Clignancourt

She’d heard of the Paris flea markets, and went up to Porte de Clignancourt on Saturday for a look round. North of the metro stop, at the end of line 4, there were lots of expensive-looking stalls for tourists. Jewellery was everywhere but with no age or quality. There was an edgy feel to the street, with gaggles of young men lurking in corners, watching the passers by for any carelessly exposed wallets. Ellyn crossed her bag over her chest and buttoned her jacket over it.

Everywhere, stall holders thrust goods at her, trying to catch her attention. She’d read up that the true Marché aux Puces didn’t start until after the road bridge for the Péripherique ring road, so she kept her head down and kept going. 

Beyond the overpass there were signs to the various markets, so she struck off down the rue des Rosiers. The vintage clothes stalls had more tourists than she’d see grandmothers at an English jumble sale, and the elbows looked as sharp. 

She turned into the Marché Vernaison, attracted by a stall simply selling old keys, at 3 for €10. There were huge old door keys, modern ones, and delicate, ornate keys, which, when she felt them, were clearly mass-produced. 

Stalls featuring Art Deco lamps, armchairs and posters would be really tempting if she were furnishing a flat. No so much the Deco Anglaise shop, which made her smile. It was trendy in Paris hotels to have such things, with boxes and tables with old British and American adverts, and odd little statues of fishermen in tweeds.

On another stall there were beautiful old porcelain cups, including a large willow pattern that Ellyn liked. She rubbed her fingers around the rim, and found no chips. There was a slight chip on the base. She flicked the side of the cup and it rang softly, telling her there were no cracks. A glance to the side showed her the stallholder was watching her, so she rubbed the base again and winced theatrically at the chip on the base. The price said €10. 

“So, she said, “ it’s a pity it’s damaged”. “For you a discount, I could sell it to you for €8? It’s good quality French porcelain.” 

She shook her head, “Too expensive for me, sorry” If it were €1?” “Mais, non, I’d be selling it at a loss.” She rubbed the damaged base again, and put the cup down, starting to turn away. 

“€5.” He said, “that’s my best price.” After a little more back and forth they agreed at €2, and she tucked the cup into her bag. She was pleased that she could keep to her own cup from now on when having coffee with the other chambermaids. 

A stall of little enamelled boxes made her magpie senses twitch, but she smiled and walked on. She grabbed an espresso at the café on the corner, standing at the counter as it was cheaper than taking a chair, and noticed that, as she continued east, the stalls were less chi-chi. 

One stall hadn’t sorted its wares at all, but had boxes, clearly from house clearances, with little plastic stools to encourage browsing. She took a seat in front of a promising box and started to root through it. Instantly her silver sense chimed as she drew a long open chain up just a little. No hallmark, good open links, she could use that.  She held it lightly while continuing to search. A silver charm bracelet was next, again no hallmark, and another long chain, plated but of reasonable quality. 

A quick debate with the stallholder, pointing out that since there was no hallmark they would all just be plated, and she had the three for €1. 

She was really pleased with her finds, and on the way back to the Metro, a plan began to form. 

She was distracted by the sounds of a woman singing Piaf songs, and decided she merited a treat. The music was coming from the Chez Louisette Guinguette restaurant. It looked lively, full and smelt divine. A man waved her in, “room for une petite? Mais bien sur!” 

The woman was standing on a table, singing her heart out. She was lithe, with curly black hair and huge eyes, ringed with kohl. 

She had just started singing Milord, and it brought tears to Ellen’s eyes as she remembered Hazel singing the same song. 

She ordered tartiflette and a glass of red. It arrived quickly, redolent with its Reblochon cheese melted over potatoes, onions and bacon,  crispy on the top. Suddenly, she was so hungry she almost moaned to taste it. The green salad accompanying it was sharp with vinaigrette. 

Milord ended and the crowd jumped with applause. The singer launched into a song Ellyn didn’t know, about a motorbike rider. It was fast, furious and she was surprised in the end that the motard was killed in a level crossing collision, so that all that was left was his leather jacket and biker’s boots.

Ellyn jumped as she felt a tug on her bag. The kid had thought it loose and ran off when he saw she had the strap secure. She was furious to think her precious possessions had nearly been stolen. She checked herself and took a deep breath.

“Enough,” she thought, paid her bill and left. She couldn’t see the boy right away, but then caught sight of him in a corner. 

“Here” she said, handing him a €10 note. “You look like you need that more then I need a crème brûlée. Just leave my bag alone.” He stared at her open-mouthed, muttered an embarrassed “merci” and ran off. 

She caught the 56 bus down to place de la République. The metro was faster but she loved staring out of the bus window and watching the city roll past. Ellyn thought place de la République was a better monument to the revolution than the Bastille. In the centre was a great bronze statue of Marianne, the personification of the French Republic, holding aloft an olive branch in her right hand and resting her left on a tablet engraved with the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen. She was surrounded by statues personifying liberty, equality, and fraternity, and, Ellyn's favourite, with a lion at the base,  guarding a depiction of a ballot box. No wonder most demonstrations started or ended there.

From République, a 75 took her past the school of Arts et Métiers and the ever bizarre angles, pipes and glass of the Pompidou centre, in front of the Hotel de Ville and across the bridge by Notre Dame. Ellyn never tired of seeing the round slate turrets of the Conciergerie, where Marie Antoinette had been imprisoned. She jumped off the bus when it stopped on the left bank, and walked round up to rue Cujas. She was tired after her shopping, and was glad to get back to Nadia’s hostel.