“Don’t let him spoil your evening.” Margaret gestured to a stout matron. “That’s the consul’s wife. She’s in charge of lost souls.
“Mrs. Davies,” Margaret called out. “Lovely to see you. Thank you for your advice to visit the Library.”
“You’re looking better,” she replied warmly.
“Have you met my new and dearest friend?”
“One friend can make all the difference,” Mrs. Davies said. “Yes, we’ve crossed paths at Professor Cohen’s lectures.”
I hadn’t known that Mrs. Davies was an unofficial yet vital delegate of the diplomatic corps, and watched as she greeted each new arrival personally. “How pretty you are,” she said to a pallid lady who blossomed with the compliment. “How are you adjusting?” she asked a lone Italienne who glanced around nervously. “France can be a woman’s dream, but the reality takes some getting used to.”
“We can’t let Hitler steamroll his way across Europe!” Mr. Pryce-Jones said, his opinion echoing through the ballroom like it did at the Library when he and M. de Nerciat argued. “We must band together and fight.”
“Doesn’t he realize it’s a party?” I said.
“War is all he ever talks about these days,” Margaret replied.
“Did you see Othello last week?” asked Mrs. Davies.
Several guests spoke simultaneously, relieved to discuss something other than war. “How queer to see Shakespeare in French!” “Très bizarre!” “Poor Desdemona.”
“France’s army is the strongest it has ever been, that’s what Général Weygand says.”
“Général Weiss says that the French air force is the best in Europe. We’ve nothing to worry about!”
“We must create alliances,” Lawrence insisted. “Italy used to be an ally, but Mussolini’s signed a treaty with Hitler.”
“Does anyone know the name of a reputable dressmaker?”
“You simply must go to Chez Genevieve. Emma Jane Kirby did; her gown is sumptuous!”
“Can you believe that Emma, flirting with a man thrice her age,” Margaret whispered, staring at the blond beauty. “He must be terribly rich!”
“The old goat is lapping it up,” I replied.
“Young Lawrence is right!” Mr. Pryce-Jones said. “We need to observe what’s happening around us.”
“Nonsense. We must appease Hitler,” the ambassador replied.
“Silly old fool!” Margaret whispered.
“Incompetent fool!” Lawrence roared.
“Champagne!” the consul’s wife cried out. “More champagne.”
Fantastique! The last time I’d had a glass was at New Year’s. Popping corks—the sign of celebration, my favorite sound in the whole world—heralded servants who swirled around the room, proffering flutes. Everything was held out to me on a silver tray. Bubbles glistened in my glass, icy rivulets slid down my throat. I was so dazzled, I forgot Lawrence’s boorish behavior, forgot the fighting diplomats. I took in the dewy Turner landscapes on the walls, tasted the caviar that men in white gloves offered. Margaret had all of this, all the time; thanks to her, I had one night, and I meant to enjoy it. A burst of fireworks exploded in the sky. Wanting to watch, I drew her outside, where we joined other revelers on the lawn. The wafting scent of roses surrounded us. High stone walls hid the city from us. The stately residence—its windows lit—glowed. Above, flecks of light soared then fizzled, and a hazy happiness imbued me, all worries of war, of Rémy, of Papa, of Paul forgotten.
CHAPTER 10
Odile
PAUL CAME TO the Library so often that Miss Reeder began referring to him as “our most faithful subscriber.” On the afternoons he was on patrol, he parked his bicycle in the courtyard and helped me with tasks such as ripping through the heavy paper that protected magazines like Life and Time as they made the ocean crossing. Alas, under the nosy watch of Mme. Simon, sneaking a kiss was impossible.
Home was no better. Sitting thirty-two centimeters apart, Paul and I left our tea untouched. “Do you think the rain will stop?” I asked, aware that Maman was listening in around the corner.
“The clouds are clearing.”
He was leaving for Brittany tomorrow, yet here we were, discussing rainfall like strangers at a bus stop.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Paul said. “I want to take you to my favorite place in Paris.”
