La Vie en Rose

Chapter 2

Zayn’s head spun as he stared down at the book of matches. It weighed heavy in his hand, despite its small size. It couldn’t be real, it had just been a dream. Right? There was no way he had spent last in 1923. And yet, here was the matchbook lying tangible and very real in his hand. Images flashed through his mind from the night before, of Liam slipping the matches into Zayn’s pocket, his voice a close breath in Zayn’s ear. The memory sent shivers down Zayn’s spine. He returned his attention to matches in his palm, flipping them over as he examined the book. It was made of printed paper, light blue with a grey diamond pattern. The words were printed in a curling black script, “la vie en rose.” His mind flickered to the sign hanging above the door, the name of the club. He flipped it open to find only a few matches missing, it was still nearly full. He fell backwards onto his bed, gazing up at the ceiling as he tried to process the fact that he had really time traveled, apparently without knowing he was doing it. And had really met Liam last night, who had really slipped a book of matches into his pocket.

 He sat up after a moment, grabbing his laptop off of the table and returning to the bed with his computer settled in his lap. He clicked open the browser and typed “la vie en rose 1923” into the search. After sifting through a few unrelated links, Zayn came upon an article about the club. There were several black and white photos of men in suits and women in dresses, smiling broadly at the camera, or caught candidly dancing. He looked closer at the photos, examining the club in the background. He saw the familiar hanging lights, the bar at the end of the far wall. There was no mistaking it, that was the very same club he had been in the night before. He skimmed the article, reading about the club’s opening, the many glamorous events that had been held there and various celebrities who had graced it with their presence. It seemed to have been quite the hub of nightlife in Paris, famous for its grand parties and lively crowd. He was stopped short when he reached the end of the article, informing him that the club had eventually been sold, and was closed down in 1949. His eyes grew wide. As if everything else hadn’t been proof enough, it was irrefutable that Zayn had been there last night, in a place that hadn’t existed for over 60 years. There was no other explanation than the fact that Zayn had somehow accidentally wound up in 1923. 

He felt suffocated in his small room, and sun streaming through the window suddenly felt impossibly hot. He decided he needed to go for a walk, and he knew exactly where he wanted to go. He dressed quickly, pulling on jeans and a t shirt and checking his hair in the mirror, finding it unkempt but passable. He stopped before exiting, hesitating for a moment before reaching back to take the book of matches off the table, tucking them quickly into his back pocket. He didn’t know why, but he wanted them with him, a reminder that he wasn’t completely insane. Or that if he was, it had apparently escalated to full blown hallucinations of seemingly tangible objects. It was small comfort, but he welcomed it nonetheless. 

He wandered down the sunny streets, making sure to follow the path he had taken last night. It was a beautiful day, bringing out the brighter side of Paris. It felt so different from last night. sharply contrasting the wash of the silvery moon and the intimacy of smoky corners. It felt more open, and Zayn felt like he could breathe again, inhaling the scent of flowers and fresh air. He found himself a few minutes later on a familiar street, certain he was in the right place. It only took him a moment to locate the club, or at least where it had stood. In its place was a book store, and Zayn could see that the inside had been heavily remodeled. The sign outside was different as well, bearing a french name he couldn’t read in bold modern letters. But the facade was the same, the stone walls remaining unchanged from decades past. Zayn could almost see it as it stood last night, lit from within by dim bar lights, the sounds of music and voices carrying out the door and into the night. 

He entered the store, a bell ringing to signal his arrival as he opened the door. He glanced around the shop, taking in the wall to wall bookshelves and cozy looking chairs. He heard a throat clear across the shop, and turned to find a girl standing at the counter, looking at Zayn expectantly. “Can I help you?” she asked in a thick French accent. She looked young, maybe high school or university age, and her hair was piled thick on top of her head. “Uh, yeah,” Zayn said, crossing to the counter. “Do you know anything about what was here before? I mean, before a bookstore. There was a club here...” he asked uncertainly, sure he was sounding like a lunatic with a penchant for architectural history. She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that, sorry.” Zayn assured her that it was fine and went to depart, but before he could leave she was speaking again. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” She asked, giving Zayn a wide smile, letting the double meaning in her words sink in. Zayn felt his cheeks reddening. “No,  thank you, have a nice day,” he mumbled awkwardly over his shoulder as he hastily exited the store.