The Paris Library(25)

Holding Chekhov to my chest, I slid up the stairs, past the scholars on the second floor who hadn’t noticed it was spring, to the serene third floor, where we kept the books that were rarely checked out, the Afterlife.

As I floated through the stacks, the silence filled me with peace. Hidden among the books, I read: He had two lives: one, open, seen and known by all who cared to know,… and another life running its course in secret. We could never know our loved ones, and they would never know us. It was heartbreaking, it was true. Yet there was solace: in reading other people’s stories, I knew that I wasn’t alone.

“There you are!” Margaret said. Her face—usually perfectly powdered—shone with the effort of handling heavy tomes, and with contentment. The hesitant waif I’d first met had been replaced by a confident, capable woman.

“What was the task today?”

“Relocating the encyclopedia sets.” Rubbing her upper arms, she said, “One must be strong to work here.”

“You’re kind to give so much time.”

“It’s easy when you believe, and I believe in the Library.”

I wondered about giving my heart to Paul. “What if you don’t receive anything in return?”

“I’m not sure one should expect something when giving.” She regarded me quizzically. “What are you doing up here on your own?”

“Taking inventory.”

“You’re rather pensive.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yes, I can see that,” she said lightly. “It’s stuffy up here. You need some fresh air.”

Once outside, The Lady with the Dog and Other Stories tucked under my arm, I led Margaret up side streets.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

I frowned. Was Paul’s precinct on rue Washington?

I’d seen love go wrong. Now I wanted to see love go right. I needed to know if he felt the same way I did: hopeful, cautious. I had a job and was growing more independent. Perhaps I could take a chance.

“Is everything all right?”

“I…” I didn’t know how to say all that I felt, and anyway, she was so cosmopolitan, my problems wouldn’t interest her.

“Would you like to attend the embassy party on Bastille Day?”

I turned to her. “Truly?”

“Of course! I want to cheer you up. Come to my flat, we’ll get ready together. You can borrow one of my frocks. Er, not that you don’t have frocks of your own.”

I barely heard. There was the precinct. Hurrah! I stopped short. Margaret regarded the bars of the windows warily. When a handful of handsome policemen exited, a dawning expression crossed her face. “Is there perchance a certain subscriber you’re hoping to run into? I do hope he’s a constable, not a robber!”

“He is.”

“Go say hello.”

“Papa wouldn’t want me to. He says precincts are full of criminals.”

“Is your father here?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see why you can’t go in!” She opened the wooden door and pushed me inside. The dim light barely cut through the fog of cigarette smoke. On the bench beside me, a man in a soiled undershirt leered. I clutched The Lady to my chest. He inched closer; I moved away. Perhaps Paul had taken the position Papa offered and no longer worked here. Perhaps he’d never worked here. I was an idiot. I shouldn’t have come. On my way out, I felt a hand on my elbow. I jerked away, ready to thwack the tramp with Chekhov; instead, I found concerned blue eyes.

“When I dreamed of seeing you again, it wasn’t here,” Paul said.

I lowered the book. “You wanted to see me again?”

“Of course. But after I embarrassed you in front of your boss…”

“You didn’t. Anyway, we’ve missed you… at the Library.”

“I’ve missed… the Library, too,” he said.

I waited for him to say something else, but when he didn’t, I said, “I should go. A friend’s outside…”

“My shift just ended, may I treat you both to dinner?”

In the bistro, the waiter, so dapper in his black blazer and bow tie, led us to a quiet table near the back wall, away from the cops who eyed us over their beers. Though none of them looked familiar, I wondered if any had been to Sunday lunch.

The mouthwatering scent of caramelized apples wafted out from the kitchen.

“What is that glorious smell?” Margaret asked.

“Tarte tatin,” I answered. “My third-favorite dessert, after profiteroles and Maman’s chocolate mousse.”

“My fourth favorite,” Paul said.

“I haven’t tasted it,” Margaret said, “but I’m convinced it’s my new favorite.”

Suddenly shy, I brushed the bread crumbs off the checkered tablecloth. She mouthed, “Talk to him.” The silence grew louder as I tried to think of something to say. Perhaps I could ask about his job. I thought of Papa, who came home from work in a foul mood, complaining about the miscreants he dealt with. Rémy and I were never sure if he meant criminals or colleagues.

“Why on earth did you want to be a policeman?” I blurted out.

“She means it’s such a dangerous job,” Margaret said. “She was telling me how much she admires our men in blue.”