“I’m not sure,” my mother said from the hallway.
“Please, Maman.” Longing turned my tone ragged. “He’ll be gone most of August.”
“This once, then. But don’t stay out too long.”
His hand warmed the small of my back as he whisked me along the avenue, through the symphony of honking horns, past a shopkeeper smoking a cigarette just outside the door, to the Gare du Nord. Under its immense glass roof, porters in blue overalls lugged luggage. Travelers shouted and shoved as they made their way to the trains.
Paul pointed to the platform, where a bespectacled young man kissed a woman who’d alighted from a carriage. “I come here to be in the presence of love. You probably think I’m crazy, spying on people…”
I shook my head. It was why I read—to glimpse other lives.
A musician with a trumpet case rushed by. A group of scouts gawked at a locomotive. A mother let go of her toddlers’ hands, and they ran to a man in a trench coat. He picked them up and spun them about.
“How darling,” I said.
Paul was riveted by the homecoming.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
He watched as the family left the station. “My parents and I used to live a block from here.”
“You did?”
“Until my father left… I was seven. My mother said he’d taken a long trip on the train. Convinced he’d return, I came here.” He turned to me. “I’m still coming here.”
I drew him closer, and he buried his face in my hair. I felt his shaky heart beat against mine. Perhaps it wasn’t dangerous to trust.
“I’ve never told anyone,” he said.
On the way home, neither of us said a word. We inched up the stairs to the landing.
“Can you stay for dinner?” I asked.
He kissed my temple, my cheek, my lips. “And pretend I’m not miserable about leaving in the morning? I can’t.”
As I watched him disappear down the steps, the door opened behind me.
“I thought I heard someone,” Rémy said. “Were you talking to yourself?”
“To Paul.” I wanted to tell Rémy that one moment I felt joyful and as light as a firefly, yet sometimes, like now, separated from Paul, I was miserable. “I can’t stop thinking of him.” I’d tried to keep Paul in the margins of my mind, but he’d moved to the middle of the page, to the center of my story.
“You’re in love,” Rémy said. “I’m glad for you.”
“I hope you’re as happy.”
“That’s what I came to tell you. I’m in love with Bitsi.”
They were perfect for each other, and I felt proud that I’d played a small part in bringing them together. “I tried to set you up with M. de Nerciat and Mr. Pryce-Jones, but perhaps Bitsi was the better choice.”
“Perhaps?”
“Have you told her?”
“I wanted to tell you first.”
We shared so much. He was the first reader of my newsletter, and I was the only person he allowed to edit his articles for the law review. Over tea in the kitchen, we talked until the wee hours. We knew each other’s secrets. Rémy was my refuge.
Yet everything was changing. I was with Paul; he with Bitsi. I had a job; soon, he’d graduate. This might be the last year we’d live under the same roof. We’d been together since before we were born, but eventually we would live separate lives. I wondered how long we had left together.
* * *
I QUIZZED MARGARET ON yesterday’s French lesson as we finished work for the day. “Verbs are divided into three families. To love, t
o speak, and to eat are in which?”
“Aimer, parler, and manger belong to the -er family,” she said. “Families—what a lovely way to view words.”
“Don’t forget your French when you’re in London.”
“I’ll only be gone two weeks.”
We continued to the courtyard, where Rémy’s bicycle waited against the wall.
“Merci for suggesting that I volunteer,” she said. “I finally feel part of something.”
“Merci à toi! Without you, I’d still be stuffing crates. Or standing in front of the precinct.”
“Nonsense!” Her cheeks flushed, and she looked pleased.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” There was more I could have told her, but in my family, we didn’t discuss our feelings. Without you, I never would have worked up the courage to seek out Paul. Tutoring you has reminded me of the beauty of French, a beauty I’d taken for granted. The dullest tasks—shipping books, repairing rips in magazines, moving old newspapers into the archive room—go by quickly with you by my side.
