was too tight to breathe and his back seemed to glow with heat and pain.
When he could once more swallow without it hurting, Monsieur Perdu stood up and opened the casement window. Aromas came swirling in from the back courtyard.
The herbs from the Goldenbergs’ little garden. Rosemary and thyme mixed with the massage oils used by Che, the blind chiropodist and “foot whisperer.” Added to that, the smell of pancakes intermingled with Kofi’s spicy and meaty African barbecued dishes. Over it all drifted the perfume of Paris in June, the fragrance of lime blossom and expectation.
But Monsieur Perdu wouldn’t let these scents affect him. He resisted their charms. He’d become extremely good at ignoring anything that might in any way arouse feelings of yearning. Aromas. Melodies. The beauty of things.
He fetched soap and water from the storeroom next to the bare kitchen and began to clean the wooden table.
He fought off the blurry picture of himself sitting at this table, not alone but with ——.
He washed and scrubbed and ignored the piercing question of what he was meant to do now that he had opened the door to the room in which all his love, his dreams and his past had been buried.
Memories are like wolves. You can’t lock them away and hope they leave you alone.
Monsieur Perdu carried the narrow table to the door and heaved it through the bookcase, past the magic mountains of paper onto the landing and over to the apartment across the hall.
As he was about to knock, a sad sound reached his ears.
Stifled sobbing, as if through a cushion.
Someone was crying behind the green door.
A woman. And she was crying as though she wanted nobody, absolutely nobody, to hear.
2
“She was married to You-Know-Who, Monsieur Le P.”
He didn’t know. Perdu didn’t read the Paris gossip pages.
Madame Catherine Le P.-You-Know-Who had come home late one Thursday evening from her husband’s art agency, where she took care of his PR. Her key no longer fit into the lock, and there was a suitcase on the stairs with divorce papers on top of it. Her husband had moved to an unknown address and taken the old furniture and a new woman with him.
Catherine, soon-to-be-ex-wife-of-Le-Dirty-Swine, possessed nothing but the clothes she had brought into their marriage—and the realization that it had been naïve of her to think that their erstwhile love would guarantee decent treatment after their separation, and to assume that she knew her husband so well that he could no longer surprise her.
“A common mistake,” Madame Bernard, the lady of the house, had pontificated in between puffing out smoke signals from her pipe. “You only really get to know your husband when he walks out on you.”
Monsieur Perdu had not yet seen the woman who’d been so coldheartedly ejected from her own life.
Now he listened to the lonely sobs she was desperately trying to muffle, perhaps with her hands or a tea towel. Should he announce his presence and embarrass her? He decided to fetch the vase and the chair first.
He tiptoed back and forth between his flat and hers. He knew how treacherous this proud old house could be, which floorboards squeaked, which walls were more recent and thinner additions and which concealed ducts that acted like megaphones.
When he pored over his eighteen-thousand-piece map of the world jigsaw in the otherwise empty living room, the sounds of the other residents’ lives were transmitted to him through the fabric of the house.
The Goldenbergs’ arguments (Him: “Can’t you just for once . . . ? Why are you . . . ? Haven’t I . . . ?” Her: “You always have to . . . You never do . . . I want you to . . .”) He’d known the two of them as newlyweds. They’d laughed together a lot back then. Then came the children, and the parents drifted apart like continents.
He heard Clara Violette’s electric wheelchair rolling over carpet edges, wooden floors and doorsills. He remembered the young pianist back when she was able to dance.
He heard Che and young Kofi cooking. Che was stirring the pots. The man had been blind since birth, but he said that he could see the world through the fragrant trails and traces that people’s feelings and thoughts had left behind. Che could sense whether a room had been loved or lived or argued in.
Perdu also listened every Sunday to how Madame Bomme and the widows’ club giggled like girls at the dirty books he slipped them behind their stuffy relatives’ backs.
The snatches of life that could be overheard in the house at number 27 Rue Montagnard were like a sea lapping the shores of Perdu’s silent isle.
He had been listening for more than twenty years. He knew his neighbors so well that he was sometimes amazed by how little they knew about him (not that he minded). They had no idea that he owned next to no furniture apart from a bed, a chair and a clothes rail—no knickknacks, no music, no pictures or photo albums or three-piece suite or crockery (other than for himself)—or that he had chosen such simplicity of his own free will. The two rooms he still occupied were so empty that they echoed when he coughed. The only thing in the living room was the giant jigsaw puzzle on the floor. His bedroom was furnished with a bed, the ironing board, a reading light and a garment rail on wheels containing three identical sets of clothing: gray trousers, white shirt, brown V-neck sweater. In the kitchen were a stove-top coffee pot, a tin of coffee and a shelf stacked with food. Arranged in alphabetical order. Maybe it was just as well that no one saw this.
And yet he harbored a strange affection for 27 Rue Montagnard’s residents. He felt inexplicably better when he knew that they were well—and in his unassuming way he tried to make a contribution. Books were a means of helping. Otherwise he stayed in the background, a small figure in a painting, while life was played out in the foreground.
