The Book of Lost Names(18)

“Oh, well, I suppose I am,” Eva said, and suddenly she felt peaceful. She wanted to stay here all day, but there was work to be done.

“Can I help you find something?” the woman asked, following Eva’s gaze as it roamed over the shelves. “If you’re in need of some guidance, I know every book in this place.”

“I—I wish I could buy one,” Eva said. “But I only have a bit of money, and I need to purchase some pens.”

“Pens?”

Eva nodded and explained what she needed, and though the woman looked disappointed that Eva didn’t want to discuss books, she went into the back of the store and returned with three art pens in black, red, and blue. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

“Oh yes.” Eva reached for them, but the woman withdrew, her expression more guarded now.

“What do you need them for? You’re an artist?”

“Er, yes.”

“And here I had you pegged as a book lover.”

“I was. I mean I am.” Eva inhaled the familiar scents again and sighed. “I—I worked for a time at a library in Paris.”

“In Paris?”

Immediately, Eva realized she had made a mistake. Why was she telling the real details of her personal life to a stranger? “Well, I just—” Eva began as the woman turned to shuffle through one of the shelves behind her.

“You must miss it. My son lived there, too, before he was killed. Paris was a magical place indeed, until the Germans arrived.”

“Yes. It was,” Eva said softly. “And I’m sorry about your son.”

“Thank you. He was a good man.” The woman turned and held out a book before Eva could ask anything more, and after a moment’s hesitation, Eva took it and looked at the cover. It was Guy de Maupassant’s Bel Ami. “This one takes place in Paris,” the woman said.

“Yes, I’ve read it,” Eva said, puzzled. “It’s about a man who seduces practically everyone in the city.”

The woman laughed. “Indeed. When it comes to books, the saucier, the better, don’t you think?” Her eyes twinkled. “In any case, I thought perhaps you might be missing your home.”

“There’s not much to miss about Paris these days.” Again, Eva worried she’d said too much.

The woman nodded. “I imagine that must be the case, but this tells of a Paris long before the Germans got their hands on it, dear. Please, take it. Consider it a gift with the purchase of your pens.”

“But—” Eva was thrown by the kindness of this stranger. “Why?”

“Because books bring us to another time and place,” the woman said as she handed over Eva’s pens and accepted the francs Eva gave her. “And you look as if you need that.”

Eva smiled. “I don’t know how to thank you, madame.”

“You can thank me by staying safe, dear.”

As Eva walked out of the store and headed back to the boardinghouse, she scanned the streets for any sign of the limping man with the trench coat, and wondered how the woman in the bookstore had known that Eva needed all the wishes of safety she could get.



* * *



Eva spent the rest of the day and evening working on her father’s false papers and practicing her hand at drawing stamps on the pages of a newspaper she’d found sitting in the parlor of the boardinghouse. She would burn it in the morning. When Madame Barbier knocked on the door and announced brusquely that it was dinnertime in case Eva and her mother wanted some, Eva and her mother took a brief break to silently inhale some potato soup served in the dining room. Eva fell asleep at the desk in her small room sometime after midnight, still holding the blue pen in her hand.

Something jolted Eva out of her slumber just after dawn, and she lifted her head from the desktop with a start, blinking into the dim room, which was just beginning to come alive with traces of sunlight. In the bed behind her, her mother slept soundly. On the desk where she’d been working lay the newspaper filled with false stamps, now damp with Eva’s drool.

Just as she was wondering what had woken her up, there was a soft knock on the door, and Eva froze. Who could possibly be outside their room so early in the morning? Had Madame Barbier come to collect payment already?

She quickly shoved the newspaper into a desk drawer and hid the pens and her father’s documents under the mattress. Her mother didn’t stir. Eva knew she had to answer the door, for if it was Madame Barbier, she would be suspicious if no one responded. And who else could it be? After all, if the authorities were here, they wouldn’t knock politely; they’d surely hammer at the door and break it down if it wasn’t answered immediately. Reassured that there likely wasn’t imminent danger lurking on the other side, Eva opened the door a crack and peered out into the dark hall.

It took a half second for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, and another for her to realize to her horror that it wasn’t Madame Barbier there at all. It was the man who’d been following her around town, the tall, thin man with the trench coat and limp.

Eva gasped, stifled a scream, and tried to slam the door on him, but he wedged his foot into the opening at lightning speed. “Please, Mademoiselle Fontain,” he said quickly. “I mean no harm.”

Eva shoved the door in vain. Her heart hammered. He had called her Mademoiselle Fontain, which meant that Madame Barbier had betrayed her, for who else could have given him her false name?