Looking out of the shop window, I wished there was more to stare at than the dusty black van parked outside. It all but completely obscured the houses opposite. What with the display of books in the window, I couldn’t get close enough to the glass to even see the sky.
I heard my father put the phone down. He was grimacing:
‘That was Hopper. He’s got back home and realised that he drove away with the rest of the books. He asked if I’d like them dropped off here. I said we’d bring them back after we’ve had dinner with him tonight.’
‘I really don’t want to go.’
‘I imagine he’ll have a cheque waiting for you.’
‘You can collected it for me.’
‘We have to go, especially after what happened.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘No, not about his book, or that silly girl.’
VII
My father and I were among a dozen guests at Hopper’s house. In the elegantly appointed drawing-room we were served champagne, and voices were low in deference to the woman playing the Gnossiennes of Satie on the piano in the corner.
Hopper greeted us warmly; he was enjoying playing the generous and genial host. He introduced us to a junior minister from the French Department of Education and suggested, knowingly, that we would have a great deal in common. The man was eager to talk with us in English, but soon found himself forced to discuss, pointlessly, the current French curriculum compared to that which my father had been taught at Grammar School in England thirty years before. The junior minister was unfailingly polite and feigned great interest, and I entertained myself by looking at the modern artwork around the walls, trying to decide whether it was interesting or just pretentious. It should have contrasted with the furniture, which attempted to look antique, but failed to do so because each item was an expensive, modern reproduction.
A second glass of champagne convinced me to try to find the evening amusing. A man in an immaculate artist’s smock introduced himself to me as the artist responsible for some of the paintings on the walls, and I asked him a number of deliberately philistine questions, which he answered with good humour. I was certain that Hopper had surrounded himself with people who he thought would be impressed by the company he kept.
When the time came, it was in a relaxed mood that I made my way with the others down towards the dining room. As I passed the library, however, Hopper contrived, very discreetly, to make me step inside.
With the door not quite closed behind us, he said with the blandest of expressions, ‘I’ll only ask this once, and then the subject need not arise again. Did you tell Candy Smith that we were going to Saint-Quentin to bid on my book?’
‘No.’
‘Then the subject is closed,’ he smiled and handed me a cheque. ‘I rounded-up your commission,’ he said.
I was sure that he didn’t believe me. Why should he? Standing in close proximity to the man, alone, I knew that I shouldn’t make an enemy of him.
My concerns were soon forgotten, though. When I sat down at the large table I quickly drank the wine served with the first course, and very soon I was talking to the young woman on my left. Hortense had recently begun a ‘doctorat’ in English Literature and was really very pretty. We were soon arguing, good-naturedly, the merits of certain authors. My father had also found himself next to a congenial neighbour and was discussing shop rents in Paris.
Because the party was quite a large one, inevitably there were several simultaneous conversations. On a number of occasions, though, Hopper insisted on breaking off discussion at his end of the table and asking the opinion of me or my father on literary matters. Hopper had been discussing with the junior minister which books should be read in French schools. He asked me and my father whether any country was able to recognise its own classics, and whether the opinion of foreigners had any relevance. The junior minister professed a belief that literary work could only be properly appreciated if read in the language it was written.
Hortense agreed: ‘Otherwise you are at the mercy of translators!’
‘But when a book is recognised as being of international significance...?’ my father asked.
‘The English can never understand French authors!’ announced a woman to whom I had not been introduced. ‘Balzac, Dumas, Flaubert, Zola, Proust, Camus...!’
‘By your logic, the French can never fully understand English writers,’ my father countered, and began a list of his own: ‘Shakespeare, Byron, Keats, Shelley, Dickens...’
‘The English refuse to read intellectual authors!’ the woman countered. She had too many, small teeth, and refused to make any further contribution.
The argument was spirited. Hortense brought up the writer Houellebecq and the table was split over his importance. Talk veered off in different directions and fragmented, but several times during the meal Hopper attempted to get the whole table involved in the discussion of literature.
Over dessert I suddenly realised that Hopper was drunk, and not able to disguise the fact. Although the various conversations around the table had moved on, Hopper declared with gravity and too-careful enunciation: ‘I’ve not discovered anything else, apart from books, that allows us to explore the complexities of human experience and emotions. Film, music, poetry; they all have their place, but they’re too limited.’
Out of respect for our host we had all gone quiet. It was my father who carefully agreed with Hopper and moved the talk forward once more.
When the dinner party was over and we were walking back past the library Hopper caught my eye and inclined his head towards the door. I warily followed him inside once more, afraid that he would want to talk about Candy Smith again.
Slightly slurring his words he said, ‘Flavian, please understand that I trust you.’ Although he was holding himself together, he reminded me of a drunk who had decided to emotionally declare his love for a fellow-drinker.
‘Thank you,’ I said primly, quite affected by the alcohol myself, but on my guard.
He nodded to the box of books that I recognised from that afternoon, ‘They’re yours. I hope you can make some money out them. Personally, I wouldn’t give any of them house-room; not in that state.’