However, the new tenant on the third floor, Maximilian Jordan, wouldn’t leave Monsieur Perdu in peace. Jordan wore specially made earplugs with earmuffs over them, plus a woolly hat on cold days. Ever since the young author’s debut novel had made him famous amid great fanfare, he’d been on the run from fans who would have given their right arms to move in with him. Meanwhile, Jordan had developed a peculiar interest in Monsieur Perdu.
While Perdu was on the landing arranging the chair beside the kitchen table, and the vase on top, the crying stopped.
In its place he heard the squeak of a floorboard that someone was trying to walk across without making it creak.
He peered through the pane of frosted glass in the green door. Then he knocked twice, very gently.
A face moved closer. A blurred, bright oval.
“Yes?” the oval whispered.
“I’ve got a chair and a table for you.”
The oval said nothing.
I have to speak softly to her. She’s cried so much she’s probably all dried out and she’ll crumble if I’m too loud.
“And a vase. For flowers. Red flowers, for instance. They’d look really pretty on the white table.”
He had his cheek almost pressed up against the glass.
He whispered, “But I can give you a book as well.”
The light in the staircase went out.
“What kind of book?” the oval whispered.
“The consoling kind.”
“I need to cry some more. I’ll drown if I don’t. Can you understand that?”
“Of course. Sometimes you’re swimming in unwept tears and you’ll go under if you store them up inside.” And I’m at the bottom of a sea of tears. “I’ll bring you a book for crying then.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Promise me you’ll have something to eat and drink before you carry on crying.”
He didn’t know why he was taking such liberties. It must be something to do with the door between them.
The glass misted up with her breath.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
When the hall light flared on again, the oval shrank back.
Monsieur Perdu laid his hand briefly on the glass where her face had been a second before.
And if she needs anything else, a chest of drawers or a potato peeler, I’ll buy it and claim I had it already.
He went into his empty flat and pushed the bolt across. The door leading into the room behind the bookcase was still open. The longer Monsieur Perdu looked in there, the more it seemed as though the summer of 1992 were rising up out of the floor. The cat jumped down from the sofa on soft, velvet paws and stretched. The sunlight caressed a bare back, the back turned and became ——. She smiled at Monsieur Perdu, rose from her reading position and walked toward him naked, with a book in her hand.
“Are you finally ready? asked ——.
Monsieur Perdu slammed the door.
No.
3
“No,” Monsieur Perdu said again the following morning. “I’d rather not sell you this book.”
Gently he pried Night from the lady’s hand. Of the many novels on his book barge—the vessel moored on the Seine that he had named Literary Apothecary—she had inexplicably chosen the notorious bestseller by Maximilian “Max” Jordan, the earmuff wearer from the third floor in Rue Montagnard.
The customer looked at the bookseller, taken aback.
“Why not?”
“Max Jordan doesn’t suit you.”
“Max Jordan doesn’t suit me?”
“That’s right. He’s not your type.”
“My type. Okay. Excuse me, but maybe I should point out to you that I’ve come to your book barge for a book. Not a husband, mon cher Monsieur.”
“With all due respect, what you read is more important in the long term than the man you marry, ma chère Madame.”
She looked at him through eyes like slits.
“Give me the book, take my money, and we can both pretend it’s a nice day.”
“It is a nice day, and tomorrow is the start of summer, but you’re not going to get this book. Not from me. May I suggest a few others?”
“Right, and flog me some old classic you’re too lazy to throw overboard where it can poison the fish?” She spoke softly to begin with, but her volume kept increasing.
“Books aren’t eggs, you know. Simply because a book has aged a bit doesn’t mean it’s gone bad.” There was now an edge to Monsieur Perdu’s voice too. “What is wrong with old? Age isn’t a disease. We all grow old, even books. But are you, is anyone, worth less, or less important, because they’ve been around for longer?”
“It’s absurd how you’re twisting everything, all because you don’t want me to have that stupid Night book.”
The customer—or rather noncustomer—tossed her purse into her luxury shoulder bag and tugged at the zip, which got stuck.
Perdu felt something welling up inside him, a wild feeling, anger, tension—only it had nothing to do with this woman. He couldn’t hold his tongue, though. He hurried after her as she strode angrily through the belly of the book barge and called out to her in the half-light between the long bookshelves: “It’s your choice, Madame! You can leave and spit on me. Or you can spare yourself thousands of hours of torture starting right now.”
“Thanks, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“Surrender to the treasures of books instead of entering into pointless relationships with men, who neglect you anyway, or going on crazy diets because you’re not thin enough for one man and not stupid enough for the next.”
“It’s absurd how you’re twisting everything, all because you don’t want me to have that stupid Night book.”
The customer—or rather noncustomer—tossed her purse into her luxury shoulder bag and tugged at the zip, which got stuck.
Perdu felt something welling up inside him, a wild feeling, anger, tension—only it had nothing to do with this woman. He couldn’t hold his tongue, though. He hurried after her as she strode angrily through the belly of the book barge and called out to her in the half-light between the long bookshelves: “It’s your choice, Madame! You can leave and spit on me. Or you can spare yourself thousands of hours of torture starting right now.”
“Thanks, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“Surrender to the treasures of books instead of entering into pointless relationships with men, who neglect you anyway, or going on crazy diets because you’re not thin enough for one man and not stupid enough for the next.”
