The Paris Library(15)

“The position is yours,” she said solemnly.

I jumped up. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Thank you, I won’t let you down!”

She winked mischievously. “No bashing in subscribers’ heads!”

I laughed. “I won’t make promises I can’t keep.”

“You start tomorrow,” she said, and returned to the budget.

I dashed out, hoping to catch Rémy before he left for his political rally, and slammed into him on the sidewalk.

“You came!”

“What’s the verdict?” he asked. “You were in there forever.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Same difference,” he grumbled.

“I got the job!”

“Told you!”

“I thought you’d be at your rally,” I said.

“Some things are more important.”

“You’re the president. They need you.”

He covered my foot with his. “And I need you. Without toi, there’s no moi.”



* * *




AT HOME, I entered the sitting room, where Maman was knitting me a scarf.

“Well?” She set aside her needles.

“I’m a librarian!” I drew her up and waltzed her around the room.

ONE-two-three.

BOOKS-independence-happiness.

“Congratulations, ma fille,” she said. “I’ll bring Papa around, I promise.”

Intending to prepare for work, I went to my room to review my Dewey Decimal notes. Yesterday, in the Luxembourg Gardens, I saw several 598 (birds). Someday, I’ll learn 469 (Portuguese).… Was there a number for love? If I had my very own number, what would it be?

I thought about Aunt Caro—it was she who first introduced me to the Dewey Decimal system. How I’d loved sitting on her lap during Story Hour as a child! Years later, when I was nine, she introduced me to the card catalog, an unusual piece of wooden furniture made of tiny drawers, each with a letter on it.

“Inside, you’ll find the secrets of the universe.” Aunt Caro opened the N drawer to reveal dozens and dozens of stock cards. “Each has information that will open entire worlds. Why don’t you take a peek? I bet you’ll find a treat.”

I peered inside. Flipping through the cards, I came across a candy. “Nougat!”

She taught me how to find the next clue, a call number that would lead us to the section, to the shelf, to the exact book. A treasure hunt!

Aunt Caro had the tiniest waist and the biggest brain. Like Maman’s, her eyes were periwinkle, but while my mother’s had faded like one of Papa’s navy dress shirts, Aunt Caro’s were bright with life. As a reader, she was an omnivore, devouring science, math, history, plays, and poetry. Her bookshelves ran over, so her vanity table was a mixture of pink blush and Dorothy Parker, mascara and Montaigne. Her armoire held Horace and high heels, stockings and Steinbeck. Her love of books and her love for me imbued my being like the amber scent of Shalimar she dabbed behind our ears.

Memories of Aunt Caro reminded me why I needed the job.



* * *




ON MY FIRST DAY, I felt more nervous than I had at the interview. What if I disappointed Miss Reeder? What if someone asked a question I couldn’t answer? If only Aunt Caro were still with us. I’d have told her not to come on my first day, but she would have anyway. Laden with Shelley and Blake, she would have winked at me, and my nervousness would have melted away as I remembered what she’d said—the answers were here, one simply had to seek.

“Introductions,” the Directress said briskly, and presented Boris Netchaeff, the urbane Franco-Russian head librarian, impeccable as always in his blue suit and tie. At the circulation desk, subscribers lined up to pass before him the way they did their parish priest—for communion, for a private word. The glint in his green eyes never dimmed, not even when he listened to subscribers’ long-winded stories. He knew where to procure the finest clothing (“My man at the Bazar de l’H?tel de Ville won’t steer you wrong.”) as well as what to look for when purchasing a horse. Stern Mrs. Turnbull said he was an aristocrat who’d owned a stable of purebreds. Mr. Pryce-Jones said Boris had been in the Russian army. There were as many rumors as books in the Library.

Boris was famous for his bibliotherapy. He knew which books would mend a broken heart, what to read on a summer day, and which novel to choose for an adventurous escape. The first time I’d returned to the Library without Aunt Caro, ten years ago now, the tall stacks seemed to close in on me. The titles embossed on the spines of stories didn’t speak to me like they usually did. I found myself with tears in my eyes, staring at a blur of books.

Looking concerned, Boris drew near. “Your aunt didn’t bring you?” he said. “We haven’t seen her in a while.”

“She won’t be coming back.”

He selected a book from the shelf. “It’s about family, and loss. And how we can have happy moments even when we’re down.”

I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning to sail my ship.

Little Women was still one of my favorites.

“Boris started here as a page—a sort of library apprentice—and knows absolutely everything about the ALP,” Miss Reeder said.