Rebirth of the Fashion King

in the afternoon.

172 Boulevard Saint-Germain.

Li Xun pushed open the door of the Flower Goddess Cafe.

The rattan chairs under the white awning were already about 30% occupied.

Paris in May wasn't too hot. On the street, two American tourists were frowning at the menu, their cameras resting on the corner of the table.

Before he even stepped across the threshold, someone behind the bar raised their hand.

"Nice to meet you again, Rhine. Jack told me you brought a girl to the store last week?"

Alan, the bartender, was an old acquaintance of Li Xun's. He wore a white shirt and a black vest, and his coffee cup was placed under the dripper. He wasn't looking at the cup; he was looking at the door.

"Yes, Alain, a friend." Li Xun walked inside.

"The usual rules?"

"The usual rules."

Alan pushed the coffee cup to the other end of the bar; it was for someone else. The old rules didn't need asking; he was waiting for Li Xun to greet everyone he passed.

First stop: the bar.

  

"Le jeune maître arrive." (The little master has arrived.)

The speaker was Claude, 63, a retired history professor who lived in an apartment on the corner of Boulevard Saint-Germain.

He would appear at the far left of the bar every Wednesday, drink a shot of espresso, and have a small glass of sparkling water. It is said that he has maintained this routine for 34 years, three years longer than his marriage.

"Mr. Claude," Li Xun nodded in response.

"It's Wednesday again." Claude tapped his wristwatch with his index finger; it was an old Cartier Tank.

"You're as punctual as a Swiss watch."

"You're exaggerating." Li Xun's lips twitched slightly.

"I never exaggerate." Claude picked up his glass; the concentrated liquor had reduced to a brown ring at the bottom.

"Punctuality is a king's courtesy, and clearly also a tailor's."

"I am not a tailor."

"You cut the fabric, pieced it together, and draped it over your body. If you're not a tailor, what are you?"

"Un rêveur." (A person who dreams.) Li Xun made a little joke.

Claude laughed, startling the man next to him who was spreading butter on a croissant and making him look up.

The man put down the butter knife and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Li Xun recognized him: Lü Ke, the culture editor of the World newspaper, in his early forties, with a receding hairline that had already reached the back of his head.

He was a regular member of the Wednesday gang of the Flower Goddess, arriving at 2 PM every day, with a fried egg and a black coffee, without fail.

"Luc".

"Little Rhine, Manchester United or Barcelona?" Luke asked with a smile. The Champions League final is next Wednesday at the Stadio Olimpico in Rome, and all of Europe is talking about this match.

Li Xun did not answer immediately.

2009 Champions League final.

Barcelona vs. Manchester United.

The suction screw wasn't being sucked in correctly.

He didn't manage to score with a header; that was his first header in the Champions League final.

Eto'o's goal in the opening ten minutes is not so clearly remembered by most people.

Sir Alex Ferguson's hands were trembling; when the broadcast camera cut to them, you could see those trembling hands.

He watched it that year too, surrounded by the curses of Manchester United and snail fans.

"How is it?"

I don't support either of them.

"What do you mean?"

"As I said before, I support Luka Modric."

Luc was stunned, and Claude was stunned too.

Half a second later, Luc was the first to react, slamming his hand on the bar: "That Croatian Rhine keeps talking about! Tottenham! Tottenham didn't even make it into the Champions League this year!"

"I know," Li Xun nodded with a smile.

"Then why, Rhine?"

"Because I believe that one day he will win everything, I am optimistic about Barcelona this time, because I like their midfield."

Luc stared at him for two seconds, then turned to Claude: "I told you, he's always like this."

"What?" Li asked.

"I always like some midfielders."

Li Xun didn't reply, but simply nodded slightly.

Alan pushed a glass of espresso onto the bar, next to a small glass of sparkling water.

"Thank you, Alain."

"polite."

Li Xun turned and walked towards the stairs.

The second floor.

The moment the glass door was pushed open, the noise from the first floor was immediately turned off.

The second floor of the Flower Goddess's residence is another world.

The booths are framed with mahogany panels, and mirrors reflect the May sunlight streaming through the windows.

There was no bar on the second floor, no people standing and drinking espresso, and no tourists whispering to each other while looking at the menu.

The people here don't talk, or at least they don't talk loudly. They come to read, to write, or to sit alone.

Li Xun walked inside.

A woman wearing round-framed glasses, probably around fifty years old, sat at the first table near the door, holding a proof of a Gallimard publication. She looked up at Li Xun and nodded.

