Paris Is Always a Good Idea Read Online Free PDF Page A

padlock like that is Mr. Right, she thought as she leaned over the damp steel framework of the Eiffel Tower and threw her card into the air in a high arc.
    As she did so, of course, she was thinking of René.
    One bright winter’s day at the beginning of December she had walked over the Pont des Arts hand in hand with her lover, and the railing with its padlocks had sparkled in the sun like Priam’s Treasure. “Look, how lovely!” she had cried.
    â€œA wall of gold,” René had said in an unusual fit of poetry and had stopped for a moment to inspect the inscriptions on the padlocks. “Unfortunately, not all that glitters is gold,” he added with a grin. “I’d like to know how many of the people who have eternalized themselves here are still together.”
    Rosalie wouldn’t have liked to know.
    â€œBut still, isn’t it wonderful that people still fall in love and want to show it? I mean, I’m kind of moved by these little padlocks.”
    She didn’t say anything else, because it was the same with birthday wishes as with the wishes you make when you see a shooting star: you weren’t allowed to reveal them.
    René had taken her in his arms with a laugh. “Oh lord, don’t tell me you’re seriously keen on a stupid padlock? They’re pure kitsch.”
    Rosalie had laughed with embarrassment and thought to herself that even pure kitsch could have an attractive side some of the time.
    Two weeks later she was standing on the Eiffel Tower, calmly watching the card fluttering downward like a wounded dove. She was startled when a heavy hand was suddenly placed on her shoulder from behind.
    â€œHé, mademoiselle, qu’est-ce que vous faites là?” thundered in her ear.
    Rosalie started and nearly lost her balance with the fright. A man in a blue uniform and a kepi gazed piercingly into her eyes.
    â€œHey! What do you think you’re doing, giving me such a shock?” Rosalie replied furiously. She felt both caught out and disturbed in her sacred ritual. Ever since the government had placed all the tourist attractions under surveillance for fear of pickpockets, you couldn’t be safe from interference even on a rainy December day. It made her crazy.
    â€œSo? What are you doing here?” repeated the policeman harshly. “You can’t just throw your trash away up here.”
    â€œThat was no trash, that was a wish,” Rosalie replied irritably, noticing that her ears were burning.
    â€œNow don’t try and get smart with me, mademoiselle.” The officer folded his arms and pulled himself up to his full height in front of her. “Whatever it was, you’re going down right now to pick it up, is that clear? And this empty chips bag here”—he pointed to a crumpled plastic bag at her feet with raindrops dripping from it—“you can take that with you as well.”
    He watched the young woman in the blue coat as she tramped grumpily down the steel framework step by step.
    When she reached the bottom, Rosalie, overcome by an attack of curiosity, walked round the base of the tower, actually looking for her wishing card. But it had vanished into thin air.
    *   *   *
    AFTER THE SOMEWHAT BIZARRE event on the Eiffel Tower, which Rosalie obviously had not told anyone about, more than three months had passed. The cold damp of the winter rain had given way to a stormy January and then a surprisingly sunny February. Her birthday was long past, Valentine’s Day came and went, but this time, too, her wish remained unfulfilled.
    René proudly offered her a box containing running shoes (“breathable, superlight, the Porsche among running shoes, for my love on Valentine’s Day!”).
    In March, too, nobody had the idea of giving Rosalie a little golden padlock. And by now it was April.
    So many wishes, so many disappointments. The results of the last few years led Rosalie to