The Paris Library(107)

Not long ago, I’d cast suspicious glances at subscribers and wondered what kind of person would write a crow letter. Now I knew: someone like me. Monsieur l’Inspecteur, Margaret Saint James—a British subject—dared to fall in love with a German soldier. I’d even delivered my complaint to a policeman.

I started across the Seine, belt buckle in hand, the leather swaying like a switch. Leaning over the railing, I watched the water. I was a brute, every bit as much as Paul. I tugged at my wedding ring and hurled it into the river. There. He was no longer my husband. We’d divorce, and never speak again. Divorce. A divorcée was lower than a fallen woman. “What will the neighbors think?” Maman would ask. My mother wouldn’t care why I was divorcing. She would cast me out, just like Aunt Caro.

An hour earlier, I’d celebrated my future. Now there was only darkness. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I ambled up the Champs-élysées, past couples dining at an outdoor café, around a line of cinemagoers, and continued on, not knowing where I was going until I arrived at the American Hospital. As I passed by the ambulance in the drive, a nurse said, “Glad you’re back. We could use the help.”

Margaret didn’t want anything to do with me, but I could care for the wounded here. I’d stay at the hospital—staff and volunteers slept on cots—like I had at the beginning of the war. I wouldn’t have to face my family and friends, and Paul would never find me. Relieved, I slumped onto the cement stoop of the back entrance.

Margaret had been right. I’d never admitted how angry it made me when she insulted soldiers like Rémy or when she insinuated that Bitsi’s mourning was a charade. I’d never admitted I’d been jealous of her glamorous life. I’d bottled up my resentment, and like a magnum of champagne that someone had shaken, sticky emotions came bursting out. In the moment, I’d wanted to punish her, and a moment was enough to ruin a life—Margaret’s and her daughter’s.

An American soldier on crutches hobbled over. “Hello, little gal.”

I sniffled, and he tendered a handkerchief.

“What’s wrong?”

I bit my lip, afraid to open my mouth, afraid the whole story would rush out.

He sat beside me. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve done something terrible.”

“Well, that’s something that most people can understand.”

His gaze was so intense that I had to deflect his attention. “Which state are you from?”

“Montana.”

“What’s it like?”

“Heaven.”

Subscribers from Kentucky had said the same thing, so had soldiers from Kent and Saskatchewan. “You’ll have to convince me.”

“Montana’s the prettiest place on earth, and that’s saying something, sitting where we are, in gay Paree. I wanted to get away from my hick town, but if I’m lucky enough to go back, I swear I’ll never leave. The people there are decent. Honest. I used to think that was boring.”

“Boring might be nice for a change.”

“How come you speak English so good?”

“I learned at the American Library when I was a child.”

“There’s an American Hospital and an American Library?”

“Don’t forget the American Radiator Company and the American Church! M. de Nerciat, one of our subscribers, used to joke that Americans had colonized Paris without telling anyone.”

He laughed. “What subscribers?”

“I’m a librarian. Well, I used to be.”

“I’d love to see your library. Maybe you could take me.”

I frowned.

“You’re right.” He rubbed his thigh. “With this bum leg, I should stay put. But I’d like to spend more time with you.”

The following afternoon, we picnicked on the stoop. He traded his cigarette rations for ham and a baguette. He told me that fields in Montana resembled a patchwork quilt. He told me there wasn’t a cloud in the big sky. He told me I needed to taste his mother’s beef stew. Two days later, he asked me to marry him.

I wanted to go away without seeing anyone I knew ever again. To start over and become someone else, someone better. I’d miss my parents, but they were better off without me. I’d miss my colleagues and my habitués, but in my absence, Margaret could remain. I loved the Library, but Margaret meant even more to me, and I would prove it to her.

“Little gal?” Buck gazed at me with such understanding, I felt I could tell him everything. Yet somehow, I sensed he already knew.

“Of course I’ll marry you.”

He pulled me close. I felt the warmth of his chest, the soft cotton of his shirt. I felt safe.

The day I’d come back from Brittany, I’d taken my suitcase to the Library. At dawn, when no one but the caretaker was about, I retrieved it along with the last batch of crow letters I had stolen. At Bitsi’s desk, which was covered with children’s drawings; sticky pens; and her favorite teacup, which no one else wanted because it was chipped, I wrote Dearest Bitsi, Please take tender care of Margaret. Tell Maman and Papa I’m fine, tell them I’m sorry. Look after the Professor’s manuscript. I love you like a sister, like a twin. Yours, Odile. I meandered through the Library to say goodbye. First to the periodical room, where it all began. To the reference room, where I’d learned as much as subscribers. To the Afterlife, where I ran my hand along the spines of the books to let them know they wouldn’t be forgotten. And I left the Library for the last time.