The Secret Photograph by Siobhan Curham

Author:Siobhan Curham [Curham, Siobhan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781837907700
Published: 2023-10-02T16:00:00+00:00

24

APRIL 1985, PARIS

I only worked half-days in the library on Tuesdays, and after what had happened during story-time I was relieved to be able to escape at lunchtime. I had no desire to go home, though; the last thing I needed was to be cooped up with the Pandora’s box of emotions I seemed to have unwittingly unleashed, so I decided to walk into the heart of the city. Hopefully, I’d happen upon an exhibition at one of the museums or galleries that would take my mind off the strange events of the past two days.

As I made my way through the second arrondissement, Le Centre Pompidou, with its infamous ‘inside out’ design, loomed into view. When it had opened in 1977 many Parisians had been vociferous in their condemnation of the building, with its brightly coloured pipes and other mechanisms lining the exterior rather than interior of the building. ‘It is like a human being with all of its innards on display,’ was one common refrain and an article in Le Figaro declared that just as Scotland had Nessie, Paris now had its own monster. But I liked the way the ugliness of the plumbing and the wiring had been put on full display, and in dazzling primary colours too. To me, it felt like the only honest building in Paris, the only structure that didn’t tuck its dark secrets beneath an elegant Haussmann facade.

A young girl of about thirteen whizzed past me on those bright blue roller skates with the canary-yellow laces that were now all the rage. A pair of headphones were clamped to her ears and a Walkman was attached to the waistband of her shorts. She looked so happy and carefree. I wondered if she knew that there was once a time when kids her age were torn from their parents on these very same streets.

I tried to shake the thought from my mind and focused instead on the Stravinsky Fountain and its vivid moving sculptures. It was hard to feel down when looking at the fountain and in the two years since it had been built, I’d spent many an hour there watching water cascade from the colourful elephant, serpent and firebird.

I walked on towards the centre. I just needed to lose myself in an exhibition, then I’d go back home, have something to eat and an early night. I decided to avoid reading any more of Madeleine Bernier’s book. I felt the urgent need to get my life back onto its carefully cultivated even keel. I’d had a strange couple of days, but it was time to put my younger self and all the accompanying memories away again. Tomorrow I would return Bernier’s book to the library and go back to my normal life. I didn’t need to take a lover or go travelling. And I didn’t need to be absolutely free. My life of routine had served me perfectly well for decades.

When I reached the entrance, I looked at the display of posters advertising the current exhibitions and my throat instantly tightened.

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