Until I Die

thought.
I glanced around for a church boutique or one of those shops near European holy places that are stuffed with pictures of the pope and postcards of saints. But the only buildings sharing the block with the church were apartments and a retirement home. I began walking away from the church, outward in a zigzag pattern so I wouldn’t miss anything. There were no reliquary shops. No signs with cords or ropes.
I even checked the local bars. None of them had a name even slightly resembling what I was looking for, although what did I expect? A pub called “The Cord and Relic”? “The Healer and the Rope”? I didn’t exactly expect to see “The Sign of the Cord” spelled out in so many letters, but I found nothing of interest within a good six blocks.
Frustrated, I went back to the church and sat down on its front steps, ignoring the catcalls of the gang of boys and trying to formulate a plan B for my search. A group of three men walked up to a nearby building, knocked on a locked door, and cast suspicious glances at me and the boys as they waited nervously for someone to open it. I am so out of here , I thought, feeling distinctly unsafe. As I stood to go, a man with a priest’s collar walked out of the gated courtyard. I went after him.
“Excuse me,” I said. The man smiled patiently and waited. “Is there some sort of church shop nearby that sells relics or religious items?”
He shook his head and shrugged. “When the church is open for mass, we sell candles and postcards. But I don’t know of any shops around here that would deal in what you’re looking for.”
I thanked him and, disheartened, began walking away.
“You know, you could always try the Marché aux Puces,” he called after me.
The Marché aux Puces. Paris’s famous flea market. It was less than a half-hour walk from here. Of course, it hadn’t even existed a thousand years ago, but maybe something had. Something that could have remained. Or relocated. The market was the place in Paris where you could find almost anything, so … why not?
It was already past noon, so I picked up a panini in a shop and ate it while I walked, knowing full well that eating lunch on the street in Paris is an etiquette no-no. As I munched my sandwich, people I passed wished me bon appétit , which was a teasing way of saying, “You should really be sitting down to enjoy your meal.”
As I hit the edge of the huge mile-square area that the market comprises, vendors with folding tables holding junk—not even the usual flea-market-style “junque”—started to appear, selling everything from gross old plastic potty seats to car parts. The closer I got to the market’s center, the better the goods got, until actual market stalls and tiny shops began to appear, jam-packed with everything from wooden African masks to vintage seventies lava lamps to crystal chandeliers. The smell of incense and furniture wax blended with the sharp sting of sautéed onions as I passed one of several food stands dotting the market.
I scanned the shop signs as I went, looking for any cordlike symbols. Maybe a workshop that used to house a rope maker , I thought. But there was nothing like that hanging above the antiques stores I passed. Finally I stopped and asked a vendor if he knew of anything that had a sign of a cord. He rubbed his chin and shook his head. “Non.”
“Well, is there anyone in the market who specializes in relics? Like … religious items?” I asked.
He thought for a moment. “Down that way there’s a store that isn’t really a part of the market. It’s more a shop, with regular opening hours. So it won’t be open on a Sunday, but you can have a look.” He gave me detailed instructions on how to get there, even though it was just a couple of blocks away. I thanked him with a grateful smile and headed in the direction he had pointed.
It was a tiny shop located on a street corner, flanked by an antique doll store on one side and, down the adjoining street, a vintage clothes boutique. The facade was painted bottle green, and the windows were lined with shelves packed with religious statues in every material imaginable: wood, marble, metal—even bone. There were crucifixes of all sizes and flasks of holy water “from the blessed springs of Lourdes,” as the tags read. The shop behind the display was dark. As the vendor had guessed, they were closed.
I backed up to get a better look at the building and noticed an antique, weather-worn wooden sign