My Brush with Love

​What I love most about used bookstores is the feel of the paper in my hands. I love scanning it’s delicate pages for the history of the book; who owned it, who marked it, or if someone wore out a certain part (like the romantic section in a poetry book). The books I like the most don’t have a heavy price tag because they are worn and the spine is broken or missing. There is no spotlight on them. Each book tells two stories. I once found a poetry book that was gifted to a youth for being top in her class in grammar. The dedication was in beautiful well-practiced cursive writing that is lost to my generation. It was dated the same day as my birthday, except 86 years earlier. The whole thing just tickled me somehow.

​Just walking into these shops is an experience that I crave. It’s the feeling like I’m stepping back in time to see something that cannot be filmed or directed. Being in the bookstore usually feels like you are in history because of the musty smell in the air, the ambiance, and the quiet. Every sense is adding to your vibe when you walk in and it builds up your anticipation, drawing you into a quiet for just the right read. In that moment I am alive back in time.

​I’m getting lost in my own thoughts. The reason I decided to write this out is that the most bizarre and oddly wonderful thing happened to me. I had gone overseas to Europe for the first time and, of course, one of the first shops I sought was an old bookstore. I barely had time in between excursions but I was determined to enjoy a bookstore of another land. I had picked the store that looked weary with time; one I could imagine had been around far far before cars. When carriages were prominent and maybe even older if my fantasy was to run wild. As an avid fiction ready, I suppose I always thought having a random adventure would be wonderful. In this case, it didn’t feel like an adventure since I was reliving someone else’s. But looking back, it really was quite a marvelous thing to be a part of even though I was the sole participant.

​I had found a handwritten book that I don’t believe anyone had read since it was stuffed away. This one book that I found out of all the bookshops in Paris and of all the bookshops I’ve ever travelled to; was in the corner where a large open window sits behind it. The store didn’t seem any different; the same dry air and slight musty smell. There was a curtain between the window and the tall bookshelf but it was pressed against it so hard that it wasn’t too bright but rather a glow. The shelf where I found it was mid length, easy to reach. I had happily and slowly fingered the titles of each book on this shelf from front to back before I found the notebook in the middle. It was smashed facedown between a large heavily stressed second print compilation of Edgar Allen Poe and an even larger photo book about 90’s indoor planting for style and function. It was right there if you are used to looking for the unique and neglected. Surrounded by dust and sunlight. Small, crushed, and blended into the shadows. When I inspected the corners it appeared to be a simple notebook with a dark oilskin cover that had dried out. The inside paper had the initials E.D. with the date 1818. No printing label, so this was definitely someone’s notebook. I was already in this new world.

​The first entry was in beautiful cursive again dated May 1st 1818. Based on the wear of the pages I could tell that this entire notebook had writings which was odd to me. I love notebooks but I don’t think I’ve always finished every page before. I find a new one that I like and slowly lose interest in the old one. But every page was full of writing with different degrees of emotion. Some pages were written so delicately with precision and others were done in haste. The last one was dated May 2nd 1819, and the entry wrote “Finally, my love, the last day. At sunrise today, I can leave this place. I have left a piece of myself for you. And your estate will live on with me. Rest well. I will carry it alone. Be happy. Our last goodbye is today. I will not stop until God lets us be together where you are. I will be soon.” The writing was sloppy and almost done at different times because the lines didn’t run parallel and the size of the words were different. Somehow that little entry covered the whole page.

​I eagerly flipped to the first page again written in prim cursive. “This is Day 1 my love. We will get to know each other for the next year. I can see you now in your glass coffin. Your alabaster skin is still glowing. Your beauty won’t fade. Each day will bring us closer together. When I win your inheritance I will use it wisely. You have nothing to fear from me. Many tried to keep you company but I am the only one that will stay the year. The end is not far away, not when I know we can be together soon. One year is nothing compared to what we have suffered. Now I have our future to look for.”

​Day 2 May 2nd 1818. “I’m still here my love. I am waiting. I know you are not dead. A few tears were shed at your wake but for propriety. It was all planned well. I continue waiting. Won’t you even look at me? I will wait and wait and wait until this year is up. “

​I continued reading more entries and he seemed to grow bored of repeating himself and started describing their meetings in reverie. Love at first site. Nothing steamy like a romance novel would read but they bonded over the love of books and could talk for long amounts of time. They would find new ways of folding paper to pass notes to each other just to share parts of their day. Apparently they had both learned about paper locking where you can fold a letter in a certain way as to lock it. If someone intercepted and tried to open it to read it they could rip it in a way to make it not legible or at the least make it obvious that the letter didn’t reach its destination. I had to use Google to understand what it was and mostly the royals used it for very important secret matters. There was clearly this connection between them that could only grow. They stayed respectful of her husband and kept their distance but the love was fresh and vibrant. I didn’t feel judgment that these two people obviously had a thread of fate connecting them and did their best to entertain the situation. Not just because of her husband but he was also just a simple tradesmen. She did not seem unhappy with her life until she felt love.

