“Mademoiselle Joubert?” I asked.
She told me to call her Bitsi, that everyone did, ever since a subscriber from Texas had taken one look at her and proclaimed, “Why, you’re just an itsy-bitsy thing!” She said she’d wanted to make my acquaintance ever since she’d noticed my name scrawled on the cards of her favorite novels.
“We’re bookmates,” she said, in the decisive tone one would assert “the sky is blue,” or “Paris is the best city in the world.” I was skeptical about soulmates, but could believe in bookmates, two beings bound by a passion for reading.
She proffered The Brothers Karamazov. “I wept when I finished.” Her voice swelled with emotion. “First because I was happy to have read it. Second because the story was so moving. Third because I’ll never again experience the discovery of it.”
“Dostoevsky’s my favorite dead author,” I said.
“Mine too. Who’s your favorite live one?”
“Zora Neale Hurston. The first time I checked out Their Eyes Were Watching God, I gorged on the chapters, wolfing down the words. I needed to find out what happened next—Would Janie marry the wrong man? Would Tea Cake live up to my hopes for Janie? Then, with a handful of pages left, I started to dread the fact that this world that I loved was coming to an end. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I read slowly, just savoring the scenes.”
She nodded. “I do the same, to make each page last as long as possible.”
“I finished the novel in four days, but kept it the full two weeks. On the due date, I placed it on the circulation desk, but my hand remained on the cover, not ready to let go. Boris found me three other books by Miss Hurston.
“I gorged on those, too, like chocolate cake, like love. I cared so deeply about the characters that they became real. I felt I knew Janie, that one day she might enter the Library and invite me for coffee.”
“I feel that way about my favorite characters, too,” Bitsi said.
A mother approached. “My son chose these”—she held up two storybooks—“but they appear to be… well thumbed.”
“They’re well loved,” Bitsi replied. “If you prefer, we have brand-new books on our ‘latest arrivals’ shelf.”
When Bitsi mouthed, “Back to work,” and led them to the display, I peeked into the reference room, hoping to see Paul, but he wasn’t there.
Disappointed, I continued to my desk, where a subscriber tapped her foot, wanting her Harper’s Bazaar. “Where have you been?” Madame Simon scolded.
When I handed her the latest issue, still in its brown wrapping paper, she softened, confiding that at home she was last in line. Dentures wiggling as she spoke, she explained that everything she owned—the matted mink from a dead aunt, the false teeth that had belonged to her mother-in-law—had served someone else. But here, she was first to take pleasure in fashion, though there was nothing she could afford. “Or fit into,” she lamented, her beefy hand skimming her stout figure. She settled in next to Professor Cohen.
Observing Boris, Madame said, “They say that during the Russian Revolution, his family fortune was lost. He had to start over here in France. Penniless as a pauper.”
“Whatever his situation, he’s a prince of a man,” the professor said.
“His wife’s the princess, or was. Now she’s a cashier. How the mighty have fallen!”
“Spoken by someone who’s never had to earn her own keep.”
Clara de Chambrun strode past, laden with papers. “And speaking of nobility,” Madame snickered, “there’s the countess from Ohio.”
“You’ve a bee in your beret today, and quite a sting. Clara’s an excellent trustee, knows how to raise funds. We wouldn’t be sitting here if it weren’t for her. Since you’re enamored by fashion, I’ll say this: snark isn’t a good look on anyone.”
CHAPTER 7
Margaret
PARIS, MARCH 1939
PATTING HER MORNING pearls nervously, Margaret hesitated at the threshold of the American Library. It was as quiet as a cathedral, and she wasn’t sure she should enter. Margaret certainly wasn’t American, nor was she interested in books. But after four months in Paris, she was desperate for English in any form. The French language was a nasal bog that she had to wade through in the shops, the hairdresser’s, and the bakery. No one in those places spoke English. Reduced to sign language, she pointed and held up a finger to signal she wanted one croissant. She nodded to show she grasped the meaning; she shrugged to show she didn’t.