Li Xun bowed slightly in return.

Léonie is an editor at an independent publishing house in Paris.

Li Xun didn't know which company it was, and he hadn't asked.

She didn't know what Li Xun did for a living either.

The two had been strangers who were also acquaintances for a year on the second floor of the Flower Goddess Café. They couldn't remember each other's names, but maintained a tacit understanding through nods and eye contact.

She prefers a seat near the door because the light is not too bright, making it suitable for reading manuscripts for extended periods.

The second table is empty.

There was an ashtray on the table, but it was empty. Since the indoor smoking ban in 2008, the ashtray on the second floor has become just for show. Some people still habitually leave their lighters on the table.

The third and fourth tables were occupied.

The third table was occupied by an elderly gentleman in a gray suit, with a leather-bound notebook open in front of him and a Montblanc fountain pen in his hand, the ink of which was blue.

He didn't look up from the moment Li Xun entered.

The fourth table...

A young man is typing on a computer.

He was probably around twenty-five or twenty-six years old, with messy hair and one side of his shirt collar turned up. He was typing away on the keyboard, and the screen was filled with dense French text.

He seemed to sense someone watching him and looked up. Li Xun's gaze had already shifted away.

The fifth table.

I sat by the window facing the street.

Li Xun walked over, placed his leather-bound sketchbook on the table, and then sat down.

Outside the window is Boulevard Saint-Germain, and across the street is Les Deux Magots, the century-old rival of Café de Flore.

At this moment, there were quite a few people sitting on the terrace of the Shuangsou. A woman wearing sunglasses was talking on her phone with large gestures.

Les Deux Magots is currently enjoying the afterglow of its 125th anniversary celebrations. It is both a living fossil of history and a vibrant Parisian landmark that lives in the present.

It is located in the heart of the Saint-Germain-de-Pres district, specifically at 170 Boulevard Saint-Germain, just steps away from Café de Flore (172) across the street.

This position also determined its close connection with the fate of the Parisian intellectual community.

The name "Shuangsou" comes from two Qing Dynasty wooden sculptures hanging on two huge pillars inside the shop.

These two oriental dolls dressed in official robes have been silently watching over the literati and scholars who came and went since the beginning of a silk underwear shop. They have long since transcended decoration and become totems of the café and witnesses to literature.

Like the Café de Flore, this café has been offering the Les Deux Magots Literary Prize since 1933, which aims to discover emerging literary talents. Although the prize money is not generous, the winner will receive a year's worth of free coffee at Les Deux Magots, a reserved seat, and a personalized wine glass engraved with their name. This honor is far more valuable than material possessions.

Li Xun recalls that the winner in 2009 was Benoît Dieterte's novel "Children on the Journey".

The judging panel, composed of literary luminaries, held heated discussions in the café, continuing their mission of being a literary forum.

There are many reasons why the two coffee shops are rivals.

The two elders are hailed as the "pioneers of literary cafes".

Its stellar lineup belongs to the earlier "Lost Generation" and Surrealists.

Oscar Wilde, André Gide, and Ernest Hemingway conceived their stories here, while the surrealist pope André Breton made it his headquarters.

Picasso and Dora Maar met here, and Camus was also a frequent visitor.

Flora's camp consists of revolutionaries and the New Wave.

After World War II, the existentialist circle, centered around Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, "defected" to Café de Flore.

The reason is somewhat practical: there is a heater upstairs in the Flower Goddess Pavilion during winter.

Thus, Flora replaced Les Deus and became the source of a new generation of intellectual and artistic revolution.

Sartre wrote "Being and Nothingness" here, Simone de Beauvoir conceived "The Second Sex" here, and the atmosphere of Café de Flore is more like a radical editorial office.

Even Karl Lagerfeld liked to come here.

……

After Li Xun joined Flora at the end of 2005, the atmosphere here became richer than across the street. He liked to watch football, and many customers on the first floor liked to listen to Li Xun's predictions and opinions. In 2006, he publicly supported Italy to win the championship, but was almost beaten by the fans who madly supported France before the game. After the final, the "Wednesday Gang" of Flora Cafe came into being... This made the boss of the opposite team, Shuangsou, personally come to poach him.

……

The sketchbook is laid out.

The first page is blank.

Li Xun pulled a mechanical pencil out of his inner jacket pocket.

Faber-Castell, 0.5mm lead, dark green metal body. He pressed the end of the pen twice with his thumb, and the lead extended.

..