The Paris Library(10)

“Nonsense!” Papa said. “Millions have been invested in security. With the Maginot Line, France is completely safe.”

I imagined the line as an immense ditch on France’s borders with Italy, Switzerland, and Germany, where armies who tried to attack would be swallowed whole.

“Must we discuss war?” Maman asked. “All this grim talk on a Sunday! Rémy, why don’t you tell us about your classes?”

“My son wants to drop out of law school,” Papa said to Paul. “I have it on good authority that he skips class.”

I racked my mind to find something to say. Paul spoke before I could. Turning to Rémy, he said, “What would you like to do instead?”

It was a question I wished Papa would ask.

“Run for office,” Rémy answered. “Try to change things.”

Papa rolled his eyes.

“Or become a park ranger and escape this corrupt world,” Rémy said.

“You and I keep people and businesses safe,” Papa said to Paul. “He’ll protect pinecones and bear scat.”

“Our forests are as important as the Louvre,” Paul said.

Another answer that brooked no response from Papa. I looked to Rémy, to see what he made of Paul, but he’d turned toward the window and taken himself to a faraway place, as we often did during interminable Sunday lunches. This time, I decided to stay. I wanted to hear what Paul had to say.

“Lunch smells delicious!” I hoped to steer Papa’s attention from Rémy.

“Yes,” Paul added gamely. “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in months.”

“How will you help your refugees if you quit law school?” Papa continued. “You need to stick to something.”

“The soup must be ready.…” Maman picked nervously at the dried fronds of her ferns.

Wordlessly, Rémy skirted past her to the dining room.

“You don’t want to work,” Papa called out, “but you’re always the first in line to eat!”

He couldn’t stop, not even in front of a guest.

As usual, we ate potato-leek soup.

Paul complimented Maman on the creamy soup, and she murmured something about it being a good recipe. The scrape of Papa’s spoon on the porcelain signaled the end of the first course. Maman’s mouth opened slightly, as if she wanted to tell him to be gentle. But she would never reproach Papa.

The maid brought out the rosemary mashed potatoes and pork roast. I squinted at the mantel clock. Usually, lunch dragged on, but I was surprised to see that it was already 2:00 p.m.

“Are you a student as well?” Paul asked me.

“No, I finished school. And just applied for a job at the American Library.”

A smile touched his lips. “I wouldn’t mind working in a nice, peaceful place like that.”

Papa’s black eyes gleamed with interest. “Paul, if you’re not content in the Eighth District, why not transfer to my precinct? There’s a sergeant’s position for the right man.”

“Thank you, sir, but I’m happy where I am.” Paul’s gaze never left my face. “Extremely happy.”

Suddenly it felt as if it were just the two of us. As he now leaned back in his chair, and bent his deep-set eyes upon her in his turn, perhaps he might have seen one wavering moment in her, when she was impelled to throw herself upon his breast, and give him the pent-up confidences of her heart.

“Girls working,” Papa scoffed. “Couldn’t you have at least applied at a French library?”

Regretfully, I left the tender scene with Paul, and with Dickens. “Papa, the Americans don’t just alphabetize, they use numbers called the Dewey Decimal system—”

“Numbers to classify letters? You can bet some capitalist came up with that idea—they care more about figures than letters! What’s wrong with the way we do things?”

“Miss Reeder says it’s all right to be different.”

“Foreigners! God knows who else you’ll have to deal with!”

“Give people a chance, you might be surprised—”

“You’re the one who’s in for a surprise.” He pointed his fork at me. “Working with the public is damn hard. Why, yesterday I was called in because a senator had been arrested for breaking and entering. A little old lady found him passed out on her floor. When the reprobate came to, he didn’t stop shouting obscenities until he started vomiting. Had to hose him down before we could get the story out of him. He’d thought he was at his mistress’s building, but that his key didn’t work, so he crept up the trellis and into the window. Believe me, you don’t want anything to do with people, and don’t get me started on the scum running this country into the ground.”

There he went again, complaining about foreigners, politicians, and uppity women. I groaned, and Rémy tucked his stockinged foot over mine. Comforted by this small touch, I felt the tension in my shoulders soften. We’d invented this secret show of support when we were little. Faced with our father’s wrath—“Twice this week you’ve had to wear the dunce cap at school, Rémy! I should staple the damn thing to your head.”—I’d known better than to console my brother with a kind word. The last time I had, Papa said, “Taking his side? I should thrash you both.”