When she said, “My dear friend, I don’t know what I’d do without you, either,” I wish I’d kissed her on each cheek. Instead, my mind on dinner, I hoisted myself onto the seat of Rémy’s bike.
“You know how to ride?” she asked.
“You don’t?” I pulled my foot from the pedal. “I can teach you!”
“I won’t be able to, and when I fall, I’ll make a fool of myself.”
“What do you care if a few Parisians see you scrape your knee? Isn’t that the best thing about being abroad? You can do what you want and no one back home will ever know.”
I held the bike steady. Margaret flipped her leg over the bar. The bike wobbled as it coasted, and she clutched the handlebar with one hand and my arm with the other.
“I can’t do this.”
“You already are. Hold on to the handlebars.”
“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“You’re learning French and living in a foreign country—riding a bike is nothing compared to that,” I said, giving her a gentle push. “Bon vent!”
As Margaret gained speed, her skirt flew above her knees. “If I fall, I’ll get right back on.”
“That’s the attitude!”
She pedaled slowly. “I’m scared.”
“Trust me!” I scampered alongside her. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I trust you,” she shouted. Exhilaration outweighed the uncertainty in her voice.
My arms were out, ready to catch her if she fell.
* * *
PARIS WAS HOT and humid in August, so many subscribers went sunbathing in Nice and Biarritz, or home to visit relatives in New York and Cincinnati. At my desk, Miss Reeder and I enjoyed a rare moment of calm. She looked cheery in her polka-dot dress. Her hair was coiffed in a chignon, and her silver pen was poised in her hand, ready to compose a speech or write a thank-you.
Most people in my life—from my father and my teachers to functionaries and waiters—said “no.” I’d like to take ballet classes. “No, you don’t have the right body.” I’d like to take a painting class. “No, you don’t have the necessary experience.” I’d like a glass of red wine. “No, white goes better with the dish you’ve ordered.” Miss Reeder was different. When I’d asked if I could make some changes in the periodical room, it had been shocking to hear Miss Reeder say, “Yes.”
There was so much I was dying to ask her. What do your parents think about your living here? Where did you find the courage to move to a foreign country? Will I ever be that brave? Though I could hear Maman say, Don’t pry. Mind your own onions!, questions simmered inside me, until one spilled out: “What brought you to France?”
“A love affair.” Her hazel eyes shone.
I leaned closer. “Really?”
“I fell in love with Madame de Staël.”
“The writer?”
“In her day, people said that there were three great powers in Europe: Great Britain, Russia, and Madame de Staël. She insulted Napoleon by saying that ‘Speech happens not to be his language.’ He responded by banning her book and banishing her.”
“She wasn’t afraid of anyone.”
“Would you believe that I sneaked into the mansion where she used to live? I only intended to enter the courtyard, but when a servant said, ‘bonjour,’ as if I belonged there, I strode in and slid up her stairs, running my hand along her banister, gawking at the walls that had once held her family portraits. That probably sounds fanciful.”
“It sounds like love. Did you really come for a writer?”
“I was already in Spain to organize the Library of Congress stand at the Iberian fair. There was a job opening here, and I seized it. What about you? Do you long to travel? Did you always want to be a librarian?”
“I always wanted to work here. In my letter, I told you that I wanted to work at the Library because of my memories of coming here with my aunt. You remind me of her, actually—not just your chic chignon, but the way you both treat others so kindly and the way you share your love of books.”
The Countess approached, files under her arms. Her hair reminded me of the sea on a cloudy day: white wisps curled like waves above strong currents of gray. The reading glasses perched on her nose made her look like she was going to lecture us.
“We must talk,” she said to Miss Reeder.
“We can continue our conversation later if you like,” Miss Reeder told me before accompanying the trustee to her office.
While I straightened the newspapers, Boris read to me from Le Figaro. “Monsieur Neville Chamberlain motioned for the adjournment of Parliament, from the fourth of August to the third of October, unless extraordinary events necessitate its convocation.”
