Lost in Translation
An imaginative composed by Sarah (Year 11)
Isla struts down Rue Crémieux with the wind blowing violently around her, hugging her coat tightly to escape the cool, frigid air. The snow crunched underneath her boots as she made her way up the stairs that lead to a hidden bookshop that is gently tucked away from the street.
She warily opens the door, unaware of the slight raise in the threshold; a surprised grunt from her mouth escapes her as she falls to her knees that give out under the pressure of the rest of her body.
“HOLY GOD OW FLIP WHAT THE F *bleep*,” A comedically well-timed alarm goes off.
The shop goes dead silent; she slowly lifts her head from the soft crevice of her elbow, making eye contact with the soft face of an elderly woman.
“Can you please move? You're blocking the doorway,” she says in a frail voice as she nudges Isla with her cane. The elderly lady perks up at the arrival. “Bonjour,” she says kindly as she descends the stairway with caution. A deep voice replies, “Buongiorno.” He then comes to a stop as he witnesses a young woman lying on the wooden floor.
“Êtes-vous d’accord?” he says, concerned for her. Still not knowing who the voice is, she desperately says “wee wee mercy” in a typical Canadian accent to avoid further humiliation. He walks in front of her and gently extends his hand for her to take.
Isla doesn't know it yet, but the man standing in front of her will become the most important person in her life. He looks into her eyes and then says, “Are you good?” She looks at him in disbelief as he speaks in english. She walks past him to a section of the shop to browse the maps, tired of the constant attention. Her fingers traced the edges of the vintage globe, spinning it half-heartedly.
The man walks around the shop, watching Isla with a curious expression, as if trying to piece her together. Eventually, he works up the courage to go up to her: “ You're not from here, are you?” He asks as she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and glances over her shoulder, “Is it that obvious?” He smiles and takes a smaller step towards her. “The wee wee mercy gave it away,” he let out a laugh. She groans and covers her face. “God, I'm never going to live that down, am I?” he extends his hand “I’m Olivier,” she takes his hand. “ Isla, nice to meet you.” Their hands lingered there a heartbeat longer than necessary, and when they finally let go, Isla still felt the warmth of his palm against hers. “So... where are you from?” he asks curiously. “I'm from Canada,” she says. She starts fiddling with her fingers whilst avoiding eye contact. He looks at her and asks, “ Are you travelling or did you move here?” “ Yeah, I moved here about a month ago to become a journalist; I go to Paris-Sorbonne University just down the road,” she says, starting to become more comfortable with his presence. “Sometimes I think I came to Paris just to find quiet,” she murmurs. Olivier smiles faintly. “And instead you found a nosy stranger and a hard floor.”
Isla swallowed hard, unsure of what to say next, but she could feel her heart skip a beat. The intensity in his gaze was undeniable, and she felt more drawn to him. She slowly turned her attention back to the globe in front of her, her fingers slowly tracing the curves of the intricate lines of the world.
“I guess I wasn't expecting this to happen,” she said quietly, feeling the weight of his presence settle into her chest. Oliver chuckles, his voice is light and teasing.
“Well sometimes the best things are the ones we don't expect.” He paused for a moment watching her soft smile.
