The Paris Library(42)

Margaret’s right—Paul volunteers to be close to you. It shouldn’t hurt to hope. It should give you thrills, like a plateful of stars set before you, shimmering with possibility.

I didn’t ask for leave at Christmas. Many soldiers in my squad have children, and I want them to be able to spend the holidays with family. I’ll try to get back to Paris in the spring.

You didn’t mention Bitsi. There’s something gloomy about her letters. I get the impression she doesn’t spend time with friends, doesn’t ever have a laugh. She goes to work and back home. With her brother mobilized, she’s doubly miserable. It kills me to think she’s unhappy. I don’t want her to be alone. Please take care of her for me.

Love,

Rémy





CHAPTER 16

Odile




FOR THE FIRST time, my family greeted the New Year without my twin. We three ate our duck confit in silence. These days, my inner metronome ticked back and forth—I was in tears, I was serene, I was befuddled, I was fine. At the Library, we continued to send packages to our soldiers. Staying busy—wrapping books, aiding subscribers—contained my fears.

Paul helped haul crates to the station, where they would be shipped on trains. Today, when he saw me, his whole face lit up. My breath caught in my chest. Aware that gossipy Madame Simon was watching (and she was always watching), Paul and I said hello like we did the first time we met, with quick pecks on the cheek.

From the threshold of the children’s room, Bitsi watched us maneuver a cart toward the door. I pretended not to see her. I’d received Rémy’s last letter two weeks ago, and still hadn’t done as he’d asked.

At the Library entrance, Miss Reeder took in the scene. “You didn’t greet Bitsi,” she said.

“I said hello to her this morning.”

“You used to be friends.”

“The train will depart soon,” Paul interceded. “We’d better get the books to the station.”

“We’ll talk when you get back,” Miss Reeder told me pointedly.

I wasn’t worried. The minute she entered her office, she’d be swept into a whirlpool of demands from subscribers and trustees, and she’d forget about me.

Paul pushed the cart along the pavement. “Did you notice that Boris uses his gas mask as a lunch box? Maybe it’s a sign that despite the war, life has gone back to normal.”

“The true sign is that he’s back to writing ‘The Passion of Boris.’?”

“What’s that?”

“The history of the Library. Funny stories and statistics. He could dedicate an entire chapter to various ways people ask for The Grapes of Wrath: Grapes of Rats by Steinbaum, Grapes of Gravity, Grapevine Wrath, Vines of Grapes, Gabe’s Wrath, not to mention The Rapes of Wrath.”

Paul chuckled. “I don’t know how he keeps a straight face.”

In front of the station, I tripped on the curb. Paul put his hands on my hips to steady me, and I forgot about the books. All I saw was him. All I wanted was him. I longed to say I love you, but was scared. Scared he didn’t feel the same.

He stroked my back. “?a va?”

“Oui.”

“Je t’aime,” he whispered.

“I love you, too.”

I expected a roar of thunder or a solar eclipse, some magic to mark the moment. Instead, an old man knocked into us and shouted, “Watch where you’re going!”

Paul and I laughed—the absurdity of the situation, the relief of finally saying what we felt. “Well,” I said.

“Well,” he said.

We continued into the station.

After dropping off the books, we meandered back to the Library. Like the scent of baking bread, love was in the air. I noticed the heart-shaped ironwork of the balconies. A ballad playing on a distant radio. Cafés with tables for two. Paul—my love—kissed me at the entrance of the courtyard. Dreamily, I strolled up the pebbled path.

At the circulation desk, Miss Reeder sat alone. The set of her mouth was sad.

“Is everything all right?” I asked. “Where’s Boris?”

“I told him I needed to speak with you.”

“Me?”

“Petty quarrels are bad for staff morale, and subscribers deserve better.”

I was in trouble because of Bitsi? “She started it!”

“The American Hospital needs volunteers,” she said. “I want you to go there.”

I want you to go.

“But we have so much work here,” I argued.

“True.”

“I haven’t said a word to Bitsi!”

“That’s the problem. You haven’t said a word.” Her eyes didn’t move from mine as she searched for wisdom that wasn’t yet there. “You need to grow up. A week of hospital work will put things into perspective.”

“When do you want me to go?”

“Now, please. You’ll receive your pay as usual. At the hospital, report to Nurse Letson. She’s expecting you.”

I felt small, a fleck of dust Miss Reeder had wiped off a shelf. Too stunned to speak, I nodded to her and passed under the drooping French and American flags, into the courtyard, along the border of wilting pansies, to the street. At metro Monceau, I trudged down the jagged stairs, where I ran into Margaret. When I told her I’d been banished, her head tilted in sympathy. “You respect Miss Reeder so much,” she said. “Is it possible she has a point?”