R.I.P. Monsieur Livre

 R.I.P. Monsieur Livre

On Wednesday and Saturday mornings he sat at his own ground-level window. His house looked out on the Place La Republique filled with the olive, clothing, food, flower and other marché merchants. His window sill was covered with French books. In front of the window was the cart he pushed to the supermarket. On marché days it was filled with English books and sometimes a German or Spanish book. Each cost three euros.

Sometimes we couldn't find any books we hadn't donated. Other times we might buy one or more. When we bought three we would give a ten euro bill but wouldn't accept change. 

More than once I apologized when I bought English books saying in French that I was too lazy to read French that week and that I was so grateful to get English books.

Then for three weeks he wasn't there. Then today we saw the piles of books and a friend told us how one morning he had never woke up.

Note: The 13th century village church is at the end of our street. We probably heard the funeral bells not knowing they were for him. When I go into the church next time I will light three candles: for my stepmom, for Ingolf and for Monsieur Livre.