The Dark Return of Time

by R. B. Russell

  A bald man in an ill-fitting suit stared at me suspiciously and asked who I was. My father explained, although he did not admit, naturally, that I had tried to dissuade him from personally delivering the copy of Le Grand Meaulnes.

  ‘He can come and collect it from the shop,’ I had said.

  ‘When a customer is paying seven thousand euros for a book, the personal touch is required.’ I was made to feel ten years old again. ‘It didn’t take much to persuade Hopper that he wanted the first edition. He’ll be our best customer if he’s happy to spend so much money so easily.’

  We followed the man, whose skull was craggy under the white skin, and whose blue veins stuck out randomly, almost threateningly. He tapped sharply on a door and opened it without waiting for a response. Hopper was sitting behind a desk at the far end of a long, well-lit room filled with bookshelves.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he beamed at us, screwing the lid on his fountain pen. ‘Do come over here. You’re bearing treasure, I hope.’

  Hopper was formally dressed, as usual, this time with a canary-yellow waistcoat under a silver-grey jacket. He matched his room, which was immaculate, although the polished wooden shelves were only half full of books. I noted the ostentatious ‘antiqued’ globe and the library steps.

  ‘Le Grand Meaulnes,’ my father announced. ‘Published by Emile-Paul Frères here in Paris in 1913. The original run was only a thousand copies. Not many have survived in this condition.’

  He reverentially handed the bubble-wrapped package over to Hopper while I browsed the man’s books. I had decided that Hopper was a philistine, but from the corner of my eye I saw him remove the copy of Le Grand Meaulnes from its protection with the proper reverence.

  ‘I wasn’t terribly well-educated,’ Hopper explained to my father. ‘I didn’t have any interest in books as I grew up. And then in my thirties I had time to read during a long spell in hospital. That was due to your son’s friend, Candy. While recuperating I discovered what I’d been missing. Since then I’ve been educating myself. I’ve an ambition to create the perfect library. I hope that you might be able to help me.’

  ‘We’d be very pleased to,’ said my father with what I recognised as some satisfaction. He, too had dressed up for the occasion, and for the first time ever I had seen him run a comb through his unkempt hair.

  I couldn’t help saying, ‘I’m not sure that the perfect library can ever be created.’

  ‘For the individual, I’m sure it can be,’ said my father. He was pronouncing his words with a little more care than usual, affecting a cultured tone in competition with his host. ‘It depends on their personal preferences, of course.... So, what books, Mr Hopper, really appeal to you?’

  ‘As I say, I’m not an educated man. I’m open to recommendations.’

  ‘Well, it would be useful if you could tell us what you’ve liked in the past. Do you enjoy traditional storytelling, as in Le Grand Meaulnes, or would you prefer something more modernist, avante garde and experimental like James Joyce?’

  ‘I’ve not read Joyce. I suppose that I should.’

  ‘Perhaps not just yet... Have you ever read Dickens?’

  My father continued to try and define the man’s interest in literature. While I was less than impressed with Hopper’s taste, I must admit that I was surprised by his huge collection of Folio Society books. There were the usual common titles, but also a facsimile edition of Dr Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language printed by the St Edmundsbury Press on lovely paper, bound in leather. Next to it was a brand new but magnificent Canterbury Tales illustrated by Eric Gill. I had seen the original many years ago at a bookfair, but this was a handsome edition. The book I picked off the shelf after that was a beautiful anniversary edition of Don Quixote by Cervantes. I had to get my glasses out to inspect it properly.

  Hopper was saying, ‘... well, if I am to move away from the Folio Society I don’t just need recommendations, I’ll need a librarian.’

  He looked at me and waved his hand towards his shelves, ‘Should I consign all of these to the dustbin then?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted, grudgingly. ‘Some of these are all right.’

  Hopper seemed pleased by my reaction and continued to write my father a cheque. As he handed it over he asked, ‘So, what made you open an English language bookshop in Paris?’

  My father smiled and asked, ‘Why not?’ He wasn’t going to admit that he had split up with my mother ten years before and felt it best to put distance between them. In turn, he asked Hopper, ‘What brought you here?’

  ‘I thought that I could escape, but it hasn’t really worked like that. Already an old associate has come to work for me.’

  ‘And Candy?’ I asked.

  ‘She followed me too, and is a constant reminder of a past I can’t even remember.’

  I was going to ask him to elaborate, when Hopper asked:

  ‘So, would you like to work as my librarian?’

  ‘I’m not really qualified.’

  ‘I don’t want a qualified librarian. I want somebody who knows literature. If you could give me a couple of hours each week, as long as you can be spared from the shop....’

  ‘He’d be happy to,’ my father agreed.

  ‘Good. I’ll pay you a hundred euros in cash for a couple of hours on, say, Friday mornings. And between you and your father, I’m sure you can elevate the status of my library. We’ll decide what I need and if you let me see your receipts I’ll pay you 120% of them.’

  ‘We have a deal,’ my father beamed, putting out his hand.

  ‘I haven’t agreed,’ I pointed out. ‘Are you sure I’m not just an affectation, like the globe and those wingback chairs?’

