The Paris Library(78)

“I am, too,” she said. “In any case, I never could have finished it without you. Not only for the books you brought for my research, but your company and kindness. You became my window to Paris. Books and ideas are like blood; they need to circulate, and they keep us alive. You’ve reminded me that there’s good in the world.”

I should have been thrilled at such praise. Instead, a cold dread settled into my bones. “It sounds like you’re saying goodbye.”

“I’m saying we don’t know what will happen.” She presented me with the manuscript. “Please keep it safe.”

Honored by her trust, I kissed her on each cheek. “Are you sure you don’t want to send it to a colleague?”

“This is the only copy. The novel will be safer with you.”

“What’s it called?” Bitsi asked.

“La Bibliothèque Américaine.” The American Library.

“Then it’s definitely a drama!” Bitsi replied.

“Wait until you meet the characters. What a cast of originals!” The professor winked. “You’ll certainly recognize a few.”

Light, 535; manuscripts, 091; libraries, 027.

By the time she saw us out, she seemed to be in better spirits. In the stairwell, Bitsi and I heard the spry tap-a-tat-tat of the typewriter. I hoped that the professor was working on the sequel.

On the way back to work, Bitsi said, “It’s a big responsibility.”

I stuffed the pages in my satchel. “We’ll put it in the safe.”

Turning onto our street, we passed three giggly filles de joie in fishnet stockings. Yellow hair disheveled, the plump trio sashayed past in a haze of pungent perfume.

“Sluts!” Bitsi swatted at the smell. “Some people don’t know there’s a war on,” she continued loudly as we entered the Library. “Yesterday morning, I saw a gaggle of harlots staggering home. They reeked of alcohol. There’s such a thing as showing good taste!”

In the back room, I set the manuscript on the table and sat Bitsi down. “The wrong people get the right things,” she said, her voice raw. “I’m hungry. I can’t think. Seasons go by, but I don’t miss the days. Christmas, New Year, I’m glad they’re gone. Now it’s Easter, and the only thing that will rise again are prices. I miss Rémy. If it weren’t for him, I might—”

“Let’s write to him.” Her despair frightened me. Rémy would help—thinking about him always made us feel better. I pulled a pencil from my purse. “You use small letters, I’ll use capitals.”


dear REMY, greetings FROM the LIBRARY where WE are MISSING you. ODILE suggested THIS crazy BRILLIANT idea.



“The letter resembles a ransom note,” she said. “Who knows if he’ll receive it?”

“At least we’ll confound the censors.”

Bitsi half smiled. It was enough.

“Do you think Professor Cohen would mind if we take a peek at her novel?” she asked.

Torn between respecting the professor’s privacy and comforting Bitsi, I turned over the title page and read aloud, “?‘The Afterlife is filled with the heavenly scent of musty books. Its walls are lined with tall bookshelves full of forgotten tomes. In this cozy mezzanine between worlds, there are no windows nor clocks, though an occasional echo of children’s laughter or whiff of a chocolate croissant wafts in from the ground floor.’?”

“It’s my favorite section of the Library,” she said.

“Mine too.”

I was about to read the next line when we heard a woman shout, “I’m sick of waiting! Give me my books, or else!”

“Oh dear. Another scuffle.”

Rushing to the circulation desk, where a half-dozen subscribers waited to check out books, Bitsi and I found that even Clara de Chambrun had emerged from her office. “What on earth is going on?” she demanded.

“Mrs. Smythe is tired of waiting,” Boris told the Countess. To the subscriber, he said, “Please be patient and go back to your place in the queue.”

“I’ll inform the police,” she snarled.

“That we’re inefficient?” He raised a brow. “You could turn in the entire country.”

People in line chuckled at his observation.

“I’ll denounce you for catering to Jews.”

“That’s it!” The Countess seized Mrs. Smythe by the arm and led her to the door. “Never come back again.”

The subscriber began to sob. “I cannot get along without the books I find here.”



* * *




AT THE CIRCULATION desk, well before the Library opened to the public, while Boris and I tucked cards back into the pockets of returned books, I let my thoughts drift to Paul. At noon, we’d meet at the apartment, the one place where disappointment never walked through the door. We’d laze in the rosy boudoir, where his sketches of Brittany hung on the wall. I loved each one: a wheat field bordered by poppies, mounds of golden hay, the old swayback horse.

An insistent rapping brought me back. I saw Dr. Fuchs peering through the window. Why had he come so early, and alone? We invited him in, but he wouldn’t budge from the step.

“Be careful,” he whispered. “The Gestapo is laying traps. Don’t let banned works fall into their hands. They’ll use any pretext to arrest you.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I can’t be seen here.”