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The sky hangs low when Feuilly exits the metro station; a low, menacing rumble bodes ill for all of the bare-headed passersby, some of which glance above with looks varying from indifference to unconcealed worry. Feuilly isn’t worried, though: he’s prepared. The morning had been grey through his window, and had remained that way on the other side of the glass of the Centre Pompidou library, where he spent most of his day. That’s what his days off look like: they may be few in number, but he always makes sure he does something productive with them. Today, it was reading up on eastern European history; the two books he borrowed weigh heavy in his bag. He steps far enough from the metro entrance not to be in the way of the passengers still emerging from underground, but close enough to duck back inside in case the rain starts falling faster than he can open his umbrella.
Thunder rumbles again, this time accompanied by a flash of lightning as he fishes said umbrella out of his bag only to notice the thin, dark green lines on the fabric. He stills as the first drops of rain fall, one of which sneakily finds its way into his collar and makes him shiver as it travels down half the length of his spine. It’s the wrong umbrella.
You see, Feuilly has two umbrellas stored neatly underneath the little cupboard in the entrance of his apartment, one of which is irremediably broken. He keeps it for sentimental reasons, which is respectable and perfectly understandable, considering the sentimental association comes from a fateful day over ten years ago, when a stranger had slammed into him full speed, both of them falling to the ground and effectively crushing Feuilly’s bag. By some miracle, the only victim was the umbrella. The stranger had apologised profusely and introduced himself as Bossuet, and insisted Feuilly come have a drink with him, as a further apology. That was how their friendship started, and soon Feuilly met more people from Bossuet’s circle of friends, many of whom are now some of his own closest friends in the city.
What is less respectable about it all, though, is that he keeps the umbrellas, both black at first glance, in the same exact place. It results in situations like these, a desperate tinkering with the broken metal part in rain of increasing intensity right in front of the Alésia metro station. A situation that leaves much to be desired, especially since his hair has already started sticking to his temples.
He doesn’t even think of ducking back into the metro station to figure it out like he first set out to, too intent on making the umbrella — which hasn’t been opened, let alone used, in years — functional again. Frustration rises in his chest as his fingers slip on the cheap metal. He can hear the pitter-patter of the rain on the umbrellas of people walking by, and takes a deep breath. There isn’t any point in getting upset. There are two options open to him: he can either wait it out in the station, or make a run for it. Truthfully, he isn’t far from home. All he has to do is to make a left and then a right; a three minute walk, tops, maybe two if he runs. Only problem is, it’s raining harder and harder. So hard, in fact, that by the end of that two minute run, he’d probably look like he’s taken a shower fully clothed, bag, shoes and all. It is summer rain, though, and those typically don’t last long. He could just wait it out and stay dry.
When he finally gives up on the umbrella and turns around to walk-of-shame back into Alésia station, there’s a girl standing in his way. She has short, black hair under an olive green hoodie, an open, blue umbrella in her hand and a somewhat pitying smile on her face.
“Do you need help?” She holds out her hand. Feuilly looks at her, her extended hand, then down at the pathetic umbrella in his own. His shirt is already soaked halfway through, patches of fabric sticking to his skin.
“Uh—“ is all he manages as he hands her the abject object, and she looks at it, keeping the handle of her own wedged between her shoulder and neck. Feuilly stands in the rain, looking at this stranger as she makes an attempt at repairing an object he knows has been broken for years.
“There’s no way anyone could fix this thing” is her conclusion a moment later, just as rivulets start streaming down Feuilly’s face. His ambitions have never been to become a fountain, but life does take unexpected turns. He says nothing.
“You can take mine,” she says, handing him both umbrellas.
Feuilly shakes his head, reminiscent of a dog after a bath. “No, I can’t—“
She waves her hand dismissively before pulling her hood tighter over her head. “Don’t worry, I have this.”
“I really can’t take it from you,” Feuilly protests, stretching his arm out to hand it back to her.
“Or you could stop being too nice and take it, you’re soaked through,” she adds, gesturing at him. She has a point; his pants are feeling dangerously humid. “And right now it’s not keeping either of us dry.”
“I live close by,” he says. “Please, take it back.”
“Fine.” She scoffs and grabs the handle of the umbrella, and Feuilly instantly starts missing the temporary shelter it provided. “Where do you live, then?”
He blinks, partly in surprise, partly to get the water out of his eyes. “What?”
She looks at him, impatience seeping through to her features. “If you won’t take it, I’m walking you back. You said you lived close by.”
It’s not a question, so Feuilly finds himself in no position to respond by the negative.
