The Paris Library(79)

“What kind of traps?” I asked, but he’d already rushed away.

“I’ve heard the Gestapo is taking control of Paris,” Boris said as he lit a cigarette, “and that they’re even more dangerous.”

More dangerous than the Nazis who’d defeated the French army? More dangerous than the Soldaten who patrolled day and night?

We worked the rest of the morning in a troubled silence.

When I exited the Library at lunchtime, I was surprised to find Paul in the courtyard. “Weren’t we meeting at the apartment?” I asked. These days I muddled everything.

“My buddy and his girl went yesterday. There was new furniture mixed with the old stuff, but he didn’t think anything of it. They were, uh, kissing when they heard someone come in. They hid for a while, then snuck out through the servants’ stairs. He went back later, but the lock had been changed.”

Our nest had vanished, the place we could hold each other; the place we could say anything, or nothing at all; the place we could forget the war.

“What about your sketches?” I asked glumly.

“I’ll draw new ones.” He put his arm around my waist. “Cheer up, I found us a new place.”

On the street, we encountered Mme. Simon. “Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

Still distraught from losing the apartment, I tried to swallow.

“Mademoiselle Souchet has a right to take lunch,” Paul answered.

“Just so you’re back at one,” Madame told me.

“Mademoiselle doesn’t answer to you,” he said, his grasp tightening as he steered me down the sidewalk.

“You didn’t need to be abrupt,” I told him. “She’s like crotchety Aunt March in Little Women. Gruff on the outside, but kind deep down.”

“Not everyone has a deep down.”

“And not everyone is a criminal,” I said lightly.

“Some people are exactly what they present to the world.” We stopped in front of a grand Haussmannian building. “This is the place.”

In the foyer, our footfall was muted by a plush crimson carpet. Gazing at the golden chandelier, I had the tingly feeling of déjà vu. Perhaps I’d delivered books here.

Upstairs in the apartment, the brocade curtains were drawn. I didn’t care about the view, I only cared about Paul. I wanted an hour when we could forget everything. As he kissed my breasts, my belly, my bottom, my whole body crackled.

Afterward, still naked, we visited the apartment as if it were a museum, admiring the Chinese vases on the mantel, the Old Masters on the wall. But the best was the kitchen: chocolate in the cupboard. The new place wasn’t so bad—exploring was exciting.

But we were running late, so I tossed the dress shirt and trousers to Paul. He slipped them on but didn’t fasten them; instead, he helped do up the back of my blouse. Behind me, almost reverently, he kissed my nape as he fastened the mother-of-pearl buttons. It was in these tender moments that I loved him the most.

Caught up in my feelings, I barely registered the click of the lock, the squeak of the hinges.

“Who the hell are you?” a barrel-chested man demanded.

Barefoot and disheveled, Paul and I jumped apart.

“This is my place now.”

I inched toward the door. Paul grasped my hand and pulled me to him. “We thought—”

“Get out! And stay the hell away.”

Heads hung low, we slunk back to the Library, embarrassed to have been caught. Where would we meet now? Another question was forming, too. Whose apartment was it? “We didn’t do anything wrong,” Paul said. He gave me a peck on the cheek and continued on to the police station. Whose apartment? Flustered, I entered the periodical section before recalling I worked in the reference room. With no current newspapers, few people spent time here, so it was surprising to see someone digging through old magazines.

“May I assist you?”

“I notice some subscribers are foreigners.” He looked familiar. Ah, yes, the man in tweed who’d tried to abscond with a journal.

“One of our many points of pride. Everyone feels at home here.”

“I’d like to contact them.”

“We destroyed our records. We didn’t want them to fall into the wrong hands,” I said tartly, and strode to the circulation desk, where Boris and Bitsi chatted, heads tilted together.

“He asked where I’m from,” Boris whispered. “I told him I’m Parisian.”

“He comes here more and more,” Bitsi said. “When he’s behind me, I can feel his sour breath on my neck.”

I slipped my foot over hers.

“What did he want?” Boris said.

“He asked about our foreign subscribers.”

“Speaking of foreigners,” Bitsi said, “where’s Margaret?”

She should have arrived by now.

“Phone her,” Boris said.

I called her throughout the afternoon but no one answered. What if she’d been arrested like Miss Wedd? No, there was a reason she hadn’t come, a perfectly reasonable reason. I looked at my watch. Its face remained impassive, its hands refused to move. Holding my wrist to my ear, I listened for the watch’s faint pulse. Panic rose in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Go,” Boris urged. “We can take care of things here.”