The Paris Library(29)

Home was no better. Sitting thirty-two centimeters apart, Paul and I left our tea untouched. “Do you think the rain will stop?” I asked, aware that Maman was listening in around the corner.

“The clouds are clearing.”

He was leaving for Brittany tomorrow, yet here we were, discussing rainfall like strangers at a bus stop.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Paul said. “I want to take you to my favorite place in Paris.”

“I’m not sure,” my mother said from the hallway.

“Please, Maman.” Longing turned my tone ragged. “He’ll be gone most of August.”

“This once, then. But don’t stay out too long.”

His hand warmed the small of my back as he whisked me along the avenue, through the symphony of honking horns, past a shopkeeper smoking a cigarette just outside the door, to the Gare du Nord. Under its immense glass roof, porters in blue overalls lugged luggage. Travelers shouted and shoved as they made their way to the trains.

Paul pointed to the platform, where a bespectacled young man kissed a woman who’d alighted from a carriage. “I come here to be in the presence of love. You probably think I’m crazy, spying on people…”

I shook my head. It was why I read—to glimpse other lives.

A musician with a trumpet case rushed by. A group of scouts gawked at a locomotive. A mother let go of her toddlers’ hands, and they ran to a man in a trench coat. He picked them up and spun them about.

“How darling,” I said.

Paul was riveted by the homecoming.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He watched as the family left the station. “My parents and I used to live a block from here.”

“You did?”

“Until my father left… I was seven. My mother said he’d taken a long trip on the train. Convinced he’d return, I came here.” He turned to me. “I’m still coming here.”

I drew him closer, and he buried his face in my hair. I felt his shaky heart beat against mine. Perhaps it wasn’t dangerous to trust.

“I’ve never told anyone,” he said.

On the way home, neither of us said a word. We inched up the stairs to the landing.

“Can you stay for dinner?” I asked.

He kissed my temple, my cheek, my lips. “And pretend I’m not miserable about leaving in the morning? I can’t.”

As I watched him disappear down the steps, the door opened behind me.

“I thought I heard someone,” Rémy said. “Were you talking to yourself?”

“To Paul.” I wanted to tell Rémy that one moment I felt joyful and as light as a firefly, yet sometimes, like now, separated from Paul, I was miserable. “I can’t stop thinking of him.” I’d tried to keep Paul in the margins of my mind, but he’d moved to the middle of the page, to the center of my story.

“You’re in love,” Rémy said. “I’m glad for you.”

“I hope you’re as happy.”

“That’s what I came to tell you. I’m in love with Bitsi.”

They were perfect for each other, and I felt proud that I’d played a small part in bringing them together. “I tried to set you up with M. de Nerciat and Mr. Pryce-Jones, but perhaps Bitsi was the better choice.”

“Perhaps?”

“Have you told her?”

“I wanted to tell you first.”

We shared so much. He was the first reader of my newsletter, and I was the only person he allowed to edit his articles for the law review. Over tea in the kitchen, we talked until the wee hours. We knew each other’s secrets. Rémy was my refuge.

Yet everything was changing. I was with Paul; he with Bitsi. I had a job; soon, he’d graduate. This might be the last year we’d live under the same roof. We’d been together since before we were born, but eventually we would live separate lives. I wondered how long we had left together.



* * *




I QUIZZED MARGARET ON yesterday’s French lesson as we finished work for the day. “Verbs are divided into three families. To love, to speak, and to eat are in which?”

“Aimer, parler, and manger belong to the -er family,” she said. “Families—what a lovely way to view words.”

“Don’t forget your French when you’re in London.”

“I’ll only be gone two weeks.”

We continued to the courtyard, where Rémy’s bicycle waited against the wall.

“Merci for suggesting that I volunteer,” she said. “I finally feel part of something.”

“Merci à toi! Without you, I’d still be stuffing crates. Or standing in front of the precinct.”

“Nonsense!” Her cheeks flushed, and she looked pleased.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” There was more I could have told her, but in my family, we didn’t discuss our feelings. Without you, I never would have worked up the courage to seek out Paul. Tutoring you has reminded me of the beauty of French, a beauty I’d taken for granted. The dullest tasks—shipping books, repairing rips in magazines, moving old newspapers into the archive room—go by quickly with you by my side.