At home, her husband, Lawrence, did most of the talking. Nanny minded Christina, and Jameson ran the flat with the same efficiency here as in London. No one needed her. Margaret barely spoke at all.
She’d assumed she would love Paris. The haute couture, the lingerie, the perfume. But shopping alone wasn’t amusing. When she tried on dresses, no friends admired her figure. More than anything, Margaret wanted her mother’s opinion—was this gown her color, should she have a heart-to-heart with Lawrence or let him be? What surprised Margaret most about Paris wasn’t Jeanne Lanvin’s gorgeous dresses or the posh hats that women wore, it was how much she missed her mum.
Margaret didn’t understand the unfamiliar money. And the shopgirls cheated her! When she bought stockings, they told her, in their convoluted language, that seventy-five francs was the price for each one, not the pair. Yet when a Parisian behind her in the queue purchased the same stockings, she paid half. Margaret couldn’t fight back, she couldn’t insist. She could only stamp her foot, which made the shopgirls giggle. Jokes at her expense were very costly.
She stopped going out; she stopped trying. She paced the flat, or curled up and cried under her evening gowns in “le dressing,” though it was perfectly ridiculous to be miserable in the most fabulous city in the world. How she’d bragged to her friends! I’ll be in the romance capital of the world! Oh là là! Frenchmen will flirt with me! Oh là là! Champagne! Chocolat! You must visit! How embarrassed she was by the truth! She would die before she told her friends. Not that they rang or wrote. When Margaret left London, she’d fallen off the face of their earth.
This morning, the consul’s wife, a kindly woman, if a bit of a frump, had come to call. When Jameson announced her arrival, Margaret dashed to the mirror. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d washed her hair. Her eyes were bloodshot. She was ashamed of how pathetic she’d become, and would have had the butler refuse Mrs. Davies, but she was desperate for friends, and this was her first caller. She changed from her stained peignoir into a smart ivy dress. The consul’s wife took one look at Margaret and insisted she visit the Paris Library, this very afternoon. And now here she was.
There was an easy camaraderie here that she’d never seen before. Women didn’t ask “What does your husband do?” Rather, they wanted to know “What are you reading?” Margaret sighed. Yet more flurries of conversation that didn’t include her.
“Welcome to the Library.”
The librarian’s dress was drab, but she was pretty enough with her hair swept up by a black bow. Her eyes sparkled like the gems Marjorie Simpson’s second husband gave her for their third anniversary. Lawrence no longer gave Margaret jewelry like that.
“May I help you find something?”
Margaret gnawed on her stiff upper lip, wishing for once she could say what she wanted. Instead, she asked, “Would you have any books for my daughter? She’s four.”
The librarian tilted her head. “How about Bella the Goat?”
“You can’t know how relieved I am to be in a place where English is spoken. Paris is so foreign.” Margaret paused. That came out wrong. Everything she said came out wrong. “Of course, I realize that in France, I’m the foreign one.”
“You’ll fit in here,” the librarian soothed. “We have many subscribers from England and Canada.”
“Lovely. Would you happen to have anything for me?”
“A novel by Dorothy Whipple? The Priory is one of my favorites.”
Actually, Margaret had meant magazines. She
hadn’t opened a book since dreary George Eliot at finishing school.
“Or Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, a Cinderella story for grown-ups.”
Margaret could do with a fairy tale.
“If you’re having trouble understanding French, we have some wonderful books on grammar. Let’s see…”
Margaret was touched by this attention. At embassy events, when people chatted with Margaret, they kept one eye on her, the other on the room. The second they saw someone more important, they broke away midconversation.
“If you prefer,” the librarian added, “we have Vogue.”
She seemed disappointed, so Margaret said, “I’ll take the books.”
The librarian positively shimmered with enthusiasm. “Let’s go get them. I’m Odile, by the way.”
“I’m Margaret.”