  ‘Let me remind you who’s paying your wages,’ said my father, and I came close to reminding him that he wasn’t paying me very much. He turned back to Hopper and said, ‘We are still searching for a copy of The Dark Return of Time for you.’

  ‘There’s no rush; I’ve been looking for some time...’

  ‘Well, there’re no copies in the big, international libraries. There are none offered online, and no records of copies sold at auction. I even searched the new titles database. When do you think it was published?’

  ‘Ten years ago? Perhaps less.’

  ‘Was it a private publication, do you think?’

  ‘It’s possible. Please do keep searching, but in the meantime, what should I read next?’

  ‘The Horse’s Mouth, by Joyce Cary,’ I said, my eye having just seen the title on the shelf.

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘It’s a very good book,’ I said. It would be a test of the man’s taste.

  I only walked a part of the way back to my father’s shop with him. I decided to take the afternoon off rather than continue the argument we were having about me working as Hopper’s librarian.

  Hopper phoned my father to say that he had finished reading The Horse’s Mouth. He explained that it had taken some time to understand what was going on in the novel, but thereafter he had been gripped by it. He asked us to obtain a first edition for him.

  When my father replaced the handset he complained, ‘It’s a shame you didn’t suggest he read his Collected Sherlock Holmes set. Just imagine the commission we’d be earning, buying those as first editions for him! Still, I suppose we can’t ask him to spend thousands of euros every time.’

  ‘A library ought to reflect the personality of the person who’s put it together.’

  ‘Mr Hopper’s library doesn’t do that yet...’

  ‘And it never will; not if we’re directing him. It’ll be a sham, assembled for show.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh. I think he genuinely wants the best possible books on his shelves.’

  ‘Books as furniture?’

  ‘Now, that is unfair. He’s actually reading the books we suggest. You’re not jealous?’

  ‘I suppose I am. But our lives are reflected in the books we have around us. They’re a record of who we a
re, where we’ve been and what we’ve achieved.’

  ‘Perhaps we should think of Hopper as only now setting out on that voyage?’

  We had been discussing shutting the shop early and it now seemed like a good decision. During the week following the argument with my father, we had managed to move on, and neither of us wanted to restart it.

  I took my accustomed route home, thinking about my future, and whether I wanted to go back to England. It had been a glorious day and the light was softening as it started to cool. In the small square in the Passage des Abbesses I stood in the doorway from which Hopper had watched the abduction.

  The shock of what had happened there was starting to fade. There was a strong smell from the drains that I’d not noticed before, and a couple of workmen were looking around as if trying to trace the source. Once more it seemed wrong that the world carried on just as before, when it had ended so horribly for those two people. I reasoned that it was nothing more than coincidence that my life had intersected with theirs; it had been pure chance that had enabled me to glimpse a scene in which I had no part to play.

  Standing in the doorway, Candy’s explanation of why Hopper had been there seemed far-fetched to me, but not impossible. Having met him a few times I didn’t really want to believe her. Although I still thought his book collection pretentious, he had generally acted with humility, allowing himself to be lectured to and directed by me and my father. That he was using us I had no doubt, but it was a business arrangement that benefitted both parties.

  I was pondering this when Candy turned-up. I usually looked out for her as I went around the city, but had not noticed her following me for a day or two. We saw each other at the same time and she was resigned to having been discovered.

  ‘Hello,’ I greeted her. ‘Following me again?’

  ‘So what if I am?’

  Something about her manner suggested that she might have been drinking.

  ‘Candy, if you want to know where I’m going and what I’m doing you only have to ask.’

  ‘Have you seen Hopper since last week? You and your father took a parcel around to him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What was in the parcel?’

  ‘A book. He did phone us this afternoon, though, to order another one.’

  ‘What were they?’

  ‘Le Grand Meaulnes by Alain-Fournier and The Horse’s Mouth, by Joyce Cary.’

  ‘When you went around to his house, did you see anything untoward?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Handley answered the door?’

  ‘Some man did. I wasn’t told his name.’

  ‘He was English?’

  ‘Yes. He was bald.’

  ‘That would be Handley. He’s a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘He wasn’t exactly friendly.’

  A group of students were moving towards us and while we waited for them to pass she sighed and leant against the wall as though tired. She closed her eyes for a moment; her false eyelashes were like damaged spiders. Forcing herself upright, she said,

  ‘Hopper lets Handley get his hands dirty on his behalf. I did wonder if Handley was one of the men in balaclavas you saw.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Have you been drinking?’

  ‘So what if I have?’

  ‘It’s just that you don’t look well. Where do you live?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘It seems to me that you need to go home, to bed.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No you’re not. Why don’t I walk you home and you can ask me questions as we go?’

  I knew I was acting out of pity, but I offered her my arm and she took it reluctantly.

  ‘I haven’t drunk that much,’ she insisted. ‘Have you heard anything from the police? They haven’t said anything to you about Hopper?’

  ‘They’ve not been in contact.’

  ‘It’s likely Hopper’s got people on the inside.’

  ‘That sounds a bit fanciful.’

