The Street that Disappeared      Contents

by John Kirby

It is one of my constant regrets that I had not come to live in Paris earlier, immediately after the Second World War, for example, when Paris was the city to which all roads seemed to lead.

"That was the real time," my friend and former tutor, old Burge, used to tell me. "The streets flowed with people, not machines. Everyone was bursting with ideas. New literary and artistic movements were created overnight. Paris was the centre of the world in those days. Now look what they are doing to the place!"

Burge’s devotion to the past often gave way to such outbursts of bitterness over the present. He had crossed the seas from Ireland many years before in order to live in his beloved city and he never grew tired of recalling the past.

Since retirement from his post at the Sorbonne university he rarely left his quarter on the right bank of the river Seine. When he lost his housekeeper, Maria, several years ago, he had become something of a recluse, living on the sixth floor of an old apartment building, surrounded by his books and pictures. Long after I had ceased to be his student, I used to visit him to listen to his anecdotes of people and places he had known in the springtime of the century. For me, old Burge was a living link with a Paris I had never known.

It was one evening two weeks before Christmas when I called on Burge with my customary offering of his favourite cigars. He was still living in the unfashionable 12th district of the capital, in a half-forgotten street between the Seine and the Place de la Nation, a quarter dominated by the great Gare de Lyon railway stations.

A storm was gathering as I walked through the darkened streets and rain began to fall as I reached his house. As I climbed the six floors to his flat, Burge was waiting for me at his door. He greeted me dressed in an old pullover and slippers with a book in his hand. He seemed pleased to have a visitor on such a stormy night.

"Which way did you come?" he asked, as he seated me with a brandy and some biscuits.

"Oh, the usual way," I replied. "Along the river as far as the bridge, then up the avenue. But the district is changing," I remarked. "New buildings going up and old ones being demolished. I nearly lost my way!"

We touched glasses and drank a toast. I asked him if he still bought prints from the booksellers along the quayside. He sniffed and replied that all they now sold was postcards and pornography. There was a pause and we heard the rain lashing against the windows.

"Funny you should say you nearly lost your way," Burge said suddenly. "Something of the sort happened to me about a year ago. It was a night like this, I remember. Let me cover that window and I’ll tell you about it."

There was a flash of lightning and distant thunder as he drew a heavy curtain over the window and returned to his chair. He stared at me from beneath bushy white eyebrows with a glint in his eye. Something of the lecturer I had once known appeared in his manner.

"I don’t know if you know the Quai de Bercy," he began. "It was one of the last quaysides to be built along the Seine, shortly after this commune became part of Paris in 1860." As he launched into his story I remained silent. "Well, it was a stormy evening - last November, I believe. I was returning home along the quay, and to avoid the wind and rain, I took a turning I was not familiar with, away from the river. I found myself in a narrow cobbled street flanked by leaning, shuttered buildings. All appeared dark and deserted with an abandoned air.

"Continuing my way cautiously up the centre, I soon came upon a single lighted shop-window. It was a print and picture-frame dealer and, despite the lateness of the hour, there was a tray of engravings for sale placed just within the open doorway. Peering through the thick glass panes of the window, I perceived an old man seated at a table on which a single oil-lamp cast a dim, sallow glow.

"I entered the shop and found myself surrounded by bundles of dust-covered etchings and prints stacked on upturned barrels and walls festooned with empty frames. There was a mustiness and gloom about the place that reminded me of a set-piece in a waxworks museum.

"A sudden chill from the open door reminded me that my cape was wet and it was late. I resolved to return the following day and started towards the door. Then, on an impulse, I picked up the first print that came to hand from the tray and turned to ask the old man the price. But he was no longer there. Supposing him to be in the rear of the shop, I left some money on the table and, carefully placing the print in my hat for protection from the rain, stepped out into the street. When I looked back at the shop, the light had vanished and the building appeared as dark and deserted as all the others."

Burge paused and took a sip of brandy. Outside the thunder sounded. I waited in silence for him to continue.

"I was, of course, curious to know what street I had stumbled upon," he continued. "I referred to a street guide and then to a local map of the quarter. It was difficult because I had no name to go on.

"Then I began to consult older books and maps, to compare accounts of the district at different periods. I soon found myself returning again and again to an account of a short stretch of road that today bears the name ‘Nicolai’. I learned that it was formerly part of a road called the Rue des Chemins Verts. And even earlier it was known as the Rue de la Grange aux Merciers. A footnote in one old volume mentioned flooding from the Seine, and another told of a fire that had ravaged some buildings, causing people to run and jump in the river with their clothes ablaze!"

We sipped our drinks and I waited patiently, sensing that Burge was getting to the point of his story. He eyed me intently and continued. "The more I studied the history of that street, the more I became convinced of a very disturbing fact. Let me explain. In 1853 the street was again destroyed by fire. A few years later, in 1858, the new Paris railway was built and the street was simply cut in two. It had never been fully rebuilt after the previous fire. After the railway was completed, the remaining short sections of road, which had become a cul-de-sac, was renamed ‘Impasse Nicolai’. Today, there is no other way through from the river except by going round the station, or by taking the road under the bridge, the way you came tonight. In brief, the street I had walked down and the shop I had visited that stormy night, has not existed for more than a hundred years!"

Burge paused and drained his glass. "Daylight confirmed everything I had read the previous day. Next morning I went and stood where the road ends abruptly before high railings and railway lines. It’s been like that since the middle of the last century." He stared at me unblinking. "You haven’t finished your drink," he remarked.

I looked at Burge with a question on my lips. A ghost-story in this day and age? He must be joking! I swallowed my drink and announced that it was time for me to leave. The rain had ceased and the thunder was more distant. As I paused in the tiny hallway to pull on my coat I decided to put a question to him, to know if he believed in his story, or had invented it to pull my leg, perhaps because it was Christmas.

"What about the print you bought in your ‘ghost shop’ that night?", I asked casually.

"Ah, I was wondering if you would ask me that," he replied in his former lecturing manner. "Wait while I bring a light and I’ll show it to you." I waited with growing curiosity. Burge returned with a flickering candle. "There! On the wall behind you!", he announced and raised the candle above his head. I looked where he indicated. The yellowing papered wall was bare except for a small empty picture-frame enclosing a patch of lighter-coloured wall.

"Bless my soul!", Burge exclaimed. "That’s very strange! It was there only the other day. Look! You can see she it hung. I wonder what Maria has done with it."

"It doesn’t matter," I said. "Another time. It’s getting late." We shook hands and wished each other a Merry Christmas.

As I walked down the rickety stairs Burge called out from where his candle still glimmered. "Mind you don’t lose your way!", he chuckled. It wasn’t until I was out in the street that I suddenly remembered. Old Burge’s housekeeper, Maria, had been dead seven years come next All Saints.