But instead of moving toward the stacks, Odile climbed the stairs. Margaret followed, and as they passed through the “Employees Only” door, she asked, “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
In the tiny breakroom, Odile set the table with two mismatched teacups and a plate of plain scones. When the librarian turned to set the kettle on the hot plate, Margaret ran her finger over the rough surface of a scone, so like the ones her mum made. Yes, Paris was full of culinary delights, and she’d feasted on decadent pastries. Yet Margaret craved something familiar.
Odile sat and gestured to the seat beside her. “Raconte. It means ‘tell me.’ ”
For the first time since arriving in Paris, Margaret felt happy, she felt at home.
CHAPTER 8
Odile
L’HEURE BLEUE, THAT magical time between day and night, had fallen. As subscribers checked out books and left for the day, stillness weaved its web over the tables and chairs. I loved the Library like this, when all was tranquil and it felt like mine.
In the thick leather ledger, I helped Boris tally how many subscribers had come in today (287), how many books had gone out (936), and details of library life (Another pregnant woman fainted—she read page 43 of Prospective Mother).
“It’s late,” he said. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I want to.”
Boris gestured to the empty reading room, his elegant hand covered in paper cuts. “Heaven, isn’t it?” And so began our nightly ballet, its choreography perfected over the last month. He made sure the windows were locked and closed the drapes; I dimmed the lights to warn the steadfast scholars in the reference room that the Library would soon close. Neither of us said anything as we realigned the chairs. There were problems to discuss, tasks to assign, but all that would wait until tomorrow. After a day spent answering questions, this silence was our reward. I wondered if Madame Simon was right, that he was an aristocrat. I wondered if he would ever trust me enough to tell me anything about his life.
It was my turn to shoo out subscribers, so I made the rounds. Meandering along the rows of nonfiction, I saw titles I never noticed during the day. (This evening, I found How to Boil Water in a Paper Bag.) In the reference room, I peered into the stacks and made the best discovery—Paul. He was perusing an English grammar book.
As he kissed me on each cheek, I tried to breathe him in. His skin smelled of tobacco, smoky like Lapsang souchong, my favorite tea. I supposed I should step away, but the books were indulgent chaperones.
“Is it closing time?” he said. “Sorry to keep you.”
“It’s quite all right.” Keep me. Keep me all to yourself.
“I’ve come in several times.”
“You have?”
“But you were busy with other subscribers.”
We stood centimeters apart, yet it felt too far. As I moved closer, his lips brushed against mine. I let my fingers graze his cheek. Yesterday, if someone had told me that we would be kissing in the stacks, I’d have accused the person of inhaling Gaylo glue fumes. Yet, this tender collision felt perfect and even right.
I’d read about passion—Anna and Vronsky, Jane and Mr. Rochester—and felt the shivering sensations, or I’d thought I had. No passage on a page could convey the pleasure of this kiss.
Hearing the clip of high heels along the parquet, Paul and I both took a quick step back. Though we’d barely touched, every part of me—my skin, my blood, my bones—still felt him.
“There you are.” Miss Reeder glanced from me to Paul.
“Thank you, er, Mademoiselle Souchet,” he said. “Now I know where to find information on, er, the past participle.” He held up the grammar book and rushed from the room.
The Directress’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Miss Wedd is expecting you.”
“Miss Wedd?”
“It’s payday.”
Of course! Payday. How could I have forgotten?
“What will you do with your first month’s salary?”
“Do?” My mind was muddled.
“Of course, you’ll want to save most of it—having a nest egg is important, but it’s equally important to mark the occasion, perhaps to give a gift to those who’ve encouraged you along the way.”
“That’s very considerate.” I wished I’d come up with the idea on my own. “Who did you thank?”
“My mother and best friend—I treated them to novels,” she said. “Now please don’t keep Miss Wedd waiting.”
I joined the cheerful bookkeeper at her desk. Only two pencils in her bun tonight. “You were right about that Greek philosopher Heraclitus. I loved what he said about how ‘No man ever steps in the same river twice.’ ”
“The one thing we can count on is change,” she agreed.