I didn’t want to ask him, but it seemed right to enquire, ‘I hope that copy of The Dark Return of Time was worth all the trouble?’
‘I don’t quite know what to make of it.’
‘It is in very poor condition.’
‘That’s not really the reason.’
‘Perhaps the problem is the attainment of the quest?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘When you’ve been hunting for anything for a long time, it can sometimes be a let-down when you find it. If the search for your Holy Grail is over, what else is there to do with your time?’
‘No, that’s not it. It’s the subject matter.’
‘Is it about you?’ I asked.
He looked directly at me. ‘It concerns all of us,’ he said, slightly sententiously. ‘But I’m also wondering how many other copies there might be out there, and whether it’s possible to track them all down.’
‘It’s obviously rare. But that copy turned up soon enough after we started searching.’
‘That was pre-ordained.’
‘In what way?’
He shook his head, and then nodded towards the box of books:
‘Pick them up another time,’ he said. He put his arm around me, and together we walked back to the drawing room.
We left not long afterwards. My father was feeling mellow after all of the food and wine, and wanted to discuss his neighbour at the table.
‘Ernestine has a position of some influence in the Parisian Chambre de commerce,’ he was saying. ‘And she’s a very cultured woman.’
I let him talk on, but cut him short when he asked me what I thought of Hortense.
‘But you two seemed to be getting on so well,’ he said with a knowing wink.
The night air was cold an
d had sobered me up a little; ‘I’m suspicious. Do you think Hopper carefully selected Ernestine and Hortense for you and me.’
‘If he did then all it shows is that he’s a considerate host.’
‘But do you think he paid them to be there?’
‘As up-market escorts? If he did then he thinks more of us than I thought!’
‘I don’t know. It was all too good to be true.’
‘Why question everything so deeply? Perhaps we really should take the man at face value. He’s got money and likes to share it. There’s every chance that those two women are having the same conversation concerning us.’
‘I doubt it! What have we got to offer? You in your little bookshop and me not knowing what I’m meant to be doing with my life.’
We were in the rue Berthe by that time and my father stopped suddenly: ‘Go home and get some sleep, Flavian. Hopefully you won’t be so maudlin in the morning.’
I wondered if Paris, or any other city, ever really got dark, or truly quiet. I would have liked it to have done so that evening. The restaurants and bars were closing for the night and there were few people abroad, but even when I passed a street that was apparently empty, there were lights burning in windows above the shops, and I was constantly aware of distant voices or cars. I was annoyed by its indifference towards me, and dwelt on my feelings of resentment. It meant that, for the first time since it happened, I passed through the Passage des Abbesses without thinking about the abduction. I was aimlessly walking down towards the Metro, trying to imagine all the voids beneath my feet full of moving underground trains, of water, electricity cables and sewerage. My thoughts were rather muddled; I was not admitting to myself where I was going, or why. However, I was forced to confront exactly where I was when I turned into the rue des Martyrs. There were flashing blue lights coming from the rue Andre Gill, reflecting off all the windows in the vicinity. The air reeked, harsh and acrid, of smoke. I had detected it from quite a distance away without any idea of its import.
A number of vehicles, including a fire engine, blocked the rue des Martyrs and there were hoses were laid out down the street. There were more fire engines and hoses in the cul-de-sac itself. People in uniform pushed past in the artificial and flashing lights, and the ground was gritty and wet beneath my shoes.
I managed to get quite close to Candy’s building before a fireman stopped me. He patiently listened to my questions and assumed that, as I was a foreigner, I wanted access to the hotel.
‘Il a été evacuée,’ he explained, taking me by the arm to the opposite pavement. As he did so I looked up in vain for a sight of Candy’s windows; all I could see was darkness and I knew it was all terribly wrong. The streetlamps gave no clues; they simply deepened the shadows on the top floors. The first floor windows were also black, the glass had disappeared, but at least I could see that part of the building was still standing.
I asked what had happened.
‘Un grand feu, monsieur.
‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘Je ne sais pas,’ he said, and then carefully, in English. ‘A young woman lived there. Elle ne peut pas avoir survécu!’
I thought I understood; ‘She can’t have survived?’
‘Je ne sais pas,’ he repeated. ‘Les investigateurs retourneront le matin.’ He shook his head and repeated: ‘C’était un grand feu.’
My father was not answering the telephones in either his apartment or the shop, and though he was proud of his mobile phone, he rarely turned it on. I imagined the conversation I would have been having with him if he had actually answered any of them. I would have said that Candy’s building had been burnt down by Hopper in revenge for what she had done at the auction, and he would have asked what proof I had. He’d have asked why Hopper would bother going to such lengths when he was able to keep Candy distant by playing the games he did. In turn, I’d have said that it was all too much of a coincidence, and my father would’ve pointed out, quite rightly, that she was a drunk, convicted of attempted murder, living in Paris illegally. Wasn’t it more likely that she’d burnt the place down herself? The imaginary debate went round and around in my head and I could only stifle it by drinking more wine.