  ‘Does it?’ As we passed it, she nodded meaningfully at the door out of which the couple had been taken.

  ‘A few months ago I saw Hopper and Handley both going through that door. They’re connected with the people who lived there.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t have done. There are lots of things you don’t know.’

  ‘Would you like to tell me some of them?’

  ‘Perhaps, when the time is right.’

  At the rue des Abbesses we walked down past the busy restaurants and bars towards the Metro. I had a horrible presentiment that she was going to take us down under the Guimard canopy, and I wondered how far I was going to have to travel with her to see her home. She continued on, though, in silence.

  After another few hundred yards I asked, ‘So, Hopper and you have a past?’

  ‘Did he say that?’

  ‘Intuition,’ I replied, as casually as I could.

  ‘Yes, we do.’

  ‘Is that one of the things you want to tell me?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  She stopped suddenly, and because she was holding my arm I wheeled around. She buried her head in my chest and clung to me. Passers-by looked at us suspiciously as she sobbed, and I held her carefully, trying to stay calm. A large man in overalls stopped and watched us, presumably waiting to see if he could offer Candy assistance.

  After a few moments she composed herself and asked if we could go on.

  ‘I promise I will explain,’ she said, holding my hand, like we were a couple. It felt uncomfortable; there seemed to be dozens of people watching us, but I didn’t say anything.

  In the rue des Martyrs we turned left into a quiet cul-de-sac; rue Andre Gill. It was quite well-to-do, with the entrance to a hotel at the end, but Candy stopped at a plain wooden door covered in graffiti. It took a few moments for her to feel in various pockets for her keys. When the door was finally opened there was an exhalation of dampness from the dark interior.

  ‘Are you all right from here?’ I asked. She looked nervous.

  ‘When I came home last night, I was sure somebody’d been in my rooms.’

  ‘Was anything stolen?’

  ‘No, none of my stuff’s worth stealing, but someone’s been going through it.’

  My heart sank, but I offered to go up with her, to make sure she was all right. She nodded, pathetically, and I followed her up four flights of stairs which became progressively more narrow.

  Candy’s rooms were even smaller than mine. They were also a good deal more squalid, with a few pieces of old, uncomfortable furniture, and curling linoleum on all of the floors.

  ‘It’s a bit of a shit-hole,’ she said, as if noticing for the first time. ‘But it’s all I can pay for. Your bookshop must be doing well if you can afford an apartment on the rue André Antoine.’

  ‘I’m staying there through a friend of my father. It’s on the understanding that I feed a large aquarium of tropical fish.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘I still have to keep up with the day-to-day bills. My father can’t pay me properly for working with him, so it’s a good arrangement.’

  She sat down in the one armchair in the main room and put her head in her hands.

  ‘Shall I make you a coffee?’ I asked. The area partitioned-off as a kitchen was very old-fashioned, with a large, stained ceramic sink and a wooden draining board. A few items of crockery were on an open shelf with a packet of coffee and very little else.

  Candy said, ‘No. I think I need something alcoholic.’

  ‘Are you sure you should have any more to drink?’

  ‘I haven’t got any, anyway. I haven’t got any more money until I’m paid next.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I looked down at her, sitting there in her thin clothes, in the run-down apartment, and was angry with Hopper for keeping her in this state.

  ‘So, what happened between you and him?’ I asked.

  She took a dee
p breath and sat back in her chair.

  ‘Ten years ago I tried to kill him,’ she said, pulling a lump of stuffing out of a hole in the arm of the armchair

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yeah, “Oh”! I put a handgun up under his chin and pulled the trigger. Bang! Stuff shot out the top of his head....’

  ‘And he survived?’

  She nodded: ‘He has a tin plate in his skull.’

  ‘But the bullet would’ve gone through his brain!’

  ‘It did. And it didn’t do him much good. He was a year recuperating in hospital, and he came out a different person, apparently. They say his personality completely changed. And he claims he has amnesia; no memory of his past whatsoever.’

  ‘But you don’t believe him?’

  She shrugged, pulling out more stuffing and then picking it apart. ‘Who am I to say?’

  ‘Didn’t it get you into a lot of trouble?’

  ‘Yes. I got eighteen years for attempted murder.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘Ten years ago. It was horrible, but I was a good girl, and I was released on parole after nine years.’

  ‘You’re not on the run then?’

  ‘Well, no, but I’m not meant to be here, in Paris.’

  ‘Why did you try to kill him?’

  She looked at me directly: ‘Because the bastard killed my father.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and the words embarrassed me by their meaningless. ‘Was he convicted?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he definitely did it?’

  ‘I saw him do it. My father’d returned home from being abroad for a few days, or so I’d thought. I was going to run down the stairs to say hello, when I saw Hopper letting himself in through the back door. I saw him from the top of the stairs and knew something was wrong. He didn’t see me, though. I heard them talking; I crept down and eavesdropped. And then, from my hiding place, I saw Hopper execute my father and leave.’

  Candy’s eyes were focussed on the middle distance. She continued:

  ‘I did what I thought was the right thing. I called the police and told them what happened. They picked Hopper up almost immediately.’