She counted out my salary. Each franc represented victory when I answered a question, embarrassment when I floundered, days speaking a foreign language, nights reading in order to offer book recommendations. I knew I’d love my job but was surprised at how challenging it could be.
I tucked the bills into my pocket. This was the real reason I’d wanted the job: Money equaled stability. I refused to end up destitute and alone like Aunt Caroline.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, I went to the bank and deposited my salary, keeping a few francs as spending money. Next, I went to the train station to purchase two tickets to Fontainebleau, something for Rémy to thank him for his steadfast support. More than music and books, he loved tramping around the forest. I thought to give him the present at dinner, but he took only a few bites before slipping away.
“He doesn’t eat anything anymore,” Maman grumbled. “Doesn’t he like my cooking?”
Papa grasped her plump hand in his. “It was a fine meal.”
“These days, you prefer to dine out,” she said sharply.
“Now, Hortense,” he cajoled.
“Why don’t you go check on Rémy?” Maman told me.
He was at his desk, papers spread before him. I gave him the tickets, thinking he’d insist we go straightaway. But he just kissed my cheek absentmindedly. More and more, he was… gone. Even when he was with us, he wasn’t. I missed him. He didn’t say anything now, though he didn’t go back to writing his tract.
“Did you go to class today?”
“What’s the point of studying laws when no one respects them? Germany taking over Austria… Japanese soldiers marauding in China… The world’s gone crazy, and no one gives a damn.”
In a way, he was right. Skirmishes between subscribers felt more real to me than distant conflicts. Remembering the latest argument, I pinched a piece of paper in the middle and held it to my neck. “Here’s Mr. Pryce-Jones, with his paisley bow tie.” I moved the paper to my mouth. “And this is M. de Nerciat, with his woolly walrus mustache.”
Bow tie: “Rearmament is the way to go! We need to prepare for war.”
Mustache: “We need peace, not more guns.”
Bow tie: “Ostrich! Stop burying your head in the sand.”
Mustache: “Better an ostrich than a jackass. In the Great War—”
Bow tie: “Don’t know why you bang on abo
ut the war! The only thing that’s stayed the same is that awful haircut of yours.”
Rémy laughed.
“If you think that’s funny, you should catch a live show at the Library.”
“I’ve got a tight deadline for this article.”
“Come,” I cajoled. “You’ll see people do care.”
* * *
ThursDAY WAS STORY HOUR, my favorite event of the week. I loved watching little ones immersed in stories, the way I had with Aunt Caro. On my way there, I peeked into the reference room, hoping to see Paul. He wasn’t there. The Death of the Heart, 823. I told myself that he couldn’t visit the Library every day. Remembering our kiss, I touched my fingers to my lips. But maybe one day soon?
In the children’s room, I moved to the hearth, where a few mothers had gathered. Most chatted together, but one stood off to the side.
“Hello,” she said, fiddling with her pearl necklace. “Lovely to see you again.”
It was the lonely Englishwoman. Margot? No, Margaret.
“The Priory was wonderful,” she continued. “I liked it so much that I checked out three other books by Mrs. Whipple. I wasn’t much of a reader before, but now I’m determined that my daughter and I will read together every day.”
“Which one is she?” I asked.
Margaret pointed to the blonde, who was sitting next to Boris’s little girl, Hélène. The girls spoke animatedly while waiting for Bitsi to begin, any moment now. I squinted at the clock above the doorway and was surprised to see Rémy enter. He skirted around the children to my side.
“I’m glad you came,” I told him.
“How could I resist after your one-woman play? I wanted to spend some time with you in your favorite place. We’ve both been so busy.…”
“You’re here now, that’s what counts.”
Perched on a stool, Bitsi flipped through the pages of a book. She cleared her throat, and the room went silent. Twenty tots inched closer to her. As she read Miss Maisy, Bitsi’s tone deepened, and her gaze hypnotized the audience. Enthralled, a boy touched her skirt, which billowed about her ballet slippers.
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