She stood stock-still by the large bay window that looked out over the Seine, and glared at Perdu. “How dare you!”
“Books keep stupidity at bay. And vain hopes. And vain men. They undress you with love, strength and knowledge. It’s love from within. Make your choice: book or . . .”
Before he could finish his sentence, a Parisian pleasure boat plowed past with a group of Chinese women standing by the railing under umbrellas. They began clicking away with their cameras when they caught sight of Paris’s famous floating Literary Apothecary. The pleasure boat drove brown-green dunes of water against the bank, and the book barge reeled.
The customer teetered on her smart high heels, but instead of offering her his hand, Perdu handed her The Elegance of the Hedgehog.
She made an instinctive grab for the novel and clung to it.
Perdu held on to the book as he spoke to the stranger in a soothing, tender and calm voice.
“You need your own room. Not too bright, with a kitten to keep you company. And this book, which you will please read slowly, so you can take the occasional break. You’ll do a lot of thinking and probably a bit of crying. For yourself. For the years. But you’ll feel better afterward. You’ll know that now you don’t have to die, even if that’s how it feels because the guy didn’t treat you well. And you will like yourself again and won’t find yourself ugly or naïve.”
Only after delivering these instructions did he let go.
Most helpful customer reviews
271 of 284 people found the following review helpful.
Afloat on the Seine!
By Rita Mayberry
Just finished "The Little Paris Bookshop..." about an hour ago, and I am still thinking about it. What reader doesn't love a bookstore? And a book about a bookshop on a converted barge on the Seine in the heart of Paris was too appealing to not give this book a try. And, to make it even more intriguing is the notion of a bookseller who finds books to heal the reader. Monsieur Perdu doesn't push the latest bestseller, but seeks the right title for the right reader, and his uncanny ability to mend broken hearts through books is a lovely device that Nina George applies deftly to the narrative. Poor Perdu is mending every broken heart but his own it seems until the plot thickens and he begins to sort through Perdu's deep sorrow and the harm it has done him. Circumstances and a found letter take Perdu on a quest for lost love, and a trip on the Seine with an unusual cast of characters who seek elusive love, in its myriad guises, throughout the French countryside wherever the river takes them. Along the way, surprising revelations about profound joy and sorrow. It is an amazing journey. There are so many insightful quotes in this book, that it is dogeared already on my shelf and has drawn me into its pages twice. The most insightful is a summary in a sentence of what the online world has become. So perceptive! After the past is sorted out, will Perdu move into the future with grace and hope? Read the book,sail away, and perhaps discover a bit about yourself along the way. I certainly did.
149 of 157 people found the following review helpful.
A book for book lovers
By Neal Reynolds
This is a beautifully written book, as one critic said a love letter to books. The thoughtful reader well versed in literature will love it. There are great references to many books, some well known and some not (along with a very few fictional titles). The main character, Monsieur Perdu, acts as a therapist prescribing certain books for different patrons. A letter from a lost love which he has deliberately not opened for twenty years sends him on an odyssey accompanied by Max, a current writer.
The book is rich in literary allusions and in probing of human emotions. It's not fast reading, but indeed it is captivating for knowledgeable readers who know books.
After a quite satisfying read, you'll find a few French recipes and then a list of books which the fictional main character considers especially therapeutic. (My main disappointment in that list is that nothing by Ray Bradbury is included)
If you're a book lover, you'll certainly love this one.
100 of 107 people found the following review helpful.
A gentle and profound read that will remind us of why books are such a grand passion
By D. Matlack
The little Paris Bookshop is a remarkably profound read for as light as it is. The bare skeleton of this book might be Monsieur Perdu's bookshop and his finally coming to terms with his own past, but there is a remarkable amount of psychology packed in every other page.
As a reader it is always more enjoyable to read an author who loves books and is well read themselves. Nina George does not disappoint on this account, in fact as I read the book - and having worked in book stores and libraries myself, a novel about the healing and reconciling properties of books is in my opinion, a true romance. We all know how satisfying it is to find a book that will suspend or griefs, realities, change our perceptions, lives or simply entertain us on a level we were until that moment unaware even existed. The little Paris Bookshop is an ode to those books and those moments and really overshadows a bit, Monsieur Perdu's own predicament.
It is easier to have insight into the lives of others than it is to realize our own. My own father told me when I was young that a person can learn more about another in 5 minutes of conversation and Ms. George echos that theory with Perdu's inherent intuition on what would be a good read that would help others. Of course the same man sealed away an entire room in his house for 20 years just to avoid reading a letter and the reader will pick up immediately on his own acute resistance to self-diagnosis. Naturally he will be propelled forward when his philanthropy to an neighbor creates an accidental intervention of sorts that forces him to address his past disappointments and heartbreaks to heal himself.
That is the natural and perhaps not so innovative storyline, but really it is the books and the love of books and the life-altering consequences of books that make this story an enjoyable read and a soothing balm unto itself. And I loved her seemingly random yet deeply passionate reading list. This novel reminded me of so many moments and books in my past that were amazing moments all unto themselves.
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