“I want to go on vacation,” I said, wishing I could be with Paul.
“Get elected to Parliament,” Boris joked.
At least I could look forward to Sunday lunch for once. Rémy had invited Bitsi, tantamount to announcing an engagement. I just worried that Papa would ruin everything by humiliating him.
I collected last week’s papers and took them upstairs to the archives, past Miss Reeder’s office. The door was ajar, so I peeked in.
The Directress’s expression was grim. “I received a letter from the university library in Strasbourg. Monsieur Wickersham wrote that he and Madame Kuhlmann packed and evacuated 250 crates of books.”
“War is coming.” There was a catch in the Countess’s voice.
Strasbourg was dangerously close to Germany. Librarians had moved books to safety when politicians hadn’t said anything about evacuating people?
“The crates were shipped to the Puy-de-Dôme region,” Miss Reeder said. “We need to plan ahead, too.”
Was the Southwest safer than Strasbourg? Safer than Paris?
“I’ll take our finer things to my country house. Young Seeger’s papers, the first editions. They’ll be out of harm’s way.”
“We’ll stock up on canned goods, bottled water, and coal. Sand to put out fires.”
The Countess sighed. “And gas masks, if this war is anything like the last. Ten million dead, and that many wounded and mutilated. I can’t believe it’s happening again.”
Dead… wounded… mutilated… I’d avoided talk of war, changing the subject when Rémy brought it up, nipping into the children’s room when Mr. Pryce-Jones banged on about it. But now it seemed the Library’s collection might be in danger. We might be in danger. I had to face the fact that war was on the way.
CHAPTER 11
Odile
AT 11:55 ON the day of Rémy and Bitsi’s engagement luncheon—les fiançailles, my parents and I perched on the divan. I wore a pink silk blouse that Margaret had lent me for the happy event. Maman’s rouged cheeks resembled luscious plums, and she’d put on her cameo brooch, which she brought out on the most special of occasions. Papa’s suit was too tight, and he tugged at his tie. The doorbell rang, and Rémy, pulling on his
blazer, rushed to let Bitsi in. As always, her hair was a braided crown, but she wore a lime-green dress instead of her everyday brown one. She and Rémy gazed at each other. I felt breathless, something akin to pain, and wished Paul was with me.
When Bitsi finally noticed us standing there, she didn’t meet my eye. Was it shyness, or was she cross for some reason? I sometimes left my teacup in the sink, and she’d reminded me more than once that no one wanted to clean up after me.
Maman beamed at Bitsi. “Odile and Rémy have said such fine things about you.”
Papa drew himself up. “I hear you’re one of those career girls, too.”
“I help my family, sir.” Bitsi met his gaze straight on.
“A fine thing,” he said.
Maman exhaled shakily. Perhaps Papa would behave.
“You work with children,” he said. “That must mean you’d like some.”
Bitsi blushed, and Rémy put his arm around her protectively.
“Ignore the commissaire,” he said.
I glared at Papa. Never able to put water in his wine, he always had to say what was on his mind.
“Do you knit?” Maman asked Bitsi, jerking the discussion back to decent ground.
“After reading, it’s my favorite pastime. I also like to fish.”
Papa gestured to the sitting room, where he’d set out the decanters for the aperitif, but Maman pointed to the dining room. She couldn’t stop Papa from badgering Bitsi like he would any new recruit, but she could curtail the interrogation.
Papa presided at the head of the table. I was beside Maman, the happy couple across from us, with Bitsi next to Papa. When the maid brought out the roast and potatoes, Papa served Bitsi, Maman and me, then Rémy and himself. As we ate, Bitsi continued to avoid my eye. I could sense Maman mentally rifling through her jewelry box, searching for Grandmother’s opal ring for Rémy to present to Bitsi. There would be a wedding feast, a honeymoon. I wondered if the newlyweds would live here, at least at first.
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