“I, uh— Yeah, I do. Rue du Loing. It’s just down this way.”
They walk side by side, the sound of the droplets on the umbrella accompanying them. Their shoulders bump once or twice, making Feuilly stare down at the wet pavement in awkwardness. There’s something ridiculously intimate about sharing an umbrella with someone; the proximity, the canopy essentially cutting the people underneath it off from the rest of the world, and, when said people know each other, the whole ordeal of who holds the handle. Feuilly’s hands stay solidly jammed into his pant pockets for a few moments, until he feels so guilty of not offering that he pulls them out, extending one.
“Here, let me take it,” he says, and an amused smile creeps onto her face. She looks like she might want to make a comment about their earlier exchange, but she doesn’t.
“What, is it not keeping you dry enough?”
Feuilly’s eyes widen, realising that his offer was taken the wrong way. “Oh no no, not at all, I just— I didn’t want you to have to hold it up the whole time, I—“
“I’m kidding,” the girl says, the smile turning into a grin as she hands him the umbrella. “Thanks. My arm was getting sore.”
“You’re welcome,” he manages, feeling the burn in his cheeks as he directs his gaze to the ground once more. They walk in silence the rest of the way.
“This is me,” he says once they get to his door, and he hands the umbrella back. The rain has already lightened, bits and pieces of bright sky peeking through the clouds. Feuilly rummages in his bag to find his keys, noting in passing that most of his books and notebooks are miraculously dry. When he finds them, there are but a few raindrops falling here and there, and the girl’s closed her umbrella.
“Nice building,” she comments, taking a few steps back on the curb to get a better look at the structure. “Pretty flowers on the second floor.”
“Oh, yeah.” Feuilly cranes his neck despite knowing very well there’s no way he can see anything from his angle. “That’s my apartment, actually. Heather flowers.”
A smile appears on the girl’s face, her features softening. “You grow flowers on your windowsill?”
He can’t help but mirror her expression. “Something wrong with that?”
“Oh, not at all, it’s actually kind of wonderful.” She looks up again. “There isn’t enough green in the streets, in my opinion. It’s good that there’s people like you.”
He wants to tell her that he’s glad there’s people like her, too. People nice enough to accompany umbrella-less people back to their doors. He doesn’t, though. Instead he says,
“Do you want to come up for tea, maybe? Or coffee. A drink. I owe you as much.”
Her smile widens before Feuilly has enough time to feel embarrassed by the suggestion. She has a dimple on her left cheek. “I’d love to. Let me just,” —she fishes her phone out from her back pocket and checks it, then stuffs it back in— “okay, we’re good. I have time.”
Feuilly smiles back and pushes the front door open, inviting her in. As they climb the four flights of stairs up to his door, he realises he doesn’t know her name, and tells her as much.
“I’m Éponine,” she replies. Before he can say anything, she adds,“I know it’s a weird name, but my siblings got it worse than I do, trust me. What’s yours?”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m familiar with weird names. I’m Octave, but people have been calling me by my last name forever.”
He sees her give him an expectant look from over his shoulder. “Which is?”
“Oh, Feuilly.”
“That’s a nice last name,” she says, and he’d like to think that she means it. His names are the only things he has left from his family; he goes by his last to find a kinship, a connection with those parents who passed long before he could even remember them, remnants of the love he knows, deep in his heart, they bore for him.
Soon, they’re in his apartment, sitting by the kitchen table with a lemonade in her hands, a mint infusion in his, and a towel on his shoulders: he had deemed the situation unfit to change clothes in; it is most uncouth to invite someone into one’s home and then leave them alone for an extended period of time. So they sit there for a few moments, in silence. Éponine breaks it by noting how nice the neighbourhood is, and it makes Feuilly smile.
“You don’t live around here, do you?”
She gives a short laugh, the dimple making a brief reappearance. “No, is it that obvious? I live just outside Paris, I’m here because my sister has her wedding dress fitting at 5. I’m her maid of honour.”
Feuilly glances at the wall clock. “Five? But that’s in—“
“An hour and a half, I know. I have a tendency to be early to pretty much everything.”
“That sounds like the opposite of a problem.”
“It sure does give me time to rescue hapless strangers,” she laughs. “But when everyone is well off, I spend most of my time waiting.”
“It must get tiring.”
Éponine shrugs, taking a sip of her lemonade. “It’s okay, I usually have a book with me. Forgot it today, though, so I guess I got lucky with you.” She looks him in the eye, and he notices that hers are so dark there isn’t telling the pupil and the iris apart. There are little lines at the corners of her eyes that make her look older than she must be.
