“Valérie? Stéphane here. I’ll be bringing a VIP to the Queen’s Private Apartment. Just ignore the alarms.”
I’m a VIP? Oh my gosh! I’m a VIP!
Stéphane hung up, and we were off. We darted through the Château de Versailles, slipping behind burgundy velvet ropes and ascending marble staircases. Head of security at the Château, Stéphane gained access to secured areas by keypad, but he just as often whipped out one of the dozens of skeleton keys that hung from the jangly keychain on his hip. A little jittery, my interior prattle was steady. How can this be real? I feel like I’m in a movie. Stéphane always walks so fast.
Over the years, he had kindly given me many private tours of the Château. I’d stood alone in the Royal Opera and gazed down on the Royal Chapel from Madame de Maintenon’s oratory. Away from the crowds in the echoey palace, I’d experienced the silence of Versailles. Though I couldn’t quite conjure the people who had lived here, I could inhabit the space and remember that this overcrowded museum once was a home.
I had booked this France trip with a specific goal—to visit the library of Queen Marie Antoinette. For four years, I had been obsessed with this room. I’d discovered that it played a role in eighteenth-century French tea culture, so I read, reflected, wrote, lectured, and published about its history—all without ever setting foot in the room.
Nervous energy welled up in my chest as Stéphane and I approached the library. We stepped into a small room that served as an overflow area. The books were stored on shelves behind glass. Though there was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the room remained dim. I followed Stéphane across the worn parquet floor. He opened the cream-colored door. I placed my hand on my chest, feeling my heart race, and entered Marie Antoinette’s library.
I took stock. Two windows to my right, overlooking the interior courtyard. I had noted this in my article. High ceilings. Another chandelier, parquet floors again. There’s no fireplace. How many people have passed through this room?
As I made my way around the perimeter of the library, I ran my fingertips along the hip-high marble shelf that separated the upper and lower bookcases. The air was cool, yet stuffy. Do they air it out on Mondays when the museum is closed?
I turned to Stéphane. “How many tourists visit the Queen’s Private Apartment in a month?”
“It’s been closed for restoration for almost a decade. Once it reopens, we’ll welcome a few dozen visitors per month. We need to protect the site.”
I placed myself in the center of the library and took a deep breath. Prior to Marie Antoinette’s rein, this room was Queen Marie Leczinska’s “Laboratory” where she painted, entertained friends, made music, and sipped tea. I imagined the Queen and her ladies in waiting. In her time, the walls were adorned with panels depicting Chinese life, painted by the queen herself. She had decorated the room with chairs covered in sumptuous moiré and chintz fabrics. There had also been a Greek-inspired stool and painted curtains representing a Chinese landscape. When she died, the “Laboratory” was dismantled, its contents dispersed.
As I stood in the Queens’ library/laboratory, the centuries unfolded like an accordion. I was in Marie Leczinska’s orientalist universe, surrounded by the quiet chatter of her courtiers. I felt them sharing tea and stories. Leather-bound books from the royal collection lined the walls. While Marie Antoinette favored music and theater over reading, she nonetheless owned close to two thousand volumes. Had I been daring, I could have opened a cabinet and run my fingers along the spines of works by her contemporaries Voltaire, Rousseau, and Beaumarchais. As I drifted through the eighteenth century, I was also firmly planted in my own century, clad in a green linen jacket and Veja tennis shoes.
My rumbling tummy broke the spell, and the centuries reorganized themselves in my mind. I took a few pictures of the library, recording it in my iPhone. Years of research and reflection had already imprinted it on my soul. My quest complete, it was time to treat Stéphane to lunch at the brasserie down the street.
I’ve dated a few men who lied about their age, which makes for a curious and unsteady start to a relationship. We meet on an app. His profile says that he’s in his 40s, and he looks a little rough around the edges, but I tell myself that life takes a toll. Maybe he is in his 40s, like he claims. When we meet, he not only looks like he is well into his 50s, but he acts like an older man. He’s calmer than my peers. He’s more poised, and he seems to be moving toward retirement—selling his business, purchasing a condo on Hilton Head, helping his adult children get settled in their careers. I think to myself, “Has he shaved 6 years off his age? 8 years? 10 years?”
About a year ago, I heard the term “grace note” for the first time, and I was enchanted. My homespun definition of grace note sprouted up immediately: an after-the-fact recognition or insight that brings peace. Looking back and understanding that being denied a certain job or that suffering a breakup was in your best interest because your career subsequently took an interesting turn or a better partner came your way. Seeing that a house you bid on and lost was a blessing because you eventually bought a house that is lighter, brighter, and prettier.
This being human is a guest house
Fallow times are productive times. I’ve spent the last few months lazing around intellectually. Given that I was coming down from a handful of writing deadlines and processing a few emotional hardships, it was appropriate to settle into a protective and hollow mental space. I admit that I haven’t been reading a lot. I haven’t even been thinking very much. I’ve been curled up, so to speak, allowing my mind to rest so that my creative spirit will reset and regenerate.