​I flipped a couple pages forward and accidently went about a quarter into the notebook. I would have gone back but now the writing finally changed a little bit.

​“I am steadfast my love. Share me one glance. No one is looking. I thought I heard you laugh last night but when I woke and turned to you. You were still the same. I heard you. There is a slight smile to your lips as you lay there. Please do not keep me in the dark with everyone else. Even the person who delivers my food and water rations look empathetically towards the tomb. I can see him from the doorway when he walks to the edge of the cemetery. I don’t feel discouraged because I know the truth.”

​I didn’t need to read more from that day. He wrote many lines and even though they were messy, somehow they all fit. The entire year was well planned out and apparently he wasn't the first to try and earn her inheritance by following the strange parameters of a contest. This was a man clearly obsessed with love for this woman who seemed to lay dead but he believed her to be alive. I suppose they were both faking her death? To be together? I kept reading through different pages trying to get an understanding of where this is. At that point I realized he didn’t mean he was metaphorically seeing her like in his dreams. He was in full view of her. It seemed as if he was spending a year in a tomb with her in full sight. And at the end of that year he was expecting a payoff and to be with her. He was talking as if they faked her death but as he began losing his mind it became apparent to me and probably to him (which explains why he would start losing it) that she truly was dead. I couldn’t tell if she had always been dead or if she really wasn’t supposed to be and maybe something went wrong. Either way. It was as if he realized the truth and he could not accept it so he went mad. But he never left her tomb. He stayed every single day with her, until the last day.

​A quick lookup of the date, time of burial, city, and tomb brought me to the name Pere Lachaise. A Google search told me it was built originally in Paris in 1804. So this tomb would have been one of the first and biggest ones since it’s very expensive and difficult to get even a small area now.

​I checked our itinerary and sure enough, the next day we were visiting Pere Lachaise cemetery. The famous composer Chopin is my favorite and I remember wanting to see where his was buried which is what led me to this trip to begin with. When we got there the upper part of the tomb had been sealed off. I couldn’t make out any mirrors on the inside. I had purchased the little black notebook and taken it with me to reference. He seemed to describe a doorway leading to an upper room above the crypt. So the upper chamber has mirrors, which he can always be in clear view of her. She never aged the whole time. I can see clearly on the outside where the room must be but none of the inside visible from where I could stand. The gothic style on the outside was definitely eerie. Sure enough the name on the tomb Eliza Demoff matched the E.D. initials on the notebook.

​Standing in front of that large tomb felt overwhelming. It was tall and old and full of elaborate symbols. Built for an aristocrat. Her money was hers to choose and will to whomever she wanted. It hadn’t belonged to her husband. And yet she chose to will it to the person that would spend a year with her. Getting to know her in that tomb cut off from all other contact. The same money was worth millions in our day. They must have loved each other. He was truly in love to a fault but based on his writings in the beginning (when he was still sane) it sounded like a plan they shared together. I couldn’t tell how she died. I just knew that she was not supposed to be really dead. They were going to spend their lives together after he won her inheritance. It was the only way to be together since she could not marry him outright. He was correct in his last entry though, surprisingly. He had left behind his sanity and maybe it would keep her company. She would give him her inheritance in return after the year was up. He would carry on alone; mourning and praying to God.

​Some love stories don’t carry well through time. They aren’t as relevant. No battles, kingdoms, or valiant heros/heroins. So I suppose there must be many great love stories we have never heard of because who would write about a great love that never reached the radar of the general populace. It had no impact on historical or cultural heritage.

But this story, this one story, was told to me. And I’m still so fortunate to have oddly come across it as bizarre and unbelievable as it was. I wanted to write my thoughts out because for one day I read his story of their story. Turning each page and feeling the raised ink conveyed their love and his devotion. So for that day, at least, they shined brightly. Not just a dim glow in the back shelf of an old bookstore. I hope they can both rest now that it has been told and neatly tucked back into the rusted doorframe of her tomb. And I hope my story would one day shine brightly.