What is life like in a Parisian neighborhood? An Excerpt from my novel “Paris, Rue des Martyrs”…

What is life like on Paris’ rue des Martyrs? I was inspired by this place and imagined what might happen if residents from diverse backgrounds met. My novel “Paris, Rue des Martyrs” is a glimpse through the windows, into the characters’ lives. A story from four perspectives, of encounters that make a difference.

I hope you will enjoy this excerpt from “Paris, Rue des Martyrs.”

Chapter 1, Rafael

Rafael Mendez arrived like a thief in the night at 120 Rue des Martyrs. He ran all the way from the train station, where he had left one small, ragtag suitcase in a rented locker. His sneakers slapped noisily along the cobblestones, then pavement, in time with his own tears and the rain falling from a grim Parisian sky.

It was as if each minute lost counted for everything in his 23-year-old life. He pushed past umbrellas that seemed to tango as they bobbed against one another, old men who chatted with no one in particular, couples laughing, and a few sidewalk café tables left behind to weather the storm.

He was nearly blind to this first vision of the city, and only looked up now and again at the street signs to reassure himself that — yes — he hadn’t lost the Rue des Martyrs. And then he stopped. He pushed wet strands of long, black hair back from his face, wiped away the silly tears of that odd combination of desperation and excitement, and sank down onto a bench facing the address he had imagined all of his life in Colombia.

Now, as the rain soaked through his jeans and his gaze traveled across the street to the only lighted apartment in building 120, his mind returned home. That’s where his quest began, after all. In Bogotá.

As a child, he would play with the emeralds. That was his first memory. Not mother. Not father. Emeralds. Because that was how his life began. His father never wanted to tell Rafael that the French jewelry designer gave birth to him on a trip for those precious stones. He only said it once — grimly — shaking his head and staring at the dark sand under their feet. Rafael remembered looking up at him with widened 10-year-old eyes as they plodded along the dusty trail to where his father would buy the stones. It was Rafael’s first trip there with his father, and in the young boy’s mind, it became a sacred place.

But he couldn’t think of that story right now or those fucking emeralds. It was over. He had to erase every memory from his mind, the images that haunted him at night.

The one remaining light in 120 snapped off, leaving the building in darkness. It would be too late. He was wasting time. His heart raced as he crossed the street between the cars that kicked up muddy water onto his jeans. He ignored the honking horns. He wanted to move forward, and all at once he wanted to travel back. Rafael was frightened. Afraid of what he might learn or might not learn. Never be afraid, his father had hissed into his ear on that first trip for emeralds.

Before he could let his worries swallow him up with one great gulp, he pounded his fist on the heavy, brown-lacquered door that like a clamshell closed the apartments to the world. Nothing. The sound of his fist against the wood reverberated through his entire body, but no one responded. He scolded himself for his own impatience. How could he possibly have expected someone to answer that door at 11 o’clock on a Thursday night? He placed his hand softly against the handle and sighed, knowing he should leave, yet not able to abandon the glimmer of hope that his problems would be resolved in a matter of hours.

The door creaked open suddenly, and he jumped back.

“There’s no need to be startled, you know. When you knock on a door like a maniac, you should expect it to open.”

A wispy redhead slipped through the doorway and onto the sidewalk. She gave him a crooked grin, lit a cigarette and leaned against the cool brick.

“So,” she said, blowing smoke to the sky, “who do you want to see that badly?”

Something about the young woman struck him. She wasn’t beautiful, with her almost pasty complexion and skinny figure in oversized jeans, but she had an assertive air about her that was much more impressive.

“It must be pretty serious,” she continued, taking a drag. “Why don’t we talk about it?”

“Do you know a woman named Carmen?” Rafael asked, his voice shaking.

“No.”

“Someone named Carmen lives or lived here…” he said, his words trailing off. He felt ridiculous and unprepared as he faced such inquisitive eyes.

“A lot of people have been around here,” she said. “I need specifics.”

“That’s the problem. I don’t have any.”

“What have you come here for anyway?”

“Answers.”

She flicked her half-smoked cigarette into the gutter and with green eyes paler than any emerald gazed up to the sky.

“What are your questions?”

A window flew open from above and a woman’s voice called out: “Laurel? Laurel…”

The person who had to be Laurel pulled Rafael against her and ducked into the shadows. She grinned mischievously.

“I’ve got to run.”

His heart skipped a beat as her hair brushed against his cheek. But he kept any flicker of sentiment in check. He didn’t have time for distractions.

“Meet me back here tomorrow — same hour,” Laurel whispered. “I’ll see what I can find out. I have some connections…” And then she slipped away from him and into the night.

Chapter 2, Cecile

Cecile de Champigny had lived on the Rue des Martyrs forever — or at least that’s how it seemed to her as she sat on a wrought-iron bench and stuffed one sugar-coated beignet after the other into her dissatisfied mouth. She chewed numbly, methodically, and hated herself with every gulp. But it was his fault! A life of monotony suited Manu just fine. They had enough money to live in a lovely four-bedroom apartment overlooking the rooftops, and she had plenty of time to spend with the two teenagers she had given birth to way too young.

Yet she wasn’t satisfied. Manu said he didn’t understand her. No one did, as a matter-of-fact. Cecile told herself that she didn’t care. She didn’t need their sympathy. She could find tranquility on her own, at least for a little while.

It was the only moment she had to herself. This late-afternoon hour that beckoned her to sit outside and gaze longingly at an interesting world that somehow excluded her.

A 10-minute walk brought her far from home to this bench half-hidden by shrubbery and facing the Sacré-Cœur Basilica, where tourists mounted the God-only-knew-how-many steps to see Paris from the heart of Montmartre, the city’s highest point. But Cecile never looked down at the narrow cobblestone streets below. She preferred looking up at the sky.

She was about to lick the last bit of sugar off her fingertips when a strange feeling traveled up her spine. She wasn’t alone. For the first time in the years she had been visiting this spot, someone’s eyes were on her.

He didn’t seem to realize that she had noticed, his gaze moving lithely from her face to his sketchbook. And then his slim fingers tracing patterns onto the paper.

Cecile pushed her greasy napkin away in shame. She suddenly felt undressed, knowing that he had been watching her during this private moment. She wanted to snatch another glance at the artist’s large light eyes. But it was too late. He was gone. In a matter of seconds, he had slipped away. But he had left something behind. Cecile slowly rose from her bench and crossed the uneven patch of stones to the grass where he had been sitting. She dropped to her knees, not caring about the mist from an afternoon shower that soaked through her stockings. She picked up the thick, white piece of paper dancing in the breeze only to look into her own charcoal eyes. The sadness scared her. Not the fact that it existed, but the fact that the artist had noticed it. What else had he seen as he studied her?

TO FIND THE NOVEL ON AMAZON, CLICK HERE.

Adria J. Cimino is the author of the novel Paris, Rue des Martyrs and is co-founder of indie publishing house Velvet Morning Press. She spent more than a decade as a journalist at news organizations including The AP and Bloomberg News. Adria writes about her real-life adventures on her blog Adria in Paris.