I overslept the following morning and phoned the shop to tell my father I would be in late. Despite the long discussion I had rehearsed the night before, I now simply told him that there had been a fire, and that I didn’t know if Candy was alive or dead.
‘The poor girl,’ was his reply, and there seemed nothing else to say.
My head hurt and I felt dizzy. I took aspirins, drank glasses of water, shaved and showered. Then I downed a succession of cups of coffee, using them as an excuse for not leaving the haven of my apartment.
When I eventually went out, I found a café on the rue des Abbesses where I was able to order a large and greasy breakfast, and yet more coffee. It fortified me sufficiently to be able to go back to the rue Andre Gill. I don’t know quite what I expected to find there. My head had stopped hurting by that time, but I still felt tired. The street was a mess, but two men with brushes and a hose were attempting to clear up the debris. Workmen were boarding up the doors and lower windows of Candy’s building.
It looked as though the fire had raged vertically. When I looked up, it was not simply that the roof had been burnt out; the whole top floor was missing. Whether or not I was mis-counting the storeys, the complete destruction of Candy’s rooms was clear.
A young policeman came out from the hotel entrance and took out a notebook and pen. When I asked him about the fire the shook his head and there were tears in his eyes: ‘Nous supposons qu’elle est morte,’ he said. He stared down at his notebook and started to write, steadfastly refusing to say any more.
It was midday when I made it into the bookshop. By that time I had decided that my father’s imagined comments from the night before were what I wanted to believe.
‘Any news?’ he asked, and I said ‘no’. I was pleased that he, too was disinclined to talk, and I wondered if he had indulged in the same imagined conversation.
‘I hate to bring this up,’ he said, producing a book from under the counter. It was The Horse’s Mouth, by Joyce Carey. ‘What shall we do with it?’
‘I’ll take it round to him. The thought of it lying there all day, while I try and work, is too much.’
‘I’m not sure if you should; not right now.’
For once Hopper’s door was not answered promptly. I had to press the button on the intercom for a second time before I was brusquely asked my business in bad French.
‘I’ve a book for Mr Hopper.’
‘He’s in a meeting,’ said a voice with an unmistakable London accent. ‘Come back later.’
I had been trying to suppress my confused anger, but the disembodied order was an opportunity to release it.
‘It’s a book your boss asked for especially,’ I insisted. ‘He won’t appreciate it if you turn me away.’
There was another delay, but the door opened. A large man towered over me and put out an over-sized hand.
‘I’ll take it for him,’ he said.
‘How long will his meeting last? I can wait.’
‘I’ll give it to him.’
‘You don’t understand the importance of this book?’ I pushed my luck. ‘I’d like to take it through to the library. I’m Mr Hopper’s new librarian.’
The doorman was as annoyed by me as I was by him. He stood to one side and let me past, but then followed me, closely, all the way to the door of the library. I could hear raised voices from further along the corridor.
Once inside the room, I put the book down on the desk and turned to address the man who had shown me in.
‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ I said, ‘while I’m waiting.’
‘I don’t make tea.’
‘So go and find somebody who does...’
I was surprised at myself, but derived a great deal of satisfaction from ordering the thug around.
Alone, I w
as at a loss to know what to do, so I took out my glasses and looked over the shelves. I had yet to do any work as Hopper’s librarian, and I wasn’t sure that I ever would. Despite my anger, the bibliophile in me couldn’t help but notice that a very few of the man’s Folio Society volumes had dustjackets. If there had been more, I might have wasted several lucrative hours slipping them inside protective plastic sleeves. The books were arranged alphabetically by author and I supposed that I could have created fiction and non-fiction sections, although it wouldn’t have taken somebody with a degree to do that. Creating a catalogue might have been worthwhile; I could have justified that because it would act as an inventory for insurance purposes. Not that many of them had any real value.
As I disdainfully regarded Hopper’s shelves it struck me that it might be worth trying to read a little of The Dark Return of Time. As I didn’t know who had written it I wasn’t sure where it would be, but I remembered the rusty brown cloth. To my annoyance there was nothing of that description at either end of the alphabetised books, or on a small shelf of miscellaneous volumes behind the desk.
I took off my glasses and went to the door. Down the corridor the volume of the voices rose and fell from time to time, but even at their loudest I couldn’t make out what was being said. Curiosity tempted me down the corridor, where I pretended to inspect the dull, modern pictures on the walls, idly wondering if they were originals or prints. Unfortunately, as I passed a door, it opened.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Handley demanded, grabbing my arm.
I gasped and dropped my spectacles. It took a second before I could exhale and reply. My heart was beating in double time and I knew that I must have looked guilty.
The man asked again, his voice lower but the threat of violence increased. I managed to say, ‘I’m here about Mr Hopper’s library.’
His hold on my arm remained tight, painful even, and he turned me around and marched me towards the room from which I’d come. I said I’d dropped my glasses, but he ignored me. I hadn’t realised before what a tall man he was; he held me high so that I could barely touch the carpet. My anger and petulance had turned to fear and I wasn’t going to attempt to argue.
The Dark Return of Time Page 7