Realising he must've been staring, he chuckles awkwardly, drops his gaze down to his cup and to his hands around it. The intensity of the eye contact is making the heat rise in his cheeks again. She’s pretty; he’s known that ever since he laid eyes on her a mere fifteen minutes earlier, but now that he’s admitted it to himself, it’s harder to return her gaze without turning beet-red. He clears his throat. “Yeah. I usually don’t invite strangers into my home, you know.”
She nods readily. “And I don’t usually follow people home, but here we are.” She looks around the room. “It’s nice here, though. Well, I can’t speak for the rest of the place, but the entrance and the kitchen are. Very neat.”
That draws a smile from Feuilly. He takes pride in keeping his living quarters spotless; it’s one of the things he’s adamant about and will always take time to clean up, no matter how tired he is after his shifts. Someone noticing is always nice, too. “Thanks.”
They talk for a while, Éponine about her sister’s wedding to a lawyer-to-be —which makes her roll her eyes, but the fondness for both the bride and groom is unmistakeable in her tone—, Feuilly about the wonders of the Centre Pompidou library and his aspiration to one day, hopefully, write a history book. Her eyes light up at that, and she tells him that she’s always wanted to write a book, too.
“I don’t know what I’d write about, though,” she adds, resting her chin on her hand, looking out at the street. The rain has stopped completely, timid rays of sunlight now filtering in through the kitchen window. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Well, would you want to write fiction? Essays?” Feuilly thinks about those rows and rows of books, the categories suddenly completely eluding him despite his spending most of his days off there.
“Fiction, probably. I don’t think I’d be any good at non-fiction.” A wistful smile appears on Éponine’s lips. “Maybe even kids’ books, who knows.”
It would fit her, Feuilly thinks. He’s never met a kids’ fiction writer, but he believes they must be kind. Éponine feels that way; kind, and just mischievous enough to have a style that would appeal to younger audiences. And so he tells her he thinks she should try it out, and she nods dreamily, the smile still on her lips.
When her second glass of lemonade is empty and there’s a lull in the conversation, Éponine looks down at her phone and her eyes widen as she stands up. “Oh, fuck— shit, sorry. I’m going to be late to the fitting. I need to call Cosette.”
Feuilly glances at the clock, 4:28 on the display.
“Where’s the fitting?”
“Uh— Priam something,” Éponine replies distractedly, her eyes skipping on the screen as she looks for her sister’s number.
“That’s ten minutes away,” he says. “Down avenue Leclerc, right?”
It’s the only wedding shop around; he knows it from walking by the adorned storefront every other day, the four mannequins changing wedding dresses each week. He has a habit of noticing every signboard on his way when he walks alone, and this means most of the stores in the area are very familiar to him, at least by name.
Éponine stills and looks at him at the mention of avenue Leclerc. “Yeah. You said ten minutes?”
He nods and gives her a couple of directions to the store. “You’ll be on time. Not quite as early as you’re used to, but—“
“Ah, that’s fine. Beggars can’t be choosers. Thank you.” She smiles in relief. “And besides, I’m sure my reputation can take it.”
She thanks him again before walking out the door, both for the drinks and the directions, insists on the fact that she hasn’t had lemonade as good in a very long time —although Feuilly doubts of the truth in those words; his store-bought lemonade is very average— and leaves her number in his phone, not commenting on the fact that he has a Nokia 100, which he appreciates.
Feuilly doesn’t really see the point in smartphones— or rather, he does, but not for himself. Social media and the like feel icky to him, much to his friend Courfeyrac’s chagrin. Courfeyrac is, for lack of a better word, addicted to Instagram and has been trying to get Feuilly on it for years, without success. As for all the other functionalities, Feuilly has a notebook, an outdated Lumix camera, and the sturdiest, trustiest laptop in all of Paris, or so he likes to tell himself. They all suit him just fine, having shaped his habits and routine over the years.
When Éponine disappears down the stairwell and the sound of her steps fades away, Feuilly finally closes the door and goes back to sit at the kitchen table, a strange combination of feelings hanging in his chest. There’s the muted joy of having met someone like-minded, the undirected gratitude of a chance encounter, and the slight hollowness of a recent departure. His eyes drift across the room aimlessly as he nurses his infusion, finally landing on the blue umbrella, propped up against the wall.
Feuilly springs from his chair and, grabbing the umbrella, throws the kitchen window open. He can see Éponine’s silhouette just a few metres down the street.
“Éponine! Your umbrella!” He yells, waving the object up and down through the window. She turns around and her eyes take a second to find him. “I’ll be right down,” he adds as he ducks back inside, just a little too fast to see her break into a grin.